{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_62783/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_62783","id":"gutenberg_62783","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/62783","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction","Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction"],"text":"LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE,\n                             THE BROWNIES,\n                                  AND\n                              OTHER TALES.\n\n                                   BY\n\n                         JULIANA HORATIA EWING,\n\n\n      AUTHOR OF \u201cJAN OF THE WINDMILL,\u201d \u201cSIX TO SIXTEEN,\u201d \u201cA GREAT\n   EMERGENCY,\u201d \u201cWE AND THE WORLD,\u201d \u201cMRS. OVERTHEWAY\u2019S REMEMBRANCES,\u201d\n                 \u201cJACKANAPES AND OTHER TALES,\u201d \u201cA FLAT\n           IRON FOR A FARTHING,\u201d \u201cMELCHIOR\u2019S DREAM, BROTHERS\n                       OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES.\u201d\n\n\n                        M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY\n                      CHICAGO             NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\n                               CONTENTS.\n\n\n                                Contents\n\n                                                      Page\n             LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, OR THE LUCK OF         5\n               LINGBOROUGH\n             TIMOTHY\u2019S SHOES                            61\n             OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS                       85\n             BENJY IN BEASTLAND                         98\n             THE PEACE-EGG                             121\n             THE BROWNIES                              142\n             THE LAND OF LOST TOYS                     179\n             THREE CHRISTMAS-TREES                     204\n             AN IDYL OF THE WOOD                       213\n             CHRISTMAS CRACKERS                        224\n             AMELIA AND THE DWARFS                     244\n\nAlso included at the end of this book: SPOONS by Frances Henshaw Baden\n\n\n\n\n                          LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE.\n\n\n                             INTRODUCTORY.\n\nLob Lie-by-the-fire\u2014the Lubber-fiend, as Milton calls him\u2014is a rough\nkind of Brownie or House Elf, supposed to haunt some north-country\nhomesteads, where he does the work of the farm laborers, for no grander\nwages than\n\n                \u201c\u2014to earn his cream-bowl duly set.\u201d\n\nNot that he is insensible of the pleasures of rest, for\n\n             \u201c\u2014When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn,\n             His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn\n             That ten day-laborers could not end,\n             Then lies him down the Lubber-fiend,\n             And, stretched out all the chimney\u2019s length,\n             Basks at the fire his hairy strength.\u201d\n\nIt was said that a Lob Lie-by-the-fire once haunted the little old Hall\nat Lingborough. It was an old stone house on the Borders, and seemed to\nhave got its tints from the gray skies that hung above it. It was\ncold-looking without, but cosy within, \u201clike a north-country heart,\u201d\nsaid Miss Kitty, who was a woman of sentiment, and kept a common-place\nbook.\n\nIt was long before Miss Kitty\u2019s time that Lob Lie-by-the-fire first came\nto Lingborough. Why and whence he came is not recorded, nor when and\nwherefore he withdrew his valuable help, which, as wages rose, and\nprices rose also, would have been more welcome than ever.\n\nThis tale professes not to record more of him than comes within the\nmemory of man.\n\nWhether (as Fletcher says) he were the son of a witch, if curds and\ncream won his heart, and new clothes put an end to his labors, it does\nnot pretend to tell. His history is less known than that of any other\nsprite. It may be embodied in some oral tradition that shall one day be\nfound; but as yet the mists of forgetfulness hide it from the\nstory-teller of to-day as deeply as the sea frogs are wont to lie\nbetween Lingborough and the adjacent coast.\n\n\n              THE LITTLE OLD LADIES.\u2014ALMS DONE IN SECRET.\n\nThe little old ladies of Lingborough were heiresses.\n\nNot, mind you, in the sense of being the children of some mushroom\nmillionaire, with more money than manners, and (as Miss Betty had seen\nwith her own eyes, on the daughter of a manufacturer who shall be\nnameless) dresses so fine in quality and be-furbelowed in construction\nas to cost a good quarter\u2019s income (of the little old ladies), but\ntrailed in the dirt from \u201cbeggarly extravagance,\u201d or kicked out behind\nat every step by feet which fortune (and a very large fortune too) had\nnever taught to walk properly.\n\n\u201cAnd how should she know how to walk?\u201d said Miss Betty. \u201cHer mother\ncan\u2019t have taught her, poor body! that ran through the streets of Leith,\nwith a creel on her back, as a lassie; and got out of her coach (lined\nwith satin, you mind, sister Kitty?) to her dying day, with a bounce,\nall in a heap, her dress caught, and her stockings exposed (among\nourselves, ladies!) like some good wife that\u2019s afraid to be late for the\nmarket. Aye, aye! Malcolm Midden\u2014good man!\u2014made a fine pocket of\nsilver in a dirty trade, but his women\u2019ll jerk, and toss, and bounce,\nand fuss, and fluster for a generation or two yet, for all the silks and\nsatins he can buy \u2019em.\u201d\n\nFrom this it will be seen that the little old ladies inherited some\nprejudices of their class, and were also endowed with a shrewdness of\nobservation common among all classes of north-country women.\n\nBut to return to what else they inherited. They were heiresses, as the\nlast representatives of a family as old in that Border country as the\nbold blue hills which broke its horizon. They were heiresses also in\ndefault of heirs male to their father, who got the land from his uncle\u2019s\ndying childless\u2014sons being scarce in the family. They were heiresses,\nfinally, to the place and the farm, to the furniture that was made when\nfolk seasoned their wood before they worked it, to a diamond brooch\nwhich they wore by turns, besides two diamond rings, and two black lace\nshawls, that had belonged to their mother and their Auntie Jean, long\nsince departed thither where neither moth nor rust corrupt the true\nriches.\n\nAs to the incomings of Lingborough, \u201cIt was nobody\u2019s business but their\nown,\u201d as Miss Betty said to the lawyer who was their man of business,\nand whom they consulted on little matters of rent and repairs at as much\nlength, and with as much formal solemnity, as would have gone elsewhere\nto the changing hands of half a million of money. Without violating\ntheir confidence, however, we may say that the estate paid its way, kept\nthem in silk stockings, and gave them new tabbinet dresses once in three\nyears. It supplied their wants the better that they had inherited house\nplenishing from their parents, \u201cwhich they thanked their stars was not\nmade of tag-rag, and would last their time,\u201d and that they were quite\ncontent with an old home and old neighbors, and never desired to change\nthe grand air that blew about their native hills for worse, in order to\nbe poisoned with bad butter, and make the fortunes of extortionate\nlodging-house keepers.\n\nThe rental of Lingborough did more. How much more the little old ladies\ndid not know themselves, and no one else shall know till that which was\ndone in secret is proclaimed from the housetops.\n\nFor they had had a religious scruple, founded upon a literal reading of\nthe scriptural command that a man\u2019s left hand should not know what his\nright hand gives in alms, and this scruple had been ingeniously set at\nrest by the parson, who, failing in an attempt to explain the force of\neastern hyperbole to the little ladies\u2019 satisfaction, had said that Miss\nBetty, being the elder, and the head of the house, might be likened to\nthe right hand, and Miss Kitty, as the younger, to the left, and that if\nthey pursued their good works without ostentation, or desiring the\napplause even of each other, the spirit of the injunction would be\nfulfilled.\n\nThe parson was a good man and a clever. He had (as Miss Betty justly\nsaid) a very spiritual piety. But he was also gifted with much\nshrewdness in dealing with the various members of his flock. And his\nwork was law to the sisters.\n\nThus it came about that the little ladies\u2019 charities were not known to\neach other\u2014that Miss Betty turned her morning camlet twice instead of\nonce, and Miss Kitty denied herself in sugar, to carry out benevolent\nlittle projects which were accomplished in secret and of which no record\nappears in the Lingborough ledger.\n\n\n                        AT TEA WITH MRS. DUNMAW.\n\nThe little ladies of Lingborough were very sociable, and there was, as\nthey said, \u201cas much gaiety as was good for anyone\u201d within their reach.\nThere were at least six houses at which they drank tea from time to\ntime, all within a walk. As hosts or guests, you always met the same\npeople, which was a friendly arrangement, and the programmes of the\nentertainments were so uniform, that no one could possibly feel awkward.\nThe best of manners and home-made wines distinguished these tea parties,\nwhere the company was strictly genteel, if a little faded. Supper was\nserved at nine, and the parson and the lawyer played whist for love with\ndifferent partners on different evenings with strict impartiality.\n\nSmall jealousies are apt to be weak points in small societies, but there\nwas a general acquiescence in the belief that the parson had a friendly\npreference for the little ladies of Lingborough.\n\nHe lived just beyond them, too, which led to his invariably escorting\nthem home. Miss Betty and Miss Kitty would not for worlds have been so\nindelicate as to take this attention for granted, though it was a custom\nof many years standing. The older sister always went through the form of\nasking the younger to \u201csee if the servant had come,\u201d and at this signal\nthe parson always bade the lady of the house good night, and\nrespectfully proffered his services as an escort to Lingborough.\n\nIt was a lovely evening in June, when the little ladies took tea with\nthe widow of General Dunmaw at her cottage, not quite two miles from\ntheir own home.\n\nIt was a memorable evening. The tea party was an agreeable one. The\nlittle ladies had new tabbinets on, and Miss Kitty wore the diamond\nbrooch. Miss Betty had played whist with the parson, and the younger\nsister (perhaps because of the brooch) had been favored with a good deal\nof conversation with the lawyer. It was an honor, because the lawyer\nbore the reputation of an _esprit fort_, and was supposed to have, as a\nrule, a contempt for feminine intellects, which good manners led him to\nveil under an almost officious politeness in society. But honors are apt\nto be uneasy blessings, and this one was at least as harassing as\ngratifying. For a somewhat monotonous vein of sarcasm, a painful power\nof producing puns, and a dexterity in suggesting doubts of everything,\nwere the main foundation of his intellectual reputation, and Miss Kitty\nfound them hard to cope with. And it was a warm evening.\n\nBut women have much courage, especially to defend a friend or a faith,\nand the less Miss Kitty found herself prepared for the conflict the\nharder she esteemed it her duty to fight. She fought for Church and\nState, for parsons and poor people, for the sincerity of her friends,\nthe virtues of the Royal Family, the merit of Dr. Drugson\u2019s\nprescriptions, and for her favorite theory that there is some good in\neveryone and some happiness to be found everywhere.\n\nShe rubbed nervously at the diamond brooch with her thin little mittened\nhands. She talked very fast; and if the lawyer were guilty of feeling\nany ungallant indifference to her observations, she did not so much as\nhear his, and her cheeks became so flushed that Mrs. Dunmaw crossed the\nroom in her China crape shawl and said, \u201cMy dear Miss Kitty, I\u2019m sure\nyou feel the heat very much. Do take my fan, which is larger than\nyours.\u201d\n\nBut Miss Kitty was saved a reply, for at this moment Miss Betty turned\non the sofa, and said, \u201cDear Kitty, will you kindly see if the\nservant\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\nAnd the parson closed the volume of \u2018Friendship\u2019s Offering\u2019 which lay\nbefore him, and advanced towards Mrs. Dunmaw and took leave in his own\ndignified way.\n\nMiss Kitty was so much flustered that she had not even presence of mind\nto look for the servant, who had never been ordered to come, but the\nparson relieved her by saying in his round, deep voice, \u201cI hope you will\nnot refuse me the honor of seeing you home, since our roads happen to\nlie together.\u201d And she was glad to get into the fresh air, and beyond\nthe doubtful compliments of the lawyer\u2019s nasal suavity\u2014\u201cYou have been\nvery severe upon me to-night, Miss Kitty. I\u2019m sure I had no notion I\nshould find so powerful an antagonist,\u201d &c.\n\n\n                     MIDSUMMER EVE\u2014A LOST DIAMOND.\n\nIt was Midsummer eve. The long light of the North was pale and clear,\nand the western sky shone luminous through the fir-wood that bordered\nthe road. Under such dim lights colors deepen, and the great bushes of\nbroom, that were each one mass of golden blossom, blazed like fairy\nwatch-fires up the lane.\n\nMiss Kitty leaned on the left arm of the parson and Miss Betty on his\nright. She chatted gaily, which left her younger sister at leisure to\nthink of all the convincing things she had not remembered to say to the\nlawyer, as the evening breeze cooled her cheeks.\n\n\u201cA grand prospect for the crops, sir,\u201d said Miss Betty; \u201cI never saw the\nbroom so beautiful.\u201d But as she leaned forward to look at the yellow\nblaze which foretells good luck to farmers, as it shone in the hedge on\nthe left-hand side of the road, she caught sight of the Brooch in Miss\nKitty\u2019s lace shawl. Through a gap in the wood the light from the western\nsky danced among the diamonds. But where one of the precious stones\nshould have been, there was a little black hole.\n\n\u201cSister, you\u2019ve lost a stone out of your brooch!\u201d screamed Miss Betty.\nThe little ladies were well-trained, and even in that moment of despair\nMiss Betty would not hint that her sister\u2019s ornaments were not her sole\nproperty.\n\nWhen Miss Kitty burst into tears the parson was a little astonished as\nwell as distressed. Men are apt to be so, not perhaps because women cry\non such very small accounts, as because the full reason does not always\ntranspire. Tears are often the climax of nervous exhaustion, and this is\ncommonly the result of more causes than one. Ostensibly Miss Kitty was\n\u201cupset\u201d by the loss of the diamond, but she also wept away a good deal\nof the vexation of her unequal conflict with the sarcastic lawyer, and\nof all this the parson knew nothing.\n\nMiss Betty knew nothing of that, but she knew enough of things in\ngeneral to feel sure the diamond was not all the matter.\n\n\u201cWhat is amiss, sister Kitty?\u201d said she. \u201cHave you hurt yourself? Do you\nfeel ill? Did you know the stone was out?\u201d\u2014\u201cI hope you\u2019re not going to\nbe hysterical, sister Kitty,\u201d added Miss Betty anxiously; \u201cthere never\nwas a hysterical woman in our family yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh dear no, sister Betty,\u201d sobbed Miss Kitty; \u201cbut it\u2019s all my fault. I\nknow I was fidgeting with it whilst I was talking; and it\u2019s a punishment\non my fidgety ways, and for ever presuming to wear it at all, when\nyou\u2019re the head of the family, and solely entitled to it. And I shall\nnever forgive myself if it\u2019s lost, and if it\u2019s found I\u2019ll never, never\nwear it any more.\u201d And as she deluged her best company\npocket-handkerchief (for the useful one was in a big pocket under her\ndress, and could not be got at, the parson being present), Church,\nState, the Royal Family, the family Bible, her highest principles, her\ndearest affections, and the diamond brooch, all seemed to swim before\nher disturbed mind in one sea of desolation.\n\nThere was not a kinder heart than the parson\u2019s towards women and\nchildren in distress. He tucked the little ladies again under his arms,\nand insisted upon going back to Mrs. Dunmaw\u2019s, searching the lane as\nthey went. In the pulpit or the drawing-room a ready anecdote never\nfailed him, and on this occasion he had several. Tales of lost rings,\nand even single gems, recovered in the most marvellous manner and the\nmost unexpected places\u2014dug up in gardens, served up to dinner in\nfishes, and so forth. \u201cNever,\u201d said Miss Kitty, afterwards, \u201cnever, to\nher dying day, could she forget his kindness.\u201d\n\nShe clung to the parson as a support under both her sources of trouble,\nbut Miss Betty ran on and back, and hither and thither, looking for the\ndiamond. Miss Kitty and the parson looked too, and how many aggravating\nlittle bits of glass and silica, and shining nothings and\ngood-for-nothings there are in the world, no one would believe who has\nnot looked for a lost diamond on a high road.\n\nBut another story of found jewels was to be added to the parson\u2019s stock.\nHe had bent his long back for about the eighteenth time, when such a\nshimmer as no glass or silica can give flashed into his eyes, and he\ncaught up the diamond out of the dust, and it fitted exactly into the\nlittle black hole.\n\nMiss Kitty uttered a cry, and at the same moment Miss Betty, who was\nfarther down the road, did the same, and these were followed by a third,\nwhich sounded like a mocking echo of both. And then the sisters rushed\ntogether.\n\n\u201cA most miraculous discovery!\u201d gasped Miss Betty.\n\n\u201cYou must have passed the very spot before,\u201d cried Miss Kitty.\n\n\u201cThough I\u2019m sure, sister, what to do with it now we have found it I\ndon\u2019t know,\u201d said Miss Betty, rubbing her nose, as she was wont to do\nwhen puzzled.\n\n\u201cIt shall be taken better care of for the future, sister Betty,\u201d said\nMiss Kitty, penitently. \u201cThough how it got out I can\u2019t think now.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, bless my soul! you don\u2019t suppose it got there of itself, sister?\u201d\nsnapped Miss Betty. \u201cHow did it get there is another matter.\u201d\n\n\u201cI felt pretty confident about it, for my own part,\u201d smiled the parson\nas he joined them.\n\n\u201cDo you mean to say, sir, that you knew it was there?\u201d asked Miss Betty,\nsolemnly.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t know the precise spot, my dear madam, but\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cYou didn\u2019t see it, sir, I hope?\u201d said Miss Betty.\n\n\u201cBless me, my dear madam, I found it!\u201d cried the parson.\n\nMiss Betty bridled and bit her lip.\n\n\u201cI never contradict a clergyman, sir,\u201d said she, \u201cbut I can only say\nthat if you did see it, it was not like your usual humanity to leave it\nlying there.\u201d\n\n                        I\u2019ve got it in my hand, ma\u2019am!\n               \u201cWhy\n                        He\u2019s got it in his hand, sister!\u201d\n\ncried the parson and Miss Kitty in one breath. Miss Betty was too much\npuzzled to be polite.\n\n\u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cThe diamond, oh dear, oh dear! _The Diamond!_\u201d cried Miss Kitty. \u201cBut\nwhat are you talking about, sister?\u201d\n\n\u201c_The Baby_,\u201d said Miss Betty.\n\n\n                         WHAT MISS BETTY FOUND.\n\nIt was found under a broom-bush. Miss Betty was poking her nose near the\nbank that bordered the wood, in her hunt for the diamond, when she\ncaught sight of a mass of yellow of a deeper tint that the mass of\nbroom-blossom above it, and this was the baby.\n\nThis vivid color, less opaque than \u201cdeep chrome\u201d and a shade more\norange, seems to have a peculiar attraction for wandering tribes.\nGipsies use it, and it is a favorite color with Indian squaws. To the\nlast dirty rag it is effective, whether it flutters near a tent on\nBagshot Heath, or in some wigwam doorway makes a point of brightness\nagainst the gray shadows of the pine forest.\n\nA large kerchief of this, wound about its body, was the baby\u2019s only\nrobe, but he seemed quite comfortable in it when Miss Betty found him,\nsleeping on a pillow of deep hair moss, his little brown fists closed as\nfast as his eyes, and a crimson toadstool grasped in one of them.\n\nWhen Miss Betty screamed the baby awoke, and his long black lashes\ntickled his cheeks and made him wink and cry. But by the time she\nreturned with her sister and the parson, he was quite happy again,\ngazing up with dark eyes full of delight into the glowing broom-bush,\nand fighting the evening breeze with his feet, which were entangled in\nthe folds of the yellow cloth, and with the battered toadstool which was\nstill in his hand.\n\n\u201cAnd, indeed, sir,\u201d said Miss Betty, who had rubbed her nose till it\nlooked like the twin toadstool to that which the baby was flourishing in\nher face, \u201cyou won\u2019t suppose I would have left the poor little thing\nanother moment, to catch its death of cold on a warm evening like this;\nbut having no experience of such cases, and remembering that murder at\nthe inn in the Black Valley, and that the body was not allowed to be\nmoved till the constables had seen it, I didn\u2019t feel to know how it\nmight be with foundlings, and\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\nBut still Miss Betty did not touch the bairn. She was not accustomed to\nchildren. But the parson had christened too many babies to be afraid of\nthem, and he picked up the little fellow in a moment, and tucked the\nyellow rag round him, and then addressing the little ladies precisely as\nif they were sponsors, he asked in his deep round voice, \u201cNow where on\nthe face of earth are the vagabonds who have deserted this child?\u201d\n\nThe little ladies did not know, the broom-bushes were silent, and the\nquestion has remained unanswered from that day to this.\n\n\n                 THE BABY, THE LAWYER, AND THE PARSON.\n\nThere were no railways near Lingborough at this time. The coach ran\nthree times a week, and a walking postman brought the letters from the\ntown to the small hamlets. Telegraph wires were unknown, and yet news\ntraveled quite as fast then as it does now, and in the course of the\nfollowing morning all the neighborhood knew that Miss Betty had found a\nbaby under a broom-bush, and the lawyer called in the afternoon to\ninquire how the ladies found themselves after the tea party at Mrs.\nGeneral Dunmaw\u2019s.\n\nMiss Kitty was glad on the whole. She felt nervous, but ready for a\nrenewal of hostilities. Several clinching arguments had occurred to her\nin bed last night, and after hastily looking up a few lines from her\ncommon-place book, which always made her cry when she read them, but\nwhich she hoped to be able to hurl at the lawyer with a steady voice,\nshe followed Miss Betty to the drawing-room.\n\nIt was half a relief and half a disappointment to find that the lawyer\nwas quite indifferent to the subject of their late contest. He\noverflowed with compliments; was quite sure he must have had the worst\nof the argument, and positively dying of curiosity to hear about the\nbaby.\n\nThe little ladies were very full of the subject themselves. An active\nsearch for the baby\u2019s relations, conducted by the parson, the clerk, the\nfarm-bailiff, the constable, the cowherd, and several supernumeraries,\nhad so far proved quite vain. The country folk were most anxious to\nassist, especially by word of mouth. Except a small but sturdy number\nwho had seen nothing, they had all seen \u201ctramps,\u201d but unluckily no two\ncould be got together whose accounts of the tramps themselves, of the\nhour at which they were seen, or of the direction in which they went,\nwould tally with each other.\n\nThe little ladies were quite alive to the possibility that the child\u2019s\nparents might never be traced, indeed the matter had been constantly\nbefore their minds ever since the parson had carried the baby to\nLingborough, and laid it in the arms of Thomasina, the servant.\n\nMiss Betty had sat long before her toilette-table that evening, gazing\nvacantly at the looking-glass. Not that the reflection of the eight\ncurl-papers she had neatly twisted up was conveyed to her brain. She was\nin a brown study, during which the following thoughts passed through her\nmind, and they all pointed one way:\n\nThat that fine little fellow was not to blame for his people\u2019s\nmisconduct.\n\nThat they would never be found.\n\nThat it would probably be the means of the poor child\u2019s ruin, body and\nsoul, if they were.\n\nThat the master of the neighboring workhouse bore a bad character.\n\nThat a child costs nothing to keep\u2014where cows are kept too\u2014for years.\n\nThat just at the age when a boy begins to eat dreadfully and wear out\nhis clothes, he is very useful on a farm (though not for these reasons).\n\nThat Thomasina had taken to him.\n\nThat there need be no nonsense about it, as he could be brought up in\nhis proper station in life in the kitchen and the farmyard.\n\nThat tramps have souls.\n\nThat he would be taught to say his prayers.\n\nMiss Betty said hers, and went to bed; but all through that midsummer\nnight the baby kept her awake, or flaunted his yellow robe and crimson\ntoadstool through her dreams.\n\nThe morning brought no change in Miss Betty\u2019s views, but she felt\ndoubtful as to how her sister would receive them. Would she regard them\nas foolish and unpractical, and her respect for Miss Betty\u2019s opinion be\nlessened thenceforward?\n\nThe fear was needless. Miss Kitty was romantic and imaginative. She had\ncarried the baby through his boyhood about the Lingborough fields whilst\nshe was dressing; and he was attending her own funeral in the capacity\nof an attached and faithful servant, in black livery with worsted frogs,\nas she sprinkled salt on her buttered toast at breakfast, when she was\nstartled from this affecting day-dream by Miss Betty\u2019s voice.\n\n\u201cDear sister Kitty, I wish to consult you as to our plans in the event\nof those wicked people who deserted the baby not being found.\u201d\n\nThe little ladies resolved that not an inkling of their benevolent\nscheme must be betrayed to the lawyer. But they dissembled awkwardly,\nand the tone in which they spoke of the tramp-baby roused the lawyer\u2019s\nquick suspicions. He had a real respect for the little ladies, and was\nkindly anxious to save them from their own indiscretion.\n\n\u201cMy dear ladies,\u201d said he, \u201cI do hope your benevolence\u2014may I say your\nromantic benevolence?\u2014of disposition is not tempting you to adopt this\ngipsy waif?\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope we know what is due to ourselves, and to the estate\u2014small as it\nis\u2014sir,\u201d said Miss Betty, \u201cas well as to Providence, too well to\nattempt to raise any child, however handsome, from that station of life\nin which he was born.\u201d\n\n\u201cBless me, madam! I never dreamed you would adopt a beggar child as your\nheir; but I hope you mean to send it to the workhouse, if the gipsy\ntramps it belongs to are not to be found?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have not made up our minds, sir, as to the course we propose to\npursue,\u201d said Miss Betty, with outward dignity proportioned to her\ninward doubts.\n\n\u201cMy dear ladies,\u201d said the lawyer anxiously, \u201clet me implore you not to\nbe rash. To adopt a child in the most favorable circumstances is the\ngreatest of risks. But if your benevolence _will_ take that line, pray\nadopt some little boy out of one of your tenants\u2019 families. Even your\nteaching will not make him brilliant, as he is likely to inherit the\nminimum of intellectual capacity; but he will learn his catechism,\nprobably grow up respectable, and possibly grateful, since his\nforefathers have (so Miss Kitty assures me) had all these virtues for\ngenerations. But this baby is the child of a heathen, barbarous, and\nwandering race. The propensities of the vagabonds who have deserted him\nare in every drop of his blood. All the parsons in the diocese won\u2019t\nmake a Christian of him, and when (after anxieties I shudder to foresee)\nyou flatter yourselves that he is civilized, he will run away and leave\nhis shoes and stockings behind him.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe has a soul to be saved, if he is a gipsy,\u201d said Miss Kitty,\nhysterically.\n\n\u201cThe soul, my dear Miss Kitty\u201d\u2014began the lawyer, facing round upon her.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t say anything dreadful about the soul, sir, I beg,\u201d said Miss\nBetty, firmly. And then she added in a conciliatory tone, \u201cWon\u2019t you\nlook at the little fellow, sir? I have no doubt his relations are\nshocking people; but when you see his innocent little face and his\nbeautiful eyes, I think you\u2019ll say yourself that if he were a duke\u2019s son\nhe couldn\u2019t be a finer child.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy experience of babies is so limited, Miss Betty,\u201d said the lawyer,\n\u201cthat really\u2014if you\u2019ll excuse me\u2014but I can quite imagine him. I have\nbefore now been tempted myself to adopt stray\u2014puppies, when I have seen\nthem in the round, soft, innocent, bright-eyed stage. And when they have\ngrown up in the hands of more credulous friends into lanky,\nill-conditioned, misconducted curs, I have congratulated myself that I\nwas not misled by the graces of an age at which ill-breeding is less\napparent than later in life.\u201d\n\nThe little ladies both rose. \u201cIf you see no difference, sir,\u201d said Miss\nBetsy in her stateliest manner, \u201cbetween a babe with an immortal soul\nand the beasts that perish, it is quite useless to prolong the\nconversation.\u201d\n\n\u201cReason is apt to be useless when opposed to the generous impulses of a\nsex so full of sentiment as yours, madam,\u201d said the lawyer, rising also.\n\u201cPermit me to take a long farewell, since it is improbable that our\nfriendship will resume its old position until your _proteg\u00e9_ has\u2014run\naway.\u201d\n\nThe words \u201clong farewell\u201d and \u201cold friendship\u201d were quite sufficient to\nsoften wrath in the tender hearts of the little ladies. But the lawyer\nhad really lost his temper, and, before Miss Betty had decided how to\noffer the olive branch without conceding her principles he was gone.\n\nThe weather was warm. The little ladies were heated by discussion and\nthe parson by vain scouring of the country on foot, when they asked his\nadvice upon their project, and related their conversation with the\nlawyer. The two gentlemen had so little in common that the parson felt\nit his duty not to let his advice be prejudiced by this fact. For some\nmoments he sat silent, then he began to walk about as if he were\ncomposing a sermon; then he stepped before the little ladies (who were\nsitting as stiffly on the sofa as if it were a pew) and spoke as if he\nwere delivering one.\n\n\u201cIf you ask me, dear ladies, whether it is your duty to provide for this\nchild because you found him, I say that there is no such obligation. If\nyou ask if I think it wise in your own interests, and hopeful as to the\nboy\u2019s career, I am obliged to agree with your legal adviser. Vagabond\nways are seldom cured in one generation, and I think it is quite\nprobable that, after much trouble and anxiety spent upon him, he may go\nback to a wandering life. But, Miss Betty,\u201d continued the parson in\ndeepening tones, as he pounded his left palm with his right fist for\nwant of a pulpit, \u201cIf you ask me whether I believe any child of any race\nis born incapable of improvement, and beyond benefit from the charities\nwe owe to each other, I should deny my faith if I could say yes. I shall\nnot, madam, confuse the end of your connection with him with the end of\nyour training in him, even if he runs away, or fancy that I see the one\nbecause I see the other. I do not pretend to know how much evil he\ninherits from his forefathers as accurately as our graphic friend; but I\ndo know that he has a Father whose image is also to be found in His\nchildren\u2014not quite effaced in any of them\u2014and whose care of this one\nwill last when yours, madam, may seem to have been in vain.\u201d\n\nAs the little ladies rushed forward and each shook a hand of the parson,\nhe felt some compunction for his speech.\n\n\u201cI fear I am encouraging you in grave indiscretion,\u201d said he. \u201cBut,\nindeed, my dear ladies, I am quite against your project, for you do not\nrealize the anxieties and disappointments that are before you, I am\nsure. The child will give you infinite trouble. I think he will run\naway. And yet I cannot in good conscience say that I believe love\u2019s\nlabor must be lost. He may return to the woods and wilds; but I hope he\nwill carry something with him.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid the reverend gentleman mean Miss Betty\u2019s teaspoons?\u201d asked the\nlawyer, stroking his long chin, when he was told what the person had\nsaid.\n\n\n           BABYHOOD.\u2014PRETTY FLOWERS.\u2014THE ROSE-COLORED TULIPS.\n\nThe matter of the baby\u2019s cap disturbed the little ladies. It seemed so\nlike the beginning of a fulfilment of the lawyer\u2019s croakings.\n\nMiss Kitty had made it. She had never seen a baby without a cap before,\nand the sight was unusual, if not indecent. But Miss Kitty was a quick\nneedlewoman, and when the new cap was fairly tied over the thick crop of\nsilky black hair, the baby looked so much less like Puck, and so much\nmore like the rest of the baby world, that it was quite a relief.\n\nMiss Kitty\u2019s feelings may therefore be imagined when going to the baby\njust after the parson\u2019s departure, she found him in open rebellion\nagainst his cap. It had been tied on whilst he was asleep, and his eyes\nwere no sooner open than he commenced the attack. He pulled with one\nlittle brown hand and tugged with the other; he dragged a rosette over\nhis nose and got the frills into his eyes; he worried it as a puppy\nworries your handkerchief if you tie it round its face and tell it to\n\u201clook like a grandmother.\u201d At last the strings gave way, and he cast it\ntriumphantly out of the clothes-basket which served him for cradle.\n\nSuccessive efforts to induce him to wear it proved vain, so Thomasina\nsaid the weather was warm and his hair was very thick, and she parted\nthis and brushed it, and Miss Kitty gave the cap to the farm-bailiff\u2019s\nbaby, who took to it as kindly as a dumpling to a pudding-cloth.\n\nHow the boy was ever kept inside his christening clothes, Thomasina said\nshe did not know. But when he got into the parson\u2019s arms he lay quite\nquiet, which was a good omen. That he might lack no advantage, Miss\nBetty stood godmother for him, and the parish clerk and the sexton were\nhis godfathers.\n\nHe was named John.\n\n\u201cA plain, sensible name,\u201d said Miss Betty. \u201cAnd while we are about it,\u201d\nshe added, \u201cwe may as well choose his surname. For a surname he must\nhave, and the sooner it is decided upon the better.\u201d\n\nMiss Kitty had made a list of twenty-seven of her favorite Christian\nnames which Miss Betty had sternly rejected, that everything might be\nplain, practical, and respectable at the outset of the tramp-child\u2019s\ncareer. For the same reason she refused to adopt Miss Kitty\u2019s\nsuggestions for a surname.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s so seldom there\u2019s a chance of _choosing_ a surname for anybody,\nsister,\u201d said Miss Kitty, \u201cit seems a pity not to choose a pretty one.\u201d\n\n\u201cSister Kitty,\u201d said Miss Betty, \u201cdon\u2019t be romantic. The boy is to be\nbrought up in that station of life for which one syllable is ample. I\nshould have called him Smith if that had not been Thomasina\u2019s name. As\nit is, I propose to call him Broom. He was found under a bush of broom,\nand it goes very well with John, and sounds plain and respectable.\u201d\n\nSo Miss Betty bought a Bible, and on the fly-leaf of it she wrote in her\nfine, round, gentlewoman\u2019s writing\u2014\u201c_John Broom. With good wishes for\nhis welfare, temporal and eternal. From a sincere friend._\u201d And when the\ninscription was dry the Bible was wrapped in brown paper, and put by in\nThomasina\u2019s trunk till John Broom should come to years of discretion.\n\nHe was slow to reach them, though in other respects he grew fast.\n\nWhen he began to walk he would walk barefoot. To be out of doors was his\ndelight, but on the threshold of the house he always sat down and\ndiscarded his shoes and stockings. Thomasina bastinadoed the soles of\nhis feet with the soles of his shoes \u201cto teach him the use of them,\u201d so\nshe said. But Miss Kitty sighed and thought of the lawyer\u2019s prediction.\n\nThere was no blinking the fact that the child was as troublesome as he\nwas pretty. The very demon of mischief danced in his black eyes, and\nseemed to possess his feet and fingers as if with quicksilver. And if,\nas Thomasina said, you \u201cnever knew what he would be at next,\u201d you might\nalso be pretty sure that it would be something he ought to have left\nundone.\n\nJohn Broom early developed a taste for glass and crockery, and as the\nchina cupboard was in that part of the house to which he by social\nstanding also belonged, he had many chances to seize upon cups, jugs and\ndishes. If detected with anything that he ought not to have had, it was\nhis custom to drop the forbidden toy and toddle off as fast as his\nunpractised feet would carry him. The havoc which this caused amongst\nthe glass and china was bewildering in a household where tea-sets and\ndinner-sets had passed from generation to generation, where slapdash,\ngiddy-pated kitchen-maids never came, where Miss Betty washed the best\nteacups in the parlor, where Thomasina was more careful than her\nmistress, and the breaking of a single plate was a serious matter, and\nif beyond riveting, a misfortune.\n\nThomasina soon found that her charge was safest, as he was happiest, out\nof doors. A very successful device was to shut him up in the\ndrying-ground, and tell him to \u201cpick the pretty flowers.\u201d John Broom\npreferred flowers even to china cups with gilding on them. He gathered\nnosegays of daisies and buttercups, and the winning way in which he\nwould present these to the little ladies atoned, in their benevolent\neyes, for many a smashed teacup.\n\nBut the tramp-baby\u2019s restless spirit was soon weary of the drying\nground, and he set forth one morning in search of \u201cfresh fields and\npastures new.\u201d He had seated himself on the threshold to take off his\nshoes, when he heard the sound of Thomasina\u2019s footsteps, and, hastily\nstaggering to his feet, toddled forth without farther delay. The sky was\nblue above him, the sun was shining, and the air was very sweet. He ran\nfor a bit and then tumbled, and picked himself up again, and got a fresh\nimpetus, and so on till he reached the door of the kitchen garden, which\nwas open. It was an old-fashioned kitchen-garden with flowers in the\nborders. There were single rose-colored tulips which had been in the\ngarden as long as Miss Betty could remember, and they had been so\nincreased by dividing the clumps that they now stretched in two rich\nlines of color down both sides of the long walk. And John Broom saw\nthem.\n\n\u201cPick the pretty f\u2019owers, love,\u201d said he, in imitation of Thomasina\u2019s\npatronising tone, and forthwith beginning at the end, he went steadily\nto the top of the right-hand border mowing the rose-colored tulips as he\nwent.\n\nMeanwhile, when Thomasina came to look for him, he could not be found,\nand when all the back premises and the drying-ground had been searched\nin vain, she gave the alarm to the little ladies.\n\nMiss Kitty\u2019s vivid imagination leaped at once to the conclusion that the\nchild\u2019s vagabond relations had fetched him away, and she became rigid\nwith alarm. But Miss Betty rushed out into the shrubbery and Miss Kitty\ntook a whiff of her vinaigrette and followed her.\n\nWhen they came at last to the kitchen-garden, Miss Betty\u2019s grief for the\nloss of John Broom did not prevent her observing that there was\nsomething odd about the borders, and when she got to the top, and found\nthat all the tulips had been picked from one side, she sank down on the\nroller which happened to be lying beside her.\n\nAnd John Broom staggered up to her, and crying \u201cFor \u2019oo, Miss Betty,\u201d\nfell headlong with a sheaf of rose-colored tulips into her lap.\n\nAs he did not offer any to Miss Kitty, her better judgment was not\nwarped, and she said, \u201cYou must slap him, sister Betty.\u201d\n\n\u201cPut out your hand, John Broom,\u201d said Miss Betty, much agitated.\n\nAnd John Broom, who was quite composed, put out both his little grubby\npaws so trustfully that Miss Betty had not the heart to strike him. But\nshe scolded him, \u201cNaughty boy!\u201d and she pointed to the tulips and shook\nher head. John Broom looked thoughtfully at them, and shook his.\n\n\u201cNaughty boy!\u201d repeated Miss Betty, and she added in very impressive\ntones, \u201cJohn Broom\u2019s a very naughty boy!\u201d\n\nAfter which she took him to Thomasina, and Miss Kitty collected the\nrose-colored tulips and put them into water in the best old china\npunch-bowl.\n\nIn the course of the afternoon she peeped into the kitchen, where John\nBroom sat on the floor, under the window, gazing thoughtfully up into\nthe sky.\n\n\u201cAs good as gold, bless his little heart!\u201d murmured Miss Kitty. For as\nhis feet were tucked under him, she did not know that he had just put\nhis shoes and stockings into the pig-tub, into which he all but fell\nhimself from the exertion. He did not hear Miss Kitty, and thought on.\nHe wanted to be out again, and he had a tantalising remembrance of the\nease with which the tender juicy stalks of the tulips went snap, snap,\nin that new place of amusement he had discovered. Thomasina looked into\nthe kitchen and went away again. When she had gone, John Broom went away\nalso.\n\nHe went both faster and steadier on his bare feet, and when he got into\nthe kitchen garden, it recalled Miss Betty to his mind. And he shook his\nhead, and said, \u201cNaughty boy!\u201d And then he went up the left-hand border,\nmowing the tulips as he went; after which he trotted home, and met\nThomasina at the back door. And he hugged the sheaf of rose-colored\ntulips in his arms, and said, \u201cJohn Broom a very naughty boy!\u201d\n\nThomasina was not sentimental, and she slapped him well\u2014his hands for\npicking the tulips and his feet for going barefoot.\n\nBut his feet had to be slapped with Thomasina\u2019s slipper, for his own\nshoes could not be found.\n\n\n                       EDUCATION.\u2014FIRESIDE TALES.\n\nIn spite of all his pranks, John Broom did not lose the favor of his\nfriends. Thomasina spoiled him, and Miss Betty and Miss Kitty tried not\nto do so.\n\nThe parson had said, \u201cTreat the child fairly. Bring him up as he will\nhave to live hereafter. Don\u2019t make him half pet and half-servant.\u201d And\nfollowing this advice, and her own resolve that there should be \u201cno\nnonsense\u201d in the matter, Miss Betty had made it a rule that he should\nnot be admitted to the parlor. It bore more heavily on the tender hearts\nof the little ladies than on the light heart of John Broom, and led to\ntheir waylaying him in the passages and gardens with little gifts,\nunknown to each other. And when Miss Kitty kissed his newly-washed\ncheeks, and pronounced them \u201clike ripe russets,\u201d Miss Betty murmured,\n\u201cBe judicious, sister Kitty;\u201d and Miss Kitty would correct any possible\nill effects by saying, \u201c_Now_ make your bow to your betters, John Broom,\nand say, \u2018Thank you, ma\u2019am!\u2019\u201d which was accomplished by the child\u2019s\ngiving a tug to the forelock of his thick black hair, with a world of\nmischief in his eyes.\n\nWhen he was old enough, the little ladies sent him to the village\nschool.\n\nThe total failure of their hopes for his education was not the smallest\nof the disappointments Miss Betty and Miss Kitty endured on his behalf.\nThe quarrel with the lawyer had been made up long ago, and though there\nwas always a touch of raillery in his inquiries after \u201cthe young gipsy,\u201d\nhe had once said, \u201cIf he turns out anything of a genius at school, I\nmight find a place for him in the office, by-and-by.\u201d The lawyer was\nkind-hearted in his own fashion, and on this hint Miss Kitty built up\nhopes, which unhappily were met by no responsive ambition in John Broom.\n\nAs to his fitness to be an errand boy, he could not carry a message from\nthe kitchen to the cowhouse without stopping by the way to play with the\nyard-dog, and a hedgehog in the path would probably have led him astray,\nif Thomasina had had a fit and he had been dispatched for a doctor.\n\nDuring school hours he spent most of his time under the fool\u2019s-cap when\nhe was not playing truant. With his school-mates he was good friends. If\nhe was seldom out of mischief, he was seldom out of temper. He could\nbeat any boy at a foot-race (without shoes); he knew the notes and nests\nof every bird that sang, and whatever an old pocket-knife is capable of,\nthat John Broom could and would do with it for his fellows.\n\nMiss Betty had herself tried to teach him to read, and she continued to\nbe responsible for his religious instruction. She had tried to stir up\nhis industry by showing him the Bible, and promising that when he could\nread it he should have it for his \u201cvery own.\u201d But he either could not or\nwould not apply himself, so the prize lay unearned in Thomasina\u2019s trunk.\nBut he would listen for any length of time to Scripture stories, if they\nwere read or told to him, especially to the history of Elisha, and the\nadventures of the Judges.\n\nIndeed, since he could no longer be shut up in the drying-ground,\nThomasina had found that he was never so happy and so safe as when he\nwas listening to tales, and many a long winter evening he lay idle on\nthe kitchen hearth, with his head on the sheep dog, whilst the more\nindustrious Thomasina plied her knitting-needles, as she sat in the\ningle-nook, with the flickering firelight playing among the plaits of\nher large cap, and told tales of the country side.\n\nNot that John Broom was her only hearer. Annie \u201cthe lass\u201d sat by the\nhearth also, and Thomasina took care that she did not \u201csit with her\nhands before her.\u201d And a little farther away sat the cowherd.\n\nHe had a sleeping-room above the barn, and took his meals in the house.\nBy Miss Betty\u2019s desire he always went in to family prayers after supper,\nwhen he sat as close as possible to the door, under an uncomfortable\nconsciousness that Thomasina did not think his boots clean enough for\nthe occasion, and would find something to pick off the carpet as she\nfollowed him out, however hardly he might have used the door-scraper\nbeforehand.\n\nIt might be a difficult matter to decide which he liked best, beer or\nJohn Broom. But next to these he liked Thomasina\u2019s stories.\n\nThomasina was kind to him. With all his failings and the dirt on his\nboots, she liked him better than the farm-bailiff. The farm-bailiff was\nthrifty and sensible and faithful, and Thomasina was faithful and\nsensible and thrifty, and they each had a tendency to claim the monopoly\nof those virtues. Notable people complain, very properly, of thriftless\nand untidy ones, but they sometimes agree better with them than with\nrival notabilities. And so Thomasina\u2019s broad face beamed benevolently as\nshe bid the cowherd \u201cdraw up\u201d to the fire, and he who (like Thomasina)\nwas a native of the country, would confirm the marvels she related, with\na proper pride in the wonderful district to which they both belonged.\n\nHe would help her out sometimes with names and dates in a local\nbiography. By his own account he knew the man who was murdered at the\ninn in the Black Valley so intimately that it turned Annie the lass as\nwhite as a dish-cloth to sit beside him. If Thomasina said that folk\nwere yet alive who had seen the little green men dance in Dawborough\nCroft, the cowherd would smack his knees and cry, \u201cScores on \u2019em!\u201d And\nwhen she whispered of the white figure which stood at the cross roads\nafter midnight, he testified to having seen it himself\u2014tall beyond\nmortal height, and pointing four ways at once. He had a legend of his\nown too, which Thomasina sometimes gave him the chance of telling, of\nhow he was followed home one moonlight night by a black Something as big\nas a young calf, which \u201cwimmled and wammled\u201d around him till he fell\nsenseless into the ditch, and being found there by the farm-bailiff on\nhis return from market, was unjustly accused of the vice of\nintoxication.\n\n\u201cFault-finders should be free of flaws,\u201d Thomasina would say with a prim\nchin. She _had_ seen the farm-bailiff himself \u201cthe worse\u201d for more than\nhis supper beer.\n\nBut there was one history which Thomasina was always loth to relate, and\nit was that which both John Broom and the cowherd especially\npreferred\u2014the history of Lob Lie-by-the-fire.\n\nThomasina had a feeling (which was shared by Annie the lass) that it was\nbetter not to talk of \u201canything\u201d peculiar to the house in which you were\nliving. One\u2019s neighbors\u2019 ghosts and bogles are another matter.\n\nBut to John Broom and the cowherd no subject was so interesting as that\nof the Lubber-fiend. The cowherd sighed to think of the good old times\nwhen a man might sleep on in spite of cocks, and the stables be cleaner,\nand the beasts better tended than if he had been up with the lark. And\nJohn Broom\u2019s curiosity was never quenched about the rough, hairy\nGood-fellow who worked at night that others might be idle by day, and\nwho was sometimes caught at his hard-earned nap, lying, \u201clike a great\nhurgin bear,\u201d where the boy loved to lie himself, before the fire, on\nthis very hearth.\n\nWhy and where he had gone, Thomasina could not tell. She had heard that\nhe had originally come from some other household, where he had been\noffended. But whether he had gone elsewhere when he forsook Lingborough,\nor whether \u201csuch things had left the country\u201d for good, she did not\npretend to say.\n\nAnd when she had told, for the third or fourth time, how his porridge\nwas put into a corner of the cowhouse for him overnight, and how he had\nbeen often overheard at his work, but rarely seen, and then only lying\nbefore the fire, Miss Betty would ring for prayers, and Thomasina would\nfold up her knitting and lead the way, followed by Annie the lass, whose\nnerves John Broom would startle by treading on her heels, the rear being\nbrought up by the cowherd, looking hopelessly at his boots.\n\n\n          THE FARM-BAILIFF.\u2014PRETTY COCKY.\u2014IN THE WILLOW TREE.\n\nMiss Betty and Miss Kitty did really deny themselves the indulgence of\nbeing indulgent, and treated John Broom on principles, and for his good.\nBut they did so in their own tremulous and spasmodic way, and got little\ncredit for it. Thomasina, on the other hand, spoiled him with such a\nmasterful managing air, and so much sensible talk, that no one would\nhave thought that the only system she followed was to conceal his\nmisdemeanors, and to stand between him and the just wrath of the\nfarm-bailiff.\n\nThe farm-bailiff, or grieve, as he liked to call himself, was a\nScotchman, with a hard-featured face (which he washed on the Sabbath), a\nharsh voice, a good heart rather deeper down in his body than is usual,\nand a shrewd, money-getting head, with a speckled straw hat on the top\nof it. No one could venture to imagine when that hat was new, or how\nlong ago it was that the farm-bailiff went to the expense of purchasing\nthose work-day clothes. But the dirt on his face and neck was an orderly\naccumulation, such as gathers on walls, oil-paintings, and other places\nto which soap is not habitually applied; it was not a matter of spills\nand splashes, like the dirt John Broom disgraced himself with. And his\nclothes, if old, fitted neatly about him; they never suggested\nraggedness, which was the normal condition of the tramp-boy\u2019s jackets.\nThey only looked as if he had been born (and occasionally buried) in\nthem. It is needful to make this distinction, that the good man may not\nbe accused of inconsistency in the peculiar vexation which John Broom\u2019s\ndisorderly appearance caused him.\n\nIn truth, Miss Betty\u2019s _proteg\u00e9_ had reached the age at which he was to\n\u201ceat dreadfully, wear out his clothes, and be useful on the farm;\u201d and\nthe last condition was quite unfulfilled. At eleven years old he could\nnot be trusted to scare birds, and at half that age the farm-bailiff\u2019s\neldest child could drive cattle.\n\n\u201cAnd no\u2019 just ruin the leddies in new coats and compliments, either,\nlike some ne\u2019er-do-weels,\u201d added the farm-bailiff, who had heard with a\njealous ear of six-pences given by Miss Betty and Miss Kitty to their\nwasteful favorite.\n\nWhen the eleventh anniversary of John Broom\u2019s discovery was passed, and\nhis character at school gave no hopes of his ever qualifying himself to\nserve the lawyer, it was resolved that\u2014\u201cidleness being the mother of\nmischief,\u201d he should be put under the care of the farm-bailiff, to do\nsuch odd jobs about the place as might be suited to his capacity and\nlove of out-door life. And now John Broom\u2019s troubles began. By fair\nmeans or foul, with here an hour\u2019s weeding and there a day\u2019s bird\nscaring, and with errands perpetual, the farm-bailiff contrived to \u201cget\nsome work out of\u201d the idle little urchin. His speckled hat and grim face\nseemed to be everywhere, and always to pop up when John Broom began to\nplay.\n\nThey lived \u201cat daggers drawn.\u201d I am sorry to say that John Broom\u2019s\nfitful industry was still kept for his own fancies. To climb trees, to\nrun races with the sheep dog, to cut grotesque sticks, gather hedge\nfruits, explore a bog, or make new friends among beasts and birds\u2014at\nsuch matters he would labor with feverish zeal. But so far from trying\nto cure himself of his indolence about daily drudgery, he found a new\nand pleasant excitement in thwarting the farm-bailiff at every turn.\n\nIt would not sound dignified to say that the farm-bailiff took pleasure\nin thwarting John Broom. But he certainly did not show his satisfaction\nwhen the boy did do his work properly. Perhaps he thought that praise is\nnot good for young people; and the child did not often give him the\nchance of trying. Of blame he was free enough. Not a good scolding to\nclear the air, such as Thomasina would give to Annie the lass, but his\nslow, caustic tongue was always growling, like muttered thunder, over\nJohn Broom\u2019s incorrigible head.\n\nHe has never approved of the tramp-child, who had the overwhelming\ndrawbacks of having no pedigree and of being a bad bargain as to\nexpense. This was not altogether John Broom\u2019s fault, but with his\npersonal failings the farm-bailiff had even less sympathy. It has been\nhinted that he was born in the speckled hat, and whether this were so or\nnot, he certainly had worn an old head whilst his shoulders were still\nyoung, and could not remember the time when he wished to waste his\nenergies on anything that did not earn or at least save something.\n\nOnce only did anything like approval of the lad escape his lips.\n\nMiss Betty\u2019s uncle\u2019s second cousin had returned from foreign lands with\na good fortune and several white cockatoos. He kept the fortune himself,\nbut he gave the cockatoos to his friends, and he sent one of them to the\nlittle ladies of Lingborough.\n\nHe was a lovely creature (the cockatoo, not the cousin, who was plain),\nand John Broom\u2019s admiration of him was boundless. He gazed at the\nsulphur-colored crest, the pure white wings with their deeper-tinted\nlining, and even the beak and the fierce round eyes, as he had gazed at\nthe broom bush in his babyhood, with insatiable delight.\n\nThe cousin did things handsomely. He had had a ring put around one of\nthe cockatoo\u2019s ankles, with a bright steel chain attached and a fastener\nto secure it to the perch. The cockatoo was sent in the cage by coach,\nand the perch, made of foreign wood, followed by the carrier.\n\nMiss Betty and Miss Kitty were delighted both with the cockatoo and the\nperch, but they were a good deal troubled as to how to fasten the two\ntogether. There was a neat little ring on the perch, and the cockatoo\u2019s\nchain was quite complete, and he evidently wanted to get out, for he\nshook the walls of his cage in his gambols. But he put up his crest and\nsnapped when any one approached, in a manner so alarming that Annie the\nlass shut herself up in the dairy, and the farm-bailiff turned his\nspeckled hat in his hands, and gave cautious counsel from a safe\ndistance.\n\n\u201cHow he flaps!\u201d cried Miss Betty. \u201cI\u2019m afraid he has a very vicious\ntemper.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe only wants to get out, Miss Betty,\u201d said John Broom. \u201cHe\u2019d be all\nright with his perch, and I think I can get him on it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow heaven save us from the sin o\u2019 presumption!\u201d cried the\nfarm-bailiff, and putting on the speckled hat, he added, slowly: \u201cI\u2019m\nthinking, John Broom, that if ye\u2019re engaged wi\u2019 the leddies this morning\nit\u2019ll be time I turned my hand to singling these few turnips ye\u2019ve been\nthinking about the week past.\u201d\n\nOn which he departed, and John Broom pressed the little ladies to leave\nhim alone with the bird.\n\n\u201cWe shouldn\u2019t like to leave you alone with a wild creature like that,\u201d\nsaid Miss Betty.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s just frightened on ye, Miss Betty. He\u2019ll be like a lamb when\nyou\u2019re gone,\u201d urged John Broom.\n\n\u201cBesides, we should like to see you do it,\u201d said Miss Kitty.\n\n\u201cYou can look in through the window, miss. I must fasten the door, or\nhe\u2019ll be out.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should never forgive myself if he hurt you, John,\u201d said Miss Betty,\nirresolutely, for she was very anxious to have the cockatoo and perch in\nfull glory in the parlor.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019ll none hurt me, miss,\u201d said John, with a cheerful smile on his rosy\nface. \u201cI likes him, and he\u2019ll like me.\u201d\n\nThis settled the matter. John was left with the cockatoo. He locked the\ndoor, and the little ladies went into the garden and peeped through the\nwindow.\n\nThey saw John Broom approach the cage, on which the cockatoo put up his\ncrest, opened his beak slowly, and snarled, and Miss Betty tapped on the\nwindow and shook her black satin workbag.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t go near him!\u201d she cried. But John Broom paid no attention.\n\n\u201cWhat are you putting up that top-knot of yours at me for?\u201d said he to\nthe cockatoo. \u201cDon\u2019t ye know your own friends? I\u2019m going to let ye out,\nI am. You\u2019re going on to your perch, you are.\u201d\n\n\u201cEh, but you\u2019re a bonny creature!\u201d he added, as the cockatoo filled the\ncage with snow and sulphur flutterings.\n\n\u201cKeep away, keep away!\u201d screamed the little ladies, playing a duet on\nthe window panes.\n\n\u201cOut with you!\u201d said John Broom, as he unfastened the cage door.\n\nAnd just when Miss Betty had run round, and as she shouted through the\nkey-hole, \u201cOpen the door, John Broom, we\u2019ve changed our minds; we\u2019ve\ndecided to keep it in its cage,\u201d the cockatoo strode solemnly forth on\nhis eight long toes.\n\n\u201cPretty Cocky!\u201d said he.\n\nWhen Miss Betty got back to the window, John Broom had just made an\ninjudicious grab at the steel chain, on which Pretty Cocky flew fiercely\nat him, and John, burying his face in his arms, received the attack on\nhis thick poll, laughing into his sleeves and holding fast to the chain,\nwhilst the cockatoo and the little ladies screamed against each other.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019ll break your leg\u2014you\u2019ll tear its eyes out!\u201d cried Miss Kitty.\n\n\u201cMiss Kitty means that you\u2019ll break its leg, and it will tear your eyes\nout,\u201d Miss Betty explained through the glass. \u201cJohn Broom! Come away!\nLock it in! Let it go!\u201d\n\nBut Cocky was now waddling solemnly round the room, and John Broom was\ncreeping after him, with the end of the chain in one hand, and the perch\nin the other, and in a moment more he had joined the chain and the ring,\nand just as Miss Betty was about to send for the constable and have the\ndoor broken open, Cocky\u2014driven into a corner\u2014clutched his perch, and\nwas raised triumphantly to his place in the bow-window.\n\nHe was now a parlor pet, and John Broom saw little of him. This vexed\nhim, for he had taken a passionate liking for the bird. The little\nladies rewarded him well for his skill, but this brought him no favor\nfrom the farm-bailiff, and matters went on as ill as before.\n\nOne day the cockatoo got his chain entangled, and Miss Kitty promptly\nadvanced to put it right. She had unfastened that end which secured it\nto the perch, when Cocky, who had been watching the proceeding with much\ninterest, dabbed at her with his beak. Miss Kitty fled, but with great\npresence of mind shut the door after her. She forgot, however, that the\nwindow was open, in front of which stood the cockatoo scanning the\nsummer sky with his fierce eyes, and flapping himself in the breeze.\n\nAnd just as the little ladies ran into the garden, and Miss Kitty was\nsaying, \u201cOne comfort is, sister Betty, that it\u2019s quite safe in the room,\ntill we can think what to do next,\u201d he bowed his yellow crest, spread\nhis noble wings, and sailed out into the ether.\n\nIn ten minutes the whole able-bodied population of the place was in the\ngrounds of Lingborough, including the farm-bailiff.\n\nThe cockatoo was on the top of a fir-tree, and a fragment of the chain\nwas with him, for he had broken it, and below on the lawn stood the\nlittle ladies, who, with the unfailing courage of women in a hopeless\ncause, were trying to dislodge him by waving their pocket-handkerchiefs\nand crying \u201csh!\u201d\n\nHe looked composedly down out of one eye for some time, and then he\nbegan to move.\n\n\u201cI think it\u2019s coming down now,\u201d said Miss Kitty.\n\nBut in a quarter of a minute, Cocky had sailed a quarter of a mile, and\nwas rocking himself on the top of an old willow tree. And at this moment\nJohn Broom joined the crowd which followed him.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m thinking he\u2019s got his chain fast,\u201d said the farm-bailiff; \u201cif\nanybody that understood the beastie daured to get near him\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll get him,\u201d said John Broom, casting down his hat.\n\n\u201cYe\u2019ll get your neck thrawed,\u201d said the farm-bailiff.\n\n\u201cWe won\u2019t hear of it,\u201d said the little ladies.\n\nBut to their horror, John Broom kicked off his shoes after which he spat\nupon his hands (a shock which Miss Kitty thought she never could have\nsurvived), and away he went up the willow.\n\nIt was not an easy tree to climb, and he had one or two narrow escapes,\nwhich kept the crowd breathless, but he shook the hair from his eyes,\nmoistened his hands afresh, and went on. The farm-bailiff\u2019s far-away\nheart was stirred. No Scotchman is insensible to gallantry. And courage\nis the only thing a \u201ccanny\u201d Scot can bear to see expanded without\nreturn.\n\n\u201cJohn Broom,\u201d screamed Miss Betty, \u201ccome down! I order, I command you to\ncome down.\u201d\n\nThe farm-bailiff drew his speckled hat forward to shade his upward gaze,\nand folded his arms.\n\n\u201cDinna call on him, leddies,\u201d he said, speaking more quickly than usual.\n\u201cDinna mak him turn his head. Steady, lad! Grip wi\u2019 your feet. Spit on\nyour pawms, man.\u201d\n\nOnce the boy trod on a rotten branch, and as he drew back his foot, and\nit came crashing down, the farm-bailiff set his teeth, and Miss Kitty\nfainted in Thomasina\u2019s arms.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll reward anyone who\u2019ll fetch him down,\u201d sobbed Miss Betty. But John\nBroom seated himself on the same branch as the cockatoo, and undid the\nchain and prepared his hands for the downward journey.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve got a rare perch, this time,\u201d said he. And Pretty Cocky crept\ntowards him, and rubbed its head against him and chuckled with joy.\n\nWhat dreams of liberty in the tree-tops, with John Broom for a\nplayfellow, passed through his crested head, who shall say? But when he\nfound that his friend meant to take him prisoner, he became very angry\nand much alarmed. And when John Broom grasped him by both legs and began\nto descend, Cocky pecked him vigorously. But the boy held the back of\nhis head towards him, and went steadily down.\n\n\u201cWeel done!\u201d roared the farm-bailiff. \u201cGently lad! Gude save us! ha\u2019e a\ncare o\u2019 yoursen. That\u2019s weel. Keep your pow at him. Didna let the beast\nget at your een.\u201d\n\nBut when John Broom was so near the ground as to be safe, the\nfarm-bailiff turned wrathfully upon his son, who had been gazing\nopen-mouthed at the sight which had so interested his father.\n\n\u201cYe look weel standing gawping here, before the leddies,\u201d said he,\n\u201cwasting the precious hours, and bringing your father\u2019s gray hairs wi\u2019\nsorrow to the grave; and John Broom yonder shaming ye, and you not so\nmuch as thinking to fetch the perch for him, ye lazy loon. Away wi\u2019 ye\nand get it before I lay a stick about your shoulders.\u201d\n\nAnd when his son had gone for the perch, and John Broom was safely on\nthe ground, laughing, bleeding, and triumphant, the farm-bailiff said,\u2014\n\n\u201cYe\u2019re a bauld chil, John Broom, I\u2019ll say that for ye.\u201d\n\n\n                             INTO THE MIST.\n\nUnfortunately the favorable impression produced by \u201cthe gipsy lad\u2019s\u201d\ndaring soon passed from the farm-bailiff\u2019s mind. It was partly effaced\nby the old jealousy of the little ladies\u2019 favor. Miss Betty gave the boy\nno less than four silver shillings, and he ungraciously refused to let\nthe farm-bailiff place them in a savings bank for him.\n\nMatters got from bad to worse. The farming man was not the only one who\nwas jealous, and John Broom himself was as idle and reckless as ever.\nThough, if he had listened respectfully to the Scotchman\u2019s counsels, or\nshown any disposition to look up to and be guided by him, much might\nhave been overlooked. But he made fun of him and made a friend of the\ncowherd. And this latter most manifest token of low breeding vexed the\nrespectable taste of the farm-bailiff.\n\nJohn Broom had his own grievances too, and he brooded over them. He\nthought the little ladies had given him over to the farm-bailiff,\nbecause they had ceased to care for him, and that the farm-bailiff was\nprejudiced against him beyond any hope of propitiation. The village folk\ntaunted him, too, with being an outcast, and called him Gipsy John, and\nthis maddened him. Then he would creep into the cowhouse and lie in the\nstraw against the white cow\u2019s warm back, and for a few of Miss Betty\u2019s\ncoppers, to spend in beer or tobacco, the cowherd would hide him from\nthe farm-bailiff and tell him country-side tales. To Thomasina\u2019s stories\nof ghosts and gossip, he would add strange tales of smugglers on the\nnear-lying coast, and as John Broom listened, his restless blood\nrebelled more and more against the sour sneers and dry drudgery that he\ngot from the farm-bailiff.\n\nNor were sneers the sharpest punishment his misdemeanors earned. The\nfarm-bailiff\u2019s stick was thick and his arm was strong, and he had a\ntendency to believe that if a flogging was good for a boy, the more he\nhad of it the better it would be for him.\n\nAnd John Broom, who never let a cry escape him at the time would steal\naway afterwards and sob out his grief into the long soft coat of the\nsympathizing sheep dog.\n\nUnfortunately he never tried the effect of deserving better treatment as\na remedy for his woes. The parson\u2019s good advice and Miss Betty\u2019s\nentreaties were alike in vain. He was ungrateful even to Thomasina. The\nlittle ladies sighed and thought of the lawyer. And the parson preached\npatience.\n\n\u201cCocky has been tamed,\u201d said Miss Kitty, thoughtfully, \u201cperhaps John\nBroom will get steadier by-and-by.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt seems a pity we can\u2019t chain him to a perch, Miss Kitty,\u201d laughed the\nparson; \u201che would be safe then, at any rate.\u201d\n\nMiss Betty said afterwards that it did seem so remarkable that the\nparson should have made this particular joke on this particular\nnight\u2014the night when John Broom did not come home.\n\nHe had played truant all day. The farm-bailiff had wanted him, and he\nhad kept out of the way.\n\nThe wind was from the east, and a white mist rolled in from the sea,\nbringing a strange invigorating smell, and making your lips clammy with\nsalt. It made John Broom\u2019s heart beat faster, and filled his head with\ndreams of ships and smugglers; and rocking masts higher than the willow\ntree, and winds wilder than this wind, and dancing waves.\n\nThen something loomed through the fog. It was the farm-bailiff\u2019s\nspeckled hat. John Broom hesitated\u2014the thick stick became visible.\n\nThen a cloud rolled between them, and the child turned, and ran, and\nran, and ran, coastwards, into the sea mist.\n\n\n       THE SEA.\u2014THE ONE-EYED SAILOR.\u2014THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD.\n\nJohn Broom was footsore when he reached the coast, but that keen,\nlife-giving smell had drawn him on and held him up. The fog had cleared\noff, and he strained his black eyes through the darkness to see the sea.\n\nHe had never seen it\u2014that other world within this, on which one lived\nout of doors, and climbed about all day, and no one blamed him.\n\nWhen he did see it, he thought he had got to the end of the world. If\nthe edge of the cliff were not the end, he could not make out where the\nsky began; and if that darkness were the sea, the sea was full of stars.\n\nBut this was because the sea was quiet and reflected the color of the\nnight sky, and the stars were the lights of the herring-boats twinkling\nin the bay.\n\nWhen he got down by the water he saw the vessels lying alongside, and\nthey were dirtier than he had supposed. But he did not lose heart, and\nremembering, from the cowherd\u2019s tales, that people who cannot pay for\ntheir passage must either work it out or hide themselves on board ship,\nhe took the easier alternative, and got on to the first vessel which had\na plank to the quay, and hid himself under some tarpaulin on the deck.\n\nThe vessel was a collier bound for London, and she sailed with the\nmorning tide.\n\nWhen he was found out he was not ill-treated. Indeed, the rough skipper\noffered to take him home again on his return voyage. He would have liked\nto go, but pride withheld him, and home sickness had not yet eaten into\nhis very soul. Then an old sailor with one eye (but that a sly one) met\nhim, and told him tales more wonderful than the cowherd\u2019s. And with him\nhe shipped as cabin-boy, on a vessel bound for the other side of the\nworld.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nA great many sins bring their own punishment in this life pretty\nclearly, and sometimes pretty closely; but few more directly or more\nbitterly than rebellion against the duties, and ingratitude for the\nblessings, of home.\n\nThere was no playing truant on board ship; and as to the master poor\nJohn Broom served now, his cruelty made the memory of the farm-bailiff a\nmemory of tenderness and gentleness and indulgence. Till he was\nhalf-naked and half-starved, and had only short snatches of sleep in\nhard corners, it had never occurred to him that when one has got good\nfood and clothes, and sound sleep in a kindly home, he has got more than\nmany people, and enough to be thankful for.\n\nHe did everything he was told now as fast as he could do it, in fear for\nhis life. The one-eyed sailor had told him that the captain always took\norphans and poor friendless lads to be his cabin-boys, and John Broom\nthought what a nice kind man he must be, and how different from the\nfarm-bailiff, who thought nobody could be trustworthy unless he could\nshow parents and grandparents, and cousins to the sixth degree. But\nafter they had sailed, when John Broom felt very ill, and asked the\none-eyed sailor where he was to sleep, the one-eyed sailor pleasantly\nreplied that if he hadn\u2019t brought a four-post bed in his pocket he must\nsleep where he could, for that all the other cabin-boys were sleeping in\nDavy\u2019s Locker, and couldn\u2019t be disturbed. And it was not till John Broom\nhad learned ship\u2019s language that he found out that Davy\u2019s Locker meant\nthe deep, and that the other cabin-boys were dead. \u201cAnd as they\u2019d nobody\nbelonging to \u2019em, no hearts was broke,\u201d added the sailor, winking with\nhis one eye.\n\nJohn Broom slept standing sometimes for weariness, but he did not sleep\nin Davy\u2019s Locker. Young as he was he had dauntless courage, a careless\nhopeful heart, and a tough little body; and that strong, life-giving sea\nsmell bore him up instead of food, and he got to the other side of the\nworld.\n\nWhy he did not stay there, why he did not run away into the wilderness\nto find at least some easier death than to have his bones broken by the\ncruel captain, he often wondered afterwards. He was so much quicker and\nbraver than the boys they commonly got, that the old sailor kept a sharp\nwatch over him with his one eye whilst they were ashore; but one day he\nwas too drunk to see out of it, and John Broom ran away.\n\nIt was Christmas day, and so hot that he could not run far, for it was\nat the other side of the world, where things are upside down, and he sat\ndown by the roadside on the outskirts of the city; and as he sat, with\nhis thin, brown face resting on his hands, a familiar voice beside him\nsaid, \u201cPretty Cocky!\u201d and looking up he saw a man with several cages of\nbirds. The speaker was a cockatoo of the most exquisite shades of\ncream-color, salmon, and rose, and he had a rose-colored crest. But\nlovely as he was, John Broom\u2019s eyes were on another cage, where, silent,\nsolemn and sulky, sat a big white one with sulphur-colored trimmings and\nfierce black eyes; and he was so like Miss Betty\u2019s pet, that the poor\nchild\u2019s heart bounded as if a hand had been held out to him from home.\n\n\u201cIf you let him get at you, you\u2019ll not do it a second time, mate,\u201d said\nthe man. \u201cHe\u2019s the nastiest-tempered beast I ever saw. I\u2019d have wrung\nhis neck long ago if he hadn\u2019t such a fine coat.\u201d\n\nBut John Broom said as he had said before, \u201cI like him, and he\u2019ll like\nme.\u201d\n\nWhen the cockatoo bit his finger to the bone, the man roared with\nlaughter, but John Broom did not draw his hand away. He kept it still at\nthe bird\u2019s beak, and with the other he gently scratched him under the\ncrest and wings. And when the white cockatoo began to stretch out his\neight long toes, as cats clutch with their claws from pleasure, and\nchuckled, and sighed, and bit softly without hurting, and laid his head\nagainst the bars till his snow and sulphur feathers touched John Broom\u2019s\nblack locks, the man was amazed.\n\n\u201cLook here, mate,\u201d said he, \u201cyou\u2019ve the trick with birds, and no\nmistake. I\u2019ll sell you this one cheap, and you\u2019ll be able to sell him\ndear.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve not a penny in the world,\u201d said John Broom.\n\n\u201cYou do look cleaned out, too,\u201d said the man scanning him from head to\nfoot. \u201cI tell you what, you shall come with me a bit and tame the birds,\nand I\u2019ll find you something to eat.\u201d\n\nTen minutes before, John Broom would have jumped at this offer, though\nhe now refused it. The sight of the cockatoo had brought back the fever\nof home sickness in all its fierceness. He couldn\u2019t stay out here. He\nwould dare anything, do anything, to see the hills about Lingborough\nonce more before he died; and even if he did not live to see them, he\nmight live to sleep in that part of Davy\u2019s Locker which should rock him\non the shores of home.\n\nThe man gave him a shilling for fastening a ring and chain on to the\ncocky\u2019s ankle, and with this he got the best dinner he had eaten since\nhe lost sight of the farm-bailiff\u2019s speckled hat in the mist.\n\nAnd then he went back to the one-eyed sailor, and shipped as cabin-boy\nagain for the homeward voyage.\n\n\n THE HIGHLANDER.\u2014BARRACK LIFE.\u2014THE GREAT CURSE\u2014JOHN BROOM\u2019S MONEY-BOX.\n\nWhen John Broom did get home he did not go to sea again. He lived from\nhand to mouth in the seaport town, and slept, as he was well accustomed\nto sleep, in holes and corners.\n\nEvery day and every night, through the long months of the voyage, he had\ndreamed of begging his way barefoot to Miss Betty\u2019s door. But now he did\nnot go. His life was hard, but it was not cruel. He was very idle, and\nthere was plenty to see. He wandered about the country as of old. The\nships and shipping too had a fascination for him now that the past was\npast, and here he could watch them from the shore; and, partly for shame\nand partly for pride, he could not face the idea of going back. If he\nhad been taunted with being a vagrant boy before, what would be said now\nif he presented himself, a true tramp, to the farm-bailiff? Besides,\nMiss Betty and Miss Kitty could not forgive him. It was impossible!\n\nHe was wandering about one day when he came to some fine high walls with\nbuildings inside. There was an open gateway, at which stood a soldier\nwith a musket. But a woman and some children went in, and he did not\nshoot them; so when his back was turned, and he was walking stiffly to\nwhere he came from, John Broom ran in through the gateway.\n\nThe first man he saw was the grandest-looking man he had ever seen.\nIndeed, he looked more like a bird than a man, a big bird, with a big\nblack crest. He was very tall. His feet were broad and white, like the\nfeathered feet of some plumy bird; his legs were bare and brown and\nhairy. He was clothed in many colors. He had fur in front, which swung\nas he walked, and silver and shining stones about him. He held his head\nvery high, and from it dropped great black plumes. His face looked as if\nit had been cut\u2014roughly but artistically\u2014out of a block of old wood,\nand his eyes were the color of a summer sky. And John Broom felt as he\nhad felt when he first saw Miss Betty\u2019s cockatoo.\n\nIn repose the Highlander\u2019s eye was as clear as a cairngorm and as cold,\nbut when it fell upon John Broom it took a twinkle not quite unlike the\ntwinkle in the one eye of the sailor; and then, to his amazement, this\ngrand creature beckoned to John Broom with a rather dirty hand.\n\n\u201cYes, sir,\u201d said John Broom, staring up at the splendid giant, with eyes\nof wonder.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m saying,\u201d said the Highlander, confidentially (and it had a pleasant\nhomely sound to hear him speak like the farm-bailiff)\u2014\u201cI\u2019m saying, I\u2019m\nconfined to barracks, ye ken; and I\u2019ll gi\u2019e ye a hawpenny if ye\u2019ll get\nthe bottle filled wi\u2019 whusky. Roun\u2019 yon corner ye\u2019ll see the \u2018Britain\u2019s\nDefenders.\u2019\u201d\n\nBut at this moment he erected himself, his turquoise eyes looked\nstraight before them, and he put his hand to his head and moved it\nslowly away again, as a young man with more swinging grandeur of colors\nand fur and plumes, and with greater glittering of gems and silver,\npassed by, a sword clattering after him.\n\nMeanwhile John Broom had been round the corner and was back again.\n\n\u201cWhat for are ye standin\u2019 there ye fule?\u201d asked his new friend. \u201cWhat\nfor didna ye gang for the whusky?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s here, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy certy, ye dinna let the grass grow under your feet,\u201d said the\nHighlander; and he added, \u201cIf ye want to run errands, laddie, ye can\ncome back again.\u201d\n\nIt was the beginning of a fresh life for John Broom. With many other\nidle or homeless boys he now haunted the barracks, and ran errands for\nthe soldiers. His fleetness of foot and ready wit made him the favorite.\nPerhaps, too, his youth and his bright face and eyes pleaded for him,\nfor British soldiers are a tender-hearted race.\n\nHe was knocked about, but never cruelly, and he got plenty of coppers\nand broken victuals, and now and then an old cap or a pair of a boots, a\nworld too large for him. His principal errands were to fetch liquor for\nthe soldiers. In arms and pockets he would sometimes carry a dozen\nbottles at once, and fly back from the canteen or public-house without\nbreaking one.\n\nBefore the summer was over he was familiar with every barrack-room and\nguard-room in the place; he had food to eat and coppers to spare, and he\nshared his bits with the mongrel dogs who lived, as he did, on the\ngood-nature of the garrison.\n\nIt must be confessed that neatness was not among John Broom\u2019s virtues.\nHe looped his rags together with bits of string, and wasted his pence or\nlost them. The soldiers standing at the bar would often give him a drink\nout of their pewter-pots. It choked him at first, and then he got used\nto it, and liked it. Some relics of Miss Betty\u2019s teaching kept him\nhonest. He would not condescend to sip by the way out of the soldiers\u2019\njugs and bottles as other errand-boys did, but he came to feel rather\nproud of laying his twopence on the counter, and emptying his own pot of\nbeer with a grimace to the by-standers through the glass at the bottom.\n\nOne day he was winking through the froth of a pint of porter at the\ncanteen sergeant\u2019s daughter, who was in fits of laughing, when the\npewter was knocked out of his grasp, and the big Highlander\u2019s hand was\nlaid on his shoulder and bore him twenty or thirty yards from the place\nin one swoop.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll trouble ye to give me your attention,\u201d said the Highlander, when\nthey came to a standstill, \u201cand to speak the truth. Did ye ever see me\nthe worse of liquor?\u201d\n\nJohn Broom had several remembrances of the clearest kind to that effect,\nso he put up his arms to shield his head from the probable blow, and\nsaid, \u201cYes, McAlister.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow often?\u201d asked the Scotchman.\n\n\u201cI never counted,\u201d said John Broom; \u201cpretty often.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow many good-conduct stripes do ye ken me to have lost of your ain\nknowledge?\u201d\n\n\u201cThree, McAlister.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there a finer man than me in the regiment?\u201d asked the Highlander,\ndrawing up his head.\n\n\u201cThat there\u2019s not,\u201d said John Broom, warmly.\n\n\u201cOur sairgent, now,\u201d drawled the Scotchman, \u201cwad ye say he was a better\nman than me?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing like so good,\u201d said John Broom, sincerely.\n\n\u201cAnd what d\u2019ye suppose, man,\u201d said the Highlander, firing with sudden\npassion, till the light of his clear blue eyes seemed to pierce John\nBroom\u2019s very soul\u2014\u201cwhat d\u2019ye suppose has hindered me that I\u2019m not\nsairgent, when yon man is? What has keepit me from being an officer,\nthat has served my country in twa battles when oor quartermaster hadn\u2019t\nenlisted? Wha gets my money? What lost me my stripes? What loses me\ndecent folks\u2019 respect, and waur than that, my ain? What gars a hand that\ncan grip a broadsword tremble like a woman\u2019s? What fills the canteen and\nthe kirkyard? What robs a man of health and wealth and peace? What ruins\nweans and women, and makes mair homes desolate than war? Drink, man,\ndrink! The deevil of drink!\u201d\n\nIt was not till the glare in his eyes had paled that John Broom ventured\nto speak. Then he said,\u2014\n\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t ye give it up, McAlister?\u201d\n\nThe man rose to his full height, and laid his hand heavily on the boy\u2019s\nshoulder, and his eyes seemed to fade with that pitiful, weary look,\nwhich only such blue eyes show so well, \u201cBecause I _canna_,\u201d said he;\n\u201cbecause, for as big as I am, I canna. But for as little as you are,\nladdie, ye can, and, Heaven help me, ye shall.\u201d\n\nThat evening he called John Broom into the barrack-room where he slept.\nHe was sitting on the edge of his bed, and had a little wooden money-box\nin his hands.\n\n\u201cWhat money have ye, laddie?\u201d he asked.\n\nJohn Broom pulled out three halfpence lately earned, and the Scotchman\ndropped them slowly into the box. Then he turned the key, and put it\ninto his pocket, and gave the box to the boy.\n\n\u201cYe\u2019ll put what you earn in there,\u201d said he, \u201cI\u2019ll keep the key, and\nye\u2019ll keep the box yourself; and when its opened we\u2019ll open it together,\nand lay out your savings in decent clothes for ye against the winter.\u201d\n\nAt this moment some men passing to the canteen shouted, \u201cMcAlister!\u201d The\nHighlander did not answer, but he started to the door. Then he stood\nirresolute, and then turned and reseated himself.\n\n\u201cGang and bring me a bit o\u2019 tobacco,\u201d he said, giving John Broom a\npenny. And when the boy had gone he emptied his pocket of the few pence\nleft, and dropped them into the box, muttering, \u201cIf he manna, I wunna.\u201d\n\nAnd when the tobacco came, he lit his pipe, and sat on the bench,\noutside and snarled at every one who spoke to him.\n\n\n           OUTPOST DUTY.\u2014THE SERGEANT\u2019S STORY.\u2014GRAND ROUNDS.\n\nIt was a bitterly cold winter. The soldiers drank a great deal, and John\nBroom was constantly trotting up and down, and the box grew very heavy.\n\nBottles were filled and refilled, in spite of greatly increased\nstrictness in the discipline of the garrison, for there were rumors of\ninvasion, and penalties were heavy, and sentry posts were increased, and\nthe regiments were kept in readiness for action.\n\nThe Highlander had not cured himself of drinking, though he had cured\nJohn Broom. But, like others, he was more wary just now, and had\nhitherto escaped the heavy punishments inflicted in a time of probable\nwar; and John Broom watched over him with the fidelity of a sheep dog,\nand more than once had roused him with a can of cold water when he was\nall but caught by his superiors in a state of stupor, which would not\nhave been credited to the frost alone.\n\nThe talk of invasion had become grave, when one day a body of men were\nordered for outpost duty, and McAlister was among them. The officer had\ngot a room for them in a farmhouse, where they sat round the fire, and\nwent out by turns to act as sentries at various posts for an hour or two\nat a time.\n\nThe novelty was delightful to John Broom. He hung about the farmhouse,\nand warmed himself at the soldiers\u2019 fire.\n\nIn the course of the day McAlister got him apart, and whispered, \u201cI\u2019m\ngoing on duty the night at ten, laddie. It\u2019s fearsome cold, and I hav\u2019na\nhad a drop to warm me the day. If ye could ha\u2019 brought me a wee drappie\nto the corner of the three roads\u2014its twa miles from here I\u2019m\nthinking\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s not the miles, McAlister,\u201d said John Broom, \u201cbut you\u2019re on outpost\nduty, and\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you\u2019re misdoubting what may be done to ye for bringing liquor to a\nsentry on duty! Aye, aye, lad, ye do weel to be cautious,\u201d said the\nHighlander, and he turned away.\n\nBut it was not the fear of consequences to himself which had made John\nBroom hesitate, and he was stung by the implication.\n\nThe night was dark and very cold, and the Highlander had been pacing up\nand down his post for about half an hour, when his quick ear caught a\nfaint sound of footsteps.\n\n\u201cWha goes there?\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s I, McAlister,\u201d whispered John Broom.\n\n\u201cWhisht, laddie,\u201d said the sentry; \u201care ye there after all? Did no one\nsee ye?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a soul; I crept by the hedges. Here\u2019s your whisky, McAlister; but,\noh, be careful!\u201d said the lad.\n\nThe Scotchman\u2019s eye glistened greedily at the bottle.\n\n\u201cNever fear,\u201d said he, \u201cI\u2019ll just rub a wee drappie on the pawms of my\nhands to keep away the frost-bite, for it\u2019s awsome cold, man. Now away\nwi\u2019 ye, and take tent, laddie, keep off the other sentries.\u201d\n\nJohn Broom went back as carefully as he had come, and slipped in to warm\nhimself by the guard-room fire.\n\nIt was a good one, and the soldiers sat close round it. The officer was\nwriting a letter in another room, and in a low, impressive voice, the\nsergeant was telling a story which was listened to with breathless\nattention. John Broom was fond of stories, and he listened also.\n\nIt was of a friend of the sergeant\u2019s, who had been a boy with him in the\nsame village at home, who had seen active service with him abroad, and\nwho had slept at his post on such a night as this, from the joint\neffects of cold and drink. It was war time, and he had been tried by\ncourt-martial, and shot for the offense. The sergeant had been one of\nthe firing party to execute his friend, and they had taken leave of each\nother as brothers, before the final parting face to face in this last\nawful scene.\n\nThe man\u2019s voice was faltering, when the tale was cut short by the\njingling of the field officer\u2019s accoutrements as he rode by to visit the\noutposts. In an instant the officer and men turned out to receive him;\nand, after the usual formalities, he rode on. The officer went back to\nhis letter, and the sergeant and his men to their fireside.\n\nThe opening of the doors had let in a fresh volume of cold, and one of\nthe men called to John Broom to mend the fire. But he was gone.\n\nJohn Broom was fleet of foot, and there are certain moments which lift\nmen beyond their natural powers, but he had set himself a hard task.\n\nAs he listened to the sergeant\u2019s tale, an agonizing fear smote him for\nhis friend McAlister. Was there any hope that the Highlander could keep\nhimself from the whisky? Officers were making their rounds at very short\nintervals just now, and if drink and cold overcame him at his post!\n\nClose upon these thoughts came the jingling of the field officer\u2019s\nsword, and the turn out of the guard. \u201cWho goes\nthere?\u201d\u2014\u201cRounds.\u201d\u2014\u201cWhat rounds?\u201d\u2014\u201cGrand rounds?\u201d\u2014\u201cHalt, grand\nrounds, advance one, and give the countersign!\u201d The familiar words\nstruck coldly on John Broom\u2019s heart, as if they had been orders to a\nfiring party, and the bandage were already across the Highlander\u2019s blue\neyes. Would the grand rounds be challenged at the three roads to-night?\nHe darted out into the snow.\n\nHe flew, as the crow flies, across the fields, to where McAlister was on\nduty. It was a much shorter distance than by the road, which was\nwinding; but whether this would balance the difference between a horse\u2019s\npace and his own was the question, and there being no time to question,\nhe ran on.\n\nHe kept his black head down, and ran from his shoulders. The clatter,\nclatter, jingle, jingle, on the hard road came to him through the still\nfrost on a level with his left ear. It was terrible, but he held on,\ndodging under the hedges to be out of sight, and the sound lessened, and\nby-and-by, the road having wound about, he could hear it faintly, _but\nbehind him_.\n\nAnd he reached the three roads, and McAlister was asleep in the ditch.\n\nBut when, with jingle and clatter, the field officer of the day reached\nthe spot, the giant Highlander stood like a watch-tower at his post,\nwith a little snow on the black plumes that drooped upon his shoulders.\n\n\n                           HOSPITAL.\u2014\u201cHAME.\u201d\n\nJohn Broom did not see the Highlander again for two or three days. It\nwas Christmas week, and, in spite of the war panic, there was festivity\nenough in the barracks to keep the errand-boy very busy.\n\nThen came New Year\u2019s Eve\u2014\u201cHogmenay,\u201d as the Scotch call it\u2014and it was\nthe Highland regiment\u2019s particular festival. Worn-out with\nwhisky-fetching and with helping to deck barrack-rooms and carrying pots\nand trestles, John Broom was having a nap in the evening, in company\nwith a mongrel deerhound, when a man shook him, and said, \u201cI heard some\none asking for ye an hour or two back; McAlister wants ye.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere is he?\u201d said John Broom, jumping to his feet.\n\n\u201cIn hospital; he\u2019s been there a day or two. He got cold on out-post\nduty, and it\u2019s flown to his lungs, they say. Ye see he\u2019s been a hard\ndrinker, has McAlister, and I expect he\u2019s breaking up.\u201d\n\nWith which very just conclusion the speaker went on into the canteen,\nand John Broom ran to the hospital.\n\nStripped of his picturesque trappings, and with no plumes to shadow the\nhollows in his temples, McAlister looked gaunt and feeble enough, as he\nlay in the little hospital bed, which barely held his long limbs. Such a\nwreck of giant powers of body, and noble qualities of mind as the\ndrink-shops are preparing for the hospitals every day!\n\nSince the quickly-reached medical decision that he was in a rapid\ndecline, and that nothing could be done for him, McAlister had been left\na good deal alone. His intellect (and it was no fool\u2019s intellect,) was\nquite clear, and if the long hours by himself, in which he reckoned with\nhis own soul, had hastened the death-damps on his brow, they had also\nwritten there an expression which was new to John Broom. It was not the\nold sour look, it was a kind of noble gravity.\n\nHis light, blue eyes brightened as the boy came in, and he held out his\nhand, and John Broom took it with both his, saying,\n\n\u201cI never heard till this minute, McAlister. Eh, I do hope you\u2019ll be\nbetter soon.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Lord being merciful to me,\u201d said the Highlander. \u201cBut _this_\nworld\u2019s nearly past, laddie, and I was fain to see ye again. Dinna\ngreet, man, for I\u2019ve important business wi\u2019 ye, and I should wish your\nattention. Firstly, I\u2019m aboot to hand ower to ye the key of your box.\nTak it, and put it in a pocket that\u2019s no got a hole in it, if you\u2019re\nworth one. Secondly, there\u2019s a bit bag I made mysel, and it\u2019s got a\ntrifle o\u2019 money in it that I\u2019m giving and bequeathing to ye, under\ncertain conditions, namely, that ye shall spend the contents of the box\naccording to my last wishes and instructions, with the ultimate end of\nyour ain benefit, ye\u2019ll understand.\u201d\n\nA fit of coughing here broke McAlister\u2019s discourse; but after drinking\nfrom a cup beside him, he put aside John Broom\u2019s remonstrances with a\ndignified movement of his hand, and continued,\u2014\n\n\u201cWhen a body comes of decent folk, he won\u2019t just care, maybe, to have\ntheir names brought up in a barrack-room. Ye never heard me say aught of\nmy father or my mither?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever, McAlister.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d a good hame,\u201d said the Highlander, with a decent pride in his tone.\n\u201cIt was a strict hame\u2014I\u2019ve no cause now to deceive mysel\u2019, thinking it\nwas a wee bit ower strict\u2014but it was a good hame. I left it, man\u2014I ran\naway.\u201d\n\nThe glittering blue eyes turned sharply on the lad, and he went on:\u2014\n\n\u201cA body doesna\u2019 care to turn his byeganes oot for every fool to peck at.\nDid I ever speer about your past life, and whar ye came from?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever, McAlister.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut that\u2019s no to say that, if I knew manners, I dinna obsairve. And\nthere\u2019s been things now and again, John Broom, that\u2019s gar\u2019d me think\nthat ye\u2019ve had what I had, and done as I did. Did ye rin awa\u2019, laddie?\u201d\n\nJohn Broom nodded his black head, but tears choked his voice.\n\n\u201cMan!\u201d said the Highlander, \u201cane word\u2019s as gude\u2019s a thousand. Gang back!\nGang hame! There\u2019s the bit siller here that\u2019s to tak ye, and the love\nyonder that\u2019s waiting ye. Listen to a dying man, laddie, and gang hame!\u201d\n\n\u201cI doubt if they\u2019d have me,\u201d sobbed John Broom, \u201cI gave \u2019em a deal of\ntrouble, McAlister.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd d\u2019ye think, lad, that that thought has na\u2019 cursed _me_, and keepit\nme from them that loved me? Aye, lad, and till this week I never\novercame it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel may I want to save ye, bairn,\u201d added the Highlander tenderly, \u201cfor\nit was the thocht of a\u2019 ye riskit for the like of me at the three roads,\nthat made me consider wi\u2019 mysel\u2019 that I\u2019ve aiblins been turning my back\na\u2019 my wilfu\u2019 life on love that\u2019s bigger than a man\u2019s deservings. It\u2019s\nnear done now, and it\u2019ll never lie in my poor power so much as rightly\nto thank ye. It\u2019s strange that a man should set store by a good name\nthat he doesna\u2019 deserve; but if ony blessings of mine could bring ye\ngood, they\u2019re yours, that saved an old soldier\u2019s honor, and let him die\nrespected in his regiment.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, McAlister, let me fetch one of the chaplains to write a letter to\nfetch your father,\u201d cried John Broom.\n\n\u201cThe minister\u2019s been here this morning,\u201d said the Highlander, \u201cand I\u2019ve\ntell\u2019t him mair than I\u2019ve tell\u2019t you. And he\u2019s jest directed me to put\nmy sinful trust in the Father of us a\u2019. I\u2019ve sinned heaviest against\n_Him_, laddie, but His love is stronger than the lave.\u201d\n\nJohn Broom remained by his friend, whose painful fits of coughing, and\nof gasping for breath, were varied by intervals of seeming stupor. When\na candle had been brought in and placed near the bed, the Highlander\nroused himself and asked,\u2014\n\n\u201cIs there a Bible on yon table? Could ye read a bit to me, laddie?\u201d\n\nThere is little need to dwell on the bitterness of heart with which John\nBroom confessed,\u2014\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t read big words, McAlister.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid ye never go to school?\u201d said the Scotchman.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t learn,\u201d said the poor boy; \u201cI played.\u201d\n\n\u201cAye, aye. Weel, ye\u2019ll learn, when ye gang hame,\u201d said the Highlander,\nin gentle tones.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll never get home,\u201d said John Broom, passionately. \u201cI\u2019ll never\nforgive myself. I\u2019ll never get over it, that I couldn\u2019t read to ye when\nye wanted me, McAlister.\u201d\n\n\u201cGently, gently,\u201d said the Scotchman. \u201cDinna daunt yoursel\u2019 owermuch wi\u2019\nthe past, laddie. And for me\u2014I\u2019m not that presoomptious to think that I\ncan square up a misspent life as a man might compound wi\u2019s creditors.\n\u2019Gin He forgi\u2019es me, He\u2019ll forgi\u2019e; but it\u2019s not a prayer up or a\nchapter down that\u2019ll stan\u2019 between me and the Almighty. So dinna fret\nyoursel\u2019, but let me think while I may.\u201d\n\nAnd so, far into the night, the Highlander lay silent, and John Broom\nwatched by him.\n\nIt was just midnight when he partly raised himself, and cried,\u2014\n\n\u201cWhist, laddie! do ye hear the pipes?\u201d\n\nThe dying ears must have been quick, for John Broom heard nothing; but\nin a few moments he heard the bagpipes from the officers\u2019 mess, where\nthey were keeping Hogmenay. They were playing the old year out with\n\u201cAuld lang syne,\u201d and the Highlander beat the tune out with his hand,\nand his eyes gleamed out of his rugged face in the dim light, as\ncairngorms glitter in dark tartan.\n\nThere was a pause after the first verse, and he grew restless, and\nturning doubtfully to where John Broom sat, as if his sight were\nfailing, he said, \u201cYe\u2019ll mind your promise, ye\u2019ll gang hame?\u201d And after\nawhile he repeated the last word,\n\n\u201c_Hame!_\u201d\n\nBut as he spoke there spread over his face a smile so tender and so full\nof happiness, that John Broom held his breath as he watched him. As the\nlight of sunrise creeps over the face of some rugged rock, it crept from\nchin to brow, and the pale blue eyes shone tranquil, like water that\nreflects heaven.\n\nAnd when it had passed it left them still open, but gems that had lost\ntheir ray.\n\n\n                      LUCK GOES.\u2014AND COMES AGAIN.\n\nThe spirit does not always falter in its faith because the flesh is\nweary with hope deferred. When week after week, month after month, and\nyear after year, went by and John Broom was not found, the\ndisappointment seemed to \u201cage\u201d the little ladies, as Thomasina phrased\nit. But yet they said to the parson, \u201cWe do not regret it.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod forbid that you should regret it,\u201d said he.\n\nAnd even the lawyer (whose heart was kinder than his tongue) abstained\nfrom taunting them with his prophecies, and said, \u201cThe force of the\nhabits of early education is a power as well as that of inherent\ntendencies. It is only for your sake that I regret a too romantic\nbenevolence.\u201d And Miss Betty and Miss Kitty tried to put the matter\nquite away. But John Broom was very closely bound up with the life of\nmany years past. Thomasina mourned him as if he had been her son, and\nThomasina being an old and valuable servant, it is needless to say that\nwhen she was miserable no one in the house was permitted to be quite at\nease.\n\nAs to Pretty Cocky, he lived, but Miss Kitty fancied that he grew less\npretty and drooped upon his polished perch.\n\nThere were times when the parson felt almost conscience-stricken because\nhe had encouraged the adoption of John Broom. Disappointments fall\nheavily upon elderly people. They may submit better than the young, but\nthey do not so easily revive. The little old ladies looked grayer and\nmore nervous, and the little old house looked grayer and gloomier than\nof old.\n\nIndeed there were other causes of anxiety. Times were changing, prices\nwere rising, and the farm did not thrive. The lawyer said that the\nfarm-bailiff neglected his duties, and that the cowherd did nothing but\ndrink; but Miss Betty trembled, and said they could not part with old\nservants.\n\nThe farm-bailiff had his own trouble, but he kept it to himself. No one\nknew how severely he had beaten John Broom the day before he ran away,\nbut he remembered it himself with painful clearness. Harsh men are apt\nto have consciences, and his was far from easy about the lad who had\nbeen entrusted to his care. He could not help thinking of it when the\nday\u2019s work was over, and he had to keep filling up his evening\nwhisky-glass again and again to drown disagreeable thoughts.\n\nThe whisky answered this purpose, but it made him late in the morning;\nit complicated business on market days, not to the benefit of the farm,\nand it put him at a disadvantage in dealing with the drunken cowherd.\n\nThe cowherd was completely upset by John Broom\u2019s mysterious\ndisappearance, and he comforted himself as the farm-bailiff did, but to\na larger extent. And Thomasina winked at many irregularities in\nconsideration of the groans of sympathy with which he responded to her\ntears as they sat around the hearth where John Broom no longer lay.\n\nAt the time that he vanished from Lingborough the gossips of the country\nside said, \u201cThis comes of making pets of tramps\u2019 brats, when honest\nfolk\u2019s sons may toil and moil without notice.\u201d But when it was proved\nthat the tramp-boy had stolen nothing, when all search for him was vain,\nand when prosperity faded from the place season by season and year by\nyear, there were old folk who whispered that the gaudily-clothed child\nMiss Betty had found under the broom-bush had something more than common\nin him, and that whoever and whatever had offended the eerie creature,\nhe had taken the luck of Lingborough with him when he went away.\n\nIt was early summer. The broom was shining in the hedges with uncommon\nwealth of golden blossoms. \u201cThe lanes look for all the world as they did\nthe year that poor child was found,\u201d said Thomasina, wiping her eyes.\nAnnie the lass sobbed hysterically, and the cowherd found himself so low\nin spirits that after gazing dismally at the cow-stalls, which had not\nbeen cleaned for days past, he betook himself to the ale-house to\nrefresh his energies for this and other arrears of work.\n\nOn returning to the farm, however, he found his hands still feeble, and\nhe took a drop or two more to steady them, after which it occurred to\nhim that certain new potatoes which he had had orders to dig were yet in\nthe ground. The wood was not chopped for the next day\u2019s use, and he\nwondered what had become of a fork he had had in the morning and had\nlaid down somewhere.\n\nSo he seated himself on some straw in the corner to think about it all,\nand whilst he was thinking he fell fast asleep.\n\nBy his own account many remarkable things had befallen him in the course\nof his life, including that meeting with a Black Something to which\nallusion has been made, but nothing so strange as what happened to him\nthat night.\n\nWhen he awoke in the morning and sat up on the straw, and looked around\nhim, the stable was freshly cleaned, the litter in the stalls was shaken\nand turned, and near the door was an old barrel of newly-dug potatoes,\nand the fork stood by it. And when he ran to the wood-house there lay\nthe wood neatly chopped and piled to take away.\n\nHe kept his own counsel that day and took credit for the work, but when\non the morrow the farm-bailiff was at a loss to know who had thinned the\nturnips that were left to do in the upper field, and Annie the lass\nfound the kitchen-cloths she had left overnight to soak, rubbed through\nand rinsed, and laid to dry, the cowherd told his tale to Thomasina, and\nbegged for a bowl of porridge and cream to set in the barn, as one might\nset a mouse-trap baited with cheese.\n\n\u201cFor,\u201d said he, \u201cthe luck of Lingborough\u2019s come back, missis. _It\u2019s Lob\nLie-by-the-fire!_\u201d\n\n\n                          LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s Lob Lie-by-the-fire!\u201d\n\nSo Thomasina whispered exultingly, and Annie the lass timidly. Thomasina\ncautioned the cowherd to hold his tongue, and she said nothing to the\nlittle ladies on the subject. She felt certain that they would tell the\nparson, and he might not approve. The farm-bailiff knew of a farm on the\nScotch side of the Border where a brownie had been driven away by the\nminister preaching his last Sunday\u2019s sermon over again at him, and as\nThomasina said, \u201cThere\u2019d been little enough luck at Lingborough lately,\nthat they should wish to scare it away when it came.\u201d\n\nAnd yet the news leaked out gently, and was soon known all through the\nneighborhood\u2014as a secret.\n\n\u201cThe luck of Lingborough\u2019s come back. Lob\u2019s lying by the fire!\u201d\n\nHe could be heard at his work any night, and several people had seen\nhim, though this vexed Thomasina, who knew well that the Good People do\nnot like to be watched at their labors.\n\nThe cowherd had not been able to resist peeping down through chinks in\nthe floor of the loft above the barn, where he slept, and one night he\nhad seen Lob fetching straw for the cowhouse. \u201cA great, rough, black\nfellow,\u201d said he, and he certainly grew bigger and rougher and blacker\nevery time the cowherd told the tale.\n\nThe Lubber-fiend appeared next to a boy who was loitering at a late hour\nsomewhere near the little ladies\u2019 kitchen-garden, and whom he pursued\nand pelted with mud till the lad nearly lost his wits with terror. (It\nwas the same boy who was put in the lock-up in the autumn for stealing\nFarmer Mangel\u2019s Siberian crabs.)\n\nFor this trick, however, the rough elf atoned by leaving three pecks of\nnewly-gathered fruit in the kitchen the following morning. Never had\nthere been such a preserving season at Lingborough within the memory of\nThomasina.\n\nThe truth is, hobgoblins, from Puck to Will-o\u2019-the-wisp, are apt to play\npractical jokes and knock people about whom they meet after sunset. A\ndozen tales of such were rife, and folk were more amused than amazed by\nLob Lie-by-the-fire\u2019s next prank.\n\nThere was an aged pauper who lived on the charity of the little ladies,\nand whom it was Miss Betty\u2019s practice to employ to do light weeding in\nthe fields for heavy wages. This venerable person was toddling to his\nhome in the gloaming with a barrow-load of Miss Betty\u2019s new potatoes,\ndexterously hidden by an upper sprinkling of groundsel and hemlock, when\nthe Lubber-fiend sprang out from behind an elder-bush, ran at the old\nman with his black head, and knocked him, heels uppermost into the\nditch. The wheel-barrow was afterwards found in Miss Betty\u2019s farmyard,\nquite empty.\n\nAnd when the cowherd (who had his own opinion of the aged pauper, and it\nwas a very poor one) went that evening, to drink Lob Lie-by-the-fire\u2019s\nhealth from a bottle he kept in the harness-room window, he was nearly\nchoked with the contents, which had turned into salt and water, as fairy\njewels turn to withered leaves.\n\nBut luck had come to Lingborough. There had not been such crops for\ntwice seven years past.\n\nThe lay-away hen\u2019s eggs were brought regularly to the kitchen.\n\nThe ducklings were not eaten by rats.\n\nNo fowls were stolen.\n\nThe tub of pig-meal lasted three times as long as usual.\n\nThe cart-wheels and gate-hinges were oiled by unseen fingers.\n\nThe mushrooms in the croft gathered themselves and lay down on a dish in\nthe larder.\n\nIt is by small savings that a farm thrives, and Miss Betty\u2019s farm\nthrove.\n\nEverybody worked with more alacrity. Annie, the lass, said the butter\ncame in a way that made it a pleasure to churn.\n\nThe neighbors knew even more than those on the spot. They said\u2014That\nsince Lob came back to Lingborough the hens laid eggs as large as\nturkeys\u2019 eggs, and the turkeys\u2019 eggs were\u2014oh, you wouldn\u2019t believe the\nsize!\n\nThat the cows gave nothing but cream, and that Thomasina skimmed butter\noff it as less lucky folk skim cream from milk.\n\nThat her cheeses were as rich as butter.\n\nThat she sold all she made, for Lob took the fairy butter from the old\ntrees in the avenue, and made it up into pats for Miss Betty\u2019s table.\n\nThat if you bought Lingborough turnips, you might feed your cows on them\nall the winter and the milk would be as sweet as new-mown hay.\n\nThat horses foddered on Lingborough hay would have thrice the strength\nof others, and that sheep who cropped Lingborough pastures would grow\nthree times as fat.\n\nThat for as good a watch-dog as it was the sheep dog never barked at\nLob, a plain proof that he was more than human.\n\nThat for all its good luck it was not safe to loiter near the place\nafter dark, if you wished to keep your senses. And if you took so much\nas a fallen apple belonging to Miss Betty, you might look out for palsy\nor St. Vitus\u2019s dance, or to be carried off bodily to the underground\nfolk.\n\nFinally, that it was well that all the cows gave double, for that Lob\nLie-by-the-fire drank two gallons of the best cream every day, with\ncurds, porridge, and other dainties to match. But what did that matter,\nwhen he had been overheard to swear that luck should not leave\nLingborough till Miss Betty owned half the country side?\n\n\n                        MISS BETTY IS SURPRISED.\n\nMiss Betty and Miss Kitty having accepted a polite invitation from Mrs.\nGeneral Dunmaw, went down to tea with that lady one fine evening in this\neventful summer.\n\nDeath had made a gap or two in the familiar circle during the last\nfourteen years, but otherwise it was quite the same except that the\nlawyer was married and not quite so sarcastic, and that Mrs. Brown Jasey\nhad brought a young niece with her dressed in the latest fashion, which\nlooked quite as odd as new fashions are wont to do, and with a\n_coiffure_ \u201cenough to frighten the French away,\u201d as her aunt told her.\n\nIt was while this young lady was getting more noise out of Mrs. Dunmaw\u2019s\nred silk and rosewood piano than had been shaken out of it during the\nlast thirty years, that the lawyer brought his cup of coffee to Miss\nBetty\u2019s side, and said, suavely, \u201cI hear wonderful accounts of\nLingborough, dear Miss Betty.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am thankful to say, sir, that the farm is doing well this year. I am\nvery thankful, for the past few years have been unfavorable, and we had\nbegun to face the fact that it might be necessary to sell the old place.\nAnd, I will not deny, sir, that it would have gone far to break my\nheart, to say nothing of my sister Kitty\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, we shouldn\u2019t have let it come to that,\u201d said the lawyer, \u201cI could\nhave raised a loan\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d said Miss Betty, with dignity; \u201cIf we have our own pride, I hope\nit\u2019s an honest one. Lingborough will have passed out of our family when\nit\u2019s kept up on borrowed money.\u201d\n\n\u201cI _could_ live in lodgings,\u201d added Miss Betty, firmly, \u201clittle as I\u2019ve\nbeen accustomed to it, but _not in debt_.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well, my dear madam, we needn\u2019t talk about it now. But I\u2019m dying\nof curiosity as to the mainstay of all this good luck.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe turnips\u2014\u201d began Miss Betty.\n\n\u201cBless my soul, Miss Betty!\u201d cried the lawyer, \u201cI\u2019m not talking turnips.\nI\u2019m talking of Lob Lie-by-the-fire, as all the country side is for that\nmatter.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe country people have plenty of tales of him,\u201d said Miss Betty, with\nsome pride in the family goblin. \u201cHe used to haunt the old barns, they\nsay, in my great-grandfather\u2019s time.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd now you\u2019ve got him back again,\u201d said the lawyer.\n\n\u201cNot that I know of,\u201d said Miss Betty.\n\nOn which the lawyer poured into her astonished ear all the latest news\non the subject, and if it had lost nothing before reaching his house in\nthe town, it rather gained in marvels as he repeated it to Miss Betty.\n\nNo wonder that the little lady was anxious to get home to question\nThomasina, and that somewhat before the usual hour she said.\u2014\n\n\u201cSister Kitty, if it\u2019s not too soon for the servant\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\nAnd the parson, threading his way to where Mrs. Dunmaw\u2019s china crape\nshawl (dyed crimson) shone in the bow window, said, \u201cThe clergy should\nkeep respectable hours; especially when they are as old as I am. Will\nyou allow me to thank you for a very pleasant evening, and to say\ngood-night?\u201d\n\n\n                    THE PARSON AND THE LUBBER-FIEND.\n\n\u201cDo you think there\u2019d be any harm in leaving it alone, sister Betty?\u201d\nasked Miss Kitty, tremulously.\n\nThey had reached Lingborough, and the parson had come in with them, by\nMiss Betty\u2019s request, and Thomasina had been duly examined:\n\n\u201cEh, Miss Betty, why should ye chase away good luck with the minister?\u201d\ncried she.\n\n\u201cSister Kitty! Thomasina!\u201d said Miss Betty. \u201cI would not accept good\nluck from a doubtful quarter to save Lingborough. But if It can face\nthis excellent clergyman, the Being who haunted my great-grandfather\u2019s\nfarm is still welcome to the old barns, and you, Thomasina, need not\ngrudge It cream or curds.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re quite right, sister Betty,\u201d said Miss Kitty, \u201cyou always are;\nbut oh dear, oh dear!\u201d\u2014\n\n\u201cThomasina tells me,\u201d said Miss Betty, turning to the parson, \u201cthat on\nchilly evenings It sometimes comes and lies by the kitchen fire after\nthey have gone to bed, and I can distinctly remember my grandmother\nmentioning the same thing. Thomasina has of late left the kitchen door\non the latch for Its convenience, as they had to sit up late for us, she\nand Annie have taken their work into the still-room to leave the kitchen\nfree for Lob Lie-by-the-fire. They have not looked into the kitchen this\nevening, as such beings do not like to be watched. But they fancy that\nthey heard It come in. I trust, sir, that neither in myself nor my\nsister Kitty does timidity exceed a proper feminine sensibility, where\nduty is concerned. If you will be good enough to precede us, we will go\nto meet the old friend of my great-grandfather\u2019s fortunes, and we leave\nit entirely to your valuable discretion to pursue what course you think\nproper on the occasion.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs this the door?\u201d said the parson, cheerfully, after knocking his head\nagainst black beams and just saving his legs down shallow and unexpected\nsteps on his way to the kitchen\u2014beams so unfelt and steps so familiar\nto the women that it had never struck them that the long passage was not\nthe most straightforward walk a man could take\u2014\u201cI think you said It\ngenerally lies on the hearth?\u201d\n\nThe happy thought struck Thomasina that the parson might be frightened\nout of his unlucky interference.\n\n\u201cAye, aye, sir,\u201d said she from behind. \u201cWe\u2019ve heard him rolling by the\nfire, and growling like thunder to himself. They say he\u2019s an awful size,\ntoo, with the strength of four men, and a long tail, and eyes like coals\nof fire.\u201d\n\nBut Thomasina spoke in vain, for the parson opened the door, and as they\npressed in, the moonlight streaming through the lattice window showed\nLob lying by the fire.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s his tail! Ay\u2014\u2014k!\u201d screeched Annie the lass, and away she\nwent, without drawing breath, to the top garret, where she locked and\nbolted herself in, and sat her bandbox flat, screaming for help.\n\nBut it was the plumy tail of the sheep dog, who was lying there with the\nLubber-fiend. And Lob was asleep, with his arms round the sheep dog\u2019s\nneck, and the sheep dog\u2019s head lay on his breast, and his own head\ntouched the dog\u2019s.\n\nAnd it was a smaller head than the parson had been led to expect, and it\nhad thick black hair.\n\nAs the parson bent over the hearth, Thomasina took Miss Kitty round the\nwaist, and Miss Betty clutched her black velvet bag till the steel beads\nran into her hands, and they were quite prepared for an explosion, and\nsulphur, and blue lights, and thunder.\n\nAnd then the parson\u2019s deep round voice broke the silence, saying,\u2014\n\n\u201cIs that you, lad? God bless you, John Broom. You\u2019re welcome home!\u201d\n\n\n                                THE END.\n\nSome things\u2014such as gossip\u2014gain in the telling, but there are others\nbefore which words fail, though each heart knows its own power of\nsympathy. And such was the joy of the little ladies and of Thomasina at\nJohn Broom\u2019s return.\n\nThe sheep dog had his satisfaction out long ago, and had kept it to\nhimself, but how Pretty Cocky crowed, and chuckled, and danced, and\nbowed his crest, and covered his face with his amber wings, and kicked\nhis seed-pot over, and spilt his water-pot on to the Derbyshire marble\nchess-table, and screamed till the room rang again, and went on\nscreaming, with Miss Kitty\u2019s pocket-handkerchief over his head to keep\nhim quiet, my poor pen can but imperfectly describe.\n\nThe desire to atone for the past which had led John Broom to act the\npart of one of those Good-Fellows who have, we must fear, finally\ndeserted us, will be easily understood. And to a nature of his type, the\nearning of some self-respect, and of a new character before others, was\nperhaps a necessary prelude to future well-doing.\n\nHe did do well. He became \u201ca good scholar,\u201d as farmers were then. He\nspent as much of his passionate energies on the farm as the farm would\nabsorb, and he restrained the rest. It is not cockatoos only who have\nsometimes to live and be happy in this unfinished life with one wing\nclipped.\n\nIn fine weather, when the perch was put into the garden, Miss Betty was\nsometimes startled by stumbling on John Broom in the dusk, sitting on\nhis heels, the unfastened chain in his hand, with his black head\nlovingly laid against Cocky\u2019s white and yellow poll, talking in a low\nvoice, and apparently with the sympathy of his companion; and, as Miss\nBetty justly feared, of that \u201cother side of the world,\u201d which they both\nknew, and which both at times had cravings to revisit.\n\nEven after the sobering influences of middle age had touched him, and a\nwife and children bound him with the quiet ties of home, he had (at long\nintervals) his \u201crestless times,\u201d when his good \u201cmissis\u201d would bring out\na little store laid by in one of the children\u2019s socks, and would bid him\n\u201cBe off, and get a breath of the sea-air,\u201d but on condition that the\nsock went with him as his purse. John Broom always looked ashamed to go,\nbut he came back the better, and his wife was quite easy in his absence\nwith that confidence in her knowledge of \u201cthe master,\u201d which is so\nmysterious to the unmarried, and which Miss Betty looked upon as \u201cwant\nof feeling\u201d to the end. She always dreaded that he would not return, and\na little ruse which she adopted of giving him money to make bargains for\nforeign articles of _vertu_ with the sailors, is responsible for many of\nthe choicest ornaments in the Lingborough parlor.\n\n\u201cThe sock\u2019ll bring him home,\u201d said Mrs. Broom, and home he came, and\nnever could say what he had been doing. Nor was the account given by\nThomasina\u2019s cousin, who was a tide-waiter down yonder, particularly\nsatisfying to the women\u2019s curiosity. He said that John Broom was always\nabout; that he went aboard of all the craft in the bay, and asked whence\nthey came and whither they were bound. That, being once taunted to it,\nhe went up the rigging of a big vessel like a cat, and came down it\nlooking like a fool. That, as a rule, he gossipped and shared his\ntobacco with sailors and fishermen, and brought out the sock much\noftener than was prudent for the benefit of the ragged boys who haunt\nthe quay.\n\nHe had two other weaknesses, which a faithful biographer must chronicle.\n\nA regiment on the march would draw him from the ploughtail itself, and\n\u201cWith daddy to see the soldiers\u201d was held to excuse any of Mrs. Broom\u2019s\nchildren from household duties.\n\nThe other shall be described in the graphic language of that acute\nobserver the farm-bailiff.\n\n\u201cIf there cam\u2019 an Irish beggar, wi\u2019 a stripy cloot roond him and a\nbellows under\u2019s arm, and ca\u2019d himself a Hielander, the lad wad gi\u2019e him\nhis silly head off his shoulders.\u201d\n\nAs to the farm-bailiff, perhaps no one felt more or said less than he\ndid on John Broom\u2019s return. But the tones of his voice had tender\nassociations for the boy\u2019s ears as he took off his speckled hat, and\nafter contemplating the inside for some moments, put it on again, and\nsaid,\u2014\n\n\u201cAweel, lad, sae ye\u2019ve cam hame?\u201d\n\nBut he listened with quivering face when John Broom told the story of\nMcAlister, and when it was ended he rose and went out, and \u201ctook the\npledge\u201d against drink, and\u2014kept it.\n\nMoved by similar enthusiasm, the cowherd took the pledge also, and if he\ndidn\u2019t keep it, he certainly drank less, chiefly owing to the vigilant\noversight of the farm-bailiff, who now exercised his natural severity\nalmost exclusively in the denunciation of all liquors whatsoever, from\nthe cowherd\u2019s whisky to Thomasina\u2019s elder-flower wine.\n\nThe plain cousin left his money to the little old ladies, and\nLingborough continued to flourish.\n\nPartly perhaps because of this, it is doubtful if John Broom was ever\nlooked upon by the rustics as quite \u201clike other folk.\u201d\n\nThe favorite version of his history is that he was Lob under the guise\nof a child; that he was driven away by new clothes; that he returned\nfrom unwillingness to see an old family go to ruin \u201cwhich he had served\nfor hundreds of years;\u201d that the parson preached his last Sunday\u2019s\nsermon at him; and that having stood that test, he took his place among\nChristian people.\n\nWhether a name invented off-hand, however plain and sensible, does not\nstick to a man as his father\u2019s does, is a question. But John Broom was\nnot often called by his.\n\nWith Scotch caution, the farm-bailiff seldom exceeded the safe title of\n\u201cMan!\u201d and the parson was apt to address him as \u201cMy dear boy\u201d when he\nhad certainly outgrown the designation.\n\nMiss Betty called him John Broom, but the people called him by the name\nthat he had earned.\n\nAnd long after his black hair lay white and thick on his head, like snow\non the old barn roof, and when his dark eyes were dim in an honored old\nage, the village children would point him out to each other, crying,\n\u201cThere goes Lob Lie-by-the-fire, the Luck of Lingborough!\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                            TIMOTHY\u2019S SHOES.\n\n\n                          THE FAIRY GODMOTHER.\n\nTimothy\u2019s mother was very conscientious. When she was quite a young\nwoman, just after the birth of her first baby, and long before Timothy\nsaw the light, she was very much troubled about the responsibilities of\nhaving a family.\n\n\u201cSuppose,\u201d she murmured, \u201cthey catch measles, whooping cough,\nchicken-pox, scarlatina, croup, or inflammation of the lungs, when I\nmight have prevented it; and either die, or have weak eyes, weak lungs\nor a chronic sore throat to the end of their days. Suppose they have\nbandy legs from walking too soon, or crooked spines from being carried\ntoo long. Suppose, too, that they grow up bad\u2014that they go wrong, do\nwhat one will to keep them right. Suppose I cannot afford to educate\nthem properly, or that they won\u2019t learn if I can afford to have them\ntaught. Suppose that they die young, when I might have kept them alive;\nor live only to make me think they had better have died young. Oh dear,\nit\u2019s a terrible responsibility having a family!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s too late to talk about that now, my dear,\u201d said her godmother (a\nfairy godmother, too!); \u201cthe baby is a very fine boy, and if you will\nlet me know when the christening-day is fixed, I will come and give him\na present. I can\u2019t be godmother, though; I\u2019m too old, and you\u2019ve talked\nabout responsibilities till I\u2019m quite alarmed.\u201d With which the old lady\nkissed her goddaughter, and nearly put out the baby\u2019s eye with the point\nof her peaked hat, after which she mounted her broomstick and rode away.\n\n\u201cA very fine boy,\u201d continued the young mother. \u201cAh! that\u2019s just where it\nis; if it had only been a girl I shouldn\u2019t have felt so much afraid.\nGirls are easily managed. They have got consciences, and they mend their\nown clothes. You can make them work, and they can amuse themselves when\nthey\u2019re not working. Now with boys it is quite different. And yet I\nshouldn\u2019t wonder if I have a large family of boys, just because I feel\nit to be such a responsibility.\u201d\n\nShe was quite right. Years went by; one baby after another was added to\nthe family, and they were all boys. \u201cTwenty feet that want socks,\u201d\nsighed the good woman, \u201cand not a hand that can knit or darn!\u201d\n\nBut we must go back to the first christening. The godmother arrived,\ndressed in plum-colored satin, with a small brown-paper parcel in her\nhand.\n\n\u201cFortunatus\u2019s purse!\u201d whispered one of the guests, nudging his neighbor\nwith his elbow. \u201cThe dear child will always be welcome in my poor\nestablishment,\u201d he added aloud to the mother.\n\n\u201cA mere trifle, my love,\u201d said the fairy godmother, laying the\nbrown-paper parcel beside her on the table and nodding kindly to her\ngoddaughter.\n\n\u201cThat means a mug,\u201d said one of the godfathers, decidedly. \u201cRather\nshabby! I\u2019ve gone as far as a knife, fork, and spoon myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoubtless \u2019tis of the more precious metal,\u201d said Dr. Dixon Airey, the\nschoolmaster (and this was his way of saying that it was a gold mug),\n\u201cand not improbably studded with the glittering diamond. Let us not be\nprecipitate in our conclusions.\u201d\n\nAt this moment the fairy spoke again. \u201cMy dear goddaughter,\u201d she began,\nlaying her hand upon the parcel, \u201cI have too often had reason to observe\nthat the gift of beauty is far from invariably proving a benefit to its\npossessor.\u201d (\u201cI told you it was a purse,\u201d muttered the guest.) \u201cRiches,\u201d\ncontinued the fairy, \u201care hardly a less doubtful boon; and the youth who\nis born to almost unlimited wealth is not always slow to become a\nbankrupt. Indeed, I fear that the experience of many centuries has\nalmost convinced us poor fairies that extraordinary gifts are not\nnecessarily blessings. This trifle,\u201d she continued, beginning to untie\nthe string of the parcel, \u201cis a very common gift to come from my hands,\nbut I trust it will prove useful.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere!\u201d cried the godfather, \u201cdidn\u2019t I say it was a mug? Common? Why\nthere\u2019s nothing so universal except, indeed, the knife, fork, and\nspoon.\u201d\n\nBut before he had finished his sentence the parcel was opened, and the\nfairy presented the young mother with\u2014_a small pair of strong leather\nshoes, copper tipped and heeled_. \u201cThey\u2019ll never wear out, my dear,\u201d she\nsaid; \u201crely upon it, you\u2019ll find them a \u2018mother\u2019s blessing,\u2019 and however\nlarge a family you may have, your children will step into one another\u2019s\nshoes just at the age when little feet are the most destructive.\u201d With\nwhich the old lady carefully wound the string on her finger into a neat\ntwist, and folding the bit of brown paper put both in her pocket, for\nshe was a very economical dame.\n\nI will not attempt to describe the scandalized buzz in which the\nvisitors expressed their astonishment at the meanness of the fairy\u2019s\ngift. As for the young mother, she was a sensible, sweet-tempered woman,\nand very fond of her old godmother, so she set it down to a freak of\neccentricity; and, dismissing a few ambitious day-dreams from her mind,\nshe took the shoes, and thanked the old lady pleasantly enough.\n\nWhen the company had departed, the godmother still lingered, and kissed\nher goddaughter affectionately. \u201cIf your children inherit your good\nsense and good temper, my love, they will need nothing an old woman like\nme can give them,\u201d said she; \u201cbut, all the same, my little gift is not\n_quite_ so shabby as it looks. These shoes have another quality besides\nthat of not wearing out. The little feet that are in them cannot very\neasily go wrong. If, when your boy is old enough, you send him to school\nin these shoes, should he be disposed to play truant, they will pinch\nand discomfit him so that it is probable he will let his shoes take him\nthe right way; they will in like manner bring him home at the proper\ntime. And\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cMrs. Godmother\u2019s broomstick at the door!\u201d shouted the farming man who\nwas acting as footman on this occasion.\n\n\u201cWell, my dear,\u201d said the old lady, \u201cyou will find out their virtues all\nin good time, and they will do for the whole family in turn; for I\nreally can come to no more christenings. I am getting old\u2014besides, our\nday is over. Farewell, my love.\u201d And mounting her broomstick, the fairy\nfinally departed.\n\n\n                               KINGCUPS.\n\nAs years went by, and her family increased, the mother learned the full\nvalue of the little shoes. Her nine boys wore them in turn, but they\nnever wore them out. So long as the fairy shoes were on their feet they\nwere pretty sure to go where they were sent and to come back when they\nwere wanted, which, as all parents know, is no light matter. Moreover,\nduring the time that each boy wore them, he got into such good habits\nthat he was thenceforward comparatively tractable. At last they\ndescended to the ninth and youngest boy, and became\u2014Timothy\u2019s shoes.\n\nNow the eighth boy had very small feet, so he had worn the shoes rather\nlonger, and Timothy got them somewhat later than usual. Then, despite\nher conscientiousness, Timothy\u2019s mother was not above the weakness of\nspoiling the youngest of the family; and so, for one reason or another,\nMaster Timothy was wilful, and his little feet pretty well used to\ntaking their own way before he stepped into the fairy shoes. But he\nplayed truant from the dame\u2019s school and was late for dinner so often,\nthat at length his mother resolved to bear it no longer; and one morning\nthe leather shoes were brightly blacked and the copper tips polished,\nand Master Tim was duly shod, and dismissed to school with many a wise\nwarning from his fond parent.\n\n\u201cNow, Tim, dear, I know you will be a good boy,\u201d said his mother, a\nstrong conviction that he would be no such thing pricking her\nconscience. \u201cAnd mind you don\u2019t loiter or play truant, for if you do,\nthese shoes will pinch you horribly, and you\u2019ll be sure to be found\nout.\u201d\n\nTim\u2019s mother held him by his right arm, and Tim\u2019s left arm and both his\nlegs were already as far away as he could stretch them, and Tim\u2019s face\nlooked just as incredulous as yours would look if you were told that\nthere was a bogy in the store-closet who would avenge any attack upon\nthe jam-pots with untold terrors. At last the good woman let go her\nhold, and Tim went off like an arrow from a bow, and he gave not one\nmore thought to what his mother had said.\n\nThe past winter had been very cold, the spring had been fitful and\nstormy, and May had suddenly burst upon the country with one broad\nbright smile of sunshine and flowers. If Tim had loitered on the school\npath when the frost nipped his nose and numbed his toes, or when the\ntrees were bare and the ground muddy, and the March winds crept up his\njacket-sleeves, one can imagine the temptations to delay when every nook\nhad a flower and every bush a bird. It is very wrong to play truant, but\nstill it was very tempting. Twirr-r-r-r-r\u2014up into the blue sky went the\nlarks; hedge-birds chirped and twittered in and out of the bushes, the\npale milkmaids opened their petals, and down in the dark marsh below the\nkingcups shone like gold.\n\nOnce or twice Tim loitered to pick milkmaids and white starflowers and\nspeedwell; but the shoes pinched him, and he ran on all the more\nwillingly that a newly fledged butterfly went before him. But when the\npath ran on above the marsh, and he looked down and saw the kingcups, he\ndismissed all thoughts of school. True, the bank was long and steep, but\nthat only added to the fun. Kingcups he must have. The other flowers he\nflung away. Milkmaids are wan-looking at the best; starflowers and\nspeedwell are ragged; but those shining things that he had not seen for\ntwelve long months, with cups of gold and leaves like water-lilies\u2014Tim\nflung his satchel on to the grass, and began to scramble down the bank.\nBut though he turned his feet towards the kingcups, the shoes seemed\nresolved to go to school; and as he persisted in going towards the\nmarsh, he suffered such twitches and twinges that he thought his feet\nmust have been wrenched off. But Tim was a very resolute little fellow,\nand though his ankles bid fair to be dislocated at every step, he\ndragged himself, shoes and all, down to the marsh. And now, provokingly\nenough, he could not find a kingcup within reach; in very perversity, as\nit seemed, not one would grow on the safe edge, but, like so many\nWill-o\u2019-the-wisps, they shone out of the depths of the treacherous bog.\nAnd as Tim wandered round the marsh, jerk, wrench\u2014oh, dear! every step\nwas like a galvanic shock. At last, desperate with pain and\ndisappointment, he fairly jumped into a brilliant clump that looked\ntolerable near, and was at once ankle-deep in water. Then, to his\ndelight, the wet mud sucked the shoes off his feet, and he waded about\namong the rushes, reeds, and kingcups, sublimely happy.\n\nAnd he was none the worse, though he ought to have been. He moved about\nvery cautiously, feeling his way with a stick from tussock to tussock of\nreedy grass, and wondering how his eight brothers had been so\nfeeble-minded as never to think of throwing the obnoxious shoes into a\nbog and so getting rid of them once for all. True, in fairy stories, the\nyoungest brother always does accomplish what his elders had failed to\ndo: but fairy tales are not always true. At last Tim began to feel\ntired; he hurt his foot with a sharp stump. A fat yellow frog jumped up\nin his face and so startled him that he nearly fell backwards into the\nwater. He was frightened, and had culled more kingcups than he could\ncarry. So he scrambled out, and climbed the bank, and cleaned himself up\nas well as he could with a small cotton pocket handkerchief, and thought\nhe would go on to school.\n\nNow, with all his faults, Tim was no coward and no liar, so with a\nquaking heart and a stubborn face he made up his mind to tell the dame\nthat he had played truant; but even when one has resolved to confess,\nthe words lag behind, and Tim was still composing a speech in his mind,\nand had still got no farther than, \u201cPlease, ma\u2019am,\u201d when he found\nhimself in the school and under the dame\u2019s very eye.\n\nBut Tim heeded not her frown, nor the subdued titters of the children;\nhis eyes were fixed on the schoolroom floor, where\u2014in Tim\u2019s proper\nplace in the class\u2014stood the little leather shoes, very muddy, and with\na kingcup in each.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve been in the marsh, Timothy,\u201d said the dame. \u201c_Put on your\nshoes._\u201d\n\nIt will be believed that when his punishment and his lessons were over,\nTim allowed his shoes to take him quietly home.\n\n\n                          THE SHOES AT SCHOOL.\n\nWhen Timothy\u2019s mother heard how he had been in the marsh, she decided to\nsend him at once to a real boys\u2019 school, as he was quite beyond dame\u2019s\nmanagement. So he went to live with Dr. Dixon Airey, who kept a school\non the moors, assisted by one Usher, a gentleman who had very long legs\nand used very long words, and who wore common spectacles of very high\npower on work days, and green ones on Sundays and holidays.\n\nAnd Timothy\u2019s shoes went with him.\n\nOn the whole he liked being at school. He liked the boys, he did not\nhate Dr. Airey much, and he would have felt kindly towards the Usher but\nfor certain exasperating circumstances. The Usher was accustomed to\nillustrate his lessons by examples from familiar objects, and as he\nnaturally had not much imagination left after years of grinding at the\nrudiments of everything with a succession of lazy little boys, he took\nthe first familiar objects that came to hand, and his examples were apt\nto be tame. Now though Timothy\u2019s shoes were well-known in his native\nvillage, they created quite a sensation in Dr. Dixon Airey\u2019s\nestablishment, and the Usher brought them into his familiar examples\ntill Timothy was nearly frantic. Thus: \u201cIf Timothy\u2019s shoes cost 8_s._\n7_d._ without the copper tips, &c.\u201d or, illustrating the genitive case,\n\u201cTimothy\u2019s shoes, or the shoes of Timothy,\u201d or again: \u201cThe shoes. Of the\nshoes. To or for the shoes. The shoes. O shoes! By, with, or from the\nshoes.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll run away by, with, or from the shoes shortly,\u201d groaned Timothy,\n\u201csee if I don\u2019t. I can\u2019t stand it any longer.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wouldn\u2019t mind it, if I were you,\u201d returned Bramble minor. \u201cThey all\ndo it. Look at the fellow who wrote the Latin Grammar! He looks around\nthe schoolroom, and the first thing that catches his eyes goes down for\nthe first declension, _forma_, a form. They\u2019re all alike.\u201d\n\nBut when the fruit season came round, and boys now and then smuggled\ncherries into school, which were forfeited by the Usher, he sometimes\nused these for illustrations instead of the shoes, thus (in the\narithmetic class): \u201cTwo hundred and fifty-four cherries added to one\nthousand six hundred and seventy-five will make\u2014\u2014?\u201d\n\n\u201cA _very_ big pie!\u201d cried Tim on one of these occasions. He had been\nsitting half asleep in the sunshine, his mind running on the coming\nenjoyments of the fruit season, cooked and uncooked; the Usher had\nappealed to him unexpectedly, and the answer was out of his lips before\nhe could recollect himself. Of course he was sent to the bottom of the\nclass; and the worst of going down in class for Timothy was that his\nshoes were never content to rest there. They pinched his poor feet till\nhe shuffled them off in despair, and then they pattered back to his\nproper place where they stayed till, for very shame, Tim was obliged to\nwork back to them: and if he kept down in his class for two or three\ndays, for so long he had to sit in his socks, for the shoes always took\nthe place that Tim ought to have filled.\n\nBut, after all, it was pleasant enough at that school upon the moors,\nfrom the time when the cat heather came out upon the hills to the last\nof the blackberries; and even in winter, when the northern snow lay\ndeep, and the big dam was \u201csafe\u201d for skaters, and there was a slide from\nthe Doctor\u2019s gate to the village post-office\u2014one steep descent of a\nquarter of a mile on the causeway, and as smooth as the glass mountain\nclimbed by the princes in the fairy tale. Then Saturday was a\nhalf-holiday, and the boys were allowed to ramble off on long country\nwalks, and if they had been particularly good they were allowed to take\nout Nardy.\n\nThis was the Doctor\u2019s big dog, a noble fellow of St. Bernard breed. The\nDoctor called him Bernardus, but the boys called him Nardy.\n\nSometimes, too, the Usher would take one or two boys for a treat to the\nneighboring town, and when the Usher went out holidaying, he always wore\nthe green spectacles, through which he never saw anything amiss, and\nindeed (it was whispered) saw very little at all.\n\nAltogether Timothy would have been happy but for the shoes. They did him\ngood service in many ways, it is true. When Timothy first came the\nlittle boys groaned under the tyranny of a certain big bully of whom all\nwere afraid. One day when he was maltreating Bramble minor in a shameful\nand most unjust fashion, Timothy rushed at him and with the copper tips\nof his unerring shoes he kicked him so severely that the big bully did\nnot get over it for a week, and no one feared him any more. Then in\nraces, and all games of swift and skilful chase, Timothy\u2019s shoes won him\nhigh renown. But they made him uncomfortable whenever he went wrong, and\nleft him no peace till he went right, and he grumbled loudly against\nthem.\n\n\u201cThere is a right way and a wrong way in all sublunary affairs,\u201d said\nthe Usher. \u201cHereafter, young gentleman, you will appreciate your\nsingular felicity in being incapable of taking the wrong course without\nfeeling uncomfortable.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the use of his talking like that?\u201d said Timothy, kicking the\nbench before him with his \u201ccopper tips.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t want to go the wrong\nway, I only want to go my own way, that\u2019s all.\u201d And night and day he\nbeat his brains for a good plan to rid himself of the fairy shoes.\n\n\n                          THE SHOES AT CHURCH.\n\nOn Sunday, Dr. Dixon Airey\u2019s school went to the old church in the\nvalley. It was a venerable building with a stone floor, and when Dr.\nDixon Airey\u2019s young gentlemen came in they made such a clattering with\ntheir feet that everybody looked round. So the Usher very properly made\na point of being punctual that they might not disturb the congregation.\n\nThe Usher always went to church with the boys, and he always wore his\ngreen spectacles. It has been hinted that on Sundays and holidays he was\nslow to see anything amiss. Indeed if he were directly told of\nmisconduct he would only shake his head and say:\n\n\u201c_Humanum est errare_, my dear boy, as Dr. Kerchever Arnold truly\nremarks in one of the exercises.\u201d\n\nAnd the boys liked him all the better, and did not on the whole behave\nany the worse for this occasional lenity.\n\nFour times in the year, on certain Sunday afternoons, the young people\nof the neighborhood were publicly catechised in the old church after the\nsecond lesson at Evening Prayer, and Dr. Dixon Airey\u2019s young gentlemen\nwith the rest. They all filed down on the nave in a certain order, and\nevery boy knew beforehand which question and answer would fall to his\nshare. Now Timothy\u2019s mother had taught him the Catechism very\nthoroughly, and so on a certain Sunday he found that the lengthy answer\nto the question, \u201cWhat is thy duty towards thy neighbor?\u201d had been given\nto him. He knew it quite well; but a stupid, half-shy, and wholly\naggravating fit came upon him, and he resolved that he would not stand\nup with the others to say his Catechism in church. So when they were\nabout half-way there, Timothy slipped off unnoticed, and the Usher\u2014all\nconfidence and green spectacles\u2014took the rest of the party on without\nhim.\n\nOh, how the shoes pinched Tim\u2019s feet as he ran away over the heather,\nand how Tim vowed in his heart never to rest till he got rid of them! At\nlast the wrenching became so intolerable that Tim tore them off his\nfeet, and kicked them for very spite. Fortunately for Tim\u2019s shins the\nshoes did not kick back again, but they were just setting off after the\nUsher, when Tim snatched them up and put them in his pocket. At last he\nfound among the gray rocks that peeped out of the heather and bracken,\none that he could just move, and when he had pushed it back, he popped\nthe shoes under it, and then rolled the heavy boulder back on them to\nkeep them fast. After which he ate bilberries till his teeth were blue,\nand tried to forget the shoes and to enjoy himself. But he could hot do\neither.\n\nAs to the Usher, when he found that Timothy was missing, he was very\nmuch vexed; and when the Psalms were ended and still he had not come,\nthe Usher took off his green spectacles and put them into his pocket.\nAnd Bramble minor, who came next to Timothy, kept his Prayer-Book open\nat the Church Catechism and read his Duty to his Neighbor instead of\nattending to the service. At last the time came, and all the boys filed\ndown the nave. First the Parish schools and then Doctor Dixon Airey\u2019s\nyoung gentlemen; and just as they took their places between Bramble\nminor and the next boy\u2014in the spot where Timothy should have\nbeen\u2014stood Timothy\u2019s shoes.\n\nAfter service the shoes walked home with the boys, and followed the\nUsher into Dr. Dixon Airey\u2019s study.\n\n\u201cI regret, sir,\u201d said the Usher, \u201cI deeply regret to have to report to\nyou that Timothy was absent from Divine worship this evening.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who did his Duty to his Neighbor?\u201d asked the Doctor, anxiously.\n\n\u201cBramble minor, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how did he do it?\u201d asked the Doctor.\n\n\u201cPerfectly, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cMrs. Airey and I,\u201d said the Doctor, \u201cshall have much pleasure in seeing\nBramble minor at tea this evening. I believe there are greengage\nturnovers. We hope also for the honor of _your_ company, sir,\u201d added the\nDoctor. \u201cAnd when Timothy retraces his erring steps, _tell him to come\nand fetch his shoes_.\u201d\n\n\n                            THE POOR PERSON.\n\nI regret to say that the events just related only confirmed Timothy in\nhis desire to get rid of his shoes. He took Bramble minor into his\nconfidence, and they discussed the matter seriously after they went to\nbed.\n\nWhat a gift it is to be able to dispose in one trenchant sentence of a\nquestion that has given infinite trouble to those principally concerned!\nMost journalists have this talent, and Bramble minor must have had some\nof it, for when Timothy had been stating his grievance in doleful and\nhopeless tones, his friend said:\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the use of putting them under stones and leaving them in bogs?\nGive your shoes to some one who wants \u2019em, my boy, and they\u2019ll be kept\nfast enough, you may be sure!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut where am I to find any one who wants them?\u201d asked Timothy.\n\n\u201cWhy, bless your life!\u201d said Bramble minor, \u201cgo to the first poor\nperson\u2019s cottage you come to, and offer them to the first person you\nsee. Strong shoes with copper tips and heels will not be refused in a\nhurry, and will be taken very good care of, you\u2019ll find.\u201d\n\nWith which Bramble minor rolled over in his little bed and went to\nsleep, and Timothy turned over in his, and thought what a thing it was\nto have a practical genius\u2014like Bramble minor! And the first\nhalf-holiday he borrowed a pair of shoes, and put his own in his pocket,\nand set forth for the nearest poor person\u2019s cottage.\n\nHe did not go towards the village (it was too public he thought); he\nwent over the moors, and when he had walked about half a mile, down by a\nsandy lane just below him, he saw a poor person\u2019s cottage. The cottage\nwas so tumble-down and so old and inconvenient, there could be no doubt\nbut that it belonged to a poor person, and to a very poor person indeed!\n\nWhen Timothy first rapped at the door he could hear no answer, but after\nknocking two or three times he accepted a faint sound from within as a\nwelcome, and walked into the cottage. Though more comfortable within\nthan without, it was unmistakably the abode of a \u201cpoor person,\u201d and the\npoor person himself was sitting crouched over a small fire, coughing\nafter a manner that shook the frail walls of the cottage and his own\nfrailer body. He was an old man and rather deaf.\n\n\u201cGood afternoon,\u201d said Timothy, for he did not know what else to say.\n\n\u201cGood day to ye,\u201d coughed the old man.\n\n\u201cAnd how are you this afternoon?\u201d asked Tim.\n\n\u201cNo but badly, thank ye,\u201d said the old man; \u201cbut I\u2019m a long age, and\nit\u2019s what I mun expect.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t feel as if a small pair of strong leather shoes would be of\nany use to you?\u201d asked Tim in his ear.\n\n\u201cEh? Shoes? It\u2019s not many shoes I\u2019m bound to wear out now. These\u2019ll last\nmy time, I expect. I\u2019m a long age, sir. But thank ye kindly all the\nsame.\u201d\n\nTim was silent, partly because the object of his visit had failed,\npartly with awe of the old man, whose time was measured by the tattered\nslippers on his feet.\n\n\u201cYou be one of Dr. Airey\u2019s young gentlemen, I reckon,\u201d said the old man\nat last. Tim nodded.\n\n\u201cAnd how\u2019s the old gentleman? He wears well, do the Doctor. And I expect\nhe\u2019s a long age, too?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s about sixty, I believe,\u201d said Timothy.\n\n\u201cI thowt he\u2019d been better nor seventy,\u201d said the old man, in almost an\ninjured tone, for he did not take much interest in any one younger than\nthreescore years and ten.\n\n\u201cHave you any children?\u201d asked Tim, still thinking of the shoes.\n\n\u201cFour buried and four living,\u201d said the old man.\n\n\u201cPerhaps _they_ might like a pair\u2014\u2014\u201d began Timothy; but the old man\nhad gone on without heeding him.\n\n\u201cAnd all four on \u2019em married and settled, and me alone; for my old woman\nwent Home twenty years back, come next fift\u2019 o\u2019 March.\u201d\n\n\u201cI daresay you have grandchildren, then?\u201d said Tim.\n\n\u201cAy, ay. Tom\u2019s wife\u2019s brought him eleven, _so_ fur; and six on \u2019em\nboys.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re not very rich, I daresay,\u201d said Tim.\n\n\u201cRich!\u201d cried the old man; \u201cWhy, bless ye, last year Tom were out o\u2019\nwork six month, and they were a\u2019most clemmed.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m so sorry,\u201d said Tim; \u201cand will you please give them these shoes?\nThey\u2019re sure to fit one of the boys, and they are very very strong\nleather, and copper-tipped and heeled, and\u2014\u2014.\u201d\n\nBut as Tim enumerated the merits of his shoes the old man tried to\nspeak, and could not for a fit of coughing, and as he choked and\nstruggled he put back the shoes with his hand. At last he found voice to\ngasp,\u2014\u201cLor\u2019, bless you, Tom\u2019s in Osstraylee.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhatever did he go there for?\u201d cried Tim, impatiently, for he saw no\nprospect of getting rid of his tormentors.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019d nowt to do at home, and he\u2019s doing well out yonder. He says he\u2019ll\nsend me some money soon, but I doubt it won\u2019t be in time for my burying.\nI\u2019m a long age,\u201d muttered the old man.\n\nTim put the shoes in his pocket again, and pulled out a few coppers, the\nremains of his pocket-money. These the old man gratefully accepted, and\nTim departed. And as he was late, he took off the borrowed shoes and put\non his own once more, for they carried him quicker over the ground.\n\nAnd so they were still Timothy\u2019s shoes.\n\n\n                             THE DIRTY BOY.\n\nOne day the Usher invited Timothy to walk to the town with him. It was a\nholiday. The Usher wore his green spectacles; Tim had a few shillings of\npocket-money, and plums were in season. Altogether the fun promised to\nbe good.\n\nTimothy and the Usher had so much moor breeze and heather scents every\nday, that they quite enjoyed the heavier air of the valley and the smell\nand smoke of town life. Just as they entered the first street a dirty\nlittle boy, in rags and with bare feet, ran beside them, and as he ran\nhe talked. And it was all about his own trouble and poverty, and hunger\nand bare feet, and he spoke very fast, with a kind of whine.\n\n\u201cI feel quite ashamed, Timothy,\u201d said the Usher (who worked hard for\ntwelve hours a day, and supported a blind mother and two sisters),\u2014\u201cI\nfeel quite ashamed to be out holidaying when a fellow-creature is\nbarefooted and in want.\u201d And as he spoke the Usher gave a sixpence to\nthe dirty little boy (who never worked at all, and was supported by kind\npeople out walking). And when the dirty little boy had got the sixpence,\nhe bit it with his teeth and rang it on the stones, and then danced\ncatherine-wheels on the pavement till somebody else came by. But the\nUsher did not see this through his green spectacles.\n\nAnd Timothy thought, \u201cMy shoes would fit that barefooted boy.\u201d\n\nAfter they had enjoyed themselves very much for some time, the Usher had\nto pay a business visit in the town, and he left Timothy to amuse\nhimself alone for a while. And Timothy walked about, and at last he\nstopped in front of a bootmaker\u2019s shop, and in the window he saw a\ncharming little pair of boots just his own size. And when he turned away\nfrom the window, he saw something coming very fast along the pavement\nlike the three legs on an Isle of Man halfpenny, and when it stood still\nit was the barefooted boy.\n\nThen Timothy went into the shop, and bought the boots, and this took all\nhis money to the last farthing.\n\nAnd when he came out of the shop the dirty little boy was still there.\n\n\u201cCome here, my poor boy,\u201d said Tim, speaking like a young gentleman out\nof \u2018Sanford and Merton.\u2019 \u201cYou look very poor, and your feet must be very\ncold.\u201d\n\nThe dirty boy whined afresh, and said his feet were so bad he could\nhardly walk. They were frost-bitten, sun-blistered, sore, and rheumatic;\nand he expected shortly to become a cripple like his parents and five\nbrothers, all from going barefoot. And Timothy stooped down and took off\nthe little old leather shoes.\n\n\u201cI will give you these shoes, boy,\u201d said he, \u201con one condition. You must\npromise not to lose them, nor to give them away.\u201d\n\n\u201cCatch me!\u201d cried the dirty boy, as he took the shoes. And his voice\nseemed quite changed, and he put one of his dirty fingers by the side of\nhis nose.\n\n\u201cI could easily catch you if I wished,\u201d said Tim. (For slang was not\nallowed in Dr. Dixon Airey\u2019s establishment, and he did not understand\nthe remark.)\n\n\u201cWell, you _are_ green!\u201d said the dirty boy, putting on the shoes.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s no business of yours what color I am,\u201d said Tim, angrily. \u201cYou\u2019re\nblack, and that\u2019s your own fault for not washing yourself. And if you\u2019re\nsaucy or ungrateful, I\u2019ll kick you\u2014at least, I\u2019ll try,\u201d he added, for\nhe remembered that he no longer wore the fairy shoes, and could not be\nsure of kicking or catching anybody now.\n\n\u201cWalker!\u201d cried the dirty boy. But he did not walk, he ran, down the\nstreet as fast as he could go, and Timothy was parted from his shoes.\n\nHe gave a sigh, just one sigh, and then he put on the new boots, and\nwent to meet the Usher.\n\nThe Usher was at the door of a pastrycook\u2019s shop, and he took Tim in,\nand they had veal-pies and ginger-wine; and the Usher paid the bill. And\nall this time he beamed affably through his green spectacles, and never\nlooked at Timothy\u2019s feet.\n\nThen they went out into the street, where there was an interesting smell\nof smoke, and humanity, and meat, and groceries, and drapery, and drugs,\nquite different to the moor air, and the rattling and bustling were most\nstimulating. And Tim and the Usher looked in at all the shop-windows\ngratis, and choose the things they would have bought if they had had the\nmoney. At last the Usher went into a shop and bought for Tim a kite\nwhich he had admired; and Tim would have given everything he possessed\nto have been able to buy some small keep-sake for the Usher, but he\ncould not, for he had spent all his pocket-money on the new boots.\n\nWhen they reached the bottom of the street, the Usher said, \u201cSuppose we\ngo up the other side and look at the shops there.\u201d And when they were\nhalf way up the other side, they found a small crowd round the window of\na print-seller, for a new picture was being exhibited in the window. And\noutside the crowd was the dirty boy, but Tim and the Usher did not see\nhim. And they squeezed in through the crowd and saw the picture. It was\na historical subject with a lot of figures, and they were all dressed so\nlike people on the stage of a theatre that Tim thought it was a scene\nout of Shakespeare. But the Usher explained that it was the signing of\nthe Magna Charta, or the Foundation Stone of our National Liberties, and\nhe gave quite a nice little lecture about it, and the crowd said, \u201cHear,\nhear!\u201d But as everybody wanted to look at King John at the same moment\nwhen the Usher called him \u201ctreacherous brother and base tyrant,\u201d there\nwas a good deal of pushing, and Tim and he had to stand arm-in-arm to\nkeep together at all. And thus it was that when the dirty boy from\nbehind put his hand in the Usher\u2019s waistcoat pocket, and took out the\nsilver watch that had belonged to his late father, the Usher thought it\nwas Tim\u2019s arm that seemed to press his side, and Tim thought it was the\nUsher\u2019s arm that _he_ felt. But just as the dirty boy had secured the\nwatch the shoes gave him such a terrible twinge, that he started in\nspite of himself. And in his start he jerked the Usher\u2019s waistcoat, and\nin one moment the Usher forgot what he was saying about our national\nliberties, and recalled (as with a lightning flash) the connection\nbetween crowds and our national pickpockets. And when he clapped his\nhand to his waistcoat\u2014his watch was gone!\n\n\u201cMy watch has been stolen!\u201d cried the Usher, and, as he turned round,\nthe dirty boy fled, and Tim, the Usher, and the crowd ran after him\ncrying, \u201cStop thief!\u201d and every one they met turned round and ran with\nthem, and at the top of the street they caught a policeman, and were\nnearly as glad as if they had caught the thief.\n\nNow if the dirty boy had still been barefoot no one could ever have\nstopped _him_. But the wrenching and jerking of the shoes made running\nmost difficult, and just as he was turning a corner they gave one\nviolent twist that turned him right round, and he ran straight into the\npoliceman\u2019s arms.\n\nThen the policeman whipped out the watch as neatly as if he had been a\npickpocket himself, and gave it back to the Usher. And the dirty boy\nyelled, and bit the policeman\u2019s hand, and butted him in the chest with\nhis head, and kicked his shins; but the policeman never lost his temper,\nand only held the dirty boy fast by the collar of his jacket, and shook\nhim slightly. When the policeman shook him, the dirty boy shook himself\nviolently, and went on shaking in the most ludicrous way, pretending\nthat it was the policeman\u2019s doing, and he did it so cleverly that Tim\ncould not help laughing. And then the dirty boy danced, and shook\nhimself faster and faster, as a conjuror shakes his chains of iron\nrings. And as he shook, he shook the shoes off his feet, and drew his\narms in, and ducked his head, and, as the policeman was telling the\nUsher about a pickpocket he had caught the day before yesterday, the\ndirty boy gave one wriggle, dived, and leaving his jacket in the\npoliceman\u2019s hand, fled a way like the wind on his bare feet.\n\nThe policeman looked seriously annoyed; but the Usher said he was very\nglad, as he shouldn\u2019t like to prosecute anybody, and had never been in a\npolice-court in his life. And he gave the policeman a shilling for his\ntrouble, and the policeman said the court \u201cwouldn\u2019t be no novelty to\nhim,\u201d\u2014meaning to the dirty boy.\n\nAnd when the crowd had dispersed, Timothy told the Usher about the\nboots, and said he was very sorry; and the Usher accepted his apologies,\nand said, \u201c_Humanum est errare_, my dear boy, as Dr. Kerchever Arnold\ntruly remarks in one of the exercises.\u201d Then Timothy went to the\nbootmaker, who agreed to take back the boots \u201cfor a consideration.\u201d And\nwith what was left of his money, Tim bought some things for himself and\nfor Bramble minor and for the Usher.\n\nAnd the shoes took him very comfortably home.\n\n\n                         THE CHILDREN\u2019S PARTY.\n\nWhen Timothy went home for the Christmas holidays, his mother thought\nhim greatly improved. His friends thought so too, and when Tim had been\nat home about a week, a lady living in the same town invited him to a\nchildren\u2019s party and dance. It was not convenient for any one to go with\nhim; but his mother said, \u201cI think you are to be trusted now, Timothy,\nespecially in the shoes. So you shall go, but on one condition. The\nmoment ten o\u2019clock strikes, you must start home at once. Now remember!\u201d\n\n\u201cI can come home in proper time without those clod-hopping shoes,\u201d said\nTimothy to himself. \u201cIt is really too bad to expect one to go to a party\nin leather shoes with copper tips and heels!\u201d\n\nAnd he privately borrowed a pair of pumps belonging to his next brother,\nmade of patent leather and adorned with neat little bows, and he put a\nbit of cotton wool into each toe to make them fit. And he went by a\nlittle by-lane at the back of the house, to avoid passing under his\nmother\u2019s window, for he was afraid she might see the pumps.\n\nNow the little by-lane was very badly lighted, and there were some\nqueer-looking people loitering about, and one of them shouted something\nat him, and Timothy felt frightened, and walked on pretty fast. And then\nhe heard footsteps behind him, and walked faster, and still the\nfootsteps followed him, and at last he ran. Then they ran too, and he\ndid not dare to look behind. And the footsteps followed him all down the\nby-lane and into the main street and up to the door of the lady\u2019s house,\nwhere Tim pulled the bell and turned to face his pursuer.\n\nBut nothing was to be seen save Timothy\u2019s little old leather shoes,\nwhich stood beside him on the steps.\n\n\u201cYour shoes, sir?\u201d said the very polite footman who opened the door. And\nhe carried the shoes inside, and Tim was obliged to put them on and\nleave the pumps with the footman, for (as he said) \u201cthey\u2019ll be coming up\nstairs, and making a fool of me in the ball-room.\u201d\n\nTim had no reason to regret the exchange. Other people are not nearly so\nmuch interested in one\u2019s appearance as one is oneself; and then they\ndanced so beautifully that every little girl in the room wanted Tim for\nher partner, and he was perfectly at home, even in the Lancers. He went\ndown twice to supper, and had lots of gooseberry-fool; and they were\njust about to dance Sir Roger de Coverley, when the clock struck ten.\n\nTim knew he ought to go, but a very nice little girl wanted to dance\nwith him, and Sir Roger is the best of fun, and he thought he would just\nstay till it was over. But though he secured his partner and began, the\nshoes made dancing more a pain than a pleasure to him. They pinched him,\nthey twitched him, they baulked his _glissades_, and once when he should\nhave gone down the room they fairly turned him around and carried him\noff towards the door. The other dancers complained, and Tim kicked off\nthe shoes in a pet, and resolved to dance it out in his socks.\n\nBut when the shoes were gone, Tim found how much the credit of his\ndancing was due to them. He could not remember the figure. He swung the\nlittle lady round when he should have bowed, and bowed when he should\nhave taken her hand, and led the long line of boys the wrong way, and\nnever made a triumphal arch at all. The boys scolded and squabbled, the\nlittle ladies said he had had too much gooseberry-fool, and at last\nTimothy left them and went down stairs. Here he got the little pumps\nfrom the footman and started home. He ran to make up for lost time, and\nas he turned out of the first street he saw the leather shoes running\nbefore him, the copper tips shining in the lamplight.\n\nAnd when he reached his own door the little shoes were waiting on the\nthreshold.\n\n\n                            THE SNOW STORM.\n\nWhen Timothy went back to school in the beginning of the year, the snow\nlay deep upon the moors. The boys made colossal snow men and buried\nthings deep under drifts, for the dog Bernardus to fetch out. On the ice\nTimothy\u2019s shoes were invaluable. He was the best skater and slider in\nthe school, and when he was going triumphantly down a long slide with\nhis arms folded and his friends cheering, Tim was very glad he had not\ngiven away his shoes.\n\nOne Saturday the Usher took him and Bramble minor for a long walk over\nthe hills. They had tea with a friendly farmer, whose hospitality would\nhardly let them go. So they were later than they had intended, and about\nthe time that they set out to return a little snow began to fall. It was\nsmall snow, and fell very quietly. But though it fell so quietly, it was\nwonderful how soon the walls and gates got covered; and though the\nflakes were small they were so dense that in a short time no one could\nsee more than a few yards in front of him. The Usher thought it was\ndesirable to get home as quickly as possible, and he proposed to take a\nshort cut across the moors, instead of following the high road all the\nway. So they climbed a wall, and ploughed their way through the\nuntrodden snow, and their hands and feet grew bitterly painful and then\nnumb, and the soft snow lodged in their necks and drifted on to their\neyelashes and into their ears, and at last Timothy fairly cried. For he\nsaid, that besides the biting of the frost his shoes pinched and pulled\nhis feet.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s because we are not on the high road,\u201d said the Usher; \u201cbut this\nwill take half an hour off our journey, and in five minutes we shall\nstrike the road again, and then the shoes will be all right. Bear it for\na few minutes longer if you can, Tim.\u201d\n\nBut Tim found it so hard to bear, that the Usher took him on to his back\nand took his feet into his hands, and Bramble minor carried the shoes.\nAnd five minutes passed but they did not strike the road, and five more\nminutes passed, and though Tim lay heavy upon the Usher\u2019s shoulder (for\nhe was asleep) the Usher\u2019s heart was heavier still. And five minutes\nmore passed, and Bramble minor was crying, and the Usher said, \u201cBoys,\nwe\u2019ve lost our way. I see nothing for it but to put Timothy\u2019s shoes down\nand follow them.\u201d\n\nSo Bramble minor put down the shoes, and they started off to the left,\nand the Usher and the boys followed them.\n\nBut the shoes tripped lightly over the top of the snow, and went very\nfast, and the Usher and Bramble minor waded slowly through it, and in a\nfew seconds the shoes disappeared into the snowstorm, and they lost\nsight of them altogether, and Bramble minor said\u2014\u201cI _can\u2019t_ go any\nfurther. I don\u2019t mind being left, but I must lie down, I am so very,\nvery tired.\u201d\n\nThen the Usher woke Timothy, and made him put on Bramble minor\u2019s boots\nand walk, and he took Bramble minor on to his back, and made Timothy\ntake hold of his coat, and they struggled on through the storm, going as\nnearly as they could in the way that the shoes had gone.\n\n\u201cHow are you getting on, Timothy?\u201d asked the Usher after a long silence.\n\u201cDon\u2019t be afraid of holding on to me, my boy.\u201d\n\nBut Timothy gave no answer.\n\n\u201cKeep a brave heart, laddie!\u201d cried the Usher, as cheerfully as his numb\nand languid lips could speak.\n\nStill there was silence, and when he looked round, _Timothy was not\nthere_.\n\nWhen and where he had lost his hold the distracted Usher had no idea. He\nshouted in vain.\n\n\u201cHow could I let him take off the shoes?\u201d groaned the poor man. \u201cOh!\nwhat shall I do? Shall I struggle on to save this boy\u2019s life, or risk\nall our lives by turning back after the other?\u201d\n\nHe turned round as he spoke, and the wild blast and driving snow struck\nhim in the face. The darkness fell rapidly, the drifts grew deeper, and\nyet the Usher went after Timothy.\n\nAnd he found him, but too late\u2014for his own strength was exhausted, and\nthe snow was three feet deep all round him.\n\n\n                           BERNARDUS ON DUTY.\n\nWhen the snow first began to fall, Dr. Dixon Airey observed,\u2014\u201cOur\nfriends will get a sprinkling of sugar this evening;\u201d and the boys\nlaughed, for this was one of Dr. Dixon Airey\u2019s winter jokes.\n\nWhen it got dusk, and the storm thickened, Dr. Dixon Airey said\u2014\u201cI hope\nthey will come home soon.\u201d\n\nBut when the darkness fell, and they did not come, Dr. Dixon Airey said,\n\u201cI think they must have remained at the farm.\u201d And when an hour passed\nand nothing was to be seen or heard without but the driving wind and\nsnow, the Doctor said, \u201cOf course they are at the farm. Very wise and\nproper.\u201d And he drew the study curtains, and took up a newspaper, and\nrang for tea. But the Doctor could not eat his tea, and he did not read\nhis paper, and every five minutes he opened the front door and looked\nout, and all was dark and silent, only a few snow-flakes close to him\nlooked white as they fell through the light from the open door. And the\nDoctor said, \u201cThere can\u2019t be the slightest doubt they are at the farm.\u201d\n\nBut when Dr. Dixon Airey opened the door for the seventh time, Timothy\u2019s\nshoes ran in, and they were filled with snow. And when the Doctor saw\nthem he covered his face with his hands.\n\nBut in a moment more he had sent his man-servant to the village for\nhelp, and Mrs. Airey was filling his flask with brandy, and he was tying\non his comforter and cap, and fastening his leggings and great-coat.\nThen he took his lantern and went out in the yard.\n\nAnd there lay Bernardus with his big nose at the door of his kennel\nsmelling the storm. And when he saw the light and heard footsteps, his\ngreat, melancholy, human eyes brightened, and he moaned with joy. And\nwhen the men came up from the village and moved about with shovels and\nlanterns, he was nearly frantic, for he thought, \u201cThis looks like\nbusiness;\u201d and he dragged at his kennel, as much as to say, \u201cIf you\ndon\u2019t let me off the chain now, of all moments, I\u2019ll come on my own\nresponsibility and bring the kennel with me.\u201d\n\nThen the Doctor unfastened the chain, and he tied Timothy\u2019s shoes round\nthe dog\u2019s neck, saying, \u201cPerhaps they will help to lead their wearer\naright.\u201d And either the shoes did pull in the right direction, or the\nsagacity of Bernardus sufficed him, for he started off without a\nmoment\u2019s hesitation. The men followed him as fast as they were able, and\nfrom time to time Bernardus would look round to see if they were coming,\nand would wait for them. But if he saw the lanterns he was satisfied and\nwent on.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a rare good thing there\u2019s some dumb animals cleverer than we are\nourselves,\u201d observed one of the laborers as they struggled blindly\nthrough the snow, the lanterns casting feeble and erratic patches of\nlight for a yard or two before their feet. To Bernardus his own\nwonderful gift was light, and sight, and guide, its own sufficient\nstimulus, and its own reward.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s some\u2019at amiss,\u201d said another man presently; \u201ct\u2019dog\u2019s whining;\nhe\u2019s stuck fast.\u201d\n\n\u201cOr perhaps he has found something,\u201d said the Doctor trembling.\n\nThe Doctor was right. He had found Timothy and Bramble minor, and the\nUsher: and they were still alive.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\n\u201cMrs. Airey,\u201d said the Doctor, as an hour later, they sat round the\nstudy fire wrapped in blankets, and drinking tumblers of hot\ncompounds\u2014\u201cMrs. Airey, that is a creature above kennels. From this\neventful evening I wish him to sleep under our roof.\u201d\n\nAnd Mrs. Airey began, \u201cBless him!\u201d and then burst into tears.\n\nAnd Bernardus, who lay with his large eyes upon the fire, rejoiced in\nthe depths of his doggish heart.\n\n\n                           THE SHOES GO HOME.\n\nIt is hardly needful to say that Timothy was reconciled to his shoes. As\nto being ashamed of them\u2014he would as soon have been ashamed of that\nother true friend of his, the Usher. He would no more have parted with\nthem now than Dr. Dixon Airey would have parted with the dog Bernardus.\n\nBut, alas! how often it happens that we do not fully value our best\nfriends till they are about to be taken from us! It was a painful fact,\nbut Timothy was outgrowing his shoes.\n\nHe was at home when the day came on which the old leather shoes into\nwhich he could no longer squeeze his feet were polished for the last\ntime, and put away in a cupboard in his mother\u2019s room: Timothy blacked\nthem with his own hands, and the tears were in his eyes as he put them\non the shelf.\n\n\u201cGood-bye, good little friends;\u201d said he; \u201cI will try and walk as you\nhave taught me.\u201d\n\nTimothy\u2019s mother was much affected by this event. She could not sleep\nthat night for thinking of the shoes in the cupboard. She seemed to live\nover again all the long years of her married life. Her first anxieties,\nthe good conduct of all her boys, the faithful help of those good\nfriends to her nine sons in turn\u2014all passed through her mind as she\nknitted her brows under the frill of her nightcap and gazed at the\ncupboard door with sleepless eyes. \u201cAh!\u201d she thought, \u201chow wise the good\ngodmother was! No money, no good luck, would have done for my boys what\nthe early training of these shoes has done. That early discipline which\nmakes the prompt performance of duty a habit in childhood, is indeed the\nquickest relief to parental anxieties, and the firmest foundation for\nthe fortunes of one\u2019s children.\u201d\n\nSuch, and many more, were the excellent reflections of this\nconscientious woman; but excellent as they were, they shall not be\nrecorded here. One\u2019s own experience preaches with irresistible\neloquence; but the second-hand sermons of other people\u2019s lives are apt\nto seem tedious and impertinent.\n\nHer meditations kept her awake till dawn. The sun was just rising, and\nthe good woman was just beginning to feel sleepy, and had once or twice\nlost sight of the bed-room furniture in a half-dream, when she was\nstartled by the familiar sound as of a child jumping down from some\nheight to the floor. The habit of years was strong on her, and she\ncried, \u201cBless the boy! He\u2019ll break his neck!\u201d as she had had reason to\nexclaim about one or other of her nine sons any day for the last twenty\nyears.\n\nBut as she spoke the cupboard door swung slowly open, and Timothy\u2019s\nshoes came out and ran across the floor. They paused for an instant by\nhis mother\u2019s bed, as if to say farewell, and then the bed-room door\nopened also and let them pass. Down the stairs they went, and they ran\nwith that music of a childish patter that no foot in the house could\nmake now; and the mother sobbed to hear it for the last time. Then she\nthought, \u201cThe house door\u2019s locked, they can\u2019t go right away yet.\u201d\n\nBut in that moment she heard the house door turn slowly on its hinges.\nThen she jumped out of bed, and ran to the window, pushed it open, and\nleaned out.\n\nIn front of the house was a little garden, and the little garden was\nkept by a gate, and beyond the gate was a road, and beyond the road was\na hill, and on the grass of the hill the dew lay thick and white, and\nmorning mists rested on the top. The little shoes pattered through the\ngarden, and the gate opened for them and snecked after them. And they\ncrossed the road, and went over the hill, leaving little footprints in\nthe dew. And they passed into the morning mists, and were lost to sight.\n\nAnd when the sun looked over the hill and dried the dew, and sent away\nthe mists, Timothy\u2019s Shoes were gone.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\n\u201cIf they never come back,\u201d said Timothy\u2019s mother, \u201cI shall know that I\nam to have no more children!\u201d and though she had certainly had her\nshare, she sighed.\n\nBut they never did come back; and Timothy remained the youngest of the\nfamily.\n\n\n\n\n                         OLD FATHER CHRISTMAS.\n\n\n                               CHAPTER I.\n\n\u201cCan you fancy, young people,\u201d said Godfather Garbel, winking with his\nprominent eyes, and moving his feet backwards and forwards in his square\nshoes, so that you could hear the squeak-leather, half a room off\u2014\u201ccan\nyou fancy my having been a very little boy, and having a godmother? But\nI had, and she sent me presents on my birthdays too. And young people\ndid not get presents when I was a child as they get them now. We had not\nhalf so many toys as you have, but we kept them twice as long. I think\nwe were fonder of them too, though they were neither so handsome, nor so\nexpensive as these new-fangled affairs you are always breaking about the\nhouse.\n\n\u201cYou see, middle-class folk were more saving then. My mother turned and\ndyed her dresses, and when she had done with them, the servant was very\nglad to have them; but, bless me! your mother\u2019s maids dress so much\nfiner than their mistress, I do not think they would say \u2018thank you\u2019 for\nher best Sunday silk. The bustle\u2019s the wrong shape.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that you are laughing at, little miss? It\u2019s _pannier_, is it?\nWell, well, bustle or pannier, call it what you like; but only donkeys\nwore panniers in my young days, and many\u2019s the ride I\u2019ve had in them.\n\n\u201cNow, as I say, my relations and friends thought twice before they\npulled out five shillings in a toy-shop, but they didn\u2019t forget me, all\nthe same. On my eighth birthday my mother gave me a bright blue\ncomforter of her own knitting. My little sister gave me a ball. My\nmother had cut out the divisions from various bits in the rag bag, and\nmy sister had done some of the seaming. It was stuffed with bran, and\nhad a cork inside which had broken from old age, and would no longer fit\nthe pickle jar it belonged to. This made the ball bound when we played\n\u2018prisoner\u2019s base.\u2019 My father gave me the riding-whip that had lost the\nlash and the top of the handle, and an old pair of his gloves, to play\ncoachman with; these I had long wished for. Kitty the servant gave me a\nshell that she had had by her for years. How I had coveted that shell!\nIt had this remarkable property: when you put it to your ear you could\nhear the roaring of the sea. I had never seen the sea, but Kitty was\nborn in a fisherman\u2019s cottage, and many an hour have I sat by the\nkitchen fire whilst she told me strange stories of the mighty ocean, and\never and anon she would snatch the shell from the mantelpiece and clap\nit to my ear, crying, \u2018There child, you couldn\u2019t hear it plainer than\nthat. It\u2019s the very moral!\u2019\n\n\u201cWhen Kitty gave me that shell for my very own I felt that life had\nlittle more to offer. I held it to every ear in the house, including the\ncat\u2019s; and, seeing Dick the sexton\u2019s son go by with an armful of straw\nto stuff Guy Fawkes, I ran out, and in my anxiety to make him share the\ntreat, and learn what the sea is like, I clapped the shell to his ear so\nsmartly and unexpectedly, that he, thinking me to have struck him,\nknocked me down then and there with his bundle of straw. When he\nunderstood the rights of the case, he begged my pardon handsomely, and\ngave me two whole treacle sticks and part of a third out of his\nbreeches\u2019 pocket, in return for which I forgave him freely, and promised\nto let him hear the sea roar on every Saturday half-holiday till farther\nnotice.\n\n\u201cAnd, speaking of Dick and the straw reminds me that my birthday falls\non the fifth of November. From this it came about that I always had to\nbear a good many jokes about being burnt as a Guy Fawkes; but, on the\nother hand, I was allowed to make a small bonfire of my own, and to have\nsix potatoes to roast therein, and eight-pennyworth of crackers to let\noff in the evening.\n\n\u201cOn this eighth birthday, having got all the above-named gifts, I cried,\nin the fulness of my heart, \u2018There never was such a day!\u2019 And yet there\nwas more to come, for the evening coach brought me a parcel, and the\nparcel was my godmother\u2019s picture book.\n\n\u201cMy godmother was a woman of small means; but she was accomplished. She\ncould make very spirited sketches, and knew how to color them after they\nwere outlined and shaded in India ink. She had a pleasant talent for\nversifying. She was very industrious. I have it from her own lips that\nshe copied the figures in my picture-book from prints in several\ndifferent houses at which she visited. They were fancy portraits of\ncharacters, most of which were familiar to my mind. There were Guy\nFawkes, Punch, his then Majesty the King, Bogy, the Man in the Moon, the\nClerk of the Weather Office, a Dunce, and Old Father Christmas. Beneath\neach sketch was a stanza of my godmother\u2019s own composing.\n\n\u201cMy godmother was very ingenious. She had been mainly guided in her\nchoice of these characters by the prints she happened to meet with, as\nshe did not trust herself to design a figure. But if she could not get\nexactly what she wanted, she had a clever knack of tracing an outline of\nthe attitude from some engraving, and altering the figure to suit her\npurpose in the finished sketch. She was the soul of truthfulness, and\nthe notes she added to the index of contents in my picture-book spoke at\nonce for her honesty in avowing obligations, and her ingenuity in\navailing herself of opportunities. They ran thus:\u2014\n\n    No. 1.\u2014Guy Fawkes. Outlined from a figure of a warehouse man\n    rolling a sherry cask into Mr. Rudd\u2019s wine vaults. I added the\n    hat, the cloak, and boots in the finished drawing.\n\n    No. 2.\u2014Punch. I sketched him from the life.\n\n    No. 3.\u2014His Most Gracious Majesty the King. On a quart jug\n    bought in Cheapside.\n\n    No. 4.\u2014Bogy, _with bad boys in the bag on his back_. Outlined\n    from Christian bending under his burden, in my mother\u2019s old copy\n    of the \u2018Pilgrim\u2019s Progress.\u2019 The face from Giant Despair.\n\n    No. 5 and No. 6.\u2014The Man in the Moon, and The Clerk of the\n    Weather Office. From a book of caricatures belonging to Dr.\n    James.\n\n    No. 7.\u2014A Dunce. From a steel engraving framed in rosewood that\n    hangs in my Uncle Wilkinson\u2019s parlor.\n\n    No. 8.\u2014Old Father Christmas. From a German book at Lady\n    Littleham\u2019s.\n\n\n                              CHAPTER II.\n\n\u201cMy sister Patty was six years old. We loved each other dearly. The\npicture-book was almost as much hers as mine. We sat so long together on\none big foot-stool by the fire, with our arms around each other, and the\nbook resting on our knees, that Kitty called down blessings on my\ngodmother\u2019s head for having sent a volume that kept us both so long out\nof mischief.\n\n\u201c\u2018If books was allus as useful as that, they\u2019d do for me,\u2019 said she; and\nthough this speech did not mean much, it was a great deal for Kitty to\nsay; since, not being herself an educated person, she naturally thought\nthat \u2018little enough good comes of larning.\u2019\n\n\u201cPatty and I had our favorites amongst the pictures. Bogy, now, was a\ncharacter one did not care to think about too near bed-time. I was tired\nof Guy Fawkes, and thought he looked more natural made of straw, as Dick\ndid him. The Dunce was a little too personal; but old Father Christmas\ntook our hearts by storm; we had never seen anything like him, though\nnow-a-days you may get a plaster figure of him in any toy-shop at\nChristmas-time, with hair and beard like cotton wool, and a\nChristmas-tree in his hand.\n\n\u201cThe custom of Christmas-trees came from Germany. I can remember when\nthey were first introduced into England, and what wonderful things we\nthought them. Now, every village school has its tree, and the scholars\nopenly discuss whether the presents have been \u2018good,\u2019 or \u2018mean\u2019 as\ncompared with other trees in former years. The first one that I ever saw\nI believed to have come from good Father Christmas himself; but little\nboys have grown too wise now to be taken in for their own amusement.\nThey are not excited by secret and mysterious preparations in the back\ndrawing-room; they hardly confess to the thrill\u2014which I feel to this\nday\u2014when the folding-doors are thrown open, and amid the blaze of\ntapers, mamma, like a Fate, advances with her scissors to give every one\nwhat falls to his lot.\n\n\u201cWell, young people, when I was eight years old I had not seen a\nChristmas-tree, and the first picture of one I ever saw was the picture\nof that held by Old Father Christmas in my godmother\u2019s picture book.\n\n\u201c\u2018What are those things on the tree?\u2019 I asked.\n\n\u201c\u2018Candles,\u2019 said my father.\n\n\u201c\u2018No, father, not the candles; the other things?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Those are toys, my son.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Are they ever taken off?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Yes, they are taken off, and given to the children who stand around\nthe tree.\u2019\n\n\u201cPatty and I grasped each other by the hand, and with one voice\nmurmured, \u2018How kind of Old Father Christmas!\u2019\n\n\u201cBy-and-by I asked, \u2018How old is Father Christmas?\u2019\n\n\u201cMy father laughed, and said, \u2018One thousand eight hundred and thirty\nyears, child,\u2019 which was then the year of our Lord, and thus one\nthousand eight hundred and thirty years since the first great Christmas\nDay.\n\n\u201c\u2018He _looks_ very old,\u2019 whispered Patty.\n\n\u201cAnd I, who was, for my age, what Kitty called \u2018Bible-learned,\u2019 said\nthoughtfully, and with some puzzledness of mind, \u2018Then he\u2019s older than\nMethusaleh.\u2019\n\n\u201cBut my father had left the room, and did not hear my difficulty.\n\n\u201cNovember and December went by, and still the picture-book kept all its\ncharm for Patty and me; and we pondered on and loved Old Father\nChristmas as children can love and realize a fancy friend. To those who\nremember the fancies of their childhood I need say no more.\n\n\u201cChristmas week came, Christmas Eve came. My father and mother were\nmysteriously and unaccountably busy in the parlor (we had only one\nparlor), and Patty and I were not allowed to go in. We went into the\nkitchen, but even here was no place of rest for us. Kitty was \u2018all over\nthe place,\u2019 as she phrased it, and cakes, mince-pies, and puddings were\nwith her. As she justly observed, \u2018There was no place there for children\nand books to sit with their toes in the fire, when a body wanted to be\nat the oven all along. The cat was enough for _her_ temper,\u2019 she added.\n\n\u201cAs to puss, who obstinately refused to take a hint which drove her out\ninto the Christmas frost, she returned again and again with soft steps,\nand a stupidity that was, I think, affected, to the warm hearth, only to\nfly at intervals, like a football, before Kitty\u2019s hasty slipper.\n\n\u201cWe had more sense, or less courage. We bowed to Kitty\u2019s behests, and\nwent to the back door.\n\n\u201cPatty and I were hardy children, and accustomed to \u2018run out\u2019 in all\nweathers, without much extra wrapping up. We put Kitty\u2019s shawl over our\ntwo heads, and went outside. I rather hoped to see something of Dick,\nfor it was holiday time; but no Dick passed. He was busy helping his\nfather bore holes in the carved seats of the church, which were to hold\nsprigs of holly for the morrow\u2014That was the idea of church decoration\nin my young days. You have improved on your elders there, young people,\nand I am candid enough to allow it. Still, the sprigs of red and green\nwere better than nothing, and, like your lovely wreaths and pious\ndevices, they made one feel as if the old black wood were bursting into\nlife and leaf again for very Christmas joy; and, if one only knelt\ncarefully, they did not scratch his nose.\n\n\u201cWell, Dick was busy, and not to be seen. We ran across the little yard\nand looked over the wall at the end to see if we could see anything or\nanybody. From this point there was a pleasant meadow field sloping\nprettily away to a little hill about three-quarters of a mile distant;\nwhich, catching some fine breezes from the moors beyond, was held to be\na place of cure for whooping-cough, or \u2018kincough,\u2019 as it was vulgarly\ncalled. Up to the top of this Kitty had dragged me, and carried Patty,\nwhen we were recovering from the complaint, as I well remember. It was\nthe only \u2018change of air\u2019 we could afford, and I dare say it did as well\nas if we had gone into badly-drained lodgings at the seaside.\n\n\u201cThis hill was now covered with snow and stood off against the gray sky.\nThe white fields looked vast and dreary in the dusk. The only gay things\nto be seen were the berries on the holly hedge, in the little\nlane\u2014which, running by the end of our back-yard, led up to the\nHall\u2014and the fat robin, that was staring at me. I was looking at the\nrobin, when Patty, who had been peering out of her corner of Kitty\u2019s\nshawl, gave a great jump that dragged the shawl from our heads, and\ncried,\n\n\u201c\u2018Look!\u2019\u201d\n\n\n                              CHAPTER III.\n\n\u201cI looked. An old man was coming along the lane. His hair and beard were\nas white as cotton-wool. He had a face like the sort of apple that keeps\nwell in winter; his coat was old and brown. There was snow about him in\npatches, and he carried a small fir-tree.\n\n\u201cThe same conviction seized upon us both. With one breath we exclaimed,\n\u2018_It\u2019s old Father Christmas!_\u2019\n\n\u201cI know now that it was only an old man of the place, with whom we did\nnot happen to be acquainted, and that he was taking a little fir-tree up\nto the Hall, to be made into a Christmas tree. He was a very\ngood-humored old fellow, and rather deaf, for which he made up by\nsmiling and nodding his head a good deal, and saying, \u2018Aye, aye, _to_ be\nsure!\u2019 at likely intervals.\n\n\u201cAs he passed us and met our earnest gaze, he smiled and nodded so\nearnestly that I was bold enough to cry, \u2018Good-evening, Father\nChristmas!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Same to you!\u2019 said he, in a high-pitched voice.\n\n\u201c\u2018Then you _are_ Father Christmas,\u2019 said Patty.\n\n\u201c\u2018And a happy New Year,\u2019 was Father Christmas\u2019 reply, which rather put\nme out. But he smiled in such a satisfactory manner, that Patty went on,\n\u2018You\u2019re very old, aren\u2019t you?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018So I be, miss, so I be,\u2019 said Father Christmas, nodding.\n\n\u201c\u2018Father says you\u2019re eighteen hundred and thirty years old,\u2019 I muttered.\n\n\u201c\u2018Aye, aye, to be sure,\u2019 said Father Christmas, \u2018I\u2019m a very long age.\u2019\n\n\u201cA _very_ long age, thought I, and I added, \u2018You\u2019re nearly twice as old\nas Methusaleh, you know,\u2019 thinking that this might not have struck him.\n\n\u201c\u2018Aye, aye,\u2019 said Father Christmas; but he did not seem to think\nanything of it. After a pause he held up the tree, and cried, \u2018D\u2019ye know\nwhat this is, little miss?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018A Christmas tree,\u2019 said Patty.\n\n\u201cAnd the old man smiled and nodded.\n\n\u201cI leant over the wall, and shouted, \u2018But there are no candles.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018By-and-by,\u2019 said Father Christmas nodding as before. \u2018When it\u2019s dark\nthey\u2019ll all be lighted up. That\u2019ll be a fine sight!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Toys too, there\u2019ll be, won\u2019t there?\u2019 said Patty.\n\n\u201cFather Christmas nodded his head. \u2018And sweeties,\u2019 he added,\nexpressively.\n\n\u201cI could feel Patty trembling, and my own heart beat fast. The thought\nwhich agitated us both, was this\u2014\u2018Was Father Christmas bringing the\ntree to us?\u2019 But very anxiety, and some modesty also, kept us from\nasking outright.\n\n\u201cOnly when the old man shouldered his tree, and prepared to move on, I\ncried in despair, \u2018Oh, are you going?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019m coming back by-and-by,\u2019 said he.\n\n\u201c\u2018How soon?\u2019 cried Patty.\n\n\u201c\u2018About four o\u2019clock,\u2019 said the old man smiling, \u2018I\u2019m only going up\nyonder.\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd, nodding and smiling as he went, he passed away down the lane.\n\n\u201c\u2018Up yonder.\u2019 This puzzled us. Father Christmas had pointed, but so\nindefinitely, that he might have been pointing to the sky, or the\nfields, or the little wood at the end of the Squire\u2019s grounds. I thought\nthe latter, and suggested to Patty that perhaps he had some place\nunderground like Aladdin\u2019s cave, where he got the candles, and all the\npretty things for the tree. This idea pleased us both, and we amused\nourselves by wondering what Old Father Christmas would choose for us\nfrom his stores in that wonderful hole where he dressed his\nChristmas-trees.\n\n\u201c\u2018I wonder, Patty,\u2019 said I, \u2018why there\u2019s no picture of Father\nChristmas\u2019s dog in the book.\u2019 For at the old man\u2019s heels in the lane\nthere crept a little brown and white spaniel, looking very dirty in the\nsnow.\n\n\u201c\u2018Perhaps it\u2019s a new dog that he\u2019s got to take care of his cave,\u2019 said\nPatty.\n\n\u201cWhen we went in-doors we examined the picture afresh by the dim light\nfrom the passage window, but there was no dog there.\n\n\u201cMy father passed us at this moment, and patted my head. \u2018Father,\u2019 said\nI, \u2018I don\u2019t know, but I do think Old Father Christmas is going to bring\nus a Christmas-tree to-night.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Who\u2019s been telling you that?\u2019 said my father. But he passed on before\nI could explain that we had seen Father Christmas himself, and had had\nhis word for it that he would return at four o\u2019clock, and that the\ncandles on his tree would be lighted as soon as it was dark.\n\n\u201cWe hovered on the outskirts of the rooms till four o\u2019clock came. We sat\non the stairs and watched the big clock, which I was just learning to\nread; and Patty made herself giddy with constantly looking up and\ncounting the four strokes, towards which the hour hand slowly moved. We\nput our noses into the kitchen now and then, to smell the cakes and get\nwarm, and anon we hung about the parlor door, and were most unjustly\naccused of trying to peep. What did we care what our mother was doing in\nthe parlor?\u2014we, who had seen Old Father Christmas himself, and were\nexpecting him back again every moment!\n\n\u201cAt last the church clock struck. The sounds boomed heavily through the\nfrost, and Patty thought there were four of them. Then, after due\nchoking and whirring, our own clock struck, and we counted the strokes\nquite clearly\u2014one! two! three! four! Then we got Kitty\u2019s shawl once\nmore, and stole out into the back-yard. We ran to our old place, and\npeeped, but could see nothing.\n\n\u201c\u2018We\u2019d better get up on to the wall,\u2019 I said; and with some difficulty\nand distress from rubbing her bare knees against the cold stones, and\ngetting the snow up her sleeves, Patty got on to the coping of the\nlittle wall. I was just struggling after her, when something warm and\nsomething cold coming suddenly against the bare calves of my legs, made\nme shriek with fright. I came down \u2018with a run,\u2019 and bruised my knees,\nmy elbows, and my chin; and the snow that hadn\u2019t gone up Patty\u2019s\nsleeves, went down my neck. Then I found that the cold thing was a dog\u2019s\nnose and the warm thing was his tongue; and Patty cried from her post of\nobservation, \u2018It\u2019s Father Christmas\u2019s dog and he\u2019s licking your legs.\u2019\n\n\u201cIt really was the dirty little brown and white spaniel; and he\npersisted in licking me, and jumping on me, and making curious little\nnoises, that must have meant something if one had known his language. I\nwas rather harassed at the moment. My legs were sore, I was a little\nafraid of the dog and Patty was very much afraid of sitting on the wall\nwithout me.\n\n\u201c\u2018You won\u2019t fall,\u2019 I said to her. \u2018Get down, will you?\u2019 I said to the\ndog.\n\n\u201c\u2018Humpty Dumpty fell off a wall,\u2019 said Patty.\n\n\u201c\u2018Bow! wow!\u2019 said the dog.\n\n\u201cI pulled Patty down, and the dog tried to pull me down; but when my\nlittle sister was on her feet, to my relief, he transferred his\nattentions to her. When he had jumped at her, and licked her several\ntimes, he turned round and ran away.\n\n\u201c\u2018He\u2019s gone,\u2019 said I; \u2018I\u2019m so glad.\u2019\n\n\u201cBut even as I spoke he was back again, crouching at Patty\u2019s feet, and\nglaring at her with eyes the color of his ears.\n\n\u201cNow, Patty was very fond of animals, and when the dog looked at her she\nlooked at the dog, and then she said to me, \u2018He wants us to go with\nhim.\u2019\n\n\u201cOn which (as if he understood our language, though we were ignorant of\nhis) the spaniel sprang away, and went off as hard as he could; and\nPatty and I went after him, a dim hope crossing my mind\u2014\u2018Perhaps Father\nChristmas had sent him for us.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe idea was rather favored by the fact that the dog led us up the\nlane. Only a little way; then he stopped by something lying in the\nditch\u2014and once more we cried in the same breath, \u2018It\u2019s Old Father\nChristmas!\u2019\n\n\n                              CHAPTER IV.\n\n\u201cReturning from the Hall, the old man had slipped upon a bit of ice, and\nlay stunned in the snow.\n\n\u201cPatty began to cry. \u2018I think he\u2019s dead,\u2019 she sobbed.\n\n\u201c\u2018He is so very old, I don\u2019t wonder,\u2019 I murmured; \u2018but perhaps he\u2019s not.\nI\u2019ll fetch father.\u2019\n\n\u201cMy father and Kitty were soon on the spot. Kitty was as strong as a\nman; and they carried Father Christmas between them into the kitchen.\nThere he quickly revived.\n\n\u201cI must do Kitty the justice to say that she did not utter a word of\ncomplaint at this disturbance of her labors; and that she drew the old\nman\u2019s chair close up to the oven with her own hand. She was so much\naffected by the behavior of his dog, that she admitted him even to the\nhearth; on which puss, being acute enough to see how matters stood, lay\ndown with her back so close to the spaniel\u2019s that Kitty could not expel\none without kicking both.\n\n\u201cFor our parts, we felt sadly anxious about the tree; otherwise we could\nhave wished for no better treat than to sit at Kitty\u2019s round table\ntaking tea with Father Christmas. Our usual fare of thick bread and\ntreacle was to-night exchanged for a delicious variety of cakes, which\nwere none the worse to us for being \u2018tasters and wasters\u2019\u2014that is,\nlittle bits of dough, or shortbread, put in to try the state of the\noven, and certain cakes that had got broken or burnt in the baking.\n\n\u201cWell, there we sat, helping Old Father Christmas to tea and cake, and\nwondering in our hearts what could have become of the tree. But you see,\nyoung people, when I was a child parents were stricter than they are\nnow. Even before Kitty died (and she has been dead many a long year)\nthere was a change, and she said that \u2018children got to think anything\nbecame them.\u2019 I think we were taught more honest shame about certain\nthings than I often see in little boys and girls now. We were ashamed of\nboasting, or being greedy, or selfish; we were ashamed of asking for\nanything that was not offered to us, and of interrupting grown-up\npeople, or talking about ourselves. Why, papas and mammas now-a-days\nseem quite proud to let their friends see how bold and greedy and\ntalkative their children can be! A lady said to me the other day, \u2018You\nwouldn\u2019t believe, Mr. Garbel, how forward dear little Harry is for his\nage. He has his word in everything, and is not a bit shy; and his papa\nnever comes home from town but Harry runs to ask if he\u2019s brought him a\npresent. Papa says he\u2019ll be the ruin of him!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Madam,\u2019 said I, \u2018even without your word for it, I am quite aware that\nyour child is forward. He is forward and greedy and intrusive, as you\njustly point out, and I wish you joy of him when those qualities are\nfully developed. I think his father\u2019s fears are well founded.\u2019\n\n\u201cBut, bless me! now-a-days, it\u2019s \u2018Come and tell Mr. Smith what a fine\nboy you are, and how many houses you can build with your bricks,\u2019 or,\n\u2018The dear child wants everything he sees,\u2019 or \u2018Little pet never lets\nmamma alone for a minute; does she, love?\u2019 But in my young days it was,\n\u2018Self-praise is no recommendation\u2019 (as Kitty used to tell me), or,\n\u2018You\u2019re knocking too hard at No. One\u2019 (as my father said when we talked\nabout ourselves), or, \u2018Little boys should be seen but not heard\u2019 (as a\nrule of conduct \u2018in company\u2019), or \u2018Don\u2019t ask for what you want, but take\nwhat\u2019s given you, and be thankful.\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd so you see, young people, Patty and I felt a delicacy in asking Old\nFather Christmas about the tree. It was not till we had had tea three\ntimes round, with tasters and wasters to match, that Patty said very\ngently, \u2018It\u2019s quite dark now.\u2019 And then she heaved a deep sigh.\n\n\u201cBurning anxiety overcame me. I leaned towards Father Christmas, and\nshouted\u2014I had found out that it was needful to shout,\u2014\n\n\u201c\u2018I suppose the candles are on the tree now?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Just about putting of \u2019em on,\u2019 said Father Christmas.\n\n\u201c\u2018And the presents, too?\u2019 said Patty.\n\n\u201c\u2018Aye, aye, _to_ be sure,\u2019 said Father Christmas, and he smiled\ndelightfully.\n\n\u201cI was thinking what farther questions I might venture upon, when he\npushed his cup towards Patty, saying, \u2018Since you are so pressing, miss,\nI\u2019ll take another dish.\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd Kitty, swooping on us from the oven, cried \u2018Make yourself at home,\nsir; there\u2019s more where these came from. Make a long arm, Miss Patty,\nand hand them cakes.\u2019\n\n\u201cSo we had to devote ourselves to the duties of the table; and Patty,\nholding the lid with one hand and pouring with the other, supplied\nFather Christmas\u2019s wants with a heavy heart.\n\n\u201cAt last he was satisfied. I said grace, during which he stood, and\nindeed he stood for some time afterwards with his eyes shut\u2014I fancy\nunder the impression that I was still speaking. He had just said a\nfervent \u2018Amen,\u2019 and reseated himself, when my father put his head into\nthe kitchen, and made this remarkable statement,\u2014\n\n\u201c\u2018Old Father Christmas has sent a tree to the young people.\u2019\n\n\u201cPatty and I uttered a cry of delight, and we forthwith danced round the\nold man, saying, \u2018Oh, how nice! Oh, how kind of you!\u2019 which I think must\nhave bewildered him, but he only smiled and nodded.\n\n\u201c\u2018Come along,\u2019 said my father, \u2018Come children. Come Reuben. Come Kitty.\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd he went into the parlor, and we all followed him.\n\n\u201cMy godmother\u2019s picture of a Christmas-tree was very pretty; and the\nflames of the candles were so naturally done in red and yellow, that I\nalways wondered that they did not shine at night. But the picture was\nnothing to the reality. We had been sitting almost in the dark, for, as\nKitty said, \u2018Firelight was quite enough to burn at meal-times.\u2019 And when\nthe parlor door was thrown open, and the tree, with lighted tapers on\nall the branches, burst upon our view, the blaze was dazzling, and threw\nsuch a glory round the little gifts, and the bags of colored muslin,\nwith acid drops and pink rose drops and comfits inside, as I shall never\nforget. We all got something; and Patty and I, at any rate, believed\nthat the things came from the stores of Old Father Christmas. We were\nnot undeceived even by his gratefully accepting a bundle of old clothes\nwhich had been hastily put together to form his present.\n\n\u201cWe were all very happy; even Kitty, I think, though she kept her\nsleeves rolled up, and seemed rather to grudge enjoying herself (a weak\npoint in some energetic characters). She went back to her oven before\nthe lights were out and the angel on the top of the tree taken down. She\nlocked up her present (a little work-box) at once. She often showed it\noff afterwards, but it was kept in the same bit of tissue paper till she\ndied. Our presents certainly did not last so long!\n\n\u201cThe old man died about a week afterwards, so we never made his\nacquaintance as a common personage. When he was buried, his little dog\ncame to us. I suppose he remembered the hospitality he had received.\nPatty adopted him, and he was very faithful. Puss always looked on him\nwith favor. I hoped during our rambles together in the following summer\nthat he would lead us at last to the cave where Christmas-trees are\ndressed. But he never did.\n\n\u201cOur parents often spoke of his late master as \u2018old Reuben,\u2019 but\nchildren are not easily disabused of a favorite fancy, and in Patty\u2019s\nthoughts and in mine the old man was long gratefully remembered as Old\nFather Christmas.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                          BENJY IN BEASTLAND.\n\n\n                               A BAD BOY.\n\nBenjy was a bad boy. His name was Benjamin, but he was always called\nBenjy. He looked like something ending in jy or gy, or rather dgy, such\nas _podgy_. Indeed he was podgy, and moreover smudgy, having that\ncloudy, slovenly look (like a slate _smudged_ instead of washed) which\nis characteristic of people whose morning toilet is not so thorough as\nit should be.\n\nBoys are very nice creatures. Far be it from us to think, with some\npeople, that they are nuisances to be endured as best may be till they\ndevelop into men. An intelligent and modest boy is one of the most\ncharming of companions. As to an obliging boy (that somewhat rare but\nnot extinct animal), there is hardly a limit to his powers of\nusefulness; or anything\u2014from emigrating to a desert island to cleaning\nthe kitchen clock\u2014that one would not feel justified in undertaking with\nhis assistance, and free access to his pocket stores.\n\nThen boys\u2019 wholesale powers of accumulation and destruction render their\ndens convenient storehouses of generally useless and particularly useful\nlumber. If you want string or wire, or bottles or flower-pots, or a\nbird-cage, or an odd glove or shoe, or anything of any kind to patch up\nsomething of a similar kind, or missing property of your own or\nanother\u2019s\u2014go to a boy\u2019s room! There one finds abundance of everything,\nfrom cobbler\u2019s wax to the carmine from one\u2019s own water-color box.\n\n(One is apt to recognize old acquaintances, and one occasionally\nreclaims their company!)\n\nAll things are in a more or less serviceable condition, and at the same\ntime sufficiently damaged to warrant appropriation to the needs of the\nmoment. One suffers much loss at boys\u2019 hands from time to time, and it\nis trying to have dainty feminine bowers despoiled of their treasures;\nbut there are occasions when one spoils the spoiler!\n\nThen what admirable field naturalists boys can make! They are none the\nworse for nocturnal moth hunts, or for wading up a stream for a\nBatrachosperma, or for standing in a pond pressing recruits for the\nfresh-water aquarium. A \u201ccollection\u201d more or less is as nothing in the\nvast chaos of their possessions, though some scrupulous sister might be\nworried to find \u201ca place for it.\u201d And Fortune (capricious dame!) is\ncertainly fond of boys, and guides some young \u201charum-scarum\u201d to a\n_habitat_ that has eluded the spectacles of science. And their cuttings\nalways grow!\n\nThen as to boys\u2019 fun; within certain limits, there is no rough-and-ready\nwit to be compared with it.\n\nThus it is a pity that some boys bring a delightful class into\ndisrepute\u2014boys who are neither intelligent, modest, obliging, nor blest\nwith cultivated tastes\u2014boys who kick animals, tease children, sneer at\nfeminine society, and shirk any company that is better than their\nown\u2014boys, in short, like Benjy, who at one period of his career did all\nthis, and who had a taste for low company, too, and something about his\ngeneral appearance which made you think how good for him it would be if\nhe could be well scrubbed with hot and soft soap both inside and out.\n\nBut Benjy\u2019s worst fault, _the_ vice of his character, was cruelty to\nanimals. He was not merely cruel with the thoughtless cruelty of\nchildhood, nor with the cruelty which is a secondary part of sport, nor\nwith the occasional cruelty of selfishness or ill-temper. But he had\nthat taste for torture, that pleasure in other creatures\u2019 pain, which\ndoes seem to be born with some boys. It is incomprehensible by those who\nhave never felt the hateful temptation, and it certainly seems more like\na fiendish characteristic than a human infirmity.\n\nBenjy was one of three children, and the only boy. He had two little\nsisters, but they were younger than himself, and he held them in supreme\ncontempt. They were nice, merry little things, and many boys (between\nteasing, petting, patronizing, and making them useful) would have found\nthem companionable enough, at any rate for the holidays. But Benjy, as I\nhave said, liked low company, and a boy with a taste for low company\nseldom cares for the society of his sisters. Benjy thought games stupid;\nhe never touched his garden (though his sisters kept it religiously in\norder during his absence at school); and as to natural history, or\nreading, or any civilizing pursuit, such matters were not at all in\nBenjy\u2019s line.\n\nBut he was proud of being patronized by Tom, the coachman\u2019s scapegrace\nson\u2014a coarse, cruel, and uneducated lad, whose ideas of \u201cfun\u201d Benjy\nunfortunately made his own. With him he went to see pigs killed, helped\nto drown supernumerary pups and kittens, and became learned in\ndog-fights, cock-fights, rat-hunting, cat-hunting, and so forth.\n\nBenjy\u2019s father was an invalid, and he had no brothers, so that he was\nwithout due control and companionship. His own lack of nice pursuits\nmade the excitement of cruelty an acceptable amusement for his idleness,\nand he would have thought it unmanly to be more scrupulous and\ntender-hearted than the coachman\u2019s son.\n\nThe society of this youth did not tend to improve Benjy\u2019s manners, and\nindeed he was very awkward in the drawing-room. But he was talkative\nenough in the stable, and rather a hero amongst the village boys who\nstoned frogs by the riverside, in the sweet days of early summer.\n\nTruly Benjy had little in common with those fair, grey-eyed, demure\nlittle maidens, his sisters. As one of them pathetically said, \u201cBenjy\ndoes not care for us, you know, because we are only girls, so we have\ntaken Nox for our brother.\u201d\n\n\n                                  NOX,\n\nso called because he was (as poets say) \u201cas black as night,\u201d was a big,\ncurly dog, partly retriever and partly of Newfoundland breed. He was\naltogether black, except his paws, which were brown, and for a grey spot\nunder his tail. Now as the grey-eyed, gentle little sisters elected him\nfor their brother in the room of Benjy it is but fair to compare the two\ntogether.\n\nBenjy, to look at, was smudgy and slovenly, and not at all handsome, for\nhe hated tubs, and brushes, and soap, and cold water, and he liked to\nlie late in a morning, and then was apt to shuffle on his clothes and\ncome down after very imperfect ablutions, having forgotten to brush his\nteeth, and with his hair still in dusky \u201ccockatoos\u201d from tossing about\nin bed.\n\nNox rose early, delighted in cold water, and had teeth like ivory and\nhair as glossy as a raven\u2019s wing; his face beamed with intelligence and\ntrustfulness, and his clear brown eyes looked straight into yours when\nyou spoke to him, as if he would say, \u201cLet my eyes speak for me, if you\nplease; I have not the pleasure of understanding your language.\u201d\n\nBenjy\u2019s waistcoat and shirt-front were untidy and spotted with dirt.\n\nThe covering of Nox\u2019s broad chest was always glossy and in good order.\n\nBenjy came into the drawing room with muddy boots and dirty hands.\n\nNox, if he had been out in the mud, would lie down on his return and\nlick his broad, soft, brown paws, like a cat, till they were clean.\n\nIt has been said that Benjy did not care for the society of girls; but\nwhen Nox was petted by his lady-sisters, he put his big head on their\nshoulders, and licked their faces with his big red tongue (which was his\nway of kissing). And he would put up his brown feet in the most\ninsinuating manner, and shake paws over and over again, pressing tightly\nwith his strong toes, but never hurting the little girls\u2019 hands.\n\nBenjy destroyed lives with much wanton cruelty.\n\nNox saved lives at the risk of his own.\n\nThe ruling idea of his life, and what he evidently considered his most\nimportant pursuit, in fact, his duty, or vocation, must be described at\nsome length.\n\nNear the dog\u2019s home ran a broad deep river. Here one could bathe and\nswim most delightfully. Here also many an unfortunate animal found a\nwatery grave. There was one place from which (the water being deep and\nthe bank convenient at this spot) the poor wretches were generally\nthrown. A good deal of refuse and worn-out articles of various sorts\nalso got flung in here, for at this point the river skirted the back\npart of the town.\n\nHither at early morning Nox would come, in conformity with his own\npeculiar code of duty, which may be summed up in these words: \u201c_Whatever\ndoes not properly or naturally belong to the water should be fetched\nout._\u201d\n\nNow near the River Seine, in Paris, there is a building called the\n_Morgue_, where the bodies of the drowned are laid out for recognition\nby their friends. There was no such institution in the town where Nox\nlived, so he established a Morgue for himself. Not far from the spot I\nhave mentioned, an old willow tree spread its branches widely over the\nbank, and here and there stretched a long arm, and touched the river\nwith its pointed fingers. Under the shadow of this tree was the Morgue,\nand here Nox brought the bodies he rescued from the river and laid them\ndown.\n\nI use the word bodies in its most scientific sense, for it was not alone\nthe bodies of men or animals that Nox felt himself bound to reclaim. He\nwould strive desperately for the rescue of an old riding boot, the rung\nof a chair, a worn-out hearthbrush, or anything obviously out of place\nin the deep waters. Whatever the prize might be, when he had\nsuccessfully brought it ashore, he would toss his noble head, arch his\nneck, paw with his forefeet, and twist and stick out his curly back, as\nmuch as to say, \u201cWill no one pat me as I deserve?\u201d Though he held his\nprize with all the delicacy of his retriever instincts, he could seldom\nresist the temptation to give it one proud shake, after which he would\nhurry with it to the willow tree, as if conscious that it was high time\nit should be properly attended to.\n\nThere the mother whose child had fallen into the river, and the mother\nwhose child had thrown her broom into the water, might come to reclaim\ntheir property, with equal chances of success.\n\nNow it is hardly needful to say that between Benjy and Nox there was\nvery little in common. And if there were two things about Nox which\nBenjy disliked more than others, they were his talent for rescue and the\ninstitution of the Morgue.\n\nThere was a reason for this. Benjy had more than once been concerned in\nthe death of animals belonging to other people, and the owners had made\nan inconvenient fuss and inquiry. In such circumstances Benjy and Tom\nwere accustomed to fasten a stone to the corpse and drop it into the\nriver, and thus, as they hoped, get rid of all testimony to the true\nreason of the missing favorite\u2019s disappearance.\n\nBut of all the fallacies which shadow the half-truths of popular\nproverbs, none is greater than that of the saying, \u201cDead men tell no\ntales.\u201d For, to begin with, the dead body is generally the first witness\nto a murder, and that despite the most careful hiding. And so the stones\nwhich had been tied with hurried or nervous fingers were apt to come\noff, and then the body of Neighbor Goodman\u2019s spaniel, or old Lady\nDumble\u2019s Angola cat, would float on the river, and tell their own true\nand terrible tale.\n\nBut even then the current might have favored Benjy, and carried the\ncorpses away, had it not been for Nox\u2019s early rounds whilst Benjy was\nstill in bed, and for that hateful and too notorious Morgue.\n\n\n                             MISTER ROUGH,\n\nwas another dog belonging to Benjy\u2019s father, and commonly regarded as\nthe property of Benjy himself. He was a wiry-haired terrier, with\nclipped ears and tail, and a chain collar that jingled as he trotted\nabout on his bent legs. He was of a grizzled brown color excepting his\nshirt-front, which was white, and his toe-tips, which were like the\nlight-colored toes of woolen socks. His eyes had been scratched by\ncats\u2014though not quite out\u2014his lean little body bore marks of all kinds\nof rough usage, and his bark was hoarse from a long imprisonment in a\ndamp outhouse in winter. Much training (to encounter rats and cats),\nhard usage, short commons, and a general preponderance of kicks over\nhalfpence in his career had shortened his temper and his bark, and\ncaused both to be exhibited more often than would probably have been the\ncase in happier circumstances. He had been characterized as \u201crough,\ntough, gruff, and up to snuff,\u201d and the description fitted well.\n\nIf Benjy had a kind feeling for any animal, it was for Mister Rough,\nthough it might more truly be called admiration. And yet he treated him\nworse than Nox, to whom he bore an unmitigated dislike. But Nox was a\nlarge dog and could not be ill-treated with impunity. So Benjy feared\nhim and hated him doubly.\n\nNext to an animal too strong to be ill-used at all Benjy disliked an\nanimal too weak to be ill-used much or long. Now as to this veteran\nMister Rough, there was no saying what he had not borne, and would not\nbear. He seemed to absorb the nine lives of every cat he killed into his\nown constitution, and only to grow leaner, tougher, more scarred, more\ngrizzled, and more \u201cgame\u201d as time went on.\n\nAnd so there grew up in Benjy an admiration for his powers of endurance\nwhich almost amounted to regard.\n\n\n                             MORE MISCHIEF.\n\nBenjy had got a bad fit on him. He was in a mood for mischief. Perhaps\nhe was not well; he certainly was intolerable by all about him. He even\nventured to play a trick on Nox. Thus:\n\nNox was a luxurious, comfort-loving old fellow, and after a good deal of\nexercise in the fresh air he thoroughly enjoyed the drowsy effect of a\nplentiful meal, a warm room, and a comfortable hearth-rug.\n\nIf anything in the events of the day had disturbed his composure, or\naffected his feelings, how he talked it all over to himself, with\ncurious, expressive little noises, marvellously like human speech, till\nby degrees the remarks came few and far between, the velvety eyelids\nclosed, and with one expressive grunt Nox was asleep! But in a few\nmoments, though the handsome black body was at rest on the crimson\nsheep-skin that was so becoming to his beauty, his\u2014whatever you please\nto allow in the shape of an \u201cinner consciousness\u201d\u2014was in the land of\ndreams. He was talking once more, this time with short, muffled barks\nand whines, and twitching violently with his legs. Perhaps he fancied\nhimself accomplishing a rescue. But a whistle from his master would\npierce his dream, and quiet without awaking him.\n\nIn his most luxurious moments he would roll on to his back, and\nstretching his neck and his four legs to their uttermost, would abandon\nhimself to sleep and enjoyment.\n\nIt was one of these occasions which Benjy chose for teasing poor Nox. As\nhe sat near him he kept lightly pricking his sensitive lips with a fine\nneedle. Nox would half awake, shake his head, rub his lips with his paw\nin great disgust, and finally drop off again. When he was fairly asleep,\nBenjy recommenced, for he did dearly love to tease and torment, and this\nevening he was in a restless, mischievous mood. At last one prick was a\nlittle too severe; Nox jumped up with a start, and the needle went\ndeeply in, the top breaking off with the jerk, but the remainder was\nfast in the flesh, where his little sisters discovered it.\n\nOh! how they wept for the sufferings of their pet! _They_ were not\nafraid of Nox, and had no scruple in handling the powerful mouth whose\nsharp white teeth had so often pretended to bite their hands, with a\npretence as gentle as if they had been made of eggshell. At last the\nbraver of the two held his lips and extracted the needle, whilst the\nother wiped the tears from her sister\u2019s eyes that she might see what she\nwas about. Nox himself sat still and moaned faintly, and wagged his tail\nvery feebly; but when the operation was over he fairly knocked the\nlittle sisters down in his gratitude, and licked their faces till he was\nout of breath.\n\nThen he talked to himself for a full half-hour about the injury, and who\ncould have been the culprit.\n\nAnd then he fell asleep and dreamed of his enemy, and growled at him.\n\nBut Benjy went out and threw a stick at Mister Rough. And when Mister\nRough caught it he swung him by it violently round and round. But Mister\nRough\u2019s teeth were beginning to be the worse for wear, and at the fifth\nround he lost his hold for the first time in his career.\n\nThen Benjy would have caught him to punish him, but either unnerved by\nhis failure, or suspicious of the wicked look in Benjy\u2019s eye, Mister\nRough for the first time \u201cfeared his fate,\u201d and took to his heels.\n\nBenjy could not find him, but he found Tom, who was chasing a Scotch\nterrier with stones. So Benjy joined the sport, which would have been\nvery good fun, but that one of the stones perversely hit the poor beast\non the head, and put an end to the chase.\n\nAnd that night a neighbor\u2019s dog was lost, and there was another corpse\nin the river.\n\n\n                      FROM THE MORGUE TO THE MOON.\n\nBenjy went to bed, but he could not sleep. He wished he had not put that\ndog in the river\u2014it would get him into a scrape. He had been flogged\nfor Mr. Goodman\u2019s spaniel, and though Mister Rough had been flogged for\nLady Dumble\u2019s cat, Benjy knew on whose shoulders the flogging should by\nrights have descended. Then Nox seemed all right, in spite of the\nneedle, and would no doubt pursue his officious charities with sunrise.\nBenjy could not trust himself to get up early in the morning, but he\ncould go out that night, and he would\u2014with a hayfork\u2014and get the body\nout of the water, and hide or bury it.\n\nWhen Benjy came to the river-side a sort of fascination drew him to the\nMorgue. What if the body were already there! But it was not. There were\nonly a kitten, part of an old basket, and the roller of a jack-towel.\nAnd when Benjy looked up into the willow, the moon was looking down at\nhim through the forked limbs of the tree, and it looked so large and so\nnear, that Benjy thought that if he were sitting upon a certain branch\nhe could touch it with his hand.\n\nThen he bethought him of a book which had been his mother\u2019s and now\nbelonged to his sisters, in which it was amusingly pretended that dogs\nwent to the moon after their existence on earth was over. The book had a\nfrontispiece representing the dogs sitting in the moon and relating\ntheir former experiences.\n\n\u201cIt would be odd if the one we killed last were up there now,\u201d said\nBenjy to himself. And he fancied that as he said it the man in the moon\nwinked at him.\n\n\u201cI wonder if it is really true,\u201d said Benjy, aloud.\n\n\u201cNot exactly,\u201d said the man in the moon, \u201cbut something like it. This is\nBeastland. Won\u2019t you come up?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I never did!\u201d cried Benjy, whose English was not of the refined\norder.\n\n\u201cOh, yes, you have,\u201d said the man in the moon, waggishly. \u201cNow, are you\ncoming up? But perhaps you can\u2019t climb.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t I?\u201d said Benjy, and in three minutes he was on the branch, and\nclose to the moon. The higher he climbed the larger the moon looked,\ntill it was like the biggest disc of light ever thrown by a magic\nlantern, and when he was fairly seated on the branch close by, he could\nsee nothing but a blaze of white light all round him.\n\n\u201cWalk boldly in,\u201d he heard the man in the moon say. \u201cPut out your feet,\nand don\u2019t be afraid; it\u2019s not so bright inside.\u201d So Benjy put his feet\ndown, and dropped, and thought he was certainly falling into the river.\nBut he only fell upon his feet, and found himself in Beastland. It was\nan odd place, truly!\n\nAs Cerberus guarded the entrance to Pluto\u2019s domains, so there sat at the\ngoing in to Beastland a black dog\u2014the very black dog who gets on to\nsulky children\u2019s backs. And on the back of the black dog sat a crow\u2014the\ncrow that people pluck when they quarrel; and though it has been plucked\nso often it has never been plucked bare, but is in very good feather\nyet, unfortunately. And in a field behind was an Irish bull, a mad bull,\nbut quite harmless. The old cow was there too, but not the tune she died\nof, for being still popular on earth, it could not be spared. Near these\nthe nightmare was grazing, and in a corner of the field was the mare\u2019s\nnest, on which sat a round-robin, hatching plots.\n\nAnd about the mare\u2019s nest flew a tell-tale-tit\u2014the little bird who\ntells tales and carries news. And it has neither rest nor nest of its\nown, for gossips are always gadding, and mischief is always being made.\nAnd in a cat\u2019s cradle swung from the sky slept the cat who washes the\ndishes, with a clean dishcloth under her head, ready to go down by the\nfirst sunbeam to her work. Whilst the bee that gets into Scotchmen\u2019s\nbonnets went buzzing restlessly up and down with nothing to do, for all\nthe lunatics in North Britain happened to be asleep that evening. And on\nthe head of the right nail hung a fancy portrait of the cat who \u201cdoes\nit,\u201d when careless or dishonest servants waste and destroy things. I\nneed hardly say that the cat could not be there herself, because (like\nMrs. Gamp\u2019s friend, Mrs. Harris) \u201cthere ain\u2019t no such a person.\u201d\n\nBenjy stared about him for a bit, and then he began to feel\nuncomfortable.\n\n\u201cWhere is the man in the moon?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cGone to Norwich,\u201d said the tell-tale-tit.\n\n\u201cAnd have you anything to say against that?\u201d asked the crow. \u201cCaw, caw,\ncaw! pluck me, if you dare!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s very odd,\u201d thought Benjy; \u201cbut I\u2019ll go on.\u201d\n\nThe black dog growled, but let him pass; the bee buzzed about, and the\ncat in the cradle swung and slept serenely through it all.\n\n\u201cI should get on quicker if I rode instead of walking,\u201d thought Benjy;\nso he went up to the nightmare and asked if she would carry him a few\nmiles.\n\n\u201cYou must be the victim of a very singular delusion,\u201d said the\nnightmare, coolly. \u201cIt is for me to be carried by you, not for you to\nride on me.\u201d And as Benjy looked, her nose grew longer and longer, and\nher eyes were so hideous, they took Benjy\u2019s breath away; and he fled as\nfast as his legs would carry him. And so he got deep, deep into\nBeastland.\n\nOh! it was a beautiful place. There were many more beasts than there are\nin the Zo\u00f6logical Garden; and they were all free. They did not devour\neach other, for a peculiar kind of short grass grew all over Beastland,\nwhich was eaten by all alike.\n\nIf by chance there were any quarrelling, or symptoms of misbehavior, the\nman in the moon would cry \u201cManners!\u201d and all was quiet at once.\n\nTalking of manners, the civility of the beasts in Beastland was most\nconspicuous. They came in crowds and welcomed Benjy, each after his own\nfashion. The cats rubbed their heads against his legs and held their\ntails erect, as if they were presenting arms. The dogs wagged theirs,\nand barked and capered round him; except one French poodle, who \u201csat up\u201d\nduring the whole visit, as an act of politeness. The little birds sang\nand chirruped. The pigeons sat on his shoulders and cooed; two little\nswallows clung to the eaves of his hat, and twitched their tails, and\nsaid \u201cKiwit! kiwit!\u201d A peacock with a spread tail went before him; and a\nflock of rose-colored cockatoos brought up the rear. Presently a wise\nand solemn old elephant came and knelt before Benjy; and Benjy got on to\nhis back and rode in triumph, the other beasts following.\n\n\u201cLet us show him the lions!\u201d cried all the beasts, and on they went.\n\nBut when Benjy found that they meant real lions\u2014like the lions in a\nmenagerie, but not in cages\u2014he was frightened, and would not go on. And\nhe explained that by the \u201clions\u201d of a place _he_ meant the \u201csights\u201d that\nare exhibited to strangers, whether natural curiosities or local\nmanufactures. When the beasts understood this, they were most anxious to\nshow him \u201clions\u201d of his own kind.\n\nSo the wise-eyed beavers, whose black faces were as glossy as that of\nNox, took him to their lodges, and showed him how they fell or collect\nwood \u201cup stream\u201d with their sharp teeth, and so float it down to the\nspot where they have decided to build, as the \u201clogs\u201d from American\nforests float down the rivers in spring. And as they displayed the\nwonderous forethought and ingenuity of their common dwellings, a little\ncaddis worm, in the water hard by, begged Benjy to observe that, on a\nsmaller scale, his own house bore witness to similar patience and skill,\nwith its rubble walls of motley variety.\n\nIn another stream a doughty little stickleback sailing round and round\nthe barrel-shaped nest, over which he was keeping watch, displayed its\nconstruction with pardonable pride.\n\nThen Benjy saw, with an interest it was impossible not to feel, the\nwonderful galleries in the earth cities of the ants; the nest of the\nlarge hornet, the wasp, and the earwig, where hive as well as comb is\nthe work of the industrious proprietors; and whilst he was looking at\nthese, a message came from three patches of leprali\u00e6 on the back of an\nold oyster-shell by the sea, to beg that Benjy would come and see their\ndwelling, where the cells were not of one uniform pattern, but in all\nvarieties of exquisite shapes, each tribe or family having its own\nproper style of architecture. And it must not be supposed that, because\nlepral\u00e6 cells can only be seen under a microscope with us, that it was\nso in Beastland; for there all the labors and exquisite performances of\nevery small animal were equally manifest to sight.\n\nBut invitations came in fast. The \u201csocial grosbecks\u201d requested him to\nvisit their city of nests in a distant wood; the \u201cprairie dogs\u201d wished\nto welcome him to their village of mounds, where each dog, sitting on\nhis own little hut, eagerly awaited the honor of his visit. The rooks\nbade him to a solemn conference; and a sentinel was posted on every\nalternate tree, up to the place of meeting, to give notice of his\napproach. A spider (looking very like some little, old, hard-headed,\nwizen-faced, mechanical genius!) was really anxious to teach Benjy to\nmake webs.\n\n\u201cLook here,\u201d said he; \u201cwe will suppose that you are ready and about to\nbegin. Well. You look\u2014anywhere, in fact\u2014down into space, and decide to\nwhat point you wish to affix your first line. Then\u2014you have a ball of\nthread in your inside, of course?\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t say that I have,\u201d said Benjy; \u201cbut I have a good deal of string\nin my pocket.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s all right,\u201d said the spider; \u201cI call it thread; you call it\nstring. Pocket or stomach, it\u2019s all the same, I suppose. Well\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\nBut just as the spider was at the crisis of his lesson, and all was\ngoing on most pleasantly\u2014whizz!\u2014the tell-tale-tit made its appearance,\nand soon whispered, first to one animal and then to another, who and\nwhat Benjy was. The effect was magical. \u201cScandalous!\u201d cried all the\nbeasts; \u201cthe monster!\u201d An old tabby cat puffed out her tail, and ran up\na tree. \u201cBoy!\u201d she exclaimed, in a tone of the deepest disgust; for in\nBeastland they say \u201cboy\u201d as a term of reproach where we should say\n\u201cbeast.\u201d\n\nThe confusion was great, and the tell-tale-tit revelled in it, hopping\nand flitting about, and adding a word here or there if the excitement\nseemed to flag.\n\n\u201cTo think what he might do to us, if we were down yonder!\u201d cried an old\npug. (She was a great-grand-mother and so fat that she could hardly\nwaddle.)\n\n\u201cHe is in _your_ power up here, you know,\u201d said the tell-tale-tit,\nsuggestively.\n\n\u201cSo he is!\u201d cried the beasts; and with one voice they\nshouted\u2014\u201cPunishment! Punishment! Bring him to the lion!\u201d And to the\nlion he was brought, the beasts still crying, \u201cPunishment! Punishment!\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll punish him!\u201d cried a donkey, who trotted up on hearing of the\nmatter. \u201cLet me get a lump of cold iron between his teeth, and tug and\njerk it against the corners of his mouth. Let me pull in and flog at the\nsame moment. Let me knock him over the head, and kick him in the ribs,\nand thwack his back, and prod his side; and I\u2019ll soon make him run, and\ntake his nasty temper out of him, and teach him to carry any weight, and\ngo gaily in harness.\u201d\n\n\u201cGently, gently, my friend,\u201d said the lion. \u201cYou speak under a very\nnatural feeling of irritation; but if I am to be judge of this case, the\nprisoner must have fair play.\u201d\n\nAccordingly the beasts placed themselves in a sort of circle, Benjy\nbeing put in the middle; and a bull-frog who lived in a ditch hard by\nwas appointed to watch the case on his behalf. The bull-frog had big,\nwatchful eyes, and was cool and cautious. As the case proceeded he\noccasionally said \u201cOmph!\u201d which sounded thoughtful, and committed him to\nnothing.\n\n\u201cWhat is the prisoner accused of?\u201d asked the lion.\n\nAt this question everybody looked round for the tell-tale-tit; but, like\nmost mischief-makers, the good gossip liked nothing less than being\nbrought to book, and had taken advantage of the confusion to fly away.\nSo the other animals had to recall what they had heard as best they\nmight.\n\n\u201cHe ill-uses and drowns dogs, hunts and kills cats\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cRough kills the cats,\u201d interrupted Benjy, for he was becoming alarmed.\n\n\u201cOmph!\u201d said the bull-frog.\n\n\u201cSend for Mr. Rough,\u201d said the lion; and a messenger was despatched. (It\nis not always needful to disturb yourself, dear reader, when your pet\ndog is absent without leave: he may have gone on business to Beastland.)\n\n\u201cCock-a-doodle-do! Flap, flap! send for more whilst you are about it,\u201d\ncried a handsome gamecock, strutting into the midst. \u201cCock-a-doodle-do!\nwhen I crow, let no other cock open his beak. There\u2019s a\nnice-cock-fighting, good-for-nothing young scapegrace! I know a pullet\nof the same breed down yonder: his name is Tom. Let him be fetched up,\nand we will fasten spurs to their heels, and set them to kick each other\nand tear each other\u2019s eyes out. It will be rare sport, and sport is a\nnoble taste, and should be encouraged. Flap, flap! cock-a-doodle-do!\u201d\n\nThe cock was just stretched on his tiptoes, in the act of crowing, when\na pattering of feet and the jingling of a chain collar was heard, and\nMister Rough trotted brusquely into the circle, with his clipped ears\nand his stumpy tail erect.\n\n\u201cMister Rough,\u201d said the lion; \u201cthe prisoner says it is you and not he\nwho torment the cats.\u201d\n\n\u201cBowf, bowf, bowf!\u201d replied the terrier, jumping wildly about in his\nstocking feet. \u201cWhose fault is it? Wowf, wowf, wowf who taught me to do\nit? Bowf, wowf! that bad boy there. Rowf, rowf! let me get hold of him\nby the small of the back, and I\u2019ll shake him as I would shake a rat.\nRowf, wowf, bowf!\u201d\n\n\u201c_Manners!_\u201d cried the man in the moon, and there was silence at once.\n\n\u201cThen he has not gone to Norwich, after all!\u201d said Benjy to himself.\n\nAfter a short pause the examination was resumed. Mister Rough deposed\nthat he hunted cats by the teaching and imperative orders of Benjy and\nother human beings. That he could not now see a cat without a feeling\nwhich he could only describe as madness seizing him, which obliged him\nto chase and despatch puss without any delay. He never felt this\nsensation towards the cat of his own house, in her own kitchen. They\nwere quite friendly, and ate from the same dish. In cross examination he\nadmitted that he had a natural taste for tearing things, and preferred\nfur to any other material. But he affirmed that an occasional slipper or\nother article would have served the purpose, but for his unfortunate\neducation, especially if the slipper or other article were hairy or\ntrimmed with fur.\n\n\u201cBut all that is as nothing,\u201d cried the old tabby, indignantly; \u201che has\nbeen guilty of the most horrible cruelties, and they ought to be paid\nback to him in kind. Sss, spt, he\u2019s a boy, I say, a regular boy!\u201d\n\n\u201cOmph!\u201d said the bull-frog, and went below to consider the case.\n\n\u201cGentlebeasts,\u201d said the lion, \u201cI consider it unnecessary to hear more\nevidences against the prisoner, especially as no attempt is made to deny\nhis cruelties, though in the matter of cat-hunting he implicates Mister\nRough. There are not two opinions as to his guilt; the only open\nquestion is that of punishment. As you have placed the matter in my\nhands, I will beg you to wait until I have taken three turns and given\nthe subject my serious consideration.\u201d\n\nBut instead of three turns the lion took seven, pacing majestically\nround and round, and now and then lashing his tail. At last he resumed\nhis seat; the bull-frog put his green head up again, and the lion gave\njudgment.\n\n\u201cGentlebeasts, birds, and fishes, I have given this subject my most\nserious consideration, and I trust that my decision will not give\noffense. Our friend, Madame Tabby, declares that the prisoner should be\npunished with a like cruelty to that which he has inflicted. Friend\nDonkey is ready to ride or drive him with all the kicking, beating, and\npulling which soured his own temper, and stunted his faculties in their\nearly development. I must frankly roar that I am not in favor of this.\nMy friends, let us not degrade ourselves to the level of men. We know\nwhat they are. Too often stupid in their kindness, vindictive in their\nanger, and not seldom wantonly cruel. Is this our character as a class?\nDo we even commonly retaliate? Ask friend Donkey himself. Does the\ntreatment (even more irrational than unkind) which blunts the\nintelligence, and twists the temper of so many of his race, prevent\ntheir rendering on the whole the largest labor for the roughest usage of\nany servant of man? Need I speak of dogs? Do they bear malice towards a\nharsh master? Are they unfaithful because he is unkind? Would Mister\nRough himself permit any one to touch an article of his master\u2019s\nproperty, or grudge his own life in his defense? No, my friends, we are\nbeasts, remember\u2014not boys. We have our own ideas of chase and sport,\nlike men; but cruelty is not one of our vices. I believe, gentlebeasts,\nthat it is a principle with the human race to return good for evil; but\naccording to my experience the practice is more common amongst\nourselves. Gentlebeasts, we _cannot_ treat this boy as he has treated\nus: but he is unworthy of our society, and I condemn him to be expelled.\nSome of our dog-friends have taken refuge here with tin-kettles at their\ntails. Let one of these be fastened to Benjy, and let him be chased from\nBeastland.\u201d\n\nThis was no sooner said than done. And with an old tin pan cutting his\nheels at every step, Benjy was hunted from the moon. The lion gave one\nterrific roar as the signal for starting, and all the beasts, with\nMister Rough at their head, gave chase.\n\nDear readers, did you ever wonder\u2014as I used to wonder\u2014if one could get\nto the end of the world _and jump off_? One is bound to confess that, as\nregards our old earth, it is not feasible; but permit me (in a story) to\nstate that Benjy ran and ran till he got to the end of the moon and\njumped off, Mister Rough jumping after him. Down, down they went through\nspace; past the Great Bear (where were all the ghosts of the big wild\nbeasts); past the Little Bear (where were the ghosts of all the small\nwild beasts); close by the Dog Star, where good dogs go to when they\ndie, and where \u201cthe dog in the manger\u201d sat outside and must never go in\ntill all the dogs are assembled. This they passed so close that they\ncould see the dog of Montargis and the hound Gelert affably licking each\nother\u2019s noses, and telling stories of old times to the latest comer.\nThis was a white poodle, whose days on earth had been prolonged by\ntender care till he outlived almost every faculty and sense but the\npower to eat, and a strange intuitive knowledge of his master\u2019s\npresence, surviving every other instinct. There he sat now, no longer\nthe blind, deaf, feeble, shrunken heap of bones and matted wool, that\ndied of sheer old age, and was buried on the garden side of the\nchurch-yard wall, as near as permissible to the family vault; but the\nsnowy, fluffy, elegant poodle of his youth, with graceful ears raised in\nrespectful attention to the hero of Montargis.\n\nDown, down they went, on, on! How far and long it seemed! And now it was\nno longer night but morning, and the sun shone, and still they went on,\non, down, down: Benjy crying \u201cOh! oh!\u201d and Rough and his chain collar\ngoing \u201cBowf, wowf, jingle, jingle,\u201d till they came close above the\nriver, and before Benjy could give an extra shriek the two were\nfloundering in the water. Rough soon swam ashore, but Benjy could not\nswim, and the water sucked him down as it had sucked down many a dog in\nthat very spot. Then Benjy choked, and gasped, and struggled as his\nvictims had so often choked, and gasped, and struggled under his eyes.\nAnd he fought with the intolerable suffocation till it seemed as if his\nhead must burst, yet he could not cry out, for the cold water gagged\nhim. Then he grasped at something that floated by, but it gave him no\nhelp, for it was a dead dog\u2014the one he had thrown into the river the\nevening before. And horror chilled him more than the cold water had\ndone, as he thought that now he himself must be drowned, and rot among\nthese ghastly relics of his cruelty. And a rook on a tree hard by cried,\n\u201cServe him right! serve him right!\u201d whilst the frogs on the river\u2019s\nbrink sat staring at the crushed bodies of their relatives, and croaked,\n\u201cStone him! stone him!\u201d\n\nA pike hovering near could owe him no grudge, for the creatures he had\ndrowned had afforded it many a meal. But, like most accomplices, the\npike was selfish, and only waited for the time when it could eat Benjy\ntoo.\n\nMeanwhile, some one on the bank was giving short barks, like minute guns\nof distress, that had quite a different meaning.\n\nAnd then Benjy sank; and as he went down the remembrance of all his\ncruelties rushed over his mind, as the water rushed over his body. All,\nfrom the first bumble-bee he had tortured, to the needle in Nox\u2019s lip,\ncame together in one hideous crowd to his remembrance, till even the\ncallous soul of Benjy sickened, and he loathed himself.\n\nAnd now he rose again for a moment to the surface, and caught a breath\nof air, and saw the blue sky, and heard a corn-crake in the field where\nhis sisters had wanted him to go cowslip-gathering; and he fancied that\nhe saw the beautiful black head of Nox also in the water, and found\nhimself saying in his heart, \u201cNo, no! thank God I didn\u2019t kill _him_.\u201d\n\nAnd then he sank again. And he thought of his home, and his father and\nmother, and the little sisters whom he had teased; and how he had got\nthem into scrapes, and killed their pets, and laughed at their tears.\nAnd he remembered how they had come to meet him last midsummer holidays,\nwith flowers in their hats and flowers round the donkey\u2019s ears; and how\nhe had prodded poor Neddy with a stick having a sliding spike, which he\nhad brought with him. And what fun he had found in the starts of the\ndonkey and the terror and astonishment of the children. Oh! how often\nhad he not skulked from the society of these good and dear ones, to be\nproud of being noticed and instructed in evil by some untaught village\nblackguard! And then he thought of the cosy bed and his mother\u2019s nightly\nblessing, never more to be his, who must now lie amongst dead dogs as if\nhe himself were such another!\n\nAnd then he rose again, and there was the noble head of old Nox not\nthree feet from him. He could see the clear brown eyes fixed eagerly\nupon him, and he thought, \u201cHe is coming to revenge himself on me.\u201d But\nhe did not mind, for he was almost past feeling any new pain. Only he\ngave one longing, wistful look towards the home that had been his. And\nas he looked a lark rose and went up into the summer sky. And as the\nlark went, up, up, Benjy went down, down.\n\nNow as he sank there came into his mind a memory of something he had\nonce read, comparing the return of a Christian soul to God to the\nsoaring of a lark into the heavens. And no animal that he had seized in\nhis pitiless grasp ever felt such despair and helplessness as Benjy felt\nwhen the strong, pitiless thought seized his soul that though his body\nmight decay among dead dogs, he could not die as the dogs had\ndied\u2014irresponsible for the use of life. And many a sin, besides sins of\ncruelty came back to poor Benjy\u2019s mind\u2014known sins, for which he had\nbeen punished, but not penitent; sins that were known to no human being\nbut himself, and sins, that he had forgotten until now. And he\nremembered one day at school, when the head master had given some\nserious warnings and advice to himself and a few other boys in private.\nAnd how he had sat mum and meek, with his smudgy and secretive face,\ntill the old doctor had departed, and how he had then delivered a not\nvery clever mimic address in the doctor\u2019s style, to the effectual\ndissipation of all serious thought. And now\u2014opportunities, advice, and\ntime of amendment were all but gone, and what had he to look forward to?\nFrom the depths of his breaking heart Benjy prayed he might somehow or\nother be spared to do better. And for the third and last time he rose to\nthe surface.\n\nThe lark was almost out of sight; but close to Benjy\u2019s pallid face was a\nsoft black nose, and large brown eyes met his with an expression neither\nrevengeful nor affectionate. It was business-like, earnest, and somewhat\neager and proud. And then the soft, sensitive mouth he had wounded\nseized Benjy with a hold as firm and as gentle as if he had been a rare\nwater-fowl, and Nox paddled himself round with his broad, brown paws,\nand made gallantly for shore. Benjy was much heavier than a dead cat,\nand the big brave beast had hard work of it; so that by the time he had\ndragged the body to land, Nox was too far spent to toss his head and\ncarry his prize about as usual. He dropped Benjy, and lay down by him,\nwith one paw on the body, as much as to say, \u201cLet no unauthorized person\nmeddle in this matter.\u201d\n\nBut when he had rested, he took up Benjy in his mouth, and\u2014not deigning\nso much as a glance in the direction of some men who were shouting and\nrunning towards him\u2014he trotted with his burden to the Morgue under the\nwillow tree, where he laid Benjy down side by side with two dead dogs, a\nkitten, and an old hat.\n\nAfter which he shook himself, and went home to breakfast.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\n\n                         WHAT BECAME OF BENJY.\n\nBenjy was duly found under the willow tree, and taken home. For a long\ntime he was very ill, though at last he recovered; and I am bound to\nstate that some of his relatives consider his visit to Beastland to be\nentirely mythical. They believe that he fell from the willow tree into\nthe water, and that his visit to the moon is a fanciful conceit woven\nduring illness by his fevered brain.\n\nHowever that may be, Benjy and beasts were thenceforward on very\ndifferent terms. Some other causes may have helped towards this. Perhaps\nwhen the boys of a family are naturally disagreeable, the fact is apt to\nbe too readily acquiesced in. They have a license which no one would\ndream of according to \u201cthe girls,\u201d but it may sometimes be too readily\ndecided that \u201cboys will be boys,\u201d in the most obnoxious sense of the\nphrase, and a \u201cbad name\u201d is unfavorable to them as well as to dogs.\n\nNow, during long weeks of convalescence, Benjy\u2019s only companions were\nhis parents and the little sisters whose sympathy with beastkind had\nalways been in such manifest contrast with his own tastes. And as the\nlittle maids could only amuse him with their own amusements, and as,\nmoreover, there is no occupation so soothing, healing, and renovating to\nmind and body, so full of interest without hurtful excitement, as the\nstudy of Nature, it came about that Benjy\u2019s sick-room was so decorated\nwith plants, aquariums, and so forth, that it became a sort of miniature\nBeastland. From watching his sisters, Benjy took to feeding the\nfresh-water beasts himself; and at last became so tenderly interested in\ntheir fate, that he privately \u201ctipped\u201d the house-maid with his last\nhalf-crown, to induce her to come up the stairs in the morning with\ngreat circumspection. For the cray-fish was given to escaping from his\ntank for an early stroll, and had once been all but trodden on at the\nbottom of the first flight of stairs.\n\nBut it was a very sad event which finally and fully softened Benjy\u2019s\nheart.\n\nAs Benjy was being carried into the house after his accident, Mister\nRough caught sight of his master in this doleful position, and was\nanxious to follow and see what became of him. But as he was in the way,\na servant was ordered to fasten him up in his own out-house; and to this\nman\u2019s care he was confided through Benjy\u2019s illness. The little girls\noften asked after him, and received satisfactory reports of his health,\nbut as the terrier\u2019s temper was supposed to be less trustworthy than\nthat of Nox, they were not allowed to play with him, or take him out\nwith them. Hence it came about that he was a good deal neglected at this\ntime, Benjy\u2019s parents being so absorbed by the anxiety of his illness,\nand the sisters not being allowed to make the dog their companion. Once\nor twice the servant took him out for a run; but Mister Rough would not\ntake a proper \u201cconstitutional.\u201d The instant he was free, he fled to the\nhouse to see what had become of Benjy. As he did this every time, and it\nwas inconvenient, the servant finally left him alone, and did not take\nhim out at all. Food was put within his reach, but Mister Rough\u2019s\nappetite failed daily. A cat crept in under the roof and looked at her\nold enemy with impunity. A rat stole his crusts; and Mister Rough never\nmoved his eyes nor his nose from the opening under the barn-door. Oh,\nfor one sniff of Benjy passing by! Oh, to be swung round a dozen times\nby the teeth or tail! Oh, for a kicking, a thrashing\u2014for _anything_\nfrom Benjy! So the gentle heart within that rough little body pined day\nby day in its loving anxiety for a harsh master.\n\nBut the first time that Benjy came downstairs he begged that Mister\nRough might be brought into the drawing-room; for, as I have said, if he\nhad a regard for any animal, it was for the wiry terrier. So the servant\nopened the barn-door; and Mister Rough thought of Benjy, and darted into\nthe house. And when he got into the front hall, he smelt Benjy, and ran\ninto the drawing-room; and when he got into the drawing-room, he saw\nBenjy, who had heard the jingle of his collar, and stood up to receive\nhim with outstretched arms. Then with one wild sound, that was neither a\nbark nor a whine, Mister Rough sprang to Benjy\u2019s arms, and fell at his\nfeet.\n\nDead? Yes dead; with one spasm of unspeakable joy!\n\nBenjy\u2019s grief for his faithful friend was not favorable to his bodily\nhealth just then, but it was good for him in other ways. And as the\nbitter tears poured over his cheeks and dropped on to the scarred,\ngrizzled little face that could feel cruelty or kindness no more, the\nsmudginess seemed to be washed away from him body and soul.\n\nYes, in spite of all past sins, Benjy lived to amend, and to become,\neventually, a first-rate naturalist and a good friend to beasts. For\nthere is no doubt that some most objectionable boys do get scrubbed, and\nsoftened, and ennobled into superior men. And Benjy was one of these.\n\nBy the time he was thoroughly strong again, he and his little sisters\nhad a common interest in the animals under their care\u2014their own private\nBeastland. He tried to pet another terrier, but in vain. So the new\n\u201cRough\u201d was given to the sisters, and Benjy adopted Nox. For he said, \u201cI\nshould like a dog who knew Mister Rough;\u201d and, \u201cIf Nox likes, me in\nspite of old times, I shall believe I am fit to keep a pet.\u201d And no one\nwho knows dogs needs to be told that not the ghost of a bit of malice\nlessened the love which the benevolent retriever bore to his new master.\n\nThe savings of Benjy\u2019s pocket-money for some time were expended on a\ntombstone for the terrier\u2019s grave, with this inscription:\n\n                         TO A FAITHFUL FRIEND,\n                    ROUGH WITHOUT AND GENTLE WITHIN,\n                            WHO DIED OF JOY,\n                              APRIL 3, 18\u2014\n                ON HIS MASTER\u2019S RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.\n\nAnd that true and tender beast, who bore so much hard usage for so long,\nbut died of his one great happiness\u2014\u2014\n\nDear reader, do you not think he is in the Dog Star?\n\n\n\n\n                             THE PEACE-EGG.\n\n\n                           A CHRISTMAS TALE.\n\nEvery one ought to be happy at Christmas. But there are many things\nwhich ought to be, and yet are not; and people are sometimes sad even in\nthe Christmas holidays.\n\nThe Captain and his wife were sad, though it was Christmas Eve. Sad,\nthough they were in the prime of life, blessed with good health, devoted\nto each other and to their children, with competent means, a comfortable\nhouse on a little freehold property of their own, and, one might say,\neverything the heart could desire. Sad, though they were good people,\nwhose peace of mind had a firmer foundation than their earthly goods\nalone; contented people, too, with plenty of occupation for mind and\nbody. Sad\u2014and in the nursery this was held to be past all\nreason\u2014though the children were performing that ancient and most\nentertaining play or Christmas mystery of Good St. George of England,\nknown as _The Peace-Egg_, for their benefit and behoof alone.\n\nThe play was none the worse that most of the actors were too young to\nlearn parts, so that there was very little of the rather tedious\ndialogue, only plenty of dress and ribbons, and of fighting with the\nwooden swords. But though St. George looked bonny enough to warm any\nfather\u2019s heart, as he marched up and down with an air learned by\nwatching many a parade in barrack-square and drill-ground, and though\nthe Valiant Slasher did not cry in spite of falling hard and the Doctor\ntreading accidentally on his little finger in picking him up, still the\nCaptain and his wife sighed nearly as often as they smiled, and the\nmother dropped tears as well as pennies into the cap which the King of\nEgypt brought round after the performance.\n\n\n                          THE CAPTAIN\u2019S WIFE.\n\nMany many years back the Captain\u2019s wife had been a child herself, and\nhad laughed to see the village mummers act the Peace-Egg, and had been\nquite happy on Christmas Eve. Happy, though she had no mother. Happy,\nthough her father was a stern man, very fond of his only child, but with\nan obstinate will that not even she dared thwart. She had lived to\nthwart it, and he had never forgiven her. It was when she married the\nCaptain. The old man had a prejudice against soldiers which was quite\nreason enough, in his opinion, for his daughter to sacrifice the\nhappiness of her future life by giving up the soldier she loved. At last\nhe gave her her choice between the Captain and his own favor and money.\nShe chose the Captain, and was disowned and disinherited.\n\nThe Captain bore a high character, and was a good and clever officer,\nbut that went for nothing against the old man\u2019s whim. He made a very\ngood husband, too; but even this did not move his father-in-law, who had\nnever held any intercourse with him or his wife since the day of their\nmarriage, and who had never seen his own grandchildren. Though not so\nbitterly prejudiced as the old father, the Captain\u2019s wife\u2019s friends had\ntheir doubts about the marriage. The place was not a military station,\nand they were quiet country folk who knew very little about soldiers,\nwhilst what they imagined was not altogether favorable to \u201cred-coats,\u201d\nas they called them. Soldiers are well-looking generally, it is true\n(and the Captain was more than well-looking\u2014he was handsome); brave, of\ncourse, it is their business (and the Captain had V.C. after his name\nand several bits of ribbon on his patrol jacket). But then, thought the\ngood people, they are here to-day and gone to-morrow, you \u201cnever know\nwhere you have them;\u201d they are probably in debt, possibly married to\nseveral women in several foreign countries, and, though they are very\ncourteous in society, who knows how they treat their wives when they\ndrag them off from their natural friends and protectors to distant lands\nwhere no one can call them to account?\n\n\u201cAh, poor thing!\u201d said Mrs. John Bull, junior, as she took off her\nhusband\u2019s coat on his return from business, a week after the Captain\u2019s\nwedding, \u201cI wonder how she feels? There\u2019s no doubt the old man behaved\ndisgracefully; but it\u2019s a great risk marrying a soldier. It stands to\nreason, military men aren\u2019t domestic; and I wish\u2014Lucy Jane, fetch your\npapa\u2019s slippers, quick!\u2014she\u2019d had the sense to settle down comfortably\namongst her friends with a man who would have taken care of her.\u201d\n\n\u201cOfficers are a wild set, I expect,\u201d said Mr. Bull, complacently, as he\nstretched his limbs in his own particular arm-chair, into which no\nmember of his family ever intruded. \u201cBut the red-coats carry the day\nwith plenty of girls who ought to know better. You women are always\ncaught by a bit of finery. However, there\u2019s no use our bothering _our_\nheads about it. As she has brewed she must bake.\u201d\n\nThe Captain\u2019s wife\u2019s baking was lighter and more palatable than her\nfriends believed. The Captain (who took off his own coat when he came\nhome, and never wore slippers but in his dressing-room) was domestic\nenough. A selfish companion must, doubtless, be a great trial amid the\nhardships of military life, but when a soldier is kind-hearted he is\noften a much more helpful and thoughtful and handy husband than an\nequally well-meaning civilian. Amid the ups and downs of their\nwanderings, the discomforts of shipboard and of stations in the\ncolonies, bad servants, and unwonted sicknesses, the Captain\u2019s\ntenderness never failed. If the life was rough the Captain was ready. He\nhad been, by turns, in one strait or another, sick-nurse, doctor,\ncarpenter, nurse-maid, and cook to his family, and had, moreover, an\nidea that nobody filled these offices quite so well as himself. Withal,\nhis very profession kept him neat, well-dressed, and active. In the\nroughest of their ever-changing quarters he was a smarter man, more like\nthe lover of his wife\u2019s young days, than Mr. Bull amid his stationary\ncomforts. Then if the Captain\u2019s wife was\u2014as her friends said\u2014\u201cnever\nsettled,\u201d she was also for ever entertained by new scenes; and domestic\nmischances do not weigh very heavily on people whose possessions are few\nand their intellectual interests many. It is true that there were ladies\nin the Captain\u2019s regiment who passed by sea and land from one quarter of\nthe globe to another, amid strange climates and customs, strange trees\nand flowers, beasts and birds; from the glittering snows of North\nAmerica to the orchids of the Cape, from beautiful Pera to the\nlily-covered hills of Japan, and who in no place rose above the fret of\ndomestic worries, and had little to tell on their return but of the\nuniversal misconduct of servants, from Irish \u201chelps\u201d in the colonies, to\n_compradors_ and China-boys at Shanghai. But it was not so with the\nCaptain\u2019s wife. Moreover, one becomes accustomed to one\u2019s fate, and she\nmoved her whole establishment from the Curragh to Corfu with less\nanxiety than that felt by Mrs. Bull over a port-wine stain on the best\ntable-cloth.\n\nAnd yet, as years went and children came, the Captain and his wife grew\ntired of travelling. New scenes were small comfort when they heard of\nthe death of old friends. One foot of murky English sky was dearer,\nafter all, than miles of the unclouded heavens of the South. The gray\nhills and over-grown lanes of her old home haunted the Captain\u2019s wife by\nnight and day, and home-sickness (that weariest of all sicknesses) began\nto take the light out of her eyes before their time. It preyed upon the\nCaptain too. Now and then he would say, fretfully, \u201c_I should_ like an\nEnglish resting-place, however small, before _everybody_ is dead! But\nthe children\u2019s prospects have to be considered.\u201d The continued\nestrangement from the old man was an abiding sorrow also, and they had\nhopes that, if only they could get to England, he might be persuaded to\npeace and charity this time.\n\nAt last they were sent home. But the hard old father still would not\nrelent. He returned their letters unopened. This bitter disappointment\nmade the Captain\u2019s wife so ill that she almost died, and in one month\nthe Captain\u2019s hair became an iron gray. He reproached himself for having\never taken the daughter from her father, \u201cto kill her at last,\u201d as he\nsaid. And (thinking of his own children) he even reproached himself for\nhaving robbed the old widower of his only child. After two years at home\nhis regiment was ordered to India. He failed to effect an exchange, and\nthey prepared to move once more\u2014from Chatham to Calcutta. Never before\nhad the packing to which she was so well accustomed been so bitter a\ntask to the Captain\u2019s wife.\n\nIt was at the darkest hour of this gloomy time that the Captain came in,\nwaving above his head a letter which changed all their plans.\n\nNow close by the old home of the Captain\u2019s wife there had lived a man,\nmuch older than herself, who yet had loved her with a devotion as great\nas that of the young Captain. She never knew it, for when he saw that\nshe had given her heart to his younger rival, he kept silence, and he\nnever asked for what he knew he might have had\u2014the old man\u2019s authority\nin his favor. So generous was the affection which he could never\nconquer, that he constantly tried to reconcile the father to his\nchildren whilst he lived, and, when he died, he bequeathed his house and\nsmall estate to the woman he had loved.\n\n\u201cIt will be a legacy of peace,\u201d he thought, on his death-bed. \u201cThe old\nman cannot hold out when she and her children are constantly in sight.\nAnd it may please God that I shall know of the reunion I have not been\npermitted to see with my eyes.\u201d\n\nAnd thus it came about that the Captain\u2019s regiment went to India without\nhim, and that the Captain\u2019s wife and her father lived on opposite sides\nof the same road.\n\n\n                             MASTER ROBERT.\n\nThe eldest of the Captain\u2019s children was a boy. He was named Robert,\nafter his grandfather, and seemed to have inherited a good deal of the\nold gentleman\u2019s character, mixed with gentler traits. He was a fair,\nfine boy, tall and stout for his age, with the Captain\u2019s regular\nfeatures, and (he flattered himself) the Captain\u2019s firm step and martial\nbearing. He was apt\u2014like his grandfather\u2014to hold his own will to be\nother people\u2019s law, and (happily for the peace of the nursery) this\nopinion was devoutly shared by his brother Nicholas. Though the Captain\nhad sold his commission, Robin continued to command an irregular force\nof volunteers in the nursery, and never was Colonel more despotic. His\nbrothers and sisters were by turns infantry, cavalry, engineers, and\nartillery, according to his whim, and when his affections finally\nsettled upon the Highlanders of \u201cThe Black Watch,\u201d no female power could\ncompel him to keep his stockings above his knees or his knickerbockers\nbelow them.\n\nThe Captain alone was a match for his strong-willed son.\n\n\u201cIf you please, sir,\u201d said Sarah, one morning, flouncing in upon the\nCaptain, just as he was about to start for the neighboring town,\u2014\u201cIf\nyou please, sir, I wish you\u2019d speak to Master Robert. He\u2019s past my\npowers.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve no doubt of it,\u201d thought the Captain, but he only said, \u201cWell,\nwhat\u2019s the matter?\u201d\n\n\u201cNight after night do I put him to bed,\u201d said Sarah, \u201cand night after\nnight does he get up as soon as I\u2019m out of the room, and says he\u2019s\norderly officer for the evening, and goes about in his night-shirt and\nhis feet as bare as boards.\u201d\n\nThe Captain fingered his heavy moustache to hide a smile, but he\nlistened patiently to Sarah\u2019s complaints.\n\n\u201cIt ain\u2019t so much _him_ I should mind, sir,\u201d she continued, \u201cbut he goes\nround the beds and wakes up the other young gentlemen and Miss Dora, one\nafter another, and when I speak to him, he gives me all the sauce he can\nlay his tongue to, and says he\u2019s going round the guards. The other night\nI tried to put him back into his bed, but he got away and ran all over\nthe house, me hunting him everywhere, and not a sign of him till he\njumps out on me from the garret-stairs and nearly knocks me down. \u2018I\u2019ve\nvisited the outposts, Sarah,\u2019 says he; \u2018all\u2019s well.\u2019 And off he goes to\nbed as bold as brass.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you spoken to your mistress?\u201d asked the Captain.\n\n\u201cYes, sir,\u201d said Sarah. \u201cAnd missis spoke to him, and he promised not to\ngo round the guards again.\u201d\n\n\u201cHas he broken his promise?\u201d asked the Captain, with a look of anger,\nand also of surprise.\n\n\u201cWhen I opened the door last night, sir,\u201d continued Sarah, in her shrill\ntreble, \u201cwhat should I see in the dark but Master Robert a-walking up\nand down with the carpet-brush stuck in his arm. \u2018Who goes there?\u2019 says\nhe. \u2018You owdacious boy!\u2019 says I, \u2018Didn\u2019t you promise your ma you\u2019d leave\noff them tricks?\u2019 \u2018I\u2019m not going round the guards,\u2019 says he; \u2018I promised\nnot. But I\u2019m for sentry duty to-night.\u2019 And say what I would to him, all\nhe had for me was, \u2018You mustn\u2019t speak to a sentry on duty.\u2019 So I says,\n\u2018As sure as I live till morning, I\u2019ll go to your pa,\u2019 for he pays no\nmore attention to his ma than to me, nor to any one else.\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease to see that the chair-bed in my dressing-room is moved into your\nmistress\u2019s bed-room,\u201d said the Captain. \u201cI will attend to Master\nRobert.\u201d\n\nWith this Sarah had to content herself, and she went back to the\nnursery. Robert was nowhere to be seen, and made no reply to her\nsummons. On this the unwary nurse-maid flounced into the bed-room to\nlook for him, when Robert, who was hidden beneath a table, darted forth,\nand promptly locked her in.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re under arrest,\u201d he shouted, through the key-hole.\n\n\u201cLet me out!\u201d shrieked Sarah.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll send a file of the guard to fetch you to the orderly-room,\nby-and-by,\u201d said Robert, \u201cfor \u2018preferring frivolous complaints.\u2019\u201d And he\ndeparted to the farm-yard to look at the ducks.\n\nThat night, when Robert went up to bed, the Captain quietly locked him\ninto his dressing-room, from which the bed had been removed.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re for sentry duty, to-night,\u201d said the Captain. \u201cThe carpet-brush\nis in the corner. Good-evening.\u201d\n\nAs his father anticipated, Robert was soon tired of the sentry game in\nthese new circumstances, and long before the night had half worn away he\nwished himself safely undressed and in his own comfortable bed. At\nhalf-past twelve o\u2019clock he felt as if he could bear it no longer, and\nknocked at the Captain\u2019s door.\n\n\u201cWho goes there?\u201d said the Captain.\n\n\u201cMayn\u2019t I go to bed, please?\u201d whined poor Robert.\n\n\u201cCertainly not,\u201d said the Captain. \u201cYou\u2019re on duty.\u201d\n\nAnd on duty poor Robert had to remain, for the Captain had a will as\nwell as his son. So he rolled himself up in his father\u2019s railway rug,\nand slept on the floor.\n\nThe next night he was very glad to go quietly to bed, and remain there.\n\n\n                            IN THE NURSERY.\n\nThe Captain\u2019s children sat at breakfast in a large, bright nursery. It\nwas the room where the old bachelor had died, and now _her_ children\nmade it merry. This was just what he would have wished.\n\nThey all sat round the table, for it was breakfast-time. There were five\nof them, and five bowls of boiled bread-and-milk smoked before them.\nSarah (a foolish, gossiping girl, who acted as nurse till better could\nbe found) was waiting on them, and by the table sat Darkie, the black\nretriever, his long, curly back swaying slightly from the difficulty of\nholding himself up, and his solemn hazel eyes fixed very intently on\neach and all of the breakfast bowls. He was as silent and sagacious as\nSarah was talkative and empty-headed. The expression of his face was\nthat of King Charles I. as painted by Vandyke. Though large, he was\nunassuming. Pax, the pug, on the contrary, who came up to the first\njoint of Darkie\u2019s leg, stood defiantly on his dignity (and his short\nstumps). He always placed himself in front of the bigger dog, and made a\npoint of hustling him in doorways and of going first downstairs. He\nstrutted like a beadle, and carried his tail more tightly curled than a\nbishop\u2019s crook. He looked as one may imagine the frog in the fable would\nhave looked had he been able to swell himself rather nearer to the size\nof the ox. This was partly due to his very prominent eyes, and partly to\nan obesity favored by habits of lying inside the fender and of eating\nmeals proportioned more to his consequence than to his hunger. They were\nboth favorites of two years\u2019 standing, and had very nearly been given\naway, when the good news came of an English home for the family, dogs\nand all.\n\nRobert\u2019s tongue was seldom idle, even at meals. \u201cAre you a\nYorkshirewoman, Sarah?\u201d he asked, pausing, with his spoon full in his\nhand.\n\n\u201cNo, Master Robert,\u201d said Sarah.\n\n\u201cBut you understand Yorkshire, don\u2019t you? I can\u2019t, very often; but mamma\ncan, and can speak it, too. Papa says mamma always talks Yorkshire to\nservants and poor people. She used to talk Yorkshire to Themistocles,\npapa said, and he said it was no good; for though Themistocles knew a\nlot of langages, he didn\u2019t know that. And mamma laughed, and said she\ndidn\u2019t know she did.\u201d\u2014\u201cThemistocles was our man-servant in Corfu,\u201d\nRobin added, in explanation. \u201cHe stole lots of things, Themistocles did;\nbut papa found him out.\u201d\n\nRobin now made a rapid attack on his bread-and-milk, after which he\nbroke out again.\n\n\u201cSarah, who is that tall old gentleman at church, in the seat near the\npulpit? He wears a cloak like what the Blues wear, only all blue, and is\ntall enough for a Life-guardsman. He stood up while we were kneeling,\nand said, _Almighty and most merciful Father_ louder than anybody.\u201d\n\nSarah knew who the old gentleman was, and knew also that the children\ndid not know, and that their parents did not see fit to tell them as\nyet. But she had a passion for telling and hearing news, and would\nrather gossip with a child than not gossip at all. \u201cNever you mind,\nMaster Robin,\u201d she said, nodding sagaciously. \u201cLittle boys aren\u2019t to\nknow everything.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, then, I know you don\u2019t know,\u201d replied Robert; \u201cif you did, you\u2019d\ntell. Nicholas, give some of your bread to Darkie and Pax. I\u2019ve done\nmine. _For what we have received the Lord make us truly thankful._ Say\nyour grace and put your chair away, and come along. I want to hold a\ncourt-martial.\u201d And seizing his own chair by the seat, Robin carried it\nswiftly to its corner. As he passed Sarah he observed tauntingly, \u201cYou\npretend to know, but you don\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do,\u201d said Sarah.\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t,\u201d said Robin.\n\n\u201cYour ma\u2019s forbid you to contradict, Master Robin,\u201d said Sarah; \u201cand if\nyou do, I shall tell her. I know well enough who the old gentleman is,\nand perhaps I might tell you, only you\u2019d go straight off and tell\nagain.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, I wouldn\u2019t!\u201d shouted Robin. \u201cI can keep a secret, indeed I can!\nPinch my little finger, and try. Do, do tell me, Sarah, there\u2019s a dear\nSarah, and then I shall know you know.\u201d And he danced round her,\ncatching at her skirts.\n\nTo keep a secret was beyond Sarah\u2019s powers.\n\n\u201cDo let my dress be, Master Robin,\u201d she said, \u201cyou\u2019re ripping out all\nthe gathers, and listen while I whisper. As sure as you\u2019re a living boy,\nthat gentleman\u2019s your own grandpapa.\u201d\n\nRobin lost his hold on Sarah\u2019s dress; his arms fell by his side, and he\nstood with his brows knit for some minutes, thinking. Then he said,\nemphatically, \u201cWhat lies you do tell, Sarah!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Robin!\u201d cried Nicholas, who had drawn near, his thick curls\nstanding stark with curiosity, \u201cmamma said \u2018lies\u2019 wasn\u2019t a proper word,\nand you promised not to say it again.\u201d\n\n\u201cI forgot,\u201d said Robin. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean to break my promise. But she does\ntell\u2014ahem!\u2014_you know what_.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou wicked boy!\u201d cried the enraged Sarah; \u201chow dare you to say such a\nthing, and everybody in the place knows he\u2019s your ma\u2019s own pa.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll go and ask her,\u201d said Robin, and he was at the door in a moment;\nbut Sarah, alarmed by the thought of getting into a scrape herself,\ncaught him by the arm.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you go, love; it\u2019ll only make your ma angry. There; it was all my\nnonsense.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen it\u2019s not true?\u201d said Robin, indignantly. \u201cWhat did you tell me so\nfor?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was all my jokes and nonsense,\u201d said the unscrupulous Sarah. \u201cBut\nyour ma wouldn\u2019t like to know I\u2019ve said such a thing. And Master Robert\nwouldn\u2019t be so mean as to tell tales, would he love?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not mean,\u201d said Robin, stoutly; \u201cand I don\u2019t tell tales; but you\ndo, and you tell _you know what_, besides. However, I won\u2019t go this\ntime; but I\u2019ll tell you what\u2014if you tell tales of me to papa any more,\nI\u2019ll tell him what you said about the old gentleman in the blue coat.\u201d\nWith which parting threat Robin strode off to join his brothers and\nsisters.\n\nSarah\u2019s tale had put the court-martial out of his head, and he leaned\nagainst the tall fender, gazing at his little sister, who was tenderly\nnursing a well-worn doll. Robin sighed.\n\n\u201cWhat a long time that doll takes to wear out, Dora!\u201d said he. \u201cWhen\nwill it be done?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, not yet, not yet!\u201d cried Dora, clasping the doll to her, and\nturning away. \u201cShe\u2019s quite good, yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow miserly you are,\u201d said her brother; \u201cand selfish, too; for you know\nI can\u2019t have a military funeral till you\u2019ll let me bury that old thing.\u201d\n\nDora began to cry.\n\n\u201cThere you go, crying!\u201d said Robin, impatiently. \u201cLook here; I won\u2019t\ntake it till you get the new one on your birthday. You can\u2019t be so mean\nas not to let me have it then?\u201d\n\nBut Dora\u2019s tears still fell. \u201cI love this one so much,\u201d she sobbed. \u201cI\nlove her better than the new one.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou want both; that\u2019s it,\u201d said Robin, angrily. \u201cDora, you\u2019re the\nmeanest girl I ever knew!\u201d\n\nAt which unjust and painful accusation Dora threw herself and the doll\nupon their faces, and wept bitterly. The eyes of the soft hearted\nNicholas began to fill with tears, and he squatted down before her\nlooking most dismal. He had a fellow-feeling for her attachment to an\nold toy, and yet Robin\u2019s will was law to him.\n\n\u201cCouldn\u2019t we make a coffin, and pretend the body was inside?\u201d he\nsuggested.\n\n\u201cNo, we couldn\u2019t,\u201d said Robin. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t play the Dead March after an\nempty candle-box. It\u2019s a great shame\u2014and I promised she should be\nchaplain in one of my night-gowns, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps you\u2019ll get just as fond of the new one,\u201d said Nicholas, turning\nto Dora.\n\nBut Dora only cried, \u201cNo, no! He shall have the new one to bury, and\nI\u2019ll keep my poor, dear, darling Betsy.\u201d And she clasped Betsy tighter\nthan before.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s the meanest thing you\u2019ve said yet,\u201d retorted Robin; \u201cfor you\nknow mamma wouldn\u2019t let me bury the new one.\u201d And, with an air of great\ndisgust, he quitted the nursery.\n\n\n                        \u201cA MUMMING WE WILL GO.\u201d\n\nNicholas had sore work to console his little sister, and Betsy\u2019s\nprospects were in a very unfavorable state, when a diversion was caused\nin her favor by a new whim which put the military funeral out of Robin\u2019s\nhead.\n\nAfter he left the nursery he strolled out of doors, and, peeping through\nthe gate at the end of the drive, he saw a party of boys going through\nwhat looked like a military exercise with sticks and a good deal of\nstamping; but, instead of mere words of command, they all spoke by turns\nas in a play. In spite of their strong Yorkshire accent, Robin overheard\na good deal, and it sounded very fine. Not being at all shy, he joined\nthem, and asked so many questions that he soon got to know all about it.\nThey were practising a Christmas mumming-play, called \u201cThe Peace-Egg.\u201d\nWhy it was called thus they could not tell him, as there was nothing\nwhatever about eggs in it, and so far from being a play of peace, it was\nmade up of a series of battles between certain valiant knights and\nprinces, of whom St. George of England was the chief and conqueror. The\nrehearsal being over, Robin went with the boys to the sexton\u2019s house (he\nwas father to the \u201cKing of Egypt\u201d), where they showed him the dresses\nthey were to wear. These were made of gay-colored materials, and covered\nwith ribbons, except that of the \u201cBlack Prince of Paradine,\u201d which was\nblack, as became his title. The boys also showed him the book from which\nthey learned their parts, and which was to be bought for one penny at\nthe post-office shop.\n\n\u201cThen are you the mummers who come round at Christmas, and act in\npeople\u2019s kitchens, and people give them money, that mamma used to tell\nus about?\u201d said Robin.\n\nSt. George of England looked at his companions as if for counsel as to\nhow far they might commit themselves, and then replied, with Yorkshire\ncaution, \u201cWell, I suppose we are.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd do you go out in the snow from one house to another at night; and\noh, don\u2019t you enjoy it?\u201d cried Robin.\n\n\u201cWe like it well enough,\u201d St. George admitted.\n\nRobin bought a copy of \u201cThe Peace-Egg.\u201d He was resolved to have a\nnursery performance, and to act the part of St. George himself. The\nothers were willing for what he wished, but there were difficulties. In\nthe first place, there are eight characters in the play, and there were\nonly five children. They decided among themselves to leave out \u201cthe\nFool,\u201d and mamma said that another character was not to be acted by any\nof them, or indeed mentioned; \u201cthe little one who comes in at the end,\u201d\nRobin explained. Mamma had her reasons, and these were always good. She\nhad not been altogether pleased that Robin had bought the play. It was a\nvery old thing, she said, and very queer; not adapted for a child\u2019s\nplay. If mamma thought the parts not quite fit for the children to\nlearn, they found them much too long; so in the end she picked out some\nbits for each, which they learned easily, and which, with a good deal of\nfighting, made quite as good a story of it as if they had done the\nwhole. What may have been wanting otherwise was made up for by the\ndresses, which were charming.\n\nRobin was St. George, Nicholas the Valiant Slasher, Dora the Doctor, and\nthe other two Hector and the King of Egypt. \u201cAnd now we\u2019ve no Black\nPrince!\u201d cried Robin in dismay.\n\n\u201cLet Darkie be the Black Prince,\u201d said Nicholas. \u201cWhen you wave your\nstick he\u2019ll jump for it, and then you can pretend to fight with him.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s not a stick, it\u2019s a sword,\u201d said Robin. \u201cHowever, Darkie may be\nthe Black Prince.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what\u2019s Pax to be?\u201d asked Dora; \u201cfor you know he will come if Darkie\ndoes, and he\u2019ll run in before everybody else too.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen he must be the Fool,\u201d said Robin, \u201cand it will do very well, for\nthe Fool comes in before the rest, and Pax can have his red coat on, and\nthe collar with the little bells.\u201d\n\n\n                             CHRISTMAS EVE.\n\nRobin thought that Christmas would never come. To the Captain and his\nwife it seemed to come too fast. They had hoped it might bring\nreconciliation with the old man, but it seemed they had hoped in vain.\n\nThere were times now when the Captain almost regretted the old\nbachelor\u2019s bequest. The familiar scenes of her old home sharpened his\nwife\u2019s grief. To see her father every Sunday in church, with marks of\nage and infirmity upon him, but with not a look of tenderness for his\nonly child, this tried her sorely.\n\n\u201cShe felt it less abroad,\u201d thought the Captain. \u201cAn English home in\nwhich she frets herself to death is, after all, no great boon.\u201d\n\nChristmas eve came.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sure it\u2019s quite Christmas enough now,\u201d said Robin. \u201cWe\u2019ll have \u2018The\nPeace-Egg\u2019 to-night.\u201d\n\nSo as the Captain and his wife sat sadly over their fire, the door\nopened, and Pax ran in shaking his bells, and followed by the nursery\nmummers. The performance was most successful. It was by no means\npathetic, and yet, as has been said, the Captain\u2019s wife shed tears.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter, mamma?\u201d said St. George, abruptly dropping his\nsword and running up to her.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t tease mamma with questions,\u201d said the Captain; \u201cshe\u2019s not very\nwell, and rather sad. We must all be very kind and good to poor dear\nmamma;\u201d and the Captain raised his wife\u2019s hand to his lips as he spoke.\nRobin seized the other hand and kissed it tenderly. He was very fond of\nhis mother. At this moment Pax took a little run, and jumped on to\nmamma\u2019s lap, where, sitting facing the company, he opened his black\nmouth and yawned, with a ludicrous inappropriateness worthy of any\nclown. It made everybody laugh.\n\n\u201cAnd now we\u2019ll go and act in the kitchen,\u201d said Nicholas.\n\n\u201cSupper at nine o\u2019clock, remember,\u201d shouted the Captain. \u201cAnd we are\ngoing to have real frumenty and yule cakes, such as mamma used to tell\nus of when we were abroad.\u201d\n\n\u201cHurray!\u201d shouted the mummers, and they ran off, Pax leaping from his\nseat just in time to hustle the Black Prince in the doorway. When the\ndining-room door was shut, St. George raised his hand, and said \u201cHush!\u201d\n\nThe mummers pricked their ears, but there was only a distant harsh and\nscraping sound, as of stones rubbed together.\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re cleaning the passages,\u201d St. George went on, \u201cand Sarah told me\nthey meant to finish the mistletoe, and have everything cleaned up by\nsupper-time. They don\u2019t want us, I know. Look here, we\u2019ll go _real\nmumming_ instead. That _will_ be fun!\u201d\n\nThe Valiant Slasher grinned with delight.\n\n\u201cBut will mamma let us?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cOh, it will be all right if we\u2019re back by supper-time,\u201d said St.\nGeorge, hastily. \u201cOnly of course we must take care not to catch cold.\nCome and help me to get some wraps.\u201d\n\nThe old oak chest in which spare shawls, rugs, and coats were kept was\nsoon ransacked, and the mummers\u2019 gay dresses hidden by motley wrappers.\nBut no sooner did Darkie and Pax behold the coats, &c., than they at\nonce began to leap and bark, as it was their custom to do when they saw\nany one dressing to go out. Robin was sorely afraid that this would\nbetray them; but though the Captain and his wife heard the barking they\ndid not guess the cause.\n\nSo the front door being very gently opened and closed, the nursery\nmummers stole away.\n\n\n                  THE NURSERY MUMMERS AND THE OLD MAN.\n\nIt was a very fine night. The snow was well-trodden on the drive, so\nthat it did not wet their feet, but on the trees and shrubs it hung soft\nand white.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s much jollier being out at night than in the daytime,\u201d said Robin.\n\n\u201cMuch,\u201d responded Nicholas, with intense feeling.\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll go a wassailing next week,\u201d said Robin. \u201cI know all about it, and\nperhaps we shall get a good lot of money, and then we\u2019ll buy tin swords\nwith scabbards for next year. I don\u2019t like these sticks. Oh, dear, I\nwish it wasn\u2019t so long between one Christmas and another.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere shall we go first?\u201d asked Nicholas, as they turned into the high\nroad. But before Robin could reply, Dora clung to Nicholas, crying, \u201cOh,\nlook at those men!\u201d\n\nThe boys looked up the road, down which three men were coming in a very\nunsteady fashion, and shouting as they rolled from side to side.\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re drunk,\u201d said Nicholas; \u201cand they\u2019re shouting at us.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, run, run!\u201d cried Dora; and down the road they ran, the men shouting\nand following them. They had not run far, when Hector caught his foot in\nthe Captain\u2019s great-coat, which he was wearing, and came down head-long\nin the road. They were close by a gate, and when Nicholas had set Hector\nupon his legs, St. George hastily opened it.\n\n\u201cThis is the first house,\u201d he said. \u201cWe\u2019ll act here;\u201d and all, even the\nValiant Slasher, pressed in as quickly as possible. Once safe within the\ngrounds, they shouldered their sticks, and resumed their composure.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re going to the front door,\u201d said Nicholas. \u201cMummers ought to go to\nthe back.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe don\u2019t know where it is,\u201d said Robin, and he rang the front door\nbell. There was a pause. Then lights shone, steps were heard, and at\nlast a sound of much unbarring, unbolting, and unlocking. It might have\nbeen a prison. Then the door was opened by an elderly, timid-looking\nwoman, who held a tallow candle above her head.\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d she said, \u201cat this time of night.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe\u2019re Christmas mummers,\u201d said Robin, stoutly; \u201cwe didn\u2019t know the way\nto the back door, but\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd don\u2019t you know better than to come here?\u201d said the woman. \u201cBe off\nwith you, as fast as you can.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re only the servant,\u201d said Robin. \u201cGo and ask your master and\nmistress if they wouldn\u2019t like to see us act. We do it very well.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou impudent boy, be off with you!\u201d repeated the woman. \u201cMaster\u2019d no\nmore let you nor any other such rubbish set foot in this house\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cWoman!\u201d shouted a voice close behind her, which made her start as if\nshe had been shot, \u201cwho authorizes you to say what your master will or\nwill not do, before you\u2019ve asked him? The boy is right. You _are_ the\nservant, and it is not your business to choose for me whom I shall or\nshall not see.\u201d\n\n\u201cI meant no harm, sir, I\u2019m sure,\u201d said the housekeeper; \u201cbut I thought\nyou\u2019d never\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cMy good woman,\u201d said her master, \u201cif I had wanted somebody to think for\nme, you\u2019re the last person I should have employed. I hire you to obey\norders, not to think.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sure, sir,\u201d said the housekeeper, whose only form of argument was\nreiteration, \u201cI never thought you would have seen them\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you were wrong,\u201d shouted her master. \u201cI will see them. Bring them\nin.\u201d\n\nHe was a tall, gaunt old man, and Robin stared at him for some minutes,\nwondering where he could have seen somebody very like him. At last he\nremembered. It was the old gentleman of the blue cloak.\n\nThe children threw off their wraps, the housekeeper helping them, and\nchattering ceaselessly, from sheer nervousness.\n\n\u201cWell, to be sure,\u201d said she, \u201ctheir dresses are pretty, too. And they\nseem quite a better sort of children, they talk quite genteel. I might\nha\u2019 knowed they weren\u2019t like common mummers, but I was so flustrated\nhearing the bell go so late, and\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cAre they ready?\u201d said the old man, who had stood like a ghost in the\ndim light of the flaring tallow candle, grimly watching the proceedings.\n\n\u201cYes, sir. Shall I take them to the kitchen, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2014\u2014 for you and the other idle hussies to gape and grin at? No. Bring\nthem to the library,\u201d he snapped, and then stalked off, leading the way.\n\nThe housekeeper accordingly led them to the library, and then withdrew,\nnearly falling on her face as she left the room by stumbling over\nDarkie, who slipped in last like a black shadow.\n\nThe old man was seated in a carved oak chair by the fire.\n\n\u201cI never said the dogs were to come in,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cBut we can\u2019t do without them, please,\u201d said Robin, boldly. \u201cYou see\nthere are eight people in \u2018The Peace-Egg,\u2019 and there are only five of\nus; and so Darkie has to be the Black Prince, and Pax has to be the\nfool, and so we have to have them.\u201d\n\n\u201cFive and two make seven,\u201d said the old man, with a grim smile; \u201cwhat do\nyou do for the eighth?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, that\u2019s the little one at the end,\u201d said Robin, confidentially.\n\u201cMamma said we weren\u2019t to mention him, but I think that\u2019s because we\u2019re\nchildren.\u201d\u2014\u201cYou\u2019re grown up, you know, so I\u2019ll show you the book, and\nyou can see for yourself,\u201d he went on, drawing \u2018The Peace-Egg\u2019 from his\npocket: \u201cthere, that\u2019s the picture of him, on the last page; black, with\nhorns and a tail.\u201d\n\nThe old man\u2019s stern face relaxed into a broad smile as he examined the\ngrotesque woodcut; but when he turned to the first page the smile\nvanished in a deep frown, and his eyes shone like hot coals with anger.\nHe had seen Robin\u2019s name.\n\n\u201cWho sent you here?\u201d he asked, in a hoarse voice. \u201cSpeak, and speak the\ntruth! Did your mother send you here?\u201d\n\nRobin thought the old man was angry with them for playing truant. He\nsaid, slowly \u201cN\u2014no. She didn\u2019t exactly send us; but I don\u2019t think\nshe\u2019ll mind our having come if we get back in time for supper. Mamma\nnever _forbid_ our going mumming, you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t suppose she ever thought of it,\u201d Nicholas said, candidly,\nwagging his curly head from side to side.\n\n\u201cShe knows we\u2019re mummers,\u201d said Robin, \u201cfor she helped us. When we were\nabroad, you know, she used to tell us about the mummers acting at\nChristmas, when she was a little girl; and so we thought we\u2019d be\nmummers, and so we acted to papa and mamma, and so we thought we\u2019d act\nto the maids, but they were cleaning the passages, and so we thought\nwe\u2019d really go mumming; and we\u2019ve got several other houses to go to\nbefore supper-time; we\u2019d better begin, I think,\u201d said Robin; and without\nmore ado he began to march round and round, raising his sword and\nshouting,\u2014\n\n           \u201cI am St. George, who from Old England sprung,\n            My famous name throughout the world hath rung.\u201d\n\nAnd the performance went off quite as creditably as before.\n\nAs the children acted the old man\u2019s anger wore off. He watched them with\nan interest he could not express. When Nicholas took some hard thwacks\nfrom St. George without flinching, the old man clapped his hands; and\nafter the encounter between St. George and the Black Prince, he said he\nwould not have had the dogs excluded on any consideration. It was just\nat the end, when they were all marching round and round, holding on by\neach other\u2019s swords \u201cover the shoulder,\u201d and singing \u201cA mumming we will\ngo, &c.,\u201d that Nicholas suddenly brought the circle to a standstill by\nstopping dead short, and staring up at the wall before him.\n\n\u201cWhat _are_ you stopping for?\u201d said St. George, turning indignantly\nround.\n\n\u201cLook there!\u201d cried Nicholas, pointing to a little painting which hung\nabove the old man\u2019s head.\n\nRobin looked, and said, abruptly, \u201cIt\u2019s Dora.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich is Dora?\u201d asked the old man, in a strange sharp tone.\n\n\u201cHere she is,\u201d said Robin and Nicholas in one breath, as they dragged\nher forward.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s the Doctor,\u201d said Robin; \u201cand you can\u2019t see her face for her\nthings. Dor, take off your cap and pull back that hood. There! Oh, it\n_is_ like her!\u201d\n\nIt was a portrait of her mother as a child; but of this the nursery\nmummers knew nothing. The old man looked as the peaked cap and hood fell\naway from Dora\u2019s face and fair curls, and then he uttered a sharp cry,\nand buried his head upon his hands. The boys stood stupefied, but Dora\nran up to him, and, putting her little hands on his arms, said, in\nchildish pitying tones, \u201cOh, I am so sorry! Have you got a headache? May\nRobin put the shovel in the fire for you? Mamma has hot shovels for her\nheadaches.\u201d And, though the old man did not speak or move, she went on\ncoaxing him, and stroking his head, on which the hair was white. At this\nmoment Pax took one of his unexpected runs, and jumped on to the old\nman\u2019s knee, in his own particular fashion, and then yawned at the\ncompany. The old man was startled and lifted his face suddenly. It was\nwet with tears.\n\n\u201cWhy, you\u2019re crying!\u201d exclaimed the children with one breath.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s very odd,\u201d said Robin, fretfully. \u201cI can\u2019t think what\u2019s the matter\nto-night. Mamma was crying too when we were acting, and papa said we\nweren\u2019t to tease her with questions, and he kissed her hand, and I\nkissed her hand too. And papa said we must all be very good and kind to\npoor dear mamma, and so I mean to be, she\u2019s so good. And I think we\u2019d\nbetter go home, or perhaps she\u2019ll be frightened,\u201d Robin added.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s so good, is she?\u201d asked the old man. He had put Pax off his knee,\nand taken Dora on to it.\n\n\u201cOh, isn\u2019t she!\u201d said Nicholas, swaying his curly head from side to side\nas usual.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s always good,\u201d said Robin emphatically; \u201cand so\u2019s papa. But I\u2019m\nalways doing something I oughtn\u2019t to,\u201d he added, slowly. \u201cBut then, you\nknow, I don\u2019t pretend to obey Sarah. I don\u2019t care a fig for Sarah; and I\nwon\u2019t obey any woman but mamma.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s Sarah?\u201d asked the grandfather.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s our nurse,\u201d said Robin, \u201cand she tells\u2014I mustn\u2019t say what she\ntells\u2014but it\u2019s not the truth. She told one about _you_ the other day,\u201d\nhe added.\n\n\u201cAbout me?\u201d said the old man.\n\n\u201cShe said you were our grandpapa. So then I knew she was telling _you\nknow what_.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did you know it wasn\u2019t true?\u201d the old man asked.\n\n\u201cWhy, of course,\u201d said Robin, \u201cif you were our mamma\u2019s father, you\u2019d\nknow her, and be very fond of her, and come and see her. And then you\u2019d\nbe our grandfather, too, and you\u2019d have us to see you, and perhaps give\nus Christmas-boxes. I wish you were,\u201d Robin added with a sigh. \u201cIt would\nbe very nice.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould _you_ like it?\u201d asked the old man of Dora.\n\nAnd Dora, who was half asleep and very comfortable, put her little arms\nabout his neck as she was wont to put them round the Captain\u2019s, and\nsaid, \u201cVery much.\u201d\n\nHe put her down at last, very tenderly, almost unwillingly, and left the\nchildren alone. By-and-by he returned, dressed in the blue cloak, and\ntook Dora up again.\n\n\u201cI will see you home,\u201d he said.\n\nThe children had not been missed. The clock had only just struck nine\nwhen there came a knock on the door of the dining-room, where the\nCaptain and his wife still sat by the yule-log. She said \u201cCome in,\u201d\nwearily, thinking it was frumenty and the Christmas cakes.\n\nBut it was her father, with her child in her arms!\n\n\n                          PEACE AND GOODWILL.\n\nLucy Jane Bull and her sisters were quite old enough to understand a\ngood deal of grown-up conversation when they overheard it. Thus, when a\nfriend of Mrs. Bull\u2019s observed during an afternoon call that she\nbelieved that \u201cofficers\u2019 wives were very dressy,\u201d the young ladies were\nat once resolved to keep a sharp look-out for the Captain\u2019s wife\u2019s\nbonnet in church on Christmas Day.\n\nThe Bulls had just taken their seats when the Captain\u2019s wife came in.\nThey really would have hid their faces, and looked at the bonnet\nafterwards, but for the startling sight that met the gaze of the\ncongregation. The old grandfather walked into church abreast of the\nCaptain.\n\n\u201cThey\u2019ve met in the porch,\u201d whispered Mr. Bull under the shelter of his\nhat.\n\n\u201cThey can\u2019t quarrel publicly in a place of worship,\u201d said Mrs. Bull,\nturning pale.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s gone into his seat,\u201d cried Lucy Jane in a shrill whisper.\n\n\u201cAnd the children after her,\u201d added the other sister, incautiously\naloud.\n\nThere was now no doubt about the matter. The old man in his blue cloak\nstood for a few moments, politely disputing the question of precedence\nwith his handsome son-in-law. Then the Captain bowed and passed in, and\nthe old man followed him.\n\nBy the time that the service was ended everybody knew of the happy\npeacemaking, and was glad. One old friend after another came up with\nblessings and good wishes. This was a proper Christmas, indeed, they\nsaid. There was a general rejoicing.\n\nBut only the grandfather and his children knew that it was hatched from\n\u201cThe Peace-Egg.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                             THE BROWNIES.\n\n\nA little girl sat sewing and crying on a garden seat. She had fair\nfloating hair, which the breeze blew into her eyes; and between the\ncloud of hair, and the mist of tears, she could not see her work very\nclearly. She neither tied up her locks, nor dried her eyes, however; for\nwhen one is miserable, one may as well be completely so.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter?\u201d said the Doctor, who was a friend of the Rector\u2019s,\nand came into the garden whenever he pleased.\n\nThe Doctor was a tall stout man, with hair as black as crows\u2019 feathers\non the top, and gray underneath, and a bushy beard. When young, he had\nbeen slim and handsome, with wonderful eyes, which were wonderful still;\nbut that was many years past. He had a great love for children, and this\none was a particular friend of his.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter?\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m in a row,\u201d murmured the young lady through her veil; and the needle\nwent in damp, and came out with a jerk, which is apt to result in what\nladies called \u201cpuckering.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are like London in a yellow fog,\u201d said the Doctor, throwing himself\non to the grass, \u201cand it is very depressing to my feelings. What is the\nrow about, and how came you to get into it?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe\u2019re all in it,\u201d was the reply; and apparently the fog was thickening,\nfor the voice grew less and less distinct\u2014\u201cthe boys and everybody. It\u2019s\nall about forgetting, and not putting away, and leaving about, and\nborrowing, and breaking, and that sort of thing. I\u2019ve had father\u2019s new\npocket-handkerchiefs to hem, and I\u2019ve been out climbing with the boys,\nand kept forgetting and forgetting, and mother says I always forget; and\nI can\u2019t help it. I forget to tidy his newspapers for him, and I forget\nto feed Puss, and I forgot these; besides, they\u2019re a great bore, and\nmother gave them to Nurse to do, and this one was lost, and we found it\nthis morning tossing about in the toy-cupboard.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt looks as if it had been taking violent exercise,\u201d said the Doctor.\n\u201cBut what have the boys to do with it?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, then there was a regular turn out of the toys,\u201d she explained,\n\u201cand they\u2019re all in a regular mess. You know, we always go on till the\nlast minute, and then things get crammed in anyhow. Mary and I did tidy\nthem once or twice; but the boys never put anything away, you know, so\nwhat\u2019s the good?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, indeed!\u201d said the Doctor. \u201cAnd so you have complained of them?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no!\u201d answered she. \u201cWe don\u2019t get them into rows, unless they are\nvery provoking; but some of the things were theirs, so everybody was\nsent for, and I was sent out to finish this, and they are all tidying. I\ndon\u2019t know when it will be done, for I have all this side to hem; and\nthe soldier\u2019s box is broken, and Noah is lost out of the Noah\u2019s Ark, and\nso is one of the elephants and a guinea-pig, and so is the\nrocking-horse\u2019s nose; and nobody knows what has become of Rutlandshire\nand the Wash, but they\u2019re so small, I don\u2019t wonder; only North America\nand Europe are gone too.\u201d\n\nThe Doctor started up in affected horror. \u201cEurope gone, did you say?\nBless me! what will become of us!\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t!\u201d said the young lady, kicking petulantly with her dangling feet,\nand trying not to laugh. \u201cYou know I mean the puzzles; and if they were\nyours, you wouldn\u2019t like it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t half like it as it is,\u201d said the Doctor. \u201cI am seriously\nalarmed. An earthquake is one thing: you have a good shaking, and settle\ndown again. But Europe gone\u2014lost\u2014 Why, here comes Deordie, I declare,\nlooking much more cheerful than we do; let us humbly hope that Europe\nhas been found. At present I feel like Aladdin when his palace had been\ntransported by the magician; I don\u2019t know where I am.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re here, Doctor; aren\u2019t you?\u201d asked the slow curly-wigged brother,\nsquatting himself on the grass.\n\n\u201c_Is_ Europe found?\u201d said the Doctor tragically.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d laughed Deordie. \u201cI found it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will be a great man,\u201d said the Doctor. \u201cAnd\u2014it is only common\ncharity to ask\u2014how about North America?\u201d\n\n\u201cFound too,\u201d said Deordie. \u201cBut the Wash is completely lost.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd my six shirts in it!\u201d said the Doctor. \u201cI sent them last Saturday\nas ever was. What a world we live in! Any more news? Poor Tiny here has\nbeen crying her eyes out.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m so sorry, Tiny,\u201d said the brother. \u201cBut don\u2019t bother about it. It\u2019s\nall square now, and we\u2019re going to have a new shelf put up.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you found everything?\u201d asked Tiny.\n\n\u201cWell, not the Wash, you know. And the elephant and the guinea-pig are\ngone for good; so the other elephant and the other guinea-pig must walk\ntogether as a pair now. Noah was among the soldiers, and we have put the\ncavalry into a night-light box. Europe and North America were behind the\nbook-case; and, would you believe it? the rocking-horse\u2019s nose has\nturned up in the nursery oven?\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t believe it,\u201d said the Doctor. \u201cThe rocking-horse\u2019s nose\ncouldn\u2019t turn up, it was the purest Grecian, modelled from the Elgin\nmarbles. Perhaps it was the heat that did it, though. However, you seem\nto have got through your troubles very well, Master Deordie. I wish poor\nTiny were at the end of her task.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo do I,\u201d said Deordie ruefully. \u201cBut I tell you what I\u2019ve been\nthinking, Doctor. Nurse is always knagging at us, and we\u2019re always in\nrows of one sort or another, for doing this, and not doing that, and\nleaving our things about. But, you know, it\u2019s a horrid shame, for there\nare plenty of servants, and I don\u2019t see why we should be always\nbothering to do little things, and\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! come to the point, please,\u201d said the Doctor; \u201cyou do go round the\nsquare so, in telling your stories, Deordie. What have you been thinking\nof?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Deordie, who was as good tempered as he was slow, \u201cthe\nother day Nurse shut me up in the back nursery for borrowing her\nscissors and losing them; but I\u2019d got \u2018Grimm\u2019 inside one of my\nknickerbockers, so when she locked the door, I sat down to read. And I\nread the story of the Shoemaker and the little Elves who came and did\nhis work for him before he got up; and I thought it would be so jolly if\nwe had some little Elves to do things instead of us.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s what Tommy Trout said,\u201d observed the Doctor.\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s Tommy Trout?\u201d asked Deordie.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you know, Deor?\u201d said Tiny. \u201cIt\u2019s the good boy who pulled the cat\nout of the what\u2019s-his-name.\n\n                        \u2018Who pulled her out?\n                        Little Tommy Trout.\u2019\n\nIs it the same Tommy Trout, Doctor? I never heard anything else about\nhim except his pulling the cat out; and I can\u2019t think how he did that.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet down the bucket for her, of course,\u201d said the Doctor. \u201cBut listen\nto me. If you will get that handkerchief done, and take it to your\nmother with a kiss, and not keep me waiting, I\u2019ll have you all to tea,\nand tell you the story of Tommy Trout.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis very night?\u201d shouted Deordie.\n\n\u201cThis very night.\u201d\n\n\u201cEvery one of us?\u201d inquired the young gentleman with rapturous\nincredulity.\n\n\u201cEvery one of you.\u2014Now Tiny, how about that work?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s just done,\u201d said Tiny.\u2014\u201cOh! Deordie, climb up behind, and hold\nback my hair, there\u2019s a darling, while I fasten off. Oh! Deor, you\u2019re\npulling my hair out. Don\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want to make a pig-tail,\u201d said Deor.\n\n\u201cYou can\u2019t,\u201d said Tiny, with feminine contempt, \u201cYou can\u2019t plait. What\u2019s\nthe good of asking boys to do anything? There! it\u2019s done at last. Now go\nand ask mother if we may go.\u2014Will you let me come, doctor,\u201d she\ninquired, \u201cif I do as you said?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure I will,\u201d he answered. \u201cLet me look at you. Your eyes are\nswollen with crying. How can you be such a silly little goose?\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you never cry?\u201d asked Tiny.\n\n\u201cWhen I was your age? Well, perhaps so.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve never cried since, surely,\u201d said Tiny.\n\nThe Doctor absolutely blushed.\n\n\u201cWhat do you think?\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cOh, of course not,\u201d she answered. \u201cYou\u2019ve nothing to cry about. You\u2019re\ngrown up, and you live all alone in a beautiful house, and you do as you\nlike, and never get into rows, or have anybody but yourself to think\nabout; and no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery nice; eh, Deordie?\u201d said the Doctor.\n\n\u201cAwfully jolly,\u201d said Deordie.\n\n\u201cNothing else to wish for, eh?\u201d\n\n\u201cI should keep harriers, and not a poodle, if I were a man,\u201d said\nDeordie; \u201cbut I suppose you could, if you wanted to.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing to cry about, at any rate?\u201d\n\n\u201cI should think not!\u201d said Deordie.\u2014\u201cThere\u2019s mother, though; let\u2019s go\nand ask her about the tea;\u201d and off they ran.\n\nThe Doctor stretched his six feet of length upon the sward, dropped his\ngray head on a little heap of newly-mown grass, and looked up into the\nsky.\n\n\u201cAwfully jolly\u2014no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem,\u201d said he laughing\nto himself. \u201cNothing else to wish for; nothing to cry about.\u201d\n\nNevertheless, he lay still, staring at the sky, till the smile died\naway, and tears came into his eyes. Fortunately, no one was there to\nsee.\n\nWhat could this \u201cawfully jolly\u201d Doctor be thinking of to make him cry?\nHe was thinking of a grave-stone in the church-yard close by, and of a\nstory connected with this grave-stone which was known to everybody in\nthe place who was old enough to remember it. This story has nothing to\ndo with the present story, so it ought not to be told.\n\nAnd yet it has to do with the Doctor, and is very short, so it shall be\nput in, after all.\n\n\n                      THE STORY OF A GRAVE-STONE.\n\nOne early spring morning about twenty years before, a man, going to his\nwork at sunrise through the church-yard, stopped by a flat stone which\nhe had lately helped to lay down. The day before, a name had been cut on\nit, which he stayed to read; and below the name some one had scrawled a\nfew words in pencil, which he read also\u2014_Pitifully behold the sorrows\nof our hearts_. On the stone lay a pencil, and a few feet from it lay\nthe Doctor, face downwards, as he had lain all night, with the hoar\nfrost on his black hair.\n\nAh! these grave-stones (they were ugly things in those days; not the\nlight, hopeful, pretty crosses we set up now) how they seem\nremorselessly to imprison and keep our dear dead friends away from us!\nAnd yet they do not lie with a feather\u2019s weight upon the souls that are\ngone, while God only knows how heavily they press upon the souls that\nare left behind. Did the spirit whose body was with the dead, stand that\nmorning by the body whose spirit was with the dead and pity him? Let us\nonly talk about what we know.\n\nAfter this it was said that the Doctor had got a fever, and was dying,\nbut he got better of it; and then that he was out of his mind, but he\ngot better of that, and came out looking much as usual, except that his\nhair never seemed quite so black again, as if a little of that night\u2019s\nhoar frost still remained. And no further misfortune happened to him\nthat I ever heard of; and as time went on he grew a beard, and got\nstout, and kept a German poodle, and gave tea parties to other people\u2019s\nchildren. As to the grave-stone story, whatever it was to him at the end\nof twenty years; it was a great convenience to his friends; for when he\nsaid anything they didn\u2019t agree with, or did anything they couldn\u2019t\nunderstand, or didn\u2019t say or do what was expected of him, what could be\neasier or more conclusive than to shake one\u2019s head and say,\n\n\u201cThe fact is, our Doctor has been a little odd, _ever since_\u2014!\u201d\n\n\n                        THE DOCTOR\u2019S TEA PARTY.\n\nThere is one great advantage attendant upon invitations to tea with a\ndoctor. No objections can be raised on the score of health. It is\nobvious that it must be fine enough to go out when the doctor asks you,\nand that his tea-cakes may be eaten with perfect impunity.\n\nThose tea-cakes were always good; to-night they were utterly delicious;\nthere was a perfect _abandon_ of currants, and the amount of citron peel\nwas enervating to behold. Then the housekeeper waited in awful splendor,\nand yet the Doctor\u2019s authority over her seemed as absolute as if he were\nan Eastern despot. Deordie must be excused for believing in the charms\nof living alone. It certainly has its advantages. The limited sphere of\nduty conduces to discipline in the household, demand does not exceed\nsupply in the article of waiting, and there is not that general\nscrimmage of conflicting interests which besets a large family in the\nmost favored circumstances. The housekeeper waits in black silk, and\nlooks as if she had no meaner occupation than to sit in a rocking-chair,\nand dream of damson cheese.\n\nRustling, hospitable, and subservient, this one retired at last, and\u2014\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said the Doctor, \u201cfor the verandah; and to look at the moon.\u201d\n\nThe company adjourned with a rush, the rear being brought up by the\npoodle, who seemed quite used to the proceedings; and there under the\nverandah, framed with passion flowers and geraniums, the Doctor had\ngathered mats, rugs, cushions, and arm-chairs, for the party; while far\nup in the sky, a yellow-faced harvest moon looked down in awful\nbenignity.\n\n\u201cNow!\u201d said the Doctor. \u201cTake your seats. Ladies first, and gentlemen\nafterwards. Mary and Tiny race for the American rocking-chair. Well\ndone! Of course it will hold both. Now boys, shake down. No one is to\nsit on the stone, or put their feet on the grass; and when you\u2019re ready,\nI\u2019ll begin.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe\u2019re ready,\u201d said the girls.\n\nThe boys shook down in a few minutes more, and the Doctor began the\nstory of\n\n\n                            \u201cTHE BROWNIES.\u201d\n\n\u201cBairns are a burden,\u201d said the Tailor to himself as he sat at work. He\nlived in a village on some of the glorious moors of the north of\nEngland; and by bairns he meant children, as every Northman knows.\n\n\u201cBairns are a burden,\u201d and he sighed.\n\n\u201cBairns are a blessing,\u201d said the old lady in the window. \u201cIt is the\nfamily motto. The Trouts have had large families and good luck for\ngenerations; that is, till your grandfather\u2019s time. He had one only son.\nI married him. He was a good husband, but he had been a spoilt child. He\nhad always been used to be waited upon, and he couldn\u2019t fash to look\nafter the farm when it was his own. We had six children. They are all\ndead but you, who were the youngest. You were bound to a tailor. When\nthe farm came into your hands, your wife died, and you have never looked\nup since. The land is sold now, but not the house. No! no! you\u2019re right\nenough there; but you\u2019ve had your troubles, son Thomas, and the lads\n_are_ idle!\u201d\n\nIt was the Tailor\u2019s mother who spoke. She was a very old woman, and\nhelpless. She was not quite so bright in her intellect as she had been,\nand got muddled over things that had lately happened; but she had a\nclear memory for what was long past, and was very pertinacious in her\nopinions. She knew the private history of almost every family in the\nplace, and who of the Trouts were buried under which old stones in the\nchurch-yard; and had more tales of ghosts, doubles, warnings, fairies,\nwitches, hobgoblins, and such like, than even her grandchildren had ever\ncome to the end of. Her hands trembled with age, and she regretted this\nfor nothing more than for the danger it brought her into of spilling the\nsalt. She was past housework, but all day she sat knitting hearth-rugs\nout of the bits and scraps of cloth that were shred in the tailoring.\nHow far she believed in the wonder-tales she told, and the odd little\ncharms she practised, no one exactly knew; but the older she grew, the\nstranger were the things she remembered, and the more testy she was if\nany one doubted their truth.\n\n\u201cBairns are a blessing!\u201d said she. \u201cIt is the family motto.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Are they?_\u201d said the Tailor, emphatically.\n\nHe had a high respect for his mother, and did not like to contradict\nher, but he held his own opinion, based upon personal experience; and\nnot being a metaphysician, did not understand that it is safer to found\nopinions on principles than on experience, since experience may alter,\nbut principles cannot.\n\n\u201cLook at Tommy,\u201d he broke out suddenly. \u201cThat boy does nothing but\nwhittle sticks from morning till night. I have almost to lug him out of\nbed o\u2019 mornings. If I send him an errand, he loiters; I\u2019d better have\ngone myself. If I set him to do anything, I have to tell him everything;\nI could sooner do it myself. And if he does work, it\u2019s done so\nunwillingly, with such a poor grace; better, far better, to do it\nmyself. What housework do the boys ever do but looking after the baby?\nAnd this afternoon she was asleep in the cradle, and off they went, and\nwhen she awoke, _I_ must leave my work to take her. _I_ gave her her\nsupper, and put her to bed. And what with what they want and I have to\nget, and what they take out to play with and lose, and what they bring\nin to play with and leave about, bairns give some trouble, Mother, and\nI\u2019ve not an easy life of it. The pay is poor enough when one can get the\nwork, and the work is hard enough when one has a clear day to do it in;\nbut housekeeping and bairn-minding don\u2019t leave a man much time for his\ntrade. No! no! Ma\u2019am, the luck of the Trouts is gone and \u2018Bairns are a\nburden,\u2019 is the motto now. Though they are one\u2019s own,\u201d he muttered to\nhimself, \u201cand not bad ones and I did hope once would have been a\nblessing.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s Johnnie,\u201d murmured the old lady, dreamily. \u201cHe has a face like\nan apple.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is about as useful,\u201d said the Tailor. \u201cHe might have been\ndifferent, but his brother leads him by the nose.\u201d\n\nHis brother led him in as the Tailor spoke, not literally by his snub,\nthough, but by the hand. They were a handsome pair, this lazy couple.\nJohnnie especially had the largest and roundest of foreheads, the\nreddest of cheeks, the brightest of eyes, the quaintest and most twitchy\nof chins, and looked altogether like a gutta percha cherub in a chronic\nstate of longitudinal squeeze. They were locked together by two grubby\npaws, and had each an armful of moss, which they deposited on the floor\nas they came in.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve swept this floor once to-day,\u201d said the father, \u201cand I\u2019m not going\nto do it again. Put that rubbish outside.\u201d\n\n\u201cMove it Johnnie!\u201d said his brother, seating himself on a stool, and\ntaking out his knife and a piece of wood, at which he cut and sliced;\nwhile the apple cheeked Johnnie stumbled and stamped over the moss, and\nscraped it out on to the door-step, leaving long trails of earth behind\nhim, and then sat down also.\n\n\u201cAnd those chips the same,\u201d added the Tailor; \u201cI will _not_ clear up the\nlitter you lads make.\u201d\n\n\u201cPick \u2019em up, Johnnie,\u201d said Thomas Trout, junior, with an exasperated\nsigh; and the apple tumbled up, rolled after the flying chips, and\ntumbled down again.\n\n\u201cIs there any supper, Father?\u201d asked Tommy.\n\n\u201cNo, there is not, Sir, unless you know how to get it,\u201d said the Tailor;\nand taking his pipe, he went out of the house.\n\n\u201cIs there really nothing to eat Granny?\u201d asked the boy.\n\n\u201cNo, my bairn, only some bread for breakfast to-morrow.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat makes Father so cross, Granny?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s wearied, and you don\u2019t help him, my dear.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat could I do, Grandmother?\u201d\n\n\u201cMany little things, if you tried,\u201d said the old lady. \u201cHe spent\nhalf-an-hour to-day while you were on the moor, getting turf for the\nfire, and you could have got it just as well, and he been at his work.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe never told me,\u201d said Tommy.\n\n\u201cYou might help me a bit just now, if you would, my laddie,\u201d said the\nold lady coaxingly; \u201cthese bits of cloth want tearing into lengths, and\nif you get \u2019em ready, I can go on knitting. There\u2019ll be some food when\nthis mat is done and sold.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll try,\u201d said Tommy, lounging up with desperate resignation. \u201cHold my\nknife, Johnnie. Father\u2019s been cross, and everything has been miserable,\never since the farm was sold. I wish I were a big man, and could make a\nfortune.\u2014Will that do, Granny?\u201d\n\nThe old lady put down her knitting and looked. \u201cMy dear, that\u2019s too\nshort. Bless me! I gave the lad a piece to measure by.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought it was the same length. Oh, dear! I am so tired;\u201d and he\npropped himself against the old lady\u2019s chair.\n\n\u201cMy dear! don\u2019t lean so! you\u2019ll tipple me over!\u201d she shrieked.\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon, Grandmother. Will _that_ do?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s that much too long.\u201d\n\n\u201cTear that bit off. Now it\u2019s all right.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, my dear, that wastes it. Now that bit is of no use. There goes my\nknitting, you awkward lad!\u201d\n\n\u201cJohnnie, pick it up!\u2014Oh! Grandmother, I _am_ so hungry.\u201d\n\nThe boy\u2019s eyes filled with tears, and the old lady was melted in an\ninstant.\n\n\u201cWhat can I do for you, my poor bairns?\u201d said she. \u201cThere, never mind\nthe scraps, Tommy.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell us a tale, Granny. If you told us a new one, I shouldn\u2019t keep\nthinking of that bread in the cupboard.\u2014Come Johnny, and sit against\nme. Now then!\u201d\n\n\u201cI doubt if there\u2019s one of my old-world cracks I haven\u2019t told you,\u201d said\nthe old lady, \u201cunless it\u2019s a queer ghost story was told me years ago of\nthat house in the hollow with the blocked-up windows.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! not ghosts!\u201d Tommy broke in; \u201cwe\u2019ve had so many. I know it was a\nrattling, or a scratching, or a knocking, or a figure in white; and if\nit turns out a tombstone or a white petticoat, I hate it.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was nothing of the sort as a tombstone,\u201d said the old lady with\ndignity. \u201cIt\u2019s a good half-mile from the church-yard. And as to white\npetticoats, there wasn\u2019t a female in the house; he wouldn\u2019t have one;\nand his victuals came in by the pantry window. But never mind! Though\nit\u2019s as true as a sermon.\u201d\n\nJohnnie lifted his head from his brother\u2019s knee.\n\n\u201cLet Granny tell what she likes, Tommy. It\u2019s a new ghost, and I should\nlike to know who he was, and why his victuals came in by the window.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t like a story about victuals,\u201d sulked Tommy. \u201cIt makes me think\nof the bread. O Granny dear! do tell us a fairy story. You never will\ntell us about the Fairies, and I know you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cHush! hush!\u201d said the old lady. \u201cThere\u2019s Miss Surbiton\u2019s Love Letter,\nand her Dreadful End.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know Miss Surbiton, Granny. I think she was a goose. Why won\u2019t you\ntell us about the Fairies?\u201d\n\n\u201cHush! hush! my dears. There\u2019s the Clerk and the Corpse-candles.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know the Corpse-candles, Granny. Besides, they make Johnnie dream and\nhe wakes me to keep him company. _Why_ won\u2019t you tell us about the\nFairies?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear, they don\u2019t like it,\u201d said the old lady.\n\n\u201cO Granny dear, why don\u2019t they? Do tell! I shouldn\u2019t think of the bread\na bit, if you told us about the Fairies. I know nothing about them.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe lived in this house long enough,\u201d said the old lady. \u201cBut it\u2019s not\nlucky to name him.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Granny, we are so hungry and miserable, what can it matter?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, that\u2019s true enough,\u201d she sighed. \u201cTrouts\u2019 luck is gone; it went\nwith the Brownie, I believe.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas that _he_, Granny?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, my dear, he lived with the Trouts for several generations.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat was he like, Granny?\u201d\n\n\u201cLike a little man, they say, my dear.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did he do?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe came in before the family were up, and swept up the hearth, and\nlighted the fire, and set out the breakfast, and tidied the room, and\ndid all sorts of house-work. But he never would be seen, and was off\nbefore they could catch him. But they could hear him laughing and\nplaying about the house sometimes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat a darling! Did they give him any wages, Granny?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo! my dear. He did it for love. They set a pancheon of clear water for\nhim over night, and now and then a bowl of bread and milk, or cream. He\nliked that, for he was very dainty. Sometimes he left a bit of money in\nthe water. Sometimes he weeded the garden or threshed the corn. He saved\nendless trouble, both to men and maids.\u201d\n\n\u201cO Granny! why did he go?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe maids caught sight of him one night, my dear, and his coat was so\nragged, that they got a new suit, and a linen shirt for him, and laid\nthem by the bread and milk bowl. But when Brownie saw the things, he put\nthem on, and dancing round the kitchen, sang,\n\n             \u2018What have we here? Hemten hamten!\n             Here will I never more tread nor stampen,\u2019\n\nand so danced through the door and never came back again.\u201d\n\n\u201cO Grandmother! But why not? Didn\u2019t he like the new clothes?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Old Owl knows, my dear; I don\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s the Old Owl, Granny?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t exactly know, my dear. It\u2019s what my mother used to say when we\nasked anything that puzzled her. It was said that the Old Owl was Nancy\nBesom, (a witch, my dear!) who took the shape of a bird, but couldn\u2019t\nchange her voice, and that that\u2019s why the owl sits silent all day for\nfear she should betray herself by speaking, and has no singing voice\nlike other birds. Many people used to go and consult the Old Owl at\nmoon-rise, in my young days.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you ever go, Granny?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnce, very nearly, my dear.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! tell us, Granny dear.\u2014There are no Corpse-candles, Johnnie; it\u2019s\nonly moonlight,\u201d he added consolingly, as Johnnie crept closer to his\nknee and pricked his little red ears.\n\n\u201cIt was when your grandfather was courting me, my dears,\u201d said the old\nlady, \u201cand I couldn\u2019t quite make up my mind. So I went to my mother, and\nsaid, \u2018He\u2019s this on the one side, but then he\u2019s that on the other, and\nso on. Shall I say yes or no?\u2019 And my mother said, \u2018The Old Owl knows,\u2019\nfor she was fairly puzzled. So says I, \u2018I\u2019ll go and ask her to-night, as\nsure as the moon rises.\u2019\n\n\u201cSo at moon-rise I went, and there in the white light by the gate stood\nyour grandfather. \u2018What are you doing here at this time o\u2019 night?\u2019 says\nI. \u2018Watching your window,\u2019 says he. \u2018What are _you_ doing here at this\ntime o\u2019 night?\u2019 \u2018The Old Owl knows,\u2019 said I, and burst out crying.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat for?\u201d said Johnnie.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t rightly tell you, my dear,\u201d said the old lady, \u201cbut it gave me\nsuch a turn to see him. And without more ado your grandfather kissed me.\n\u2018How dare you?\u2019 said I. \u2018What do you mean?\u2019 \u2018The Old Owl knows,\u2019 said\nhe. So we never went.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow stupid!\u201d said Tommy.\n\n\u201cTell us more about Brownie, please,\u201d said Johnnie. \u201cDid he ever live\nwith anybody else?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are plenty of Brownies,\u201d said the old lady, \u201cor used to be in my\nmother\u2019s young days. Some houses had several.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I wish ours would come back!\u201d cried both the boys in chorus.\n\u201cHe\u2019d\u2014\n\n\u201ctidy the room,\u201d said Johnnie;\n\u201cfetch the turf,\u201d said Tommy;\n\u201cpick up the chips,\u201d said Johnnie;\n\u201csort your scraps,\u201d said Tommy;\n\u201cand do everything. Oh! I wish he hadn\u2019t gone away.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d said the Tailor coming in at this moment.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the Brownie, Father,\u201d said Tommy. \u201cWe are so sorry he went, and do\nso wish we had one.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat nonsense have you been telling them, Mother?\u201d asked the Tailor.\n\n\u201cHeighty teighty,\u201d said the old lady, bristling. \u201cNonsense, indeed! As\ngood men as you, Son Thomas, would as soon have jumped off the crags, as\nspoken lightly of _them_, in my mother\u2019s young days.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d said the Tailor, \u201cI beg their pardon. They never did aught\nfor me, whatever they did for my forbears; but they\u2019re as welcome to the\nold place as ever, if they choose to come. There\u2019s plenty to do.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould you mind our setting a pan of water, Father?\u201d asked Tommy very\ngently. \u201cThere\u2019s no bread and milk.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou may set what you like, my lad,\u201d said the Tailor; \u201cand I wish there\nwere bread and milk for your sakes, Bairns. You should have it, had I\ngot it. But go to bed now.\u201d\n\nThey lugged out a pancheon, and filled it with more dexterity than\nusual, and then went off to bed, leaving the knife in one corner, the\nwood in another, and a few splashes of water in their track.\n\nThere was more room than comfort in the ruined old farm-house, and the\ntwo boys slept on a bed of cut heather, in what had been the old malt\nloft. Johnnie was soon in the land of dreams, growing rosier and rosier\nas he slept, a tumbled apple among the gray heather. But not so lazy\nTommy. The idea of a domesticated Brownie had taken full possession of\nhis mind; and whither Brownie had gone, where he might be found, and\nwhat would induce him to return, were mysteries he longed to solve.\n\u201cThere\u2019s an owl living in the old shed by the mere,\u201d he thought. \u201cIt may\nbe the Old Owl herself, and she knows, Granny says. When father\u2019s gone\nto bed, and the moon rises I\u2019ll go.\u201d Meanwhile he lay down.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nThe moon rose like gold, and went up into the heavens like silver,\nflooding the moors with a pale ghostly light, taking the color out of\nthe heather, and painting black shadows under the stone walls. Tommy\nopened his eyes, and ran to the window. \u201cThe moon has risen,\u201d said he,\nand crept softly down the ladder, through the kitchen, where was the pan\nof water, but no Brownie, and so out on the moor. The air was fresh, not\nto say chilly; but it was a glorious night, though everything but the\nwind and Tommy seemed asleep. The stones, the walls, the gleaming lanes,\nwere so intensely still; the church tower in the valley seemed awake and\nwatching, but silent; the houses in the village round it all had their\neyes shut, that is, their window blinds down; and it seemed to Tommy as\nif the very moors had drawn white sheets over them, and lay sleeping\nalso.\n\n\u201cHoot! hoot!\u201d said a voice from the fir plantation behind him. Somebody\nelse was awake, then. \u201cIt\u2019s the Old Owl,\u201d said Tommy; and there she\ncame, swinging heavily across the moor with a flapping stately flight,\nand sailed into the shed by the mere. The old lady moved faster than she\nseemed to do, and though Tommy ran hard she was in the shed some time\nbefore him. When he got in, no bird was to be seen, but he heard a\ncrunching sound from above, and looking up, there sat the Old Owl,\npecking and tearing and munching at some shapeless black object, and\nblinking at him\u2014Tommy\u2014with yellow eyes.\n\n\u201cOh dear!\u201d said Tommy, for he didn\u2019t much like it.\n\nThe Old Owl dropped the black mass on to the floor; and Tommy did not\ncare somehow to examine it.\n\n\u201cCome up! come up!\u201d said she, hoarsely.\n\nShe could speak, then! Beyond all doubt it was _the_ Old Owl and none\nother. Tommy shuddered.\n\n\u201cCome up here! come up here!\u201d said the Old Owl.\n\nThe Old Owl sat on a beam that ran across the shed. Tommy had often\nclimbed up for fun; and he climbed up now, and sat face to face with\nher, and thought her eyes looked as if they were made of flame.\n\n\u201cKiss my fluffy face,\u201d said the Owl.\n\nHer eyes were going round like flaming catherine wheels, but there are\ncertain requests which one has not the option of refusing. Tommy crept\nnearer, and put his lips to the round face out of which the eyes shone.\nOh! it was so downy and warm, so soft, so indescribably soft. Tommy\u2019s\nlips sank into it, and couldn\u2019t get to the bottom. It was unfathomable\nfeathers and fluffyness.\n\n\u201cNow, what do you want?\u201d said the Owl.\n\n\u201cPlease,\u201d said Tommy, who felt rather re-assured, \u201ccan you tell me where\nto find the Brownies, and how to get one to come and live with us?\u201d\n\n\u201cOohoo!\u201d said the Owl, \u201cthat\u2019s it, is it? I know of three Brownies.\u201d\n\n\u201cHurrah!\u201d said Tommy. \u201cWhere do they live?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn your house,\u201d said the Owl.\n\nTommy was aghast.\n\n\u201cIn our house!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cWhereabouts? Let me rummage them out. Why\ndo they do nothing?\u201d\n\n\u201cOne of them is too young,\u201d said the Owl.\n\n\u201cBut why don\u2019t the others work?\u201d asked Tommy.\n\n\u201cThey are idle, they are idle,\u201d said the Old Owl, and she gave herself\nsuch a shake as she said it, that the fluff went flying through the\nshed, and Tommy nearly tumbled off the beam in his fright.\n\n\u201cThen we don\u2019t want them,\u201d said he. \u201cWhat is the use of having Brownies\nif they do nothing to help us?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps they don\u2019t know how, as no one has told them,\u201d said the Owl.\n\n\u201cI wish you would tell me where to find them,\u201d said Tommy; \u201cI could tell\nthem.\u201d\n\n\u201cCould you?\u201d said the Owl. \u201cOohoo! Oohoo!\u201d and Tommy couldn\u2019t tell\nwhether she were hooting or laughing.\n\n\u201cOf course I could,\u201d he said. \u201cThey might be up and sweep the house, and\nlight the fire, and spread the table, and that sort of thing, before\nfather came down. Besides, they could _see_ what was wanted. The\nBrownies did all that in Granny\u2019s mother\u2019s young days. And then they\ncould tidy the room, and fetch the turf, and pick up my chips, and sort\nGranny\u2019s scraps. Oh! there\u2019s lots to do.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo there is,\u201d said the Owl. \u201cOohoo! Well, I can tell you where to find\none of the Brownies; and if you find him, he will tell you where his\nbrother is. But all this depends upon whether you feel equal to\nundertaking it, and whether you will follow my directions.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am quite ready to go,\u201d said Tommy, \u201cand I will do as you shall tell\nme. I feel sure I could persuade them. If they only knew how every one\nwould love them if they made themselves useful!\u201d\n\n\u201cOohoo! ohoo!\u201d said the Owl. \u201cNow pay attention. You must go to the\nnorth side of the mere when the moon is shining\u2014(\u2018I know Brownies like\nwater,\u2019 muttered Tommy)\u2014and turn yourself around three times, saying\nthis charm:\n\n            \u2018Twist me and turn me, and show me the Elf\u2014\n            I looked in the water, and saw\u2014\u2019\n\nWhen you have got so far, look into the water, and at the same moment\nyou will see the Brownie, and think of a word that will fill up the\ncouplet, and rhyme with the first line. If either you do not see the\nBrownie, or fail to think of the word, it will be of no use.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs the Brownie a mermaid,\u201d said Tommy, wriggling himself along the\nbeam, \u201cthat he lives under water?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat depends on whether he has a fish\u2019s tail,\u201d said the Owl, \u201cand this\nyou can discover for yourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, the moon is shining, so I shall go,\u201d said Tommy. \u201cGood-bye, and\nthank you, Ma\u2019am;\u201d and he jumped down and went, saying to himself as he\nran, \u201cI believe he is a merman all the same, or else how could he live\nin the mere? I know more about Brownies than Granny does, and I shall\ntell her so;\u201d for Tommy was somewhat opinionated, like other young\npeople.\n\nThe moon shone very brightly on the centre of the mere. Tommy knew the\nplace well for there was a fine echo there. Round the edge grew rushes\nand water plants, which cast a border of shadow. Tommy went to the north\nside, and turning himself three times, as the old Owl had told him, he\nrepeated the charm\u2014\n\n            \u2018Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf\u2014\n            I looked in the water, and saw\u2014\u2019\n\nNow for it. He looked in, and saw\u2014the reflection of his own face.\n\n\u201cWhy, there\u2019s no one but myself!\u201d said Tommy. \u201cAnd what can the word be?\nI must have done it wrong.\u201d\n\n\u201cWrong!\u201d said the Echo.\n\nTommy was almost surprised to find the echo awake at this time of night.\n\n\u201cHold your tongue!\u201d said he. \u201cMatters are provoking enough of\nthemselves. Belf! Celf! Delf! Felf! Gelf! Helf! Jelf! What rubbish!\nThere can\u2019t be a word to fit it. And then to look for Brownie, and see\nnothing but myself!\u201d\n\n\u201cMyself!\u201d said the Echo.\n\n\u201cWill you be quiet?\u201d said Tommy. \u201cIf you would tell one the word there\nwould be some sense in your interference; but to roar \u2018Myself!\u2019 at one,\nwhich neither rhymes nor runs\u2014it does rhyme though, as it happens,\u201d he\nadded; \u201cand how very odd! it runs too\u2014\n\n            \u2018Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf;\n            I looked in the water, and saw myself,\u2019\n\nwhich I certainly did. What can it mean? The Old Owl knows, as Granny\nwould say; so I shall go back and ask her.\u201d\n\n\u201cAsk her!\u201d said the Echo.\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t I say I should?\u201d said Tommy. \u201cHow exasperating you are! It is\nvery strange. _Myself_ certainly does rhyme, and I wonder I did not\nthink of it long ago.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo,\u201d said the Echo.\n\n\u201cWill you mind your own business, and go to sleep?\u201d said Tommy. \u201cI am\ngoing; I said I should.\u201d\n\nAnd back he went. There sat the Old Owl as before.\n\n\u201cOohoo!\u201d said she, as Tommy climbed up. \u201cWhat did you see in the mere?\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw nothing but myself,\u201d said Tommy indignantly.\n\n\u201cAnd what did you expect to see?\u201d asked the Owl.\n\n\u201cI expected to see a Brownie,\u201d said Tommy; \u201cyou told me so.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what are Brownies like, pray?\u201d inquired the Owl.\n\n\u201cThe one Granny knew was a useful little fellow, something like a little\nman,\u201d said Tommy.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said the Owl, \u201cbut you know at present this one is an idle little\nfellow, something like a little man. Oohoo! oohoo! Are you quite sure\nyou didn\u2019t see him?\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite,\u201d answered Tommy sharply. \u201cI saw no one but myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cHoot! toot! How touchy we are! And who are you, pray?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am not a Brownie,\u201d said Tommy.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t be too sure,\u201d said the Owl. \u201cDid you find out the word?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Tommy. \u201cI could find no word with any meaning that would\nrhyme but \u2018myself.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, that runs and rhymes,\u201d said the Owl. \u201cWhat do you want? Where\u2019s\nyour brother now?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn bed in the malt-loft,\u201d said Tommy.\n\n\u201cThen now all your questions are answered,\u201d said the Owl, \u201cand you know\nwhat wants doing, so go and do it. Good-night, or rather good-morning,\nfor it is long past midnight;\u201d and the old lady began to shake her\nfeathers for a start.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t go yet, please,\u201d said Tommy humbly. \u201cI don\u2019t understand it. You\nknow I\u2019m not a Brownie, am I?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, you are,\u201d said the Owl, \u201cand a very idle one too. All children are\nBrownies.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I couldn\u2019t do work like a Brownie,\u201d said Tommy.\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d inquired the Owl. \u201cCouldn\u2019t you sweep the floor, light the\nfire, spread the table, tidy the room, fetch the turf, pick up your own\nchips, and sort your grandmother\u2019s scraps? You know \u2018there\u2019s lots to\ndo.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I don\u2019t think I should like it,\u201d said Tommy. \u201cI\u2019d much rather have\na Brownie to do it for me.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what would you do meanwhile?\u201d asked the Owl. \u201cBe idle, I suppose;\nand what do you suppose is the use of a man\u2019s having children if they do\nnothing to help him? Ah! if they only knew how every one would love them\nif they made themselves useful!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut is it really and truly so?\u201d asked Tommy, in a dismal voice. \u201cAre\nthere no Brownies but children?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, there are not,\u201d said the owl. \u201cAnd pray do you think that the\nBrownies, whoever they may be, come into a house to save trouble for the\nidle healthy little boys who live in it? Listen to me, Tommy,\u201d said the\nold lady, her eyes shooting rays of fire in the dark corner where she\nsat. \u201cListen to me, you are a clever boy, and can understand when one\nspeaks; so I will tell you the whole history of the Brownies, as it has\nbeen handed down in our family from my grandmother\u2019s great-grandmother,\nwho lived in the Druid\u2019s Oak, and was intimate with the fairies. And\nwhen I have done you shall tell me what you think they are, if they are\nnot children. It\u2019s the opinion I have come to at any rate, and I don\u2019t\nthink that wisdom died with our great-grandmothers.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should like to hear if you please,\u201d said Tommy.\n\nThe Old Owl shook out a tuft or two of fluff, and set her eyes a-going,\nand began:\n\n\u201cThe Brownies, or as they are sometimes called, the Small Folk, the\nLittle People, or the Good People, are a race of tiny beings who\ndomesticate themselves in a house of which some grown-up human being\npays the rent and taxes. They are like small editions of men and women,\nthey are too small and fragile for heavy work; they have not the\nstrength of a man, but are a thousand times more fresh and nimble. They\ncan run and jump, and roll and tumble, with marvellous agility and\nendurance, and of many of the aches and pains which men and women groan\nunder, they do not even know the names. They have no trade or\nprofession, and as they live entirely upon other people, they know\nnothing of domestic cares; in fact, they know very little upon any\nsubject, though they are often intelligent and highly inquisitive. They\nlove dainties, play, and mischief. They are apt to be greatly beloved,\nand are themselves capriciously affectionate. They are little people,\nand can only do little things. When they are idle and mischievous, they\nare called Boggarts, and are a curse to the house they live in. When\nthey are useful and considerate, they are Brownies, and are a\nmuch-coveted blessing. Sometimes the Blessed Brownies will take up their\nabode with some worthy couple, cheer them with their romp and merry\nlaughter, tidy the house, find things that have been lost, and take\nlittle troubles out of hands full of great anxieties. Then in time these\nLittle People are Brownies no longer. They grow up into men and women.\nThey do not care so much for dainties, play, or mischief. They cease to\njump and tumble, and roll about the house. They know more, and laugh\nless. Then, when their heads begin to ache with anxiety, and they have\nto labor for their own living, and the great cares of life come on,\nother Brownies come and live with them, and take up their little cares,\nand supply their little comforts, and make the house merry once more.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow nice!\u201d said Tommy.\n\n\u201cVery nice,\u201d said the Old Owl. \u201cBut what\u201d\u2014and she shook herself more\nfiercely than ever, and glared so that Tommy expected nothing less than\nher eyes would set fire to her feathers and she would be burnt alive.\n\u201cBut what must I say of the Boggarts? Those idle urchins who eat the\nbread and milk, and don\u2019t do the work, who lie in bed without an ache or\npain to excuse them, who untidy instead of tidying, cause work instead\nof doing it, and leave little cares to heap on big cares, till the old\npeople who support them are worn out altogether.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t!\u201d said Tommy. \u201cI can\u2019t bear it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope when Boggarts grow into men,\u201d said the Old Owl, \u201cthat their\nchildren will be Boggarts too, and then they\u2019ll know what it is!\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t!\u201d roared Tommy. \u201cI won\u2019t be a Boggart. I\u2019ll be a Brownie.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s right,\u201d nodded the Old Owl. \u201cI said you were a boy who could\nunderstand when one spoke. And remember that the Brownies never are seen\nat their work. They get up before the household, and get away before any\none can see them. I can\u2019t tell you why. I don\u2019t think my grandmother\u2019s\ngreat-grandmother knew. Perhaps because all good deeds are better done\nin secret.\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease,\u201d said Tommy, \u201cI should like to go home now, and tell Johnnie.\nIt\u2019s getting cold, and I am so tired!\u201d\n\n\u201cVery true,\u201d said the Old Owl, \u201cand then you will have to be up early\nto-morrow. I think I had better take you home.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know the way, thank you,\u201d said Tommy.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t say _shew_ you the way, I said _take_ you\u2014carry you,\u201d said\nthe Owl. \u201cLean against me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d rather not thank you,\u201d said Tommy.\n\n\u201cLean against me,\u201d screamed the Owl. \u201cOohoo! how obstinate boys are to\nbe sure!\u201d\n\nTommy crept up, very unwillingly.\n\n\u201cLean your full weight, and shut your eyes,\u201d said the Owl.\n\nTommy laid his head against the Old Owl\u2019s feathers, had a vague idea\nthat she smelt of heather, and thought it must be from living on the\nmoor, shut his eyes, and leant his full weight, expecting that he and\nthe Owl would certainly fall off the beam together.\nDown\u2014feathers\u2014fluff\u2014he sank and sank, could feel nothing solid,\njumped up with a start to save himself, opened his eyes, and found that\nhe was sitting among the heather in the malt-loft, with Johnny sleeping\nby his side.\n\n\u201cHow quickly we came!\u201d said he; \u201cthat is certainly a very clever Old\nOwl. I couldn\u2019t have counted ten whilst my eyes were shut. How very\nodd!\u201d\n\nBut what was odder still was, that it was no longer moonlight but early\ndawn.\n\n\u201cGet up, Johnnie,\u201d said his brother, \u201cI\u2019ve got a story to tell you.\u201d\n\nAnd while Johnnie sat up, and rubbed his eyes open, he related his\nadventures on the moor.\n\n\u201cIs all that true?\u201d said Johnnie; \u201cI mean, did it really happen?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course it did,\u201d said his brother; \u201cdon\u2019t you believe it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh yes,\u201d said Johnny. \u201cBut I thought it was perhaps only a true story,\nlike Granny\u2019s true stories. I believe all these, you know. But if you\nwere there, you know, it is different\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cI was there,\u201d said Tommy, \u201cand it\u2019s all just as I tell you: and I tell\nyou what, if we mean to do anything we must get up: though, oh dear! I\nshould like to stay in bed. I say,\u201d he added, after a pause, \u201csuppose we\ndo. It can\u2019t matter being Boggarts for one night more. I mean to be a\nBrownie before I grow up, though. I couldn\u2019t stand boggarty children.\u201d\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t be a Boggart at all,\u201d said Johnnie, \u201cit\u2019s horrid. But I don\u2019t\nsee how we can be Brownies, for I\u2019m afraid we can\u2019t do the things. I\nwish I were bigger!\u201d\n\n\u201cI can do it well enough,\u201d said Tommy, following his brother\u2019s example\nand getting up. \u201cDon\u2019t you suppose I can light a fire? Think of all the\nbonfires we have made! And I don\u2019t think I should mind having a regular\ngood tidy-up either. It\u2019s that stupid\nputting-away-things-when-you\u2019ve-done-with-them that I hate so!\u201d\n\nThe Brownies crept softly down the ladder and into the kitchen. There\nwas the blank hearth, the dirty floor, and all the odds and ends lying\nabout, looking cheerless enough in the dim light, Tommy felt quite\nimportant as he looked round. There is no such cure for untidiness as\nclearing up after other people; one sees so clearly where the fault\nlies.\n\n\u201cLook at that door-step, Johnnie,\u201d said the Brownie-elect, \u201cwhat a mess\nyou made of it! If you had lifted the moss carefully, instead of\nstamping and struggling with it, it would have saved us ten minutes\u2019\nwork this morning.\u201d\n\nThis wisdom could not be gainsaid, and Johnnie only looked meek and\nrueful.\n\n\u201cI am going to light the fire,\u201d pursued his brother;\u2014\u201cthe next turfs,\nyou know _we_ must get\u2014you can tidy a bit. Look at the knife I gave you\nto hold last night, and that wood\u2014that\u2019s my fault though, and so are\nthose scraps by Granny\u2019s chair. What are you grubbing at that rat-hole\nfor?\u201d\n\nJohnnie raised his head somewhat flushed and tumbled.\n\n\u201cWhat do you think I have found?\u201d said he triumphantly. \u201cFather\u2019s\nmeasure that has been lost for a week!\u201d\n\n\u201cHurrah!\u201d said Tommy, \u201cput it by his things. That\u2019s just a sort of thing\nfor a Brownie to have done. What will he say? And I say, Johnnie, when\nyou\u2019ve tidied, just go and grub up a potato or two in the garden, and\nI\u2019ll put them to roast for breakfast. I\u2019m lighting such a bonfire!\u201d\n\nThe fire was very successful. Johnnie went after the potatoes, and Tommy\ncleaned the door-step, swept the room, dusted the chairs and the old\nchest, and set out the table. There was no doubt he could be handy when\nhe chose.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you what I have thought of, if we have time,\u201d said Johnnie,\nas he washed the potatoes in the water that had been set for Brownie.\n\u201cWe might run down to the South Pasture for some mushrooms. Father said\nthe reason we found so few was that people go by sunrise for them to\ntake to market. The sun\u2019s only just rising, we should be sure to find\nsome, and they would do for breakfast.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s plenty of time,\u201d said Tommy; so they went. The dew lay heavy\nand thick upon the grass by the road side, and over the miles of network\nthat the spiders had woven from blossom to blossom of the heather. The\ndew is the Sun\u2019s breakfast; but he was barely up yet, and had not eaten\nit, and the world felt anything but warm. Nevertheless, it was so sweet\nand fresh as it is at no later hour of the day, and every sound was like\nthe returning voice of a long absent friend. Down to the pastures, where\nwas more network and more dew, but when one has nothing to speak of in\nthe way of boots, the state of the ground is of the less consequence.\n\nThe Tailor had been right, there was no lack of mushrooms at this time\nof the morning. All over the pasture they stood, of all sizes, some like\nbuttons, some like tables; and in the distance one or two ragged women,\nstopping over them with baskets, looked like huge fungi also.\n\n\u201cThis is where the fairies feast,\u201d said Tommy. \u201cThey had a large party\nlast night. When they go, they take away the dishes and cups, for they\nare made of gold; but they leave their tables, and we eat them.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wonder whether giants would like to eat our tables,\u201d said Johnnie.\n\nThis was beyond Tommy\u2019s capabilities of surmise; so they filled a\nhandkerchief, and hurried back again for fear the Tailor should have\ncome down-stairs.\n\nThey were depositing the last mushroom in a dish on the table, when his\nfootsteps were heard descending.\n\n\u201cThere he is!\u201d exclaimed Tommy. \u201cRemember, we mustn\u2019t be caught. Run\nback to bed.\u201d\n\nJohnnie caught up the handkerchief, and smothering their laughter, the\ntwo scrambled back up the ladder, and dashed straight into the heather.\n\nMeanwhile the poor Tailor came wearily down-stairs. Day after day, since\nhis wife\u2019s death, he had come down every morning to the same desolate\nsight\u2014yesterday\u2019s refuse and an empty hearth. This morning task of\ntidying was always a sad and ungrateful one to the widowed father. His\nawkward struggles with the house-work in which _she_ had been so\nnotable, chafed him. The dirty kitchen was dreary, the labor lonely, and\nit was an hour\u2019s time lost to his trade. But life does not stand still\nwhile one is wishing, and so the Tailor did that for which there was\nneither remedy nor substitute; and came down this morning as other\nmornings to the pail and broom. When he came in he looked round, and\nstarted, and rubbed his eyes; looked round again, and rubbed them\nharder; then went up to the fire and held out his hand, (warm\ncertainly)\u2014then up to the table and smelt the mushrooms, (esculent\nfungi beyond a doubt) handled the loaf, stared at the open door and\nwindow, the swept floor, and the sunshine pouring in, and finally sat\ndown in stunned admiration. Then he jumped up and ran to the foot of the\nstairs, shouting,\u2014\n\n\u201cMother! Mother! Trout\u2019s luck has come again.\u201d \u201cAnd yet, no!\u201d he\nthought, \u201cthe old lady\u2019s asleep, it\u2019s a shame to wake her, I\u2019ll tell\nthose idle rascally lads, they\u2019ll be more pleased than they deserve. It\nwas Tommy after all that set the water and caught him.\u201d \u201cBoys! boys!\u201d he\nshouted at the foot of the ladder, \u201cthe Brownie has come!\u2014and if he\nhasn\u2019t found my measure!\u201d he added on returning to the kitchen, \u201cthis is\nas good as a day\u2019s work to me.\u201d\n\nThere was great excitement in the small household that day. The boys\nkept their own counsel. The old Grandmother was triumphant, and tried\nnot to seem surprised. The Tailor made no such vain effort, and remained\ntill bed-time in a state of fresh and unconcealed amazement.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve often heard of the Good People,\u201d he broke out towards the end of\nthe evening. \u201cAnd I\u2019ve heard folk say they\u2019ve known those that have seen\nthem capering round the gray rocks on the moor at midnight: but this is\nwonderful! To come and do the work for a pan of cold water! Who could\nhave believed it?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou might have believed it if you\u2019d believed me, Son Thomas,\u201d said the\nold lady tossily. \u201cI told you so. But young people always know better\nthan their elders!\u201d\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t see him,\u201d said the Tailor, beginning his story afresh; \u201cbut I\nthought as I came in I heard a sort of laughing and rustling.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy mother said they often heard him playing and laughing about the\nhouse,\u201d said the old lady. \u201cI told you so.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, he shan\u2019t want for a bowl of bread and milk to-morrow, anyhow,\u201d\nsaid the Tailor, \u201cif I have to stick to Farmer Swede\u2019s waistcoat till\nmidnight.\u201d\n\nBut the waistcoat was finished by bed-time, and the Tailor set the bread\nand milk himself, and went to rest.\n\n\u201cI say,\u201d said Tommy, when both the boys were in bed, \u201cthe Old Owl was\nright, and we must stick to it. But I\u2019ll tell you what I don\u2019t like, and\nthat is, father thinking we\u2019re idle still. I wish he knew we were the\nBrownies.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo do I,\u201d said Johnnie; and he sighed.\n\n\u201cI tell you what,\u201d said Tommy, with the decisiveness of elder\nbrotherhood, \u201cwe\u2019ll keep quiet for a bit for fear we should leave off;\nbut when we\u2019ve gone on a good while, I shall tell him. It was only the\nOld Owl\u2019s grandmother\u2019s great-grandmother who said it was to be kept\nsecret, and the Old Owl herself said grandmothers were not always in the\nright.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo more they are,\u201d said Johnnie; \u201clook at Granny about this.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know,\u201d said Tommy. \u201cShe\u2019s in a regular muddle.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo she is,\u201d said Johnnie. \u201cBut that\u2019s rather fun, I think.\u201d\n\nAnd they went to sleep.\n\nDay after day went by, and still the Brownies \u201cstuck to it,\u201d and did\ntheir work. It is no such very hard matter after all to get up early\nwhen one is young and light-hearted, and sleeps upon heather in a loft\nwithout window-blind, and with so many broken window-panes that the air\ncomes freely in. In old times the boys used to play at tents among the\nheather, while the Tailor did the house-work; now they came down and did\nit for him.\n\nSize is not everything, even in this material existence. One has heard\nof dwarfs who were quite as clever, (not to say as powerful,) as giants,\nand I do not fancy that Fairy Godmothers are ever very large. It is\nwonderful what a comfort Brownies may be in the house that is fortunate\nenough to hold them! The Tailor\u2019s Brownies were the joy of his life; and\nday after day they seemed to grow more and more ingenious in finding\nlittle things to do for his good.\n\nNow-a-days Granny never picked a scrap for herself. One day\u2019s shearings\nwere all neatly arranged the next morning, and laid by her\nknitting-pins; and the Tailor\u2019s tape and shears were no more absent\nwithout leave.\n\nOne day a message came to him to offer him two or three days\u2019 tailoring\nin a farmhouse some miles up the valley. This was pleasant and\nadvantageous sort of work; good food, sure pay, and a cheerful change;\nbut he did not know how he could leave his family, unless, indeed, the\nBrownie might be relied upon to \u201ckeep the house together,\u201d as they say.\nThe boys were sure that he would, and they promised to set his water,\nand to give as little trouble as possible; so, finally, the Tailor took\nup his shears and went up the valley, where the green banks sloped up\ninto purple moor, or broke into sandy rocks, crowned with nodding oak\nfern. On to the prosperous old farm, where he spent a very pleasant\ntime, sitting level with the window geraniums on a table set apart for\nhim, stitching and gossiping, gossiping and stitching, and feeling\nsecure of honest payment when his work was done. The mistress of the\nhouse was a kind good creature, and loved a chat; and though the Tailor\nkept his own secret as to the Brownies, he felt rather curious to know\nif the Good People had any hand in the comfort of this flourishing\nhousehold, and watched his opportunity to make a few careless inquiries\non the subject.\n\n\u201cBrownies?\u201d laughed the dame. \u201cAy, Master, I have heard of them. When I\nwas a girl, in service at the old hall, on Cowberry Edge, I heard a good\ndeal of one they said had lived there in former times. He did housework\nas well as a woman, and a good deal quicker, they said. One night one of\nthe young ladies (that were then, they\u2019re all dead now,) hid herself in\na cupboard, to see what he was like.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what was he like?\u201d inquired the Tailor, as composedly as he was\nable.\n\n\u201cA little fellow, they said;\u201d answered the Farmer\u2019s wife, knitting\ncalmly on. \u201cLike a dwarf, you know, with a largish head for his body.\nNot taller than\u2014why, my Bill, or your eldest boy, perhaps. And he was\ndressed in rags, with an old cloak on, and stamping with passion at a\ncobweb he couldn\u2019t get at with his broom. They\u2019ve very uncertain\ntempers, they say. Tears one minute and laughing the next.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou never had one here, I suppose?\u201d said the Tailor.\n\n\u201cNot we,\u201d she answered; \u201cand I think I\u2019d rather not. They\u2019re not canny\nafter all; and my master and me have always been used to work, and we\u2019ve\nsons, and daughters to help us, and that\u2019s better than meddling with the\nFairies, to my mind. No! no!\u201d she added, laughing, \u201cIf we had had one\nyou\u2019d have heard of it, whoever didn\u2019t, for I should have had some\ndecent clothes made for him. I couldn\u2019t stand rags and old cloaks,\nmessing and moth-catching in my house.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey say it\u2019s not lucky to give them clothes, though,\u201d said the Tailor;\n\u201cthey don\u2019t like it.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell me!\u201d said the dame, \u201cas if any one that liked a tidy room,\nwouldn\u2019t like tidy clothes, if they could get them. No! no! when we have\none, you shall take his measure, I promise you.\u201d\n\nAnd this was all the Tailor got out of her on the subject. When his work\nwas finished, the Farmer paid him at once; and the good dame added half\na cheese, and a bottle-green coat.\n\n\u201cThat has been laid by for being too small for the master now he\u2019s so\nstout,\u201d she said; \u201cbut except for a stain or two it\u2019s good enough, and\nwill cut up like new for one of the lads.\u201d\n\nThe Tailor thanked them, and said farewell, and went home. Down the\nvalley, where the river, wandering between the green banks and the sandy\nrocks, was caught by giant mosses, and bands of fairy fern, and there\nchoked and struggled, and at last barely escaped with an existence, and\nran away in a diminished stream. On up the purple hills to the old\nruined house. As he came in at the gate he was struck by some idea of\nchange, and looking again, he saw that the garden had been weeded, and\nwas comparatively tidy. The truth is, that Tommy and Johnnie had taken\nadvantage of the Tailor\u2019s absence to do some Brownie\u2019s work in the\ndaytime.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s that Blessed Brownie!\u201d said the Tailor. \u201cHas he been as usual?\u201d he\nasked, when he was in the house.\n\n\u201cTo be sure,\u201d said the old lady; \u201call has been well, Son Thomas.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you what it is,\u201d said the Tailor, after a pause. \u201cI\u2019m a needy\nman, but I hope I\u2019m not ungrateful. I can never repay the Brownie for\nwhat he has done for me and mine; but the mistress up yonder has given\nme a bottle-green coat that will cut up as good as new; and as sure as\nthere\u2019s a Brownie in this house, I\u2019ll make him a suit of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll _what_?\u201d shrieked the old lady. \u201cSon Thomas, Son Thomas, you\u2019re\nmad! Do what you please for the Brownies, but never make them clothes.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s nothing they want more,\u201d said the Tailor, \u201cby all accounts.\nThey\u2019re all in rags, as well they may be, doing so much work.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you make clothes for this Brownie, he\u2019ll go for good,\u201d said the\nGrandmother, in a voice of awful warning.\n\n\u201cWell, I don\u2019t know,\u201d said her son. \u201cThe mistress up at the farm is\nclever enough, I can tell you; and as she said to me, fancy any one that\nlikes a tidy room, not liking a tidy coat!\u201d For the Tailor, like most\nmen, was apt to think well of the wisdom of woman-kind in other houses.\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d said the old lady, \u201cgo your own way. I\u2019m an old woman, and\nmy time is not long. It doesn\u2019t matter much to me. But it was new\nclothes that drove the Brownie out before, and Trout\u2019s luck went with\nhim.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know, Mother,\u201d said the Tailor, \u201cand I\u2019ve been thinking of it all the\nway home; and I can tell you why it was. Depend upon it, _the clothes\ndidn\u2019t fit_. But I\u2019ll tell you what I mean to do. I shall measure them\nby Tommy\u2014they say the Brownies are about his size\u2014and if ever I turned\nout a well-made coat and waistcoat, they shall be his.\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease yourself,\u201d said the old lady, and she would say no more.\n\n\u201cI think you\u2019re quite right, Father,\u201d said Tommy, \u201cand if I can, I\u2019ll\nhelp you to make them.\u201d\n\nNext day the father and son set to work, and Tommy contrived to make\nhimself so useful, that the Tailor hardly knew how he got through so\nmuch work.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s not like the same thing,\u201d he broke out at last, \u201cto have some one\na bit helpful about you; both for the tailoring and for company\u2019s sake.\nI\u2019ve not done such a pleasant morning\u2019s work since your poor mother\ndied. I\u2019ll tell you what it is, Tommy,\u201d he added, \u201cif you were always\nlike this, I shouldn\u2019t much care whether Brownie stayed or went. I\u2019d\ngive up his help to have yours.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll be back directly,\u201d said Tommy, who burst out of the room in search\nof his brother.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve come away,\u201d he said squatting down, \u201cbecause I can\u2019t bear it. I\nvery nearly let it all out, and I shall soon. I wish the things weren\u2019t\ngoing to come to me,\u201d he added, kicking a stone in front of him. \u201cI wish\nhe\u2019d measured you, Johnnie.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m very glad he didn\u2019t,\u201d said Johnnie. \u201cI wish he\u2019d kept them\nhimself.\u201d\n\n\u201cBottle-green, with brass buttons,\u201d murmured Tommy, and therewith fell\ninto a reverie.\n\nThe next night the suit was finished, and laid by the bread and milk.\n\n\u201cWe shall see,\u201d said the old lady, in a withering tone. There is not\nmuch real prophetic wisdom in this truism, but it sounds very awful, and\nthe Tailor went to bed somewhat depressed.\n\nNext morning the Brownies came down as usual.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t they look splendid?\u201d said Tommy, feeling the cloth. \u201cWhen we\u2019ve\ntidied the place I shall put them on.\u201d\n\nBut long before the place was tidy, he could wait no longer, and dressed\nup.\n\n\u201cLook at me!\u201d he shouted; \u201cbottle-green and brass buttons! Oh, Johnnie,\nI wish you had some.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a good thing there are two Brownies,\u201d said Johnnie, laughing, \u201cand\none of them in rags still. I shall do the work this morning.\u201d And he\nwent flourishing round with a broom, while Tommy jumped madly about in\nhis new suit. \u201cHurrah!\u201d he shouted, \u201cI feel just like the Brownie. What\nwas it Grannie said he sang when he got his clothes? Oh, I know\u2014\n\n            \u2018What have we here? Hemten hamten,\n            Here will I never more tread nor stampen.\u2019\u201d\n\nAnd on he danced, regardless of the clouds of dust raised by Johnnie, as\nhe drove the broom indiscriminately over the floor, to the tune of his\nown laughter.\n\nIt was laughter which roused the Tailor that morning, laughter coming\nthrough the floor from the kitchen below. He scrambled on his things and\nstole down stairs.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the Brownie,\u201d he thought; \u201cI must look, if it\u2019s for the last\ntime.\u201d\n\nAt the door he paused and listened. The laughter was mixed with singing,\nand he heard the words\u2014\n\n             \u201cWhat have we here? Hemten hamten,\n             Here will I never more tread nor stampen.\u201d\n\nHe pushed in, and this was the sight that met his eyes.\n\nThe kitchen in its primeval condition of chaos, the untidy particulars\nof which were the less apparent, as everything was more or less obscured\nby the clouds of dust, where Johnnie reigned triumphant, like a witch\nwith her broomstick; and, to crown all, Tommy capering and singing in\nthe Brownie\u2019s bottle-green suit, brass buttons and all.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s this?\u201d shouted the astonished Tailor, when he could find breath\nto speak.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the Brownies,\u201d sang the boys; and on they danced, for they had\nworked themselves up into a state of excitement from which it was not\neasy to settle down.\n\n\u201cWhere _is_ Brownie?\u201d shouted the father.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s here,\u201d said Tommy; \u201cwe are the Brownies.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t you stop that fooling?\u201d cried the Tailor, angrily. \u201cThis is past\na joke. Where is the real Brownie, I say?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe are the only Brownies, really, father,\u201d said Tommy, coming to a full\nstop, and feeling strongly tempted to run down from laughing to crying.\n\u201cAsk the Old Owl. It\u2019s true, really.\u201d\n\nThe Tailor saw the boy was in earnest, and passed his hand over his\nforehead.\n\n\u201cI suppose I\u2019m getting old,\u201d he said; \u201cI can\u2019t see daylight through\nthis. If you are the Brownie, who has been tidying the kitchen lately?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have,\u201d said they.\n\n\u201cBut who found my measure?\u201d\n\n\u201cI did,\u201d said Johnnie.\n\n\u201cAnd who sorts your grandmother\u2019s scraps?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe do,\u201d said they.\n\n\u201cAnd who sets breakfast, and puts my things in order?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe do,\u201d said they.\n\n\u201cBut when do you do it?\u201d asked the Tailor.\n\n\u201cBefore you come down,\u201d said they.\n\n\u201cBut I always have to call you,\u201d said the Tailor.\n\n\u201cWe get back to bed again,\u201d said the boys.\n\n\u201cBut how was it you never did it before!\u201d asked the Tailor doubtfully.\n\n\u201cWe were idle, we were idle,\u201d said Tommy.\n\nThe Tailor\u2019s voice rose to a pitch of desperation\u2014\n\n\u201cBut if you do the work,\u201d he shouted, \u201c_Where is the Brownie?_\u201d\n\n\u201cHere!\u201d cried the boys, \u201cand we are very sorry we were Boggarts so\nlong.\u201d\n\nWith which the father and sons fell into each other\u2019s arms and fairly\nwept.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nIt will be believed that to explain all this to the Grandmother was not\nthe work of a moment. She understood it all at last, however, and the\nTailor could not restrain a little good-humored triumph on the subject.\nBefore he went to work he settled her down in the window with her\nknitting, and kissed her.\n\n\u201cWhat do you think of it all, Mother?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cBairns are a blessing,\u201d said the old lady, tartly. \u201c_I told you so._\u201d\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s not the end, is it?\u201d asked one of the boys in a tone of dismay,\nfor the Doctor had paused here.\n\n\u201cYes it is,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cBut couldn\u2019t you make a little more end?\u201d asked Deordie, \u201cto tell us\nwhat became of them all?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see what there is to tell,\u201d said the Doctor.\n\n\u201cWhy, there\u2019s whether they ever saw the Old Owl again, and whether Tommy\nand Johnnie went on being Brownies,\u201d said the children.\n\nThe Doctor laughed.\n\n\u201cWell, be quiet for five minutes,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll be as quiet as mice,\u201d said the children.\n\nAnd as quiet as mice they were. Very like mice, indeed. Very like mice\nbehind a wainscot at night, when you have just thrown something to\nfrighten them away. Death-like stillness for a few seconds, and then all\nthe rustling and scuffling you please. So the children sat holding their\nbreath for a moment or two, and then shuffling feet and smothered bursts\nof laughter testified to their impatience, and to the difficulty of\nunderstanding the process of story-making as displayed by the Doctor,\nwho sat pulling his beard, and staring at his boots, as he made up \u201ca\nlittle more end.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d he said, sitting up suddenly, \u201cthe Brownies went on with their\nwork in spite of the bottle-green suit, and Trout\u2019s luck returned to the\nold house once more. Before long Tommy began to work for the farmers,\nand Baby grew up into a Brownie, and made (as girls are apt to make) the\nbest house-sprite of all. For, in the Brownie habits of self-denial,\nthoughtfulness, consideration, and the art of little kindnesses, boys\nare, I am afraid, as a general rule, somewhat behindhand with their\nsisters. Whether this altogether proceeds from constitutional deficiency\non these points in the masculine character, or is one result among many\nof the code of by-laws which obtains in men\u2019s moral education from the\ncradle, is a question on which everybody has their own opinion. For the\npresent the young gentlemen may appropriate whichever theory they\nprefer, and we will go back to the story. The Tailor lived to see his\nboy-Brownies become men, with all the cares of a prosperous farm on\ntheir hands, and his girl-Brownie carry her fairy talents into another\nhome. For these Brownies\u2014young ladies!\u2014are much desired as wives,\nwhereas a man might as well marry an old witch as a young Boggartess.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd about the Owl?\u201d clamored the children, rather resentful of the\nDoctor\u2019s pausing to take breath.\n\n\u201cOf course,\u201d he continued, \u201cthe Tailor heard the whole story, and being\nboth anxious to thank the Old Owl for her friendly offices, and also\nrather curious to see and hear her, he went with the boys one night at\nmoon-rise to the shed by the mere. It was earlier in the evening than\nwhen Tommy went, for before daylight had vanished\u2014and at the first\nappearance of the moon, the impatient Tailor was at the place. There\nthey found the Owl, looking very solemn and stately on the beam. She was\nsitting among the shadows with her shoulders up, and she fixed her eyes\nso steadily on the Tailor, that he felt quite overpowered. He made her a\ncivil bow, however, and said\u2014\n\n\u201cI\u2019m much obliged to you, Ma\u2019am, for your good advice to my Tommy.\u201d\n\nThe Owl blinked sharply, as if she grudged shutting her eyes for an\ninstant, and then stared on, but not a word spoke she.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t mean to intrude, Ma\u2019am,\u201d said the Tailor; \u201cbut I was wishful to\npay my respects and gratitude.\u201d\n\nStill the Owl gazed in determined silence.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you remember me?\u201d said Tommy pitifully. \u201cI did everything you\ntold me. Won\u2019t you even say good-bye?\u201d and he went up towards her.\n\nThe Owl\u2019s eyes contracted, she shuddered a few tufts of fluff into the\nshed, shook her wings, and shouting \u201cOohoo!\u201d at the top of her voice,\nflew out upon the moor. The Tailor and his sons rushed out to watch her.\nThey could see her clearly against the green twilight sky, flapping\nrapidly away with her round face to the pale moon. \u201cGood-bye!\u201d they\nshouted as she disappeared; first the departing owl, then a shadowy body\nwith flapping sails, then two wings beating the same measured time, then\ntwo moving lines still to the old tune, then a stroke, a fancy, and\nthen\u2014the green sky and the pale moon, but the Old Owl was gone.\n\n\u201cDid she never come back?\u201d asked Tiny in subdued tones, for the Doctor\nhad paused again.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said he; \u201cat least not to the shed by the mere. Tommy saw many\nowls after this in the course of his life; but as none of them would\nspeak, and as most of them were addicted to the unconventional customs\nof staring and winking, he could not distinguish his friend, if she were\namong them. And now I think that is all.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs that the very very end?\u201d asked Tiny.\n\n\u201cThe very very end,\u201d said the Doctor.\n\n\u201cI suppose there might be more and more ends,\u201d speculated\nDeordie\u2014\u201cabout whether the Brownies had any children when they grew\ninto farmers, and whether the children were Brownies, and whether _they_\nhad other Brownies, and so on and on.\u201d And Deordie rocked himself among\nthe geraniums, in the luxurious imagination of an endless fairy tale.\n\n\u201cYou insatiable rascal!\u201d said the Doctor. \u201cNot another word. Jump up,\nfor I\u2019m going to see you home. I have to be off early to-morrow.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere?\u201d said Deordie.\n\n\u201cNever mind. I shall be away all day, and I want to be at home in good\ntime in the evening, for I mean to attack that crop of groundsel between\nthe sweet-pea hedges. You know, no Brownies come to my homestead!\u201d\n\nAnd the Doctor\u2019s mouth twitched a little till he fixed it into a stiff\nsmile.\n\nThe children tried hard to extract some more ends out of him on the way\nto the Rectory; but he declined to pursue the history of the Trout\nfamily through indefinite generations. It was decided on all hands,\nhowever, that Tommy Trout was evidently one and the same with Tommy\nTrout who pulled the cat out of the well, because \u201cit was just a sort of\nthing for a Brownie to do, you know!\u201d and that Johnnie Green (who, of\ncourse, was not Johnnie Trout,) was some unworthy village acquaintance,\nand \u201ca thorough Boggart.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoctor!\u201d said Tiny, as they stood by the garden-gate, \u201chow long do you\nthink gentlemen\u2019s pocket-handkerchiefs take to wear out?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat, my dear Madam,\u201d said the Doctor, \u201cmust depend, like other\nterrestrial matters, upon circumstances; whether the gentleman bought\nfine cambric, or coarse cotton with pink portraits of the reigning\nSovereign, to commence with; whether he catches many colds, has his\npocket picked, takes snuff, or allows his washerwoman to use washing\npowders. But why do you want to know?\u201d\n\n\u201cI shan\u2019t tell you that,\u201d said Tiny, who was spoilt by the Doctor, and\nconsequently tyrannized in proportion; \u201cbut I will tell you what I mean\nto do. I mean to tell Mother that when Father wants any more pocket\nhandkerchiefs hemmed, she had better put them by the bath in the\nnursery, and perhaps some Brownie will come and do them.\u201d\n\n\u201cKiss my fluffy face!\u201d said the Doctor in sepulchral tones.\n\n\u201cThe owl is too high up,\u201d said Tiny, tossing her head.\n\nThe Doctor lifted her four feet or so, obtained his kiss, and set her\ndown again.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re not fluffy at all,\u201d said she in a tone of the utmost contempt;\n\u201cyou\u2019re tickly and bristly. Puss is more fluffy, and Father is scrubby\nand scratchy, because he shaves.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd which of the three styles do you prefer?\u201d said the Doctor.\n\n\u201cNot tickly and bristly,\u201d said Tiny with firmness, and she strutted up\nthe walk for a pace or two, and then turned round to laugh over her\nshoulder.\n\n\u201cGood-night!\u201d shouted her victim, shaking his fist after her.\n\nThe other children took a noisy farewell, and they all raced into the\nhouse, to give joint versions of the fairy tale, first to the parents in\nthe drawing-room, and then to nurse in the nursery.\n\nThe Doctor went home also, with his poodle at his heels, but not by the\nway he came. He went out of his way, which was odd; but then the Doctor\nwas \u201ca little odd,\u201d and moreover this was always the end of his evening\nwalk. Through the church-yard, where spreading cedars and stiff yews\nrose from the velvet grass, and where among tombstones and crosses of\nvarious devices lay one of older and uglier date, by which he stayed. It\nwas framed by a border of the most brilliant flowers, and it would seem\nas if the Doctor must have been the gardener, for he picked off some\ndead ones, and put them absently in his pocket. Then he looked round, as\nif to see that he was alone. Not a soul was to be seen, and the\nmoonlight and shadow lay quietly side by side, as the dead do in their\ngraves. The Doctor stooped down and took off his hat.\n\n\u201cGood-night, Marcia,\u201d he said, in a low quiet voice. \u201cGood-night, my\ndarling!\u201d The dog licked his hand, but there was no voice to answer, nor\nany that regarded.\n\nPoor foolish Doctor! Most foolish to speak to the departed with his face\nearthwards. But we are weak mortals, the best of us; and this man (one\nof the very best) raised his head at last, and went home like a lonely\nowl with his face to the moon and the sky.\n\n\n                          A BORROWED BROWNIE.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t imagine,\u201d said the Rector, walking into the drawing-room the\nfollowing afternoon; \u201cI can\u2019t imagine where Tiny is. I want her to drive\nto the other end of the parish with me.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere she comes,\u201d said his wife, looking out of the window, \u201cby the\ngarden-gate, with a great basket; what has she been after?\u201d\n\nThe Rector went out to discover, and met his daughter looking decidedly\nearthy, and seemingly much exhausted by the weight of a basketful of\ngroundsel plants.\n\n\u201cWhere have you been?\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cIn the Doctor\u2019s garden,\u201d said Tiny triumphantly; \u201cand look what I have\ndone? I\u2019ve weeded his sweet-peas, and brought away the groundsel; so\nwhen he gets home to-night he\u2019ll think a Brownie has been in the garden,\nfor Mrs. Pickles has promised not to tell him.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut look here!\u201d said the Rector, affecting a great appearance of\nseverity, \u201cyou\u2019re my Brownie, not his. Supposing Tommy Trout had gone\nand weeded Farmer Swede\u2019s garden, and brought back his weeds to go to\nseed on the Tailor\u2019s flower-beds, how do you think he would have liked\nit?\u201d\n\nTiny looked rather crestfallen. When one has fairly carried through a\nsplendid benevolence of this kind, it is trying to find oneself in the\nwrong. She crept up to the Rector, however, and put her golden head upon\nhis arm.\n\n\u201cBut, Father dear,\u201d she pleaded, \u201cI didn\u2019t mean not to be your Brownie;\nonly, you know, you had got five left at home, and it was only for a\nshort time, and the Doctor hasn\u2019t any Brownie at all. Don\u2019t you pity\nhim?\u201d\n\nAnd the Rector, who was old enough to remember that grave-stone story we\nwot of, hugged his Brownie in his arms, and answered\u2014\n\n\u201cMy Darling, I do pity him!\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                         THE LAND OF LOST TOYS.\n\n\n                     AN EARTHQUAKE IN THE NURSERY.\n\nIt was certainly an aggravated offence. It is generally understood in\nfamilies that \u201cboys will be boys,\u201d but there is a limit to the\nforbearance implied in the extenuating axiom. Master Sam was condemned\nto the back nursery for the rest of the day.\n\nHe always had had the knack of breaking his own toys,\u2014he not\nunfrequently broke other people\u2019s; but accidents will happen, and his\ntwin sister and factotum, Dot, was long-suffering.\n\nDot was fat, resolute, hasty, and devotedly unselfish. When Sam scalped\nher new doll, and fastened the glossy black curls to a wigwam improvised\nwith the curtains of the four-post bed in the best bedroom, Dot was\nsorely tried. As her eyes passed from the crownless doll on the floor to\nthe floss-silk ringlets hanging from the bed-furniture, her round rosy\nface grew rounder and rosier, and tears burst from her eyes. But in a\nmoment more she clenched her little fists, forced back the tears, and\ngave vent to her favorite saying, \u201cI don\u2019t care.\u201d\n\nThat sentence was Dot\u2019s bane and antidote; it was her vice and her\nvirtue. It was her standing consolation, and it brought her into all her\nscrapes. It was her one panacea for all the ups and downs of her life\n(and in the nursery where Sam developed his organ of destructiveness\nthere were ups and downs not a few); and it was the form her naughtiness\ntook when she was naughty.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t care fell into a goose-pond, Miss Dot,\u201d said nurse, on one\noccasion of the kind.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t care if he did,\u201d said Miss Dot; and as nurse knew no further\nfeature of the goose-pond adventure which met this view of it, she\nclosed the subject by putting Dot into the corner.\n\nIn the strength of _Don\u2019t care_, and her love for Sam, Dot bore much and\nlong. Her dolls perished by ingenious but untimely deaths. Her toys were\nput to purposes for which they were never intended, and suffered\naccordingly. But Sam was penitent, and Dot was heroic. Florinda\u2019s scalp\nwas mended with a hot knitting-needle and a perpetual bonnet, and Dot\nrescued her paint-brushes from the glue-pot, and smelt her India-rubber\nas it boiled down in Sam\u2019s water-proof manufactory, with long-suffering\nforbearance.\n\nThere are, however, as we have said, limits to everything. An earthquake\ncelebrated with the whole contents of the toy cupboard is not to be\nborne.\n\nThe matter was this. Early one morning Sam announced that he had a\nglorious project on hand. He was going to give a grand show and\nentertainment, far surpassing all the nursery imitations of circuses,\nconjurors, lectures on chemistry, and so forth, with which they had ever\namused themselves. He refused to confide his plans to the faithful Dot;\nbut he begged her to lend him all the toys she possessed, in return for\nwhich she was to be the sole spectator of the fun. He let out that the\nidea had suggested itself to him after the sight of a Diorama to which\nthey had been taken, but he would not allow that it was anything of the\nsame kind; in proof of which she was at liberty to keep back her\npaint-box. Dot tried hard to penetrate the secret, and to reserve some\nof her things from the general conscription. But Sam was obstinate. He\nwould tell nothing, and he wanted everything. The dolls, the bricks\n(especially the bricks), the tea-things, the German farm, the Swiss\ncottages, the animals, and all the dolls\u2019 furniture. Dot gave them with\na doubtful mind, and consoled herself as she watched Sam carrying pieces\nof board and a green table cover into the back nursery, with the\nprospect of a show. At last, Sam threw open the door and ushered her\ninto the nursery rocking-chair.\n\nThe boy had certainly some constructive as well as destructive talent.\nUpon a sort of impromptu table covered with green cloth he had arranged\nall the toys in rough imitation of a town, with its streets and\nbuildings. The relative proportion of the parts was certainly not good;\nbut it was not Sam\u2019s fault that the doll\u2019s house and the German farm,\nhis own brick buildings, and the Swiss cottages, were all on totally\ndifferent scales of size. He had ingeniously put the larger things in\nthe foreground, keeping the small farm-buildings from the German box at\nthe far end of the streets, yet after all the perspective was extreme.\nThe effect of three large horses from the toy stables in front, with the\ncows from the small Noah\u2019s Ark in the distance, was admirable; but the\nbig dolls seated in an unroofed building, made with the wooden bricks on\nno architectural principle but that of a pound, and taking tea out of\nthe new china tea-things, looked simply ridiculous.\n\nDot\u2019s eyes, however, saw no defects, and she clapped vehemently.\n\n\u201cHere, ladies and gentlemen,\u201d said Sam, waving his hand politely towards\nthe rocking-chair, \u201cyou see the great city of Lisbon, the capital of\nPortugal\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\nAt this display of geographical accuracy Dot fairly cheered, and rocked\nherself to and fro in unmitigated enjoyment.\n\n\u201c\u2014\u2014as it appeared,\u201d continued the showman, \u201con the morning of November\n1st, 1755.\u201d\n\nNever having had occasion to apply Mangnall\u2019s Questions to the\nexigencies of every-day life, this date in no way disturbed Dot\u2019s\ncomfort.\n\n\u201cIn this house,\u201d Sam proceeded, \u201ca party of Portuguese ladies of rank\nmay be seen taking tea together.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Breakfast_, you mean,\u201d said Dot; \u201cyou said it was in the morning, you\nknow.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, they took tea to their breakfast,\u201d said Sam. \u201cDon\u2019t interrupt me.\nYou are the audience, and you mustn\u2019t speak. Here you see the horses of\nthe English ambassador out airing with his groom. There you see two\npeasants\u2014no! they are _not_ Noah and his wife, Dot, and if you go on\ntalking I shall shut up. I say they are peasants peacefully driving\ncattle. At this moment a rumbling sound startles every one in the\ncity\u201d\u2014here Sam rolled some croquet balls up and down in a box, but the\ndolls sat as quiet as before, and Dot alone was startled,\u2014\u201cthis was\nsucceeded by a slight shock\u201d\u2014here he shook the table, which upset some\nof the buildings belonging to the German farm.\u2014\u201cSome houses fell.\u201d\u2014Dot\nbegan to look anxious.\u2014\u201cThis shock was followed by several\nothers.\u201d\u2014\u201cTake care,\u201d she begged\u2014\u201cof increasing magnitude\u201d\u2014\u201cOh, Sam!\u201d\nDot shrieked, jumping up, \u201cyou\u2019re breaking the china!\u201d\u2014\u201cThe largest\nbuildings shook to their foundations,\u201d\u2014\u201cSam! Sam! the doll\u2019s house is\nfalling,\u201d Dot cried, making wild efforts to save it: but Sam held her\nback with one arm, whilst with the other he began to pull at the boards\nwhich formed his table\u2014\u201cSuddenly the ground split and opened with a\nfearful yawn\u201d\u2014Dot\u2019s shrieks shamed the impassive dolls, as Sam jerked\nout the boards by a dextrous movement, and doll\u2019s house, brick\nbuildings, the farm, the Swiss cottages, and the whole toy-stock of the\nnursery, sank together in ruins. Quite unabashed by the evident damage,\nSam continued\u2014\u201cand in a moment the whole magnificent city of Lisbon was\nswallowed up. Dot! Dot! don\u2019t be a muff! What\u2019s the matter? It\u2019s\nsplendid fun. Things must be broken sometime, and I\u2019m sure it was\nexactly like the real thing. Dot! why don\u2019t you speak? Dot! my dear Dot!\nYou don\u2019t care, do you? I didn\u2019t think you\u2019d mind it so. It was such a\nsplendid earthquake. Oh! try not to go on like that!\u201d\n\nBut Dot\u2019s feelings were far beyond her own control, much more that of\nMaster Sam, at this moment. She was gasping and choking, and when at\nlast she found breath it was only to throw herself on her face upon the\nfloor with bitter and uncontrollable sobbing.\n\nIt was certainly a mild punishment that condemned Master Sam to the back\nnursery for the rest of the day. It had, however, this additional\nseverity, that during the afternoon Aunt Penelope was expected to\narrive.\n\n\n                             AUNT PENELOPE.\n\nAunt Penelope was one of those dear, good souls, who, single themselves,\nhave, as real or adopted relatives, the interests of a dozen families,\ninstead of one, at heart. There are few people whose youth has not owned\nthe influence of at least one such friend. It may be a good habit, the\nfirst interest in some life-loved pursuit or favorite author, some\npretty feminine art, or delicate womanly counsel enforced by those\nnarratives of real life that are more interesting than any fiction: it\nmay be only the periodical return of gifts and kindness, and the store\nof family histories that no one else can tell; but we all owe something\nto such an aunt or uncle\u2014the fairy godmothers of real life.\n\nThe benefits which Sam and Dot reaped from Aunt Penelope\u2019s visits, may\nbe summed up under the heads of presents and stories, with a general\nleaning to indulgence in the matters of punishment, lessons, and going\nto bed, which perhaps is natural to aunts and uncles who have no\npositive responsibilities in the young people\u2019s education, and are not\nthe daily sufferers by the lack of due discipline.\n\nAunt Penelope\u2019s presents were lovely. Aunt Penelope\u2019s stories were\ncharming. There was generally a moral wrapped up in them, like the motto\nin a cracker-bonbon; but it was quite in the inside, so to speak, and\nthere was abundance of smart paper and sugar-plums.\n\nAll things considered, it was certainly most proper that the\nmuch-injured Dot should be dressed out in her best, and have access to\ndessert, the dining-room, and Aunt Penelope, whilst Sam was kept\nupstairs. And yet it was Dot who (her first burst of grief being over),\nfought stoutly for his pardon all the time she was being dressed, and\nwas afterwards detected in the act of endeavoring to push fragments of\nraspberry tart through the nursery key-hole.\n\n\u201cYou GOOD thing!\u201d Sam emphatically exclaimed, as he heard her in fierce\nconflict on the other side of the door with the nurse who found\nher\u2014\u201cYou GOOD thing! leave me alone, for I deserve it.\u201d\n\nHe really was very penitent. He was too fond of Dot not to regret the\nunexpected degree of distress he had caused her; and Dot made much of\nhis penitence in her intercessions in the drawing-room.\n\n\u201cSam is so very sorry,\u201d she said, \u201che says he knows he deserves it. I\nthink he ought to come down. He is so _very_ sorry!\u201d\n\nAunt Penelope, as usual, took the lenient side, joining her entreaties\nto Dot\u2019s, and it ended in Master Sam\u2019s being hurriedly scrubbed and\nbrushed, and shoved into his black velvet suit, and sent downstairs,\nrather red about the eyelids, and looking very sheepish.\n\n\u201cOh, Dot!\u201d he exclaimed, as soon as he could get her into a corner, \u201cI\nam so very, very sorry! particularly about the tea-things.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind,\u201d said Dot, \u201cI don\u2019t care; and I\u2019ve asked for a story, and\nwe\u2019re going into the library.\u201d As Dot said this, she jerked her head\nexpressively in the direction of the sofa, where Aunt Penelope was just\ncasting on stitches preparatory to beginning a pair of her famous ribbed\nsocks for Papa, whilst she gave to Mamma\u2019s conversation that sympathy,\nwhich (like her knitting-needles) was always at the service of her large\ncircle of friends. Dot anxiously watched the bow on the top of her cap\nas it danced and nodded with the force of Mamma\u2019s observations. At last\nit gave a little chorus of jerks, as one should say, \u201cCertainly,\nundoubtedly.\u201d And then the story came to an end, and Dot, who had been\nslowly creeping nearer, fairly took Aunt Penelope by the hand, and\ncarried her off, knitting and all, to the library.\n\n\u201cNow, please,\u201d said Dot, when she had struggled into a chair that was\ntoo tall for her.\n\n\u201cStop a minute!\u201d cried Sam, who was perched in the opposite one, \u201cthe\nhorsehair tickles my legs.\u201d\n\n\u201cPut your pocket-handkerchief under them, as I do,\u201d said Dot. \u201c_Now_,\nAunt Penelope.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, wait,\u201d groaned Sam; \u201cit isn\u2019t big enough; it only covers one leg.\u201d\n\nDot slid down again, and ran to Sam.\n\n\u201cTake my handkerchief for the other.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what will you do?\u201d said Sam.\n\n\u201cOh, I don\u2019t care,\u201d said Dot, scrambling back into her place. \u201cNow,\nAunty, please.\u201d\n\nAnd Aunt Penelope began.\n\n\n                         THE LAND OF LOST TOYS.\n\n\u201cI suppose people who have children transfer their childish follies and\nfancies to them, and become properly sedate and grown-up. Perhaps it is\nbecause I am an old maid, and have none, that some of my nursery whims\nstick to me, and I find myself liking things, and wanting things, quite\nout of keeping with my cap and time of life. For instance. Anything in\nthe shape of a toy-shop (from a London bazaar to a village window, with\nDutch dolls, leather balls, and wooden battle-dores) quite unnerves me,\nso to speak. When I see one of those boxes containing a jar, a churn, a\nkettle, a pan, a coffee-pot, a cauldron on three legs, and sundry\ndishes, all of the smoothest wood, and with the immemorial red flower on\none side of each vessel, I fairly long for an excuse for playing with\nthem, and for trying (positively for the last time) if the lids _do_\ncome off, and whether the kettle will (literally, as well as\nmetaphorically) hold water. Then if, by good or ill luck, there is a\nchild flattening its little nose against the window with longing eyes,\nmy purse is soon empty; and as it toddles off with a square parcel under\none arm, and a lovely being in black ringlets and white tissue paper in\nthe other, I wish that I were worthy of being asked to join the ensuing\nplay. Don\u2019t suppose there is any generosity in this. I have only done\nwhat we are all glad to do. I have found an excuse for indulging a pet\nweakness. As I said, it is not merely the new and expensive toys that\nattract me; I think my weakest corner is where the penny boxes lie, the\nwooden tea-things (with the above-named flower in miniature), the\nsoldiers on their lazy tongs, the nine-pins, and the tiny farm.\n\n\u201cI need hardly say that the toy booth in a village fair tries me very\nhard. It tried me in childhood, when I was often short of pence, and\nwhen \u2018the Feast\u2019 came once a year. It never tried me more than on one\noccasion, lately, when I was revisiting my old home.\n\n\u201cIt was deep Midsummer, and the Feast. I had children with me of course\n(I find children, somehow, wherever I go), and when we got into the\nfair, there were children of people whom I had known as children, with\njust the same love for a monkey going up one side of a yellow stick and\ncoming down the other, and just as strong heads for a giddy-go-round on\na hot day and a diet of peppermint lozenges, as their fathers and\nmothers before them. There were the very same names\u2014and here and there\nit seemed the very same faces\u2014I knew so long ago. A few shillings were\nindeed well expended in brightening those familiar eyes: and then there\nwere the children with me. . . . Besides, there really did seem to be an\nunusually nice assortment of things, and the man was very intelligent\n(in reference to his wares: . . . . Well, well! It was two o\u2019clock P. M.\nwhen we went in at one end of that glittering avenue of drums, dolls,\ntrumpets, accordions, work-boxes and what not; but what o\u2019clock it was\nwhen I came out at the other end, with a shilling and some coppers in my\npocket, and was cheered, I can\u2019t say, though I should like to have been\nable to be accurate about the time, because of what followed.)\n\n\u201cI thought the best thing I could do was to get out of the fair at once,\nso I went up the village and struck off across some fields into a little\nwood that lay near. (A favorite walk in old times.) As I turned out of\nthe booth, my foot struck against one of the yellow sticks of the\nclimbing monkeys. The monkey was gone, and the stick broken. It set me\nthinking as I walked along.\n\n\u201cWhat an untold number of pretty and ingenious things one does (not wear\nout in honorable wear and tear, but) utterly lose, and wilfully destroy,\nin one\u2019s young days\u2014things that would have given pleasure to so many\nmore young eyes, if they had been kept a little longer\u2014things that one\nwould so value in later years, if some of them had survived the\ndissipating and destructive days of Nurserydom. I recalled a young lady\nI knew, whose room was adorned with knick-knacks of a kind I had often\nenvied. They were not plaster figures, old china, wax-work flowers under\na glass, or ordinary ornaments of any kind. They were her old toys.\nPerhaps she had not had many of them, and had been the more careful of\nthose she had. She had certainly been very fond of them, and had kept\nmore of them than any one I ever knew. A faded doll slept in its cradle\nat the foot of her bed. A wooden elephant stood on the dressing-table,\nand a poodle that had lost his bark put out a red-flannel tongue with\nquixotic violence at a windmill on the opposite corner of the\nmantelpiece. Everything had a story of its own. Indeed the whole room\nmust have been redolent with the sweet story of childhood, of which the\ntoys were the illustrations, or like a poem of which the toys were the\nverses. She used to have children to play with them sometimes, and this\nwas a high honor. She is married now, and has children of her own, who\non birthdays and holidays will forsake the newest of their own\npossessions to play with \u2018mamma\u2019s toys.\u2019\n\n\u201cI was roused from these recollections by the pleasure of getting into\nthe wood.\n\n\u201cIf I have a stronger predilection than my love for toys, it is my love\nfor woods, and, like the other, it dates from childhood. It was born and\nbred with me, and I fancy will stay with me till I die. The soothing\nscents of leaf mould, moss, and fern (not to speak of flowers)\u2014the pale\ngreen veil in spring, the rich shade in summer, the rustle of the dry\nleaves in autumn, I suppose an old woman may enjoy all these, my dears,\nas well as you. But I think I could make \u2018fairy jam\u2019 of hips and haws in\nacorn cups now, if any child would be condescending enough to play with\nme.\n\n\u201c_This_ wood, too, had associations.\n\n\u201cI strolled on in leisurely enjoyment, and at last seated myself at the\nfoot of a tree to rest. I was hot and tired; partly with the mid-day\nheat and the atmosphere of the fair, partly with the exertion of\ncalculating change in the purchase of articles ranging in price from\nthree farthings upwards. The tree under which I sat was an old friend.\nThere was a hole at its base that I knew well. Two roots covered with\nexquisite moss ran out from each side, like the arms of a chair, and\nbetween them there accumulated year after year a rich, though tiny store\nof dark leaf-mould. We always used to say that fairies lived within,\nthough I never saw anything go in myself but wood beetles. There was one\ngoing in at that moment.\n\n\u201cHow little the wood was changed! I bent my head for a few seconds, and,\nclosing my eyes, drank in the delicious and suggestive scents of earth\nand moss about the dear old tree. I had been so long parted from the\nplace that I could hardly believe that I was in the old familiar spot.\nSurely it was only one of the many dreams in which I had played again\nbeneath those trees! But when I reopened my eyes there was the same\nhole, and, oddly enough, the same beetle or one just like it. I had not\nnoticed till that moment how much larger the hole was than it used to be\nin my young days.\n\n\u201c\u2018I suppose the rain and so forth wears them away in time,\u2019 I said\nvaguely.\n\n\u201c\u2018Suppose it does,\u2019 said the beetle politely; \u2018will you walk in?\u2019\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know why I was not so overpoweringly astonished as you would\nimagine. I think I was a good deal absorbed in considering the size of\nthe hole, and the very foolish wish that seized me to do what I had\noften longed to do in childhood, and creep in. I _had_ so much regard\nfor propriety as to see that there was no one to witness the escapade.\nThen I tucked my skirts round me, put my spectacles into my pocket for\nfear they should get broken, and in I went.\n\n\u201cI must say one thing. A wood is charming enough (no one appreciates it\nmore than myself), but, if you have never been there, you have no idea\nhow much nicer it is inside than on the surface. Oh, the mosses\u2014the\ngorgeous mosses! The fretted lichens! The fungi like flowers for beauty,\nand the flowers like nothing you have ever seen!\n\n\u201cWhere the beetle went to I don\u2019t know. I could stand up now quite well,\nand I wandered on till dusk in unwearied admiration. I was among some\nlarge beeches as it grew dark, and was beginning to wonder how I should\nfind my way (not that I had lost it, having none to lose), when suddenly\nlights burst from every tree, and the whole place was illuminated. The\nnearest approach to this scene that I ever witnessed above ground was in\na wood near the Hague in Holland. There, what look like tiny glass\ntumblers holding floating wicks, are fastened to the trunks of the fine\nold trees, at intervals of sufficient distance to make the light and\nshade mysterious, and to give effect to the full blaze when you reach\nthe spot where the hanging chains of lamps illuminate the \u2018Pavilion\u2019 and\nthe open space where the band plays, and where the townsfolk assemble by\nhundreds to drink coffee and enjoy the music. I was the more reminded of\nthe Dutch \u2018bosch\u2019 because, after wandering some time among the lighted\ntrees, I heard distant sounds of music, and came at last upon a glade\nlit up in a similar manner, except that the whole effect was\nincomparably more brilliant.\n\n\u201cAs I stood for a moment doubting whether I should proceed, and a good\ndeal puzzled about the whole affair, I caught sight of a large spider\ncrouched up in a corner with his stomach on the ground and his knees\nabove his head, as some spiders do sit, and looking at me, as I fancied,\nthrough a pair of spectacles. (About the spectacles I do not feel sure.\nIt may have been two of his bent legs in apparent connection with his\nprominent eyes.) I thought of the beetle, and said civilly, \u2018Can you\ntell me, sir, if this is Fairyland?\u2019 The spider took off his spectacles\n(or untucked his legs), and took a sideways run out of his corner.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well,\u2019 he said, \u2018it\u2019s a Providence. The fact is, it\u2019s the Land of Lost\nToys. You haven\u2019t such a thing as a fly anywhere about you, have you?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018No,\u2019 I said, \u2018I\u2019m sorry to say I have not.\u2019 This was not strictly\ntrue, for I was not at all sorry; but I wished to be civil to the old\ngentleman, for he projected his eyes at me with such an intense (I had\nalmost said greedy) gaze, that I felt quite frightened.\n\n\u201c\u2018How did you pass the sentries?\u2019 he inquired.\n\n\u201c\u2018I never saw any,\u2019 I answered.\n\n\u201c\u2018You couldn\u2019t have seen anything if you didn\u2019t see them,\u2019 he said; \u2018but\nperhaps you don\u2019t know. They\u2019re the glow-worms. Six to each tree, so\nthey light the road, and challenge the passers-by. Why didn\u2019t they\nchallenge you?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I don\u2019t know,\u2019 I began, \u2018unless the beetle\u2014\u2014\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I don\u2019t like beetles,\u2019 interrupted the spider, stretching each leg in\nturn by sticking it up above him, \u2018all shell and no flavor. You never\ntried walking on anything of that sort, did you?\u2019 and he pointed with\none leg to a long thread that fastened a web above his head.\n\n\u201c\u2018Certainly not,\u2019 said I.\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019m afraid it wouldn\u2019t bear you,\u2019 he observed slowly.\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019m quite sure it wouldn\u2019t,\u2019 I hastened to reply. \u2018I wouldn\u2019t try for\nworlds. It would spoil your pretty work in a moment. Good-evening.\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd I hurried forward. Once I looked back, but the spider was not\nfollowing me. He was in his hole again, on his stomach, with his knees\nabove his head, and looking (apparently through his spectacles) down the\nroad up which I came.\n\n\u201cI soon forgot him in the sight before me. I had reached the open place\nwith the lights and the music; but how shall I describe the spectacle\nthat I beheld?\n\n\u201cI have spoken of the effect of a toy-shop on my feelings. Now imagine a\ntoy-fair, brighter and gayer than the brightest bazaar ever seen, held\nin an open glade, where forest-trees stood majestically behind the\nglittering stalls, and stretched their gigantic arms above our heads,\nbrilliant with a thousand hanging lamps. At the moment of my entrance\nall was silent and quiet. The toys lay in their places looking so\nincredibly attractive that I reflected with disgust that all my ready\ncash, except one shilling and some coppers, had melted away amid the\ntawdry fascinations of a village booth. I was counting the coppers\n(sevenpence halfpenny), when all in a moment a dozen sixpenny fiddles\nleaped from their places and began to play, accordions of all sizes\njoined them, the drumsticks beat upon the drums, the penny trumpets\nsounded, and yellow flutes took up the melody on high notes, and bore it\naway through the trees. It was weird fairy-music but quite delightful.\nThe nearest approach to it that I know of above ground is to hear a wild\ndreamy air very well whistled to a pianoforte accompaniment.\n\n\u201cWhen the music began, all the toys rose. The dolls jumped down and\nbegan to dance. The poodles barked, the pannier donkeys wagged their\nears, the windmills turned, the puzzles put themselves together, the\nbricks built houses, the balls flew from side to side, the battle-doors\nand shuttle-cocks kept it up among themselves, and the skipping-ropes\nwent round, the hoops ran off, and the sticks went after them, the\ncobbler\u2019s wax at the tails of all the green frogs gave way, and they\njumped at the same moment, whilst an old-fashioned go-cart ran madly\nabout with nobody inside. It was most exhilarating.\n\n\u201cI soon became aware that the beetle was once more at my elbow.\n\n\u201c\u2018There are some beautiful toys here,\u2019 I said.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, yes,\u2019 he replied, \u2018and some odd-looking ones, too. You see,\nwhatever has been really used by any child as a plaything gets a right\nto come down here in the end; and there is some very queer company, I\nassure you. Look there.\u2019\n\n\u201cI looked, and said, \u2018It seems to be a potato.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018So it is,\u2019 said the beetle. \u2018It belonged to an Irish child in one of\nyour great cities. But to whom the child belonged I don\u2019t know, and I\ndon\u2019t think he knew himself. He lived in a corner of a dirty,\nover-crowded room, and into this corner, one day, the potato rolled. It\nwas the only plaything he ever had. He stuck two cinders into it for\neyes, scraped a nose and mouth, and loved it. He sat upon it during the\nday, for fear it should be taken from him, but in the dark he took it\nout and played with it. He was often hungry, but he never ate that\npotato. When he died it rolled out of the corner, and was swept into the\nashes. Then it came down here.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018What a sad story!\u2019 I exclaimed.\n\n\u201cThe beetle seemed in no way affected.\n\n\u201c\u2018It is a curious thing,\u2019 he rambled on, \u2018that potato takes quite a good\nplace among the toys. You see, rank and precedence down here is entirely\na question of age; that is, of the length of time that any plaything has\nbeen in the possession of a child; and all kinds of ugly old things hold\nthe first rank; whereas the most costly and beautiful works of art have\noften been smashed or lost, by the spoilt children of rich people, in\ntwo or three days. If you care for sad stories, there is another queer\nthing belonging to a child who died.\u2019\n\n\u201cIt appeared to be a large sheet of canvas with some strange kind of\nneedlework upon it.\n\n\u201c\u2018It belonged to a little girl in a rich household,\u2019 the beetle\ncontinued; \u2018she was an invalid, and difficult to amuse. We have lots of\nher toys, and very pretty ones too. At last some one taught her to make\ncaterpillars in wool-work. A bit of work was to be done in a certain\nstitch and then cut with scissors, which made it look like a hairy\ncaterpillar. The child took to this, and cared for nothing else. Wool of\nevery shade was procured for her, and she made caterpillars of all\ncolors. Her only complaint was that they did not turn into butterflies.\nHowever, she was a sweet, gentle-tempered child, and she went on, hoping\nthat they would do so, and making new ones. One day she was heard\ntalking and laughing in her bed for joy. She said that all the\ncaterpillars had become butterflies of many colors, and that the room\nwas full of them. In that happy fancy she died.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018And the caterpillars came down here?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Not for a long time,\u2019 said the beetle; \u2018her mother kept them while\n_she_ lived, and then they were lost and came down. No toys come down\nhere till they are broken or lost.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018What are those sticks doing here?\u2019 I asked.\n\n\u201cThe music had ceased, and all the toys were lying quiet. Up in a corner\nleaned a large bundle of walking-sticks. They are often sold in\ntoy-shops, but I wondered on what grounds they came here.\n\n\u201c\u2018Did you ever meet with a too benevolent old gentleman wondering where\non earth his sticks go to?\u2019 said the beetle. \u2018Why do they lend them to\ntheir grandchildren? The young rogues use them as hobby-horses and lose\nthem, and down they come, and the sentinels cannot stop them. The real\nhobby-horses won\u2019t allow them to ride with them, however. There was a\nmeeting on the subject. Every stick was put through an examination.\n\u2018Where is your nose? Where is your mane? Where are your wheels?\u2019 The\nlast was a poser. Some of them had got noses, but none of them had got\nwheels. So they were not true hobby-horses. Something of the kind\noccurred with the elder whistles.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018The what?\u2019 I asked.\n\n\u201c\u2018Whistles that boys make of elder sticks with the pith scooped out,\u2019\nsaid the beetle. \u2018The real instruments would not allow them to play with\nthem. The elder-whistles said they would not have joined had they been\nasked. They were amateurs, and never played with professionals. So they\nhave private concerts with the combs and curl-papers. But, bless you,\ntoys of this kind are endless here! Teetotums made of old cotton reels,\ntea-sets of acorn cups, dinner-sets of old shells, monkeys made of bits\nof sponge, all sorts of things made of breastbones and merrythoughts,\nold packs of cards that are always building themselves into houses and\ngetting knocked down when the band begins to play, feathers, rabbits\u2019\ntails\u2014\u2014\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Ah! I have heard about rabbits\u2019 tails,\u2019 I said.\n\n\u201c\u2018There they are,\u2019 the beetle continued; \u2018and when the band plays you\nwill see how they skip and run. I don\u2019t believe you would find out that\nthey had no bodies, for my experience of a warren is, that when rabbits\nskip and run it is the tails chiefly that you do see. But of all the\namateur toys the most successful are the boats. We have a lake for our\ncraft, you know, and there\u2019s quite a fleet of boats made out of old cork\nfloats in fishing villages. Then, you see, the old bits of cork have\nreally been to sea, and seen a good deal of service on the herring nets,\nand so they quite take the lead of the smart shop ships, that have never\nbeen beyond a pond or a tub of water. But that\u2019s an exception. Amateur\ntoys are mostly very dowdy. Look at that box.\u2019\n\n\u201cI looked, thought I must have seen it before, and wondered why a very\ncommon-looking box without a lid should affect me so strangely, and why\nmy memory should seem struggling to bring it back out of the past.\nSuddenly it came to me\u2014it was our old Toy Box.\n\n\u201cI had completely forgotten that nursery institution till recalled by\nthe familiar aspect of the inside, which was papered with proof-sheets\nof some old novel on which black stars had been stamped by way of\nornament. Dim memories of how these stars, and the angles of the box,\nand certain projecting nails interfered with the letter-press and\ndefeated all attempts to trace the thread of the nameless narrative,\nstole back over my brain; and I seemed once more, with my head in the\nToy Box, to beguile a wet afternoon by apoplectic endeavors to follow\nthe fortunes of Sir Charles and Lady Belinda, as they took a favorable\nturn in the left-hand corner at the bottom of the trunk.\n\n\u201c\u2018What are you staring at?\u2019 said the beetle.\n\n\u201c\u2018It\u2019s my old Toy Box!\u2019 I exclaimed.\n\n\u201cThe beetle rolled on to his back, and struggled helplessly with his\nlegs: I turned him over. (Neither the first nor the last time of my\nshowing that attention to beetles.)\n\n\u201c\u2018That\u2019s right,\u2019 he said, \u2018set me on my legs. What a turn you gave me!\nYou don\u2019t mean to say you have any toys here? If you have, the sooner\nyou make your way home the better.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Why?\u2019 I inquired.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well,\u2019 he said, \u2018there\u2019s a very strong feeling in the place. The toys\nthink that they are ill-treated, and not taken care of by children in\ngeneral. And there is some truth in it. Toys come down here by scores\nthat have been broken the first day. And they are all quite resolved\nthat if any of their old masters or mistresses come this way they shall\nbe punished.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018How will they be punished?\u2019 I inquired.\n\n\u201c\u2018Exactly as they did to their toys, their toys will do to them. All is\nperfectly fair and regular.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I don\u2019t know that I treated mine particularly badly,\u2019 I said; \u2018but I\nthink I would rather go.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I think you\u2019d better,\u2019 said the beetle. \u2018Good-evening!\u2019 and I saw him\nno more.\n\n\u201cI turned to go, but somehow I lost the road. At last, as I thought, I\nfound it, and had gone a few steps when I came on a detachment of wooden\nsoldiers, drawn up on their lazy tongs. I thought it better to wait till\nthey got out of the way, so I turned back, and sat down in a corner in\nsome alarm. As I did so, I heard a click, and the lid of a small box\ncovered with mottled paper burst open, and up jumped a figure in a blue\nstriped shirt and a rabbit-skin beard, whose eyes were intently fixed on\nme. He was very like my old Jack-in-a-box. My back began to creep, and I\nwildly meditated escape, frantically trying at the same time to recall\nwhether it were I or my brother who originated the idea of making a\nsmall bonfire of our own one 5th of November, and burning the old\nJack-in-a-box for Guy Fawkes, till nothing was left of him but a\ntwirling bit of red-hot wire and a strong smell of frizzled fur. At this\nmoment he nodded to me and spoke.\n\n\u201c\u2018Oh! that\u2019s you, is it?\u2019 he said.\n\n\u201c\u2018No, it is not,\u2019 I answered, hastily; for I was quite demoralized by\nfear and the strangeness of the situation.\n\n\u201c\u2018Who is it, then?\u2019 he inquired.\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019m sure I don\u2019t know,\u2019 I said; and really I was so confused that I\nhardly did.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, _we_ know,\u2019 said the Jack-in-a-box, \u2018and that\u2019s all that\u2019s\nneeded. Now, my friends,\u2019 he continued, addressing the toys who had\nbegun to crowd round us, \u2018whoever recognizes a mistress and remembers a\ngrudge\u2014the hour of our revenge has come. Can we any of us forget the\ntreatment we received at her hands? No! When we think of the ingenious\nfancy, the patient skill, that went to our manufacture; that fitted the\ndelicate joints and springs, laid on the paint and varnish, and gave\nback-hair combs, and ear-rings to our smallest dolls, we feel that we\ndeserved more care than we received. When we reflect upon the kind\nfriends who bought us with their money, and gave us away in the\nbenevolence of their hearts, we know that for their sakes we ought to\nhave been longer kept and better valued. And when we remember that the\nsole object of our own existence was to give pleasure and amusement to\nour possessors, we have no hesitation in believing that we deserved a\nhandsomer return than to have had our springs broken, our paint dirtied,\nand our earthly careers so untimely shortened by wilful mischief or\nfickle neglect. My friends, the prisoner is at the bar.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I am not,\u2019 I said; for I was determined not to give in as long as\nresistance was possible. But as I said it I became aware, to my\nunutterable amazement, that I was inside the go-cart. How I got there is\nto this moment a mystery to me\u2014but there I was.\n\n\u201cThere was a great deal of excitement about the Jack-in-a-box\u2019s speech.\nIt was evident that he was considered an orator, and, indeed, I have\nseen counsel in a real court look wonderfully like him. Meanwhile, my\nold toys appeared to be getting together. I had no idea that I had had\nso many. I had really been very fond of most of them, and my heart beat\nas the sight of them recalled scenes long forgotten, and took me back to\nchildhood and home. There were my little gardening tools, and my slate,\nand there was the big doll\u2019s bedstead, that had a real mattress, and\nreal sheets and blankets, all marked with the letter D, and a workbasket\nmade in the blind school, and a shilling School of Art paint box, and a\nwooden doll we used to call the Dowager, and innumerable other toys\nwhich I had forgotten till the sight of them recalled them to my memory,\nbut which have again passed from my mind. Exactly opposite to me stood\nthe Chinese mandarin, nodding as I had never seen him nod since the day\nwhen I finally stopped his performances by ill-directed efforts to\ndiscover how he did it.\n\n\u201cAnd what was that familiar figure among the rest, in a yellow silk\ndress and maroon velvet cloak and hood trimmed with black lace? How\nthose clothes recalled the friends who gave them to me! And surely this\nwas no other than my dear doll Rosa\u2014the beloved companion of five years\nof my youth, whose hair I wore in a locket after I was grown up. No one\ncould say I had ill-treated _her_. Indeed, she fixed her eyes on me with\na most encouraging smile\u2014but then she always smiled, her mouth was\npainted so.\n\n\u201c\u2018All whom it may concern, take notice,\u2019 shouted the Jack-in-a-box, at\nthis point, \u2018that the rule of this honorable court is tit for tat.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Tit, tat, tumble two,\u2019 muttered the slate in a cracked voice. (How\nwell I remembered the fall that cracked it, and the sly games of tit tat\nthat varied the monotony of our long multiplication sums!)\n\n\u201c\u2018What are you talking about?\u2019 said the Jack-in-a-box, sharply; \u2018if you\nhave grievances, state them, and you shall have satisfaction, as I told\nyou before.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018\u2014\u2014and five make nine,\u2019 added the slate promptly, \u2018and six are\nfifteen, and eight are twenty-seven\u2014there we go again! I wonder why I\nnever get up to the top of a line of figures right. It will never prove\nat this rate.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018His mind is lost in calculations,\u2019 said the Jack-in-a-box,\n\u2018besides\u2014between ourselves\u2014he has been \u201ccracky\u201d for some time. Let\nsome one else speak, and observe that no one is at liberty to pass a\nsentence on the prisoner heavier than what he has suffered from her. I\nreserve _my_ judgment to the last.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I know what that will be,\u2019 thought I; \u2018oh dear! oh dear! that a\nrespectable maiden lady should live to be burnt as a Guy Fawkes!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Let the prisoner drink a gallon of iced water at once, and then be\nleft to die of thirst.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe horrible idea that the speaker might possibly have the power to\nenforce his sentence diverted my attention from the slate, and I looked\nround. In front of the Jack-in-a-box stood a tiny red flower-pot and\nsaucer, in which was a miniature cactus. My thoughts flew back to a\nbazaar in London where, years ago, a stand of these fairy plants had\nexcited my warmest longings, and where a benevolent old gentleman whom I\nhad not seen before, and never saw again, bought this one and gave it to\nme. Vague memories of his directions for re-potting and tending it\nreproached me from the past. My mind misgave me that after all it had\ndied a dusty death for lack of water. True, the cactus tribe being\nsucculent plants do not demand much moisture, but I had reason to fear\nthat, in this instance, the principle had been applied too far, and that\nafter copious baths of cold spring water in the first days of its\npopularity it had eventually perished by drought. I suppose I looked\nguilty, for it nodded its prickly head towards me, and said, \u2018Ah! you\nknow me. You remember what I was, do you? Did you ever think of what I\nmight have been? There was a fairy rose which came down here not long\nago\u2014a common rose enough, in a broken pot patched with string and white\npaint. It had lived in a street where it was the only pure beautiful\nthing your eyes could see. When the girl who kept it died there were\neighteen roses upon it. She was eighteen years old, and they put the\nroses in the coffin with her when she was buried. That was worth living\nfor. Who knows what I might have done? And what right had you to cut\nshort a life that might have been useful?\u2019\n\n\u201cBefore I could think of a reply to these too just reproaches, the\nflower-pot enlarged, the plant shot up, putting forth new branches as it\ngrew; then buds burst from the prickly limbs, and in a few moments there\nhung about it great drooping blossoms of lovely pink, with long white\ntassels in their throats. I had been gazing at it some time in silent\nand self-reproachful admiration when I became aware that the business of\nthis strange court was proceeding, and that the other toys were\npronouncing sentence against me.\n\n\u201c\u2018Tie a string round her neck and take her out bathing in the brooks,\u2019 I\nheard an elderly voice say in severe tones. It was the Dowager Doll. She\nwas inflexibly wooden, and had been in the family for more than one\ngeneration.\n\n\u201c\u2018It\u2019s not fair,\u2019 I exclaimed, \u2018the string was only to keep you from\nbeing carried away by the stream. The current is strong, and the bank\nsteep by the Hollow Oak Pool, and you had no arms or legs. You were old\nand ugly, but you would wash, and we loved you better than many waxen\nbeauties.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Old and ugly!\u2019 shrieked the Dowager. \u2018Tear her wig off! Scrub the\npaint off her face! Flatten her nose on the pavement! Saw off her legs\nand give her no crinoline! Take her out bathing, I say, and bring her\nhome in a wheel-barrow with fern roots on the top of her.\u2019\n\n\u201cI was about to protest again, when the paint-box came forward, and\nbalancing itself in an artistic, undecided kind of way on two\ncamel\u2019s-hair brushes which seemed to serve it for feet, addressed the\nJack-in-a-box.\n\n\u201c\u2018Never dip your paint into the water. Never put your brush into your\nmouth\u2014\u2014\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018That\u2019s not evidence,\u2019 said the Jack-in-a-box.\n\n\u201c\u2018Your notions are crude,\u2019 said the paint-box loftily; \u2018it\u2019s in print,\nand here, all of it, or words to that effect;\u2019 with which he touched the\nlid, as a gentleman might lay his hand upon his heart.\n\n\u201c\u2018It\u2019s not evidence,\u2019 repeated the Jack-in-a-box. \u2018Let us proceed.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Take her to pieces and see what she\u2019s made of, if you please,\u2019\ntittered a pretty German toy that moved to a tinkling musical\naccompaniment. \u2018If her works are available after that it will be an era\nin natural science.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe idea tickled me, and I laughed.\n\n\u201c\u2018Hard-hearted wretch!\u2019 growled the Dowager Doll.\n\n\u201c\u2018Dip her in water and leave her to soak on a white soup plate,\u2019 said\nthe paint-box; \u2018if that doesn\u2019t soften her feelings, deprive me of my\nmedal from the School of Art.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Give her a stiff neck!\u2019 muttered the mandarin. \u2018Ching Fo! give her a\nstiff neck.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Knock her teeth out,\u2019 growled the rake in a scratchy voice; and then\nthe tools joined in chorus.\n\n\u201c\u2018Take her out when its fine and leave her out when it\u2019s wet, and lose\nher in\u2014\u2014\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018The coal hole,\u2019 said the spade.\n\n\u201c\u2018The hay field,\u2019 said the rake.\n\n\u201c\u2018The shrubbery,\u2019 said the hoe.\n\n\u201cThis difference of opinion produced a quarrel, which in turn seemed to\naffect the general behavior of toys, for a disturbance arose which the\nJack-in-a-box vainly endeavored to quell. A dozen voices shouted for a\ndozen different punishments and (happily for me) each toy insisted upon\nits own wrongs being the first to be avenged, and no one would hear of\nthe claims of any one else being attended to for an instant. Terrible\nsentences were passed, which I either failed to hear through the clamor\nthen, or have forgotten now. I have a vague idea that several voices\ncried that I was to be sent to wash in somebody\u2019s pocket; that the\nwork-basket wished to cram my mouth with unfinished needlework; and that\nthrough all the din the thick voice of my old leather ball monotonously\nrepeated:\n\n\u201c\u2018Throw her into the dust-hole.\u2019\n\n\u201cSuddenly a clear voice pierced the confusion, and Rosa tripped up.\n\n\u201c\u2018My dears,\u2019 she began, \u2018the only chance of restoring order is to\nobserve method. Let us follow our usual rule of precedence. I claim the\nfirst turn as the prisoner\u2019s oldest toy.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018That you are not, Miss,\u2019 snapped the dowager; \u2018I was in the family for\nfifty years.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018In the family. Yes, ma\u2019am; but you were never her doll in particular.\nI was her very own, and she kept me longer than any other plaything. My\njudgment must be first.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018She is right,\u2019 said the Jack-in-a-box, \u2018and now let us get on. The\nprisoner is delivered unreservedly into the hands of our trusty and\nwell-beloved Rosa\u2014doll of the first class\u2014for punishment according to\nthe strict law of tit for tat.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I shall request the assistance of the pewter tea-things,\u2019 said Rosa,\nwith her usual smile. \u2018And now, my love,\u2019 she added, turning to me, \u2018we\nwill come and sit down.\u2019\n\n\u201cWhere the go-cart vanished to I cannot remember, nor how I got out of\nit; I only know that I suddenly found myself free, and walking away with\nmy hand in Rosa\u2019s. I remember vacantly feeling the rough edge of the\nstitches on her flat kid fingers, and wondering what would come next.\n\n\u201c\u2018How very oddly you hold your feet, my dear,\u2019 she said; \u2018you stick out\nyour toes in such an eccentric fashion, and you lean your legs as if\nthey were table legs, instead of supporting yourself by my hand. Turn\nyour heels well out, and bring your toes together. You may even let them\nfold over each other a little; it is considered to have a pretty effect\namong dolls.\u2019\n\n\u201cUnder one of the big trees Miss Rosa made me sit down, propping me\nagainst the trunk as if I should otherwise have fallen; and in a moment\nmore a square box of pewter tea-things came tumbling up to our feet,\nwhere the lid burst open, and all the tea-things fell out in perfect\norder; the cups on the saucers, the lid on the teapot and so on.\n\n\u201c\u2018Take a little tea, my love?\u2019 said Miss Rosa pressing a pewter teacup\nto my lips.\n\n\u201cI made believe to drink, but was only conscious of inhaling a draught\nof air with a slight flavor of tin. In taking my second cup I was nearly\nchoked with the teaspoon, which got into my throat.\n\n\u201c\u2018What are you doing?\u2019 roared the Jack-in-a-box at this moment; \u2018you are\nnot punishing her.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I am treating her as she treated me,\u2019 answered Rosa, looking as severe\nas her smile would allow. \u2018I believe that tit for tat is the rule, and\nthat at present it is my turn.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018It will be mine soon,\u2019 growled the Jack-in-a-box, and I thought of the\nbonfire with a shudder. However, there was no knowing what might happen\nbefore his turn did come, and meanwhile I was in friendly hands. It was\nnot the first time my dolly and I had set together under a tree, and,\ntruth to say, I do not think she had any injuries to avenge.\n\n\u201c\u2018When your wig comes off,\u2019 murmured Rosa, as she stole a pink kid arm\ntenderly round my neck, \u2018I\u2019ll make you a cap with blue and white\nrosettes, and pretend that you have had a fever.\u2019\n\n\u201cI thanked her gratefully, and was glad to reflect that I was not yet in\nneed of an attention which I distinctly remember having shown to her in\nthe days of her dollhood. Presently she jumped up.\n\n\u201c\u2018I think you shall go to bed now, dear,\u2019 she said, and, taking my hand\nonce more, she led me to the big doll\u2019s bedstead, which, with its pretty\nbedclothes and white dimity furniture, looked tempting enough to a\nsleeper of suitable size. It could not have supported one-quarter of my\nweight.\n\n\u201c\u2018I have not made you a night-dress, my love,\u2019 Rosa continued; \u2018I am not\nfond of my needle, you know. _You_ were not fond of your needle, I\nthink. I fear you must go to bed in your clothes, my dear.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018You are very kind,\u2019 I said, \u2018but I am not tired, and\u2014it would not\nbear my weight.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Pooh! pooh!\u2019 said Rosa. \u2018My love! I remember passing one Sunday in it\nwith the rag-doll, and the Dowager, and the Punch and Judy (the amount\nof pillow their two noses took up I shall never forget!), and the old\ndoll that had nothing on, because her clothes were in the dolls\u2019 wash\nand did not get ironed on Saturday night, and the Highlander, whose\nthings wouldn\u2019t come off, and who slept in his kilt. Not bear you?\nNonsense! You must go to bed, my dear. I\u2019ve got other things to do, and\nI can\u2019t leave you lying about.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018The whole lot of you did not weigh one-quarter of what I do,\u2019 I cried\ndesperately. \u2018I cannot, and will not get into that bed; I should break\nit all to pieces, and hurt myself into the bargain.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, if you will not go to bed, I must put you there,\u2019 said Rosa, and\nwithout more ado, she snatched me up in her kid arms, and laid me down.\n\n\u201cOf course it was just as I expected. I had hardly touched the two\nlittle pillows (they had a meal-bag smell from being stuffed with bran),\nwhen the woodwork gave way with a crash, and I fell\u2014fell\u2014fell\u2014\n\n\u201cThough I fully believed every bone in my body to be broken, it was\nreally a relief to get to the ground. As soon as I could, I sat up, and\nfelt myself all over. A little stiff, but, as it seemed, unhurt. Oddly\nenough, I found that I was back again under the tree; and more strange\nstill, it was not the tree where I sat with Rosa, but the old oak-tree\nin the little wood. Was it all a dream? The toys had vanished, the\nlights were out, the mosses looked dull in the growing dusk, the evening\nwas chilly, the hole no larger than it was thirty years ago, and when I\nfelt in my pocket for my spectacles I found that they were on my nose.\n\n\u201cI have returned to the spot many times since, but I never could induce\na beetle to enter into conversation on the subject, the hole remains\nobstinately impassable, and I have not been able to repeat my visit to\nthe Land of Lost Toys.\n\n\u201cWhen I recall my many sins against the playthings of my childhood, I am\nconstrained humbly to acknowledge that perhaps this is just as well.\u201d\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\n\n                           SAM SETS UP SHOP.\n\n\u201cI think you might help me, Dot,\u201d cried Sam in dismal and rather injured\ntones.\n\nIt was the morning following the day of the earthquake, and of Aunt\nPenelope\u2019s arrival. Sam had his back to Dot, and his face to the fire,\nover which indeed he had bent for so long that he appeared to be half\nroasted.\n\n\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d asked Dot, who was working at a doll\u2019s night-dress\nthat had for long been partly finished, and now seemed in a fair way to\ncompletion.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the glue-pot,\u201d Sam continued. \u201cIt does take so long to boil. And I\nhave been stirring at the glue with a stick for ever so long to get it\nto melt. It is very hot work. I wish you would take it for a bit. It\u2019s\nas much for your good as for mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it?\u201d said Dot.\n\n\u201cYes it is, Miss,\u201d cried Sam. \u201cYou must know I\u2019ve got a splendid idea.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot another earthquake, I hope?\u201d said Dot, smiling.\n\n\u201cNow, Dot, that\u2019s truly unkind of you. I thought it was to be\nforgotten.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo it is,\u201d said Dot, getting up. \u201cI was only joking. What is the idea!\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t think I shall tell you till I have finished my shop. I want to\nget to it now, and I wish you would take a turn at the glue-pot.\u201d\n\nSam was apt to want a change of occupation. Dot, on the other hand, was\nequally averse from leaving what she was about till it was finished, so\nthey suited each other like Jack Sprat and his wife. It had been an\neffort to Dot to leave the night-dress which she had hoped to finish at\na sitting; but when she was fairly set to work on the glue business she\nnever moved till the glue was in working order, and her face as red as a\nripe tomato.\n\nBy this time Sam had set up business in the window-seat, and was\nfastening a large paper inscription over his shop. It ran thus:\u2014\n\n                                 MR. SAM,\n\n                   _Doll\u2019s Doctor and Toymender to Her\n                                Majesty,_\n\n                  _the Queen, and all other Potentates._\n\n\u201cSplendid!\u201d shouted Dot, who was serving up the glue as if it had been a\nkettle of soup, and who looked herself very like an overtoasted cook.\n\nSam took the glue, and began to bustle about.\n\n\u201cNow, Dot, get me all the broken toys, and we\u2019ll see what we can do. And\nhere\u2019s a second splendid idea. Do you see that box? Into that we shall\nput all the toys that are quite spoiled and cannot possibly be mended.\nIt is to be called the Hospital for Incurables. I\u2019ve got a placard for\nthat. At least it\u2019s not written yet, but here\u2019s the paper, and perhaps\nyou would write it, Dot, for I am tired of writing and I want to begin\nthe mending.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor the future,\u201d he presently resumed, \u201cwhen I want a doll to scalp or\nbehead, I shall apply to the Hospital for Incurables, and the same with\nany other toy that I want to destroy. And you will see, my dear Dot,\nthat I shall be quite a blessing to the nursery; for I shall attend the\ndolls gratis, and keep all the furniture in repair.\u201d\n\nSam really kept his word. He had a natural turn for mechanical work,\nand, backed by Dot\u2019s mechanical genius, he prolonged the days of the\nbroken toys by skillful mending, and so acquired an interest in them\nwhich was still more favorable to their preservation. When his birthday\ncame round, which was some months after these events, Dot (assisted by\nMamma and Aunt Penelope), had prepared for him a surprise that was more\nthan equal to any of his own \u201csplendid ideas.\u201d The whole force of the\ntoy cupboard was assembled on the nursery table, to present Sam with a\nfine box of joiner\u2019s tools as a reward for his services, Papa kindly\nacting as spokesman on the occasion.\n\nAnd certain gaps in the china tea-set, some scars on the dolls\u2019 face,\nand a good many new legs, both amongst the furniture and the animals,\nare now the only remaining traces of Sam\u2019s earthquake.\n\n\n\n\n                         THREE CHRISTMAS-TREES.\n\n\nThis is a story of Three Christmas-Trees. The first was a real one, but\nthe child we are to speak of did not see it. He saw the other two, but\nthey were not real; they only existed in his fancy. The plot of the\nstory is very simple; and, as it has been described so early, it is easy\nfor those who think it stupid to lay the book down in good time.\n\nProbably every child who reads this has seen one Christmas-tree or more;\nbut in the small town of a distant colony with which we have to do, this\ncould not at one time have been said. Christmas-trees were then by no\nmeans so universal, even in England, as they now are, and in this little\ncolonial town, they were unknown. Unknown that is, till the Governor\u2019s\nwife gave her great children\u2019s party. At which point we will begin the\nstory.\n\nThe Governor had given a great many parties in his time. He had\nentertained big wigs and little wigs, the passing military and the local\ngrandees. Everybody who had the remotest claim to attention had been\nattended to: the ladies had had their full share of balls and pleasure\nparties: only one class of the population had any complaint to prefer\nagainst his hospitality; but the class was a large one\u2014it was the\nchildren. However, he was a bachelor, and knew little or nothing about\nlittle boys and girls: let us pity rather than blame him. At last he\ntook to himself a wife; and among the many advantages of this important\nstep, was a due recognition of the claims of these young citizens. It\nwas towards happy Christmas-tide, that \u201cthe Governor\u2019s amiable and\nadmired lady\u201d (as she was styled in the local newspaper) sent out notes\nfor his first children\u2019s party. At the top of the note paper was a very\nred robin, who carried a blue Christmas greeting in his mouth, and at\nthe bottom\u2014written with the A. D. C.\u2019s best flourish\u2014were the magic\nwords, _A Christmas Tree_. In spite of the flourishes\u2014partly perhaps,\nbecause of them\u2014the A. D. C.\u2019s handwriting, though handsome, was rather\nillegible. But for all this, most of the children invited contrived to\nread these words, and those who could not do so were not slow to learn\nthe news by hearsay. There was to be a Christmas-Tree! It would be like\na birthday party, with this above ordinary birthdays, that there were to\nbe presents for every one.\n\nOne of the children invited lived in a little white house, with a spruce\nfir-tree before the door. The spruce fir did this good service to the\nlittle house, that it helped people to find their way to it; and it was\nby no means easy for a stranger to find his way to any given house in\nthis little town, especially if the house were small and white, and\nstood in one of the back streets. For most of the houses were small, and\nmost of them were painted white, and the back streets ran parallel with\neach other, and had no names, and were all so much alike that it was\nvery confusing. For instance, if you had asked the way to Mr.\nSo-and-So\u2019s, it is very probable that some friend would have directed\nyou as follows: \u201cGo straight forward and take the first turning to your\nleft, and you will find that there are four streets, which run at right\nangles to the one you are in, and parallel with each other. Each of them\nhas got a big pine in it\u2014one of the old forest trees. Take the last\nstreet but one, and the fifth white house you come to is Mr.\nSo-and-So\u2019s. He has green blinds and a colored servant.\u201d You would not\nalways have got such clear directions as these, but with them you would\nprobably have found the house at last, partly by accident, partly by the\nblinds and colored servant. Some of the neighbors affirmed that the\nlittle white house had a name; that all the houses and streets had\nnames, only they were traditional and not recorded anywhere; that very\nfew people knew them, and nobody made any use of them. The name of the\nlittle white house was said to be Trafalgar Villa, which seemed so\ninappropriate to the modest peaceful little home, that the man who lived\nin it tried to find out why it had been so called. He thought that his\npredecessor must have been in the navy, until he found that he had been\nthe owner of what is called a \u201cdry-goods store,\u201d which seems to mean a\nshop where things are sold which are not good to eat or drink\u2014such as\ndrapery. At last somebody said, that as there was a public-house called\nthe \u201cDuke of Wellington\u201d at the corner of the street, there probably had\nbeen a nearer one called \u201cThe Nelson,\u201d which had been burnt down, and\nthat the man who built \u201cThe Nelson\u201d had built the house with a spruce\nfir before it, and that so the name had arisen. An explanation which was\njust so far probable, that public-houses and fires were of frequent\noccurrence in those parts.\n\nBut this had nothing to do with the story. Only we must say, as we said\nbefore, and as we should have said had we been living there then, the\nchild we speak of lived in the little white house with one spruce fir\njust in front of it.\n\nOf all the children who looked forward to the Christmas-tree, he looked\nforward to it the most intensely. He was an imaginative child, of a\nsimple, happy nature, easy to please. His father was an Englishman, and\nin the long winter evenings he would tell the child tales of the old\ncountry, to which his mother would listen also. Perhaps the parents\nenjoyed these stories the most. To the boy they were new, and\nconsequently delightful, but to the parents they were old; and as\nregards some stories, that is better still.\n\n\u201cWhat kind of a bird is this on my letter?\u201d asked the boy on the day\nwhich brought the Governor\u2019s lady\u2019s note of invitation. \u201cAnd oh! what is\na Christmas-tree?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe bird is an English robin,\u201d said his father. \u201cIt is quite another\nbird to that which is called a robin here: it is smaller and rounder;\nand has a redder breast and bright dark eyes, and lives and sings at\nhome through the winter. A Christmas-tree is a fir-tree\u2014just such a one\nas that outside the door\u2014brought into the house and covered with lights\nand presents. Picture to yourself our fir-tree lighted up with tapers on\nall the branches, with dolls, and trumpets, and bonbons, and drums, and\ntoys of all kinds hanging from it like fir-cones, and on the tip-top\nshoot a figure of a Christmas Angel in white, with a star upon its\nhead.\u201d\n\n\u201cFancy!\u201d said the boy.\n\nAnd fancy he did. Every day he looked at the spruce firs, and tried to\nimagine it laden with presents, and brilliant with tapers, and thought\nhow wonderful must be that \u201cold country\u201d\u2014_Home_, as it was called, even\nby those who had never seen it\u2014where the robins were so very red, and\nwhere at Christmas the fir-trees were hung with toys instead of cones.\n\nIt was certainly a pity that, two days before the party, an original\nidea on the subject of snowmen struck one of the children who used to\nplay together, with their sleds and snow-shoes, in the back streets. The\nidea was this: That instead of having a common-place snowman, whose legs\nwere obliged to be mere stumps, for fear he should be top-heavy, and who\ncould not walk, even with them; who, in fact, could do nothing but stand\nat the corner of the street, holding his impotent stick, and staring\nwith his pebble eyes, till he was broken to pieces or ignominiously\ncarried away by a thaw,\u2014that, instead of this, they should have a real,\nlive snowman, who should walk on competent legs, to the astonishment,\nand (happy thought!) perhaps to the alarm of the passers-by. This\ndelightful novelty was to be accomplished by covering one of the boys of\nthe party with snow till he looked as like a real snowman as\ncircumstances would admit. At first everybody wanted to be the snowman,\nbut, when it came to the point, it was found to be so much duller to\nstand still and be covered up than to run about and work, that no one\nwas willing to act the part. At last it was undertaken by the little boy\nfrom the Fir House. He was somewhat small, but then he was so\ngood-natured he would always do as he was asked. So he stood manfully\nstill, with his arms folded over a walking-stick upon his breast, while\nthe others heaped the snow upon him. The plan was not so successful as\nthey had hoped. The snow would not stick anywhere except on his\nshoulders, and when it got into his neck he cried with the cold; but\nthey were so anxious to carry out their project, that they begged him to\nbear it \u201cjust a little longer:\u201d and the urchin who had devised the\noriginal idea wiped the child\u2019s eyes with his handkerchief, and (with\nthat hopefulness which is so easy over other people\u2019s matters) \u201cdared\nsay that when all the snow was on, he wouldn\u2019t feel it.\u201d However, he did\nfeel it, and that so severely that the children were obliged to give up\nthe game, and, taking the stick out of his stiff little arms, to lead\nhim home.\n\nIt appears that it is with snowmen as with some other men in conspicuous\npositions. It is easier to find fault with them than to fill their\nplace.\n\nThe end of this was a feverish cold, and, when the day of the party\ncame, the ex-snowman was still in bed. It is due to the other children\nto say that they felt the disappointment as keenly as he did, and that\nit greatly damped the pleasure of the party for them to think that they\nhad prevented his sharing in the treat. The most penitent of all was the\ndeviser of the original idea. He had generously offered to stay at home\nwith the little patient, which was as generously refused; but the next\nevening he was allowed to come and sit on the bed, and describe it all\nfor the amusement of his friend. He was a quaint boy, this urchin, with\na face as broad as an American Indian\u2019s, eyes as bright as a squirrel\u2019s,\nand all the mischief in life lurking about him, till you could see\nroguishness in the very folds of his hooded Indian winter coat of blue\nand scarlet. In his hand he brought the sick child\u2019s presents: a dray\nwith two white horses, and little barrels that took off and on, and a\ndriver, with wooden joints, a cloth coat, and everything, in fact, that\nwas suitable to the driver of a brewer\u2019s dray, except that he had blue\nboots and earrings, and that his hair was painted in braids like a\nlady\u2019s, which is clearly the fault of the doll manufacturers, who will\npersist in making them all of the weaker sex.\n\n\u201cAnd what was the Christmas-tree like?\u201d asked the invalid.\n\n\u201cExactly like the fir outside your door,\u201d was the reply. \u201cJust about\nthat size, and planted in a pot covered with red cloth. It was kept in\nanother room till after tea, and then when the door was opened it was\nlike a street fire in the town at night\u2014such a blaze of light\u2014candles\neverywhere! And on all the branches the most beautiful presents. I got a\ndrum and a penwiper.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas there an angel?\u201d the child asked.\n\n\u201cOh, yes!\u201d the boy answered. \u201cIt was on the tip-top branch, and it was\ngiven to me, and I brought it for you, if you would like it; for, you\nknow, I am so very, very sorry I thought of the snowman and made you\nill, and I do love you, and beg you to forgive me.\u201d\n\nAnd the roguish face stooped over the pillow to be kissed; and out of a\npocket in the hooded coat came forth the Christmas Angel. In the face it\nbore a strong family likeness to the drayman, but its feet were hidden\nin folds of snowy muslin, and on its head glittered a tinsel star.\n\n\u201cHow lovely!\u201d said the child. \u201cFather told me about this. I like it best\nof all. And it is very kind of you, for it is not your fault that I\ncaught cold. I should have liked it if we could have done it, but I\nthink to enjoy being a snowman, one should be snow all through.\u201d\n\nThey had tea together, and then the invalid was tucked up for the night.\nThe dray was put away in the cupboard, but he took the angel to bed with\nhim.\n\nAnd so ended the first of the Three Christmas-Trees.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nExcept for a warm glow from the wood fire in the stove, the room was\ndark; but about midnight it seemed to the child that a sudden blaze of\nlight filled the chamber. At the same moment the window curtains were\ndrawn aside, and he saw that the spruce fir had come close up to the\npanes, and was peeping in. Ah! how beautiful it looked! It had become a\nChristmas-tree. Lighted tapers shone from every familiar branch, toys of\nthe most fascinating appearance hung like fruit, and on the tip-top\nshoot there stood the Christmas Angel. He tried to count the candles,\nbut somehow it was impossible. When he looked at them they seemed to\nchange places\u2014to move\u2014to become like the angel, and then to be candles\nagain, whilst the flames nodded to each other and repeated the blue\ngreeting of the robin, \u201cA Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!\u201d Then he\ntried to distinguish the presents, but, beautiful as the toys looked, he\ncould not exactly discover what any of them were, or choose which he\nwould like best. Only the Angel he could see clearly\u2014so clearly! It was\nmore beautiful than the doll under his pillow; it had a lovely face like\nhis own mother\u2019s, he thought, and on its head gleamed a star far\nbrighter than tinsel. Its white robes waved with the flames of the\ntapers, and it stretched its arms towards him with a smile.\n\n\u201cI am to go and choose my present,\u201d thought the child; and he called\n\u201cMother! mother dear! please open the window.\u201d\n\nBut his mother did not answer. So he thought he must get up himself, and\nwith an effort, he struggled out of bed.\n\nBut when he was on his feet, everything seemed changed! Only the\nfire-light shone upon the walls, and the curtains were once more firmly\nclosed before the window. It had been a dream, but so vivid that in his\nfeverish state he still thought it must be true, and dragged the\ncurtains back to let in the glorious sight again. The fire-light shone\nupon a thick coating of frost upon the panes, but no further could he\nsee, so with all his strength he pushed the window open and leaned out\ninto the night.\n\nThe spruce fir stood in its old place; but it looked very beautiful in\nits Christmas dress. Beneath it lay a carpet of pure white. The snow was\nclustered in exquisite shapes upon its plumy branches; wrapping the tree\ntop with its little cross shots, as a white robe might wrap a figure\nwith outstretched arms.\n\nThere were no tapers to be seen, but northern lights shot up into the\ndark blue sky, and just over the fir-tree shone a bright, bright star.\n\n\u201cJupiter looks well to-night,\u201d said the old Professor in the town\nobservatory, as he fixed his telescope; but to the child it seemed as\nthe star of the Christmas Angel.\n\nHis mother had really heard him call, and now came and put him back to\nbed again. And so ended the second of the Three Christmas-Trees.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nIt was enough to have killed him, all his friends said; but it did not.\nHe lived to be a man, and\u2014what is rarer\u2014to keep the faith, the\nsimplicity, the tender-heartedness, the vivid fancy of his childhood. He\nlived to see many Christmas-Trees \u201cat home,\u201d in that old country where\nthe robins are red-breasts, and sing in winter. There a heart as good\nand gentle as his own became one with his; and once he brought his young\nwife across the sea to visit the place where he was born. They stood\nnear the little white house, and he told her the story of the\nChristmas-trees.\n\n\u201cThis was when I was a child,\u201d he added.\n\n\u201cBut that you are still,\u201d said she; and she plucked a bit of the\nfir-tree and kissed it, and carried it away.\n\nHe lived to tell the story to his children, and even to his\ngrandchildren; but he never was able to decide which of the two was the\nmore beautiful\u2014the Christmas-Tree of his dream, or the Spruce Fir as it\nstood in the loveliness of that winter night.\n\nThis is told, not that it has anything to do with any of the Three\nChristmas-Trees, but to show that the story is a happy one, as is right\nand proper; that the hero lived, and married, and had children, and was\nas prosperous as good people, in books, should always be.\n\nOf course he died at last. The best and happiest of men must die; and it\nis only because some stories stop short in their history, that every\nhero is not duly buried before we lay down the book.\n\nWhen death came for our hero he was an old man. The beloved wife, some\nof his children, and many of his friends had died before him, and of\nthose whom he had loved there were fewer to leave than to rejoin. He had\nhad a short illness, with little pain, and was now lying on his\ndeath-bed in one of the big towns in the North of England. His youngest\nson, a clergyman, was with him, and one or two others of his children,\nand by the fire sat the doctor.\n\nThe doctor had been sitting by the patient, but now that he could do no\nmore for him he had moved to the fire; and they had taken the ghastly,\nhalf-emptied medicine bottles from the table by the bedside, and had\nspread it with a fair linen cloth, and had set out the silver vessels of\nthe Supper of the Lord.\n\nThe old man had been \u201cwandering\u201d somewhat during the day. He had talked\nmuch of going home to the old country, and with the wide range of dying\nthoughts he had seemed to mingle memories of childhood with his hopes of\nParadise. At intervals he was clear and collected\u2014one of those moments\nhad been chosen for his last sacrament\u2014and he had fallen asleep with\nthe blessing in his ears.\n\nHe slept so long and so peacefully that the son almost began to hope\nthere might be a change, and looked towards the doctor, who still sat by\nthe fire with his right leg crossed over his left. The doctor\u2019s eyes\nwere also on the bed, but at that moment he drew out his watch and\nlooked at it with an air of professional conviction, which said, \u201cIt\u2019s\nonly a question of time.\u201d Then he crossed his left leg over his right,\nand turned to the fire again. Before the right leg should be tired, all\nwould be over. The son saw it as clearly as if it had been spoken, and\nhe too turned away and sighed.\n\nAs they sat, the bells of a church in the town began to chime for\nmidnight service, for it was Christmas Eve, but they did not wake the\ndying man. He slept on and on.\n\nThe doctor dozed. The son read in the Prayer Book on the table, and one\nof his sisters read with him. Another, from grief and weariness, slept\nwith her head upon his shoulder. Except for a warm glow from the fire,\nthe room was dark. Suddenly the old man sat up in bed, and, in a strong\nvoice, cried with inexpressible enthusiasm.\n\n\u201c_How beautiful!_\u201d\n\nThe son held back his sisters, and asked quietly,\n\n\u201c_What_, my dear father?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Christmas-Tree!\u201d he said, in a low, eager voice. \u201cDraw back the\ncurtains.\u201d\n\nThey were drawn back; but nothing could be seen, and still the old man\ngazed as if in ecstacy.\n\n\u201cLight!\u201d he murmured. \u201cThe Angel! the Star!\u201d\n\nAgain there was silence; and then he stretched forth his hands, and\ncried passionately,\n\n\u201cThe Angel is beckoning to me! Mother! mother dear! Please open the\nwindow.\u201d\n\nThe sash was thrown open, and all eyes turned involuntarily where those\nof the dying man were gazing. There was no Christmas-Tree\u2014no tree at\nall. But over the housetops the morning star looked pure and pale in the\ndawn of Christmas Day. For the night was past, and above the distant hum\nof the streets the clear voices of some waits made the words of an old\ncarol heard\u2014words dearer for their association than their poetry\u2014\n\n           \u201cWhile shepherds watched their flocks by night\n             All seated on the ground,\n           The Angel of the Lord came down,\n             And glory shone around.\u201d\n\nWhen the window was opened, the soul passed; and when they looked back\nto the bed the old man had lain down again, and like a child, was\nsmiling in his sleep\u2014his last sleep.\n\nAnd this was the Third Christmas-Tree.\n\n\n\n\n                          AN IDYL OF THE WOOD.\n\n\n\u201cTell us a story,\u201d said the children, \u201ca sad one, if you please, and a\nlittle true. But, above all, let it end badly, for we are tired of\npeople who live happily ever after.\u201d\n\n\u201cI heard one lately,\u201d said the old man who lived in the wood; \u201cit is\nfounded on fact, and it is a sad one also; but whether it ends badly or\nno I cannot pretend to say. That is a matter of taste: what is a bad\nending?\u201d\n\n\u201cA story ends badly,\u201d said the children with authority, \u201cwhen people\ndie, and nobody marries anybody else, especially if it is a prince and\nprincess.\u201d\n\n\u201cA most lucid explanation,\u201d said the old man. \u201cI think my story will do,\nfor the principal character dies, and there is no wedding.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell it, tell it!\u201d cried his hearers, \u201cand tell us also where you got\nit from.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho knows the riches of a wood in summer?\u201d said the old man. \u201cIn\nsummer, do I say? In spring, in autumn, or in winter either. Who knows\nthem? You, my children? Well, well. Better than some of your elders,\nperchance. You know the wood where I live; the hollow tree that will\nhold five children, and Queen Mab knows how many fairies. (What a castle\nit makes! And if it had but another floor put into it, with a sloping\nladder\u2014like one of the round towers of Ireland\u2014what a house for\nchildren to live in! With no room for lesson-books, grown-up people, or\nbeds!)\n\n\u201cYou know the way to the hazel copse, and the place where the wild\nstrawberries grow. You know where the wren sits on her eggs, and, like\ngood children, pass by with soft steps and hushed voices, that you may\nnot disturb that little mother. You know (for I have shown you) where\nthe rare fern grows\u2014a habitat happily yet unnoted in scientific pages.\n_We_ never add its lovely fronds to our nosegays, and if we move a root\nit is but to plant it in another part of the wood, with as much mystery\nand circumspection as if we were performing some solemn druidical rite.\nIt is to us as a king in hiding, and the places of its abode we keep\nfaithfully secret. It will be thus held sacred by us until, with all the\nseeds its untouched fronds have scattered, and all the off-shoots we\nhave propagated, it shall have become as plentiful as Heaven intends all\nbeautiful things to be. Every one is not so scrupulous. There are\ncertain ladies and gentlemen who picnic near my cottage in the hot\nweather, and who tell each other that they love a wood. Most of these\ngood people have nevertheless neither eyes nor ears for what goes on\naround them, except that they hear each other, and see the cold\ncollation. They will picnic there summer after summer, and not know\nwhether they sit under oaks or ashes, beeches or elms. All birds sing\nfor them the same song. Tell _them_ that such a plant is rare in the\nneighborhood, that there are but few specimens of it, and it will not\nlong be their fault if there are any. Does any one direct them to it,\nthey tear it ruthlessly up, and carry it away. If by any chance a root\nis left, it is left so dragged and pulled and denuded of earth, that\nthere is small chance that it will survive. Probably, also, the ravished\nclump dies in the garden or pot to which it is transplanted, either from\nneglect, or from ignorance of the conditions essential to its life; and\nthe rare plant becomes yet rarer. Oh! without doubt they love a wood. It\ngives more shade than the largest umbrella, and is cheaper for summer\nentertainment than a tent: there you get canopy and carpet, fuel and\nwater, shade and song, and beauty\u2014all gratis; and these are not small\nmatters when one has invited a large party of one\u2019s acquaintance. There\nare insects, it is true, which somewhat disturb our friends; and as they\ndo not know which sting, and which are harmless, they kill all that come\nwithin their reach, as a safe general principle. The town boys, too!\nThey know the wood\u2014that is to say, they know where the wild fruits\ngrow, and how to chase the squirrel, and rob the bird\u2019s nests, and snare\nthe birds. Well, well, my children; to know and love a wood truly, it\nmay be that one must live in it as I have done; and then a lifetime will\nscarcely reveal all its beauties, or exhaust its lessons. But even then,\none must have eyes that see, and ears that hear, or one misses a good\ndeal. It was in the wood that I heard this story that I shall tell you.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did you hear it?\u201d asked the children.\n\n\u201cA thrush sang it to me one night.\u201d\n\n\u201cOne night?\u201d said the children. \u201cThen you mean a nightingale.\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean a thrush,\u201d said the old man. \u201cDo I not know the note of one bird\nfrom another? I tell you that pine tree by my cottage has a legend of\nits own, and the topmost branch is haunted. Must all legends be above\nthe loves and sorrows of our self-satisfied race alone?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut did you really and truly hear it?\u201d they asked.\n\n\u201cI heard it,\u201d said the old man. \u201cBut, as I tell you, one hears and one\nhears. I don\u2019t say that everybody would have heard it, merely by\nsleeping in my chamber; but, for the benefit of the least imaginative, I\nwill assure you that it is founded on fact.\u201d\n\n\u201cBegin! begin!\u201d shouted the children.\n\n\u201cOnce upon a time,\u201d said the old man, \u201cthere was a young thrush, who was\nborn in that beautiful dingle where we last planted the \u2014\u2014 fern. His\nhome-nest was close to the ground, but the lower one is, the less fear\nof falling; and in woods, the elevation at which you sleep is a matter\nof taste, and not of expense or gentility. He awoke to life when the\nwood was dressed in the pale fresh green of early summer; and believing,\nlike other folk, that, his own home was at least the principal part of\nthe world, earth seemed to him so happy and so beautiful an abode, that\nhis heart felt ready to burst with joy. The ecstacy was almost pain,\ntill wings and a voice came to him. Then, one day, when, after a gray\nmorning, the sun came out at noon, drawing the scent from the old pine\nthat looks in at my bedroom window, his joy burst forth, after long\nsilence, into song, and flying upwards he sat on the topmost branch of\nthe pine and sang as loud as he could sing to the sun and the blue sky.\n\n\u201c\u2018Joy! joy!\u2019 he sang. \u2018Fresh water and green woods, ambrosial sunshine\nand sun-flecked shade, chattering brooks and rustling leaves, glade, and\nsward, and dell. Lichens and cool mosses, feathered ferns and flowers.\nGreen leaves! Green leaves! Summer! summer! summer!\u2019\n\n\u201cIt was monotonous, but every word came from the singer\u2019s heart, which\nis not always the case. Thenceforward, though he slept near the ground,\nhe went up every day to this pine, as to some sacred high place, and\nsang the same song, of which neither he nor I were ever weary.\n\n\u201cLet one be ever so inoffensive, however, one is not long left in peace\nin this world, even in a wood. The thrush sang too loudly of his simple\nhappiness, and some boys from the town heard him and snared him, and\ntook him away in a dirty cloth cap, where he was nearly smothered. The\nworld is certainly not exclusively composed of sunshine, and green\nwoods, and odorous pines. He became almost senseless during the hot\ndusty walk that led to the town. It was a seaport town, about two miles\nfrom the wood, a town of narrow, steep streets, picturesque old houses,\nand odors compounded of tar, dead fish, and many other scents less\nagreeable than forest perfumes. The thrush was put into a small\nwicker-cage in an upper room, in one of the narrowest and steepest of\nthe streets.\n\n\u201c\u2018I shall die to-night,\u2019 he piped. But he did not. He lived that night,\nand for several nights and days following. The boys took small care of\nhim, however. He was often left without food, without water, and always\nwith too little air. Two or three times they tried to sell him, but he\nwas not bought, for no one could hear him sing. One day he was hung\noutside the window, and partly owing to the sun and fresh air, and\npartly because a woman was singing in the street, he began to carol his\nold song.\n\n\u201cThe woman was a street singer. She was even paler, thinner, and more\ndestitute-looking than such women usually are. In some past time there\nhad been beauty and feeling in her face, but the traces of both were\nwell-nigh gone. An indifference almost amounting to vacancy was there\nnow, and, except that she sang, you might almost have fancied her a\ncorpse. In her voice also there had once been beauty and feeling, and\nhere again the traces were small indeed. From time to time, she was\nstopped by fits of coughing, when an ill-favored hunchback, who\naccompanied her on a tambourine, swore and scowled at her. She sang a\nsong of sentiment, with a refrain about\n\n                          \u2018Love and truth,\n                          And joys of youth\u2014\u2019\n\non which the melody dwelt and quavered as if in mockery. As she sang a\nsailor came down the street. His collar was very large, his trousers\nwere very wide, his hat hung on the back of his head more as an ornament\nthan for shelter; and he had one of the roughest faces and the gentlest\nhearts that ever went together since Beauty was entertained by the\nBeast. His hands were in his pockets, where he could feel one shilling\nand a penny, all the spare cash that remained to him after a friendly\nstroll through the town. When he saw the street singer, he stopped,\npulled off his hat, and scratched his head, as was his custom when he\nwas puzzled or interested.\n\n\u201c\u2018It\u2019s no good keeping an odd penny,\u2019 he said to himself; \u2018poor thing,\nshe looks bad enough!\u2019 And, bringing the penny to the surface out of the\ndepths of his pocket, he gave it to the woman. The hunchback came\nforward to take it, but the sailor passed him with a shove of his elbow,\nand gave it to the singer, who handed it over to her companion without\nmoving a feature, and went on with her song.\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019d like to break every bone in your ugly body,\u2019 muttered the sailor,\nwith a glance at the hunchback, who scowled in return.\n\n\u201c\u2018I shall die of this close street, and of all I have suffered,\u2019 thought\nthe thrush.\n\n\u201c\u2018Green leaves! green leaves!\u2019 he sang, for it was the only song he\nknew.\n\n\u201c\u2018My voice is gone,\u2019 thought the hunchback\u2019s companion. \u2018He\u2019ll beat me\nagain to-night; but it can\u2019t last long:\n\n                          \u201cLove and truth,\n                          And joys of youth\u2014\u201d\u2019\n\nshe sang, for that was all the song she had learned; and it was not her\nfault that it was inappropriate.\n\n\u201cBut the ballad singer\u2019s captivity was nearly at an end. When the\nhunchback left her that evening to spend the sailor\u2019s penny with the few\nothers which she had earned, he swore that when he came back he would\nmake her sing louder than she had done all day. Her face showed no\nemotion, less than it did when he saw it hours after, when beauty and\nfeeling seemed to have returned to it in the peace of death, when he\ncame back and found the cage empty, and that the long prisoned spirit\nhad flown away to seek the face of love and truth indeed.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how about the thrush?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe sailor had scarcely swallowed the wrath which the hunchback had\nstirred in him, when his ear was caught by the song of the thrush above\nhim.\n\n\u201c\u2018You sing uncommon well, pretty one,\u2019 he said, stopping and putting his\nhat even farther back than usual to look up. He was one of those good\npeople who stop a dozen times in one street, and look at everything as\nthey go along; whereby you may see three times as much of life as other\nfolk, but it is a terrible temptation to spend money. It was so in this\ninstance. The sailor looked till his kindly eyes perceived that the bird\nwas ill-cared for.\n\n\u201c\u2018It should have a bit of sod, it _should_,\u2019 he said, emphatically,\ntaking his hat off, and scratching his head again; \u2018and there\u2019s not a\ncrumb of food on board. Maybe, they don\u2019t understand the ways of birds\nhere. It would be a good turn to mention it.\u2019\n\n\u201cWith this charitable intention he entered the house, and when he left\nit, his pocket was empty, and the thrush was carried tenderly in his\nhandkerchief.\n\n\u201c\u2018The canary died last voyage,\u2019 he muttered apologetically to himself,\n\u2018and the money always does go somehow or other.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe sailor\u2019s hands were about three times as large and coarse as those\nof the boy who had carried the thrush before, but they seemed to him\nthree times more light and tender\u2014they were handy and kind, and this\ngoes farther than taper fingers.\n\n\u201cThe thrush\u2019s new home was not in the narrow streets. It was in a small\ncottage in a small garden at the back of the town. The canary\u2019s old cage\nwas comparatively roomy, and food, water, and fresh turf were regularly\nsupplied to him. He could see green leaves too. There was an apple tree\nin the garden, and two geraniums, a fuchsia, and a tea-rose in the\nwindow. Near the tea-rose an old woman sat in the sunshine. She was the\nsailor\u2019s mother, and looked very like a tidily kept window plant\nherself. She had a little money of her own, which gave her a certain\ndignity, and her son was very good to her; and so she dwelt in\nconsiderable comfort, dividing her time chiefly between reading in the\nbig Bible, knitting socks for Jack, and raising cuttings in bottles of\nwater. She had heard of hothouses and forcing frames, but she did not\nthink much of them. She believed a bottle of water to be the most\nnatural, because it was the oldest method she knew of, and she thought\nno good came of new-fangled ways, and trying to outdo Nature.\n\n\u201c\u2018Slow and sure is best,\u2019 she said, and stuck to her own system.\n\n\u201c\u2018What\u2019s that, my dear?\u2019 she asked, when the sailor came in and held up\nthe handkerchief. He told her.\n\n\u201c\u2018You\u2019re always a-laying out your money on something or other,\u2019 said the\nold lady, who took the privilege of her years to be a little testy.\n\u2018What did you give for _that_?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018A shilling, ma\u2019am.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Tst! tst! tst!\u2019 said the old lady, disapprovingly.\n\n\u201c\u2018Now, mother, don\u2019t shake that cap of yours off your head,\u2019 said the\nsailor. \u2018What\u2019s a shilling? If I hadn\u2019t spent it, I should have changed\nit; and once change a shilling, and it all dribbles away in coppers, and\nyou get nothing for it. But spend it in a lump, and you get something\nyou want. That\u2019s what I say.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018_I_ want no more pets,\u2019 said the old lady stiffly.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, you won\u2019t be troubled with this one long,\u2019 said her son; \u2018it\u2019ll\ngo with me, and that\u2019s soon enough.\u2019\n\n\u201cAny allusion to his departure always melted the old lady, as Jack well\nknew. She became tearful, and begged him to leave the thrush with her.\n\n\u201c\u2018You know, my dear, I\u2019ve always looked to your live things as if they\nwere Christians; and loved them too (unless it was that monkey that I\nnever _could_ do with!) Leave it with me, my dear. I\u2019d never bother\nmyself with a bird on board ship, if I was you.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018That\u2019s because you\u2019ve got a handsome son of your own, old lady,\u2019\nchuckled the sailor; \u2018I\u2019ve neither chick nor child, ma\u2019am, remember, and\na man must have something to look to. The bird\u2019ll go with me.\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd so it came to pass that just when the thrush was becoming\ndomesticated, and almost happy at the cottage, that one morning the\nsailor brought him fresh turf and groundsel, besides his meal-cake, and\ntook the cage down. And the old woman kissed the wires, and bade the\nbird good-bye, and prayed Heaven to bring him safe home again; and they\nwent their way.\n\n\u201cThe forecastle of a steamship (even of a big one) is a poor exchange\nfor a snug cottage to any one but a sailor. To Jack, the ship was home.\n_He_ had never lived in a wood, and carrolled in tree-tops. He preferred\nblue to green, and pine masts to pine trees; and he smoked his pipe very\ncomfortably in the forecastle, whilst the ship rolled to and fro, and\nswung the bird\u2019s cage above his head. To the thrush it was only an\nimprisonment that grew worse as time went on. Each succeeding day made\nhim pine more bitterly for his native woods\u2014the fresh air and green\nleaves, and the rest and quiet, and sweet perfumes, and pleasant sounds\nof country life. His turf dried up, his groundsel withered, and no more\ncould be got. He longed even to be back with the old woman\u2014to see the\napple tree, and the window plants, and be still. The shudder of the\nscrew, the blasts of hot air from the engine and cook\u2019s galley, the\nceaseless jangling, clanging, pumping noises, and all the indescribable\nsmells which haunt a steamship, became more wearisome day by day. Even\nwhen the cage was hung outside, the sea breeze seemed to mock him with\nits freshness. The rich blue of the waters gave him no pleasure, his\neyes failed with looking for green, the bitter, salt spray vexed him,\nand the wind often chilled him to the bone, whilst the sun shone, and\nicebergs gleamed upon the horizon.\n\n\u201cThe sailor had been so kind a master, that the thrush had become deeply\nattached to him, as birds will; and while at the cottage he had scarcely\nfretted after his beloved wood. But with every hour of the voyage, home\nsickness came more strongly upon him, and his heart went back to the\nnest, and the pine-top, and the old home. When one sleeps soundly, it is\nseldom that one remembers one\u2019s dreams; but when one is apt to be roused\nby an unexpected lurch of the ship, by the moan of a fog-whistle, or the\nscream of an engine, one becomes a light sleeper, and the visions of the\nnight have a strange reality, and are easily recalled. And now the\nthrush always dreamt of home.\n\n\u201cOne day he was hung outside. It was not a very fine day, but he looked\ndrooping, and the pitying sailor brought him out, to get some air. His\nheart was sore with home sickness, and he watched the sea-birds skimming\nup and down with envious eyes. It seemed all very well for poor men, who\nhadn\u2019t so much as a wing to carry them over the water, to build\nlumbering sea-nests, with bodies to float in the water like fish, and\nwings of canvas to carry them along, and to help it out with noisy\nsteam-engines\u2014and to endure it all. But for him, who could fly over a\nhundred tree-tops before a man could climb to one, it was hard to swing\noutside a ship, and to watch other birds use their wings, when his,\nwhich quivered to fly homewards, could only flutter against the bars. As\nhe thought, a roll of the ship threw him forward, the wind shook the\nwires of the cage, and loosened the fastening; and, when the vessel\nrighted, the cage-door swung slowly open.\n\n\u201cAt this moment, a ray of sunshine streaked the deep blue water, and a\ngleaming sea-bird, which had been sitting like a tuft of foam upon a\nwave, rose with outstretched pinions, and soared away. It was too much.\nWith one shrill pipe of hope, the thrush fluttered from his cage, spread\nhis wings, and followed him.\n\n\u201cWhen the sailor found that the wind was getting up, he came to take the\ncage down, and then his grief was sore indeed.\n\n\u201c\u2018The canary died last voyage,\u2019 he said sadly. \u2018The cage was bought on a\nFriday, and I knew ill luck would come of it. I said so to mother; but\nthe old lady says there\u2019s no such thing as luck, and she\u2019s\nBible-learned, if ever a woman was. \u201cThat\u2019s very true,\u201d says I, \u201cbut if\nI\u2019d the money for another cage, I wouldn\u2019t use this;\u201d and I never will\nagain. Poor bird! it was a sweet singer.\u2019 And he turned his face aside.\n\n\u201c\u2018It may have the sense to come back,\u2019 said one of the crew. The sailor\nscratched his head, and shook it sadly.\n\n\u201c\u2018Noah\u2019s bird came back to him, when she found no rest,\u2019 he said, \u2018but I\ndon\u2019t think mine will, Tom.\u2019\n\n\u201cHe was right. The thrush returned no more. He did not know how wide was\nthe difference between his own strength and that of the bird he\nfollowed. The sea-fowl cut the air with wings of tenfold power; he\nswooped up and down, he stooped to fish, he rested on the ridges of the\ndancing waves, and then, with one steady flight, he disappeared, and the\nthrush was left alone. Other birds passed him, and flew about him, and\nfished, and rocked upon the waters near him, but he held steadily on.\nShips passed him also, but too far away for him to rest upon; whales\nspouted in the distance, and strange fowl screamed; but not a familiar\nobject broke the expanse of the cold sea. He did not know what course he\nwas taking. He hoped against hope that he was going home. Although he\nwas more faint and weary than he had ever yet been, he felt no pain. The\nintensity of his hope to reach the old wood made everything seem light;\neven at the last, when his wings were almost powerless, he believed that\nthey would bear him home, and was happy. Already he seemed to rest upon\nthe trees, the waters sounded in his ears like the rustling of leaves,\nand the familiar scent of the pine tree seemed to him to come upon the\nbreeze.\n\n\u201cIn this he was not wrong. A country of pine woods was near; and land\nwas in sight, though too far away for him to reach it now. Not home, but\nyet a land of wondrous summer beauty: of woods, and flowers, and\nsun-flecked leaves\u2014of sunshine more glowing than he had ever known\u2014of\nlarger ferns, and deeper mosses, and clearer skies\u2014a land of balmy\nsummer nights, where the stars shine brighter than with us, and where\nfireflies appear and vanish, like stars of a lower firmament, amid the\ntrees. As the sun broke out, the scent of pines came strong upon the\nland breeze. A strange land, but the thrush thought it was his own.\n\n\u201c\u2018I smell woods,\u2019 he chirped faintly; \u2018I see the sun. This is home!\u2019\n\n\u201cAll round him, the noisy crest of the fresh waves seemed to carol the\nsong he could no longer sing\u2014\u2018Home, home! fresh water and green woods,\nambrosial sunshine and sun-flecked shade, chattering brooks and rustling\nleaves, glade and sward and dell, lichens and cool mosses, feathered\nferns and flowers. Green leaves! green leaves! Summer! summer! summer!\u2019\n\n\u201cThe slackened wings dropped, the dying eyes looked landward, and then\nclosed. But even as he fell, he believed himself sinking to rest on\nMother Earth\u2019s kindly bosom, and he did not know it, when the cold waves\nburied him at sea.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, then, he _did_ die!\u201d cried the children, who thought they were\ntired of stories that end happily, yet, when they heard it, liked a sad\nending no better than other children do (in which, by-the-by, we hold\nthem to be in the right, and can hardly forgive ourselves for\nchronicling this \u201cower true tale\u201d).\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the old man, \u201che died; but it is said that the sweet dingle\nwhich was his home\u2014forsaken by the nightingale\u2014is regarded by birds as\nmen regard a haunted house; for that at still summer midnight, when the\nother thrushes sleep, a shadowy form, more like a skeleton leaf than a\nliving bird, swings upon the tall tree-tops where he sat of old, and,\nrapt in a happy ecstacy, sings a song more sweet and joyous than thrush\never sang by day.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you heard it?\u201d asked the children.\n\nThe old man nodded. But not another word would he say. The children,\nhowever, forthwith began to lay plans for getting into the wood some\nmidsummer night, to test with their own ears the truth of his story, and\nto hear the spectre thrush\u2019s song. Whether the authorities permitted the\nexpedition, and if not, whether the young people baffled their\nvigilance\u2014whether they heard the song, and if so, whether they\nunderstood it\u2014we are not empowered to tell here.\n\n\n\n\n                          CHRISTMAS CRACKERS.\n\n\n                              A FANTASIA.\n\nIt was Christmas Eve in an old-fashioned country-house, where Christmas\nwas being kept with old-fashioned form and custom. It was getting late.\nThe candles swaggered in their sockets, and the yule-log glowed steadily\nlike a red-hot coal.\n\n\u201cThe fire has reached his heart,\u201d said the tutor: \u201che is warm all\nthrough. How red he is! He shines with heat and hospitality like some\nwarm-hearted old gentleman when a convivial evening is pretty far\nadvanced. To-morrow he will be as cold and grey as the morning after a\nfestival, when the glasses are being washed up, and the host is\ncalculating his expenses. Yes! you know it is so;\u201d and the tutor nodded\nto the yule-log as he spoke; and the log flared and crackled in return,\ntill the tutor\u2019s face shone like his own. He had no other means of\nreply.\n\nThe tutor was grotesque-looking at any time. He was lank and meagre,\nwith a long body and limbs, and high shoulders. His face was\nsmooth-shaven, and his skin like old parchment stretched over high\ncheek-bones and lantern jaws; but in their hollow sockets his eyes\ngleamed with the changeful lustre of two precious gems. In the ruddy\nfirelight they were like rubies, and when he drew back into the shade\nthey glared green like the eyes of a cat. It must not be inferred from\nthe tutor\u2019s presence this evening that there were no Christmas holidays\nin this house. They had begun some days before; and if the tutor had had\na home to go to, it is to be presumed that he would have gone.\n\nAs the candles got lower, and the log flared less often, weird lights\nand shades, such as haunt the twilight, crept about the room. The\ntutor\u2019s shadow, longer, lanker, and more grotesque than himself, mopped\nand mowed upon the wall beside him. The snapdragon burnt blue, and as\nthe raisin-hunters stirred the flaming spirit, the ghastly light made\nthe tutor look so hideous that the widow\u2019s little boy was on the eve of\nhowling, and spilled the raisins he had just secured. (He did not like\nputting his fingers into the flames, but he hovered near the more\nadventurous school-boys, and collected the raisins that were scattered\non the table by the hasty _grabs_ of braver hands.)\n\nThe widow was a relative of the house. She had married a Mr. Jones, and\nhaving been during his life his devoted slave, had on his death\ntransferred her allegiance to his son. The late Mr. Jones was a small\nman with a strong temper, a large appetite, and a taste for drawing-room\ntheatricals. So Mrs. Jones had called her son Macready; \u201cfor,\u201d she said,\n\u201chis poor papa would have made a fortune on the stage, and I wish to\ncommemorate his talents. Besides, Macready sounds better with Jones than\na commoner Christian name would do.\u201d\n\nBut his cousins called him MacGreedy.\n\n\u201cThe apples of the enchanted garden were guarded by dragons. Many\nknights went after them. One wished for the apples, but he did not like\nto fight the dragons.\u201d\n\nIt was the tutor who spoke from the dark corner by the fireplace. His\neyes shone like a cat\u2019s, and MacGreedy felt like a half-scared mouse,\nand made up his mind to cry. He put his right fist into one eye, and had\njust taken it out, and was about to put his left fist into the other,\nwhen he saw that the tutor was no longer looking at him. So he made up\nhis mind to go on with the raisins, for one can have a peevish cry at\nany time, but plums are not scattered broadcast every day. Several times\nhe had tried to pocket them, but just at the moment the tutor was sure\nto look at him, and in his fright he dropped the raisins, and never\ncould find them again. So this time he resolved to eat them then and\nthere. He had just put one into his mouth when the tutor leaned forward,\nand his eyes, glowing in the fire-light, met MacGreedy\u2019s, who had not\neven the presence of mind to shut his mouth, but remained spellbound,\nwith a raisin in his cheek.\n\nFlicker, flack! The school-boys stirred up snapdragon again, and with\nthe blue light upon his features the tutor made so horrible a grimace\nthat MacGreedy swallowed the raisin with a start. He had bolted it\nwhole, and it might have been a bread pill for any enjoyment he had of\nthe flavor. But the tutor laughed aloud. He certainly was an alarming\nobject, pulling those grimaces in the blue brandy glare; and\nunpleasantly like a picture of Bogy himself with horns and a tail, in a\njuvenile volume upstairs. True, there were no horns to speak of among\nthe tutor\u2019s grizzled curls, and his coat seemed to fit as well as most\npeople\u2019s on his long back, so that unless he put his tail in his pocket,\nit is difficult to see how he could have had one. But then (as Miss\nLetitia said) \u201cWith dress one can do anything and hide anything.\u201d And on\ndress Miss Letitia\u2019s opinion was final.\n\nMiss Letitia was a cousin. She was dark, high-colored, glossy-haired,\nstout, and showy. She was as neat as a new pin, and had a will of her\nown. Her hair was firmly fixed by bandoline, her garibaldis by an\narrangement which failed when applied to those of the widow, and her\nopinions by the simple process of looking at everything from one point\nof view. Her _forte_ was dress and general ornamentation; not that Miss\nLetitia was extravagant\u2014far from it. If one may use the expression, she\nutilized for ornament a hundred bits and scraps that most people would\nhave wasted. But, like other artists, she saw everything through the\nmedium of her own art. She looked at birds with an eye to hats, and at\nflowers with reference to evening parties. At picture exhibitions and\nconcerts she carried away jacket patterns and bonnets in her head, as\nother people make mental notes of an aerial effect, or a bit of fine\ninstrumentation. An enthusiastic horticulturist once sent Miss Letitia a\ncut specimen of a new flower. It was a lovely spray from a\nlately-imported shrub. A botanist would have pressed it\u2014an artist must\nhave taken its portrait\u2014a poet might have written a sonnet in praise of\nits beauty. Miss Letitia twisted a piece of wire round its stem, and\nfastened it on to her black lace bonnet. It came on the day of a review,\nwhen Miss Letitia had to appear in a carriage, and it was quite a\nsuccess. As she said to the widow, \u201cIt was so natural that no one could\ndoubt its being Parisian.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat a strange fellow that tutor is!\u201d said the visitor. He spoke to the\ndaughter of the house, a girl with a face like a summer\u2019s day, and hair\nlike a ripe corn-field rippling in the sun. He was a fine young man, and\nhad a youth\u2019s taste for the sports and amusements of his age. But lately\nhe had changed. He seemed to himself to be living in a higher, nobler\natmosphere than hitherto. He had discovered that he was poetical\u2014he\nmight prove to be a genius. He certainly was eloquent, he could talk for\nhours and did so\u2014to the young lady with the sunshiny face. They spoke\non the highest subjects, and what a listener she was! So intelligent and\nappreciative, and with such an exquisite _pose_ of the head\u2014it must\ninspire a block of wood merely to see such a creature in a listening\nattitude. As to our young friend, he poured forth volumes; he was really\nclever, and for her he became eloquent. To-night he spoke of Christmas,\nof time-honored custom and old association; and what he said would have\nmade a Christmas article for a magazine of the first class. He poured\nscorn on the cold nature that could not, and the affectation that would\nnot, appreciate the domestic festivities of this sacred season.\n\nWhat, he asked, could be more delightful, more perfect, than such a\ngathering as this, of the family circle round the Christmas hearth? He\nspoke with feeling, and it may be said with disinterested feeling, for\nhe had not joined his family circle himself this Christmas, and there\nwas a vacant place by the hearth of his own home.\n\n\u201cHe is strange,\u201d said the young lady (she spoke of the tutor in answer\nto the above remark); \u201cbut I am very fond of him. He has been with us so\nlong he is like one of the family; though we know as little of his\nhistory as we did on the day he came.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe looks clever,\u201d said the visitor. (Perhaps that is the least one can\nsay for a fellow-creature who shows a great deal of bare skull, and is\nnot otherwise good-looking.)\n\n\u201cHe is clever,\u201d she answered, \u201cwonderfully clever; so clever and so odd\nthat sometimes I fancy he is hardly \u2018canny.\u2019 There is something almost\nsupernatural about his acuteness and his ingenuity, but they are so\nkindly used; I wonder he has not brought out any playthings for us\nto-night.\u201d\n\n\u201cPlaythings?\u201d inquired the young man.\n\n\u201cYes; on birthdays or festivals like this he generally brings something\nout of those huge pockets of his. He has been all over the world, and he\nproduces Indian puzzles, Japanese flower-buds that bloom in hot water,\nand German toys with complicated machinery, which I suspect him of\nmanufacturing himself. I call him God-papa Drosselmayer, after that\ndelightful old fellow in Hoffman\u2019s tale of the Nut Cracker.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that about crackers?\u201d inquired the tutor, sharply, his eyes\nchanging color like a fire opal.\n\n\u201cI am talking of _Nussknacker und Mausek\u00f6nig_,\u201d laughed the young lady.\n\u201cCrackers do not belong to Christmas; fireworks come on the fifth of\nNovember.\u201d\n\n\u201cTut, tut!\u201d said the tutor; \u201cI always tell your ladyship that you are\nstill a tom-boy at heart, as when I first came, and you climbed trees\nand pelted myself and my young students with horse-chestnuts. You think\nof crackers to explode at the heels of timorous old gentlemen in a\nNovember fog; but I mean bonbon crackers, colored crackers, dainty\ncrackers\u2014crackers for young people with mottoes of sentiment\u201d\u2014(here\nthe tutor shrugged his high shoulders an inch or two higher, and turned\nthe palms of his hands outwards with a glance indescribably\ncomical)\u2014\u201ccrackers with paper prodigies, crackers with\nsweetmeats\u2014_such_ sweetmeats!\u201d He smacked his lips with a grotesque\ncontortion, and looked at Master MacGreedy, who choked himself with his\nlast raisin, and forthwith burst into tears.\n\nThe widow tried in vain to soothe him with caresses, he only stamped and\nhowled the more. But Miss Letitia gave him some smart smacks on the\nshoulders to cure his choking fit, and as she kept up the treatment with\nvigor the young gentleman was obliged to stop and assure her that the\nraisin had \u201cgone the right way\u201d at last. \u201cIf he were my child,\u201d Miss\nLetitia had been known to observe, with that confidence which\ncharacterises the theories of those who are not parents, \u201cI would &c.\n&c. &c.;\u201d in fact, Miss Letitia thought she would have made a different\nboy of him\u2014as, indeed, I believe she would.\n\n\u201cAre crackers all that you have for us, sir?\u201d asked one of the two\nschool-boys, as they hung over the tutor\u2019s chair. They were twins, grand\nboys, with broad, good-humored faces, and curly wigs, as like as two\npuppy dogs of the same breed. They were only known apart by their\nintimate friends, and were always together, romping, laughing, snarling,\nsquabbling, huffing and helping each other against the world. Each of\nthem owned a wiry terrier, and in their relations to each other the two\ndogs (who were marvellously alike) closely followed the example of their\nmasters.\n\n\u201cDo you not care for crackers, Jim?\u201d asked the tutor.\n\n\u201cNot much, sir. They do for girls: but, as you know, I care for nothing\nbut military matters. Do you remember that beautiful toy of yours\u2014\u2018The\nBesieged City?\u2019 Ah! I liked that. Look out, Tom! you\u2019re shoving my arm.\nCan\u2019t you stand straight, man?\u201d\n\n\u201cR-r-r-r\u2014r-r, snap!\u201d\n\nTom\u2019s dog was resenting contact with Jim\u2019s dog on the hearthrug. There\nwas a hustle among the four, and then they subsided.\n\n\u201cThe Besieged City was all very well for you, Jim,\u201d said Tom, who meant\nto be a sailor; \u201cbut please to remember that it admitted of no attack\nfrom the sea; and what was there for me to do? Ah, sir! you are so\nclever, I often think you could help me to make a swing with ladders\ninstead of single ropes, so that I could run up and down the rigging\nwhilst it was in full go.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat would be something like your fir-tree prank, Tom,\u201d said his\nsister. \u201cCan you believe,\u201d she added, turning to the visitor, \u201cthat Tom\nlopped the branches of a tall young fir-tree all the way up, leaving\nlittle bits for foothold, and then climbed up it one day in an awful\nstorm of wind, and clung on at the top, rocking backwards and forwards?\nAnd when papa sent word for him to come down, he said parental authority\nwas superseded at sea by the rules of the service. It was a dreadful\nstorm, and the tree snapped very soon after he got safe to the ground.\u201d\n\n\u201cStorm!\u201d sneered Tom, \u201ca capful of wind. Well, it did blow half a gale\nat the last. But oh! it was glorious!\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us see what we can make of the crackers,\u201d said the tutor\u2014and he\npulled some out of his pocket. They were put in a dish upon the table,\nfor the company to choose from; and the terriers jumped and snapped, and\ntumbled over each other, for they thought that the plate contained\neatables. Animated by the same idea, but with quieter steps, Master\nMacGreedy also approached the table.\n\n\u201cThe dogs are noisy,\u201d said the tutor, \u201ctoo noisy. We must have\nquiet\u2014peace and quiet.\u201d His lean hand was once more in his pocket, and\nhe pulled out a box, from which he took some powder, which he scattered\non the burning log. A slight smoke now rose from the hot embers, and\nfloated into the room. Was the powder one of those strange compounds\nthat act upon the brain? Was it a magician\u2019s powder? Who knows? With it\ncame a sweet, subtile fragrance. It is strange\u2014every one fancied he had\nsmelt it before, and all were absorbed in wondering what it was, and\nwhere they had met with it. Even the dogs sat on their haunches with\ntheir noses up, sniffing in a speculative manner.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s not lavender,\u201d said the grandmother slowly, \u201cand it\u2019s not\nrosemary. There is a something of tansy in it (and a very fine tonic\nflavor too, my dears, though it\u2019s _not_ in fashion now). Depend upon it,\nit\u2019s a potpourri, and from an excellent receipt, sir\u201d\u2014and the old lady\nbowed courteously towards the tutor. \u201cMy mother made the best potpourri\nin the county, and it was very much like this. Not quite, perhaps, but\nmuch the same, much the same.\u201d\n\nThe grandmother was a fine old gentlewoman \u201cof the old school,\u201d as the\nphrase is. She was very stately and gracious in her manners, daintily\nneat in her person, and much attached to the old parson of the parish,\nwho now sat near her chair. All her life she had been very proud of her\nfine stock of fair linen, both household and personal; and for many\nyears past had kept her own grave-clothes ready in a drawer. They were\nbleached as white as snow, and lay amongst bags of dry lavender and\npotpourri. Many times had it seemed likely that they would be needed,\nfor the old lady had had severe illnesses of late, when the good parson\nsat by her bedside, and read to her of the coming of the Bridegroom, and\nof that \u201cfine linen, clean and white,\u201d which is \u201cthe righteousness of\nthe saints.\u201d It was of that drawer, with its lavender and potpourri\nbags, that the scented smoke had reminded her.\n\n\u201cIt has rather an overpowering odor,\u201d said the old parson, \u201cit is\nsuggestive of incense. I am sure I once smelt something like it in the\nChurch of the Nativity at Bethlehem. It is very delicious.\u201d\n\nThe parson\u2019s long residence in his parish had been marked by one great\nholiday. With the savings of many years he had performed a pilgrimage to\nthe Holy Land; and it was rather a joke against him that he illustrated\na large variety of subjects by the reference to his favorite topic, the\nholiday of his life.\n\n\u201cIt smells of gunpowder,\u201d said Jim, decidedly, \u201cand something else. I\ncan\u2019t tell what.\u201d\n\n\u201cSomething one smells in a seaport town,\u201d said Tom.\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t be very delicious then,\u201d Jim retorted.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s not _quite_ the same,\u201d piped the widow; \u201cbut it reminds me very\nmuch of an old bottle of attar of roses that was given to me when I was\nat school, with a copy of verses, by a young gentleman who was brother\nto one of the pupils. I remember Mr. Jones was quite annoyed when he\nfound it in an old box, where I am sure I had not touched it for ten\nyears or more; and I never spoke to him but once, on Examination Day\n(the young gentleman, I mean). And it\u2019s like\u2014yes, it\u2019s certainly like a\nhair-wash Mr. Jones used to use. I\u2019ve forgotten what it was called, but\nI know it cost fifteen shillings a bottle; and Macready threw one over a\nfew weeks before his dear papa\u2019s death, and annoyed him extremely.\u201d\n\nWhilst the company were thus engaged, Master MacGreedy took advantage of\nthe general abstraction to secure half a dozen crackers to his own\nshare; he retired to a corner with them, where he meant to pick them\nquietly to pieces by himself. He wanted the gay paper, and the motto,\nand the sweetmeats; but he did not like the report of the cracker. And\nthen what he did want, he wanted all to himself.\n\n\u201cGive us a cracker,\u201d said Master Jim, dreamily.\n\nThe dogs, after a few dissatisfied snorts, had dropped from their\nsitting posture, and were lying close together on the rug, dreaming, and\nuttering short commenting barks and whines at intervals. The twins were\nnow reposing lazily at the tutor\u2019s feet, and did not feel disposed to\nexert themselves even so far as to fetch their own bonbons.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s one,\u201d said the tutor, taking a fresh cracker from his pocket.\nOne end of it was of red and gold paper, the other of transparent green\nstuff with silver lines. The boys pulled it.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nThe report was louder than Jim had expected.\n\n\u201cThe firing has begun,\u201d he murmured, involuntarily; \u201csteady, steady!\u201d\nthese last words were to his horse, who seemed to be moving under him,\nnot from fear, but from impatience.\n\nWhat had been the red and gold paper of the cracker was now the scarlet\nand gold lace of his own cavalry uniform. He knocked a speck from his\nsleeve, and scanned the distant ridge, from which a thin line of smoke\nfloated solemnly away, with keen, impatient eyes. Were they to stand\ninactive all the day?\n\nPresently the horse erects his head. His eyes sparkle\u2014he pricks his\nsensitive ears\u2014his nostrils quiver with a strange delight. It is the\ntrumpet! Fan farr\u00e2! Fan farr\u00e2! The brazen voice speaks\u2014the horses\nmove\u2014the plumes wave\u2014the helmets shine. On a summer\u2019s day they ride\nslowly, gracefully, calmly down a slope, to Death or Glory. Fan farr\u00e2!\nFan farr\u00e2! Fan farr\u00e2!\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nOf all this Master Tom knew nothing. The report of the cracker seemed to\nhim only an echo in his brain of a sound that had been in his ears for\nthirty-six weary hours. The noise of a heavy sea beating against the\nship\u2019s side in a gale. It was over now, and he was keeping the midnight\nwatch on deck, gazing upon the liquid green of the waves, which heaving\nand seething after storm, were lit with phosphoric light, and as the\nship held steadily on her course, poured past at the rate of twelve\nknots an hour in a silvery stream. Faster than any ship can sail his\nthoughts travelled home, and as old times came back to him, he hardly\nknew whether what he looked at was the phosphor-lighted sea, or green\ngelatine paper barred with silver. And did the tutor speak? Or was it\nthe voice of some sea monster sounding in his ears?\n\n\u201cThe spirits of the storm have gone below to make their report. The\ntreasure gained from sunk vessels has been reckoned, and the sea is\nilluminated in honor of the spoil.\u201d\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nThe visitor now took a cracker and held it to the young lady. Her end\nwas of white paper with a raised pattern; his of dark-blue gelatine with\ngold stars. It snapped, the bonbon dropped between them, and the young\nman got the motto. It was a very bald one\u2014\n\n                        \u201cMy heart is thine.\n                        Wilt thou be mine?\u201d\n\nHe was ashamed to show it to her. What could be more meagre? One could\nwrite a hundred better couplets \u201cstanding on one leg,\u201d as the saying is.\nHe was trying to improvise just one for the occasion, when he became\naware that the blue sky over his head was dark with the shades of night,\nand lighted with stars. A brook rippled near with a soothing monotony.\nThe evening wind sighed through the trees, and wafted the fragrance of\nthe sweet bay-leaved willow towards him, and blew a stray lock of hair\nagainst his face. Yes! _She_ also was there, walking beside him, under\nthe scented willow bushes. Where, why, and whither he did not ask to\nknow. She was with him\u2014with him; and he seemed to tread on the summer\nair. He had no doubt as to the nature of his own feelings for her, and\nhere was such an opportunity for declaring them as might never occur\nagain. Surely now, if ever, he would be eloquent! Thoughts of poetry\nclothed in words of fire must spring unbidden to his lips at such a\nmoment. And yet somehow he could not find a single word to say. He beat\nhis brains, but not an idea would come forth. Only that idiotic cracker\nmotto, which haunted him with its meagre couplet.\n\n                        \u201cMy heart is thine,\n                        Wilt thou be mine?\u201d\n\nMeanwhile they wandered on. The precious time was passing. He must at\nleast make a beginning.\n\n\u201cWhat a fine night it is!\u201d he observed. But, oh dear! That was a\nthousand times balder and more meagre than the cracker motto; and not\nanother word could he find to say. At this moment the awkward silence\nwas broken by a voice from a neighboring copse. It was a nightingale\nsinging to his mate. There was no lack of eloquence, and of melodious\neloquence, there. The song was as plaintive as old memories, and as full\nof tenderness as the eyes of the young girl were full of tears. They\nwere standing still now, and with her graceful head bent she was\nlistening to the bird. He stooped his head near hers, and spoke with a\nsimple natural outburst almost involuntary.\n\n\u201cDo you ever think of old times? Do you remember the old house, and the\nfun we used to have? and the tutor whom you pelted with horse-chestnuts\nwhen you were a little girl? And those cracker bonbons, and the motto\n_we_ drew\u2014\n\n                        \u2018My heart is thine.\n                        Wilt thou be mine?\u2019\u201d\n\nShe smiled, and lifted her eyes (\u201cblue as the sky, and bright as the\nstars,\u201d he thought) to his, and answered \u201cYes.\u201d\n\nThen the bonbon motto was avenged, and there was silence. Eloquent,\nperfect, complete, beautiful silence! Only the wind sighed through the\nfragrant willows, the stream rippled, the stars shone and in the\nneighboring copse the nightingale sang, and sang, and sang.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nWhen the white end of the cracker came into the young lady\u2019s hand, she\nwas full of admiration for the fine raised pattern. As she held it\nbetween her fingers it suddenly struck her that she had discovered what\nthe tutor\u2019s fragrant smoke smelt like. It was like the scent of\norange-flowers, and had certainly a soporific effect upon the senses.\nShe felt very sleepy, and as she stroked the shiny surface of the\ncracker she found herself thinking it was very soft for paper, and then\nrousing herself with a start, and wondering at her own folly in speaking\nthus of the white silk in which she was dressed, and of which she was\nholding up the skirt between her finger and thumb, as if she were\ndancing a minuet.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s grandmamma\u2019s egg-shell brocade!\u201d she cried. \u201cOh, Grandmamma! Have\nyou given it to me? That lovely old thing! But I thought it was the\nfamily wedding-dress, and that I was not to have it till I was a bride.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so you are, my dear. And a fairer bride the sun never shone on,\u201d\nsobbed the old lady, who was kissing and blessing her, and wishing her,\nin the words of the old formula\u2014\n\n                           \u201cHealth to wear it,\n                           Strength to tear it,\n                     And money to buy another.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is no hope for the last two things, you know,\u201d said the young\ngirl; \u201cfor I am sure that the flag that braved a thousand years was not\nhalf so strong as your brocade; and as to buying another, there are none\nto be bought in these degenerate days.\u201d\n\nThe old lady\u2019s reply was probably very gracious, for she liked to be\ncomplimented on the virtues of old things in general, and of her\negg-shell brocade in particular. But of what she said her granddaughter\nheard nothing. With the strange irregularity of dreams, she found\nherself, she knew not how, in the old church. It was true. She was a\nbride, standing there with old friends and old associations thick around\nher, on the threshold of a new life. The sun shone through the stained\nglass of the windows, and illuminated the brocade, whose old-fashioned\nstiffness so became her childish beauty, and flung a thousand new tints\nover her sunny hair, and drew so powerful a fragrance from the orange\nblossom with which it was twined, that it was almost overpowering. Yes!\nIt was too sweet\u2014too strong. She certainly would not be able to bear it\nmuch longer without losing her senses. And the service was going on. A\nquestion had been asked of her, and she must reply. She made a strong\neffort, and said \u201cYes,\u201d simply and very earnestly, for it was what she\nmeant. But she had no sooner said it than she became uneasily conscious\nthat she had not used the right word. Some one laughed. It was the\ntutor, and his voice jarred and disturbed the dream, as a stone troubles\nthe surface of still water. The vision trembled, and then broke, and the\nyoung lady found herself still sitting by the table and fingering the\ncracker paper, whilst the tutor chuckled and rubbed his hands by the\nfire, and his shadow scrambled on the wall like an ape upon a tree. But\nher \u201cYes\u201d had passed into the young man\u2019s dream without disturbing it,\nand he dreamt on.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nIt was a cracker like the preceding one that the grandmother and the\nparson pulled together. The old lady had insisted upon it. The good\nrector had shown a tendency to low spirits this evening, and a wish to\nwithdraw early. But the old lady did not approve of people \u201cshirking\u201d\n(as boys say) either their duties or their pleasures; and to keep a\n\u201cmerry Christmas\u201d in a family circle that has been spared to meet in\nhealth and happiness, seemed to her to be both the one and the other.\n\nIt was his sermon for next day which weighed on the parson\u2019s mind. Not\nthat he was behindhand with that part of his duties. He was far too\nmethodical in his habits for that, and it had been written before the\nbustle of Christmas week began. But after preaching Christmas sermons\nfrom the same pulpit for thirty-five years, he felt keenly how difficult\nit is to awaken due interest in subjects that are so familiar, and to\ngive due force to lessons so often repeated. So he wanted a quiet hour\nin his own study before he went to rest, with the sermon that did not\nsatisfy him, and the subject that should be so heart-stirring and ever\nnew\u2014the Story of Bethlehem.\n\nHe consented, however, to pull one cracker with the grandmother, though\nhe feared the noise might startle her nerves, and said so.\n\n\u201cNerves were not invented in my young days,\u201d said the old lady, firmly;\nand she took her part in the ensuing explosion without so much as a\nwink.\n\nAs the crackers snapped, it seemed to the parson as if the fragrant\nsmoke from the yule-log were growing denser in the room. Through the\nmist from time to time the face of the tutor loomed large, and then\ndisappeared. At last the clouds rolled away, and the parson breathed\nclear air. Clear, yes, and how clear! This brilliant freshness, these\nintense lights and shadows, this mildness and purity in the night\nair\u2014\u2014\n\n\u201cIt is not England,\u201d he muttered, \u201cit is the East. I have felt no air\nlike this since I breathed the air of Palestine.\u201d\n\nOver his head, through immeasurable distances, the dark-blue space was\nlighted by the great multitude of the stars, whose glittering ranks have\nin that atmosphere a distinctness and a glory unseen with us. Perhaps no\nscene of beauty in the visible creation has proved a more hackneyed\ntheme for the poet and the philosopher than a starry night. But not all\nthe superabundance of simile and moral illustration with which the\nsubject has been loaded can rob the beholder of the freshness of its\ngrandeur or the force of its teaching; that noblest and most majestic\nvision of the handiwork of God on which the eye of man is here permitted\nto rest.\n\nAs the parson gazed he became conscious that he was not alone. Other\neyes beside his were watching the skies to-night. Dark, profound,\npatient, eastern eyes, used from the cradle to the grave to watch and\nwait. The eyes of star-gazers and dream-interpreters; men who believed\nthe fate of empires to be written in shining characters on the face of\nheaven, as the \u201cMene, Mene,\u201d was written in fire on the walls of the\nBabylonian palace. The old parson was one of the many men of real\nlearning and wide reading who pursue their studies in the quiet country\nparishes of England, and it was with the keen interest of intelligence\nthat he watched the group of figures that lay near him.\n\n\u201cIs this a vision of the past?\u201d he asked himself. \u201cThere can be no doubt\nas to these men. They are star-gazers, magi, and, from their dress and\nbearing, men of high rank; perhaps \u2018teachers of a higher wisdom\u2019 in one\nof the purest philosophies of the old heathen world. When one thinks,\u201d\nhe pursued, \u201cof the intense interest, the eager excitement which the\nstudent of history finds in the narrative of the past as unfolded in\ndusty records written by the hand of man, one may realize how absorbing\nmust have been that science which professed to unveil the future, and to\ndisplay to the eyes of the wise the fate of dynasties written with the\nfinger of God amid the stars.\u201d\n\nThe dark-robed figures were so still that they might almost have been\ncarved in stone. The air seemed to grow purer and purer; the stars shone\nbrighter and brighter; suspended in ether the planets seemed to hang\nlike lamps. Now a shooting meteor passed athwart the sky, and vanished\nbehind the hill. But not for this did the watchers move; in silence they\nwatched on\u2014till, on a sudden, how and whence the parson knew not,\nacross the shining ranks of that immeasurable host, whose names and\nnumber are known to God alone, there passed in slow but obvious motion\none brilliant solitary star\u2014a star of such surpassing brightness that\nhe involuntarily joined in the wild cry of joy and greeting with which\nthe Men of the East now prostrated themselves with their faces to the\nearth.\n\nHe could not understand the language in which, with noisy clamor and\ngesticulation, they broke their former profound and patient silence, and\ngreeted the portent for which they had watched. But he knew now that\nthese were the Wise Men of the Epiphany, and that this was the Star of\nBethlehem. In his ears rang the energetic simplicity of the Gospel\nnarrative, \u201cWhen they saw the Star, they rejoiced with exceeding great\njoy.\u201d\n\nWith exceeding great joy! Ah! happy magi, who (more blest than Balaam\nthe son of Beor), were faithful to the dim light vouchsafed to you; the\nGentile church may well be proud of your memory. Ye travelled long and\nfar to bring royal offerings to the King of the Jews, with a faith not\nfound in Israel. Ye saw him whom prophets and kings had desired to see,\nand were glad. Wise men indeed, and wise with the highest wisdom, in\nthat ye suffered yourselves to be taught of God.\n\nThen the parson prayed that if this were indeed a dream he might dream\non; might pass, if only in a vision, over the hill, following the\nfootsteps of the magi, whilst the Star went before them, till he should\nsee it rest above that city, which, little indeed among the thousands of\nJudah, was yet the birthplace of the Lord\u2019s Christ.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d he almost sobbed, \u201clet me follow! On my knees let me follow into\nthe house and see the Holy Child. In the eyes of how many babies I have\nseen mind and thought far beyond their powers of communication, every\nmother knows. But if at times, with a sort of awe, one sees the immortal\nsoul shining through the prison-bars of helpless infancy, what, oh! what\nmust it be to behold the Godhead veiled in flesh through the face of a\nlittle child!\u201d\n\nThe parson stretched out his arms, but even with the passion of his\nwords the vision began to break. He dared not move for fear it should\nutterly fade, and as he lay still and silent, the wise men roused their\nfollowers, and led by the Star, the train passed solemnly over the\ndistant hills.\n\nThen the clear night became clouded with fragrant vapor, and with a sigh\nthe parson awoke.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nWhen the cracker snapped and the white end was left in the grandmother\u2019s\nhand, she was astonished to perceive (as she thought) that the white\nlace veil which she had worn over her wedding bonnet was still in her\npossession, and that she was turning it over in her fingers. \u201cI fancied\nI gave it to Jemima when her first baby was born,\u201d she muttered\ndreamily. It was darned and yellow, but it carried her back all the\nsame, and recalled happy hours with wonderful vividness. She remembered\nthe post-chaise and the postillion. \u201cHe was such a pert little fellow,\nand how we laughed at him! He must be either dead or a very shaky old\nman by now,\u201d said the old lady. She seemed to smell the scent of\nmeadow-sweet that was so powerful in a lane through which they drove;\nand how clearly she could see the clean little country inn where they\nspent the honeymoon! She seemed to be there now, taking off her bonnet\nand shawl, in the quaint clean chamber, with the heavy oak rafters, and\nthe jasmine coming in at the window, and glancing with pardonable pride\nat the fair face reflected in the mirror. But as she laid her things on\nthe patchwork coverlet, it seemed to her that the lace veil became fine\nwhite linen, and was folded about a figure that lay in the bed; and when\nshe looked round the room again everything was draped in white\u2014white\nblinds hung before the windows, and even the old oak chest and the press\nwere covered with clean white cloths, after the decent custom of the\ncountry; whilst from the church tower without the passing bell tolled\nslowly. She had not seen the face of the corpse, and a strange anxiety\ncame over her to count the strokes of the bell, which tell if it is a\nman, woman, or child who has passed away. One, two, three, four, five,\nsix, seven! No more. It was a woman, and when she looked on the face of\nthe dead she saw her own. But even as she looked the fair linen of the\ngrave clothes became the buoyant drapery of another figure, in whose\nface she found a strange recognition of the lineaments of the dead, with\nall the loveliness of the bride. But ah! more, much more! On that face\nthere was a beauty not doomed to wither, before those happy eyes lay a\nfuture unshadowed by the imperfections of earthly prospects, and the\nfolds of that robe were white as no fuller on earth can white them. The\nwindow curtain parted, the jasmine flowers bowed their heads, the spirit\npassed from the chamber of death, and the old lady\u2019s dream was ended.\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nMiss Letitia had shared a cracker with the widow. The widow squeaked\nwhen the cracker went off, and then insisted upon giving up the smart\npaper and everything to Miss Letitia. She had always given up everything\nto Mr. Jones, she did so now to Master MacGreedy, and was quite\nunaccustomed to keep anything for her own share. She did not give this\nexplanation herself, but so it was.\n\nThe cracker that thus fell into the hands of Miss Letitia was one of\nthose new-fashioned ones that have a paper pattern of some article of\ndress wrapped up in them instead of a bonbon. This one was a paper\nbonnet made in the latest _mode_\u2014of green tissue paper; and Miss\nLetitia stuck it on the top of her chignon with an air that the widow\nenvied from the bottom of her heart. She had not the gift of \u201ccarrying\noff\u201d her clothes. But to the tutor, on the contrary, it seemed to afford\nthe most extreme amusement; and as Miss Letitia bowed gracefully hither\nand thither in the energy of her conversation with the widow, the green\npaper fluttering with each emphasis, he fairly shook with delight, his\nshadow dancing like a maniac beside him. He had scattered some more\npowder on the coals, and it may have been that the smoke got into her\neyes, and confused her ideas of color, but Miss Letitia was struck with\na fervid and otherwise unaccountable admiration for the paper ends of\nthe cracker, which were most unusually ugly. One was of a sallowish\nsalmon-color, and transparent, the other was of brick-red paper with a\nfringe. As Miss Letitia turned them over, she saw, to her unspeakable\ndelight, that there were several yards of each material, and her\npeculiar genius instantly seized upon the fact that in the present rage\nfor double skirts there might be enough of the two kinds to combine into\na fashionable dress.\n\nIt had never struck her before that a dirty salmon went well with brick\nred. \u201cThey blend so becomingly, my dear,\u201d she murmured; \u201cand I think the\nunder skirt will sit well, it is so stiff.\u201d\n\nThe widow did not reply. The fumes of the tutor\u2019s compound made her\nsleepy, and though she nodded to Miss Letitia\u2019s observations, it was\nless from appreciation of their force, than from inability to hold up\nher head. She was dreaming uneasy, horrible dreams, like nightmares; in\nwhich from time to time there mingled expressions of doubt and\ndissatisfaction which fell from Miss Letitia\u2019s lips. \u201cJust half a yard\nshort\u2014no gores\u2014false hem\u201d (and the melancholy reflection that)\n\u201cflounces take so much stuff.\u201d Then the tutor\u2019s face kept appearing and\nvanishing with horrible grimaces through the mist. At last the widow\nfell fairly asleep, and dreamed that she was married to the Blue Beard\nof nursery annals, and that on his return from his memorable journey he\nhad caught her in the act of displaying the mysterious cupboard to Miss\nLetitia. As he waved his scimitar over her head, he seemed unaccountably\nto assume the form and features of the tutor. In her agitation the poor\nwoman could think of no plea against his severity, except that the\ncupboard was already crammed with the corpses of his previous wives, and\nthat there was no room for her. She was pleading this argument when Miss\nLetitia\u2019s voice broke in upon her dream with decisive accent:\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s enough for two bodies.\u201d\n\nThe widow shrieked and awoke.\n\n\u201cHigh and low,\u201d explained Miss Letitia. \u201cMy dear, what _are_ you\nscreaming about?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am very sorry indeed,\u201d said the widow; \u201cI beg your pardon, I am sure,\na thousand times. But since Mr. Jones\u2019s death I have been so nervous,\nand I had such a horrible dream. And, oh dear! oh dear!\u201d she added,\n\u201cwhat is the matter with my precious child? Macready, love, come to your\nmamma, my pretty lamb.\u201d\n\nUgh! ugh! There were groans from the corner where Master MacGreedy sat\non his crackers as if they were eggs, and he hatching them. He had only\ntouched one, as yet, of the stock he had secured. He had picked it to\npieces, had avoided the snap, and had found a large comfit like an egg\nwith a rough shell inside. Every one knows that the goodies in crackers\nare not of a very superior quality. There is a large amount of white\nlead in the outside thinly disguised by a shabby flavor of sugar. But\nthat outside once disposed of, there lies an almond at the core. Now an\nalmond is a very delicious thing in itself, and doubly nice when it\ntakes the taste of white paint and chalk out of one\u2019s mouth. But in\nspite of all the white lead and sugar and chalk through which he had\nsucked his way, MacGreedy could not come to the almond. A dozen times\nhad he been on the point of spitting out the delusive sweetmeat; but\njust as he thought of it he was sure to feel a bit of hard rough edge,\nand thinking he had gained the kernel at last, he held valiantly on. It\nonly proved to be a rough bit of sugar, however, and still the\ninterminable coating melted copiously in his mouth; and still the clean,\nfragrant almond evaded his hopes. At last with a groan he spat the\nseemingly undiminished bonbon on to the floor, and turned as white and\ntrembling as an arrow-root blancmange.\n\nIn obedience to the widow\u2019s entreaties the tutor opened a window, and\ntried to carry MacGreedy to the air; but that young gentleman utterly\nrefused to allow the tutor to approach him, and was borne howling to bed\nby his mamma.\n\nWith the fresh air the fumes of the fragrant smoke dispersed, and the\ncompany roused themselves.\n\n\u201cRather oppressive, eh?\u201d said the master of the house, who had had his\ndream too, with which we have no concern.\n\nThe dogs had had theirs also, and had testified to the same in their\nsleep by low growls and whines. Now they shook themselves, and rubbed\nagainst each other, growling in a warlike manner through their teeth,\nand wagging peaceably with their little stumpy tails.\n\nThe twins shook themselves, and fell to squabbling as to whether they\nhad been to sleep or no; and, if either, which of them had given way to\nthat weakness.\n\nMiss Letitia took the paper bonnet from her head with a nervous laugh,\nand after looking regretfully at the cracker papers put them in her\npocket.\n\nThe parson went home through the frosty night. In the village street he\nheard a boy\u2019s voice singing two lines of the Christmas hymn\u2014\n\n           \u201cTrace we the Babe Who hath redeemed our loss\n           From the poor Manger to the bitter Cross;\u201d\n\nand his eyes filled with tears.\n\nThe old lady went to bed and slept in peace.\n\n\u201cIn all the thirty-five years we have been privileged to hear you, sir,\u201d\nshe told the rector next day after service, \u201cI never heard such a\nChristmas sermon before.\u201d\n\nThe visitor carefully preserved the blue paper and the cracker motto. He\ncame down early next morning to find the white half to put with them. He\ndid not find it, for the young lady had taken it the night before.\n\nThe tutor had been in the room before him, wandering round the scene of\nthe evening\u2019s festivities.\n\nThe yule-log lay black and cold upon the hearth, and the tutor nodded to\nit. \u201cI told you how it would be,\u201d he said; \u201cbut never mind, you have had\nyour day, and a merry one too.\u201d In the corner lay the heap of crackers\nwhich Master MacGreedy had been too ill to remember when he retired. The\ntutor pocketed them with a grim smile.\n\nAs to the comfit, it was eaten by one of the dogs, who had come down\nearliest of all. He swallowed it whole, so whether it contained an\nalmond or not, remains a mystery to the present time.\n\n\n\n\n                         AMELIA AND THE DWARFS.\n\n\nMy godmother\u2019s grandmother knew a good deal about the fairies. _Her_\ngrandmother had seen a fairy rade on a Rodmas Eve, and she herself could\nremember a copper vessel of a queer shape which had been left by the\nelves on some occasion at an old farm-house among the hills. The\nfollowing story came from her, and where she got it I do not know. She\nused to say it was a pleasant tale, with a good moral in the inside of\nit. My godmother often observed that a tale without a moral was like a\nnut without a kernel, not worth the cracking. (We called fireside\nstories \u201ccracks\u201d in our part of the country.) This is the tale.\n\n\n                                AMELIA.\n\nA couple of gentlefolk once lived in a certain part of England. (My\ngodmother never would tell the name either of the place or the people,\neven if she knew it. She said one ought not to expose one\u2019s neighbors\u2019\nfailings more than there was a due occasion for.) They had an only\nchild, a daughter, whose name was Amelia. They were an easy-going,\ngood-humored couple; \u201crather soft,\u201d my godmother said, but she was apt\nto think anybody \u201csoft\u201d who came from the southern shires, as these\npeople did. Amelia, who had been born farther north, was by no means so.\nShe had a strong, resolute will, and a clever head of her own, though\nshe was but a child. She had a way of her own too, and had it very\ncompletely. Perhaps because she was an only child, or perhaps because\nthey were so easy going, her parents spoiled her. She was, beyond\nquestion, the most tiresome little girl in that or any other\nneighborhood. From her baby days her father and mother had taken every\nopportunity of showing her to their friends, and there was not a friend\nwho did not dread the infliction. When the good lady visited her\nacquaintances, she always took Amelia with her, and if the acquaintances\nwere fortunate enough to see from the windows who was coming, they used\nto snatch up any delicate knick-knacks, or brittle ornaments lying\nabout, and put them away, crying, \u201cWhat is to be done? Here comes\nAmelia!\u201d\n\nWhen Amelia came in, she would stand and survey the room, whilst her\nmother saluted her acquaintances; and if anything struck her fancy, she\nwould interrupt the greetings to draw her mother\u2019s attention to it, with\na twitch of her shawl, \u201cOh, look, mamma, at that funny bird in the glass\ncase!\u201d or perhaps, \u201cMamma, mamma! There\u2019s a new carpet since we were\nhere last;\u201d for, as her mother said, she was \u201ca very observing child.\u201d\n\nThen she would wander round the room, examining and fingering\neverything, and occasionally coming back with something in her hand to\ntread on her mother\u2019s dress, and break in upon the ladies\u2019 conversation\nwith\u2014\u201cMamma, mamma! What\u2019s the good of keeping this old basin! It\u2019s\nbeen broken and mended, and some of the pieces are quite loose now. I\ncan feel them:\u201d or\u2014addressing the lady of the house\u2014\u201cThat\u2019s not a real\nottoman in the corner. It\u2019s a box covered with chintz. I know, for I\u2019ve\nlooked.\u201d\n\nThen her mamma would say, reprovingly, \u201cMy _dear_ Amelia!\u201d\n\nAnd perhaps the lady of the house would beg, \u201cDon\u2019t play with that old\nchina, my love; for though it is mended, it is very valuable;\u201d and her\nmother would add, \u201cMy dear Amelia, you must not.\u201d\n\nSometimes the good lady said, \u201cYou _must_ not.\u201d Sometimes she\ntried\u2014\u201cYou must _not_.\u201d When both these failed, and Amelia was\nbalancing the china bowl on her finger ends, her mamma would get\nflurried, and when Amelia flurried her, she always rolled her r\u2019s, and\nemphasized her words, so that it sounded thus:\n\n\u201cMy dear-r-r-r-Ramelia! You must not.\u201d\n\nAt which Amelia would not so much as look round, till perhaps the bowl\nslipped from her fingers, and was smashed into unmendable fragments.\nThen her mamma would exclaim, \u201cOh, dear-r-r-r, oh, dear-r-r-r-Ramelia!\u201d\nand the lady of the house would try to look as if it did not matter, and\nwhen Amelia and her mother departed, would pick up the bits, and pour\nout her complaints to her lady friends, most of whom had suffered many\nsuch damages at the hands of this \u201cvery observing child.\u201d\n\nWhen the good couple received their friends at home, there was no\nescaping from Amelia. If it was a dinner party, she came in with the\ndessert, or perhaps sooner. She would take up her position near some\none, generally the person most deeply engaged in conversation, and\neither lean heavily against him or her, or climb on to his or her knee,\nwithout being invited. She would break in upon the most interesting\ndiscussion with her own little childish affairs, in the following\nstyle\u2014\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve been out to-day. I walked to the town. I jumped across three\nbrooks. Can you jump? Papa gave me sixpence to-day. I am saving up my\nmoney to be rich. You may cut me an orange; no, I\u2019ll take it to Mr.\nBrown, he peels it with a spoon and turns the skin back. Mr. Brown! Mr.\nBrown! Don\u2019t talk to mamma, but peel me an orange, please. Mr. Brown!\nI\u2019m playing with your finger-glass.\u201d\n\nAnd when the finger-glass full of cold water had been upset on to Mr.\nBrown\u2019s shirt-front, Amelia\u2019s mamma would cry\u2014\u201cOh dear, oh\ndear-r-Ramelia!\u201d and carry her off with the ladies to the drawing-room.\n\nHere she would scramble on to the ladies\u2019 knees, or trample out the\ngathers of their dresses, and fidget with their ornaments, startling\nsome luckless lady by the announcement, \u201cI\u2019ve got your bracelet undone\nat last!\u201d who would find one of the divisions broken open by force,\nAmelia not understanding the working of a clasp.\n\nOr perhaps two young lady friends would get into a quiet corner for a\nchat. The observing child was sure to spy them, and run on to them,\ncrushing their flowers and ribbons, and crying\u2014\u201cYou two want to talk\nsecrets, I know. I can hear what you say. I\u2019m going to listen, I am. And\nI shall tell, too.\u201d When perhaps a knock at the door announced the nurse\nto take Miss Amelia to bed, and spread a general rapture of relief.\n\nThen Amelia would run to trample and worry her mother, and after much\nteasing, and clinging, and complaining, the nurse would be dismissed,\nand the fond mamma would turn to the lady next to her, and say with a\nsmile\u2014\u201cI suppose I must let her stay up a little. It is such a treat to\nher, poor child!\u201d\n\nBut it was no treat to the visitors.\n\nBesides tormenting her fellow-creatures, Amelia had a trick of teasing\nanimals. She was really fond of dogs, but she was still fonder of doing\nwhat she was wanted not to do, and of worrying everything and everybody\nabout her. So she used to tread on the tips of their tails, and pretend\nto give them biscuit, and then hit them on the nose, besides pulling at\nthose few, long, sensitive hairs which thin-skinned dogs wear on the\nupper lip.\n\nNow Amelia\u2019s mother\u2019s acquaintances were so very well-bred and amiable,\nthat they never spoke their minds to either the mother or the daughter\nabout what they endured from the latter\u2019s rudeness, wilfulness, and\npowers of destruction. But this was not the case with the dogs, and they\nexpressed their sentiments by many a growl and snap. At last one day\nAmelia was tormenting a snow-white bull-dog (who was certainly as\nwell-bred and as amiable as any living creature in the kingdom), and she\ndid not see that even his patience was becoming worn out. His pink nose\nbecame crimson with increased irritation, his upper lip twitched over\nhis teeth, behind which he was rolling as many warning Rs as Amelia\u2019s\nmother herself. She finally held out a bun towards him, and just as he\nwas about to take it, she snatched it away and kicked him instead. This\nfairly exasperated the bull-dog, and as Amelia would not let him bite\nthe bun, he bit Amelia\u2019s leg.\n\nHer mamma was so distressed that she fell into hysterics, and hardly\nknew what she was saying. She said the bull-dog must be shot for fear he\nshould go mad, and Amelia\u2019s wound must be done with a red-hot poker for\nfear _she_ should go mad (with hydrophobia). And as of course she\ncouldn\u2019t bear the pain of this, she must have chloroform, and she would\nmost probably die of that; for as one in several thousands dies annually\nunder chloroform, it was evident that her chance of life was very small\nindeed. So, as the poor lady said, \u201cWhether we shoot Amelia and burn the\nbull-dog\u2014at least I mean shoot the bull-dog and burn Amelia with a\nred-hot poker\u2014or leave it alone; and whether Amelia or the bull-dog has\nchloroform or bears it without\u2014it seems to be death or madness\neveryway!\u201d\n\nAnd as the doctor did not come fast enough, she ran out without her\nbonnet to meet him, and Amelia\u2019s papa, who was very much distressed too,\nran after her with her bonnet. Meanwhile the doctor came in by another\nway, found Amelia sitting on the dining-room floor with the bull-dog,\nand crying bitterly. She was telling him that they wanted to shoot him,\nbut that they should not, for it was all her fault and not his. But she\ndid not tell him that she was to be burnt with a red-hot poker, for she\nthought it might hurt his feelings. And then she wept afresh, and kissed\nthe bull-dog, and the bull-dog kissed her with his red tongue, and\nrubbed his pink nose against her, and beat his own tail much harder on\nthe floor than Amelia had ever hit it. She said the same things to the\ndoctor, but she told him also that she was willing to be burnt without\nchloroform if it must be done, and if they would spare the bull-dog. And\nthough she looked very white, she meant what she said.\n\nBut the doctor looked at her leg, and found it was only a snap, and not\na deep wound; and then he looked at the bull-dog, and saw that so far\nfrom looking mad, he looked a great deal more sensible than anybody in\nthe house. So he only washed Amelia\u2019s leg and bound it up, and she was\nnot burnt with the poker, neither did she get hydrophobia; but she had\ngot a good lesson on manners, and thenceforward she always behaved with\nthe utmost propriety to animals, though she tormented her mother\u2019s\nfriends as much as ever.\n\nNow although Amelia\u2019s mamma\u2019s acquaintances were too polite to complain\nbefore her face, they made up for it by what they said behind her back.\nIn allusion to the poor lady\u2019s ineffectual remonstrances, one gentleman\nsaid that the more mischief Amelia did, the dearer she seemed to grow to\nher mother. And somebody else replied that however dear she might be as\na daughter, she was certainly a very _dear_ friend, and proposed that\nthey should send in a bill for all the damage she had done in the course\nof the year, as a round robin to her parents at Christmas. From which it\nmay be seen that Amelia was not popular with her parents\u2019 friends, as\n(to do grown-up people justice) good children almost invariably are.\n\nIf she was not a favorite in the drawing-room, she was still less so in\nthe nursery, where, besides all the hardships naturally belonging to\nattendance on a spoilt-child, the poor nurse was kept, as she said, \u201con\nthe continual go\u201d by Amelia\u2019s reckless destruction of her clothes. It\nwas not fair wear and tear, it was not an occasional fall in the mire,\nor an accidental rent or two during a game at \u201cHunt the Hare,\u201d but it\nwas constant wilful destruction, which nurse had to repair as best she\nmight. No entreaties would induce Amelia to \u201ctake care\u201d of anything. She\nwalked obstinately on the muddy side of the road when nurse pointed out\nthe clean parts, kicking up the dirt with her feet; if she climbed a\nwall she never tried to free her dress if it had caught; on she rushed,\nand half a skirt might be left behind for any care she had in the\nmatter. \u201cThey must be mended,\u201d or, \u201cThey must be washed,\u201d was all she\nthought about it.\n\n\u201cYou seem to think things clean and mend themselves, Miss Amelia,\u201d said\npoor nurse one day.\n\n\u201cNo, I don\u2019t,\u201d said Amelia, rudely. \u201cI think you do them; what are you\nhere for?\u201d\n\nBut though she spoke in this insolent and unladylike fashion, Amelia\nreally did not realize what the tasks were which her carelessness\nimposed on other people. When every hour of nurse\u2019s day had been spent\nin struggling to keep her wilful young lady regularly fed, decently\ndressed, and moderately well-behaved (except, indeed, those hours when\nher mother was fighting the same battle downstairs); and when at last,\nafter the hardest struggle of all, she had been got to bed not more than\ntwo hours later than her appointed time, even then there was no rest for\nnurse. Amelia\u2019s mamma could at last lean back in her chair and have a\nquiet chat with her husband, which was not broken in upon every two\nminutes, and Amelia herself was asleep; but nurse must sit up for hours\nwearing out her eyes by the light of a tallow candle, in fine-darning\ngreat, jagged and most unnecessary holes in Amelia\u2019s muslin dresses. Or\nperhaps she had to wash and iron clothes for Amelia\u2019s wear next day. For\nsometimes she was so very destructive, that towards the end of the week\nshe had used up all her clothes and had no clean ones to fall back upon.\n\nAmelia\u2019s meals were another source of trouble. She would not wear a\npinafore; if it had been put on, she would burst the strings, and\nperhaps in throwing it away knock her plate of mutton broth over the\ntablecloth and her own dress. Then she fancied first one thing and then\nanother; she did not like this or that; she wanted a bit cut here and\nthere. Her mamma used to begin by saying, \u201cMy dear-r-Ramelia, you must\nnot be so wasteful,\u201d and she used to end by saying, \u201cThe dear child has\npositively no appetite;\u201d which seemed to be a good reason for not\nwasting any more food upon her; but with Amelia\u2019s mamma it only meant\nthat she might try a little cutlet and tomato sauce when she had half\nfinished her roast beef, and that most of the cutlet and all the mashed\npotato might be exchanged for plum tart and custard; and that when she\nhad spooned up the custard and played with the paste, and put the plum\nstones on the tablecloth, she might be tempted with a little Stilton\ncheese and celery, and exchange that for anything that caught her fancy\nin the dessert dishes.\n\nThe nurse used to say, \u201cMany a poor child would thank God for what you\nwaste every meal time, Miss Amelia,\u201d and to quote a certain good old\nsaying, \u201cWaste not want not.\u201d But Amelia\u2019s mamma allowed her to send\naway on her plates what would have fed another child, day after day.\n\n\n                          UNDER THE HAYCOCKS.\n\nIt was summer, and haytime. Amelia had been constantly in the hayfield,\nand the haymakers had constantly wished that she had been anywhere else.\nShe mislaid the rakes, nearly killed herself and several other persons\nwith a fork, and overturned one haycock after another as fast as they\nwere made. At tea time it was hoped that she would depart, but she\nteased her mamma to have the tea brought into the field, and her mamma\nsaid, \u201cThe poor child must have a treat sometimes,\u201d and so it was\nbrought out.\n\nAfter this she fell off the haycart, and was a good deal shaken, but not\nhurt. So she was taken indoors, and the haymakers worked hard and\ncleared the field, all but a few cocks which were left till the morning.\n\nThe sun set, the dew fell, the moon rose. It was a lovely night. Amelia\npeeped from behind the blinds of the drawing-room windows, and saw four\nhaycocks, each with a deep shadow reposing at its side. The rest of the\nfield was swept clean, and looked pale in the moonshine. It was a lovely\nnight.\n\n\u201cI want to go out,\u201d said Amelia. \u201cThey will take away those cocks before\nI can get at them in the morning, and there will be no more jumping and\ntumbling. I shall go out and have some fun now.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear Amelia, you must not,\u201d said her mamma; and her papa added, \u201cI\nwon\u2019t hear of it.\u201d So Amelia went upstairs to grumble to nurse; but\nnurse only said, \u201cNow, my dear Miss Amelia, do go quietly to bed, like a\ndear love. The field is all wet with dew. Besides, it\u2019s a moonlight\nnight, and who knows what\u2019s abroad? You might see the fairies\u2014bless us\nand sain us!\u2014and what not. There\u2019s been a magpie hopping up and down\nnear the house all day, and that\u2019s a sign of ill-luck.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t care for magpies,\u201d said Amelia; \u201cI threw a stone at that one\nto-day.\u201d\n\nAnd she left the nursery, and swung downstairs on the rail of the\nbanisters. But she did not go into the drawing-room; she opened the\nfront door and went out into the moonshine.\n\nIt was a lovely night. But there was something strange about it.\nEverything looked asleep, and yet seemed not only awake but watching.\nThere was not a sound, and yet the air seemed full of half sounds. The\nchild was quite alone, and yet at every step she fancied some one behind\nher, on one side of her, somewhere, and found it only a rustling leaf or\na passing shadow. She was soon in the hayfield, where it was just the\nsame; so that when she fancied that something green was moving near the\nfirst haycock she thought very little of it, till, coming closer, she\nplainly perceived by the moonlight a tiny man dressed in green, with a\ntall, pointed hat, and very, very long tips to his shoes, tying his\nshoestring with his foot on a stubble stalk. He had the most wizened of\nfaces, and when he got angry with his shoe, he pulled so wry a grimace\nthat it was quite laughable. At last he stood up, stepping carefully\nover the stubble, went up to the first haycock, and drawing out a hollow\ngrass stalk blew upon it till his cheeks were puffed like footballs. And\nyet there was no sound, only a half-sound, as of a horn blown in the far\ndistance, or in a dream. Presently the point of a tall hat, and finally\njust such another little weazened face poked out through the side of the\nhaycock.\n\n\u201cCan we hold revel here to-night?\u201d asked the little green man.\n\n\u201cThat indeed you cannot,\u201d answered the other; \u201cwe have hardly room to\nturn round as it is, with all Amelia\u2019s dirty frocks.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, bah!\u201d said the dwarf; and he walked on to the next haycock, Amelia\ncautiously following.\n\nHere he blew again, and a head was put out as before; on which he said\u2014\n\n\u201cCan we hold revel here to-night?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow is it possible?\u201d was the reply, \u201cwhen there is not a place where\none can so much as set down an acorn cup, for Amelia\u2019s broken victuals.\u201d\n\n\u201cFie! fie!\u201d said the dwarf, and went on to the third, where all happened\nas before; and he asked the old question\u2014\n\n\u201cCan we hold revel here to-night?\u201d\n\n\u201cCan you dance on glass and crockery shreds?\u201d inquired the other.\n\u201cAmelia\u2019s broken gimcracks are everywhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cPshaw!\u201d snorted the dwarf, frowning terribly; and when he came to the\nfourth haycock he blew such an angry blast that the grass stalk split\ninto seven pieces. But he met with no better success than before. Only\nthe point of a hat came through the hay, and a feeble voice piped in\ntones of depression\u2014\u201cThe broken threads would entangle our feet. It\u2019s\nall Amelia\u2019s fault. If we could only get hold of her!\u201d\n\n\u201cIf she\u2019s wise, she\u2019ll keep as far from these haycocks as she can,\u201d\nsnarled the dwarf, angrily; and he shook his fist as much as to say, \u201cIf\nshe did come, I should not receive her very pleasantly.\u201d\n\nNow with Amelia, to hear that she had better not do something, was to\nmake her wish at once to do it; and as she was not at all wanting in\ncourage, she pulled the dwarf\u2019s little cloak, just as she would have\ntwitched her mother\u2019s shawl, and said (with that sort of snarly whine in\nwhich spoilt children generally speak), \u201cWhy shouldn\u2019t I come to the\nhaycocks if I want to? They belong to my papa, and I shall come if I\nlike. But you have no business here.\u201d\n\n\u201cNightshade and hemlock!\u201d ejaculated the little man, \u201cyou are not\nlacking in impudence. Perhaps your Sauciness is not quite aware how\nthings are distributed in this world?\u201d saying which he lifted his\npointed shoes and began to dance and sing\u2014\n\n                 \u201cAll under the sun belongs to men,\n                 And all under the moon to the fairies.\n                     So, so, so! Ho, ho, ho!\n                 All under the moon to the fairies.\u201d\n\nAs he sang \u201cHo, ho, ho!\u201d the little man turned head over heels; and\nthough by this time Amelia would gladly have got away, she could not,\nfor the dwarf seemed to dance and tumble round her, and always to cut\noff the chance of escape; whilst numberless voices from all around\nseemed to join in the chorus, with\u2014\n\n                  \u201cSo, so, so! Ho, ho, ho!\n                All under the moon to the fairies.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd now,\u201d said the little man, \u201cto work! And you have plenty of work\nbefore you, so trip on, to the first haycock.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shan\u2019t!\u201d said Amelia.\n\n\u201cOn with you!\u201d repeated the dwarf.\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t!\u201d said Amelia.\n\nBut the little man, who was behind her, pinched her funny-bone with his\nlean fingers, and, as everybody knows, that is agony; so Amelia ran on,\nand tried to get away. But when she went too fast, the dwarf trod on her\nheels with his long-pointed shoe, and if she did not go fast enough, he\npinched her funny-bone. So for once in her life she was obliged to do as\nshe was told. As they ran, tall hats and wizened faces were popped out\non all sides of the haycocks, like blanched almonds on a tipsy cake; and\nwhenever the dwarf pinched Amelia, or trod on her heels, they cried \u201cHo,\nho, ho!\u201d with such horrible contortions as they laughed, that it was\nhideous to behold.\n\n\u201cHere is Amelia!\u201d shouted the dwarf when they reached the first haycock.\n\n\u201cHo, ho, ho!\u201d laughed all the others, as they poked out here and there\nfrom the hay.\n\n\u201cBring a stock,\u201d said the dwarf; on which the hay was lifted, and out\nran six or seven dwarfs, carrying what seemed to Amelia to be a little\ngirl like herself. And when she looked closer, to her horror and\nsurprise the figure was exactly like her\u2014it was her own face, clothes,\nand everything.\n\n\u201cShall we kick it into the house?\u201d asked the goblins.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said the dwarf; \u201clay it down by the haycock. The father and mother\nare coming to seek her now.\u201d\n\nWhen Amelia heard this she began to shriek for help; but she was pushed\ninto the haycock, where her loudest cries sounded like the chirruping of\na grasshopper.\n\nIt was really a fine sight to see the inside of the cock.\n\nFarmers do not like to see flowers in a hayfield, but the fairies do.\nThey had arranged all the buttercups, &c., in patterns on the haywalls;\nbunches of meadow-sweet swung from the roof like censers, and perfumed\nthe air; and the ox-eye daisies which formed the ceiling gave a light\nlike stars. But Amelia cared for none of this. She only struggled to\npeep through the hay, and she did see her father and mother and nurse\ncome down the lawn, followed by the other servants, looking for her.\nWhen they saw the stock they ran to raise it with exclamations of pity\nand surprise. The stock moaned faintly, and Amelia\u2019s mamma wept, and\nAmelia herself shouted with all her might.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d said her mamma. (It is not easy to deceive a mother.)\n\n\u201cOnly the grasshoppers, my dear,\u201d said papa. \u201cLet us get the poor child\nhome.\u201d\n\nThe stock moaned again, and the mother said, \u201cOh dear! oh\ndear-r-Ramelia!\u201d and followed in tears.\n\n\u201cRub her eyes,\u201d said the dwarf; on which Amelia\u2019s eyes were rubbed with\nsome ointment, and when she took a last peep, she could see that the\nstock was nothing but a hairy imp with a face like the oldest and most\ngrotesque of apes.\n\n\u201c\u2014\u2014and send her below;\u201d said the dwarf. On which the field opened, and\nAmelia was pushed underground.\n\nShe found herself on a sort of open heath, where no houses were to be\nseen. Of course there was no moonshine, and yet it was neither daylight\nnor dark. There was as the light of early dawn, and every sound was at\nonce clear and dreamy, like the first sounds of the day coming through\nthe fresh air before sunrise. Beautiful flowers crept over the heath,\nwhose tints were constantly changing in the subdued light; and as the\nhues changed and blended, the flowers gave forth different perfumes. All\nwould have been charming but that at every few paces the paths were\nblocked by large clothes-baskets full of dirty frocks. And the frocks\nwere Amelia\u2019s. Torn, draggled, wet, covered with sand, mud, and dirt of\nall kinds, Amelia recognized them.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve got to wash them all,\u201d said the dwarf, who was behind her as\nusual; \u201cthat\u2019s what you\u2019ve come down for\u2014not because your society is\nparticularly pleasant. So the sooner you begin the better.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t,\u201d said Amelia (she had already learnt that \u201cI won\u2019t\u201d is not an\nanswer for every one); \u201csend them up to nurse, and she\u2019ll do them. It is\nher business.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat nurse can do she has done, and now it\u2019s time for you to begin,\u201d\nsaid the dwarf. \u201cSooner or later the mischief done by spoilt children\u2019s\nwilful disobedience comes back on their own hands. Up to a certain point\nwe help them, for we love children, and we are wilful ourselves. But\nthere are limits to everything. If you can\u2019t wash your dirty frocks, it\nis time you learnt to do so, if only that you may know what the trouble\nis you impose on other people. _She_ will teach you.\u201d\n\nThe dwarf kicked out his foot in front of him, and pointed with his long\ntoe to a woman who sat by a fire made upon the heath, where a pot was\nsuspended from crossed poles. It was like a bit of a gipsy encampment,\nand the woman seemed to be a real woman, not a fairy\u2014which was the\ncase, as Amelia afterwards found. She had lived underground for many\nyears, and was the dwarfs\u2019 servant.\n\nAnd this was how it came about that Amelia had to wash her dirty frocks.\nLet any little girl try to wash one of her dresses; not to half wash it,\nnot to leave it stained with dirty water, but to wash it quite clean.\nLet her then try to starch and iron it\u2014in short, to make it look as if\nit had come from the laundress\u2014and she will have some idea of what poor\nAmelia had to learn to do. There was no help for it. When she was\nworking she very seldom saw the dwarfs; but if she were idle or\nstubborn, or had any hopes of getting away, one was sure to start up at\nher elbow and pinch her funny-bone, or poke her in the ribs, till she\ndid her best. Her back ached with stooping over the wash-tub; her hands\nand arms grew wrinkled with soaking in hot soapsuds, and sore with\nrubbing. Whatever she did not know how to do, the woman of the heath\ntaught her. At first, whilst Amelia was sulky, the woman of the heath\nwas sharp and cross; but when Amelia became willing and obedient, she\nwas good-natured, and even helped her.\n\nThe first time that Amelia felt hungry she asked for some food.\n\n\u201cBy all means,\u201d said one of the dwarfs; \u201cthere is plenty down here which\nbelongs to you;\u201d and he led her away till they came to a place like the\nfirst, except that it was covered with plates of broken meats; all the\nbits of good meat, pie, pudding, bread and butter, &c., that Amelia had\nwasted beforetime.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t eat cold scraps like these,\u201d said Amelia turning away.\n\n\u201cThen what did you ask for food for before you were hungry?\u201d screamed\nthe dwarf, and he pinched her and sent her about her business.\n\nAfter a while she became so famished that she was glad to beg humbly to\nbe allowed to go for food; and she ate a cold chop and the remains of a\nrice pudding with thankfulness. How delicious they tasted! She was\nsurprised herself at the good things she had rejected. After a time she\nfancied she would like to warm up some of the cold meat in a pan, which\nthe woman of the heath used to cook her own dinner in, and she asked for\nleave to do so.\n\n\u201cYou may do anything you like to make yourself comfortable, if you do it\nyourself,\u201d said she; and Amelia, who had been watching her for many\ntimes, became quite expert in cooking up the scraps.\n\nAs there was no real daylight underground, so also there was no night.\nWhen the old woman was tired she lay down and had a nap, and when she\nthought that Amelia had earned a rest, she allowed her to do the same.\nIt was never cold, and it never rained, so they slept on the heath among\nthe flowers.\n\nThey say that \u201cIt\u2019s a long lane that has no turning,\u201d and the hardest\ntasks come to an end some time, and Amelia\u2019s dresses were clean at last;\nbut then a more wearisome work was before her. They had to be mended.\nAmelia looked at the jagged rents made by the hedges, the great gaping\nholes in front where she had put her foot through; the torn tucks and\ngathers. First she wept, then she bitterly regretted that she had so\noften refused to do her sewing at home that she was very awkward with\nher needle. Whether she ever would have got through this task alone is\ndoubtful, but she had by this time become so well-behaved and willing\nthat the old woman was kind to her, and, pitying her blundering\nattempts, she helped her a great deal; whilst Amelia would cook the old\nwoman\u2019s victuals, or repeat stories and pieces of poetry to amuse her.\n\n\u201cHow glad I am that I ever learnt anything?\u201d thought the poor child;\n\u201ceverything one learns seems to come useful some time.\u201d\n\nAt last the dresses were finished.\n\n\u201cDo you think I shall be allowed to go home now?\u201d Amelia asked of the\nwoman of the heath.\n\n\u201cNot yet,\u201d said she; \u201cyou have got to mend the broken gimcracks next.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut when I have done all my tasks,\u201d Amelia said; \u201cwill they let me go\nthen?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat depends,\u201d said the woman, and she sat silent over the fire; but\nAmelia wept so bitterly, that she pitied her and said\u2014\u201cOnly dry your\neyes, for the fairies hate tears, and I will tell you all I know and do\nthe best for you I can. You see, when you first came you were\u2014excuse\nme!\u2014such an unlicked cub; such a peevish, selfish, wilful, useless, and\nill-mannered little miss, that neither the fairies nor anybody else were\nlikely to keep you any longer than necessary. But now you are such a\nwilling, handy, and civil little thing, and so pretty and graceful\nwithal, and I think it is very likely that they will want to keep you\naltogether. I think you had better make up your mind to it. They are\nkindly little folk, and will make a pet of you in the end.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no, no!\u201d moaned poor Amelia; \u201cI want to be with my mother, my poor\ndear mother! I want to make up for being a bad child so long. Besides,\nsurely that \u2018stock,\u2019 as they called her, will want to come back to her\nown people.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs to that,\u201d said the woman, \u201cafter a time the stock will affect mortal\nillness, and will then take possession of the first black cat she sees,\nand in that shape leave the house, and come home. But the figure that is\nlike you will remain lifeless in the bed, and will be duly buried. Then\nyour people, believing you to be dead, will never look for you, and you\nwill always remain here. However, as this distresses you so, I will give\nyou some advice. Can you dance?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Amelia; \u201cI did attend pretty well to my dancing lessons. I\nwas considered rather clever about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt any spare moments you find,\u201d continued the woman, \u201cdance, dance all\nyour dances, and as well as you can. The dwarfs love dancing.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd then?\u201d said Amelia.\n\n\u201cThen, perhaps some night they will take you up to dance with them in\nthe meadows above ground.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I could not get away. They would tread on my heels\u2014oh! I could\nnever escape them.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know that,\u201d said the woman; \u201cyour only chance is this. If ever, when\ndancing in the meadows, you can find a four-leaved clover, hold it in\nyour hand and wish to be at home. Then no one can stop you. Meanwhile I\nadvise you to seem happy, and they may think you are content, and have\nforgotten the world. And dance, above all, dance!\u201d\n\nAnd Amelia, not to be behindhand, began then and there to dance some\npretty figures on the heath. As she was dancing the dwarf came by.\n\n\u201cHo, ho!\u201d said he, \u201cyou can dance, can you?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen I am happy, I can,\u201d said Amelia, performing several graceful\nmovements as she spoke.\n\n\u201cWhat are you pleased about now?\u201d snapped the dwarf, suspiciously.\n\n\u201cHave I not reason?\u201d said Amelia. \u201cThe dresses are washed and mended.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen up with them!\u201d returned the dwarf. On which half a dozen elves\npopped the whole lot into a big basket and kicked them up into the\nworld, where they found their way to the right wardrobes somehow.\n\nAs the woman of the heath had said, Amelia was soon set to a new task.\nWhen she bade the old woman farewell, she asked if she could do nothing\nfor her if ever she got at liberty herself.\n\n\u201cCan I do nothing to get you back to your old home?\u201d Amelia cried, for\nshe thought of others now as well as herself.\n\n\u201cNo, thank you,\u201d returned the old woman; \u201cI am used to this, and do not\ncare to return. I have been here a long time\u2014how long I do not know;\nfor as there is neither daylight nor dark we have no measure of\ntime\u2014long, I am sure, very long. The light and noise up yonder would\nnow be too much for me. But I wish you well, and, above all, remember to\ndance!\u201d\n\nThe new scene of Amelia\u2019s labors was a more rocky part of the heath,\nwhere grey granite boulders served for seats and tables, and sometimes\nfor workshops and anvils, as in one place, where a grotesque and grimy\nold dwarf sat forging rivets to mend china and glass. A fire in a hollow\nof the boulder served for a forge, and on the flatter part was his\nanvil. The rocks were covered in all directions with the knick-knacks,\nornaments, &c., that Amelia had at various times destroyed.\n\n\u201cIf you please, sir,\u201d she said to the dwarf, \u201cI am Amelia.\u201d\n\nThe dwarf left off blowing at his forge and looked at her.\n\n\u201cThen I wonder you\u2019re not ashamed of yourself,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cI am ashamed of myself,\u201d said poor Amelia, \u201cvery much ashamed. I should\nlike to mend these things if I can.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, you can\u2019t say more than that,\u201d said the dwarf, in a mollified\ntone, for he was a kindly little creature; \u201cbring that china bowl here,\nand I\u2019ll show you how to set to work.\u201d\n\nPoor Amelia did not get on very fast, but she tried her best. As to the\ndwarf, it was truly wonderful to see how he worked. Things seemed to\nmend themselves at his touch, and he was so proud of his skill, and so\nparticular, that he generally did over again the things which Amelia had\ndone after her fashion. The first time he gave her a few minutes in\nwhich to rest and amuse herself, she held out her little skirt, and\nbegan one of her prettiest dances.\n\n\u201cRivets and trivets!\u201d shrieked the little man, \u201cHow you dance! It is\ncharming! I say it is charming! On with you! Fa, la fa! La, fa la! It\ngives me the fidgets in my shoe points to see you!\u201d and forthwith down\nhe jumped, and began capering about.\n\n\u201cI am a good dancer myself,\u201d said the little man, \u201cDo you know the \u2018Hop,\nSkip, and Jump\u2019 dance?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not think I do,\u201d said Amelia.\n\n\u201cIt is much admired,\u201d said the dwarf, \u201cwhen I dance it;\u201d and he\nthereupon tucked up the little leathern apron in which he worked, and\nperformed some curious antics on one leg.\n\n\u201cThat is the Hop,\u201d he observed, pausing for a moment.\n\n\u201cThe Skip is thus. You throw out your left leg as high and as far as you\ncan, and as you drop on the toe of your left foot you fling out the\nright leg in the same manner, and so on. This is the Jump,\u201d with which\nhe turned a somersault and disappeared from view. When Amelia next saw\nhim he was sitting cross-legged on his boulder.\n\n\u201cGood, wasn\u2019t it?\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cWonderful!\u201d Amelia replied.\n\n\u201cNow it\u2019s your turn again,\u201d said the dwarf.\n\nBut Amelia cunningly replied\u2014\u201cI\u2019m afraid I must go on with my work.\u201d\n\n\u201cPshaw!\u201d said the little tinker. \u201cGive me your work. I can do more in a\nminute than you in a month, and better to boot. Now dance again.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know this?\u201d said Amelia, and she danced a few paces of a polka\nmazurka.\n\n\u201cAdmirable!\u201d cried the little man. \u201cStay\u201d\u2014and he drew an old violin\nfrom behind the rock; \u201cnow dance again, and mark the time well, so that\nI may catch the measure, and then I will accompany you.\u201d\n\nWhich accordingly he did, improvising a very spirited tune, which had,\nhowever, the peculiar subdued and weird effect of all the other sounds\nin this strange region.\n\n\u201cThe fiddle came from up yonder,\u201d said the little man. \u201cIt was smashed\nto atoms in the world and thrown away. But ho, ho, ho! There is nothing\nthat I cannot mend, and a mended fiddle is an amended fiddle. It\nimproves the tone. Now teach me that dance, and I will patch up all the\nrest of the gimcracks. Is it a bargain?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy all means,\u201d said Amelia; and she began to explain the dance to the\nbest of her ability.\n\n\u201cCharming! charming!\u201d cried the dwarf. \u201cWe have no such dance ourselves.\nWe only dance hand in hand, and round and round, when we dance together.\nNow I will learn the step, and then I will put my arm round your waist\nand dance with you.\u201d\n\nAmelia looked at the dwarf. He was very smutty, and old, and weazened.\nTruly, a queer partner! But \u201chandsome is that handsome does;\u201d and he had\ndone her a good turn. So when he had learnt the step, he put his arm\nround Amelia\u2019s waist, and they danced together. His shoe points were\nvery much in the way, but otherwise he danced very well.\n\nThen he set to work on the broken ornaments, and they were all very soon\n\u201cas good as new.\u201d But they were not kicked up into the world, for, as\nthe dwarfs said, they would be sure to break on the road. So they kept\nthem and used them; and I fear that no benefit came from the little\ntinker\u2019s skill to Amelia\u2019s mamma\u2019s acquaintance in this matter.\n\n\u201cHave I any other tasks?\u201d Amelia inquired.\n\n\u201cOne more,\u201d said the dwarfs; and she was led farther on to a smooth\nmossy green, thickly covered with what looked like bits of broken\nthread. One would think it had been a milliner\u2019s work-room from the\nfirst invention of needles and thread.\n\n\u201cWhat are these?\u201d Amelia asked.\n\n\u201cThey are the broken threads of all the conversations you have\ninterrupted,\u201d was the reply; \u201cand pretty dangerous work it is to dance\nhere now, with threads getting round one\u2019s shoe points. Dance a hornpipe\nin a herring-net, and you\u2019ll know what it is!\u201d\n\nAmelia began to pick up the threads, but it was tedious work. She had\ncleared a yard or two, and her back was aching terribly, when she heard\nthe fiddle and the mazurka behind her; and looking round she saw the old\ndwarf, who was playing away, and making the most hideous grimaces as his\nchin pressed the violin.\n\n\u201cDance, my lady, dance!\u201d he shouted.\n\n\u201cI do not think I can,\u201d said Amelia; \u201cI am so weary with stooping over\nmy work.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen rest a few minutes,\u201d he answered, \u201cand I will play you a jig. A\njig is a beautiful dance, such life, such spirit! So!\u201d\n\nAnd he played faster and faster, his arm, his face, his fiddle-bow all\nseemed working together; and as he played, the threads danced themselves\ninto three heaps.\n\n\u201cThat is not bad, is it?\u201d said the dwarf; \u201cand now for our own dance,\u201d\nand he played the mazurka. \u201cGet the measure well into your head. L\u00e2, la\nfa l\u00e2! L\u00e2, la fa l\u00e2! So!\u201d\n\nAnd throwing away his fiddle, he caught Amelia round the waist, and they\ndanced as before. After which, she had no difficulty in putting the\nthree heaps of thread into a basket.\n\n\u201cWhere are these to be kicked to?\u201d asked the young goblins.\n\n\u201cTo the four winds of heaven,\u201d said the old dwarf. \u201cThere are very few\ndrawing-room conversations worth putting together a second time. They\nare not like old china bowls.\u201d\n\n\n                             BY MOONLIGHT.\n\nThus Amelia\u2019s tasks were ended; but not a word was said of her return\nhome. The dwarfs were now very kind, and made so much of her that it was\nevident that they meant her to remain with them. Amelia often cooked for\nthem, and she danced and played with them, and never showed a sign of\ndiscontent; but her heart ached for home, and when she was alone she\nwould bury her face in the flowers and cry for her mother.\n\nOne day she overheard the dwarfs in consultation.\n\n\u201cThe moon is full to-morrow,\u201d said one\u2014(\u201cThen I have been a month down\nhere,\u201d thought Amelia; \u201cit was full moon that night\u201d)\u2014\u201cshall we dance\nin the Mary Meads?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy all means,\u201d said the old tinker dwarf; \u201cand we will take Amelia, and\ndance my dance.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it safe?\u201d said another.\n\n\u201cLook how content she is,\u201d said the old dwarf; \u201cand, oh! how she dances;\nmy feet tickle at the bare thought.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe ordinary run of mortals do not see us,\u201d continued the objector;\n\u201cbut she is visible to any one. And there are men and women who wander\nin the moonlight, and the Mary Meads are near her old home.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will make her a hat of touchwood,\u201d said the old dwarf, \u201cso that even\nif she is seen it will look like a will-o\u2019-the-wisp bobbing up and down.\nIf she does not come, I will not. I must dance my dance. You do not know\nwhat it is! We two alone move together with a grace which even here is\nremarkable. But when I think that up yonder we shall have attendant\nshadows echoing our movements, I long for the moment to arrive.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo be it,\u201d said the others; and Amelia wore the touchwood hat, and went\nup with them to the Mary Meads.\n\nAmelia and the dwarf danced the mazurka, and their shadows, now as short\nas themselves, then long and gigantic, danced beside them. As the moon\nwent down, and the shadows lengthened, the dwarf was in raptures.\n\n\u201cWhen one sees how colossal one\u2019s very shadow is,\u201d he remarked, \u201cone\nknows one\u2019s true worth. You also have a good shadow. We are partners in\nthe dance, and I think we will be partners for life. But I have not\nfully considered the matter, so this is not to be regarded as a formal\nproposal.\u201d And he continued to dance, singing, \u201cL\u00e2, la, fa, l\u00e2, l\u00e2, la,\nfa, l\u00e2.\u201d It was highly admired.\n\nThe Mary Meads lay a little below the house where Amelia\u2019s parents\nlived, and once during the night her father, who was watching by the\nsick bed of the stock, looked out of the window.\n\n\u201cHow lovely the moonlight is!\u201d he murmured; \u201cbut, dear me! there is a\nwill-o\u2019-the-wisp yonder. I had no idea the Mary Meads were so damp.\u201d\nThen he pulled the blind down and went back into the room.\n\nAs for poor Amelia, she found no four-leaved clover, and at cockcrow\nthey all went underground.\n\n\u201cWe will dance on Hunch Hill to-morrow,\u201d said the dwarfs.\n\nAll went as before; not a clover plant of any kind did Amelia see, and\nat cockcrow the revel broke up.\n\nOn the following night they danced in the hayfield. The old stubble was\nnow almost hidden by green clover. There was a grand fairy dance\u2014a\nround dance, which does not mean, as with us, a dance for two partners,\nbut a dance where all join hands and dance round and round in a circle\nwith appropriate antics. Round they went, faster and faster, the pointed\nshoes now meeting in the centre like the spokes of a wheel now kicked\nout behind like spikes, and then scamper, caper, hurry! They seemed to\nfly, when suddenly the ring broke at one corner, and nothing being\nstronger than its weakest point, the whole circle were sent flying over\nthe field.\n\n\u201cHo, ho, ho!\u201d laughed the dwarfs, for they are good-humored little folk,\nand do not mind a tumble.\n\n\u201cHa, ha, ha!\u201d laughed Amelia, for she had fallen with her fingers on a\nfour-leaved clover.\n\nShe put it behind her back, for the old tinker dwarf was coming up to\nher, wiping the mud from his face with his leathern apron.\n\n\u201cNow for our dance!\u201d he shrieked. \u201cAnd I have made up my mind\u2014partners\nnow and partners always. You are incomparable. For three hundred years I\nhave not met with your equal.\u201d\n\nBut Amelia held the four-leaved clover above her head, and cried from\nher very heart\u2014\u201cI want to go home!\u201d\n\nThe dwarf gave a hideous yell of disappointment, and at this instant the\nstock came stumbling head over heels into the midst, crying\u2014\u201cOh! the\npills, the powders, and the draughts! oh, the lotions and embrocations!\noh, the blisters, the poultices, and the plasters! men may well be so\nshort-lived!\u201d\n\nAnd Amelia found herself in bed in her own home.\n\n\n                             AT HOME AGAIN.\n\nBy the side of Amelia\u2019s bed stood a little table, on which were so many\nbig bottles of medicine, that Amelia smiled to think of all the stock\nmust have had to swallow during the month past. There was an open Bible\non it too, in which Amelia\u2019s mother was reading, whilst tears trickled\nslowly down her pale cheeks. The poor lady looked so thin and ill, so\nworn with sorrow and watching, that Amelia\u2019s heart smote her, as if some\none had given her a sharp blow.\n\n\u201cMamma, mamma! Mother, my dear, dear, mother!\u201d\n\nThe tender, humble, loving tone of voice was so unlike Amelia\u2019s old\nimperious snarl, that her mother hardly recognized it; and when she saw\nAmelia\u2019s eyes full of intelligence instead of the delirium of fever, and\nthat (though older and thinner and rather pale) she looked wonderfully\nwell, the poor worn-out lady could hardly restrain herself from falling\ninto hysterics for very joy.\n\n\u201cDear mamma, I want to tell you all about it,\u201d said Amelia, kissing the\nkind hand that stroked her brow.\n\nBut it appeared that the doctor had forbidden conversation; and though\nAmelia knew it would do her no harm, she yielded to her mother\u2019s wish\nand lay still and silent.\n\n\u201cNow, my love, it is time to take your medicine.\u201d\n\nBut Amelia pleaded\u2014\u201cOh, mamma, indeed I don\u2019t want any medicine. I am\nquite well, and would like to get up.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, my dear child!\u201d cried her mother, \u201cwhat I have suffered in inducing\nyou to take your medicine, and yet see what good it has done you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope you will never suffer any more from my wilfulness,\u201d said Amelia;\nand she swallowed two tablespoonfuls of a mixture labelled, \u201cTo be well\nshaken before taken,\u201d without even a wry face.\n\nPresently the doctor came.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re not so very angry at the sight of me to-day my little lady, eh?\u201d\nhe said.\n\n\u201cI have not seen you for a long time,\u201d said Amelia; \u201cbut I know you have\nbeen here, attending a stock who looked like me. If your eyes had been\ntouched with fairy ointment, however, you would have been aware that it\nwas a fairy imp, and a very ugly one, covered with hair. I have been\nliving in terror lest it should go back underground in the shape of a\nblack cat. However, thanks to the four-leaved clover, and the old woman\nof the heath, I am at home again.\u201d\n\nOn hearing this rhodomontade, Amelia\u2019s mother burst into tears, for she\nthought the poor child was still raving with fever. But the doctor\nsmiled pleasantly, and said\u2014\u201cAy, ay, to be sure,\u201d with a little nod, as\none should say, \u201cWe know all about it;\u201d and laid two fingers in a casual\nmanner on Amelia\u2019s wrist.\n\n\u201cBut she is wonderfully better, madam,\u201d he said afterwards to her mamma;\n\u201cthe brain has been severely tried, but she is marvellously improved: in\nfact, it is an effort of nature, a most favorable effort, and we can but\nassist the rally; we will change the medicine.\u201d Which he did, and very\nwisely assisted nature with a bottle of pure water flavored with\ntincture of roses.\n\n\u201cAnd it was so very kind of him to give me his directions in poetry,\u201d\nsaid Amelia\u2019s mamma; \u201cfor I told him my memory, which is never good,\nseemed going completely, from anxiety, and if I had done anything wrong\njust now, I should never had forgiven myself. And I always found poetry\neasier to remember than prose,\u201d\u2014which puzzled everybody, the doctor\nincluded, till it appeared that she had ingeniously discovered a rhyme\nin his orders\n\n                    \u2018To be kept cool and quiet,\n                    With light nourishing diet.\u2019\n\nUnder which treatment Amelia was soon pronounced to be well.\n\nShe made another attempt to relate her adventures, but she found that\nnot even the nurse would believe in them.\n\n\u201cWhy you told me yourself I might meet with the fairies,\u201d said Amelia,\nreproachfully.\n\n\u201cSo I did, my dear,\u201d nurse replied, \u201cand they say that it\u2019s that put it\ninto your head. And I\u2019m sure what you say about the dwarfs and all is as\ngood as a printed book, though you can\u2019t think that ever I would have\nlet any dirty clothes store up like that, let alone your frocks, my\ndear. But for pity sake, Miss Amelia, don\u2019t go on about it to your\nmother, for she thinks you\u2019ll never get your senses right again, and she\nhas fretted enough about you, poor lady; and nursed you night and day\ntill she is nigh worn out. And anybody can see you\u2019ve been ill, miss,\nyou\u2019ve grown so, and look paler and older like. Well, to be sure, as you\nsay, if you\u2019d been washing and working for a month in a place without a\nbit of sun, or a bed to lie on, and scraps to eat, it would be enough to\ndo it; and many\u2019s the poor child that has to, and gets worn and old\nbefore her time. But, my dear, whatever you think, give in to your\nmother; you\u2019ll never repent giving in to your mother, my dear, the\nlongest day you live.\u201d\n\nSo Amelia kept her own counsel. But she had one confidant.\n\nWhen her parents brought the stock home on the night of Amelia\u2019s visit\nto the haycocks, the bull-dog\u2019s conduct had been most strange. His usual\ngood-humor appeared to have been exchanged for incomprehensible fury,\nand he was with difficulty prevented from flying at the stock, who on\nher part showed an anger and dislike fully equal to his.\n\nFinally the bull-dog had been confined in the stable, where he remained\nthe whole month, uttering from time to time such howls, with his snub\nnose in the air, that poor nurse quite gave up hope of Amelia\u2019s\nrecovery.\n\n\u201cFor indeed, my dear, they do say that a howling dog is a sign of death,\nand it was more than I could abear.\u201d\n\nBut the day after Amelia\u2019s return, as nurse was leaving the room with a\ntray which had carried some of the light nourishing diet ordered by the\ndoctor, she was knocked down, tray and all, by the bull-dog, who came\ntearing into the room, dragging a chain and dirty rope after him, and\nnearly choked by the desperate efforts which had finally effected his\nescape from the stable. And he jumped straight on the end of Amelia\u2019s\nbed, where he lay, _thudding_ with his tail, and giving short whines of\necstacy. And as Amelia begged that he might be left, and as it was\nevident that he would bite any one who tried to take him away, he became\nestablished as chief nurse. When Amelia\u2019s meals were brought to the\nbedside on a tray, he kept a fixed eye on the plates, as if to see if\nher appetite were improving. And he would even take a snack himself,\nwith an air of great affability.\n\nAnd when Amelia told him her story, she could see by his eyes, and his\nnose, and his ears, and his tail, and the way he growled whenever the\nstock was mentioned, that he knew all about it. As, on the other hand,\nhe had no difficulty in conveying to her by sympathetic whines the\nsentiment \u201cOf course I would have helped you if I could; but they tied\nme up, and this disgusting old rope has taken me a month to worry\nthrough.\u201d\n\nSo, in spite of the past, Amelia grew up good and gentle, unselfish and\nconsiderate for others. She was unusually clever, as those who have been\nwith the \u201cLittle People\u201d are said always to be.\n\nAnd she became so popular with her mother\u2019s acquaintances that they\nsaid\u2014\u201cWe will no longer call her Amelia, for it was a name we learnt to\ndislike, but we will call her Amy, that is to say, \u2018Beloved.\u2019\u201d\n\n                    *     *     *     *     *     *\n\n\u201cAnd did my godmother\u2019s grandmother believe that Amelia had really been\nwith the fairies, or did she think it was all fever ravings?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat, indeed, she never said, but she always observed that it was a\npleasant tale with a good moral, which was surely enough for anybody.\u201d\n\n\n                                THE END.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                                 SPOONS\n\n\n                        BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN\n\nThe clear, smooth brow of Mrs. St. James clouded and contracted\nunmistakably. As she stood at the window, her eyes wandering about the\nbeautiful grounds surrounding her home, they rested on two figures\nseated in a rustic arbor. They were her daughter Alice and young Gerald\nClifton. Now Mrs. St. James would have preferred seeing any other of the\nyoung gentlemen of her acquaintance with Alice, than the present one.\nShe turned impatiently from the window, saying:\n\n\u201cMy remonstrance is useless. She is perfectly infatuated\u2014and her father\nscarcely less so. I can\u2019t imagine what he is thinking about. He has not\na care about his child making a brilliant match. There is Albert Hyde,\nyoung Lord Clavering, and half a dozen others, any of whom she could\nmarry; all eligible, and should be considered really more desirable and\nworthy. But no\u2014this young man, with neither wealth nor position, has, I\nfear, secured the hearts of both Alice and her father. And I really\nthink, unless something providential prevents, she will marry him.\u201d\n\nThe lovely Alice, quite unconscious of the unfavorable eyes which had\nlingered on them, was listening with delight to a beautiful poem her\nlover was reading. Suddenly he closed the book, and looking earnestly on\nhis companion, said:\n\n\u201cYour mother dislikes me very much, Alice. I fear I shall never win her\nfavor.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, not dislikes you; but there are others she likes better,\nperhaps. But papa will yet win her over. He loves you, and mamma dearly\nloves him. So in time all will be well,\u201d answered Alice, with a sweet,\nassuring smile.\n\n\u201cI trust so, Alice. And in time I will prove worthy of your love and\nyour father\u2019s confidence. I will make a name for you, love, with\nheaven\u2019s blessing.\u201d\n\nA week or so after, Sydney St. James was returning home from his\neditorial office. He had had a harassing day, and was very tired. He\nwanted rest, and a quiet evening; saying to himself, \u201cI trust we shall\nhave no company, unless Gerald; he never wearies me. Bless the boy! I am\ngrowing strangely fond of him!\u201d He entered the house, made his way to\nthe parlor, where he was accustomed to find his family. Alas! for his\nhopes of rest and quiet. There, instead of the usual pleasant greeting\nfrom his wife, the bright smile and loving embrace of his daughter, he\nfound the first very much excited, with flashing eyes and glowing\ncheeks; the latter sobbing, her face hidden in the cushion of the sofa.\nHastily approaching her, he raised her head tenderly and asked:\n\n\u201cWhat is it, love?\u201d\n\nAnother rush of tears; then her head nestled in her father\u2019s bosom.\n\n\u201cWhat has happened?\u201d he asked, in real anxiety looking to his wife.\n\n\u201cWell, I always knew something was wrong about him, and how very\npresumptuous he was; but I never did suppose he would descend to such a\nlow, crim\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cMamma! oh! don\u2019t, pray!\u201d sobbed Alice.\n\n\u201cHe! Who? What is it?\u201d asked Mr. St. James, growing more and more\nanxious.\n\n\u201cWell, your great favorite, Mr. Clifton, was here at noon, to take leave\nof Alice, before leaving for Scotland. We were about going out shopping\nwhen he came; so of course were detained. I drew off my gloves, and laid\nthem, with my porte-monnaie, handkerchief and sunshade, on the center\ntable. I saw him take up the porte-monnaie, and look at it; I thought\njust admiring it. You know it was that pearl and inlaid one you gave me\nat Christmas. Well, after a little while I went into the next room,\nimmediately returning when I heard him about leaving. I bade him good-by\nin the hall, and proceeded to draw on my gloves again, intending to go\non our proposed excursion. I missed the porte-monnaie; but, thinking\nAlice had put it in her pocket, I was not anxious. When she was again\nready to start, I said:\n\n\u201c\u2018You have the money?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018No,\u2019 she replied.\n\n\u201cWe began to look about, but our hunt was in vain. You can readily\narrive at the conclusion, and the cause of Alice\u2019s mortification and\ngrief,\u201d said Mrs. St. James, in a manner and tone that looked and\nsounded very much like she was rather glad of it.\n\n\u201cAnd do you for a moment imagine, or would have me, that Clifton\u2014\u201d Mr.\nSt. James hesitated.\n\n\u201cStole it? Certainly.\u201d\n\nAnother sob from Alice, with the cry:\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t\u2014don\u2019t, mamma!\u201d\n\n\u201cTut, tut, tut, wife. Hush, Alice, love. There is some mistake. I\u2019d risk\nall my worldly possessions\u2014aye, and my life\u2014on Gerald\u2019s honesty and\nnoble nature,\u201d said Mr. St. James.\n\n\u201cYou would lose both, then. There is no mistake, my dear. You know he\nhas been much embarrassed in money matters. I know no one entered this\nroom but him; and I know the porte-monnaie is gone, and in it a hundred\npounds. You can call it by what name you choose. I have my own idea\nabout the matter. However, should you put it in the mildest form,\nkleptomania would not be a very desirable acquisition to our family.\nAlice, I think, feels fully sensible of that. Why you have thought so\nmuch of him I cannot tell.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d and the dark brown eyes of Sydney St. James grew more earnest,\nand glowed with a tender, loving light; and in a voice full of emotion,\nhe said: \u201cWhy? Because I, who have no son of my own, see in this young\nman a reproduction of myself\u2014the struggles of my youth. So much he\nbrings to my mind those years of trial\u2014oh, those long, weary\nheart-sickening years!\u2014when, alone in my humble, cheerless room, I\nbrewed my own coffee, broiled my chops, and worked\u2014worked, day and\nnight, so long before I could get any production accepted, and then for\nmany months after, before I received any remuneration. And then how\nsmall it was! how meagerly dealt out! Aye, and in the very act of which\nyou accuse him, most forcibly I see the great resemblance between us.\n\n\u201cAt the time when the \u2018Prison Reform Bill\u2019 was very much engrossing the\npublic mind, my fortunes took a favorable turn. I wrote a leader on that\nsubject. It was published, and although I am sure it was no better than\nmany I had written before, pleased the people. A few days after, when in\nthe office of the editor of the journal in which my productions were\nprincipally published, that gentleman handed me a note, which opening I\nfound was from the Secretary of the Premier, saying his lordship would\nbe pleased to see me, and appointing the next day for my call. Lord\nCedarcliff received me most kindly, complimenting me on that article,\nthat really proved the making of my present success. That call was the\nbeginning of my intimacy with his lordship. A few days after, I was\ninvited to a dinner party given by Lord Cedarcliff. There I met many of\nthe noble and distinguished men of the time. It was my first dinner\nparty, and naturally I was considerably embarrassed. However, his\nlordship\u2019s kindness, and the marked attention of many of his guests,\nplaced me more at ease. During the dinner, Lord Cedarcliff called our\nattention to a gold spoon, curiously wrought and very valuable. It was\nsaid to have belonged to the camp equipage of Napoleon. The conversation\nthen, from the Emperor and his battles, naturally turned to those of the\nCrimea, and the prolonged siege of Sebastopol. Several of the gentlemen\nexpressed their views as to how the city might have been taken; and I,\nconsiderably excited by the wine, and like most young men, possessing my\nfull share of egotism, had my ideas about the matter. So I began to\nexplain how Sebastopol might have been taken very speedily. With the\nhandle of the Emperor\u2019s spoon, I marked my plan on the table-cloth.\nAfter a little I became conscious that a silence more than profound,\nreally painful, had fallen upon the company. I felt confident it could\nnot have been occasioned by their great interest in my theme. I had\nwearied them, most likely, or perhaps I had said or done something very\n_outr\u00e9_. The embarrassment was somewhat relieved by his lordship\u2019s\nmaking the move for our adjournment to the drawing-room. There, however,\nI could not fail to observe that I had in some way lost favor. His\nlordship was _too_ polite, frigidly so. In truth, the whole atmosphere\nseemed changed. At length I excused myself, and left, sadly mystified as\nto the change, in not only his lordship\u2019s treatment of me, but likewise\nof most of his guests.\n\n\u201cA few days after, I called on Lord Cedarcliff, but was told by the\nbutler that his lordship was engaged; again, the next day, with the same\nresult; a third time, with no better success. Determining to press the\nmatter a little, and find out, if possible, what such treatment meant, I\nasked:\n\n\u201c\u2018When can I see his lordship?\u2019\n\n\u201cJudge of my mortification, when the butler replied:\n\n\u201c\u2018It will not be agreeable for his lordship to receive Mr. St. James\nnow, or at any future time.\u2019\n\n\u201cI could not imagine what I had done to merit such a change in the\nPremier\u2019s kind feeling. In vain I asked myself, over and over, \u2018What did\nI say or do at the dinner-table?\u2019 for I was sensible the change took\nplace there.\n\n\u201cThat evening I was engaged to go with a friend to the opera. I felt in\nno mood for such enjoyment, I was so depressed by my reception at the\nPremier\u2019s mansion. However, my friend would not excuse me, and so I\nbegan getting ready to accompany him. Taking from the closet my only\ndress coat\u2014indeed, I may say, my only respectable one\u2014which was kept\nfor great occasions, I began to brush and dust it\u2014I had not worn it\nsince the Premier\u2019s dinner party. While thus engaged, the brush struck\nagainst something in the pocket. Putting my hand in to ascertain what it\nwas, I drew out\u2014oh, horror!\u2014the Emperor\u2019s golden spoon!\n\n\u201cThe mystery was solved, then. I had pocketed that spoon while seated at\nhis lordship\u2019s table. Many times\u2014in fact, I was accustomed, when deeply\ninterested in conversation, to pocket pens, pencils, knives,\nhandkerchiefs and napkins; but never before anything of much value. For\na moment I was so overwhelmed with mortification I could only gaze\nwildly from the spoon to my friend. Then, hurriedly pulling on my coat,\nI caught up my hat, still grasping the spoon, rushed out of the room,\ndown the stairs, and into the street. My companion started to follow me,\ncalling out:\n\n\u201c\u2018St. James, are you mad? Stop! I must go with you!\u2019\n\n\u201cI stopped not nor deigned a word of reply, but rushed on through the\nstreets until I reached the Premier\u2019s dwelling. I rang the bell, and\nwhen the butler opened the door, I said:\n\n\u201c\u2018I must see his lordship. Tell him it is a matter of life and death!\u2019\n\n\u201cMy excited manner testified to the urgency of my case, so the man\nturned to do my bidding. With quick, noiseless steps I followed behind\nhim. He opened the door of his lordship\u2019s sanctum, but before he opened\nhis mouth to speak, I rushed past him, and up to the nobleman\u2019s side,\nexclaiming:\n\n\u201c\u2018My lord, here is your spoon\u2014that Emperor\u2019s spoon! On my honor\u2014\u2019\nExcited as I was, I could detect a curl of the haughty lip, as if to\nsignify his lordship\u2019s doubt of my possessing that quality. \u2018Ah, I fear\nyou think I know nothing of such a feeling,\u2019 I continued; \u2018but, as\nheaven hears me, I had no more idea of having taken that spoon, until\nfifteen minutes ago, than your lordship has now of having purloined the\ncrown jewels.\u2019\n\n\u201cMy look, words and manner enforced conviction. After an instant his\nlordship grasped my hand, saying:\n\n\u201c\u2018I believe you, St. James. I wonder, now, how I could ever have doubted\nyou. I might have known how it was.\u2019\n\n\u201cSo excited had I been, I failed to notice the room had other occupants.\nA merry laugh reached my ear. Turning, I saw several gentlemen who were\npresent at the dinner party. They came forward, each grasping my hand\ncordially, and apologizing for their suspicions. The story was told many\ntimes after, and afforded considerable amusement. And after a while I\ncould join in the laugh; but for a long time it was a very sore subject.\n\n\u201cNow, Alice, love, rest easy. I\u2019ll answer for Gerald. We will hear from\nhim before long; just as soon as he has made the discovery. Come, smile,\nnow; and\u2014Ah, there is the dinner bell. I cannot have a clouded face\nnear me. It will take away my appetite.\u201d\n\nAlice tried to smile, but it proved a poor apology for one.\n\nThey were just about entering the dining-room, when a servant met them,\nholding out an envelope, saying:\n\n\u201cA telegram, sir.\u201d\n\nQuickly opening which, Mr. St. James exclaimed joyously:\n\n\u201cAh, I knew it! It is from Gerald.\u201d\n\nIt was from Peterborough, addressed to Mr. St. James, and read:\n\n    \u201cTook, by mistake, an article of value from your house. Will\n    return with it by the next train.\u201d\n\n\u201cBless the boy! How could you have doubted him, Alice? _You_, of all\nothers! I can scarcely forgive you,\u201d her father said, affectionately\nchiding her.\n\nAlice\u2019s face was radiant with smiles then, and she whispered in her\nfather\u2019s ear:\n\n\u201cGerald will.\u201d\n\nA few hours more and young Clifton was with them, and the porte-monnaie\nrestored to the owner. The event served to bind more firmly the\naffection of Mr. St. James to his favorite, who, in a year after, became\nhis son-in-law and in time not only fulfilled the great expectation of\nSt. James, but quite reconciled Mrs. St. James to the fact of Alice\u2019s\nhusband bearing no lordly title, but one won by his own merit. And that\nworthy lady has been more cautious in pronouncing so decidedly upon the\nactions of _literary_ folk, since the event of the missing porte-monnaie\nand the hearing of her husband\u2019s story; and she is often heard to say\nnow, that \u201cdeep thinkers, who are nearly all the time planning the\nfuture, cannot be expected to be anything else than absent-minded. In\nfact, it is a positive proof of a great mind.\u201d\n\n                                THE END.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Notes:\n\nArchaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Inconsistencies in\nspelling and hyphenation have been retained. A few obvious typesetting\nand punctuation errors have been corrected without note.\n\n\n[End of _Lob Lie-by-the-Fire, The Brownies, and Other Tales_ by Juliana\nHoratia Ewing]","title":"Lob Lie-By-The-Fire, The Brownies and Other Tales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":102261}