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TOM, Charley, and Sue were making a visit to their cousins, and it was rather trying to have a rainy day. In the first place, it was in the spring, and they had expected to have a delightful ramble after early flowers that very morning; in the next place, the house was a small one, and there were eight children besides the older people who lived in it, so there was not room for any very extensive in-door plays. Who wanted to sit down and read in all that hubbub, or to play "What is my thought like?" or "Capping Poetry," when the snow was all gone?
Whatever feelings were entertained by the young people, they were fully, though secretly, reciprocated by the older ones, who thought with dismay of what their ears must endure before the sun shone again.
Therefore, when Charley flung up his cap, (which he always had conveniently by him, even in the house, notwithstanding his mother's lessons upon good manners,) and shouted, "I have it! Let's have an exhibition in the barn!" the proposition was received with universal acclamation.
It was Charley's private idea that since the number of children was much greater than the number of "grown-ups," as he irreverently called them, it would be more satisfactory, and more like a real exhibition, if some of the little ones were to act as audience instead of performers. But Charley was a very kindhearted boy, and did not like to say this, so he consulted his Aunt Mary on the subject.
"Ah, my dear," said she, "to be sure it would be more like a real exhibition if you should do so, but I don't think it would be more satisfactory. I think you will give satisfaction to a greater number of people by letting all take part."
"Done," said Charley, running into the room where the other children were.
"Boys and girls come out to playIn the barn upon the hay,Hooray!"
And the eleven took up their line of march in the proposed direction.
"I'll tell you," said George; "we can have this little low haymow for the stage, it's first-rate; almost all the hay is gone, and we can pitch the rest of it back into one corner."
This was speedily done, though not without some delay, caused by Tom and Fred, who, younger than their brothers, had not their business turn, and persisted in turning somersaults on the fragrant hay.
"What shall we do for a curtain?" said George. "We never can get along without one."
"I know," said his sister Alice; "there's that red patch bed quilt: I guess mother will let us have that."
So the bed quilt was procured, and put up in a very satisfactory manner, though, as a true story-teller, I am bound to relate that to its latest days it bore the marks of some small nails which were driven through it with the utmost care by George, who thought it as well to do it first, and confer with his mother about it afterwards.
"But now," said he, in some perplexity, as he surveyed his completed work, "how are we going to work to make it stay up while we speak our pieces?"
"That's no matter," said Sue; "we only want a curtain while we are getting ready. We can come in front of it when we get ready to speak."
"I did when I speaked my piece at the exsmishun," squeaked little Ben in a small voice.
But little Ben was immediately hissed down, for Charley and George felt that they never could endure the humiliation of coming before the curtain, instead of having the curtain rise before them.
"I'll tell you," said Charley, "let some of the little ones stand and hold the curtain back while we are speaking."
"Yes," said Alice, with the kindest intentions, "Ben can do that. It'll be just as nice as speaking, Ben, because then the people can see you all the time. Besides, you haven't any piece to speak."
"Yis I hev," said Ben, opening his round blue eyes with an injured look; "I kin speak the one I speaked at the exsmishun."
Now the fact was, on the memorable occasion alluded to, Master Ben had found himself, to his astonishment, all abroad the moment he appeared before the curtain, and after having repeated the last two lines of the second verse, followed by the first two of the fourth, he had ignominiously retreated. But, he had been applauded, and applause is sweet to youth, so he had no objection to winning new laurels on the present occasion.
Alice thought it unwise to allude to his former defeat, so she only said, "O, you've forgotten it, Ben."
"No, I haven't," said Ben, still in an aggrieved tone. "You see—
"Twintle, twintle, little star,How I wonder—how I wonder—how I wonder—"
"How I wonder what comes next," suggested Fred.
"No, that ain't it," said Ben. "How I wonder—how I wonder—"
"How I wander from the subject," suggested George. "I'll tell you what, Ben, you'll think it is splendid to hold up the curtain. You may wear my soldier cap if you want to, and I guess mother 'll let you have the peacock's feather over the looking-glass to put in it."
"Yes," said Alice, "and you may have my red scarf for a sash."
Thus solicited, Ben very prudently refrained from any further speculations about the star, and addressed himself to the work of collecting the articles necessary for his adornment.
"Now, in the first place," said Charley, "we want one good, long dialogue, and then we'll each speak a piece besides."
"I don't see how we are going to learn a dialogue in such a little while," said Sue.
"I know what we can do," said Alice; "we can have a charade, and then we shan't have to learn it beforehand."
"And whatever we may do," said Charley, "we must have a band of music."
"How are you going to get it?" asked Tom.
"Well, that's what I don't know," said Charley, considering. "I suppose Uncle George wouldn't let us move the piano out here for such a little while, would he?"
"No, indeed," said Alice, who loved music, and had no idea of having her piano banged about in that style.
"See here," said Fred, "I can play the clappers."
"And I can beat my drum," said Jamie.
"I can play on the jews-harp," said Tom.
"O, just let me play on my 'monicon," squeaked little Ben.
"Well," said Charley, "that's capital; and you whistle, George, and then they'll know what tune it is. And let me take your trumpet, and I know I can come in, in time."
"I think it will be splendid," said Jamie.
And according to the ideas of some, it was probably splendid. The family assembled in the barn soon after dinner, for it had taken all the morning for the preparations. One bench held the whole audience—Aunt Mary, Uncle George, Grandma, and Patty, the maid.
The eleven performers were unseen, but not unheard behind the curtain. Then the six boys appeared in front, each with a red scarf round his waist, to signify that they were a band in uniform. As Charley had suggested, by the efforts of George, who was a good whistler, the listeners were enabled to distinguish the tune of "Rally round the Flag," though their efforts to decide what it was were made somewhat difficult by the drum, which came in invariably upon the wrong beat of the measure, by the clatter of the clappers, which threatened to drown everything else, and by the plaintive wail of the harmonicon, upon which Ben had as yet learned to produce but two sounds, one by blowing out and the other by blowing in.
The applause at the close of the piece was so pleasing that Charley was just proposing that they should repeat it, when the cheering ceased, Uncle George saying that it would really be unfair to take advantage of their willingness to accommodate when they had paid an admission fee sufficient to entitle them to hear each piece once.
The next article on the programme was a poem, beginning, "The boy stood on the burning deck," recited by Master Jamie, the curtain, meanwhile, being held up by Master Ben, gorgeous in his cap and feather.
Directly after this followed a duet from Alice and Sue—"Two merry hearts are we," which was very prettily sung. Next, Tom appeared before the curtain, a great bustle going on behind it at the same time, and recited a humorous poem, which concluded with a moral, stating that "Vinegar never catches flies."
Then there was a prolonged pause of preparation for the central attraction—the charade. Then those who did not appear in the first scene came out and took their places in the audience, and the curtain rose. Behold a ricketty old chaise-top, to which a rocking-horse was harnessed! In the chaise sat Charley, with a sermon of Uncle George's in his hands, a tall hat on his head, and grandma's spectacles across his nose. Behind the chaise stood George, with a bell in his hand, which he rang ten times, the first nine times slowly and the tenth quickly.
"That must mean just half-past nine o'clock. Just the hour of the 'earthquake shock,'" said Aunt Mary.
But before the words were out came a crash and a bang; over went the chaise, and it was buried in an instant under a load of hay pitched upon it by the little boys, from the midst of which Charlie's head presently rose, in a rather fouled condition, and an expression of bewilderment on his countenance. This was the point at which the curtain should have fallen, and fall it did, though quite unconsciously on Ben's part, since he was so lost in admiration of the scene that he forgot his duty of holding it up, instead of remembering his duty of letting it fall.
"I guess that means 'shay,'" said grandma, wisely.
Another tremendous bustle behind the curtain. Then it rose again. Alice, in a dress of her grandmother's, with spectacles and knitting, sat by a little work-table; Sue, with a basket of mending, was on the other side; Emma sat on a stool reading aloud, and the little twins were playing with their blocks on the floor.
"Hush!" said Alice, laying down her knitting; and the others listened, too. "I think I hear a noise. Daughter, wont you look and see what it is?"
So Sue pretended to go to a window and look out. "I don't see anything," said she, and sat down again.
Emma began to read.
"Stop a minute," said Alice again. "I'm sure I heard a noise."
"And so do I," said Sue, starting up.
"It makes me think of the old times of the war, when I was a girl," said Alice.
"Why, there's a war now, grandma," said Emma.
"Yes, yes, child," said Alice, hastily. "What is that noise?"
At that instant there was a shrill whoop from behind the breastwork of hay thrown up in the corner, and all the boys—except Ben, who, notwithstanding the glory of his dress, looked on sorrowfully—arrayed in tall caps adorned with rooster's feathers, and with such toy muskets and tin swords as are to be found in the garret of any house where there are four boys, rushed in and seized hold of the girls, who had risen with what was meant for a terrified look, though Emma could not refrain from snickering a little.
"In the name of Jefferson Davis, you are prisoners!" said Charley in a stentorian voice, who wore the tallest feathers and the longest sword.
Then the girl took to tears, and the boys to threats, and finally the boys led the girls off captives, after a very amusing and exciting scene.
Then George appeared again, and stated that in acting the syllables of the word they had acted the whole; and Aunt Mary won a great reputation for smartness, because she guessed it was "charade" (shay-raid).
Now followed a scene between Brutus and Cassius, performed by Charley and George.
Then Emma sang the touching ballad of the "Three little kittens." Fred was eloquent as Rienzi addressing the Romans, and the twins recited in concert,—
"Very little things are we;O, how good we ought to be.Never quarrel, never fight,That would be a shocking sight."
After this Charley gave a finishing touch to the entertainment by an original epilogue.
"Dear friends, we're about to part,And I hope from my heart,That you think we've been smart.We've done our best,With a great deal of zest.It must be confessed,Since our riddle you guessed,That you are smart, too,And therefore, adieu."
And so the rain did no harm, after all, to anything but the patch bed quilt; and Aunt Mary said that was of no consequence but it would have been right to ask her before driving the nails through it. And though George at first felt rather ashamed of himself on account of the bed quilt, the exhibition closed with a very pleasant feeling all around.
THE MOTHER'S LEGACY.
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THE sun had gone down behind the steeples and chimneys of the city, and left a bright sky in the west to conclude a day which was a happy New Year's day to many hearts.
But there were others in that city who saw nothing in the bright red sky to assure them that the new year was likely to prove to them any better than the old, and who would have been glad enough, amid many years of want and sorrow, to have one happy new year.
Mr. Ellison had been calling on a friend, and had just stepped from door when he was accosted by a young girl, who asked, "Please, sir, do you know of any one wanting a nurse-girl?"
He looked earnestly at the face before him, and replied, "I have a little boy at home who lost his nurse lately, but you look rather young for that position. What is your name?"
"My name is Norah, sir; my mother is dead, and I live with Judy Finegan; but the times are too hard for her to keep and feed me any longer. I would try to suit you, sir, if you would take me."
"It is too cold to stand here; tell me where you live, and I will call and see you in the morning." And receiving her answer, he passed on.
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"My dear," said Mr. Ellison to his wife, as they sat at their pleasant tea-table, "I heard of a nurse for you to-day. Are you suited yet?"
"No. Where did you meet with her?"
Mr. Ellison related the circumstances, and continued: "There was something in the girl's face that particularly interested me. The fact is, I believe she looks like you."
Mrs. Ellison smiled. "It was probably nothing but your kind heart, which allows itself to be interested in a case of suffering where another would be unconcerned. But seriously, husband, if I should take so young a nurse, I fear, instead of relieving me, she would add to my perplexities."
"Well, what say you, Aunt Hannah?" asked Mr. Ellison of a prim, but mild-looking old lady in the quaint Quaker dress, who had been listening to the conversation.
"What do I say? Why, that in this matter thee has erred more than is thy wont. Thee knows that a girl taken from the streets of this wicked city is not a fit companion for thy innocent little Kate, who, though only six years old, is an apt scholar. I wonder at thee, John, for thinking of it;" and Aunt Hannah replaced her spectacles, and looked gravely at her nephew.
"But, Aunt," answered Mr. Ellison, warmly, "this, I am sure, is no common street vagrant; besides, we have not decided the matter; Mary will go with me to see her in the morning, and if she is not satisfied, there is an end of it."
"Well, well, nephew, thee knows my mind, and thee can do as thee pleases."
Though wearied by her walk, Norah burst joyfully into the humble room she called home. "I saw a kind looking gentleman that wants a nurse, and he promised to come and see me in the morning. Now I shall earn money, and buy all you need, and you shall have a doctor, for you are growing pale and thin."
It was a homely and thoroughly Irish face that turned to Norah, and a kind voice that sought to calm the excited child.
"Be quiet, honey; ye mustn't be afther making such a time o' it, at all at all. The promises o' great folks are not as it is wid de poor, and ye may niver see the gintleman again, nor de likes o' him. I have seen de likes o' it before now. Come and eat your supper," she continued, taking at the same time a cup containing some broken pieces of bread and meat, which had been simmering over the fire.
Norah finished her supper, and then throwing herself on a little straw pallet, which she drew up to the fire, was soon sleeping as peacefully as though she rested on a bed of down.
Judy waited until the regular breathing betrayed Norah's sound slumber; then going to a chest, she took from it a worsted dress, which she had already commenced to alter into one of smaller size. By the light of a penny candle and the flame of the fire, which was occasionally supplied with pieces of an old tub, the dress was completed, and with a mingled look of admiration and regret she laid it on the chest, and lay down by the side of Norah.
By morning's dawn she was again astir. While scrubbing the door-step a wagon load of potatoes stopped just in front of the house to allow a train of carriages to pass. Judy gazed with wistfulness toward the wagoner, which, though she was silent, he could not fail to understand.
"Here, ma'am, take a couple; I own but a peck of them myself, or you would be welcome to more." And grasping as many as his brawny hand could hold, he threw them into her apron, whipped up his horses, and drove on.
"What's up?" said Dick Carrow, talking to himself. "'Pears as if my mouth would whistle in spite of me, and my heart is as light as a feather." It was his kind act which had brought its own reward.
Judy leaned over the fire, her face brimful of honest joy, and stole a glance at Nora, who went, by her direction, to get the dress prepared for her; but great was the good woman's surprise to see the child throw herself upon it, and burst into a flood of tears.
"Doesn't it plaze you," asked Judy, who, expecting to see demonstrations of joy, did not know how to offer consolation.
"You know I like it," said Norah, as soon as she could speak; "but you have cut up your only decent dress, and now what will you do?"
"Why, bless your heart, if that is all," said Judy, "I can soon tell ye what I will be afther, doing for myself, I will wear what I have, till Miss Norah, the darlint, buys me an illegant one wid flowers as big as me hand. It's a real fit anyhow;" and she surveyed Norah in it with admiring eyes; "not a dressmaker in the city could bate it."
After watching from eight o'clock until ten, Norah was at last rewarded by a sight of Mr. Ellison and his wife.
She opened the door in answer to their knock, and gave to Mrs. Ellison the only chair the room afforded, while Mr. Ellison seated himself upon the chest.
"Judy stepped into a neighbor's to borrow a tub," said Norah, as she leaned against the fire-place, her face coloring as she saw the lady looking intently upon her.
Aunt Hannah's suggestions in regard to little Kate had led Mrs. Ellison almost to determine not to engage the girl, and yet in talking with her an interest was awakened. Surely she had seen that face before—but where? The sweet expression of the mouth, the blue eyes, shaded by their dark lashes, seemed as the reminiscence of an early dream.
"John, I have it now," she suddenly exclaimed. "It is my sister Ella's face. I was young when Ella married and went to India, but I am sure the resemblance is close. Could this girl possibly be in any way connected with her?"
Before Mr. Ellison could reply, Judy came in. In answer to their questions she told her story.
"It was fourteen years ago last summer I came over in a ship to this counthry. My man Michael and my baby were wid me when I started, but two days afther we sailed my baby died, and was buried in the say. My heart was well-nigh broke, and as I sat crooning one day, a lady wid a baby about the age of mine, came to me and put her on my lap. I felt the betther for that, madam; and many a time afther that day I nursed and carried the little baby, and she learned to love me, I assure ye of that.
"The lady told me about herself; how she had been to a far off counthry, where her husband died. Then she started to come home, and many weary months was she on the way, sometimes obliged to lay by for weeks, until her money was spint, and then she feared she niver should see her own counthry. She resaved no answer to the many letters she had sint; and when she rached Liverpool she had barely enough money to pay her passage to New York.
"The second week we were on the wather the cholera broke out, and the misery of that time I shall niver forget. I was one of the first taken down with it, but I soon got over it; but och, my dear good lady, there was poor Michael, my husband; he died in sax hours afther he was taken.
"The first day I went on deck, I saw the mother and child. The baby put out its hands to come to me, and the mother too gave me a welcome. 'Judy,' she said, and I shall never forget her swate pale face as she talked, 'I have a treasure to commit to your hands. I fale sure that I shall not rache New York, and I want you to care for my child until you can put her in my sister's hands. I have left all the directions in my dressing-case.'
"I promised, and took the child to kape that night, for I saw she was not well at all. And thin they waked me in the night to go to the lady. Sure enough it was the cholera, and by noon next day she was dead. I niver could find the dressing-case, and the only thing belonging to her was a book, and that was in her hand, they told me, when she was taken sick."
Here Judy handed Mrs. Ellison a small pocket Bible, handsomely bound. The lady gave but one glance. The words written inside, "Ella Campbell, from her husband," told the whole story, and she clasped closely to her breast her sister's orphan child.
"Who can doubt there is a Providence that directs our steps?" said Mr. Ellison to Aunt Hannah, as they sat the same evening talking over the wonderful discovery. "She will take her mother's name. Judy gave her the name of her own child when she took her; she did not know or remember the child's real name."
"And what will thee do with Judith?"
"We have secured her as nurse, and in this we have great cause for thankfulness, for one who has acted so faithfully and tenderly by our niece, will not fail to do her duty.
"We intend to provide for her the rest of her life. For Ella, we will at present procure a governess. She is not backward naturally, and I have no doubt she will do justice to her teachers."
It is needless to say that Mr. Ellison's predictions were verified. Ella became, in all things, a dear child and companion for her aunt, while mother Judy, as she continued to call her foster mother, found a comfortable home at Mr. Ellison's as long as she lived.
THE END.