Of twilight and fresh dews,Most odorous flower, thou art the child;Adorning evening's pensive huesWith splendors mild.A vesper acolyte,Born, but for this one night,To swing thy golden censer of perfume,While stars the tranquil firmament illume,For heaven's delight.Thy term of service, fleet,Creative wish doth meet;A swift existence; but which this rare graceOf ceaseless worship, filling life's brief space,Crowns as complete.Thy blissful vigil keep,Rapt flower, while others sleep:Adoring angels claim thee from aboveA dear companion in their task of love;And I would fain present,With worshipful intent,Thy dewy blossoms on my evening shrine;A contrite homage; sighing to repair,With the accepted incense of thy prayer,For sloth like mine.
Of twilight and fresh dews,Most odorous flower, thou art the child;Adorning evening's pensive huesWith splendors mild.A vesper acolyte,Born, but for this one night,To swing thy golden censer of perfume,While stars the tranquil firmament illume,For heaven's delight.Thy term of service, fleet,Creative wish doth meet;A swift existence; but which this rare graceOf ceaseless worship, filling life's brief space,Crowns as complete.Thy blissful vigil keep,Rapt flower, while others sleep:Adoring angels claim thee from aboveA dear companion in their task of love;And I would fain present,With worshipful intent,Thy dewy blossoms on my evening shrine;A contrite homage; sighing to repair,With the accepted incense of thy prayer,For sloth like mine.
"Howe'er it be, it seems to me'Tis only noble to be good;Kind hearts are more than coronets,And simple faith than Norman blood."
"Howe'er it be, it seems to me'Tis only noble to be good;Kind hearts are more than coronets,And simple faith than Norman blood."
Four little boys: two of them had soft fair hair, and were dressed in the finest cloth; the other two had very bushy heads, and were dressed in whatever they could get. It was early Christmas morning, and the two rich boys were sitting by the window of a handsome brown-stone house, and they had each a stocking plump full of dainties; the two poor boys were calling the morning papers on the stone-cold sidewalk, and if they had any stockings at all, you may be very sure they were plump full of holes.
"An't he funny," remarked the smaller of the two in the house, looking at the larger of the two in the street; "an't hetoofunny!" And between laughing and eating, little Fred came near choking himself. "See his old coat, Josie, it trails like Aunt Ellie's blue dress! And such a queer old hat; don't it make you laugh, Josie?"
"I have seen so many of 'em," explained Josie.
"What are you laughing at, Fred," asked their sister Mary, coming up to them.
"Those newsboys," he answered, and imitated their "Times, 'Erald, Tribune! Here's the 'Erald, Times, Tribune!" so perfectly that their father thought it was a real newsboy calling, and cried out to them from another room to "hurry up and bring a Herald," at which command the children rushed eagerly into the hall, and tugged with their united strength to open the doors, each anxious to be the first to speak to the odd-looking newsboys, and also to be the fortunate one to take the paper to their father. In the mean time, the two newsboys had not been unmindful of the faces behind the plated window.
"I say, Jim," said the big boy, who was about twelve or thirteen years old, "did you ever see the beat of that young 'un there? Don't you choke yerself, youngster, f'fear you'd cheat a friend from doing that same when you're growed up.—Ere's the 'Erald! Tribune! Times!—George! Jim, I wish to thunder there'd some new papers come up. An't yer tired allers a hollerin' out them same old tunes?—Times! 'Erald! Tribune!—How d'ye s'pose a feller'd feel to wake up some of these yere mornin's in one o' them big houses?"
"Heerd tell of stranger things 'n that, Dick," replied Jim, who read the weekly papers. "'Turn again, Whittington, Lord-Mayor of London,' as the cat said! Turned out true, too."
"You'dbetter get a cat, Jim, you're such a stunnin' feller; shouldn't wonder if you'd turn out alderman some of these days!" At which, for no apparent reason, Dick laughed until every rag was fluttering.
"They wants a paper; better 'tend to yer business," answered Jim, at which the other newsboy instantly grew grave, and, shuffling his old shoes across the street, mounted the steps where the children were waiting and calling for him.
"I want a New York Herald," said Fred very grandly.
"Han't got no 'Eralds," answered the newsboy.
Fred rushed into the house saying, "His Heralds are all gone."
"Tribune, then, and don't keep the door open," instructed the rough voice from some invisible spot. Mary shut the door all but a little crack. "Papa wanted a Herald," she said; "you ought to have one when my papa wants it."
"Thought I had, but couldn't help it; 'Erald's got a great speech to-day, and I've sold 'em all."
"Do you sell papers every day?" Mary asked.
The bushy head made a sort of bow, as the poor newsboy looked at the fair-haired little girl on the stoop, who condescended to questionhim.
"Yes, miss," he answered, "since ever I wasn't bigger'n a grasshopper."
"An't he funny?" said Fred.
"Don't you get tired?" asked Mary.
"Well, I can't say I doesn't, 'specially sometimes."
"An't you glad it's Christmas?" Josie asked, as questions seemed the fashion.
"I kinder am," replied the newsboy.
"Did you have many presents?" questioned Mary.
"Me? Bless you, who'd give 'em to me, miss?"
"Didn't you hang up your stocking last night?" Fred asked.
The newsboy seemed much amused at the question; for it was plain that he could hardly keep from laughing right out.
"Well, no, I didn't," he answered. "Don't think things would stick in one long, if I did!"
"Do you put your money in a savings bank? By and by you'd have enough to build a house maybe, if you were careful," said Josie.
"Jim and me likes takin' it out in eatin' best," answered Dick.
"Why don't you bring me that paper?" cried their father's voice. And the two boys ran hastily into the house.
"You may have my candy," said Mary in a stately way. "I can have plenty more." And she put her store of dainty French candy into the boy's hand, and, while he was still looking at her in amazement, followed her brothers into the house and shut the door.
"Just you pinch me, Jim," Dick said, joining his companion. "Drive in hearty, now. An't I asleep?"
"Well, I dunno; what yer got there?"
"She give it to me."
"Who's that?"
"Her on the steps; didn't you see her?"
"You tell that to the marines! Guess you took it."
"No, I didn't," Dick said indignantly. "I never took nothin' as warn't mine yet."
"Let's have a look," said Jem, reaching out his hand for the package; but Dick would not let him touch it. "I'm going to keep it always to remember her," he said.
"Guess you want ter eat it yerself," Jem said. "I wouldn't be so mean."
"I an't gen'rally called mean," Dick answered with great dignity.
"Don't you wonder, Jim," said Dick, as they made friends and passed on—"don't it seem curious how some folks is rich and purty like them there, and others is poor and ugly like me and you, Jim?"
"George! speak for yerself, if ye like. Guess I'd pass in a crowd, if I'd the fine fixin's!"
"S'posin' me and you had dandified coats and yeller gloves, and the fixin's to match, s'pose anybody'd know we was newsboys?" Dick asked thoughtfully.
"Iraytherthink," said Jim, "we'd be a deal sight handsomer'n some of them chaps as has 'em now."
"Let's save our money and try it, Jim."
"'Nuff said," answered Jim, laughing. And the newsboys in their queer garments, and with their light hearts, passed out of sight of Mr. Brandon's brown-stone house and fair-haired children.
But not out of all remembrance. The children had a party that Christmas afternoon; and when they were tired of romping, and were seated around the room, the girls playing with their dolls; the Catholic ones telling the others in low voices about the flowers and lights, and the wonderful manger which they had seen at Mass that morning; and the boys eagerly listening to the stories of faraway lands, which one of the older people was telling, little Mary knelt in an arm-chair, and looked out of the window at the people hurrying through the driving rain and snow, and at the street-lamps glaring through the wet and cold. Her kind little heart had been very light, and a strange joyousness had surrounded her all day, making her more gentle than ever, so that she had not spoken one hasty word, or once hesitated to take the lowest part in any of the plays. Though she did not know it, the little infant Jesus had smiled on her that morning when she was kind to the poor, homeless newsboy; and now she understood—for charity had enlarged her mind—more distinctly than she ever had before, that there were many cold and desolate children for whom there were no earthly glad tidings that day, yet who were as much God's own as the little ones grouped around her father's pleasant parlors. Then, just as she did the best she could, and prayed in her heart for the children of the poor, she thought she saw the newsboy to whom she had spoken in the morning standing close to the railing by the window; but before she could be sure of it, the servant lighted the gas; she heard the children calling her for a new game, and she ran lightly away. But there was one crouched in the cold outside, who wondered at the sudden light and glow within; and as the bewildered newsboy saw her dancing past the lighted windows, it seemed to him that it was not so far, after all, to the heaven and the angels of whom he had heard; for the "glad tidings" had come to Dick, even Dick, and they woke up the good, the will to do right, which is in every heart, and which did not sleep again in him, even when the little, uncared-for, outcast head rested on the stone steps that Christmas night.
Very little idea had poor Dick of right or wrong. No fond mother took him to her heart when he was a toddling wee one, just big enough to half understand, and between her kisses told him of angels and saints, of heroes and martyrs, and of that Queen Mother up in heaven, dearer than them all, who never forgot those who once had loved her, and of the beautiful world with its flowers and fruits, its great rivers and high mountains, its delicious green and its glorious blue, which a good Father had given to men for their enjoyment. No loving sister, with bright eyes and tender voice, tossed him in her strong young arms, and sang to him how knights and warriors, the great and good of earth, and loved of heaven, had all been children once like him, only never half so sweet and dear.No noble father, true in the midst of trials, ever watched with anxious care that those little feet should walk only in the straight and narrow path. So it was a hard thing for poor Dick, when he rubbed his brown hands through his bushy, uncombed hair the next morning, and pushed the worn old hat over his still sleepy eyes, to know just what to do to find the temple of Fortune. At times, though, he had followed the crowd of noisy boys and girls whom you may see around the doors of any Catholic church at about nine o'clock on Sunday mornings, and had listened with a critical air, and slightly supercilious, from some dark corner near the door, to the talking and the prayers which he did not wholly understand, but portions of which he did once or twice take into his "inner consciousness" and fully approve. In some way, he then seemed to feel that which made him less rough in all his answers, readier in all his responses to the call for papers, not always gently called for; and, though he knew not why, there were fewer wicked words on his lips that day than for many a day before.
It happened that he kept his eyes open and grew thoughtful, and did not forget his wish to be better; so that, from being a newsboy, he became an errand-boy in a book-store, where he learned to be honest and to tell the truth, which was a rapid advance in his education; for you know it is more than some people have learned who have lived to be six times Dick's age. Sometimes a little lady came to that very store to choose her picture-books and Christmas stories; and it was his place to open the door for her; or perhaps some one would call out, "Dick, a chair for this lady," and then he was as happy as a prince. Sometimes he would be sent home with her purchases, and mounted the steps, entered her father's house, and always felt "good" again; for always the same picture of a little girl in blue, with fair hair, and her hands full of dainty French candy, and a ragged newsboy, dirty and amazed, would be there before him.
Christmas had come and gone more than once, and it was coming again, when Dick turned up the gas in a mere closet of a room very high up in a dingy boarding-house, and made a ghost of a fire in an old rusty stove. It wouldn't seem to us a very enlivening prospect; for the room was but slightly furnished, and the stove smoked, while the wind beat at the not overclean windows, on which there were no curtains to shut out the dark and cold. But Dick seemed to think it something very luxurious; for he rubbed his hands before the blue apology for a flame, and sat down on the broken wooden stool, with as much zest as that with which I have seen grand people sink into a great arm-chair after a walk.
"Christmas eve again," he said to the fire, for it was his only companion. "Let me look at you, Mr. Coals, and see what pictures you have for me to-night. How many nights, worse nights than this, I have been glad to crouch under an old shed, or in some alley, and now to think, thanks to the good God, I have a fire of my own! Poor little bare feet on the icy pavement to-night, I wish I had you round my jolly old stove. When I am rich, I will!" Then he laughed at the idea. "But I won't wait until I am rich, or I would never deserve to have the chance."
"How are you, Dick?" said a cheery voice, though deep and rough, at the door. And a man came into the room, which either his figure, or his coat, or his voice, or the flute under his arm, seemed to fill to such an extent that the very corners were crowded.
"How are you, Dick? It's blowing a hurricane outside, and you're as cold as Greenland here. It may do for you, but not for me; old blood is thin, my boy, old blood is thin." At which Dick laughed heartily, while putting more coal on the fire; for Carl Stoffs was in the prime of life, hale and hearty, weighing at least two hundred pounds, I am sure, and with a round face, very red, but also very solemn, for Carl Stoffs was a German every inch of him. The stove grew very red also under his vigorous hands; but whether from anger or by reflection I will not attempt to say. "And now," he said, seating himself on the wooden chair, Dick having given it up to his guest, while he occupied a box instead—"and now, how are you, boy? Ready for merry Christmas, eh? You'll come to us to-morrow, so says my wife. In America, you all do mind your wives; mine tells me to bring you."
"Then I must, I know," Dick said, looking at the other, who was near three times his size. "I would have a poor chance in opposing you!" But Carl Stoffs knew well how gratefully the friendless boy accepted the thoughtful invitation.
"Now, shall we have some music," said he, as he drew out his flute, and, without waiting an answer, put it to his mouth, and brought forth such rich, full tones from the instrument that Dick, as he stared at the now bright fire, seemed to be in a land of enchantment.
"You are the only man, from the queen of England down, whom I really envy," said Dick, in one of the pauses. "You can have music whenever you wish it; I am only a beggar, grateful for every note thrown in my way. Were you out, last night?"
"Yes, all night in Fourteenth street, at the rich Brandons. Madam is very gay, this winter."
"I wish I were a musician," said Dick. "It must be jolly to see all the dancing and the bright dresses!"
"And the pretty ladies, eh? who don't mind you no more than if you were a stick or a stone. Indeed, my boy, you'd soon get tired of it; it seems so grand at first, the beautiful picture all in motion; but your eyes—they ache after a little. Too much light, my boy, too much light." And the musician went long journeys up and down his wonderful flute before he spoke again. "They'll go music-mad over some fool at the piano; but you play until your own music makes you wild, and never one thinks or cares about you. Last night, I played only for one. She was always dancing, and she seemed to go on the wings of the music just as it said to hergo. I was not tired last night."
Awaiting no answer, he turned again to his flute, and all through the dingy, crowded house rang a joyous "Gloria in excelsis." Rough captives of labor heard it, and answered to it, knowing well the glad tidings, the most glorious ever sung, and yet sung to kings and shepherds alike. The old sinners heard it, and thought of the strange days when even they were young and innocent.
"Finis," cried the German, rising slowly, and putting on his shaggy overcoat. "I promised my wife that I would be home at nine, and, as do all the people here, I mind my wife; but it is one inconvenient thing. You will come to us after Mass, to-morrow?"
"You are too good to me. When I am rich, perhaps I shall know how to thank you."
"You should think yourself rich now. You are young; there is no riches like that."
"I wish I were older, though," sighed Dick.
"Never say that, never, never. The poorest youth is better than the richest age," said the German earnestly. I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Stoffs had just found his first gray hair, and was speaking under its influence. At all events, he did not convince Dick, who said, with equal earnestness and more quickness:
"I must say it: every day seems too long, every hour goes too slowly, until I can get at my life's work. This waiting for it kills me."
"My friend, do you call this waiting?" laughed the German. "Was it waiting and doing nothing that changed you from—"
"But think," interrupted Dick, "of what ought to have-been. Some day—some day I will get my hand to the plough, you'll see! At least," a little ashamed of the seeming conceit, "I hope you will."
"And what makes you care?"
"I think it's born in us all to like to be active—to be doing something. Indeed, it's about the only legacy my poor parents left me. It may be, for I know nothing of them, that they were just the same as other people, out of whom bitter poverty has taken all pride and ambition; but I can't think it, somehow."
"Do you really know nothing of them?"
"Nothing. I have a little sealed box, with an injunction on the outside of it that I am not to open it until I am of age. I don't know where I first got it, nor from whom it came. It may be some trick to tease me for years, and disappoint me at last, for all I know; and still I have always kept it, for it is all I have. And I think it came from them."
"It may tell you something wonderful," said his visitor, laughing. For it was easy forhimto understand that some young mother, who even in her poverty had found the means of reading and believing stones of princes in disguise, and countesses in cellars, disowned and disinherited, all for true love's sake, had made a mystery of leaving a lock of her hair, and perhaps a cheap wedding-ring, to her boy; and he could not forbear a little ridicule of the folly. "It may tell you something wonderful. If it gives you possession of half of New York, don't forget your friends, will you, Dick?" And then, buttoned up to his chin, and with his cap covering half his face, and looking just like Santa Claus, Carl Stoffs bundled his cherished flute under his arm, and obediently went home to his wife.
Dick lingered a moment, after he left, before closing the door. The room was not wholly his own; but his companion had a father and a mother in New Jersey, and he had gone home to them, with something in his pockets for the children's Christmas; so for that night Dick was in undisputed possession. The passages were dark and cold; the snow had got through some of the broken windows, and lay in several little hills on the entry floor; the sash rattled, and Dick shivered, as he stood irresolute at the door of his room. But the irresolution did not last long. He bundled up, as well as his scanty wardrobe permitted, closed the door firmly behind him, and went down the creaking, broken stairs, and through the dreary passages, where he could see the snow huddling up to the dark window-panes, as if it were a white bird trying to get in and beating its wings against the dirty glass. Dick had not far to walk, after leaving the house, before he found that which he had come out to find—somebody without a shelter from the storm.And I should not wonder if any night, however bitter and cold, that you or I should take a notion to go out on the same errand, we should not have to go far for equal success, and that even if we started from the most delightful dwelling-place in all New York.
Under the remains of some broken steps, or more truly by the side of them, for they were too broken to shelter a kitten, two dark figures were lying close together. In one of the pauses of the storm, when the street-lamp had a chance to shine a little, Dick could see that the figures were those of two boys asleep. He did not wait long to rouse them. One woke up at once, cross, and, if I must tell the truth, with some very wicked words on his lips.
"Get up, and come with me," said Dick.
"What yer want 'long o' me? I an't doing nothin'," he muttered.
"I know that; but I will give you a better place to sleep in. Come."
Bad words again. "I an't done nothin' to you. Le' me 'lone."
"I want you to come home with me. Did you ever hear of a newsboy called Big Dick? That's me."
"I an't afeard o' nothin'. H'ere goes!" And the poor little fellow, still believing the other was "chaffing," got on his feet. "Do you want t'other? He an't worth nothin', but he'll keep dark."
"Yes, both of you. Hurry him up; it is a terrible night."
"Come along, Joe. Where's yer spunk? I an't afeard o' nothin'."
"There's nothing to be afraid of," said Dick, as gently as the roaring storm would let him. "Don't talk now, but come on. I'll take you to a room with a fire in it," added Dick, in spite of himself feeling that he wasbon princeto the little newsboys.
"Come on, Joe," urged the other, dragging and pushing the little newsboy, who was hardly more than a baby, but who seemed to whimper, sleepy and frightened, as no doubt he was, until, as quietly as the old stairs would permit, and almost holding their breath, they followed Dick to his room.
"An't this bully, now?" said Jack in an undertone, when he stood before the fire in the lighted room, and Joe, with round, staring eyes, but not a word of complaint or fear, had been put on the wooden chair. "I say, now, Joe an't much, but he'll never blab; but I'se all right. What yer want us to do, now, sir?"
"To get warm," answered Dick. "I was once a newsboy, and slept under stoops and sheds, like the rest of them; but now I've got a fire of my own, and I wanted company; so I went out and got you and Joe, and now make yourselves at home for tonight. Here's some crackers and cheese, and when you've had something to eat you can go to sleep here. It's better than out there, isn't it?"
The newsboy stared at Dick, and grunted something which sounded very much as if he did not believe a word that his host had said. The other sat silent, stolid, and seemingly ready to hear anything. He ate his share of the crackers and cheese greedily, but with a watchful eye on the giver. The warmth, however, soon proved too much for his vigilance, and, though his eyes were still fixed on Dick's face, they were heavy and expressionless. At last, Dick took him up, undressed him, and laid him in his bed in the corner; and then, for the first time, Joe's tongue was loosened. "There, now," he said, as he lay exactly as Dick had placed him, "I are dead and gone at last. Twasn't no lies about t'other world; they wasn't a foolin' on us, after all. Here an't no more Heralds and Tribunes. I are dead and gone at last!" And so rejoicing, Joe's eyes closed securely, and it is likely he dreamt of angels, if he dreamt at all, until morning came.
"He an't much," said Jack, whom this act of Dick's, together with the fire and the food, had made less incredulous and more confidential. "He's a soft 'un; he an't got the right pluck. He'll never be nobody."
"Is he your brother?" asked Dick. "Do yer think I'd have him for my brother? He's a youngster, come from nobody don't know where. He was fetching up in my quarters last winter, and didn't know his name nor nothin'; so we gives him a start, us fellers, and he's stuck on to me ever since."
Then Dick asked more about his new friend's life, and told him a little his own, and a story or two that he thought suited to his understanding; and, having won the child to believe a little in his good intentions, had the satisfaction of seeing him at his ease, and willing to go to sleep with Joe in the corner. When this was accomplished, Dick put out the fire and the light, and lay down on the floor to sleep soundly and well, until the joy-bells from the great city churches should wake his guests and himself to the glad tidings that Christmas had come again.
And now I am sure you are satisfied that Dick was on the right road, acting religion as fast as he learned it; trying to be all he knew—to live a truthful, generous, self-respecting life. He had little help, you know, and, if he followed that crowd that I told you of oftener than before, and heard much that enabled him to take whole books into his "inner consciousness" which would otherwise have been a dead letter to him, he was not one to make a flourish of trumpets about it, or to dream of complaining that the world would not stand still until he got up to it. He had but one intimate friend, it is true; but he was a friend you and I might be glad to win; a friend who never argued or lectured, but only quietly built his life on the only true foundation—the true faith—and then left it to show for itself. So, simply trusting in whatever was good, yet so fierce against whatever was evil, scornful of everything wrong and weak, practising as well as believing, you may be sure Carl Staffs would never have held out his honest hand to Dick, if Dick were not worthy of it. And this makes me think great things of my hero, of whom scarcely anybody thought at all. He had his place in Ames & Harden's store, and he had his talks, too, now with one person, now with another, and perhaps thought of things he heard. He was only a boy yet, and had his follies, without doubt, fancying at times that there was something in him, if circumstances would only draw it out, which would prove him a great deal worthier of high places than those now occupying them. I am not sure but that, if he had had a country-home, he might sometimes have lain down under the trees, and, while watching in a dreamy way the clouds sailing down to the west, and the vigilant stars coming out to guard the earth in the sun's absence, and listening to the wind among the trees, the twittering of some wakeful bird, or the rustling of some grand old river, he might have had yearnings no one could explain, and not have felt the sky too far to climb or the river too deep to fathom; for Dick's was only a boy's heart, that had still to learn that we cannot go from the Broadway pavement to Trinity spire in one step.Even in his city home, if home it could be called, it may be that, just after he had been to church with Carl, he had glowed with the thought that he—even he—might some day be a Loyola or a Francis Xavier, for "the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
But as yet his life consciously held but one romance—one dream of earth. There were few to care for him; but there was a little girl once who had made Christmas memorable to him, and Dick had not forgotten her. She had grown a beautiful young lady now, in Dick's eyes, though to all others she was merely a thin, dark school-girl. They still lived in the handsome house on Fourteenth street, and Carl Stoffs and his band played for many a dance there, although I am sorry to say that, even after a New Year's party, Dick had to be sent more than once to Mr. Brandon's office with a little bill, due to Ames & Harden, mostly for school-books, novels, and gilt annuals. But then that was no fault of Mary's, you know.
Mr. Brandon was not a pleasant man to go to with a bill, or for much of anything in the money line. "The deuce take it, my dear!" he often said to his wife. "Are you bent on ruining me?"
"Don't be silly, Charley, love," the dauntless little woman would say, not in the least disturbed by the angry voice and black brow that were so terrible to Dick. "For people of our position, we live very shabbily."
"Hang our position! I tell you, madam, we are going the road to beggary; we are, indeed."
"O Charles! do be quiet," was her ready answer. "I am so sick of that sort of stuff."
"Thenbesick of it," this dreadful man would exclaim; "for I'll tell it to you every day and every hour, until it gets through your silly head. Money! money! money! I never hear anything else in this house. I've sold myself for it, body and soul, and much good it has done me! I'll not give you a penny, madam; not a penny."
But that was all talk; for, of course, he had to give his wife, who was a nice little body, very sweet and good-tempered, but rather fond of the good things of this world, whatever she had set her heart upon having.
"If papa should be right—" Mary would sometimes urge.
"Nonsense! they all say the same thing; why shouldn't they? If I didn't spend your father's money in making things pleasant at home, he'd be spending it on clubs, or whatever it is which uses up their money when they have the spending of it all to themselves. You'll have a husband, likely enough, one of these days, who'll scold for every pocket-handkerchief you buy; but you won't mind it. They must scold about something, you know, dear."
"O mamma! I'd never live a day—if—" At which sentence, never completed, Mrs. Brandon would laugh, and the subject would be dropped for the present; but, of course, after such scenes, Mr. Brandon wouldn't be very amiable to a boy like Dick with a bill in his hand. But Dick to him was a mere machine, belonging to a store over the way, and as such he treated him, with as little malice in his hard words as if he were swearing at a table or chair. To Dick, Mr. Brandon was Mary's father, and that meant a great deal; Dick could never talk openly to him, nor stand in his presence quite as he did in the presence of other men.
For, though Dick had never been outside the city limits, and had never seen a hill, nor a field of corn, he was a trifle romantic, I am afraid, after all.
Yes, it is true that he grew to be almost a man without having ever climbed a hill or seen a field of grain. But there was a good time coming.
"Dick," said Carl Stoffs, that true and faithful friend—"Dick, would you like to go to the country?"
"Would I like to go to the country?" he repeated, finding no words of his own to say, so great was his bewilderment at such a question—"Would I like to go to the country?"
"Any time you're ready," said the German, seating himself. "Take your time to answer, my lad."
"What would I do in the country? I was never there in my life!"
"And you don't look more pleased than though I'd asked you to go to—to—the end of the world."
"I have often wished to see the country," returned Dick, in the tone in which we might wish to see China if we had nothing else to do; "but I don't see my way to doing so at present."
"I do believe, Dick, that you have lined the walls with gold pieces, you are so miserly of your time, and so stuck to this old place. Come now, we shall take you to the country, my wife and I. Now, to think there should be one on earth who never saw the green fields and the woods! It is to me a very odd thing! You are the blind man who never saw the sun, and does not think the sun worth seeing."
"Oh! no, indeed; not so bad as that; but—"
"Then you shall go. My sister has a house, with room for many, and we have taken half, keeping one room for you. Come and take your week with us."
"But, Mr. Stoffs, I intended during that week to read so much to take long walks about the city—and Mrs. Stoffs—"
"My wife sent me; I would not of myself have such a blind man with me, to read, to study, to walk; how can you in the city now? You will be wild when you have been once with us. You will go to-day with me—I will be waiting for you at my place at five. Will you come?"
"Indeed—"
"You will come." And, in truth, Mr. Stoffs had previously said so much of that wonderful land in which he was now living that Dick could not resist his last appeal, and afraid and shy as he well might be, having never spent twenty-four hours in a home circle in his life, he gave his promise to be at the appointed place of meeting in good time for the train.
But when the magnetism of his friend's presence was taken from him, Dick's heart grew heavy in his breast. If it had been to go to another city, or on a matter of business, Dick's excitement would have been delightful; but "the country," of which he knew nothing, and of which he had such strange fancies, picked up he could not tell where, that was another thing. City boys always laughed at country people when they came to the city—they had such queer ways—and yet—and yet—he felt strange and shy about going among them. Perhaps he felt that the tables would be turned on him there, and that his ways would be as queer in their eyes as theirs had been in his; perhaps he felt the full force of the homely old saying that "a cock can crow best in his own farm-yard."
But, as the day wore on, Dick's spirits rose; he thought of all the stories he had read of fresh country life; a poem or two of cows and brooks came vaguely among his thoughts, and by the time he reached his little room, and began to pack his not abundant wardrobe, he was eager for the first glance at "the country."
"Then, may the Lord's blessing go with you," said his kind but very slovenly landlady. "I hope you'll come back as brown as a berry, sir. I was two year in the country once, and, though I won't say I'd like it for always, yet my heart do get to wishing these days for a sight o' the flowers and the fields. You'll mind the fruit, sir, and the dews o' night; there does be great dews fallin', and a deal of ague, I'm told. Good-by to you." And Dick said "good-by" to her with something like emotion; for it was his first "good-by" to any one, and the woman had been good to him, and if her hair was in a blouse, and her garments ill made and not clean, Dick was not startled, for he had never seen them otherwise.
Then he walked on to meet Mr. Stoffs, and found he was nearly an hour before the time. It seemed as if the moment of departure would never come; but it did, at last, and, as in a sort of dream, the dusty city youth was whirled by cottages nestling among proud, protecting trees, past the green hills, and through fields "all rich with ripening grain," until the panting train pulled up between a pile of stones and a little yellow station-house, with a narrow platform running beside it.
"Now, then, here we are!" said the German, and took up his bundles and basket; for who ever saw a Carl Stoffs in the cars that had not a bundle and basket, and a quantity of household furniture besides? This last Dick took in charge, and so laden the two made their way out of the cars. Around the little yellow station-house dodged two splendid bays with silver harness, that were being driven rapidly round a corner close to the narrow platform, and went out into the dusty road; for sidewalks there were none. Soon the sound of carriage-wheels made them turn aside, and Dick stumbled, as he walked for the first time on the soft green grass.
When you take a mountain lassie to Rome and show her St. Peter's, she is not enthusiastic; indeed, she is terribly disappointed. She expected something so much greater than her mountains, so much brighter than her green valleys. If Dick was disappointed when he put his foot on nature's velvet carpet and found it only caused him to stumble, I cannot say. I think he felt surprised that a brook beside the way and far blue hills before him wrought no emotion within him. Fortunately Carl asked no raptures.
"That was the Brandons' turnout," he said in a prosaic way, as Dick recovered his footing, and returned to the road.
"Is that so?" asked Dick. "Do they live here?"
"Yes," said Carl, "and a fine place it is too; but I think the man's going too fast."
Then Dick was thoughtful for a minute or two, pitying the daughter, if it were so; but it is hard to think that a man's family are near to want when his stylish carriage has just turned you out of the road, and the pity soon seemed misplaced.
The walk seemed long to Dick; he did, indeed, enjoy the cool breeze, fresher and purer than any he had ever felt before but he had his own baggage and Carl's curtain-rods besides, and he was used to pavements. They had already passed many fine houses, with lawns and carriage-ways, shaded by great trees in front of them, and now and again a little house, with flowers and clustering vines, and groups on the porches; but Carl's steps lingered at none. At last they turned out of the dusty road into a shaded lane, a veritable lane, as new to Dick as the Paris Boulevards would be to Mrs. Partington; two or three more cottages, smaller and not so much garden-room, and then Carl said:
"Eh! but I'm glad to get home! Come here, Will! Come, boys!"
The last call seemed to fill the lane with children. They might have come down from the trees, or up from the earth, for all Dick could tell; but at the sound of Carl's voice the place was alive—big boys and little boys, great girls and small girls, all round and fat, brown-eyed and yellow-haired, with all manner of greetings, gathered around the travellers, eagerly drew their baggage from their hands, and with baskets, bags, bundles, and curtain-rods, made a grand triumphal procession before them, shouting, laughing, pushing against each other, the big ones stumbling over the little ones, and yet nobody hurt.
A few steps more and a rustic gate was opened and some one came and stood under the archway of evergreen branches, intertwined with some drooping vines. She was facing the West, looking down the lane, shading her eyes with her hand, although the sun was almost down. Just for a moment she stood in the bright sunset glow, under the green archway, shading her brown eyes from the light, looking down the shadowy lane; and, as she so stood, she seemed a very fair and graceful girl indeed. An instant more and the children, in the importance of their mission as baggage-carriers, pushed past her, and she retreated with them toward the house.
"Come, Rose! Here we are!" called Carl to her. And she turned and met them as they reached the gate.
"You are welcome," she said to Dick when he was introduced at the gate.
"You are welcome," said Mrs. Stoffs, coming toward them from the porch.
"You are welcome," repeated Mrs. Alaine, at the door. And Dick had not a word of answer to any one of them.
They were to him as grand as princesses and as gracious as queens, as they came forth to receive him and bid him welcome to their little cottage; and Dick was not used to courts or to queens and princesses, so he could only bow and shake the hands so cordially extended to him.
I am afraid my hero was not at all happy for the first few minutes that he sat on the stoop between Mrs. Stoffs and Mrs. Alaine, not knowing what answer to make to even their simplest remark, and that he was much relieved when they joined their voices to the hubbub the children were making around Carl. Such shyness as Dick's is very painful to the spectators, as well as to the embarrassed one; but, then, there's this to be said about it, when it is once entirely conquered it never can come back again, and I fancy there are some very nice people in the world, now very self-possessed and perfectly well-bred, who would give much to feel again the awkwardness and embarrassment which, once upon a time, caused them such keen annoyance.The women pitied Dick, but liked him none the less for the color that would come into his face and the hesitation of his replies; but their feeling for the stranger was greater than any pleasure to themselves, and so it was not long before they went into the house with the declared intention of "getting tea." But going into the house was not going away altogether, for the room which served for parlor, library, sitting-room, dining-room, and all, had a low window opening on the stoop, and Carl and Dick could see them well, and speak, if they chose, without raising their voices, as they went-back and forth from the table to the closet, and from the closet to the table, not to mention innumerable visits to Carl's basket, which seemed a pantry in itself. The children ran in and out, and one jolly little one, called Trot, who was as round as a dumpling, and was too young to be shy for very long, informed Dick she was glad he had come, for they were to have sweet-cakes for tea. Occasionally Rose would come and stand at the window and say something to tease "Uncle Carl," who was not slow to "give her as good as he got." Thus gradually Dick became more at ease, and began to distinguish a difference in the tones of the children's voices, and to take note of the strange Sunday-like stillness which, except for the merry noises in the house, was complete, and, to him, wonderful.
I think a tea-table is one of the nicest sights in the world. If there is a grain of poetry in a woman, and I believe that there is no woman without a grain of poetry in her, it will surely, mark my words, however rough and prosaic she may be, come out about tea-time. That was a very pretty tea-table at which Dick took his place that evening; there was no silver nor China, and there was, perhaps, too great an abundance of good things; but it startled Dick, and I contend that it was nice and pretty, if only for the reason that it had a clean table-cloth, a bunch of flowers, and every dish in its proper place. Mrs. Alaine, who was only a feminine edition of her brother Carl, sat at the head of the table, in a clean calico dress, with a white collar and a blue ribbon. She had a child on each side of her, whose glee, at the prospect of sweet-cakes and peaches (out of Carl's basket) after they had eaten their bread and butter, she tried to moderate with a smiling, "Hush, children! What will Mr. Heremore think of you?" Mrs. Stoffs, who had also a round flat face, and was dressed in a clean calico, with white collar and a knot of pink ribbons, Dick had seen many times before, and dearly loved the good humor that bubbled all over her face whenever she spoke. She also had a child on each side of her, whose audible whispers about the good things coming she answered and mysteriously increased by promises of the same again another day. But opposite Dick was a face that was not round nor especially good-humored; for the two children under charge of Rose were the least repressible of the whole flock, and they tried her slender stock of patience sorely; especially, as she said afterward to her mother, with many blushes and half crying at the recollection, "as they would saysuchthings right before the strange gentleman!" Rose had a pretty blue muslin, with a tiny bit of lace around the neck, for her raiment, and there was a something red, green, brown, blue, pink, or yellow, that fluttered here and there before Dick's eyes whenever she moved to help the children, or turned her young face, with its flitting colors, toward him.But whether it were a ribbon, or a blush, or the hue of her hair, or an aureole around her head, and whether it were no color at all, or all colors together, or a rainbow out of the clouds, I do not think Dick had, for one moment, a definite idea—at least, while it was flitting before his eyes.
After tea, Carl took out his pipe, and settled into his big chair on the porch; and the children, having got somewhat over their awe of the stranger, volunteered to take him down the lane, and show him where there had been a robin's nest last spring, an expedition, however, that was vetoed by Carl on the ground that you couldn't see even a robin's nest in the dark. Then Rose came out to tease Uncle Carl again; but, forgetting her purpose, stood where the light from within seemed to set her in glory, like the angels in pictures; and by and by, it came about, no one knew how, that her shrine was vacant, and she, a very nice little girl with her hands in the pockets—very impracticable pockets they were—of her muslin apron, was telling Dick, with the children as prompters and commentators, the full particulars of the finding of the robin's nest, and what work she had had to keep the children from bringing sorrow and dismay to the hearts of the parent robins by stealing away their little ones. Then, as the moon rose, there was no reason why the children should not take Dick down the lane to show to him the tree where the nest had been; and then it was needful that he should know just how far it was from sister Rose's window, and yet how quickly, on hearing the shouts of rejoicing, she had come to Mrs. Robin's assistance. Then it was so funny to see a man who had never climbed a tree, that it was needful two or three should go up one to show how it is done. Then, too, there were lightning-bugs by the million around them, and as Dick had never seen anything like them, unless it was fire-crackers on Fourth of July night, they had to catch several for his investigation. When Rose told how those little things are really the people of the forest, who are so timid they do not dare to come out in the daytime, but do all their praying by night, and have always been good friends to children, showing them their way home when lost, and driving away the ghosts that would frighten the wanderers, then the children opened their brown hands and let them fly away, promising never to make prisoners of them again.
And so, though Dick still felt strange and shy, it was not in such an unpleasant way as when he sat on the porch trying to answer Mrs. Alaine and Mrs. Stoffs when they spoke to him. When, at last, he closed his eyes that night, he was half ready to admit that "the country" might almost be the enchanted land some people had made it out to be.