"Dear Grandpapa Duncan,—"Maggie and Bessie are making up this letter, but I am printing, because Bessie is too little. We hope you are well, and Bessie is better and I am very well, thank you, and every body. It rains, and we have nothing to do, and so we are writing you a letter. We like this place; it is nice. There is a great deal of sea here. There are two kittens here. Mrs. Jones made us a turnover. The old cat is very cross. Mrs. Jones put currants in it, and she put itin the oven and the juice boiled out and made it sticky, and it was good and we eat it all up. Dear grandpa, we hope you are well. This is from us, Maggie and Bessie. Good-by, dear grandpa. P. S.—We can't think of anything else to say. My hand is tired, too."Your beloved"Maggie and Bessie."Another P. S.—God bless you."
"Dear Grandpapa Duncan,—
"Maggie and Bessie are making up this letter, but I am printing, because Bessie is too little. We hope you are well, and Bessie is better and I am very well, thank you, and every body. It rains, and we have nothing to do, and so we are writing you a letter. We like this place; it is nice. There is a great deal of sea here. There are two kittens here. Mrs. Jones made us a turnover. The old cat is very cross. Mrs. Jones put currants in it, and she put itin the oven and the juice boiled out and made it sticky, and it was good and we eat it all up. Dear grandpa, we hope you are well. This is from us, Maggie and Bessie. Good-by, dear grandpa. P. S.—We can't think of anything else to say. My hand is tired, too.
"Your beloved
"Maggie and Bessie.
"Another P. S.—God bless you."
Mamma said it was a very nice letter, and she folded it and put it in an envelope. Then she directed it to Mr. Duncan, and put a postage stamp on it, so that it was all ready to go with the rest of the letters when Mr. Jones went to the post-office in the evening.
But you must learn a little about the dear old gentleman to whom the children had been writing. His name was Duncan, and he lived at a beautiful place called Riverside, a short distance from New York. He was not really the children's grandfather, but his son, Mr. John Duncan, had married their Aunt Helen; and as theywere as fond of him as he was of them, he had taught them to call him Grandpapa Duncan.
A little way from Riverside lived a poor widow named Bent. She had a son, who a year or two since had fallen from a wall and hurt his back, so that the doctor said he would never walk or stand again. Day after day he lay upon his bed, sometimes suffering very much, but always gentle, patient, and uncomplaining.
Jemmy was often alone, for hours at a time; for his mother had to work hard to get food and medicine for her sick boy; and his sister, Mary, carried radishes and cresses, and other green things to sell in the streets of the city. But Jemmy's Bible and Prayer-book were always at his side, and in these the poor helpless boy found comfort when he was tired and lonely.
To buy a wheel chair, in which Jemmy might be out of doors, and be rolled from place to place without trouble or pain to himself, wasthe one great wish of Mrs. Bent and Mary; and they were trying to put by money enough for this. But such a chair cost a great deal; and though they saved every penny they could, the money came very slowly, and it seemed as if it would be a long while before Jemmy had his chair.
Now Mrs. Bradford was one of Mary's customers; so it happened that the children had often seen her when she came with her basket of radishes. Bessie used to call her "yadishes," for she could not pronouncer: but neither she nor Maggie had ever heard of the poor lame boy, till one day when they were at Riverside. Playing in the garden, they saw Mary sitting outside the gate, counting over the money she had made by the sale of her radishes: and as they were talking to her, it came about that she told them of the sick brother lying on his bed, never able to go out and breathe the fresh air, or see the beautiful blue sky and green trees, in this lovely Summer weather; and how she and her mother were working andsaving, that they might have enough to buy the easy chair.
Our little girls were very much interested, and went back to the house very eager and anxious to help buy the chair for Jemmy; and finding Grandpapa Duncan on the piazza, they told him the whole story. Now our Maggie and Bessie had each a very troublesome fault. Bessie had a quick temper, and was apt to fly into a passion; while Maggie was exceedingly careless and forgetful, sometimes disobeying her parents from sheer heedlessness, and a moment's want of thought. When Mr. Duncan heard about Jemmy Bent, he proposed a little plan to the children, that pleased them very much.
This was about a month before they were to leave the city for the sea-shore. Grandpapa Duncan promised that for each day, during the next three weeks, in which Bessie did not lose her temper and give way to one of her fits of passion, or in which Maggie did not fall into any great carelessness or disobedience,he would give twenty cents to each little girl. At the end of three weeks this would make eight dollars and forty cents. When they had earned this much he would add the rest of the money that was needed to buy the wheel chair, and they should have the pleasure of giving it to Jemmy themselves.
The children were delighted, and promised to try hard, and they did do their best. But it was hard work, for they were but little girls,—Bessie only five, Maggie not quite seven. Bessie had some hard battles with her temper. Maggie had to watch carefully that she was not tempted into forgetfulness and disobedience. And one day Maggie failed miserably, for she had trusted to her own strength, and not looked for help from above. But Grandpapa Duncan gave her another trial; and, as even such young children may do much toward conquering their faults if they try with all their hearts, the money was all earned, the chair bought, and Maggie and Bessie carried it to lame Jemmy. Then it would havebeen hard to tell who were the most pleased, the givers or the receivers.
Nor did Maggie and Bessie cease after this to struggle with their faults, for from this time there was a great improvement to be seen in both.
MMR. JONES had another errand to do when he went to the post-office, which was to go to the railway station for Harry and Fred, whose vacation had begun. Grandmamma and Aunt Annie came with them, but they went to the hotel, and Maggie and Bessie did not see them till the next morning. How glad the little girls were to have their brothers with them; and what a pleasure it was to take them round the next day and show them all that was to be seen!
"Maggie and Bessie," said Harry, "I saw a great friend of yours on Saturday; guess who it was."
"Grandpa Hall," said Maggie.
"No; guess again. We went out to Riversideto spend the day, and it was there we saw him."
"Oh, I know!" said Bessie, "it was lame Jemmy."
"Yes, it was lame Jemmy, and he was as chirp as a grasshopper. He was sitting up in his chair out under the trees; and you never saw a fellow so happy, for all he is lame. Why, if I was like him, and couldn't go about, I should be as cross as a bear."
"Oh, no, you wouldn't, Harry," said Bessie; "not if you knew it was God who made you lame."
"Oh, but I should, though; I'm not half as good as he is."
"But you could ask Jesus to make you good and patient like Jemmy, and then He would."
"Well," said Harry, "he's mighty good, anyhow; and Fred and I gave him a first-rate ride in his chair ever so far up the road. He liked it, I can tell you; and he asked such lots of questions about you two. And what do you think he is learning to do?"
"What?" asked both his little sisters.
"To knit stockings for the soldiers."
"What! a boy?" said Maggie.
"Yes; Aunt Helen sent some yarn to his mother to knit socks; and Jemmy wanted to learn so that he could do something for his country, if he was a lame boy, he said. Aunt Helen pays Mrs. Bent for those she makes, but Jemmy told her if he might use some of her yarn he would like to do it without pay, and she gave him leave; so his mother is teaching him, and you would think he is a girl to see how nicely he takes to it. He is not a bit ashamed of it either, if it is girl's work."
"And so he oughtn't," said Bessie. "Girl's work is very nice work."
"So it is, Queen Bess; and girls are very nice things when they are like our Midget and Bess."
"I don't think boys are half as nice as girls," said Maggie, "except you and Tom, Harry."
"And I," said Fred.
"Well, yes, Fred; when you don't tease I love you; but then you do tease, you know. But Mamie Stone is not nice if she is a girl; she is cross, and she did a shocking thing, Harry. She pinched Bessie's arm so it's all black and blue. But she was served right for it, 'cause I just gave her a good slap."
"But that was naughty in you," said Tom, who was standing by; "you should return good for evil."
"I sha'n't, if she evils my Bessie," said Maggie, stoutly. "If she hurts me I won't do anything to her, but if she hurts Bessie I will, and I don't believe it's any harm. I'm sure there's a verse in the Bible about it."
"About what, Maggie?"
"About, about,—why about my loving Bessie and not letting any one hurt her. I'll ask papa to find one for me. He can find a verse in the Bible about everything. Oh, now I remember one myself. It's—little children love each other."
"And so you should," said Tom; "and it isvery sweet to see two little sisters always so kind and loving to each other as you and Bessie are. But, Maggie, that verse does not mean that you should get into a quarrel with your other playmates for Bessie's sake; it means that you should love all little children. Of course you need not love Mamie as much as Bessie, but you ought to love her enough to make you kind to her. And there's another verse,—'blessed are the peace-makers.' You were not a peace-maker when you slapped Mamie."
"I sha'n't be Mamie's peace-maker," said Maggie; "and, Tom, you ought to take my side and Bessie's; you are very unkind."
"Now don't be vexed, Midget," said Tom, sitting down on a large stone, and pulling Maggie on his knee. "I only want to show you that it did not make things any better for you to slap Mamie when she pinched Bessie. What happened next after you slapped her?"
"She slapped me," said Maggie; "and thenI slapped her again, and Lily slapped her, too; it was just good enough for her."
"And what then?" asked Tom.
"Why Mamie screamed and ran and told her mother, and Mrs. Stone came and scolded us; and Jane showed her Bessie's arm, and she said she didn't believe Mamie meant to hurt Bessie."
"What a jolly row!" said Fred. "I wish I had been there to see."
"Nurse said she wished she had been there," said Maggie, "and she would have told Mrs. Stone—"
"Never mind that," said Tom; "there were quite enough in the quarrel without nurse. Now, Maggie, would it not have been far better if you had taken Bessie quietly away when Mamie hurt her?"
"No," said Maggie, "because then she wouldn't have been slapped, and she ought to be."
"Well, I think with you that Mamie was a very naughty girl, and deserved to be punished;but then it was not your place to do it."
"But her mother would not do it," said Maggie; "she is a weak, foolish woman, and is ruining that child."
The boys laughed, when Maggie said this with such a grand air.
"Who did you hear say that?" asked Harry.
"Papa," said Maggie,—"so it's true. I guess he didn't mean me to hear it, but I did."
"Oh, you little pitcher!" cried Harry; and Tom said, "Maggie dear, things may be quite right for your father to say, that would not be proper for us; because Mrs. Stone is a great deal older than we are; but since we all know that she does not take much pains to make Mamie a good and pleasant child, do you not think that this ought to make us more patient with her when she is fretful and quarrelsome?"
"No," said Maggie; "if her mother don'tmake her behave, some one else ought to. I will hurt her if she hurts Bessie."
"Maggie," said Tom, "when wicked men came to take Jesus Christ and carry him away to suffer a dreadful death on the cross, do you remember what one of the disciples did?"
"No; tell me," said Maggie.
"He drew his sword and cut off the ear of one of those wicked men; not because he was doing anything to him, but because he was ill-treating the dear Lord whom he loved."
"I'm glad of it," said Maggie; "it was just good enough for that bad man, and I love that disciple."
"But the Saviour was not glad," said Tom, "for he reproved the disciple, and told him to put up his sword; and he reached out his hand and healed the man's ear."
"That was because he was Jesus," said Maggie. "I couldn't be so good as Jesus."
"No, we cannot be as holy and good as Jesus, for he was without sin; but we can try to be like him, and then he will love us and bepleased with what he knows we wish to do. Maggie, the other day I heard you saying to your mother that pretty hymn, 'I am Jesus' Little Lamb;' now, if you are really one of Jesus' little lambs you will also be one of his blessed peace-makers. I think if you and Lily had not struck Mamie, she would have felt much more sorry and ashamed than she does now, when she thinks that you have hurt her as much as she hurt Bessie."
"Do you want me to be a peace-maker with Mamie, now?" asked Maggie.
"Yes, if you are not friends with her yet."
"Oh, no, we are not friends at all," said Maggie; "for she runs away every time she sees Lily or me; and we make faces at her."
"And do you like to have it so?"
"Yes," said Maggie slowly, "I think I do; I like to see her run."
"And do you think it is like Jesus' little lamb for you to feel so."
"No, I suppose not; I guess it's pretty naughty, and I won't make faces at her anymore.What shall I do to make friends, Tom?"
"Well," said Tom, "I cannot tell exactly; but suppose the next time that Mamie runs away from you, you call her to come and play with you; will not that show her that you wish to be at peace again?"
"Yes," said Maggie; "and if you think Jesus would want me to, I'll do it; but, Tom, we'll be very sorry if she comes. You don't know what an uncomfortable child she is to play with; she's as cross as—as cross as—ninesticks."
"Perhaps you'll find some other way," said Tom, who could not help smiling. "If we wish for a chance to do good to a person we can generally find one. But I must go, for there is father beckoning to me to come out in the boat with him. You will think of what I have said, will you not, Maggie?"
"Oh, yes I will, and I will do it too, Tom; and if Mamie pinches Bessie again, I won'tslap her, but only give her a good push, and then we'll run away from her."
Tom did not think that this was exactly the way to make friends, but he had not time to say anything more, for his father was waiting.
T"THERE'S Tom," said Maggie, on the next Sunday afternoon, as she looked out of the window; "he is talking to Mr. Jones, and now they are going to the barn. I wonder if he is going to swing on Sunday."
"Why, Maggie," said Bessie; "Tom wouldn't do such a thing."
"I thought maybe he forgot," said Maggie. "I forgot it was Sunday this morning, and I was just going to ask Mr. Jones to swing me. I wonder what they are doing. I can see in the door of the barn and they are busy with the hay. Come and look, Bessie."
Tom and Mr. Jones seemed to be very busy in the barn for a few minutes, but the little girls could not make out what they were doing. At last Tom came out and walkedover to the house. Maggie and Bessie ran to meet him.
"Here you are," he said, "the very little people I wanted to see. I am going to have a Sunday-school class in the barn. Mr. Jones has given me leave, for I could find no place over at the hotel. We have been making seats in the hay. Will you come?"
"Oh, yes, indeed we will," said Maggie, clapping her hands.
Bessie shook her head sorrowfully. "Tom," she said, "mamma wont let me go to Sunday-school; she says I am too little."
"I think she will let you go to mine," said Tom; "we'll go and ask her."
They all went in together to the room where papa and mamma sat reading. "Mrs. Bradford," said Tom, when he had shaken hands with her, "I am going to hold a little Sunday-school class over in the barn; will you let Maggie and Bessie come?"
"Certainly," said Mrs. Bradford. "Who are you to have, Tom?"
"Only Lily, ma'am, and Mamie Stone, and a few more of the little ones from the hotel; they were running about and making a great noise in the hall and parlors, and I thought I could keep them quiet for a while if Mr. Jones would let me bring them over to his barn, and have a Sunday-school there. Walter is coming to help me."
"A good plan, too," said Mr. Bradford; "you are a kind boy to think of it, Tom."
"May I come?" asked Harry.
"And I, too?" said Fred.
"I don't know about you, Fred," said Tom; "I should like to have Harry, for neither Walter nor I can sing, and we want some one to set the tunes for the little ones. But I am afraid you will make mischief."
"Indeed I won't, Tom. Let me come and I will be as quiet as a mouse, and give you leave to turn me out if I do the first thing."
"Well, then, you may come, but I shall hold you to your word and send you away if you make the least disturbance. I don't mean this for play."
"Honor bright," said Fred.
They all went out and met Walter who was coming up the path with a troop of little ones after him. There were Lily and Eddie Norris, Gracie Howard, Mamie Stone, Julia and Charlie Bolton, and half a dozen more beside.
Tom marched them into the barn, where he and Mr. Jones had arranged the school-room.
And a fine school-room the children thought it; better than those in the city to which some of them went every Sunday. There were two long piles of hay with boards laid on top of them,—one covered with a buffalo robe, the other with a couple of sheep skins, making nice seats. In front of these was Tom's place,—an empty barrel turned upside-down for his desk, and Fred's velocipede for his seat. The children did not in the least care that hay was strewn all over the floor, or that the old horse who was in the other part of the barn, would now and then put his nose through the little opening above his manger, and look in at them as if he wondered what they were about.
"Oh, isn't this splendid?" said Maggie. "It is better than our Infant school-room, in Dr. Hill's church."
"So it is," said Lily. "I wish we always went to Sunday-school here, and had Tom for our teacher."
Some of the little ones wanted to play, and began to throw hay at each other; but Tom put a stop to this; he had not brought them there to romp, he said, and those who wanted to be noisy must go away. Then he told them all to take their seats.
Maggie had already taken hers on the end of one of the hay benches, with Bessie next to her, and Lily on the other side of Bessie. Gracie Howard sat down by Lily, and Mamie Stone was going to take her place next, when Gracie said, "You sha'n't sit by me, Mamie."
"Nor by me," said Lily.
"Nor me, nor me," said two or three of the others.
Now Mamie saw how she had made the other children dislike her by her ill-humor andunkindness, and she did not find it at all pleasant to stand there and have them all saying they would not sit by her.
"I want to go home," she said, while her face grew very red, and she looked as if she were going to cry.
"Who is going to be kind, and sit by Mamie," asked Tom.
"I should think none of them who know how she can pinch," said Fred.
"Oh, we are going to forget all that," said Tom. "Come, children, make room for Mamie."
"This bench is full," said Lily, "she can't come here."
Mamie began to cry. "There is plenty of room on the other bench," said Tom; "sit there, Mamie."
"I don't want to," answered Mamie; "there's nothing but boys there, and I want to go home."
"Why," said Tom, "what a bad thing that would be, to begin our Sunday-school by havingone of our little scholars go home because none of the rest will sit by her. That will never do."
All this time Maggie had sat quite still, looking at Mamie. She was thinking of what Tom had said to her, and of being Jesus' little lamb. Here was a chance to show Mamie that she was ready to be friends with her, but it was hard work. She did not at all like to go away from her little sister whom she loved so much, to sit by Mamie whom she did not love at all, and who had been so unkind to Bessie. She rose up slowly from her seat, with cheeks as red as Mamie's and said,—
"Tom, I'll go on the other seat and sit by Mamie."
"And just get pinched for it," said Lily: "stay with us, Maggie."
Mamie took her hand down from her face and looked at Maggie with great surprise.
"She wants some one to sit with her," said Maggie, "and I had better go."
"Maggie is doing as she would be done by," said Tom.
Then Maggie felt glad, for she knew she was doing right. "Come, Mamie," she said, and she took hold of Mamie's hand, and they sat down together on the other bench.
"You are a good girl, Midget," said Harry, "and it's more than you deserve, Miss Mamie."
"I don't care," said Mamie. "I love Maggie, and I don't love any of the rest of you, except only Tom."
Here Tom called his school to order and said there must be no more talking, for he was going to read, and all must be quiet. He went behind his barrel-desk, and opening his Bible, read to them about the Saviour blessing little children. Then they sang, "I want to be an Angel." Harry and Fred, with their beautiful clear voices, started the tune, and all the children joined in, for every one of them knew the pretty hymn.
Tom's Sunday School in barn.Bessie at Sea Side. p. 68
Bessie at Sea Side. p. 68
Next, Tom read how Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in a rough stable and laid not in a pretty cradle such as their babybrothers and sisters slept in, but in a manger where the wise men of the east came and worshipped Him: and how after Joseph and Mary had been told by God to fly into the land of Egypt with the infant Saviour, the wicked king, Herod, killed all the dear little babies in the land, with the hope that Jesus might be among them. When he came to any thing which he thought the children would not understand, he stopped and explained it to them. "Now we will sing again," he said, when he had done reading, "and the girls shall choose the hymns. Maggie, dear, what shall we sing first?"
Maggie knew what she would like, but she was too shy to tell, and she looked at Tom without speaking. Tom thought he knew, and said, "I'll choose for you, then. We will sing, 'Jesus, little lamb;' whoever knows it, hold up their hand."
Half a dozen little hands went up, but Tom saw that all the children did not know it. "What shall we do?" he said. "Maggiewould like that best, I think; but I suppose all want to sing, and some do not know the words."
"Never mind," said Gracie Howard, who was one of those who had not held up her hand, "if Maggie wants it we'll sing it, because she was so good and went and sat by Mamie. If we don't know the words we can holler out the tune all the louder."
Some of the children began to laugh when Gracie said this, but Tom said, "I have a better plan than that. I will say the first verse over three or four times, line by line, and you may repeat it after me; then we will sing it, and so go on with the next verse."
This was done. Tom said the lines slowly and distinctly, and those who did not know the hymn repeated them. While they were learning the first verse in this way, Mamie whispered to Maggie, "Maggie, I love you."
"Do you?" said Maggie, as if she could not quite believe it.
"Yes, because you are good; don't you love me. Maggie?"
"Well, no, not much," said Maggie, "but I'll try to."
"I wish you would," said Mamie; "and I wont snatch your things, nor slap you, nor do anything."
"I'll love you if you do a favor to me," said Maggie.
"Yes, I will, if it is not to give you my new crying baby."
"Oh, I don't want your crying baby, nor any of your toys," said Maggie. "I only want you to promise that you won't pinch my Bessie again. Why, Mamie, you ought to be more ashamed of yourself than any girl that ever lived; her arm is all black and blue yet."
"I didn't mean to hurt her so much," said Mamie, "and I was sorry when Bessie cried so; but then you slapped me, and Lily slapped me, and Jane scolded me, and so I didn't care, but was glad I did it; but I am sorry, now, and I'll never do it again."
"And I sha'n't slap you, if you do," said Maggie.
"What will you do, then?"
"I'll just take Bessie away, and leave you to your own 'flections."
"I don't know what that means," said Mamie.
"I don't, either," said Maggie; "but I heard papa say it, so I said it. I like to say words that big people say. Bessie won't say a word if she don't know what it means; but I'd just as lief. I guess it means conscience."
"Oh, I guess it does, too," said Mamie, "for Walter said he should think I'd have a troubled conscience for hurting Bessie so; but I didn't. And Tom talked to me too; but I didn't care a bit, till you came to sit by me, Maggie, and now I am sorry. Did you tell Tom about it?"
"I talked to him about it, but he knew before. Why, everybody knew, Mamie, because your mamma made such an awful fuss about those little slaps."
Now Maggie made a mistake in saying this; she did not mean it to vex Mamie, but it did.
"They were not little slaps," she said, "they were hard slaps, and they hurt; and you sha'n't say my mamma makes an awful fuss."
Before Maggie had time to answer, Tom called upon the children to sing, and Maggie joined in with her whole heart. The first verse was sung over twice; and by the time this was done, Mamie felt good-natured again, for she remembered how Maggie had come to sit with her when none of the other little girls would do so. She had been quite surprised when Maggie had offered to do it, and had thought that she could not have been so good.
"I'll never be cross with Maggie again," she said to herself.
When Tom began to teach the second verse she whispered, "Maggie, will you kiss me and make up?"
"Yes, by and by, when some of the other children are gone," said Maggie.
"Why won't you do it, now?"
"I don't like to do it before them; I'm afraid they'll think I want them to see."
When Tom thought the children all knew the hymn pretty well, they sang it over two or three times, and then he told them a story. After they had sung once more, he dismissed the school; for he did not want to keep them too long, lest the little ones should be tired. He invited all those who liked it, to come again the next Sunday afternoon, for Mr. Jones had said that they might have Sunday-school in the barn as often as they liked. Every one of the children said that they would come. When most of them had left the barn, Maggie said, "Now I will kiss you, Mamie."
"I want to kiss Bessie, too," said Mamie, as the little girl came running up to her sister; "will you kiss me, Bessie?"
"Oh, yes," said Bessie; and Mamie kissed both of her little playmates, and so there was peace between them once more.
OON Monday Mr. Bradford went up to New York to attend to some business. He was to come back on Wednesday afternoon; and on the morning of that day, grandmamma sent over to know if Mrs. Bradford would like to have her carriage, and drive to the railway station to meet him. Mamma said yes; and told Maggie and Bessie they might go with her. She offered to take Harry and Fred, too; but they wanted to go clam-fishing with Mr. Jones; so she took Franky and baby instead, and carried baby herself, telling nurse and Jane that they might have a holiday for the afternoon. The little girls were delighted at the thought of going to meet their dear father; for he had been gone three days, and they had missed him very much.
The first part of the ride was through the sand, where the wheels went in so deep that the horses had hard work to draw the carriage and went very slowly, but the children did not mind that at all. They liked to hear the sound of the wheels grating through the sand, and to watch how they took it up and threw it off again as they moved round and round. At last the carriage turned off to the right, and now the road was firmer and harder, and, after a time, ran through the woods. This was delightful, it was so cool and shady. Baby seemed to think this was a good place for a nap, for she began to shut her eyes and nod her little head about, till mamma laid her down in her lap, where she went fast asleep. James took Franky in front with him and let him hold the end of the reins, and Franky thought he was driving quite as much as the good-natured coachman, and kept calling out "Get up," and "Whoa," which the horses did not care for in the least.
There was a little stream which ran alongby the side of the road, and at last bent itself right across it, so that the carriage had to go over a small bridge. Just beyond the bridge the stream widened into quite a large pool. James drove his horses into it, and stopped to let them take a drink.
It was a lovely, shady spot. The trees grew close around the pool and met overhead, and there were a number of small purple flowers growing all around. James tried to reach some of them with his whip, but they were too far away, so the children were disappointed. When the horses had stopped drinking, there was not a sound to be heard but the twittering of the birds in the branches, and the little ripple of the water as it flowed over the stones.
"Let's stay here a great while, mamma," said Bessie, "it is so pleasant."
"And what would papa do when he came and found no one waiting for him?" said Mrs. Bradford.
"Oh, yes! let us make haste then," saidBessie; "we mustn't make him disappointed for a million waters."
But mamma said there was time enough; so they staid a few moments longer, and then drove on. At last they passed from the beautiful green wood into a space where there was no shade. There were bushes and very small trees to be sure, but they were low and scrubby and grew close together in a kind of tangled thicket. These reached as far as they could see on either side, and came so near to the edge of the road, that once, when James had to make way for a heavy hay wagon, and drew in his horses to let it pass, Maggie stretched her hand out of the carriage and pulled some sprigs from one of the bushes.
"Mamma, do you know that funny old man?" asked Bessie, as the driver of the hay wagon nodded to her mother, and Mrs. Bradford smiled and nodded pleasantly in return.
"No, dear; but in these lonely country places it is the custom for people to nod when they pass each other."
"Why, we don't do that in New York," said Maggie.
"No, it would be too troublesome to speak to every one whom we met in the streets of a great city; and people there would think it very strange and impertinent if you bowed to them when you did not know them."
"Mamma," said Maggie, "I don't like the kind of country there is here, at all. What makes all these bushes grow here?"
Then mamma told how all this ground was once covered with just such beautiful woods as they had passed through, and how they were set on fire by the sparks from a train of cars, how the fire spread for miles and miles, and burned for many days; and the people could do nothing to stop it, until God sent a change of wind and a heavy rain which put it out. She told them how many poor people were burnt out of their houses, and how the little birds and squirrels and other animals were driven from their cosy homes in the woods, and many of them scorched to death by thisterrible fire. Then for a long time the ground where these woods had grown was only covered with ashes and charred logs, till at last these tangled bushes had sprung up. Mamma said she supposed that by and by the people would cut down the underbrush, and then the young trees would have space to grow.
By the time she had finished her long story they reached the Station and found that they had a few moments to wait, for it was not yet quite time for the train.
There was a locomotive standing on the track, and when the horses saw it they began to prick up their ears and to dance a little; so James turned their heads and drove them up by the side of the depot, where they could not see it. On the other side of the road was a small, white building, and over the door was a sign with large black letters upon it.
"P-O-S-T, porst," spelled Maggie.
"Post," said mamma.
"Post, O double F."
"O-F, of," said mamma again.
"O-F, of, F-I-C-E; oh, it's the post-office. I wonder if there is a letter there for us from Grandpapa Duncan."
"Perhaps there may be," said Mrs. Bradford. "I told Mr. Jones we would inquire for the letters. James, will it do for you to leave the horses?"
"I think not, ma'am," said James. "They are a little onasy yet, and if she squales they'll run."
"And I cannot go because of baby," said mamma; "we must wait till papa comes."
"I wish we could get our letter if it is there," said Maggie; "we could read it while we are waiting for papa."
"There's a nice civil man there, Mrs. Bradford," said James, "and if you didn't mind Miss Maggie going over, I could lift her out, and he'll wait on her as if it was yourself."
"Oh, James," said Maggie; "I couldn't do it, not for anything. I couldn't indeed, mamma."
"Well, dear, you need not, if you are afraid."
"But I would like to have our letter so much, mamma."
"So would I," said Bessie. "And when dear papa comes we will want to talk to him and not to yead our letter."
"Maybe it is not there," said Maggie.
"But we would like to know," said Bessie. "Could I go, mamma?"
"You are almost too little I think, dear."
"Well," said Maggie, slowly, "I guess I'll go. Mamma, will you look at me all the time?"
"Yes, dear, and there is nothing to hurt you. Just walk in at that door, and you will see a man there. Ask him if there are any letters to go to Mr. Jones's house."
"Yes, mamma, and be very sure you watch all the time."
James came down from his seat and lifted Maggie from the carriage. She walked very slowly across the road, every step or two looking back to see if her mother was watching her. Mrs. Bradford smiled and nodded toher, and at last Maggie went in at the door. But the moment she was inside, her mother saw her turn round and fly out of the post-office as if she thought something terrible was after her. She tore back across the road and came up to the carriage looking very much frightened.
"Why, Maggie, what is it, dear?" asked her mother.
"Oh, mamma, there is a hole there, and a man put his face in it; please put me in the carriage, James."
"Oh, foolish little Maggie," said mamma; "that man was the post-master, and he came to the hole as you call it, to see what you wanted. If you had waited and told him, he would have looked to see if there were any letters for us."
"He had such queer spectacles on," said Maggie.
"I wish I could go," said Bessie; "I wouldn't be afraid of him. I do want to know if Grandpapa Duncan's letter is there."
"Then you may try," said her mother; "take her out, James."
So Bessie was lifted out of the carriage, and went across the road as Maggie had done. She walked into the post-office and saw the hole Maggie had spoken of, but no one was looking out of it. It was a square opening cut in a wooden partition which divided the post-office. On one side was the place where Bessie stood, and where people came to ask for their letters; on the other was the postmaster's room, where he kept the letters and papers till they were called for.
Bessie looked around and saw no one. She always moved very gently, and she had come in so quietly that the post-master had not heard her. There was a chair standing in front of "the hole." Bessie pushed it closer, and climbing upon it, put her little face through, and looked into the post-master's side of the room. He was sitting there reading. He was an ugly old man, and wore green goggles, which Maggie had called "such queer spectacles." But Bessie was not afraid of him.
"How do you do, Mr. Post Officer?" she said. "I came for our letter."
The post-master looked up. "Well, you're a big one to send after a letter," he said. "Who is it for?"
"For Maggie and me, and it is from Grandpapa Duncan; has it come?"
"Where are you from?" asked the post-master, laughing.
"From Mr. Jones's house. Oh, I forgot, mamma said I was to ask if any letters had come for Mr. Jones's house."
"Then I suppose you are Mr. Bradford's daughter?"
"Yes, I am," said Bessie.
"And are you the little girl who came in here just now, and ran right out again?"
"Oh, no, sir; that was Maggie. Poor Maggie is shy, and she said you looked out of a hole at her."
"And you looked in a hole at me, but I did not run away. If I was to run away you could not get your letter."
"Is it here, sir?" asked Bessie.
"Well, I reckon it may be," said the post-master; "what's your name?"
"My name is Bessie, and my sister's is Maggie."
"Here is one apiece then," said the post-master, taking up some letters. "Here is one for Miss Bessie Bradford; that's you, is it? and one for Miss Maggie Bradford, that's your sister, I reckon."
"What! one for myself, and one for Maggie's self," said Bessie. "Are they from Grandpapa Duncan?"
"I don't know," said the post-master. "You will have to open them to find that out."
"Oh, how nice; please let me have them, sir; I am very much obliged to you."
"Stop, stop," cried the post-master, as Bessie jumped down from the chair, and was running off with her prizes. "Here are some more papers and letters for your folks."
But Bessie did not hear him; she wasalready out of the door, running over to the carriage with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, holding up a letter in each hand. "Oh, Maggie, Maggie," she called, "that nice post-officer gave me two letters, one for you, and one for me; wasn't he kind?"
"I think it was a kind Grandpapa Duncan, who took the trouble to write two letters," said Mrs. Bradford.
"So it was," said Maggie. "Mamma, will you read them for us?"
"In a moment," said Mrs. Bradford; and then she turned to speak to the post-master, who had followed Bessie to the carriage with the papers and letters which she had been in too great a hurry to wait for. She thanked him, and he went back and stood at the door watching the eager little girls while their mother read to them. She opened Maggie's letter first. It said,