TRINITY CHURCH AND THE HEAD OF WALL STREET.TRINITY CHURCH AND THE HEAD OF WALL STREET.
Uncle George delighted in the pleasure of the D's. The more questions they asked, the better he liked it, and the more sure he became that his Don and Dot were the brightest, most intelligent pair of young folk under the sun. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the holiday as heartily as they did, excepting when Dorothy, toward the latter part of the afternoon, surprised him with a blank refusal to go nearly three hundred feet above the street.
You shall hear all about it:
They were homeward bound,—that is to say, they were on their way to the down-town ferry-boat that would carry them to the railroad station,—when Donald suddenly proposed that they should stay over till a later train.
"And suppose we walk on down to Wall Street, Uncle," he continued, "and go into Trinity Church. There's a magnificent view from the spire."
"Yes," was his uncle's rather frightened comment. "But the spire is more than two hundred and eighty feet high. What are you going to do about that?"
"Why, climb up, sir, of course. You know there's a good stairway nearly to the top, perhaps all the way. Anyhow, we can get up there, I know; and Ed Tyler says the view is perfectly stupendous."
"So I've heard," said Uncle, half ready to yield; "and the climb is stupendous too."
"Yes, but you can look down and see the city, and the harbor, and all the shipping, and the East River, and everything. There's an hour to spare yet. We can take it easy. What say you, Uncle?"
"Well, I say yes," said Uncle, with forced heartiness, for he dearly loved to oblige the twins.
Then they turned to Dorry, though it seemed hardly necessary; she always was ready for an adventure. To their surprise, she responded emphatically:
"AndIsay, please let me wait somewhere till Uncle and you come down again. I don't care to go up."
"Why, Dot, are you tired?" asked her uncle, kindly.
"Oh, no, Uncle, not a bit. But whenever I stand on a high place I always feel just as if Imustjump off. Of course, I wouldn't jump, you know, but I don't wish to have the feeling. It'ssodisagreeable."
"I should think as much," said Donald; but Mr. Reed walked on toward the ferry, silently, with compressed lips and a flushed countenance; he did not even mention the steeple project again.
Meantime the noble old church on Broadway stood calmly overlooking the bustle and hurry of Wall Street, where the "money, money, money" chorus goes on day after day, ceasing only on Sundays and holidays, and when the clustering stars shed their light upon the spire.
"Uncle thinks I'm a goose to have such silly notions," pondered Dorry, taking very long steps so as to keep up with her companions, who, by the way, were taking very short steps to keep pace with Dorry. "But I can't help my feelings. It really is true. I hate to stand on high places, like roofs and precipices." Finally, she spoke:
"Uncle George, didn't you ever hear of other persons having that feeling?"
"What feeling, Dorothy?"
How sternly Mr. Reed said it! Surely he could not blame the poor girl for asking so natural a question as that? No. But the incident had saddened him strangely, and he was unconscious of the severity of his tone, until Dorothy's hesitating manner changed the current of his thoughts.
"Why—why, the—" she began, adding: "Oh, it doesn't matter, Uncle. I suppose I am foolish to ask such questions. But Don is ever so much steadier-headed than I am—aren't you, Don? I do believe he'd like to stand on the top of that telegraph-pole, if he could get there."
"There's no 'if' about that," said Donald, jokingly. "It's a mere question of time. Provided a fellow can climb a pole at all, a little more height makes no difference. Why, if I hadn't on my crack suit, I'd ask you and Uncle to wait and let me have a try at it."
"Oho!" laughed Dorry: "'crack' suit is slang; so is 'have a try'. Five cents apiece. That's ten cents fine for you, sir! Well, we ought to be thankful he hasn't on his old clothes, Uncle! Ahem! The 'crack' would be in the head then, instead of the suit, I'm afraid."
"Poor joke!" retorted Don; "ten cents fine foryou, young lady."
Thus the party walked on, the light-hearted D's bantering each other with many laughing sallies, feeling confident that their uncle enjoyed it exceedingly.
And so he did; yet all the while he was thinking:
"Strange! Every day something new—something that reminds me of poor Kate. Now it's this dread of standing on high places; what will it be to-morrow? And yet, as the child herself intimates, many other persons have the same feeling. Now I think upon it, it's the commonest thing in the world."
Ina few days after the visit to town, Mr. Reed received a letter, very dingy on the outside and very remarkable within. It was brought by one of the little Danby boys, and it read as follows:
"George Reed Esquir."Dear Sir: I take my pen to say that the border left yesterday without notis owin us fur the hole time. He hadent a portmanter nor any luggage except paper collars, which enabeled him to go off without suspition. A tellygram which he forgot and my wife afterward pikt it up said for him to go right to Pensivania old Squir Hinson was dying. It was from a party caling himself Janson K. The border as I aught to enform you has told my children inclooding Francis Ferdinand who bares this letter a cockanbull story about bein related to your honered self by witch we know he was an imposture. I write insted of calling at the house as I am laim from cuttin my foot with an ax yesterday and it dont apear quite cuncistunt to send you a verble message."Yours respecfully,"Erasmus Danby."Saturday."
"Dear Sir: I take my pen to say that the border left yesterday without notis owin us fur the hole time. He hadent a portmanter nor any luggage except paper collars, which enabeled him to go off without suspition. A tellygram which he forgot and my wife afterward pikt it up said for him to go right to Pensivania old Squir Hinson was dying. It was from a party caling himself Janson K. The border as I aught to enform you has told my children inclooding Francis Ferdinand who bares this letter a cockanbull story about bein related to your honered self by witch we know he was an imposture. I write insted of calling at the house as I am laim from cuttin my foot with an ax yesterday and it dont apear quite cuncistunt to send you a verble message.
"Yours respecfully,"Erasmus Danby.
"Saturday."
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Reed, drawing a deep sigh of relief as he folded the missive. Then, conscience-smitten at his indifference to the Danby interests, and resolved that, in the end, Mr. Danby should be no loser by "the boarder," he looked toward Master Danby. That young gentleman, dressed in a made-over Sunday suit, still stood hat in hand in the library doorway.
"Is your father badly hurt, my little man?"
"No, sir," repeated Fandy, rapidly, and with a solemn countenance. "His thick boot saved him. The axe fell and cut through down to his skin, and it bled a sight, and 'Mandy 'most fainted, and Ma bandaged it up so tight he hollered a bad word."
"What?"
"Yes, sir. He said 'blazes!' And Ma said for him not to forget hisself if hewashurt, and he said he wouldn't again. And Ma devised him, as Sunday was comin' so soon, to take Saturday, and so give his foot two days to heal, and he's doin' it."
"But 'blazes' isn't a very, very bad word, is it?"
"No, sir, not very wicketly bad. But Pa and Ben mean it instead of swearin' words, and Ma's breaking them of it. Ma's very partic'lar."
"That's right," said Mr. Reed. "So, Master Francis Ferdinand," referring to the letter, "the boarder told you that he was a relation of mine, did he?"
"Yes, sir, but we knew better. He was a bad lot, sir."
"A very bad lot," returned Mr. Reed, much amused.
"Ma said I could stay, sir, if I was asked."
"Very well," said Mr. Reed, smiling down upon the little midget. "You probably will find Donald and Dorothy in the garret."
THE GARRET BEFORE FANDY'S ARRIVAL.THE GARRET BEFORE FANDY'S ARRIVAL.
"Yes, sir!" and off went Fandy with nimble dignity through the hall; then soberly, but still lightly, up the stairs to the landing at the first turn; then rapidly and somewhat noisily across the great square hall on the second story, to the door of the enclosed stair-way, and, finally, with a shrill "whoop!" leaping up two steps at a time, he found himself in the open garret, in the presence of—the family cat!
No Donald or Dorothy was to be seen. Only the cat; and she glared at him with green eyes. Everything up there was as still as death; grim shadows lurked in the recesses and far corners; the window was shaded by some limp garments hanging near it, and now stirring drearily Fandy could chase angry cattle and frighten dogs away from his little sisters, but lonely garrets were quite another matter. Almost any dreadful object could stalk out from behind things in a lonely garret! The boy looked about him in an awe-struck way for an instant, then tore, at break-neck speed, down the stairs, into the broad hall, where Donald, armed like a knight, or so it seemed to the child, met him with a hearty, "Ho, is that you, Fandy Danby? Thought I heard somebody falling. Come right into my room. Dorry and I are practising."
"Praxin' what?" panted the relieved Fandy, hurrying in as he spoke, and looking about him with a delighted, "Oh my!"
Dorothy was a pretty girl at any time, but she certainly looked very pretty indeed as she turned toward the visitor—her bright hair tumbled, her face flushed with exercise, her eyes sparkling merrily. She held a fencing-mask in one hand, and a foil, lightly upraised, in the other.
"Oh, Fandy!" she said, "you are just the one we want. Don is teaching me to fence, and I can't half see how he does it, because I have to wear the mask. Here, let me put it on you—that's a good boy," and she suited the action to the word, laughing at the astonished little face which Fandy displayed through the wire network.
"Now, take the foil!—No, no. In your right hand, so." Then, addressing Donald, she added: "Now he's ready! Fall to, young man!"
"Yes! fall to-o!" shouted Fandy, striking an attitude and catching the spirit of the moment, like the quick little fellow he was. "Fall to-o!"
Donald laughingly parried the small child's valiant but unscientific thrusts, while Dorry looked on in great satisfaction, sure that she now could "catch the idea" perfectly.
No armed chieftain at the head of his clan ever appeared more desperately valiant than Fandy on this occasion.
Fortunately cats can tell no tales.
A very active youngster of eight, with a long foil in his strong little hand, striking right and left regardless of consequences, and leaping from the ground when making a thrust at his opponent's heart, or savagely attempting to rival the hero of Chevy Chase who struck off his enemy's legs, is no mean foe. Donald was a capital fencer; and, well skilled in the tricks of the art, he had a parry for every known thrust. But Fandy's thrusts were unknown. Nothing more original or unexpected could be conceived; and every time Dorry cried "foul!" he redoubled his strokes, taking the word as a sort of applause. For a while, Donald laughed so much that he scarcely could defend himself; but, whenever he found that he was growing short of breath, he would be in earnest just long enough to astonish his belligerent foe. At the moment when that lively young duellist flattered himself that he was doing wonders, and pressing the enemy hard, Donald would stop laughing for a second, make a single sudden pass toward Fandy, with a quick turn of his wrist, and, presto! the eight-year-old's foil, much to his amazement, would leave his hand as if by magic, and go spinning across the floor. But Fandy, utterly unconscious that this unaccountable accident was a stroke of art on Donald's part, was not in the least disconcerted by it.
Fandy's first fencing-match.Fandy's first fencing-match.
"Hello!" he would shout, nothing daunted, "I've dropped my soword!Wait a minute. Don't hit me yet!" And then, picking up his weapon, he would renew the attack with all his little might.
At last, Donald, wearying of the sport, relieved himself of his mask and consulted his watch, a massive but trusty silver affair, which had been worn by his father when a boy.
Was Fandy tired? Not a bit. Practice had fired his soul. "Come on, Dorothy!" he cried. "Pull to-o! I mean, fall to-o!"
But Dorry thanked him and declined; whereat a thought struck the young champion. His expression grew fierce and resolute as, seizing the foil with a sterner grip, he turned to Donald.
"There's a cat up stairs. I guess it's a wild-cat. D' YOU WANT IT KILLED?"
"Oh, you little monster!" cried Dorry, rushing to the door and standing with her back against it. "Would you do such a thing as that?"
"I would to d'fend myself," said Fandy, stoutly. "Don't hunters kill tigers?"
"But this isn't a tiger, nor even a wild-cat. It's tame. It's our Nan!"
"Let him go try," spoke up Donald. "He'll get the worst of it."
"Indeed I'll not let him try, either," cried Dorry, still holding her position.
But Fandy already was beginning to cool down. Second thoughts came to his rescue.
"I don't believe in hurtin' tame animals," said he. "It's naughty," and the foil and mask were laid carefully upon the table.
"Who taught you to fight with these things?" he asked Donald in an off-hand way, as though he and Don were about equal in skill, with the great difference that his own power came to him by nature, while Donald's undoubtedly was the result of severe teaching.
"Professor Valerio."
"Oh, did he? I've heard 'Manda talk abouthim. She says he's the—the—somethingest man in the village. I forget now what she called him. What's those things?" Here the visitor pointed to Don's boxing-gloves.
At any other time Don would have taken them from the wall and explained their use, but it was nearly three o'clock, and this was his fencing-lesson day. So he merely said, "They're boxing-gloves."
"Do youwear'em?" asked Fandy, looking in a puzzled way, first at the huge things, then at Donald's hands, as if comparing the sizes.
"Yes, when I'm boxing," returned Donald.
"What will you do about your fencing-lesson, Don?" said Dorry. "Do you think Uncle will let you go? We're prisoners, you know."
"Of course he will," replied Donald, taking his hat (he had a mask and foil at the professor's) and preparing to start. "I'm to call for Ed Tyler at three. We'll have rare times to-day; two fellows from town are to be there,—prime fencers, both of them,—and we are to have a fencing match."
THE FENCING-MASTER.THE FENCING-MASTER.
"You'll win," said Dorry. "You always do. Ed Tyler says you are the finest fencer he ever saw, excepting Professor Valerio, and he says you beat even the professor sometimes."
"Nonsense!" said Donald, severely, though his face betrayed his pleasure. "Ed Tyler himself's a match for any one."
"What a mutual-admiration society you two are!"
Dorry said this so good-naturedly that Donald could not resent it, andhisgood-nature made her add:
"Well, I don't care. You'rebothsplendid, if I do say it; and, oh, isn't the professor handsome! He's so straight and tall. Uncle says he's a standing argument against round shoulders."
Dorry had taken a photograph from the table, and had been talking partly to it and partly to Donald. As she laid the picture down again, Fandy stepped up to take a look.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"It's Professor Valerio, Don's fencing-master."
"Whew! See his soword!" exclaimed the small boy, looking at the picture in great admiration. "My, wouldn't I like to fighthim!"
"There goes Don," said Dorothy, who by this time was looking out of the window; "Uncle must have consented."
"Consented!" echoed Fandy. "Why, can't Donald go out 'thout askin'? Ben can, and Dan David, too; so can 'Mandy and——Hello, Charity, I'm a-comin'."
This last remark was shouted through the open window, where Dorothy stood waving her hand at the baby.
"Can you come up, Charity?" she cried out.
"No, thank you. Mother said I must hurry back. She wants Fandy."
Dr. Lane, made proud and happy by the affection of his bright young pupils, as well as by their beautiful gift, bade farewell to Mr. Reed and the D's, with repeated promises to write in due time and tell them how he liked the sunny South, and how it fared with him.
"I shall like it, I know," he assured them, "and the climate will make me strong and well. Good-by once more, for you see" (here he made a playful show of consulting his watch as he took it proudly from his vest-pocket) "it is precisely six and three-quarter minutes after three, and I must catch the 4.20 train to town. Good-by." But there were more good-byes to come; for Jack had brought the light top-wagon to the door, and Donald and Dorothy insisted upon driving with him and Dr. Lane to the station.
Upon their return, they found their uncle and Liddy engaged in consultation.
The evening came on with change of wind, a dull gray sky and all the unwelcome signs of a long storm.
"I have been thinking," remarked Mr. Reed, while he and the D's were waiting for supper, "that it would be a good idea to have a little fun between times. What say you, my dears?"
The dears looked at each other, and Don asked, "Between what times, Uncle?"
"Why, between the going of our good friend Dr. Lane and the coming of that awful, but as yet unknown personage, the new tutor."
"Oh, yes, Uncle!" cried Dorothy, clapping her hands, "I'm ready for anything. But then," she added, half-playfully, "you forget we're prisoners, like the princes in the Tower!"
"Not prisoners at all now," he exclaimed, "unless the storm should prove your jailer. Circumstances have changed; and you are free as air."
"Let me see, what shall we have," he went on, taking no notice of the D's' surprise at this happy turn of affairs, and speaking slowly and deliberately—just as if he had not settled that matter with Liddy some days ago!—"Let me see. Whatshallit be? Ah, I have a happy thought! We'll try a house-picnic!"
"What's that, Uncle?" asked Dorry, half-suspiciously.
"You don't know what a house-picnic is!" exclaimed Uncle George with pretended astonishment. "Well, upon my word!"
It did not occur to him to mention that the idea of a house-picnic was purely an invention of his own; nor did he suspect that it was one which could have found favor only in the brain of a doting and rich bachelor uncle.
"Now, Uncle, do—don't!" coaxed Dorry; and Don echoed, laughingly: "Yes, Uncle, do—don't!" But he was as eager as she to hear more.
"Why, my dears, a house-picnic means this: It means the whole house thrown open from ten in the morning till ten at night. It means fun in the garret, music and games in the parlor, story-telling in odd corners, candy-pulling in the kitchen, sliding-curtains, tinkling bells, and funny performances in the library; it means almost any right thing within bounds that you and about thirty other youngsters choose to make it, with the house thrown open to you for the day."
"No out-of-doors at all?" asked Donald, doubtfully, but with sparkling eyes.
"Oh, yes, a run or two when you wish, for fresh air's sake; but from present appearances, there'll be drizzling days all the week, I suspect, and that will make your house-picnic only the pleasanter."
"So it will! How splendid!" cried Dorry. "Jack can take the big covered wagon and go for the company, rain or not, while Don and you and I plan the fun. We'll try all sorts of queer out-of-the-way things. Good for the house-picnic!"
"Good for the house-picnic!" shouted Donald, becoming almost as enthusiastic as Dorry.
"Oh, Uncle," she went on, "you are too lovely! Howdidyou happen to think of it?"
"Well, you see," said Uncle, with the glow-look, as Liddy called it, coming to his face, "I thought my poor princes in the Tower had been rather good and patient under the persecutions of their cruel Uncle Gloucester, and so Liddy and I decided they should have a little frolic by way of a change."
"Hashegone from the neighborhood, I wonder?" thought Donald (strange to say, neither he nor Dorry had known that the Danbys' boarder and the "long, lank man" were the same), but he said aloud: "We're ever so glad to hear it, Uncle. Now, whom shall we invite?"
"Oh,dohear that 'whom'!" exclaimed Dorry, in well-feigned disgust, while Don went on gayly:
"Let's have plenty of girls this time. Don't you say so, Dorry?"
"Oh, yes, let's have fifteen girls and fifteen boys. Let's invite all the Danbys; may we, Uncle? It would be such a treat to them; you know they never have an opportunity to go to a party."
"Just as you please, my girl; but will not ten of them be rather a large proportion out of thirty?"
"Oh, no, Uncle dear. They can'tallcome—not the very littlest ones, any way. At any rate, if Don's willing, I'd like to ask them."
"Agreed!" assented Don.
"The ayes have it!" said Uncle George. "Now let us go to supper."
Dorry ran on ahead, so as to have a word with Liddy on the delightful subject of house-picnics; but Don, lingering, startled his uncle with a whispered:
"I say, Uncle, has Jack thrashed that fellow?"
"I have heard nothing to that effect," was the reply. "The man was called away suddenly."
"Oh," said Donald, in a disappointed tone, "I hoped you had given him his walking papers."
"I have, perhaps," returned Mr. Reed, smiling gravely, "but not in the way you supposed."
Don looked up, eagerly, hoping to hear more, but his uncle, without another word, led the way into the supper-room.
Thehouse-picnic proved a complete success. In the first place, not only the original thirty came, but other boys and girls whose names had been added to the list; secondly, a lovely snow-storm, one of the bright, dry kind, had come during the night, and evidently had come to stay; thirdly, the guests made it a frolic from the start, and every sleigh-load driven to the door by Jack came in singing and cheering; fourthly, Uncle George, as Dorry said, was "splendid," Jack was "good as gold," and Liddy was "too lovely for anything;" fifthly, the house from top to bottom was bright, home-like, and beautiful; and lastly, hardly anything was broken, not a single child was killed, and the house wasn't burned to the ground,—all of which Liddy and Jack agreed was "simply mirac'l'us!"
Such a wonderful day as that is hard to describe. Imagine the scene. Great square halls on the first and second floors; broad stair-ways; fine open rooms; pleasant fires; beautiful flowers; boys and girls flitting, gathering everywhere, from garret to kitchen,—now scattered, now crowded, now listening to stories, now running, now hiding, now gazing at an impromptu "performance," now sitting in a demure circle, with a napkin on every lap,—you know why,—now playing games, now having a race on the broad freshly-swept piazza, that extended along every side of the mansion, now giving three cheers for Uncle George, and then beginning all over again. It lasted more than ten hours, yet nobody was tired, (until the next day!) and all the guests declared, in one way or another, that it was the very nicest time they ever had known in their lives. Donald and Dorothy were delightful as host and hostess. They enjoyed everything, were on the alert for every one's pleasure, and by their good-humor, courtesy, and graceful manners, unconsciously set an example to all the picnickers. Uncle George,—ah, now I know what to say! You have known him heretofore as a man of grave responsibility,—troubled with an anxiety which to you, perhaps, has been uncomfortably mysterious. But Uncle George, at the house-picnic, was quite a different man. He threw care to the winds, proposed games, invented capital "forfeits," sprang surprises upon the guests, laughed and played like a splendid boy, and, better yet, wore his "glow-look" nearly all the time.
"How handsome Mr. Reed is!" thought more than one young guest. "They say his brother Wolcott was handsomer still. No wonder Don and Dorry are so good-looking. Ho! what are we going to do now?"
Then would follow a merry, well-ordered rush to this or that part of the house, according to the special attraction of the moment. But, really, it is quite impossible for any one to describe the day properly. The only way is to give you a few notes from observations taken on the spot.
We'll begin with the kitchen—Norah's kingdom. There she stands, a queen in a calico gown. But Dorothy has the sceptre. It is a big wooden spoon. She and a dozen other girls are crowding about the big cooking-stove. All have large towels pinned over their dresses, after the fashion of Topsy's apron—close to the throat, tight around the skirt, and the arms left free. What in the world are they making? What but molasses candy! It is nearly done. It ought to be, after the boiling and the stirring that the girls in turn have given it. Finally, some one holds forward a pan of cold water. Dorothy, carefully dipping out a spoonful of the fragrant syrup, drops it into the water. It sizzes; it stiffens—hurrah! the candy is ready to be taken from the fire.
Cool enough now. "Come, boys! Come, girls!" cries Uncle.
"Here, put these on,—every one of you!" cries Liddy, her arms loaded with the coarse towel-aprons which she—knowing soul!—had specially prepared for the occasion. "Sakes! be careful! Don't burn yourselves!"
But who hears? They are pulling the candy already. Boys and girls in pairs, with hands daintily washed and greased, are taking soft lumps of the cooling confection, drawing them out into long, shining ribbons, doubling and drawing them out again until they get lighter and lighter in color, and finally, the beautiful golden strands are declared ready for more artistic handling. Then follow royal fun and rivalry, each young confectioner trying to outdo the other. Some twist the soft candy into sticks and lay them aside to cool; some braid it charmingly; others make little walking-canes; others cut it into caramels,—one and all indulging meantime in flavorsome morsels, and finally shouting with delight over Donald's masterpiece, which he has placed upon the table for inspection, and which he calls
THE MAID OF ORLEANS!THE MAID OF ORLEANS!
"Ha! ha!" shouts Daniel Danby. "Pretty good! But supposing it hadn't been made of Orleans! Guess there are other kinds of molasses." But that sarcastic and well-informed young gentleman is hardly heard in the laughing commotion.
Ah, what a washing of hands! For the fun of the thing, Uncle George has caused warm water to be put into a great tub, which stands upon the wash-bench, and now the candy-pullers take their turn in a close ring about it, all frantically feeling and struggling for the soap which repeatedly bobs to the surface, only to be dashed out of sight again by some desperate little hand.
While this merry crowd of cooks and pullers is working and frolicking in the kitchen, under Norah's watchful eye, a few of the company may be found in other parts of the old mansion, amusing themselves in their own fashion. Some of the very young guests are in the upper rooms playing childish games; and one or two older ones, who, as it happens, see quite enough of the kitchen in their own homes, prefer to enjoy themselves now in the finer apartments.
THE CANDY-PULLING.THE CANDY-PULLING.
We'll look into Mr. Reed's study, the door of which stands slightly ajar. Amanda Danby is there alone. She is sitting in the master's big chair with a volume of poems in her hand—forgetting the party, forgetting that she has laboriously smoothed her curly hair for the occasion, forgetting that she is wearing her precious drab merino—her mother's wedding gown—now made over for the fourth time, forgetting the new collar and pretty blue bow at her throat (Dorry's gifts), conscious only that
"The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar."
Amanda smiles to herself as she turns the leaf, feeling that, after all, there is a great deal of life and spirit in the world, and that dish-pans, pots, and kettles are mere phantoms of the imagination. The verse runs on so smoothly too. She could write whole books of poetry herself if she only had gone somewhere and improved herself. Then, as she reads on, the great, comfortable arm-chair, the soft carpet, the well-filled book-shelves and the subdued light, give her a vague, delightful sense of having improved herself already.
Let us look into the other rooms. No one in the parlor; the back sitting-room, too, is deserted; the dining-room is locked for awhile; but high up on the garret-stairs sit three wide-eyed, open-mouthed youngsters listening to Ben Buster.
"True?" he is saying, "of course it's true; I knew the boy myself—Joe Gunther, smart fellow. He's on a ranch, now, out in Californy. I'll tell you how it was; he was living with a settler named Brown, 'way off in Utah. Brown had three men besides Joe to help him,—sort of partnership, I b'lieve, raising cattle. It was a desolate place, and the Indians were troublesome. Brown nor his men never went outside the door without a loaded gun, and they kept several more in the hut, always loaded, ready for an attack. One morning, long before daylight, Joe heard a rumpus. He was in bed,—none of your cots, but a bunk, like a shelf, fastened to the inside of the stockade walls."
"What do you mean by stockade walls?" asks one of the listeners.
"Why, walls made out of logs standing upright. It was only a hut, you see; no laths, nor plaster, nor any such nonsense. Well, Joe knew by what he heard that old man Brown was inside, firing from the door at the Indians; didn't know where the other two were,—killed, may be,—and so Joe gets up on his knees and looks through a crevice of the stockade wall, and sees the chief crawling stealthily around the hut to get in at the only window and attack the old man! A loaded gun—double barrel—was hanging on the wall right near Joe. What did he do but take it, put the muzzle through the chink, and let go at the fellow; discharged both barrels clean at him. 'You will, will you?' he yelled out, as the Indian fell; and I declare, if the other Indians weren't so scared and mystified by the sudden voice, and the chief killed, out of the very walls, as it seemed to them, that they turned and scampered. Joe rushed out to old man Brown, and there he was, with his two partners, at the door, not one of the three scratched, and the chief was lying there by the stockade wall, just as he fell.
"Joe didn't care to go near him, for by this time he began to feel rather weak in the joints. But the most wonderful part of all is to come yet. That Indian chief was only wounded, after all. They thought he was killed; and while the three men and Joe were in the hut, planning what they should do next,—for they were sure the redskins would come back in greater force to get the body of their chief,—I declare if that old Indian didn't up and go about his business. Brown and Joe and all of them searched the forest well, that day and the next, but they never found him. Joe had made his mark though, and he was in more than one scrimmage with the Indians after that."
"It's a shame to kill Indians!" at last exclaims one of Ben's awe-stricken listeners. "My father says they've been imposed upon and abused by the white folks. He says we ought to teach them instead of killing them."
"That's so," says another of the trio, nodding emphatically. "My father says so too."
"Oh, does he?" returns Ben Buster, in mild wrath, "who doesn't? But this was a fair fight. What are you going to do when they're doin' the killing, eh? Open your book and hear them a spelling lesson? Guess not. Ask 'em questions in 'rithmetic when they're helping themselves to your scalp? Oh, of course."
All of which would be very impressive and very convincing to the young hearers, did not a small boy, named Jedediah Treadwell, at this moment come suddenly rushing across the hall, shouting—
"Ho! Candy! I smell merlasses candy. They're making it. Come on."
And down they run—all but Ben, who prefers to go through the house in search of adventures. He opens a door, sees a small ring of prettily dressed little girls and boys, hand in hand, singing:
"Oats, pease, beans, and barley grows!You nor I nor nobody knowsWhere, oats, pease, beans, and barley grows."
He beats a hasty retreat. Signs of commotion come from Mr. Reed's room on the other side of the hall; but Ben, hearing Fandy's familiar voice there, turns aside and goes slowly down stairs, feeling rather bored since there is no one to listen to his stories.
Soon he is in the kitchen, laughing with the rest at Donald's expressive masterpiece, but secretly resolving never to go into company again until he can have a frock-coat. The blue cloth jacket and trousers, bought with his last year's savings, somehow do not seem to him as fine as they did when he put them on earlier in the day; though he is an independent youth, not easily made dissatisfied with his appearance. For the first time in his life he rather envies Daniel David and Ellen Elizabeth, who look remarkably well on this occasion, being dressed in clothes that once were Donald's and Dorothy's. This is no unusual effect. For Lydia, with Mr. Reed's hearty sanction, has long been in the habit of slyly handing garments to Mrs. Danby, with the flattering assurance that as the dear D's grow like weeds, it will be an act of real kindness if Mrs. Danby will turn the clothes to good account; and Mrs. Danby always has complied.
Talking of the Danbys, perhaps this is a fitting time to explain the commotion that Ben heard in Mr. Reed's sleeping-room.
A moment before, and in the midst of certain lively planning, a middle-sized boy, named Thomas Budd, had strayed from the candy-pulling scene and appeared at the threshold of this apartment, where Charity Danby, little Isabella Danby, Fandy, and three or four others were assembled.
"All right!" shouted Fandy, excitedly, as Master Budd entered; "come along, Tommy Budd, you can play too. Now Charity Cora, look out for Is'bella! We're going to have my new game."
"Oh, please do, Cora! quick!" cried little Helen Danby. "Fandy's made it up all hisself, and he's goin' to teach it to us."
"That's right," said Fandy, approvingly, as Charity Cora hastily lifted her three-year-old sister from the floor; "take her 'way off. It's a awful dang'rous game. She might get killed!"
Very naturally, Cora, with little Isabel in her arms, stood near the door to see what was going to happen.
"Now, chil'ren," cried Fandy, "take your places all over. Pete, you're a lion; Sammy, you're a big wolf; Helen, you're a wild cat; Gory, you're a elephant; and Tommy, you'll have to be,—let's see, what other animal is there? Oh! yes; you must be a kangaroo! and I'm a great big hunter-man, with a gun an' a soword!"
So saying, the great big hunter-man took a small brass-handled shovel and poker from the brass stand by the open fireplace, and struck an attitude.
"Now, chil'ren, you must all go 'round, a-howling and going on like what you all are, and I'll pounce on you fass as I can, an' kill you. When I shoot, you must fall right down; and when I chop off your heads with my big soword, you must roar awful."
"Hah! Where's the game in that?" cried Gory, scornfully.
"Why—let's see," said Fandy, rather puzzled. "Oh! yes; the one I kill first isit—that's the game."
"All right," exclaimed Tommy Budd, "and then that one takes the gun and sword and hunts. That's first-rate. Let's begin."
But Fandy objected to this.
"No, no," he said, "I've got to do all the killin', 'coz it's my game. I'll tell you what! The ones that gets killed are dead animals; and all the dead animals can go under the bed!"
"That'll do," they shouted; and the game began. Such roaring and baying, growling and shouting, were never heard in human habitation before.
Baby Isabel, who must have been born to be a lion-tamer, looked on in great glee; and Cora tried not to feel frightened.
Fandy made a capital hunter; he shot right and left, and sawed off the heads of the slain like a good fellow, until at last there were four dead animals under the bed, all lying curled up just as still as mice.
There was only one more animal to kill, and that was Tom, the kangaroo.
Bang! went Fandy's gun—the shovel end pressed in style against his shoulder. Bang!
But the kangaroo didn't fall.
Fandy took more careful aim, and fired again.
Bang!
Still the kangaroo hopped about, as frisky as ever.
"Bang! I tell you! Don't you hear me say 'bang'? Why don't you go dead?"
"You haven't hit me yet," retorted the kangaroo, taking wonderful leaps. "Look out! Pretty soon I'll jump on you and smash you!"
"No, you won't, neither!" cries the hunter, growing very red and taking fresh aim.
Bang!
Unlucky shot! The kangaroo was on him in an instant.
"Now, sir," growls the kangaroo, butting the overthrown hunter with his head, "what's the next part of this game? Who beats?"
"I do!" gasped Fandy. "Get off me."
This was too much for the dead animals under the bed. They began to laugh.
Cora laughed as heartily as any, and so did half a dozen big boys and girls who by this time had assembled in the open doorway.
"Stop laughin'," shouted Fandy, still struggling under the kangaroo, "an' all you under the bed come out. Don't you know when all the animals 'cept one is killed, that's the end of the game? Let's play somethin' else."
"Where'd you get that?" he added, as soon as he was a free man,—partly to change the subject, and partly because a boy whom he knew suddenly appeared eating a piece of molasses candy.
"Down stairs. We've been making loads of it," was the muffled reply.
A hint was enough. It is hardly necessary to say that in a twinkling, lion, tiger, wild cat, wolf, elephant, and hunter and kangaroo had joined the crowd in the kitchen, and were feasting ecstatically upon caramels and molasses sticks.
"Whatever shall I do, Mr. George, sir," said the distressed Lydia, "to stop the eating? They'll be sick, sir, every mother's child of them, if they keep on."
"Tell them to wash their hands and faces and come to the parlor. We'll have the picture-gallery game now," said Mr. Reed.
Accordingly, scouts were sent through the house to bring the company together. Meantime, Sailor Jack, in his best clothes, was hard at work clearing the decks for action, as he said.
All were in the parlor and seated, at last. That is, all excepting Uncle George and eight or ten, who hardly could be missed from such a roomful. Jack had arranged the chairs in several long rows, facing the great sliding-doors that separated the parlor from the back sitting-room; and on these were seated subdued and expectant boys and girls, all gazing at the closed doors, while the youngest of the guests sat on the floor in front of the chairs, half-frightened, half-delighted at the prospect of "seeing something."
By this time the feathery snow-storm had ceased, and a flood of afternoon sunlight was pouring into the large room. Whispered comments upon the change of weather arose, coupled with remarks that there would be coasting next day, anyhow; then came other remarks, and light laughter, with occasional clapping of hands, when suddenly Mr. Reed appeared at the side entrance which led into the hall:
"YOUNG LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! You are now to see a live picture-gallery, and we ask for your criticism upon the paintings, begging you to be merciful in your remarks, and not to be too funny while you try to make the pictures laugh. For, you must know, if any picture in our gallery is guilty of even a smile, it must instantly pop out of sight, leaving its frame empty. When all the frames are thus deserted, we shall expect some of you to fill them again. In fact, each picture in the present exhibition is to select his or her substitute for the next time."
At this, some of the boys looked troubled, and some of the girls tittered; but one and all clapped, in hearty applause of Mr. Reed's little speech.
Then came the tinkle of a bell to announce that all was ready; Ed Tyler and Donald pushed back the sliding doors, and there, in the great square doorway, was the picture-gallery. To be strictly correct, we should call this gallery a gray wall, apparently hung from top to bottom with fine portraits in broad gilt frames, and all looking wonderfully life-like andunnatural; for when a live portrait must not laugh, how can it feel at ease?
At first the spectators were too surprised to speak. Then came a murmur of admiration, with cries of "Good, good!" from the boys and "How lovely!" from the girls; while Liddy, by the parlor door, clasped her hands in silent rapture at the beautiful show.
Beautiful, indeed, it was. All the portraits were as fresh and glowing as though they had been "painted yesterday." The drawing was perfect, the coloring exquisite, and so well were the pictures lighted, so cunningly provided with dark backgrounds, that they seemed really to be paintings. Dorry, in a prim Quaker cap and muslin neckerchief, was prettier than ever. Josie Manning, in red cloak and hood, made a charming gypsy; little Fandy, with his brown eyes and rosy cheeks, was a remarkably handsome portrait of himself; and a sallow, black-haired youth in a cloak and slouched hat, with a paper-cutter in his clenched fist, scowled admirably as a brigand. The other pictures, though content to be simply faces trying not to smile, were really very bright and effective, and a credit to any artist.
"Well!" exclaimed Uncle, after a moment, "what have the critics to say? What do you think of—of the gypsy, for instance? Who will buy it?"
"I won't!" shouted a funny little fellow in knickerbockers. "It's a chromo."
The gypsy twitched very slightly, and all the other pictures put on increased solemnity of expression, for they felt that their time, too, was coming.
"Do you throw in the frame?" asked some one else.
"Isn't that right eye a little out?" said a girl who was taking drawing-lessons.
This made the picture laugh, and presto! the frame was empty.
After this, though the remarks made were not brilliant nor irresistibly funny, the picture-gallery soon suffered severe losses. So small a thing will make us laugh when we try to look grave. The brigand exploded at a cutting allusion to his dagger; the Quakeress yielded to a profound remark concerning herchiaro-scuro;other faces grinned the instant they were specially alluded to, and finally, Fandy's portrait was the only one left in its frame. That bright little countenance stared into the room so defiantly that even Uncle George tried, with the rest, to conquer it.
In vain critics criticised—the portrait was deaf. In vain they tried to be as funny as they could; it was obdurate. In vain they shouted at it, laughed at it. Not a smile. Fandy was a youth of principle, and he felt bound in honor to do his duty. Then the boys called the picture names. It was a monkey, a tramp, a kitten, an eel, a hop-toad. Everybody tried to think of something too funny for him to resist. Then Donald said:
"No, it's not an animal at all. Let's see—whatdoesit look like, any way? Ah, it's a target; don't you see the bull's-eye?"
Not a smile.
"Bring a pot of varnish," cried Ed Tyler, "the picture is so dull we'll shine it up a little and see what that will do." Suddenly a childish howl was heard, to everybody's surprise; for little three-year-old Isabel had been quite forgotten.
"A-ow, a-ow! Tate Fan'-y down. What's 'e masser wis Fan'-y? Me want Fan'-y."
The little sister unconsciously triumphed where every one else had tried and failed. Fandy laughed with the rest, and instantly disappeared, as though he had been blown out like a candle. He was soon in the parlor, comforting Isabel to the best of his ability, casting saucy glances at the rest of the company meanwhile, with a merry shake of the head, as if to say, "You thought you could make me laugh, did you? No, sir, you couldn't."
Now while the folding doors were closed, a new set of pictures was made; the bell tinkled again, and the game went on as before.
There hung the same six frames in the same places upon the gray wall; but the portraits were new, and very effective, though some of them laughed as soon as the opened doors revealed them to the spectators. This time, by way of variety, each frame as soon as vacated was filled with another portrait in full view of the company. When the emptied frame happened to be on the lower part of the gray wall, the new "picture" had only to stand or kneel upon the carpet behind the frame, but if it happened to be higher up, he or she was obliged to climb upon a chair or table behind it, or even a ladder, whichever might be necessary to enable the picture to appear at the proper place.
For this gray wall, you must know, was but a large straight curtain of dark cotton stuff, without any fulness, stretched tightly across the doorway behind the sliding doors, and with large square or oblong pieces cut out of it here and there. Each open space thus left was bordered with a strip of gilt paper, thus forming an empty picture-frame. Don and Dorry had made the whole thing themselves the day before, and they were therefore very happy at the success of the picture-gallery, and the fun it created. They had ingeniously provided the highest pictures with small, dark curtains, fastened above the back of the frames, and hanging loosely enough to be drawn behind the living pictures, so as to form backgrounds. A draped clothes-horse answered the same purpose for the lower pictures. All of this explanation and more was given by Don and Dorry at the house-picnic to eager listeners who wished to get up exactly such a picture-gallery at their own homes some evening. But while they were talking about it somebody at the piano struck up a march—"Mendelssohn's Wedding March"—and almost before they knew it the guests found themselves marching to the music two by two in a procession across the great square hall, now lighted by a bright blaze in its open fireplace.