“Lucullus, whom frugality could charm,Ate roasted turnips at the Sabine farm.”
“Lucullus, whom frugality could charm,Ate roasted turnips at the Sabine farm.”
“Lucullus, whom frugality could charm,
Ate roasted turnips at the Sabine farm.”
Therefore these vegetable offerings to the dear domestic god and goddess were affectionate, appropriate, and classical.
Daisy had nothing but flowers in her little plot, and it bloomed all summer long with a succession of gay or fragrant posies. She was very fond of her garden, and delved away in it at all hours, watching over her roses, and pansies, sweet-peas, and mignonette, as faithfully and tenderly as she did over her dolls or her friends. Little nosegays were sent into town onall occasions, and certain vases about the house were her especial care. She had all sorts of pretty fancies about her flowers, and loved to tell the children the story of the pansy, and show them how the stepmother-leaf sat up in her green chair in purple and gold; how the two own children in gay yellow had each its little seat, while the step children, in dull colors, both sat on one small stool, and the poor little father, in his red night-cap, was kept out of sight in the middle of the flower; that a monk’s dark face looked out of the monk’s-hood larkspur; that the flowers of the canary-vine were so like dainty birds fluttering their yellow wings, that one almost expected to see them fly away, and the snapdragons that went off like little pistol-shots when you cracked them. Splendid dollies did she make out of scarlet and white poppies, with ruffled robes tied round the waist with grass blade sashes, and astonishing hats of coreopsis on their green heads. Pea-pod boats, with rose-leaf sails, received these flower-people, and floated them about a placid pool in the most charming style; for finding that there were no elves, Daisy made her own, and loved the fanciful little friends who played their parts in her summer-life.
Nan went in for herbs, and had a fine display of useful plants, which she tended with steadily increasing interest and care. Very busy was she in September cutting, drying, and tying up her sweet harvest, and writing down in a little book how the different herbs are to be used. She had tried several experiments, and made several mistakes; so she wished to be particular lest she should give little Huz another fit by administering wormwood instead of catnip.
Dick, Dolly, and Rob each grubbed away on his small farm, and made more stir about it than all therest put together. Parsnips and carrots were the crops of the two D.’s; and they longed for it to be late enough to pull up the precious vegetables. Dick did privately examine his carrots, and plant them again, feeling that Silas was right in saying it was too soon for them yet.
Rob’s crop was four small squashes and one immense pumpkin. It really was a “bouncer,” as every one said; and I assure you that two small persons could sit on it side by side. It seemed to have absorbed all the goodness of the little garden, and all the sunshine that shone down on it, and lay there a great round, golden ball, full of rich suggestions of pumpkin-pies for weeks to come. Robby was so proud of his mammoth vegetable that he took every one to see it, and, when frosts began to nip, covered it up each night with an old bedquilt, tucking it round as if the pumpkin was a well-beloved baby. The day it was gathered he would let no one touch it but himself, and nearly broke his back tugging it to the barn in his little wheelbarrow, with Dick and Dolly harnessed in front to give a heave up the path. His mother promised him that the Thanksgiving-pies should be made from it, and hinted vaguely that she had a plan in her head which would cover the prize pumpkin and its owner with glory.
Poor Billy had planted cucumbers, but unfortunately hoed them up and left the pig-weed. This mistake grieved him very much for ten minutes, then he forgot all about it, and sowed a handful of bright buttons which he had collected, evidently thinking in his feeble mind that they were money, and would come up and multiply, so that he might make many quarters, as Tommy did. No one disturbed him, and he did what he liked with his plot, which soon looked as if a series of small earthquakes had stirred it up.When the general harvest-day came, he would have had nothing but stones and weeds to show, if kind old Asia had not hung half-a-dozen oranges on the dead tree he had stuck up in the middle. Billy was delighted with his crop; and no one spoiled his pleasure in the little miracle which pity wrought for him, by making withered branches bear strange fruit.
Stuffy had various trials with his melons; for, being impatient to taste them, he had a solitary revel before they were ripe, and made himself so ill, that for a day or two it seemed doubtful if he would ever eat any more. But he pulled through it, and served up his first cantelope without tasting a mouthful himself. They were excellent melons, for he had a warm slope for them, and they ripened fast. The last and best were lingering on the vines, and Stuffy had announced that he should sell them to a neighbor. This disappointed the boys, who had hoped to eat the melons themselves, and they expressed their displeasure in a new and striking manner. Going one morning to gaze upon the three fine watermelons which he had kept for the market, Stuffy was horrified to find the word “PIG” cut in white letters on the green rind, staring at him from every one. He was in a great rage, and flew to Mrs. Jo for redress. She listened, condoled with him, and then said,—
“If you want to turn the laugh, I’ll tell you how, but you must give up the melons.”
“Well, I will; for I can’t thrash all the boys, but I’d like to give them something to remember, the mean sneaks,” growled Stuffy, still in a fume.
Now Mrs. Jo was pretty sure who had done the trick, for she had seen three heads suspiciously near to one another in the sofa-corner the evening before; and when these heads had nodded with chuckles andwhispers, this experienced woman knew that mischief was afoot. A moonlight night, a rustling in the old cherry-tree near Emil’s window, a cut on Tommy’s finger, all helped to confirm her suspicions; and having cooled Stuffy’s wrath a little, she bade him bring his maltreated melons to her room, and say not a word to any one of what had happened. He did so, and the three wags were amazed to find their joke so quietly taken. It spoilt the fun, and the entire disappearance of the melons made them uneasy. So did Stuffy’s good-nature, for he looked more placid and plump than ever, and surveyed them with an air of calm pity that perplexed them much.
At dinner-time they discovered why; for then Stuffy’s vengeance fell upon them, and the laughwasturned against them. When the pudding was eaten, and the fruit was put on, Mary Ann re-appeared in a high state of giggle, bearing a large watermelon; Silas followed with another; and Dan brought up the rear with a third. One was placed before each of the three guilty lads; and they read on the smooth green skin this addition to their work, “With the compliments of thePIG.” Every one else read it also, and the whole table was in a roar, for the trick had been whispered about; so every one understood the sequel. Emil, Ned, and Tommy did not know where to look, and had not a word to say for themselves; so they wisely joined in the laugh, cut up the melons, and handed them round, saying, what all the rest agreed to, that Stuffy had taken a wise and merry way to return good for evil.
Dan had no garden, for he was away or lame the greater part of the summer; so he had helped Silas wherever he could, chopped wood for Asia, and taken care of the lawn so well, that Mrs. Jo always hadsmooth paths and nicely shaven turf before her door.
When the others got in their crops, he looked sorry that he had so little to show; but as autumn went on, he bethought of a woodland harvest which no one would dispute with him, and which was peculiarly his own. Every Saturday he was away alone to forests, fields, and hills, and always came back loaded with spoils; for he seemed to know the meadows where the best flag-root grew, the thicket where the sassafras was spiciest, the haunts where the squirrels went for nuts, the white oak whose bark was most valuable, and the little gold-thread vine that Nursey liked to cure the canker with. All sorts of splendid red and yellow leaves did Dan bring home for Mrs. Jo to dress her parlor with,—graceful-seeded grasses, clematis tassels, downy, soft, yellow wax-work berries, and mosses, red-brimmed, white, or emerald green.
“I need not sigh for the woods now, because Dan brings the woods to me,” Mrs. Jo used to say, as she glorified the walls with yellow maple boughs and scarlet woodbine wreaths, or filled her vases with russet fern, hemlock sprays full of delicate cones, and hardy autumn flowers; for Dan’s crop suited her well.
The great garret was full of the children’s little stores, and for a time was one of the sights of the house. Daisy’s flower seeds in neat little paper bags, all labelled, lay in the drawer of a three-legged table. Nan’s herbs hung in bunches against the wall, filling the air with their aromatic breath. Tommy had a basket of thistledown with the tiny seeds attached, for he meant to plant them next year, if they did not all fly away before that time. Emil had bunches of pop-corn hanging there to dry, and Demi laid up acorns and different sorts of grain for the pets. But Dan’s crop made the best show, for fully one half ofthe floor was covered with nuts he brought. All kinds were there, for he ranged the woods for miles round, climbed the tallest trees, and forced his way into the thickest hedges for his plunder. Walnuts, chestnuts, hazelnuts, and beechnuts lay in separate compartments, getting brown, and dry, and sweet, ready for winter revels.
There was one butternut-tree on the place, and Rob and Teddy called it theirs. It bore well this year, and the great dingy nuts came dropping down to hide among the dead leaves, where the busy squirrels found them better than the lazy Bhaers. Their father had told them (the boys, not the squirrels) they should have the nuts if they would pick them up, but no one was to help. It was easy work, and Teddy liked it, only he soon got tired, and left his little basket half full for another day. But the other day was slow to arrive, and, meantime, the sly squirrels were hard at work scampering up and down the old elm-trees stowing the nuts away till their holes were full, then all about in the crotches of the boughs, to be removed at their leisure. Their funny little ways amused the boys, till one day Silas said,—
“Hev you sold them nuts to the squirrels?”
“No,” answered Rob, wondering what Silas meant.
“Wal, then, you’d better fly round, or them spry little fellers won’t leave you none.”
“Oh, we can beat them when we begin. There are such lots of nuts we shall have a plenty.”
“There ain’t many more to come down, and they have cleared the ground pretty well, see if they hain’t.”
Robby ran to look, and was alarmed to find how few remained. He called Teddy, and they worked hard all one afternoon, while the squirrels sat on the fence and scolded.
“Now, Ted, we must keep watch, and pick up just as fast as they fall, or we shan’t have more than a bushel, and every one will laugh at us if we don’t.”
“The naughty quillies tarn’t have ’em. I’ll pick fast and run and put ’em in the barn twick,” said Teddy, frowning at little Frisky, who chattered and whisked his tail indignantly.
That night a high wind blew down hundreds of nuts, and when Mrs. Jo came to wake her little sons, she said, briskly,—
“Come, my laddies, the squirrels are hard at it, and you will have to work well to-day, or they will have every nut on the ground.”
“No, they won’t,” and Robby tumbled up in a great hurry, gobbled his breakfast, and rushed out to save his property.
Teddy went too, and worked like a little beaver, trotting to and fro with full and empty baskets. Another bushel was soon put away in the corn-barn, and they were scrambling among the leaves for more nuts when the bell rang for school.
“O father! let me stay out and pick. Those horrid squirrels will have my nuts if you don’t. I’ll do my lessons by and by,” cried Rob, running into the school-room, flushed and tousled by the fresh cold wind and his eager work.
“If you had been up early and done a little every morning there would be no hurry now. I told you that, Rob, and you never minded. I cannot have the lessons neglected as the work has been. The squirrels will get more than their share this year, and they deserve it, for they have worked best. You may go an hour earlier, but that is all,” and Mr. Bhaer led Rob to his place, where the little man dashed at his booksas if bent on making sure of the precious hour promised him.
It was almost maddening to sit still and see the wind shaking down the last nuts, and the lively thieves flying about, pausing now and then to eat one in his face, and flirt their tails, as if they said, saucily, “We’ll have them in spite of you, lazy Rob.” The only thing that sustained the poor child in this trying moment was the sight of Teddy working away all alone. It was really splendid the pluck and perseverance of the little lad. He picked and picked till his back ached; he trudged to and fro till his small legs were tired; and he defied wind, weariness, and wicked “quillies,” till his mother left her work and did the carrying for him, full of admiration for the kind little fellow who tried to help his brother. When Rob was dismissed he found Teddy reposing in the bushel-basket quite used up, but unwilling to quit the field; for he flapped his hat at the thieves with one grubby little hand, while he refreshed himself with the big apple held in the other.
Rob fell to work and the ground was cleared before two o’clock, the nuts safely in the corn-barn loft, and the weary workers exulted in their success. But Frisky and his wife were not to be vanquished so easily; and when Rob went up to look at his nuts a few days later he was amazed to see how many had vanished. None of the boys could have stolen them, because the door had been locked; the doves could not have eaten them, and there were no rats about. There was great lamentation among the young Bhaers till Dick said—
“I saw Frisky on the roof of the corn-barn, may be he took them.”
“I know he did! I’ll have a trap, and kill himdead,” cried Rob, disgusted with Frisky’s grasping nature.
“Perhaps, if you watch, you can find out where he puts them, and I may be able to get them back for you,” said Dan, who was much amused by the fight between the boys and squirrels.
So Rob watched and saw Mr. and Mrs. Frisky drop from the drooping elm boughs on to the roof of the corn-barn, dodge in at one of the little doors, much to the disturbance of the doves, and come out with a nut in each mouth. So laden they could not get back the way they came, but ran down the low roof, along the wall, and leaping off at a corner they vanished a minute and re-appeared without their plunder. Rob ran to the place, and in a hollow under the leaves found a heap of the stolen property hidden away to be carried off to the holes by and by.
“Oh, you little villains! I’ll cheatyounow, and not leave one,” said Rob. So he cleared the corner and the corn-barn, and put the contested nuts in the garret, making sure that no broken window-pane could anywhere let in the unprincipled squirrels. They seemed to feel that the contest was over, and retired to their hole, but now and then could not resist throwing down nut-shells on Rob’s head, and scolding violently as if they could not forgive him nor forget that he had the best of the battle.
Father and Mother Bhaer’s crop was of a different sort, and not so easily described; but they were satisfied with it, felt that their summer work had prospered well, and by and by had a harvest that made them very happy.
“Wake up, Demi, dear! I want you.”
“Why, I’ve just gone to bed; it can’t be morning yet;” and Demi blinked like a little owl as he waked from his first sound sleep.
“It’s only ten, but your father is ill, and we must go to him. O my little John! my poor little John!” and Aunt Jo laid her head down on the pillow with a sob that scared sleep from Demi’s eyes and filled his heart with fear and wonder; for he dimly felt why Aunt Jo called him “John,” and wept over him as if some loss had come that left him poor. He clung to her without a word, and in a minute she was quite steady again, and said, with a tender kiss as she saw his troubled face,—
“We are going to say good-by to him, my darling, and there is no time to lose; so dress quickly and come to me in my room. I must go to Daisy.”
“Yes, I will;” and when Aunt Jo was gone, little Demi got up quietly, dressed as if in a dream, and leaving Tommy fast asleep went away through the silent house, feeling that something new and sorrowful was going to happen—something that set him apart from the other boys for a time, and made the world seem as dark and still and strange as those familiar rooms did in the night. A carriage sent by Mr. Laurie stood before the door. Daisy was soon ready, and the brother and sister held each other bythe hand all the way into town, as they drove swiftly and silently with aunt and uncle through the shadowy roads to say good-by to father.
None of the boys but Franz and Emil knew what had happened, and when they came down next morning, great was their wonderment and discomfort, for the house seemed forlorn without its master and mistress. Breakfast was a dismal meal with no cheery Mrs. Jo behind the teapots; and when school-time came, Father Bhaer’s place was empty. They wandered about in a disconsolate kind of way for an hour, waiting for news and hoping it would be all right with Demi’s father, for good John Brooke was much beloved by the boys. Ten o’clock came, and no one arrived to relieve their anxiety. They did not feel like playing, yet the time dragged heavily, and they sat about listless and sober. All at once, Franz got up, and said, in his persuasive way,—
“Look here, boys! let’s go into school and do our lessons just as if Uncle was here. It will make the day go faster, and will please him, I know.”
“But who will hear us say them?” asked Jack.
“I will; I don’t know much more than you do, but I’m the oldest here, and I’ll try to fill Uncle’s place till he comes, if you don’t mind.”
Something in the modest, serious way Franz said this impressed the boys, for, though the poor lad’s eyes were red with quiet crying for Uncle John in that long sad night, there was a new manliness about him, as if he had already begun to feel the cares and troubles of life, and tried to take them bravely.
“I will, for one,” and Emil went to his seat, remembering that obedience to his superior officer is a seaman’s first duty.
The others followed; Franz took his uncle’s seat,and for an hour order reigned. Lessons were learned and said, and Franz made a patient, pleasant teacher, wisely omitting such lessons as he was not equal to, and keeping order more by the unconscious dignity that sorrow gave him than by any words of his own. The little boys were reading when a step was heard in the hall, and every one looked up to read the news in Mr. Bhaer’s face as he came in. The kind face told them instantly that Demi had no father now, for it was worn and pale, and full of tender grief, which left him no words with which to answer Rob, as he ran to him saying, reproachfully,—
“What made you go and leave me in the night, papa?”
The memory of the other father who had left his children in the night, never to return, made Mr. Bhaer hold his own boy close, and, for a minute, hide his face in Robby’s curly hair. Emil laid his head down on his arms, Franz went to put his hand on his uncle’s shoulder, his boyish face pale with sympathy and sorrow, and the others sat so still that the soft rustle of the falling leaves outside was distinctly heard.
Rob did not clearly understand what had happened, but he hated to see papa unhappy, so he lifted up the bent head, and said, in his chirpy little voice,—
“Don’t cry, mein Vater! we are all so good, we did our lessons without you, and Franz was the master.”
Mr. Bhaer looked up then, tried to smile, and said in a grateful tone that made the lads feel like saints, “I thank you very much, my boys. It was a beautiful way to help and comfort me. I shall not forget it, I assure you.”
“Franz proposed it, and was a first-rate master, too,” said Nat; and the others gave a murmur of assent most gratifying to the young dominie.
Mr. Bhaer put Rob down, and, standing up, put his arm round his tall nephew’s shoulder, as he said, with a look of genuine pleasure,—
“This makes my hard day easier, and gives me confidence in you all. I am needed there in town, and must leave you for some hours. I thought to give you a holiday, or send some of you home, but if you like to stay and go on as you have begun, I shall be glad and proud of my good boys.”
“We’ll stay;” “We’d rather;” “Franz can see to us;” cried several, delighted with the confidence shown in them.
“Isn’t Marmar coming home?” asked Rob, wistfully; for home without “Marmar” was the world without the sun to him.
“We shall both come to-night; but dear Aunt Meg needs Mother more than you do now, and I know you like to lend her for a little while.”
“Well, I will; but Teddy’s been crying for her, and he slapped Nursey, and was dreadful naughty,” answered Rob, as if the news might bring mother home.
“Where is my little man?” asked Mr. Bhaer.
“Dan took him out, to keep him quiet. He’s all right now,” said Franz, pointing to the window, through which they could see Dan drawing baby in his little wagon, with the dogs frolicking about him.
“I won’t see him, it would only upset him again; but tell Dan I leave Teddy in his care. You older boys I trust to manage yourselves for a day. Franz will direct you, and Silas is here to oversee matters. So good-by till to-night.”
“Just tell me a word about Uncle John,” said Emil, detaining Mr. Bhaer, as he was about hurrying away again.
“He was only ill a few hours, and died as he haslived, so cheerfully, so peacefully, that it seems a sin to mar the beauty of it with any violent or selfish grief. We were in time to say good-by: and Daisy and Demi were in his arms as he fell asleep on Aunt Meg’s breast. No more now, I cannot bear it,” and Mr. Bhaer went hastily away quite bowed with grief, for in John Brooke he had lost both friend and brother, and there was no one left to take his place.
All that day the house was very still; the small boys played quietly in the nursery; the others, feeling as if Sunday had come in the middle of the week, spent it in walking, sitting in the willow, or among their pets, all talking much of “Uncle John,” and feeling that something gentle, just, and strong, had gone out of their little world, leaving a sense of loss that deepened every hour. At dusk, Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer came home alone, for Demi and Daisy were their mother’s best comfort now, and could not leave her. Poor Mrs. Jo seemed quite spent, and evidently needed the same sort of comfort, for her first words, as she came up the stairs, were, “Where is my baby?”
“Here I is,” answered a little voice, as Dan put Teddy into her arms, adding, as she hugged him close, “My Danny tooked tare of me all day, and I was dood.”
Mrs. Jo turned to thank the faithful nurse, but Dan was waving off the boys, who had gathered in the hall to meet her, and was saying, in a low voice, “Keep back; she don’t want to be bothered with us now.”
“No, don’t keep back. I want you all. Come in and see me, my boys. I’ve neglected you all day,” and Mrs. Jo held out her hands to them as they gathered round and escorted her into her own room, saying little, but expressing much by affectionate looks and clumsy little efforts to show their sorrow and sympathy.
“I am so tired, I will lie here and cuddle Teddy, and you shall bring me in some tea,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully for their sakes.
A general stampede into the dining-room followed, and the supper-table would have been ravaged if Mr. Bhaer had not interfered. It was agreed that one squad should carry in the mother’s tea, and another bring it out. The four nearest and dearest claimed the first honor, so Franz bore the teapot, Emil the bread, Rob the milk, and Teddy insisted on carrying the sugar-basin, which was lighter by several lumps when it arrived than when it started. Some women might have found it annoying at such a time to have boys creaking in and out, upsetting cups and rattling spoons in violent efforts to be quiet and helpful; but it suited Mrs. Jo, because just then her heart was very tender; and remembering that many of her boys were fatherless or motherless, she yearned over them, and found comfort in their blundering affection. It was the sort of food that did her more good than the very thick bread-and-butter that they gave her, and the rough Commodore’s broken whisper—
“Bear up, Aunty, it’s a hard blow; but we’ll weather it somehow,” cheered her more than the sloppy cup he brought her, full of tea as bitter as if some salt tear of his own had dropped into it on the way. When supper was over, a second deputation removed the tray; and Dan said, holding out his arms for sleepy little Teddy,—
“Let me put him to bed, you’re so tired, Mother.”
“Will you go with him, lovey?” asked Mrs. Jo of her small lord and master, who lay on her arm among the sofa-pillows.
“Torse I will;” and he was proudly carried off by his faithful bearer.
“I wishIcould do something,” said Nat, with a sigh, as Franz leaned over the sofa, and softly stroked Aunt Jo’s hot forehead.
“You can, dear. Go and get your violin, and play me the sweet little airs Uncle Teddy sent you last. Music will comfort me better than any thing else to-night.”
Nat flew for his fiddle, and, sitting just outside her door, played as he had never done before, for now his heart was in it, and seemed to magnetize his fingers. The other lads sat quietly upon the steps, keeping watch that no new-comer should disturb the house; Franz lingered at his post; and so, soothed, served, and guarded by her boys, poor Mrs. Jo slept at last, and forgot her sorrow for an hour.
Two quiet days, and on the third Mr. Bhaer came in just after school, with a note in his hand, looking both moved and pleased.
“I want to read you something, boys,” he said; and as they stood round him he read this:—
“Dear Brother Fritz,—I hear that you do not mean to bring your flock to-day, thinking that I may not like it. Please do. The sight of his friends will help Demi through the hard hour, and I want the boys to hear what father says of my John. It will do them good, I know. If they would sing one of the sweet old hymns you have taught them so well, I should like it better than any other music, and feel that it was beautifully suited to the occasion. Please ask them, with my love.“Meg.”
“Dear Brother Fritz,—I hear that you do not mean to bring your flock to-day, thinking that I may not like it. Please do. The sight of his friends will help Demi through the hard hour, and I want the boys to hear what father says of my John. It will do them good, I know. If they would sing one of the sweet old hymns you have taught them so well, I should like it better than any other music, and feel that it was beautifully suited to the occasion. Please ask them, with my love.
“Meg.”
“Will you go?” and Mr. Bhaer looked at the lads, who were greatly touched by Mrs. Brooke’s kind words and wishes.
“Yes,” they answered, like one boy; and an hour later they went away with Franz to bear their part in John Brooke’s simple funeral.
The little house looked as quiet, sunny, and home-like as when Meg entered it a bride, ten years ago, only then it was early summer, and roses blossomed everywhere; now it was early autumn, and dead leaves rustled softly down, leaving the branches bare. The bride was a widow now; but the same beautiful serenity shone in her face, and the sweet resignation of a truly pious soul made her presence a consolation to those who came to comfort her.
“O Meg! howcanyou bear it so?” whispered Jo, as she met them at the door with a smile of welcome, and no change in her gentle manner, except more gentleness.
“Dear Jo, the love that has blest for ten happy years supports me still. It could not die, and John is more my own than ever,” whispered Meg; and in her eyes the tender trust was so beautiful and bright, that Jo believed her, and thanked God for the immortality of love like hers.
They were all there—father and mother, Uncle Teddy, and Aunt Amy, old Mr. Laurence, white-haired and feeble now, Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer, with their flock, and many friends, come to do honor to the dead. One would have said that modest John Brooke, in his busy, quiet, humble life, had had little time to make friends; but now they seemed to start up everywhere,—old and young, rich and poor, high and low; for all unconsciously his influence had made itself widely felt, his virtues were remembered, and his hidden charities rose up to bless him. The group about his coffin was a far more eloquent eulogy than any Mr. March could utter. There were the rich men whom he had served faithfully for years; the poor old women whom he cherished with his little store,in memory of his mother; the wife to whom he had given such happiness that death could not mar it utterly; the brothers and sisters in whose hearts he had made a place for ever; the little son and daughter, who already felt the loss of his strong arm and tender voice; the young children, sobbing for their kindest playmate, and the tall lads, watching with softened faces a scene which they never could forget. A very simple service, and very short; for the fatherly voice that had faltered in the marriage-sacrament now failed entirely as Mr. March endeavored to pay his tribute of reverence and love to the son whom he most honored. Nothing but the soft coo of Baby Josy’s voice up-stairs broke the long hush that followed the last Amen, till, at a sign from Mr. Bhaer, the well-trained boyish voices broke out in a hymn, so full of lofty cheer, that one by one all joined in it, singing with full hearts, and finding their troubled spirits lifted into peace on the wings of that brave, sweet psalm.
As Meg listened, she felt that she had done well; for not only did the moment comfort her with the assurance that John’s last lullaby was sung by the young voices he loved so well, but in the faces of the boys she saw that they had caught a glimpse of the beauty of virtue in its most impressive form, and that the memory of the good man lying dead before them would live long and helpful in their remembrance. Daisy’s head lay in her lap, and Demi held her hand, looking often at her, with eyes so like his father’s, and a little gesture that seemed to say, “Don’t be troubled, mother; I am here;” and all about her were friends to lean upon and love; so patient, pious Meg put by her heavy grief, feeling that her best help would be to live for others, as her John had done.
That evening, as the Plumfield boys sat on the steps, as usual, in the mild September moonlight, they naturally fell to talking of the event of the day.
Emil began by breaking out, in his impetuous way, “Uncle Fritz is the wisest, and Uncle Laurie the jolliest, but Uncle John was thebest; and I’d rather be like him than any man I ever saw.”
“So would I. Did you hear what those gentlemen said to Grandpa to-day? I would like to have that said to me when I was dead;” and Franz felt with regret that he had not appreciated Uncle John enough.
“What did they say?” asked Jack, who had been much impressed by the scenes of the day.
“Why, one of the partners of Mr. Laurence, where Uncle John has been ever so long, was saying that he was conscientious almost to a fault as a business man, and above reproach in all things. Another gentleman said no money could repay the fidelity and honesty with which Uncle John had served him, and then Grandpa told them the best of all. Uncle John once had a place in the office of a man who cheated, and when this man wanted uncle to help him do it, uncle wouldn’t, though he was offered a big salary. The man was angry and said, ‘You will never get on in business with such strict principles;’ and uncle answered back, ‘Ineverwill try to get onwithoutthem,’ and left the place for a much harder and poorer one.”
“Good!” cried several of the boys warmly, for they were in the mood to understand and value the little story as never before.
“He wasn’t rich, was he?” asked Jack.
“No.”
“He never did any thing to make a stir in the world, did he?”
“No.”
“He was only good?”
“That’s all;” and Franz found himself wishing that Uncle Johnhaddone something to boast of, for it was evident that Jack was disappointed by his replies.
“Only good. That isalland every thing,” said Mr. Bhaer, who had overheard the last few words, and guessed what was going on in the minds of the lads.
“Let me tell you a little about John Brooke, and you will see why men honor him, and why he was satisfied to be good rather than rich or famous. He simply did his duty in all things, and did it so cheerfully, so faithfully, that it kept him patient, brave, and happy through poverty and loneliness and years of hard work. He was a good son, and gave up his own plans to stay and live with his mother while she needed him. He was a good friend, and taught Laurie much beside his Greek and Latin, did it unconsciously, perhaps, by showing him an example of an upright man. He was a faithful servant, and made himself so valuable to those who employed him that they will find it hard to fill his place. He was a good husband and father, so tender, wise, and thoughtful, that Laurie and I learned much of him, and only knew how well he loved his family, when we discovered all he had done for them, unsuspected and unassisted.”
Mr. Bhaer stopped a minute, and the boys sat like statues in the moonlight until he went on again, in a subdued, but earnest voice: “As he lay dying, I said to him, ‘Have no care for Meg and the little ones; I will see that they never want.’ Then he smiled and pressed my hand, and answered, in his cheerful way, ‘No need of that; I have cared for them.’ And sohe had, for when we looked among his papers, all was in order, not a debt remained; and safely put away was enough to keep Meg comfortable and independent. Then we knew why he had lived so plainly, denied himself so many pleasures, except that of charity, and worked so hard that I fear he shortened his good life. He never asked help for himself, though often for others, but bore his own burden and worked out his own task bravely and quietly. No one can say a word of complaint against him, so just and generous and kind was he; and now, when he is gone, all find so much to love and praise and honor, that I am proud to have been his friend, and would rather leave my children the legacy he leaves his than the largest fortune ever made. Yes! Simple, genuine goodness is the best capital to found the business of this life upon. It lasts when fame and money fail, and is the only riches we can take out of this world with us. Remember that, my boys; and if you want to earn respect and confidence and love follow in the footsteps of John Brooke.”
When Demi returned to school, after some weeks at home, he seemed to have recovered from his loss with the blessed elasticity of childhood, and so he had in a measure; but he did not forget, for his was a nature into which things sank deeply, to be pondered over, and absorbed into the soil where the small virtues were growing fast. He played and studied, worked and sang, just as before, and few suspected any change; but there was one—and Aunt Jo saw it—for she watched over the boy with her whole heart, trying to fill John’s place in her poor way. He seldom spoke of his loss, but Aunt Jo often heard a stifled sobbing in the little bed at night; and when she went to comfort him, all his cry was, “I want myfather! oh, I want my father!”—for the tie between the two had been a very tender one, and the child’s heart bled when it was broken. But time was kind to him, and slowly he came to feel that father was not lost, only invisible for a while, and sure to be found again, well and strong and fond as ever, even though his little son should see the purple asters blossom on his grave many, many times before they met. To this belief Demi held fast, and in it found both help and comfort, because it led him unconsciously through a tender longing for the father whom he had seen to a childlike trust in the Father whom he had not seen. Both were in heaven, and he prayed to both, trying to be good for love of them.
The outward change corresponded to the inward, for in those few weeks Demi seemed to have grown tall, and began to drop his childish plays, not as if ashamed of them, as some boys do, but as if he had outgrown them, and wanted something manlier. He took to the hated arithmetic, and held on so steadily that his uncle was charmed, though he could not understand the whim, until Demi said—
“I am going to be a bookkeeper when I grow up, like papa, and I must know about figures and things, else I can’t have nice, neat ledgers like his.”
At another time he came to his aunt with a very serious face, and said—
“What can a small boy do to earn money?”
“Why do you ask, my deary?”
“My father told me to take care of mother and the little girls, and I want to, but I don’t know how to begin.”
“He did not mean now, Demi, but by and by, when you are large.”
“But I wish to beginnow, if I can, because I thinkI ought to make some money to buy things for the family. I am ten, and other boys no bigger than I earn pennies sometimes.”
“Well, then, suppose you rake up all the dead leaves and cover the strawberry bed. I’ll pay you a dollar for the job,” said Aunt Jo.
“Isn’t that a great deal? I could do it in one day. You must be fair, and not pay too much, because I want to truly earn it.”
“My little John, I will be fair, and not pay a penny too much. Don’t work too hard; and when that is done I will have something else for you to do,” said Mrs. Jo, much touched by his desire to help, and his sense of justice, so like his scrupulous father.
When the leaves were done, many barrow loads of chips were wheeled from the wood to the shed, and another dollar earned. Then Demi helped cover the school-books, working in the evenings, under Franz’s direction, tugging patiently away at each book, letting no one help, and receiving his wages with such satisfaction that the dingy bills became quite glorified in his sight.
“Now, I have a dollar for each of them, and I should like to take my money to mother all myself, so she can see that I have minded my father.”
So Demi made a duteous pilgrimage to his mother, who received his little earnings as a treasure of great worth, and would have kept it untouched, if Demi had not begged her to buy someusefulthing for herself and the women-children, whom he felt were left to his care.
This made him very happy, and, though he often forgot his responsibilities for a time, the desire to help was still there, strengthening with his years. He always uttered the words “my father” with anair of gentle pride, and often said, as if he claimed a title full of honor, “Don’t call me Demi any more. I am John Brooke now.” So, strengthened by a purpose and a hope, the little lad of ten bravely began the world, and entered into his inheritance,—the memory of a wise and tender father, the legacy of an honest name.
With the October frosts came the cheery fires in the great fireplaces; and Demi’s dry pine-chips helped Dan’s oak-knots to blaze royally, and go roaring up the chimney with a jolly sound. All were glad to gather round the hearth, as the evenings grew longer, to play games, read, or lay plans for the winter. But the favorite amusement was story-telling, and Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer were expected to have a store of lively tales always on hand. Their supply occasionally gave out, and then the boys were thrown upon their own resources, which were not always successful. Ghost-parties were the rage at one time; for the fun of the thing consisted in putting out the lights, letting the fire die down, and then sitting in the dark, and telling the most awful tales they could invent. As this resulted in scares of all sorts among the boys, Tommy’s walking in his sleep on the shed roof, and a general state of nervousness in the little ones, it was forbidden, and they fell back on more harmless amusements.
One evening, when the small boys were snugly tucked in bed, and the older lads were lounging about the school-room fire, trying to decide what they should do, Demi suggested a new way of settling the question.
All were glad to gather round the hearth, as the evenings grew longer.Page 312.
All were glad to gather round the hearth, as the evenings grew longer.Page 312.
Seizing the hearth-brush, he marched up and down the room, saying, “Row, row, row;” and when the boys, laughing and pushing, had got into line, he said, “Now, I’ll give you two minutes to think of a play.” Franz was writing, and Emil reading the Life of Lord Nelson, and neither joined the party, but the others thought hard, and when the time was up were ready to reply.
“Now, Tom!” and the poker softly rapped him on the head.
“Blind-man’s Buff.”
“Jack!”
“Commerce; a good round game, and have cents for the pool.”
“Uncle forbids our playing for money. Dan, what do you want?”
“Let’s have a battle between the Greeks and Romans.”
“Stuffy?”
“Roast apples, pop corn, and crack nuts.”
“Good! good!” cried several; and when the vote was taken, Stuffy’s proposal carried the day.
Some went to the cellar for apples, some to the garret for nuts, and others looked up the popper and the corn.
“We had better ask the girls to come in, hadn’t we?” said Demi, in a sudden fit of politeness.
“Daisy pricks chestnuts beautifully,” put in Nat, who wanted his little friend to share the fun.
“Nan pops corn tip-top, we must have her,” added Tommy.
“Bring in your sweethearts then, we don’t mind,” said Jack, who laughed at the innocent regard the little people had for one another.
“You shan’t call my sister a sweetheart; it is so silly!” cried Demi, in a way that made Jack laugh.
“SheisNat’s darling, isn’t she, old chirper?”
“Yes, if Demi don’t mind. I can’t help being fondof her, she is so good to me,” answered Nat, with bashful earnestness, for Jack’s rough ways disturbed him.
“Nan is my sweetheart, and I shall marry her in about a year, so don’t you get in the way, any of you,” said Tommy, stoutly; for he and Nan had settled their future, child-fashion, and were to live in the willow, lower down a basket for food, and do other charmingly impossible things.
Demi was quenched by the decision of Bangs, who took him by the arm and walked him off to get the ladies. Nan and Daisy were sewing with Aunt Jo on certain small garments for Mrs. Carney’s newest baby.
“Please, ma’am, could you lend us the girls for a little while? we’ll be very careful of them,” said Tommy, winking one eye to express apples, snapping his fingers to signify pop-corn, and gnashing his teeth to convey the idea of nut-cracking.
The girls understood this pantomime at once, and began to pull off their thimbles before Mrs. Jo could decide whether Tommy was going into convulsions or was brewing some unusual piece of mischief. Demi explained with elaboration, permission was readily granted, and the boys departed with their prize.
“Don’t you speak to Jack,” whispered Tommy, as he and Nan promenaded down the hall to get a fork to prick the apples.
“Why not?”
“He laughs at me, so I don’t wish you to have any thing to do with him.”
“Shall, if I like,” said Nan, promptly resenting this premature assumption of authority on the part of her lord.
“Then I won’t have you for my sweetheart.”
“I don’t care.”
“Why, Nan, I thought you were fond of me!” and Tommy’s voice was full of tender reproach.
“If you mind Jack’s laughing I don’t care for you one bit.”
“Then you may take back your old ring; I won’t wear it any longer;” and Tommy plucked off a horse-hair pledge of affection which Nan had given him in return for one made of a lobster’s feeler.
“I shall give it to Ned,” was her cruel reply; for Ned liked Mrs. Giddy-gaddy, and had turned her clothes-pins, boxes, and spools enough to set up housekeeping with.
Tommy said, “Thunder-turtles!” as the only vent equal to the pent-up anguish of the moment, and, dropping Nan’s arm, retired in high dudgeon, leaving her to follow with the fork,—a neglect which naughty Nan punished by proceeding to prick his heart with jealousy as if it were another sort of apple.
The hearth was swept, and the rosy Baldwins put down to roast. A shovel was heated, and the chestnuts danced merrily upon it, while the corn popped wildly in its wire prison. Dan cracked his best walnuts, and every one chattered and laughed, while the rain beat on the window-pane and the wind howled round the house.
“Why is Billy like this nut?” asked Emil, who was frequently inspired with bad conundrums.
“Because he is cracked,” answered Ned.
“That’s not fair; you mustn’t make fun of Billy, because he can’t hit back again. It’s mean,” cried Dan, smashing a nut wrathfully.
“To what family of insects does Blake belong?” asked peacemaker Franz, seeing that Emil looked ashamed and Dan lowering.
“Gnats,” answered Jack.
“Why is Daisy like a bee?” cried Nat, who had been wrapt in thought for several minutes.
“Because she is queen of the hive,” said Dan.
“No.”
“Because she is sweet.”
“Bees are not sweet.”
“Give it up.”
“Because she makes sweet things, is always busy, and likes flowers,” said Nat, piling up his boyish compliments till Daisy blushed like a rosy clover.
“Why is Nan like a hornet?” demanded Tommy, glowering at her, and adding, without giving any one time to answer, “Because sheisn’tsweet, makes a great buzzing about nothing, and stings like fury.”
“Tommy’s mad, and I’m glad,” cried Ned, as Nan tossed her head and answered quickly—
“What thing in the china-closet is Tom like?”
“A pepper pot,” answered Ned, giving Nan a nut meat with a tantalizing laugh that made Tommy feel as if he would like to bounce up like a hot chestnut and hit somebody.
Seeing that ill-humor was getting the better of the small supply of wit in the company, Franz cast himself into the breach again.
“Let’s make a law that the first person who comes into the room shall tell us a story. No matter who it is, he must do it, and it will be fun to see who comes first.”
The others agreed, and did not have to wait long, for a heavy step soon came clumping through the hall, and Silas appeared, bearing an armful of wood. He was greeted by a general shout, and stood staring about him with a bewildered grin on his big red face, till Franz explained the joke.
“Sho! I can’t tell a story,” he said, putting downhis load and preparing to leave the room. But the boys fell upon him, forced him into a seat, and held him there, laughing and clamoring for their story, till the good-natured giant was overpowered.
“I don’t know but jest one story, and that’s about a horse,” he said, much flattered by the reception he received.
“Tell it! tell it!” cried the boys.
“Wal,” began Silas, tipping his chair back against the wall, and putting his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, “I jined a cavalry regiment durin’ the war, and see a consid’able amount of fightin’. My horse, Major, was a fust-rate animal, and I was as fond on him as ef he’d ben a human critter. He warn’t harnsome, but he was the best-tempered, stiddyest, lovenest brute I ever see. The fust battle we went into, he gave me a lesson that I didn’t forgit in a hurry, and I’ll tell you how it was. It ain’t no use tryin’ to picter the noise and hurry, and general horridness of a battle to you young fellers, for I ain’t no words to do it in; but I’m free to confess that I got so sort of confused and upset at the fust on it, that I didn’t know what I was about. We was ordered to charge, and went ahead like good ones, never stoppin’ to pick up them that went down in the scrimmage. I got a shot in the arm, and was pitched out of the saddle—don’t know how, but there I was left behind with two or three others, dead and wounded, for the rest went on, as I say. Wal, I picked myself up and looked round for Major, feeling as ef I’d had about enough for that spell. I didn’t see him nowhere, and was kinder walking back to camp, when I heard a whinny that sounded nateral. I looked round, and there was Major stopping for me a long way off, and lookin’ as ef he didn’t understand why I wasloiterin’ behind. I whistled, and he trotted up to me as I’d trained him to do. I mounted as well as I could with my left arm bleedin’ and was for going on to camp, for I declare I felt as sick and wimbly as a woman; folks often do in their fust battle. But, no, sir! Major was the bravest of the two, and he wouldn’t go, not a peg; he jest rared up, and danced, and snorted, and acted as ef the smell of powder and the noise had drove him half wild. I done my best, but he wouldn’t give in, so I did; and what do you think that plucky brute done? He wheeled slap round, and galloped back like a hurricane, right into the thickest of the scrimmage!”
“Good for him!” cried Dan excitedly, while the other boys forgot apples and nuts in their interest.
“I wish I may die ef I warn’t ashamed of myself,” continued Silas, warming up at the recollection of that day. “I was as mad as a hornet, and I forgot my waound, and jest pitched in, rampagin’ raound like fury till there come a shell into the midst of us, and in bustin’ knocked a lot of us flat. I didn’t know nothin’ for a spell, and when I come-to, the fight was over jest there, and I found myself layin’ by a wall with poor Major long-side wuss wounded than I was. My leg was broke, and I had a ball in my shoulder, but he, poor old feller! was all tore in the side with a piece of that blasted shell.”
“O Silas! what did you do?” cried Nan, pressing close to him with a face full of eager sympathy and interest.
“I dragged myself nigher, and tried to stop the bleedin’ with sech rags as I could tear off of me with one hand. But it warn’t no use, and he lay moanin’ with horrid pain, and lookin’ at me with them lovin’ eyes of his, till I thought I couldn’t bear it. I givehim all the help I could, and when the sun got hotter and hotter, and he began to lap out his tongue, I tried to get to a brook that was a good piece away, but I couldn’t do it, being stiff and faint, so I give it up and fanned him with my hat. Now you listen to this, and when you hear folks comin’ down on the rebs, you jest remember what one on ’em did, and give him the credit of it. A poor feller in gray laid not fur off, shot through the lungs, and dying fast. I’d offered him my handkerchief to keep the sun off his face, and he’d thanked me kindly, for in sech times as that men don’t stop to think on which side they belong, but jest buckle-to and help one another. When he see me mournin’ over Major and tryin’ to ease his pain, he looked up with his face all damp and white with sufferin’, and sez he, ‘There’s water in my canteen; take it, for it can’t help me,’ and he flung it to me. I couldn’t have took it ef I hadn’t had a little brandy in a pocket flask, and I made him drink it. It done him good, and I felt as much set up as if I’d drunk it myself. It’s surprisin’ the good sech little things do folks sometimes;” and Silas paused as if he felt again the comfort of that moment when he and his enemy forgot their feud, and helped one another like brothers.
“Tell about Major,” cried the boys, impatient for the catastrophe.
“I poured the water over his poor pantin’ tongue, and ef ever a dumb critter looked grateful, he did then. But it warn’t of much use, for the dreadful waound kep on tormentin’ him, till I couldn’t bear it any longer. It was hard, but I done it in mercy, and I know he forgive me.”
“What did you do?” asked Emil, as Silas stopped abruptly with a loud “hem,” and a look in his roughface that made Daisy go and stand by him with her little hand on his knee.
“I shot him.”
Quite a thrill went through the listeners as Silas said that, for Major seemed a hero in their eyes, and his tragic end roused all their sympathy.
“Yes, I shot him, and put him out of his misery. I patted him fust, and said, ‘Good-by;’ then I laid his head easy on the grass, give a last look into his lovin’ eyes, and sent a bullet through his head. He hardly stirred, I aimed so true, and when I see him quite still, with no more moanin’ and pain, I was glad, and yet—wal, I don’t know as I need be ashamed on’t—I jest put my arms raound his neck and boo-hooed like a great baby. Sho! I didn’t know I was such a fool;” and Silas drew his sleeve across his eyes, as much touched by Daisy’s sob, as by the memory of faithful Major.
No one spoke for a minute, because the boys were as quick to feel the pathos of the little story as tender-hearted Daisy, though they did not show it by crying.
“I’d like a horse like that,” said Dan, half-aloud.
“Did the rebel man die too?” asked Nan, anxiously.
“Not then. We laid there all day, and at night some of our fellers came to look after the missing ones. They nat’rally wanted to take me fust, but I knew I could wait, and the rebel had but one chance, maybe, so I made them carry him off right away. He had jest strength enough to hold out his hand to me and say, ‘Thanky, comrade!’ and them was the last words he spoke, for he died an hour after he got to the hospital-tent.”
“How glad you must have been that you were kind to him!” said Demi, who was deeply impressed by this story.
“Wal, I did take comfort thinkin’ of it, as I laidthere alone for a number of hours with my head on Major’s neck, and see the moon come up. I’d like to have buried the poor beast decent, but it warn’t possible; so I cut off a bit of his mane, and I’ve kep it ever sence. Want to see it, sissy?”
“Oh, yes, please,” answered Daisy, wiping away her tears to look.
Silas took out an old “wallet” as he called his pocket-book, and produced from an inner fold a bit of brown paper, in which was a rough lock of white horse-hair. The children looked at it silently, as it lay in the broad palm, and no one found any thing to ridicule in the love Silas bore his good horse Major.
“That is a sweet story, and I like it, though it did make me cry. Thank you very much, Si,” and Daisy helped him fold and put away his little relic; while Nan stuffed a handful of pop-corn into his pocket, and the boys loudly expressed their flattering opinions of his story, feeling that there had been two heroes in it.
He departed, quite overcome by his honors, and the little conspirators talked the tale over, while they waited for their next victim. It was Mrs. Jo, who came in to measure Nan for some new pinafores she was making for her. They let her get well in, and then pounced upon her, telling her the law, and demanding the story. Mrs. Jo was very much amused at the new trap, and consented at once, for the sound of the happy voices had been coming across the hall so pleasantly that she quite longed to join them, and forget her own anxious thoughts of Sister Meg.
“Am I the first mouse you have caught, you sly pussies-in-boots?” she asked, as she was conducted to the big chair, supplied with refreshments, and surrounded by a flock of merry-faced listeners.
They told her about Silas and his contribution,and she slapped her forehead in despair, for she was quite at her wits’ end, being called upon so unexpectedly for a bran new tale.
“WhatshallI tell about?” she said.
“Boys,” was the general answer.
“Have a party in it,” said Daisy.
“And something good to eat,” added Stuffy.
“That reminds me of a story, written years ago, by a dear old lady. I used to be very fond of it, and I fancy you will like it, for it has both boys, and ‘something good to eat’ in it.”
“What is it called?” asked Demi.
“‘The Suspected Boy.’”
Nat looked up from the nuts he was picking, and Mrs. Jo smiled at him, guessing what was in his mind.
“Miss Crane kept a school for boys in a quiet little town, and a very good school it was, of the old-fashioned sort. Six boys lived in her house, and four or five more came in from the town. Among those who lived with her was one named Lewis White. Lewis was not a bad boy, but rather timid, and now and then he told a lie. One day a neighbor sent Miss Crane a basket of gooseberries. There were not enough to go round, so kind Miss Crane, who liked to please her boys, went to work and made a dozen nice little gooseberry tarts.”
“I’d like to try gooseberry tarts. I wonder if she made them as I do my raspberry ones,” said Daisy, whose interest in cooking had lately revived.
“Hush,” said Nat, tucking a plump pop-corn into her mouth to silence her, for he felt a peculiar interest in this tale, and thought it opened well.
“When the tarts were done, Miss Crane put them away in the best parlor closet, and said not a wordabout them, for she wanted to surprise the boys at tea-time. When the minute came and all were seated at table, she went to get her tarts, but came back looking much troubled, for what do you think had happened?”
“Somebody had hooked them!” cried Ned.
“No, there they were, but some onehadstolen all the fruit out of them by lifting up the upper crust and then putting it down after the gooseberry had been scraped out.”
“What a mean trick!” and Nan looked at Tommy, as if to imply that he would do the same.
“When she told the boys her plan and showed them the poor little patties all robbed of their sweetness, the boys were much grieved and disappointed, and all declared that they knew nothing about the matter. ‘Perhaps the rats did it,’ said Lewis, who was among the loudest to deny any knowledge of the tarts. ‘No, rats would have nibbled crust and all, and never lifted it up and scooped out the fruit. Hands did that,’ said Miss Crane, who was more troubled about the lie that some one must have told than about her lost patties. Well, they had supper and went to bed, but in the night Miss Crane heard some one groaning, and going to see who it was she found Lewis in great pain. He had evidently eaten something that disagreed with him, and was so sick that Miss Crane was alarmed, and was going to send for the doctor, when Lewis moaned out, ‘It’s the gooseberries; I ate them, and Imusttell before I die,’ for the thought of a doctor frightened him. ‘If that is all, I’ll give you an emetic and you will soon get over it,’ said Miss Crane. So Lewis had a good dose, and by morning was quite comfortable. ‘Oh, don’t tell the boys; they will laugh at me so,’ begged the invalid. Kind MissCrane promised not to, but Sally, the girl, told the story, and poor Lewis had no peace for a long time. His mates called him Old Gooseberry, and were never tired of asking him the price of tarts.”
“Served him right,” said Emil.
“Badness always gets found out,” added Demi, morally.
“No, it don’t,” muttered Jack, who was tending the apples with great devotion, so that he might keep his back to the rest and account for his red face.
“Is that all?” asked Dan.
“No, that is only the first part; the second part is more interesting. Some time after this a peddler came by one day and stopped to show his things to the boys, several of whom bought pocket-combs, jew’s-harps, and various trifles of that sort. Among the knives was a little white-handled penknife that Lewis wanted very much, but he had spent all his pocket-money, and no one had any to lend him. He held the knife in his hand, admiring and longing for it, till the man packed up his goods to go, then he reluctantly laid it down, and the man went on his way. The next day, however, the peddler returned to say that he could not find that very knife, and thought he must have left it at Miss Crane’s. It was a very nice one with a pearl handle, and he could not afford to lose it. Every one looked, and every one declared they knew nothing about it. ‘This young gentleman had it last, and seemed to want it very much. Are you quite sure you put it back?’ said the man to Lewis, who was much troubled at the loss, and vowed over and over again that he did return it. His denials seemed to do no good, however, for every one was sure he had taken it, and after a stormyscene Miss Crane paid for it, and the man went grumbling away.”
“Did Lewis have it?” cried Nat, much excited.
“You will see. Now poor Lewis had another trial to bear, for the boys were constantly saying, ‘Lend me your pearl-handled knife, Gooseberry,’ and things of that sort, till Lewis was so unhappy he begged to be sent home. Miss Crane did her best to keep the boys quiet, but it was hard work, for they would tease, and she could not be with them all the time. That is one of the hardest things to teach boys; they won’t ‘hit a fellow when he is down,’ as they say, but they will torment him in little ways till he would thank them to fight it out all round.”
“I know that,” said Dan.
“So do I,” added Nat, softly.
Jack said nothing, but he quite agreed; for he knew that the elder boys despised him, and let him alone for that very reason.
“Do go on about poor Lewis, Aunt Jo. I don’t believe he took the knife, but I want to be sure,” said Daisy, in great anxiety.
“Well, week after week went on and the matter was not cleared up. The boys avoided Lewis, and he, poor fellow, was almost sick with the trouble he had brought upon himself. He resolved never to tell another lie, and tried so hard that Miss Crane pitied and helped him, and really came at last to believe that he did not take the knife. Two months after the peddler’s first visit, he came again, and the first thing he said was—
“‘Well, ma’am, I found that knife after all. It had slipped behind the lining of my valise, and fell out the other day when I was putting in a new stock of goods. I thought I’d call and let you know, as youpaid for it, and maybe would like it, so here it is.’
“The boys had all gathered round, and at these words they felt much ashamed, and begged Lewis’ pardon so heartily that he could not refuse to give it. Miss Crane presented the knife to him, and he kept it many years to remind him of the fault that had brought him so much trouble.”
“I wonder why it is that things you eat on the sly hurt you, and don’t when you eat them at table,” observed Stuffy, thoughtfully.
“Perhaps your conscience affects your stomach,” said Mrs. Jo, smiling at his speech.
“He is thinking of the cucumbers,” said Ned, and a gale of merriment followed the words, for Stuffy’s last mishap had been a funny one.
He ate two large cucumbers in private, felt very ill, and confided his anguish to Ned, imploring him to do something. Ned good-naturedly recommended a mustard plaster and a hot flat iron to the feet; only in applying these remedies he reversed the order of things, and put the plaster on the feet, the flat iron on the stomach, and poor Stuffy was found in the barn with blistered soles and a scorched jacket.
“Suppose you tell another story, that was such an interesting one,” said Nat, as the laughter subsided.
Before Mrs. Jo could refuse these insatiable Oliver Twists, Rob walked into the room trailing his little bed-cover after him, and wearing an expression of great sweetness as he said, steering straight to his mother as a sure haven of refuge,—
“I heard a great noise, and I thought sumfin dreffle might have happened, so I came to see.”
“Did you think I would forget you, naughty boy?” asked his mother, trying to look stern.
“No; but I thought you’d feel better to see meright here,” responded the insinuating little party.
“I had much rather see you in bed, so march straight up again, Robin.”
“Everybody that comes in here has to tell a story, and you can’t, so you’d better cut and run,” said Emil.
“Yes, I can! I tell Teddy lots of ones, all about bears and moons, and little flies that say things when they buzz,” protested Rob, bound to stay at any price.
“Tell one now, then, right away,” said Dan, preparing to shoulder and bear him off.