A PAIR OF GLOVESBY H. G. DURYÉEThe little girls who lived on Amity Street all wore mittens when they went to school in winter. Nobody’s mother ever thought of anything else to keep small hands warm. Some mothers or grandmothers crocheted them, and some knit them with fancy stitches down the back, or put other mark of distinction upon them; but they were always mittens, and were always fastened to a long ribbon or piece of braid or knitted rein, so that they might not get lost, one from the other.This connecting-link frequently gave rise to confusion, for when two little girls put their arms around each other’s necks as they walked to school, they sometimes got tangled up in the mitten string and had to duck and turn and bump heads before the right string was again resting on the right shoulder. But as it was possible to laugh a great deal and lose one’s breath while this was going on, it was rather an advantage than otherwise, and little girls who were special chums were pretty sure to manage a tangle every other day at least.Clarabel Bradley did her tangling and untangling with Josephine Brown, who lived at the end of Amity Street. They both went to the same school and were in the same class. They waited for each other in the morning, and came home together, and shared each other’s candy and ginger cookies whenever there were any, and took firm sides together whenever the school-yard was the scene of dispute.But into this intimacy came a pair of gloves, almost wrecking it.The gloves were sent by Clarabel’s aunt, who was young and pretty and taught school in a large city; and they came done up in white tissue-paper inside a box with gilt trimming around the edges and a picture on the center of the cover. Taken out of the paper, they revealed all their alluring qualities. They were of a beautiful glossy brown kid with soft woolly linings and real fur around the wrists, and they fastened with bright gilded clasps.With them was a note which said:For Clarabel, with love from her Aunt Bessie.Not to be kept for Sundays, but worn every day.And the last sentence was underscored.Clarabel’s mother looked doubtful as she read the message. Such gloves were an extravagance even for best—and mittens were warmer. But when she encountered Clarabel’s shining eyes she smiled and gave in.So Clarabel took the gloves to her room that night, and slept with them on the foot-board of her bed, where she could see them the first thing when she waked; and in the morning she put them on and started for school.One hand was held rigidly by her side, but the other was permitted to spread its fingers widely over the book she carried. Both were well in view if she looked down just a little. Passers-by might see; all Amity Street might see; best of all, Josephine might see!But Josephine, waiting at the corner, beheld and was impressed to the point of speechlessness. Whereupon Clarabel dropped her book, and had to pick it up with both hands. The furry wrists revealed themselves fully.Josephine found her voice.“You’ve got some new gloves,” she said.“Yes; my Aunt Bessie sent them.”“Aren’t they pretty!”“I think so, and they’re lots nicer than mittens. I’m not going to wear my mittens again.”Josephine looked down at her own chubby hands. Her mittens were red this winter, with a red-and-green fringe around the wrists. Only thatmorning she had admired them. Now they looked fat and clumsy and altogether unattractive; but she wasn’t going to admit that to any one else.“clarabel dropped her book, and had to pick it up with both hands.”“I like mittens best,” she said stoutly,—“for school, anyway,” she added, and gave Clarabel more of the sidewalk.“My Aunt Bessie said specially that these were to wear to school.” And Clarabel walked nearer the fence.Josephine was hard put to it—Clarabel’s manner had become so superior.“I don’t think your Aunt Bessie knows everything, even if she does teach school in a big city. My mother says she’s too young to—”What she was too young to do was not allowed to be explained; for Clarabel, with a color in her face that rivaled Josephine’s mittens, had faced her.“My Aunt Bessie’s lovely, and I won’t listen to another word against her, not another one—so there!”Then she turned, with a queer feeling in her throat, and ran down the street to catch up with another little girl who was on ahead.Josephine swung her books and walked as if she didn’t care.Clarabel overtook the little girl, who was all smiling appreciation of the new gloves, and was overtaken by other little girls who added themselves to the admiring group. But somehow her triumphal progress was strangely unsatisfactory; the glory was dimmed.At recess, Josephine paired off with Milly Smith, who stood first in geography and wore two curly feathers in her hat. Clarabel shared her cookies with Minnie Cater, because it didn’t matter who helped eat them if it wasn’t Josephine. Neither spoke to the other, and at noontime they walked home on different sides of the street.Perhaps that was why in the afternoon Clarabel lost her place in the reader and failed on so many examples in arithmetic that she was told she must stay after school.Usually there would have been several to keep her company, but on this day there was no one else,—even Angelina Maybelle Remington had got through without disaster,—and Clarabel, wistful-eyed, saw the other girls file out.At another time Josephine would have stayed; she always did when Clarabel had to, as Clarabel did when she was in like need. But to-night she filed out with the rest, and Clarabel, with a sense of desertion, bent over her problems of men and hay to mow, men and potatoes to dig, men and miles of railroad to build.The noise of scurrying feet grew fainter, the sound of children’s voices died away. The room settled into stillness, except for the solemn tick of the clock and the scratching of Clarabel’s pencil on the slate. There were fractions in the problems, and fractions were always hard for Clarabel. Her pencil stopped often while she frowned at the curly-tailed figures. In one of these pauses the door squeaked open a little way. It squeaked again, and some one sidled into the room; it was Josephine.“Please may I go to my seat?” she asked.“Certainly,” said the teacher, and watched her curiously.She tiptoed to the back seat, fumbled for a few minutes in her desk, then slipped to a seat a few rows farther in front; then to another and another, till she had reached the row in which Clarabel sat.Clarabel, though she was bending over her slate, had heard every hesitating move, and when the last halt was made she shook her curls back from her eyes, looked around, and dimpled into smiles.The teacher, watching, waited to see what would happen next. Nothingdid, except that the two little girls sat and smiled and smiled and smiled as if they never would stop.Presently the teacher herself smiled and spoke. She had a very sweet voice sometimes—one that seemed to hint at happy secrets. That was the way it sounded now.“Would you like to help Clarabel, Josephine?” she asked. “You may if you wish to.”“If she’ll let me,” answered Josephine, her eyes fixed on Clarabel’s face.“I would love to have her,” said Clarabel,hereyes on Josephine. And instantly the one narrow seat became large enough for two.For ten minutes more there was great scratching of slate-pencils and much whispering and some giggling. Then with cheerful clatter the slate was borne to the platform. The teacher looked at the little girls more than at the examples. “I’m sure they’re right,” she said. “Now, off to your homes—both of you!”“Good night,” said Clarabel.“Good night,” said Josephine.“Good night, dear little girls,” said the teacher.There was a soft swish of dresses and the children had reached the dressing-room. Within its familiar narrowness, Josephine hesitated and fingered her cloak-buttons.“I think your Aunt Bessie”—it was very slow speech for Josephine—“is ever so nice and knows a lot.”“Oh!” bubbled Clarabel, joyously, “I do love the color of your mittens! Don’t you—don’t you”—she finished with a rush—“want to let me wear them home and you wear my gloves?”Josephine put aside the dazzling offer.“Your gloves are prettier and you ought to wear them.”Clarabel thought a minute, a shadow in her eyes.“I know what,” she declared, the shadow vanishing. “You wear one glove and mitten and I’ll wear the other glove and mitten!”“Oh!” said Josephine, with a rapturous hug, “that will be splendid!”And thus they scampered home, the two mittened hands holding each other tight, while the two gloved hands were gaily waved high in the air with each fresh outburst of laughter from the little schoolmates.A VERY LITTLE STORY OF A VERY LITTLE GIRLBY ALICE E. ALLENMolly was such a little girl that she didn’t seem big enough to have a party all her own with truly ice-cream in it. But she had asked for one so many times that at last Mother decided to give her one. And the party was to be a surprise to Molly herself.Early that afternoon Molly wanted to go for a little visit to Miss Eleanor. Miss Eleanor lived up Molly’s street, in a white house with apple-green blinds. Molly often went all alone.Miss Eleanor was always so sunny and full of songs and stories and games that Molly loved her next best to Father and Mother and Baby.“You may go, dear,” said Mother, “if you will come home exactly at three o’clock.”“You always say exactly three o’clock, Mother,” said Molly.“Well, five minutes after three, then,” laughed Mother. “And, Molly, so that you won’t forget this time, all the way to Miss Eleanor’s, say over and over, ‘Five minutes after three.’ Then, just as soon as you get there, say the words quickly to Miss Eleanor, ‘Five minutes after three.’”“Five minutes after three,” said Molly; “I can remember that.”“That will give me plenty of time to get ready for the party,” thought Mother.Up the street with her white parasol flew Molly. “Five minutes after three,” she said over and over in a whisper until she began to sing it. “Five minutes after three,” she sang until she stopped a moment on the bridge to see some boys fishing. Just about there, a big dog who was a friend of Molly’s ran out to say, “Good afternoon.”“Oh, Fritzie,” cried Molly, “I’m going to Miss Eleanor’s to make her a visit. Want to come?”But Fritz had the house to look after. So Molly gave him a hug and ran along.“Three minutes after five,” sang Molly; “three minutes after five,” over and over until she ran into Miss Eleanor’s sunny little sitting-room.“Three minutes after five,” cried Molly; “that’s how long I can stay. Won’t that be nice?”“Why, it’s little Molly!” cried Miss Eleanor, “I’m all alone and so glad to have company! We’ll hear the clock strike five. Then, if you put on your wraps, you’ll be all ready to start home at three minutes past.”It seemed a very very short time to Molly before the little clock struck five.“There, deary,” said Miss Eleanor. “Put on your things and hurry right along!”Molly put on her hat and coat. Then she kissed Miss Eleanor and hurried down the street.When she reached the corner, she saw that the parlor at home was all lighted. And out of it came such a hubbub of little voices all laughing and talking that Molly ran faster than ever.At the door she met Mother.“she stopped for a moment on the bridge.”“Oh, Molly,wherehave you been?” cried Mother. “I couldn’t go after you because I couldn’t leave Baby. And I couldn’t take him.”Molly scarcely heard. “Oh, Mother, Mother,” she cried, “it looks like a party. And it sounds like one. Is it a party, Mother?”“Yes,” said Mother, “your own little party, Molly. And you’re the only one who is late. How could you forget?”“But I didn’t forget, Mother,” cried Molly, hurrying out of her coat, “truly I didn’t. Every step of the way I said it, and I said it to Miss Eleanor the very first thing.”“What did you say?” asked Mother.“Three minutes after five,” said Molly.Mother laughed. “Why, Molly dear, you got the hour and minutes turned around. I saidfiveminutes afterthree. Well, never mind. Run along just as you are. It’s a lovely party, dear, with truly ice-cream in it.”EDITH’S TEA-PARTYBY LOIS WALTERSEdith was a little girl who was just learning to write. Her mother told her one day that she could have a tea-party on the next Tuesday, if the weather was fine, and that she could invite her little friend Helen, who lived on the same street, though not very far away; but she must write the letter to ask Helen to come. So, Edith got up at her mother’s writing-desk and took some of her own writing paper, and began to write. She could make the letters but she could not spell very well. She asked her mother how to spell the words and then she wrote them down. And this is the letter she wrote:hand written letterThen she sealed the letter in the envelop, and put a stamp on it, and stood on the front piazza so as to give it to the postman herself.edith waiting for helen.When Tuesday came, Edith’s nurse dressed her in a fresh, white frock, and Edith dressed her dolly in her best dress, and went out under the trees where her nurse had set the table for two. And then she sat in a chair at the table and waited. But the big town clock struck four and no Helen came; and then she waited for half an hour longer. Then Edith put her dolly down on the chair and went in the house to find her mother.“Mama,” she said, “I think Helen is very rude, she doesn’t come to my party and I invited her!”“Just wait a little longer, dear,” said her mother, “and she will come. Maybe her nurse was busy dressing Helen’s little sister and brother and couldn’t get her ready in time.”“But I invited her,” was all Edith could say; “but I invited her, and she doesn’t come.”Then her mother went to the telephone and called up Helen’s mother. In a moment she came back.helen and her dolly.“Edith, dear,” she said, “what day did you write Helen to come? Her mother says she thought it was to be Thursday, and so did Helen, and this is only Tuesday.”“But Ididsay Tuesday, mama,” said Edith, who was almost ready to cry. “I remember because that was the hardest word to spell, and I think I made a blot when I wrote it.”“Well, never mind, dear; Helen is getting ready now and will be over in a few minutes,” said her mama.And Edith was very happy, and ran out to the tea-table under the trees with her doll to wait.But she did not have to wait very long this time, for in a little while Helen came running across the lawn carrying her doll; and so happy were both little girls that Edith forgot all about the long time she had been waiting for Helen to come.Helen wanted Edith to know that she had not been rude in staying away, so she brought with her the letter Edith had sent to her, so she could show it to Edith. And there, sure enough, the word “Tuesday” was written so badly that it looked more like “Thursday,” and that was why Helen did not think she was expected on this day.Well, the very first thing they did was to undress their dolls and put them to sleep under one of the bushes on the lawn—in the shade, so that the sun would not hurt their eyes, and so that the wax would not be melted from their cheeks. Edith put her napkin over both dolls for a comforter, for you never know when it will blow up cold, and little girls have to be as careful of their dolls as their own mothers are!Very soon the maid came out with cookies and lady-fingers and make-believe tea, and another napkin to take the place of the one Edith had put over the dolls, and they had tea. Then the two little girls and Edith’s nurse had a nice game of croquet, and they had a lovely tea-party after all, and Edith forgot all about waiting so long for Helen to come.But Edith never again made a mistake when she spelled “Tuesday.”REBECCABY ELEANOR PIATT“oh, doctor! come quick! rebecca has a chill!”I have a doll, Rebecca,She’s quite a little care,I have to press her ribbonsAnd comb her fluffy hair.I keep her clothes all mended,And wash her hands and face,And make her frocks and aprons,All trimmed in frills and lace.I have to cook her breakfast,And pet her when she’s ill;And telephone the doctorWhen Rebecca has a chill.Rebecca doesn’t like that,And says she’s well and strong;And says she’ll try—oh! very hard,To be good all day long.But when night comes, she’s nodding;So into bed we creepAnd snuggle up together,And soon are fast asleep.I have no other dolly,For you can plainly see,In caring for Rebecca,I’m busy as can be!DOROTHEA’S SCHOOL GIFTSBY EUNICE WARD“It seems very queer,” said Dorothea thoughtfully, “people who are going to do something nice always have presents given them, but people who are going to do something horrid never get a thing, and they need it twice as much.”“As for instance?” said her father, laying down his paper and drawing her onto his knee, while the rest of the family prepared to give the customary amused attention to their youngest’s remarks.“‘you know school begins next week,’ said dorothea.”“Well, when Cousin Edith went to Europe we all gave her presents to take with her, and when she came home lots of people sent her flowers. Anita’s been getting cups and things ever since she was engaged, and last spring, when Florence graduated, almost all the family gave her something; and when Mary Bowman was confirmed she got a lovely white prayer-book and a gold cross and chain. But when people are going to do what they hate to do, they’re left out in the cold.”“What are you going to do that you don’t like, Baby?” asked Florence.“Why, you know, school begins again next week,” said Dorothea. “It makes me feel quite mournful, and I don’t see anything to cheer me up and make it interesting for me.” A little smile was hidden in the corners of her mouth although her tone was as doleful as possible.“If you were going to boarding-school—” began Anita, who was apt to take everything seriously.“Then I’d have lots of things,” interrupted Dorothea. “New clothes and a trunk and a bag, and you’d all come to see me off, and it would be interesting. But I’m going to work just as hard here at day-school, and yet I’ve got to bear it, all by myself.”Her father pinched her ear, and her big brother Jim offered to have a bunch of roses placed on her desk at school if that would make her feel better, while her two sisters looked at each other as though the same idea had occurred to them both.On the morning of the first day of school, Dorothea was suddenly awakened by a loud ting-a-ling-a-ling. She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. The room was flooded with morning light and the brass knobs on her bed gleamed cheerfully at her and seemed to say: “Get up, get up!” Now Dorothea was a “sleepyhead” and had seldom been known to get up when first awakened. It usually took at least three calls from her mother or the girls, and sometimes Jim stole in and administered a “cold pig,” that is, a few drops of chilly water squeezed upon her neck from a sponge, before she was ready to leave her comfortable bed.“It’s an alarm clock,” thought Dorothea. “But where is it?” Her eyes traveled sleepily around the room but saw nothing that had not been there the night before. The ting-a-ling-a-ling sounded once more. “It’s in this room somewhere!” she exclaimed, bouncing out of bed.She looked on bureau, washstand, bookcase, and window-seat, and then jumped, for the loud ting-a-ling came almost from underneath her feet. She hastily lifted the drooping cover of a little table that stood near the window, and there on the edge of the lower shelf stood an alarm-clock of the ordinary pattern but of rather extraordinary appearance, owing to a large yellow paper ruff which encircled its face.“How did it get there?” exclaimed Dorothea in astonishment; and as she gazed the clock burst forth with another loud ting-a-ling.“Isn’t it ever going to stop doing that?” she said, lifting it as she spoke. The yellow ruff seemed to have something written on it, so she took it off and, smoothing it out, read:Dear Dolly: Happy school-day! After much earnest consideration I have selected this as a suitable reminder of this joyful (?) anniversary. It will continue to remind you five mornings in the week, thereby saving your family much wear and tear, for it will be properly wound and set every night byYour affectionate brother,Jim.p.s.When you are sufficiently aroused, press the lever and the alarm will stop.Dorothea was a sleepyhead“It’s one of those awful clocks that go off every minute!” said Dorothea, carefully examining it to find the lever. She almost dropped it when it began another of its loud and long rings, but she soon found and pressed the lever and thereafter the clock was silent except for its customary tick.“I don’t believe I shall ask anybody to give me presents any more,” she said, eying Jim’s “reminder” with disfavor. But she changed her mind a little later when, on looking for a clean handkerchief, she discovered a flat square box tied with blue ribbon, and, opening it, saw half a dozen handkerchiefs with narrow blue borders and a little blue D in the corner. On the top was Cousin Edith’s visiting-card, on the back of which was printed in fantastic letters:Dear Dolly: Use a handkerchiefWhenever you’re inclined to sniff.But with this band of blue I thinkThey don’t need polka-dots of ink.It was a constant wonder to the household what Dorothea did with her handkerchiefs when she was at school. In vain she protested that she didn’t wipe her pen on them, and she didn’t use them as blotters or to wash out her ink-well;but, nevertheless, black stains almost always appeared upon them, and Florence insisted that the family had to buy an extra pint of milk a day to take out all these ink-stains. Cousin Edith was too frequent a visitor not to know all the family plans and jokes, and Dolly, as she laughed and shook out one of the blue-bordered squares, resolved that “polka-dots” should be conspicuous by their absence, for Edith would be sure to know.She entered the breakfast room just as the family were sitting down to the table.“Behold the effects of my generosity and fore-thought!” exclaimed Jim waving his hand toward her. “Our Youngest is in time for breakfast!”“Many happy returns of the day, small sister,” said Anita, just as if it was her birthday, kissing her good morning and slipping a little hard package into her hand. “Bob sends you this with his love.”“I don’t mind returns of the day when it’s like this,” said Dorothea, opening the package and at the same time spying a couple of tissue-paper parcels lying beside her plate. Inside was a small chamois-skin case out of which slid a little pearl-handled penknife. The accompanying card bore the name of her future brother-in-law, and also these words:I hesitate to offer youThis knife, for I shall beAfraid that if you cut yourselfYou straightway will cut me.“How long did it take Bob to execute that masterpiece?” inquired Jim as Dorothea read it aloud.“You’re jealous,” she said. “Yours wasn’t half so lovely as Cousin Edith’s and Bob’s. It wasn’t poetry at all.”“I left all the eloquence to my gift itself,” answered Jim, helping himself to an orange.Dorothea paid no attention to him, for she was opening a small package fastened by a rubber band. It was a silver-mounted eraser with a tiny brush at one end. The inclosed note read:This advice I must repeat;Spare the rub and spoil the sheet.If you can’t restrain your speed,This will prove a friend in need.Dolly joined rather shamefacedly in the general smile, as she thanked Florence, whose writing she had recognized. She was very apt to postpone her work until the last minute, and then rush through it as fast as possible; her compositions suffered from the many careless mistakes that she was always in too much of a hurry to correct, while her drawings belonged to what Jim called the “slap-dash school.”“We shall know by the amount of rubber left at the end of the term whether you have taken my valuable advice,” said Florence. “What’s in that other package, Baby? I know it is Anita’s by the extreme elegance of its appearance.”“‘many happy returns of the day, small sister,’ said anita.”Dorothea opened an oblong package tied with green ribbon and found a set of blotters fastened to a dark green suède cover ornamented with an openwork design of four-leaf clovers, and a pen-wiper to match. On top lay a slip of paper on which was written in Anita’s pretty hand:Wishing “Our Youngest” good luck and a happy school year.“I’m not good at verses, so you’ll have to be content with plain prose,” said Anita, and Dorothea assured her that she was quite satisfied.“Half past eight, Dolly,” said her mother when breakfast was over. “It is time you started.”“Oh, not yet, mother,” said Dorothea the Dawdler. “It only takes me fifteen minutes.”“Now, see here,” said Jim; “what do you suppose stirring young business-men like your father and brother are lingering until the nine o’clocktrain for, unless it is to see you off for school? We want to give you as good a send-off as possible, for you’re going to be absent four whole hours, but we can’t,—unless you do your part and begin to go pretty soon. I don’t believe you’ve got all your books together, as it is.”“‘lend me your pencils, won’t you, jim?’ said dorothea.”“Yes, I have,” answered Dorothea triumphantly. “They are all on the hall table, for I put them there last night. Oh, gracious!” she exclaimed blankly: “I forgot to see whether I had any pencils! I don’t believe I have one! Jim, lend me yours, won’t you? Just for to-day.”“Lend you my most cherished possession? Never!” said Jim, placing his hand dramatically over his breast pocket.“Then, Daddy, won’t you please lend me yours?”“Trot along, trot along!” said her father; and Dorothea, not knowing quite what to make of having her demands thus ignored, put on her big sailor hat and started to gather up her books. On top of the pile was a slender inlaid box under a card bearing the words, “For Dolly, from Father.” Pushing back the sliding cover, Dorothea saw that the box contained a row of pencils, all beautifully sharpened, a dozen pens, and a slim gunmetal penholder.“Oh!” she squealed with delight. “So that’s why you wouldn’t lend me any pencils!” and gave her father a hug.“Hurry up, now,” said Jim. “Don’t forget we’ve got to see ourselves off after we’ve seen you.”“Why don’t you take your bag?” asked Anita.“It’s too small for my new Geography,” answered Dorothea, placing this huge outward and visible sign of her progress in learning so that it would form a foundation for the rest of her books. “Besides, it’s too shabby”.“You had better take it to-day, anyhow, as you have so much to carry,” suggested her mother. “I brought it downstairs and it’s on the hat-rack.”“I just hate it!” pouted Dorothea, turning; and then stopped in surprise, for instead of her little old satchel, a large new one made of soft dark brown leather was hanging on the rack. It was ornamented on one side with her monogram in raised tan-colored letters, and it was large enough for the largest Geography that she was ever likely to have.“at the gate she turned to wave her hand.”“Who gave me that?” she cried. “Oh, I know—Mother! It’s just exactly what I wanted. I think going to school this way is perfectly lovely!” she added as she slipped her other possessions into the bag.“Twenty minutes to nine!” called Jim warningly.“All right, I’m going now,” answered Dorothea gaily as she kissed them all around.“And the first day of school isn’t so dismal after all, is it?” said her father.“Oh, it’s splendid, just splendid!” she replied enthusiastically. At the gate she turned to wave her hand at the assembled family, who waved back at her vigorously; and then, swinging her bag, she ran off down the street toward school.THE LOST MONEYDoris’s papa gave her a five-dollar bill, such a lot of money! Doris went to a big bank and asked if they could give her smaller money for it. The banker said he thought they could. So he gave her two two-dollar bills and a big silver dollar. How much did that make? Doris wanted the dollar changed again; so the banker asked if she would have two fifty-cent pieces, or one fifty-cent piece and two quarters—or perhaps four quarters or ten dimes—or twenty five-cent pieces—or a hundred pennies.Doris thought a hundred pennies would be a good many to count and to carry, so she said she would take two quarters, three dimes and four five-cent pieces.She laid away four dollars in the bank, those were the two bills, and put the change in her purse. When she went to the shop, she had such a lot of money that she thought she never could spend it. So she bought a paint-box with two little saucers in it for 10 cents; that left her 90 cents; and then a big rubber balloon for 25 cents; that left 65 cents; and a little one for 10 cents; and then Doris bought a whole pound of candy for thirty cents. Out of the 25 cents she had left, it cost 10 cents to go in the car.When Doris got home she opened her paint-box. What do you think? Of course it was only a cheap paint-box and the paints were so hard that they would not paint at all. Doris cut out the dolls, but they were no better than those in any newspaper’s colored supplement. Doris’s mama said that the candy was too bad to eat at all, and the rubber balloons got wrinkled and soft in the night, because the gas went out of them. Doris cried when she saw them. “Now,” she said, “I have nothing left of my beautiful dollar but 15 cents.”“I’m sorry, Dearie,” Doris’s mama said, “but it’s bad enough to have wasted one dollar without crying about it, too. When you and I go out, we’ll try to get such good things for the next dollar, that it will make up for our mistake about this one.” The next bright day they went to the bank and got another dollar.Now Doris’s mama was a very wise person (mamas often are). So they went to a store where there were some books that had been wet a little by the firemen when the store caught fire. There they found a large, fine book of animal stories with pictures in it that had been 50 cents, but the book-store man sold it for 10 cents, because the back cover and a little bit of the edge was stained with water and smoke.That left—how much? Ninety cents. Doris’s brother had told her he would teach her to play marbles, so she bought six glass marbles for 5 cents and a hoop with a stick for 5 more. That left 80 cents.Then Doris asked if her mama thought she could buy a pair of roller skates. Her mama said they could ask how much roller skates cost, but the shopman said they were a dollar a pair! So Doris said she would save up the 80 cents that was left of her dollar and wait until she had enough for the skates.However, a little boy was looking in at the window of the toy-shop and he looked so sad, and so longingly at the toys, that Doris spoke to him, and when he said he wanted one of the red balls, she bought it for 5 cents, and gave it to him. That left 75 cents.When they got home, they told papa about the skates and he said he could get them down-town for 75 cents, and he did.So Doris learned by losing her first dollar, to get a lot of good things that would be more useful and would last longer, with her second dollar.A DUTCH TREATBY AMY B. JOHNSON“I’ve been crying again, father.”“Have you, sweetheart? I’m sorry.”“Father.”“Yes, darling.”“I don’t like Holland at all. I wish we had stayed in New York. And I would much rather stay in Amsterdam with you to-day than to go and see those horrid little Dutch children. I’m sure I shall hate them all.”“But how about Marie? You want to see her, don’t you?”“No. I’m very much annoyed with Marie. I don’t see why she could not have been contented in New York. After taking care of me ever since I was a baby, she must like me better than those nieces and nephews she never saw till yesterday.”“I am sure Marie loves you very dearly, Katharine, but you are getting to be such a big girl now that you no longer need a nurse, and Marie was homesick. She wished to come back to Holland years ago, but I persuaded her to stay till you were old enough to do without her, and until Aunt Katharine was ready to come to New York and live with us, promising her that when that time came you and I would come over with her, just as we have done, on our way to Paris. We must not be selfish and grudge Marie to her sisters, who have not seen her for twelve years.”“I am homesick now, too, father. I was so happy in New York with my dolls—and you—and Marie—and—”“So you shall be again, darling; in a few months we will go back, taking dear Aunt Katharine with us from Paris, and you will soon love her better than you do Marie.”Katharine and her father, Colonel Easton, were floating along a canal just out of Amsterdam, in atrekschuit, or small passenger-boat, on their way to the home of one of Marie’s sisters, two of whom were married and settled near one of the dikes of Holland. Katharine was to spend the day there with her nurse, and make the acquaintance of all the nieces and nephews about whom Marie had told her so much, while her father was to return to Amsterdam, where he had business to transact with a friend. They had arrived in Holland only the day before, when Marie had immediately left them, being anxious to get home as soon as possible, after exacting a promise from the colonel that Katharine should visit her the next day.Katharine felt very sure she would never like Holland as she gazed rather scornfully at the curious objects they passed: the queer gay-colored boats, the windmills which met the eye at every turn, with their great arms waving in the air, the busy-looking people, men and women, some of the latter knitting as they walked, carrying heavy baskets on their backs, and all looking so contented and placid.“Try and think of the nice day you are going to have with Marie and the children,” said the colonel; “then this evening I will come for you, and we will go together to Paris, and when you see Aunt Katharine you will be perfectly happy. See, we are nearly at the landing, and look at that row of little girls and boys. I do believe they are looking for you.”“Yes; they must be Marie’s sister’s children, I know them from the description Marie has read me from her letters. Aren’t they horrid little things, father? Just look at their great clumps of shoes—”“Yes—klompen; that is what they are called, Katharine.”“And their baggy clothes and short waists! One of them knitting, too! Well, I would never make such a fright of myself, even if I did live in Holland, which I’m glad I don’t.”“the windmills which met the eye at every turn,with their great arms waving in the air.”By this time they had made the landing. Then Katharine and Marie fell into each other’s arms and cried, gazed at in half-frightened curiosity by seven small, shy Hollanders, and in pitying patience by a very large colonel.“Au revoir. I will call for Katharine this afternoon,” called Colonel Easton, when the time came for him to go on board again.Katharine waved her handkerchief to her father as long as his boat was in sight.“See, Miss Katharine,” said Marie—in Dutch now, for Katharine understood that language very well, Marie having spoken it to her from her infancy—“here is Gretel, and this is her little sister Katrine and her brother Jan. The others are their cousins. Come here, Lotten; don’t be shy. Ludolf, Mayken, Freitje, shake hands with my little American girl; they were all eager to come and meet you, dear, so I had to bring them.”Katharine shook hands very soberly with the little group, and then walked off beside Marie, hearing nothing but the clatter-clatter of fourteen wooden shoes behind her.Soon they arrived at the cottage, and in a moment seven pairs of klompen were ranged in a neat row outside a small cottage, while their owners all talked at once to two sweet-faced women standing in the doorway. These were Marie’s sisters, whose husbands were out on the sea fishing, and who lived close beside each other in two tiny cottages exactly alike.“Oh,” exclaimed Katharine, as, panting and breathless, she joined the group, “do you always take off your shoes before you go into the house?”
BY H. G. DURYÉE
The little girls who lived on Amity Street all wore mittens when they went to school in winter. Nobody’s mother ever thought of anything else to keep small hands warm. Some mothers or grandmothers crocheted them, and some knit them with fancy stitches down the back, or put other mark of distinction upon them; but they were always mittens, and were always fastened to a long ribbon or piece of braid or knitted rein, so that they might not get lost, one from the other.
This connecting-link frequently gave rise to confusion, for when two little girls put their arms around each other’s necks as they walked to school, they sometimes got tangled up in the mitten string and had to duck and turn and bump heads before the right string was again resting on the right shoulder. But as it was possible to laugh a great deal and lose one’s breath while this was going on, it was rather an advantage than otherwise, and little girls who were special chums were pretty sure to manage a tangle every other day at least.
Clarabel Bradley did her tangling and untangling with Josephine Brown, who lived at the end of Amity Street. They both went to the same school and were in the same class. They waited for each other in the morning, and came home together, and shared each other’s candy and ginger cookies whenever there were any, and took firm sides together whenever the school-yard was the scene of dispute.
But into this intimacy came a pair of gloves, almost wrecking it.
The gloves were sent by Clarabel’s aunt, who was young and pretty and taught school in a large city; and they came done up in white tissue-paper inside a box with gilt trimming around the edges and a picture on the center of the cover. Taken out of the paper, they revealed all their alluring qualities. They were of a beautiful glossy brown kid with soft woolly linings and real fur around the wrists, and they fastened with bright gilded clasps.
With them was a note which said:
For Clarabel, with love from her Aunt Bessie.Not to be kept for Sundays, but worn every day.
For Clarabel, with love from her Aunt Bessie.Not to be kept for Sundays, but worn every day.
And the last sentence was underscored.
Clarabel’s mother looked doubtful as she read the message. Such gloves were an extravagance even for best—and mittens were warmer. But when she encountered Clarabel’s shining eyes she smiled and gave in.
So Clarabel took the gloves to her room that night, and slept with them on the foot-board of her bed, where she could see them the first thing when she waked; and in the morning she put them on and started for school.
One hand was held rigidly by her side, but the other was permitted to spread its fingers widely over the book she carried. Both were well in view if she looked down just a little. Passers-by might see; all Amity Street might see; best of all, Josephine might see!
But Josephine, waiting at the corner, beheld and was impressed to the point of speechlessness. Whereupon Clarabel dropped her book, and had to pick it up with both hands. The furry wrists revealed themselves fully.
Josephine found her voice.
“You’ve got some new gloves,” she said.
“Yes; my Aunt Bessie sent them.”
“Aren’t they pretty!”
“I think so, and they’re lots nicer than mittens. I’m not going to wear my mittens again.”
Josephine looked down at her own chubby hands. Her mittens were red this winter, with a red-and-green fringe around the wrists. Only thatmorning she had admired them. Now they looked fat and clumsy and altogether unattractive; but she wasn’t going to admit that to any one else.
“clarabel dropped her book, and had to pick it up with both hands.”
“I like mittens best,” she said stoutly,—“for school, anyway,” she added, and gave Clarabel more of the sidewalk.
“My Aunt Bessie said specially that these were to wear to school.” And Clarabel walked nearer the fence.
Josephine was hard put to it—Clarabel’s manner had become so superior.
“I don’t think your Aunt Bessie knows everything, even if she does teach school in a big city. My mother says she’s too young to—”
What she was too young to do was not allowed to be explained; for Clarabel, with a color in her face that rivaled Josephine’s mittens, had faced her.
“My Aunt Bessie’s lovely, and I won’t listen to another word against her, not another one—so there!”
Then she turned, with a queer feeling in her throat, and ran down the street to catch up with another little girl who was on ahead.
Josephine swung her books and walked as if she didn’t care.
Clarabel overtook the little girl, who was all smiling appreciation of the new gloves, and was overtaken by other little girls who added themselves to the admiring group. But somehow her triumphal progress was strangely unsatisfactory; the glory was dimmed.
At recess, Josephine paired off with Milly Smith, who stood first in geography and wore two curly feathers in her hat. Clarabel shared her cookies with Minnie Cater, because it didn’t matter who helped eat them if it wasn’t Josephine. Neither spoke to the other, and at noontime they walked home on different sides of the street.
Perhaps that was why in the afternoon Clarabel lost her place in the reader and failed on so many examples in arithmetic that she was told she must stay after school.
Usually there would have been several to keep her company, but on this day there was no one else,—even Angelina Maybelle Remington had got through without disaster,—and Clarabel, wistful-eyed, saw the other girls file out.
At another time Josephine would have stayed; she always did when Clarabel had to, as Clarabel did when she was in like need. But to-night she filed out with the rest, and Clarabel, with a sense of desertion, bent over her problems of men and hay to mow, men and potatoes to dig, men and miles of railroad to build.
The noise of scurrying feet grew fainter, the sound of children’s voices died away. The room settled into stillness, except for the solemn tick of the clock and the scratching of Clarabel’s pencil on the slate. There were fractions in the problems, and fractions were always hard for Clarabel. Her pencil stopped often while she frowned at the curly-tailed figures. In one of these pauses the door squeaked open a little way. It squeaked again, and some one sidled into the room; it was Josephine.
“Please may I go to my seat?” she asked.
“Certainly,” said the teacher, and watched her curiously.
She tiptoed to the back seat, fumbled for a few minutes in her desk, then slipped to a seat a few rows farther in front; then to another and another, till she had reached the row in which Clarabel sat.
Clarabel, though she was bending over her slate, had heard every hesitating move, and when the last halt was made she shook her curls back from her eyes, looked around, and dimpled into smiles.
The teacher, watching, waited to see what would happen next. Nothingdid, except that the two little girls sat and smiled and smiled and smiled as if they never would stop.
Presently the teacher herself smiled and spoke. She had a very sweet voice sometimes—one that seemed to hint at happy secrets. That was the way it sounded now.
“Would you like to help Clarabel, Josephine?” she asked. “You may if you wish to.”
“If she’ll let me,” answered Josephine, her eyes fixed on Clarabel’s face.
“I would love to have her,” said Clarabel,hereyes on Josephine. And instantly the one narrow seat became large enough for two.
For ten minutes more there was great scratching of slate-pencils and much whispering and some giggling. Then with cheerful clatter the slate was borne to the platform. The teacher looked at the little girls more than at the examples. “I’m sure they’re right,” she said. “Now, off to your homes—both of you!”
“Good night,” said Clarabel.
“Good night,” said Josephine.
“Good night, dear little girls,” said the teacher.
There was a soft swish of dresses and the children had reached the dressing-room. Within its familiar narrowness, Josephine hesitated and fingered her cloak-buttons.
“I think your Aunt Bessie”—it was very slow speech for Josephine—“is ever so nice and knows a lot.”
“Oh!” bubbled Clarabel, joyously, “I do love the color of your mittens! Don’t you—don’t you”—she finished with a rush—“want to let me wear them home and you wear my gloves?”
Josephine put aside the dazzling offer.
“Your gloves are prettier and you ought to wear them.”
Clarabel thought a minute, a shadow in her eyes.
“I know what,” she declared, the shadow vanishing. “You wear one glove and mitten and I’ll wear the other glove and mitten!”
“Oh!” said Josephine, with a rapturous hug, “that will be splendid!”
And thus they scampered home, the two mittened hands holding each other tight, while the two gloved hands were gaily waved high in the air with each fresh outburst of laughter from the little schoolmates.
BY ALICE E. ALLEN
Molly was such a little girl that she didn’t seem big enough to have a party all her own with truly ice-cream in it. But she had asked for one so many times that at last Mother decided to give her one. And the party was to be a surprise to Molly herself.
Early that afternoon Molly wanted to go for a little visit to Miss Eleanor. Miss Eleanor lived up Molly’s street, in a white house with apple-green blinds. Molly often went all alone.
Miss Eleanor was always so sunny and full of songs and stories and games that Molly loved her next best to Father and Mother and Baby.
“You may go, dear,” said Mother, “if you will come home exactly at three o’clock.”
“You always say exactly three o’clock, Mother,” said Molly.
“Well, five minutes after three, then,” laughed Mother. “And, Molly, so that you won’t forget this time, all the way to Miss Eleanor’s, say over and over, ‘Five minutes after three.’ Then, just as soon as you get there, say the words quickly to Miss Eleanor, ‘Five minutes after three.’”
“Five minutes after three,” said Molly; “I can remember that.”
“That will give me plenty of time to get ready for the party,” thought Mother.
Up the street with her white parasol flew Molly. “Five minutes after three,” she said over and over in a whisper until she began to sing it. “Five minutes after three,” she sang until she stopped a moment on the bridge to see some boys fishing. Just about there, a big dog who was a friend of Molly’s ran out to say, “Good afternoon.”
“Oh, Fritzie,” cried Molly, “I’m going to Miss Eleanor’s to make her a visit. Want to come?”
But Fritz had the house to look after. So Molly gave him a hug and ran along.
“Three minutes after five,” sang Molly; “three minutes after five,” over and over until she ran into Miss Eleanor’s sunny little sitting-room.
“Three minutes after five,” cried Molly; “that’s how long I can stay. Won’t that be nice?”
“Why, it’s little Molly!” cried Miss Eleanor, “I’m all alone and so glad to have company! We’ll hear the clock strike five. Then, if you put on your wraps, you’ll be all ready to start home at three minutes past.”
It seemed a very very short time to Molly before the little clock struck five.
“There, deary,” said Miss Eleanor. “Put on your things and hurry right along!”
Molly put on her hat and coat. Then she kissed Miss Eleanor and hurried down the street.
When she reached the corner, she saw that the parlor at home was all lighted. And out of it came such a hubbub of little voices all laughing and talking that Molly ran faster than ever.
At the door she met Mother.
“she stopped for a moment on the bridge.”
“Oh, Molly,wherehave you been?” cried Mother. “I couldn’t go after you because I couldn’t leave Baby. And I couldn’t take him.”
Molly scarcely heard. “Oh, Mother, Mother,” she cried, “it looks like a party. And it sounds like one. Is it a party, Mother?”
“Yes,” said Mother, “your own little party, Molly. And you’re the only one who is late. How could you forget?”
“But I didn’t forget, Mother,” cried Molly, hurrying out of her coat, “truly I didn’t. Every step of the way I said it, and I said it to Miss Eleanor the very first thing.”
“What did you say?” asked Mother.
“Three minutes after five,” said Molly.
Mother laughed. “Why, Molly dear, you got the hour and minutes turned around. I saidfiveminutes afterthree. Well, never mind. Run along just as you are. It’s a lovely party, dear, with truly ice-cream in it.”
BY LOIS WALTERS
Edith was a little girl who was just learning to write. Her mother told her one day that she could have a tea-party on the next Tuesday, if the weather was fine, and that she could invite her little friend Helen, who lived on the same street, though not very far away; but she must write the letter to ask Helen to come. So, Edith got up at her mother’s writing-desk and took some of her own writing paper, and began to write. She could make the letters but she could not spell very well. She asked her mother how to spell the words and then she wrote them down. And this is the letter she wrote:
hand written letter
Then she sealed the letter in the envelop, and put a stamp on it, and stood on the front piazza so as to give it to the postman herself.
edith waiting for helen.
When Tuesday came, Edith’s nurse dressed her in a fresh, white frock, and Edith dressed her dolly in her best dress, and went out under the trees where her nurse had set the table for two. And then she sat in a chair at the table and waited. But the big town clock struck four and no Helen came; and then she waited for half an hour longer. Then Edith put her dolly down on the chair and went in the house to find her mother.
“Mama,” she said, “I think Helen is very rude, she doesn’t come to my party and I invited her!”
“Just wait a little longer, dear,” said her mother, “and she will come. Maybe her nurse was busy dressing Helen’s little sister and brother and couldn’t get her ready in time.”
“But I invited her,” was all Edith could say; “but I invited her, and she doesn’t come.”
Then her mother went to the telephone and called up Helen’s mother. In a moment she came back.
helen and her dolly.
“Edith, dear,” she said, “what day did you write Helen to come? Her mother says she thought it was to be Thursday, and so did Helen, and this is only Tuesday.”
“But Ididsay Tuesday, mama,” said Edith, who was almost ready to cry. “I remember because that was the hardest word to spell, and I think I made a blot when I wrote it.”
“Well, never mind, dear; Helen is getting ready now and will be over in a few minutes,” said her mama.
And Edith was very happy, and ran out to the tea-table under the trees with her doll to wait.
But she did not have to wait very long this time, for in a little while Helen came running across the lawn carrying her doll; and so happy were both little girls that Edith forgot all about the long time she had been waiting for Helen to come.
Helen wanted Edith to know that she had not been rude in staying away, so she brought with her the letter Edith had sent to her, so she could show it to Edith. And there, sure enough, the word “Tuesday” was written so badly that it looked more like “Thursday,” and that was why Helen did not think she was expected on this day.
Well, the very first thing they did was to undress their dolls and put them to sleep under one of the bushes on the lawn—in the shade, so that the sun would not hurt their eyes, and so that the wax would not be melted from their cheeks. Edith put her napkin over both dolls for a comforter, for you never know when it will blow up cold, and little girls have to be as careful of their dolls as their own mothers are!
Very soon the maid came out with cookies and lady-fingers and make-believe tea, and another napkin to take the place of the one Edith had put over the dolls, and they had tea. Then the two little girls and Edith’s nurse had a nice game of croquet, and they had a lovely tea-party after all, and Edith forgot all about waiting so long for Helen to come.
But Edith never again made a mistake when she spelled “Tuesday.”
BY ELEANOR PIATT
“oh, doctor! come quick! rebecca has a chill!”
I have a doll, Rebecca,She’s quite a little care,I have to press her ribbonsAnd comb her fluffy hair.
I keep her clothes all mended,And wash her hands and face,And make her frocks and aprons,All trimmed in frills and lace.
I have to cook her breakfast,And pet her when she’s ill;And telephone the doctorWhen Rebecca has a chill.
Rebecca doesn’t like that,And says she’s well and strong;And says she’ll try—oh! very hard,To be good all day long.
But when night comes, she’s nodding;So into bed we creepAnd snuggle up together,And soon are fast asleep.
I have no other dolly,For you can plainly see,In caring for Rebecca,I’m busy as can be!
BY EUNICE WARD
“It seems very queer,” said Dorothea thoughtfully, “people who are going to do something nice always have presents given them, but people who are going to do something horrid never get a thing, and they need it twice as much.”
“As for instance?” said her father, laying down his paper and drawing her onto his knee, while the rest of the family prepared to give the customary amused attention to their youngest’s remarks.
“‘you know school begins next week,’ said dorothea.”
“Well, when Cousin Edith went to Europe we all gave her presents to take with her, and when she came home lots of people sent her flowers. Anita’s been getting cups and things ever since she was engaged, and last spring, when Florence graduated, almost all the family gave her something; and when Mary Bowman was confirmed she got a lovely white prayer-book and a gold cross and chain. But when people are going to do what they hate to do, they’re left out in the cold.”
“What are you going to do that you don’t like, Baby?” asked Florence.
“Why, you know, school begins again next week,” said Dorothea. “It makes me feel quite mournful, and I don’t see anything to cheer me up and make it interesting for me.” A little smile was hidden in the corners of her mouth although her tone was as doleful as possible.
“If you were going to boarding-school—” began Anita, who was apt to take everything seriously.
“Then I’d have lots of things,” interrupted Dorothea. “New clothes and a trunk and a bag, and you’d all come to see me off, and it would be interesting. But I’m going to work just as hard here at day-school, and yet I’ve got to bear it, all by myself.”
Her father pinched her ear, and her big brother Jim offered to have a bunch of roses placed on her desk at school if that would make her feel better, while her two sisters looked at each other as though the same idea had occurred to them both.
On the morning of the first day of school, Dorothea was suddenly awakened by a loud ting-a-ling-a-ling. She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. The room was flooded with morning light and the brass knobs on her bed gleamed cheerfully at her and seemed to say: “Get up, get up!” Now Dorothea was a “sleepyhead” and had seldom been known to get up when first awakened. It usually took at least three calls from her mother or the girls, and sometimes Jim stole in and administered a “cold pig,” that is, a few drops of chilly water squeezed upon her neck from a sponge, before she was ready to leave her comfortable bed.
“It’s an alarm clock,” thought Dorothea. “But where is it?” Her eyes traveled sleepily around the room but saw nothing that had not been there the night before. The ting-a-ling-a-ling sounded once more. “It’s in this room somewhere!” she exclaimed, bouncing out of bed.She looked on bureau, washstand, bookcase, and window-seat, and then jumped, for the loud ting-a-ling came almost from underneath her feet. She hastily lifted the drooping cover of a little table that stood near the window, and there on the edge of the lower shelf stood an alarm-clock of the ordinary pattern but of rather extraordinary appearance, owing to a large yellow paper ruff which encircled its face.
“How did it get there?” exclaimed Dorothea in astonishment; and as she gazed the clock burst forth with another loud ting-a-ling.
“Isn’t it ever going to stop doing that?” she said, lifting it as she spoke. The yellow ruff seemed to have something written on it, so she took it off and, smoothing it out, read:
Dear Dolly: Happy school-day! After much earnest consideration I have selected this as a suitable reminder of this joyful (?) anniversary. It will continue to remind you five mornings in the week, thereby saving your family much wear and tear, for it will be properly wound and set every night byYour affectionate brother,Jim.p.s.When you are sufficiently aroused, press the lever and the alarm will stop.
Dear Dolly: Happy school-day! After much earnest consideration I have selected this as a suitable reminder of this joyful (?) anniversary. It will continue to remind you five mornings in the week, thereby saving your family much wear and tear, for it will be properly wound and set every night byYour affectionate brother,Jim.
p.s.When you are sufficiently aroused, press the lever and the alarm will stop.
Dorothea was a sleepyhead
“It’s one of those awful clocks that go off every minute!” said Dorothea, carefully examining it to find the lever. She almost dropped it when it began another of its loud and long rings, but she soon found and pressed the lever and thereafter the clock was silent except for its customary tick.
“I don’t believe I shall ask anybody to give me presents any more,” she said, eying Jim’s “reminder” with disfavor. But she changed her mind a little later when, on looking for a clean handkerchief, she discovered a flat square box tied with blue ribbon, and, opening it, saw half a dozen handkerchiefs with narrow blue borders and a little blue D in the corner. On the top was Cousin Edith’s visiting-card, on the back of which was printed in fantastic letters:
Dear Dolly: Use a handkerchiefWhenever you’re inclined to sniff.But with this band of blue I thinkThey don’t need polka-dots of ink.
It was a constant wonder to the household what Dorothea did with her handkerchiefs when she was at school. In vain she protested that she didn’t wipe her pen on them, and she didn’t use them as blotters or to wash out her ink-well;but, nevertheless, black stains almost always appeared upon them, and Florence insisted that the family had to buy an extra pint of milk a day to take out all these ink-stains. Cousin Edith was too frequent a visitor not to know all the family plans and jokes, and Dolly, as she laughed and shook out one of the blue-bordered squares, resolved that “polka-dots” should be conspicuous by their absence, for Edith would be sure to know.
She entered the breakfast room just as the family were sitting down to the table.
“Behold the effects of my generosity and fore-thought!” exclaimed Jim waving his hand toward her. “Our Youngest is in time for breakfast!”
“Many happy returns of the day, small sister,” said Anita, just as if it was her birthday, kissing her good morning and slipping a little hard package into her hand. “Bob sends you this with his love.”
“I don’t mind returns of the day when it’s like this,” said Dorothea, opening the package and at the same time spying a couple of tissue-paper parcels lying beside her plate. Inside was a small chamois-skin case out of which slid a little pearl-handled penknife. The accompanying card bore the name of her future brother-in-law, and also these words:
I hesitate to offer youThis knife, for I shall beAfraid that if you cut yourselfYou straightway will cut me.
“How long did it take Bob to execute that masterpiece?” inquired Jim as Dorothea read it aloud.
“You’re jealous,” she said. “Yours wasn’t half so lovely as Cousin Edith’s and Bob’s. It wasn’t poetry at all.”
“I left all the eloquence to my gift itself,” answered Jim, helping himself to an orange.
Dorothea paid no attention to him, for she was opening a small package fastened by a rubber band. It was a silver-mounted eraser with a tiny brush at one end. The inclosed note read:
This advice I must repeat;Spare the rub and spoil the sheet.If you can’t restrain your speed,This will prove a friend in need.
Dolly joined rather shamefacedly in the general smile, as she thanked Florence, whose writing she had recognized. She was very apt to postpone her work until the last minute, and then rush through it as fast as possible; her compositions suffered from the many careless mistakes that she was always in too much of a hurry to correct, while her drawings belonged to what Jim called the “slap-dash school.”
“We shall know by the amount of rubber left at the end of the term whether you have taken my valuable advice,” said Florence. “What’s in that other package, Baby? I know it is Anita’s by the extreme elegance of its appearance.”
“‘many happy returns of the day, small sister,’ said anita.”
Dorothea opened an oblong package tied with green ribbon and found a set of blotters fastened to a dark green suède cover ornamented with an openwork design of four-leaf clovers, and a pen-wiper to match. On top lay a slip of paper on which was written in Anita’s pretty hand:
Wishing “Our Youngest” good luck and a happy school year.
Wishing “Our Youngest” good luck and a happy school year.
“I’m not good at verses, so you’ll have to be content with plain prose,” said Anita, and Dorothea assured her that she was quite satisfied.
“Half past eight, Dolly,” said her mother when breakfast was over. “It is time you started.”
“Oh, not yet, mother,” said Dorothea the Dawdler. “It only takes me fifteen minutes.”
“Now, see here,” said Jim; “what do you suppose stirring young business-men like your father and brother are lingering until the nine o’clocktrain for, unless it is to see you off for school? We want to give you as good a send-off as possible, for you’re going to be absent four whole hours, but we can’t,—unless you do your part and begin to go pretty soon. I don’t believe you’ve got all your books together, as it is.”
“‘lend me your pencils, won’t you, jim?’ said dorothea.”
“Yes, I have,” answered Dorothea triumphantly. “They are all on the hall table, for I put them there last night. Oh, gracious!” she exclaimed blankly: “I forgot to see whether I had any pencils! I don’t believe I have one! Jim, lend me yours, won’t you? Just for to-day.”
“Lend you my most cherished possession? Never!” said Jim, placing his hand dramatically over his breast pocket.
“Then, Daddy, won’t you please lend me yours?”
“Trot along, trot along!” said her father; and Dorothea, not knowing quite what to make of having her demands thus ignored, put on her big sailor hat and started to gather up her books. On top of the pile was a slender inlaid box under a card bearing the words, “For Dolly, from Father.” Pushing back the sliding cover, Dorothea saw that the box contained a row of pencils, all beautifully sharpened, a dozen pens, and a slim gunmetal penholder.
“Oh!” she squealed with delight. “So that’s why you wouldn’t lend me any pencils!” and gave her father a hug.
“Hurry up, now,” said Jim. “Don’t forget we’ve got to see ourselves off after we’ve seen you.”
“Why don’t you take your bag?” asked Anita.
“It’s too small for my new Geography,” answered Dorothea, placing this huge outward and visible sign of her progress in learning so that it would form a foundation for the rest of her books. “Besides, it’s too shabby”.
“You had better take it to-day, anyhow, as you have so much to carry,” suggested her mother. “I brought it downstairs and it’s on the hat-rack.”
“I just hate it!” pouted Dorothea, turning; and then stopped in surprise, for instead of her little old satchel, a large new one made of soft dark brown leather was hanging on the rack. It was ornamented on one side with her monogram in raised tan-colored letters, and it was large enough for the largest Geography that she was ever likely to have.
“at the gate she turned to wave her hand.”
“Who gave me that?” she cried. “Oh, I know—Mother! It’s just exactly what I wanted. I think going to school this way is perfectly lovely!” she added as she slipped her other possessions into the bag.
“Twenty minutes to nine!” called Jim warningly.
“All right, I’m going now,” answered Dorothea gaily as she kissed them all around.
“And the first day of school isn’t so dismal after all, is it?” said her father.
“Oh, it’s splendid, just splendid!” she replied enthusiastically. At the gate she turned to wave her hand at the assembled family, who waved back at her vigorously; and then, swinging her bag, she ran off down the street toward school.
THE LOST MONEY
D
oris’s papa gave her a five-dollar bill, such a lot of money! Doris went to a big bank and asked if they could give her smaller money for it. The banker said he thought they could. So he gave her two two-dollar bills and a big silver dollar. How much did that make? Doris wanted the dollar changed again; so the banker asked if she would have two fifty-cent pieces, or one fifty-cent piece and two quarters—or perhaps four quarters or ten dimes—or twenty five-cent pieces—or a hundred pennies.
Doris thought a hundred pennies would be a good many to count and to carry, so she said she would take two quarters, three dimes and four five-cent pieces.
She laid away four dollars in the bank, those were the two bills, and put the change in her purse. When she went to the shop, she had such a lot of money that she thought she never could spend it. So she bought a paint-box with two little saucers in it for 10 cents; that left her 90 cents; and then a big rubber balloon for 25 cents; that left 65 cents; and a little one for 10 cents; and then Doris bought a whole pound of candy for thirty cents. Out of the 25 cents she had left, it cost 10 cents to go in the car.
When Doris got home she opened her paint-box. What do you think? Of course it was only a cheap paint-box and the paints were so hard that they would not paint at all. Doris cut out the dolls, but they were no better than those in any newspaper’s colored supplement. Doris’s mama said that the candy was too bad to eat at all, and the rubber balloons got wrinkled and soft in the night, because the gas went out of them. Doris cried when she saw them. “Now,” she said, “I have nothing left of my beautiful dollar but 15 cents.”
“I’m sorry, Dearie,” Doris’s mama said, “but it’s bad enough to have wasted one dollar without crying about it, too. When you and I go out, we’ll try to get such good things for the next dollar, that it will make up for our mistake about this one.” The next bright day they went to the bank and got another dollar.
Now Doris’s mama was a very wise person (mamas often are). So they went to a store where there were some books that had been wet a little by the firemen when the store caught fire. There they found a large, fine book of animal stories with pictures in it that had been 50 cents, but the book-store man sold it for 10 cents, because the back cover and a little bit of the edge was stained with water and smoke.
That left—how much? Ninety cents. Doris’s brother had told her he would teach her to play marbles, so she bought six glass marbles for 5 cents and a hoop with a stick for 5 more. That left 80 cents.
Then Doris asked if her mama thought she could buy a pair of roller skates. Her mama said they could ask how much roller skates cost, but the shopman said they were a dollar a pair! So Doris said she would save up the 80 cents that was left of her dollar and wait until she had enough for the skates.
However, a little boy was looking in at the window of the toy-shop and he looked so sad, and so longingly at the toys, that Doris spoke to him, and when he said he wanted one of the red balls, she bought it for 5 cents, and gave it to him. That left 75 cents.
When they got home, they told papa about the skates and he said he could get them down-town for 75 cents, and he did.
So Doris learned by losing her first dollar, to get a lot of good things that would be more useful and would last longer, with her second dollar.
BY AMY B. JOHNSON
“I’ve been crying again, father.”
“Have you, sweetheart? I’m sorry.”
“Father.”
“Yes, darling.”
“I don’t like Holland at all. I wish we had stayed in New York. And I would much rather stay in Amsterdam with you to-day than to go and see those horrid little Dutch children. I’m sure I shall hate them all.”
“But how about Marie? You want to see her, don’t you?”
“No. I’m very much annoyed with Marie. I don’t see why she could not have been contented in New York. After taking care of me ever since I was a baby, she must like me better than those nieces and nephews she never saw till yesterday.”
“I am sure Marie loves you very dearly, Katharine, but you are getting to be such a big girl now that you no longer need a nurse, and Marie was homesick. She wished to come back to Holland years ago, but I persuaded her to stay till you were old enough to do without her, and until Aunt Katharine was ready to come to New York and live with us, promising her that when that time came you and I would come over with her, just as we have done, on our way to Paris. We must not be selfish and grudge Marie to her sisters, who have not seen her for twelve years.”
“I am homesick now, too, father. I was so happy in New York with my dolls—and you—and Marie—and—”
“So you shall be again, darling; in a few months we will go back, taking dear Aunt Katharine with us from Paris, and you will soon love her better than you do Marie.”
Katharine and her father, Colonel Easton, were floating along a canal just out of Amsterdam, in atrekschuit, or small passenger-boat, on their way to the home of one of Marie’s sisters, two of whom were married and settled near one of the dikes of Holland. Katharine was to spend the day there with her nurse, and make the acquaintance of all the nieces and nephews about whom Marie had told her so much, while her father was to return to Amsterdam, where he had business to transact with a friend. They had arrived in Holland only the day before, when Marie had immediately left them, being anxious to get home as soon as possible, after exacting a promise from the colonel that Katharine should visit her the next day.
Katharine felt very sure she would never like Holland as she gazed rather scornfully at the curious objects they passed: the queer gay-colored boats, the windmills which met the eye at every turn, with their great arms waving in the air, the busy-looking people, men and women, some of the latter knitting as they walked, carrying heavy baskets on their backs, and all looking so contented and placid.
“Try and think of the nice day you are going to have with Marie and the children,” said the colonel; “then this evening I will come for you, and we will go together to Paris, and when you see Aunt Katharine you will be perfectly happy. See, we are nearly at the landing, and look at that row of little girls and boys. I do believe they are looking for you.”
“Yes; they must be Marie’s sister’s children, I know them from the description Marie has read me from her letters. Aren’t they horrid little things, father? Just look at their great clumps of shoes—”
“Yes—klompen; that is what they are called, Katharine.”
“And their baggy clothes and short waists! One of them knitting, too! Well, I would never make such a fright of myself, even if I did live in Holland, which I’m glad I don’t.”
“the windmills which met the eye at every turn,with their great arms waving in the air.”
By this time they had made the landing. Then Katharine and Marie fell into each other’s arms and cried, gazed at in half-frightened curiosity by seven small, shy Hollanders, and in pitying patience by a very large colonel.
“Au revoir. I will call for Katharine this afternoon,” called Colonel Easton, when the time came for him to go on board again.
Katharine waved her handkerchief to her father as long as his boat was in sight.
“See, Miss Katharine,” said Marie—in Dutch now, for Katharine understood that language very well, Marie having spoken it to her from her infancy—“here is Gretel, and this is her little sister Katrine and her brother Jan. The others are their cousins. Come here, Lotten; don’t be shy. Ludolf, Mayken, Freitje, shake hands with my little American girl; they were all eager to come and meet you, dear, so I had to bring them.”
Katharine shook hands very soberly with the little group, and then walked off beside Marie, hearing nothing but the clatter-clatter of fourteen wooden shoes behind her.
Soon they arrived at the cottage, and in a moment seven pairs of klompen were ranged in a neat row outside a small cottage, while their owners all talked at once to two sweet-faced women standing in the doorway. These were Marie’s sisters, whose husbands were out on the sea fishing, and who lived close beside each other in two tiny cottages exactly alike.
“Oh,” exclaimed Katharine, as, panting and breathless, she joined the group, “do you always take off your shoes before you go into the house?”