POEM FOR RECITATION.

organ with pedalsTHE LITTLE HOUSE ORGAN.

THE LITTLE HOUSE ORGAN.

“What shall we do?” asked Nettie, looking perplexed, and standing jug in hand in the middle of the room. “Jerry won’t be home in time to get it, and I can’t leave those cakes to bake themselves; mother, you don’t think you could see to them a little while till I run to the grocery, do you?”

Mrs. Decker shook her head, but spoke sympathetically: “I’d do it in a minute, child, or I’d go for the molasses, but these shirts are very particular; I never had such fine ones to iron before, and the irons are just right, and if I should have to leave the bosoms at the wrong minute to look at the cakes, why, it would spoil the bosoms; and on the other hand, if I left the cakes and saved the bosoms, why, they would be spoiled.”

This seemed logical reasoning. Susie, perched on a high chair in front of the table, was counting a large pile of pennies, putting them in heaps of twenty-five cents each. She waited until her fourth heap was complete, then looked up. “Why don’t you ask me to go?”

“Sure enough!” said Nettie, laughing, “I’d ‘ask’ you in a minute if it didn’t rain so hard; but it seems a pretty stormy day to send out a little chicken like you.”

“I’m not a chicken, and I’m not in the leastest bit afraid of rain; I can go as well as not if you only think so.”

“I don’t believe it will hurt her!” said Mrs. Decker, glancing doubtfully out at the sullen sky. “It doesn’t rain so hard as it did, and she has such a nice thick sack now.”

It was nice, made of heavy waterproof cloth, with a lovely woolly trimming going all around it. Susie liked that sack almost better than anything else in the world. Her mother had bought it second-hand of a woman whose little girl had outgrown it; the mother had washed all day and ironed another day to pay for it, and felt the liveliest delight in seeing Susie in the pretty garment.

The rain seemed to be quieting a little, so presently the young woman was robed in sack and waterproof bonnet with a cape, and started on her way.

Half-way to the grocery she met Jerry hastening home from school with a bag of books slung across his shoulder.

“Is it so late as that?” asked Susie in dismay. “Nettie thought you wouldn’t be at home in a good while; the candy won’t get done.”

“No, it is as early as this,” he answered laughing; “we were dismissed an hour earlier than usual this afternoon. Where are you going? after molasses? See here, suppose you give me the jug and you take my books and scud home. There is a big storm coming on; I think the wind is going to blow, and I’m afraid it willtwist you all up and pour the molasses over you. Then you’d be ever so sticky!”

Susie laughed and exchanged not unwillingly the heavy jug for the books. There had been quite wind enough since she started, and if there was to be more, she had no mind to brave it.

“If you hurry,” called Jerry, “I think you’ll get home before the next squall comes.” So she hurried; but Jerry was mistaken. The squall came with all its force, and poor small Susie was twisted and whirled and lost her breath almost, and panted and struggled on, and was only too thankful that she hadn’t the molasses jug.

Nearly opposite the Farley home, their side door suddenly opened and a pleasant voice called: “Little girl, come in here, and wait until the shower is over; you will be wet to the skin.”

It is true Susie did not believe that her waterproof sackcouldbe wet through, but that dreadful wind so frightened her, twisting the trees as it did, that she was glad to obey the kind voice and rush into shelter.

“Why, it is Nettie’s sister, I do believe!” said Ermina Farley, helping her off with the dripping hood.

“You dear little mouse, what sent you out in such a storm?”

Miss Susie not liking the idea of being a mouse much more than she did being a chicken, answered with dignity, and becoming brevity.

“Molasses candy!” said Mrs. Farley, laughing, yet with an undertone of disapproval in her voice which keen-minded Susie heard and felt, “I shouldn’t think that was a necessity of life on such a day as this.”

“It is if you have promised it to some boys who don’t ever have anything nice only what they get at our house; and who save their pennies that they spend on beer, and cider, and cigars to get it.”

Wise Susie, indignation in every word, yet well controlled, and aware before she finished her sentence that she was deeply interesting her audience! How they questioned her? What was this? Who did it? Who thought of it? When did they begin it? Who came? How did they get the money to buy their things? Susie, thoroughly posted, thoroughly in sympathy with the entire movement, calm, collected, keen far beyond her years, answered clearly and well. Plainly she saw that this lady in a silken gown was interested.

“Well, if this isn’t a revelation!” said Mrs. Farley at last. “A young men’s Christian association not only, but an eating-house flourishing right in our midst and we knowing nothing about it. Did you know anything of it, daughter?”

“No, ma’am,” said Ermina. “But I knew that splendid Nettie was trying to do something for her brother; and that nice boy who used to bring eggs was helping her; it is just like them both. I don’t believe there is a nicer girl in town than Nettie Decker.”

Mrs. Farley seemed unable to give up the subject. She asked many questions as to how long the boys stayed, and what they did all the time.

Susie explained: “Well, they eat, you know; and Norm doesn’t hurry them; he says they have to pitch the things down fast where they board, to keep them from freezing; and our room is warm, because we keep the kitchen door open, and the heat goes in; but we don’t know what we shall do when the weather gets real cold; and after they have eaten all the things they can pay for, they look at the pictures. Jerry’s father sends him picture papers, and Mr. Sherrill brings some, most every day. Miss Sherrill is coming Thanksgiving night to sing for them; and Nettie says if we only had an organ she would play beautiful music. We want to give them a treat for Thanksgiving; we mean to do it without any pay at all if we can; and father thinks we can, because he is working nights this week, and getting extra pay; and Jerry thinks there will be two chickens ready; and Nettie wishes we could have an organ for a little while, just for Norm, because he loves music so, but of course we can’t.”

Long before this sentence was finished, Ermina and her mother had exchanged glances which Susie, being intent on her story, did not see.

She was a wise little woman of business; what if Mrs. Farley should say: “Well, I will give you a chicken myself for the Thanksgivingtime, and a whole peck of apples!” then indeed, Susie believed that their joy would be complete; for Nettie had said, if they could only afford three chickens she believed that with a lot of crust she could make chicken pie enough for them each to have a large piece, hot; not all the boys, of course, but the seven or eight who worked in Norm’s shop and boarded at the dreary boarding-house; they would so like to give Norm a surprise for his birthday, and have a treat say at six o’clock for all of these; for this year Thanksgiving fell on Norm’s birthday. The storm held up after a little, and Susie, trudging home, a trifle disgusted with Mrs. Farley because she said not a word about the peck of apples or the other chicken, was met by Jerry coming in search of her. The molasses was boiling over, he told her, and so was her mother, with anxiety lest the wind had taken her, Susie, up in a tree, and had forgotten to bring her down again. He hurried her home between the squalls, and Susie quietly resolved to say not a word about all the things she had told at the Farley home. What if Nettie should think she hadn’t been womanly to talk so much about what they were doing! If there was one thing that this young woman had a horror of during these days, it was that Nettie would think she was not womanly. The desire, nay, the determination to be so, at all costs had well nigh cured her of her fits of rage and screaming, because in one of her calm moments Nettie had pointed out to her the fact that she never in her life heard awomanscream like that. Susie being a logical person, argued the rest of the matter out for herself, and resolved to scream and stamp her foot no more.

Great was the astonishment of the Decker family, next morning. Mrs. Farley herself came to call on them. She wanted some plain ironing done that afternoon. Yes, Mrs. Decker would do it and be glad to; it was a leisure afternoon with her. Mrs. Farley wanted something more! she wanted to know about the business in which Nettie and her young friend next door were engaged; and Susie listened breathlessly, for fear it would appear that she had told more than she ought. But Mrs. Farley kept her own counsel, only questioning Nettie closely, and at last she made a proposition that had well nigh been the ruin of the tin of cookies which Nettie was taking from the oven. She dropped the tin!

“Did you burn you, child?” asked Mrs. Decker, rushing forward.

“No, ma’am,” said Nettie, laughing, and trying not to laugh, and wanting to cry, and being too amazed to do so. “But I was so surprised and so almost scared, that they dropped.

“O Mrs. Farley, we have wanted that more than anything else in the world; ever since Mr. Sherrill saw how my brother Norman loved music, and said it might be the saving of him; Jerry and I have planned and planned, but we never thought of being able to do it for a long, long time.”

Yet all this joy was over an old, somewhat wheezy little house organ which stood in the second-story unused room of Mrs. Farley’s house, and which she had threatened to send to the city auction rooms to get out of the way.

She offered to lend it to Nettie for her “Rooms,” and Nettie’s gratitude was so great that the blood seemed inclined to leave her face entirely for a minute, then thought better of it and rolled over it in waves.

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KIT and I (he’s Christopher, but it’s pretty hard to speak)Had been talking about the lecture, the better part of a week.I was fourteen last Wednesday, and Kit is twelve and a half—We’re getting to be big fellows; folks call us “twins” for chaff.One of the famous lecturers was to lecture in our town hall—Our father used to know him, when both of them were small.We are the minister’s boys, you know, and live in the house on the hill;The rest of us is mother, and Susie, and little Will.

KIT and I (he’s Christopher, but it’s pretty hard to speak)

Had been talking about the lecture, the better part of a week.

I was fourteen last Wednesday, and Kit is twelve and a half—

We’re getting to be big fellows; folks call us “twins” for chaff.

One of the famous lecturers was to lecture in our town hall—Our father used to know him, when both of them were small.We are the minister’s boys, you know, and live in the house on the hill;The rest of us is mother, and Susie, and little Will.

One of the famous lecturers was to lecture in our town hall—

Our father used to know him, when both of them were small.

We are the minister’s boys, you know, and live in the house on the hill;

The rest of us is mother, and Susie, and little Will.

People crowded into schoolroomTHE SCHOOLROOM WAS PACKED AND CROWDED.”

THE SCHOOLROOM WAS PACKED AND CROWDED.”

Father went to the station, to bring the lecturer home,And mother had supper ready, waiting for him to come—He was what Sue calls “splendid!” talked lots to Kit and to me,And took up little Willie, and held him on his knee,And while he was eating supper said a good many funny things,And joked with mother and Susie—it seemed as if time had wings—But O, that grand, grand lecture was the best we ever heard!Folks held their breaths to listen, for fear they should lose a word.They cried, and they applauded, and then they laughed outright—Kit and I decided to lecture before we went home that night.He was going back in the morning, on the early morning train,And father let us sit up that night, said “it wouldn’t happen again.”One of us sat each side of him, as near as we could to his chair,And then Kit noticed, and so did I, a scar near the edge of his hair.He saw us looking, and then he said, “My boys, you see that scar,It isn’t a wound of honor, but something different far.“I am going to tell you about it. I got it on a dayWhen I was young as you are, and that isn’t so far away.You think it easy to move a crowd as breezes sweep the sea,It may be easy for some men, it never has been for me.“I was the timidest, awkwardest youth that ever fished in a pool,Or ever on Wednesday afternoons ran away from school—That was the day we ‘spoke pieces,’ but that I never did,I stayed at school and was punished, or ran away and hid.“But I honored the boys who did it, in particular the one who told‘How well Horatius kept the bridge, in the brave days of old!’I admired the high heroic style, I longed to do the same,And watched the others with beating heart, and cheeks that were all aflame.“I had an elder sister then, such an one, my boys, have you—Good, and sweet, and pretty”—and then he smiled at Sue—“She said I could learn a simple piece, learn it, and speak it well;I didn’t want anythingsimple, I wanted a piece that wouldtell.“And so I chose for my first attempt: ‘The Seminole’s Reply,’You’ll find it in some old reader—tells how Indians defy—And Kate she taught it to me, taught me to speak each line—’Twas for the exhibition; I practiced what hours were mine.“I practiced when I went after the cows, when I went to gather eggs,And frightened the hens and roosters off of their yellow legs.Up in the garret chamber, back the old rafters gave:‘I ne’er will ask you quarter, and I ne’er will be your slave!’“The day of exhibition came, as all such days will come,The schoolroom was packed and crowded—all of them went from home—And I sat there and trembled, from my shining boots to my crown,And wished that the floor might open and quietly let me down.“At length I mounted the platform, but how, I never knew,I knew they had called upon me, and somehow I must get through.I made my bow, I know I did, I raised my head to speak,Then the people swam around me, I felt my knees grow weak—“‘Blaze! with your serried columns!’ ’twas to sound like a clarion’s call,I opened my mouth, and formed the words, but I didn’tblazeat all.My throat was parched and swollen, there was ringing in my ears,There was blackness all around me, I forgot my awful fears.“I reeled, and then plunged headlong down from my lofty place,And next I was out in the dooryard with water on my face,And Kate was bending over me, fanning, to give me air,And mother was gently bathing that wound near the edge of my hair.“And that was how I got the scar; but, boys,I didn’t give in,I resolved as old Demosthenes, sooner or later to win.I resolved to be an orator, then and there, that day,And so I never faltered, though to me ’twas a thorny way.“But, let me tell you one thing, here: whatever you aim to doYou’ll be pretty sure to do it, if youwillto carry it through.”And then the lecturer said: “My boys, it is late and we must part.”But father said: “Robert and Christopher, take that lesson to heart.”Emily Baker Smalle.

Father went to the station, to bring the lecturer home,

And mother had supper ready, waiting for him to come—

He was what Sue calls “splendid!” talked lots to Kit and to me,

And took up little Willie, and held him on his knee,

And while he was eating supper said a good many funny things,And joked with mother and Susie—it seemed as if time had wings—But O, that grand, grand lecture was the best we ever heard!Folks held their breaths to listen, for fear they should lose a word.

And while he was eating supper said a good many funny things,

And joked with mother and Susie—it seemed as if time had wings—

But O, that grand, grand lecture was the best we ever heard!

Folks held their breaths to listen, for fear they should lose a word.

They cried, and they applauded, and then they laughed outright—Kit and I decided to lecture before we went home that night.He was going back in the morning, on the early morning train,And father let us sit up that night, said “it wouldn’t happen again.”

They cried, and they applauded, and then they laughed outright—

Kit and I decided to lecture before we went home that night.

He was going back in the morning, on the early morning train,

And father let us sit up that night, said “it wouldn’t happen again.”

One of us sat each side of him, as near as we could to his chair,And then Kit noticed, and so did I, a scar near the edge of his hair.He saw us looking, and then he said, “My boys, you see that scar,It isn’t a wound of honor, but something different far.

One of us sat each side of him, as near as we could to his chair,

And then Kit noticed, and so did I, a scar near the edge of his hair.

He saw us looking, and then he said, “My boys, you see that scar,

It isn’t a wound of honor, but something different far.

“I am going to tell you about it. I got it on a dayWhen I was young as you are, and that isn’t so far away.You think it easy to move a crowd as breezes sweep the sea,It may be easy for some men, it never has been for me.

“I am going to tell you about it. I got it on a day

When I was young as you are, and that isn’t so far away.

You think it easy to move a crowd as breezes sweep the sea,

It may be easy for some men, it never has been for me.

“I was the timidest, awkwardest youth that ever fished in a pool,Or ever on Wednesday afternoons ran away from school—That was the day we ‘spoke pieces,’ but that I never did,I stayed at school and was punished, or ran away and hid.

“I was the timidest, awkwardest youth that ever fished in a pool,

Or ever on Wednesday afternoons ran away from school—

That was the day we ‘spoke pieces,’ but that I never did,

I stayed at school and was punished, or ran away and hid.

“But I honored the boys who did it, in particular the one who told‘How well Horatius kept the bridge, in the brave days of old!’I admired the high heroic style, I longed to do the same,And watched the others with beating heart, and cheeks that were all aflame.

“But I honored the boys who did it, in particular the one who told

‘How well Horatius kept the bridge, in the brave days of old!’

I admired the high heroic style, I longed to do the same,

And watched the others with beating heart, and cheeks that were all aflame.

“I had an elder sister then, such an one, my boys, have you—Good, and sweet, and pretty”—and then he smiled at Sue—“She said I could learn a simple piece, learn it, and speak it well;I didn’t want anythingsimple, I wanted a piece that wouldtell.

“I had an elder sister then, such an one, my boys, have you—

Good, and sweet, and pretty”—and then he smiled at Sue—

“She said I could learn a simple piece, learn it, and speak it well;

I didn’t want anythingsimple, I wanted a piece that wouldtell.

“And so I chose for my first attempt: ‘The Seminole’s Reply,’You’ll find it in some old reader—tells how Indians defy—And Kate she taught it to me, taught me to speak each line—’Twas for the exhibition; I practiced what hours were mine.

“And so I chose for my first attempt: ‘The Seminole’s Reply,’

You’ll find it in some old reader—tells how Indians defy—

And Kate she taught it to me, taught me to speak each line—

’Twas for the exhibition; I practiced what hours were mine.

“I practiced when I went after the cows, when I went to gather eggs,And frightened the hens and roosters off of their yellow legs.Up in the garret chamber, back the old rafters gave:‘I ne’er will ask you quarter, and I ne’er will be your slave!’

“I practiced when I went after the cows, when I went to gather eggs,

And frightened the hens and roosters off of their yellow legs.

Up in the garret chamber, back the old rafters gave:

‘I ne’er will ask you quarter, and I ne’er will be your slave!’

“The day of exhibition came, as all such days will come,The schoolroom was packed and crowded—all of them went from home—And I sat there and trembled, from my shining boots to my crown,And wished that the floor might open and quietly let me down.

“The day of exhibition came, as all such days will come,

The schoolroom was packed and crowded—all of them went from home—

And I sat there and trembled, from my shining boots to my crown,

And wished that the floor might open and quietly let me down.

“At length I mounted the platform, but how, I never knew,I knew they had called upon me, and somehow I must get through.I made my bow, I know I did, I raised my head to speak,Then the people swam around me, I felt my knees grow weak—

“At length I mounted the platform, but how, I never knew,

I knew they had called upon me, and somehow I must get through.

I made my bow, I know I did, I raised my head to speak,

Then the people swam around me, I felt my knees grow weak—

“‘Blaze! with your serried columns!’ ’twas to sound like a clarion’s call,I opened my mouth, and formed the words, but I didn’tblazeat all.My throat was parched and swollen, there was ringing in my ears,There was blackness all around me, I forgot my awful fears.

“‘Blaze! with your serried columns!’ ’twas to sound like a clarion’s call,

I opened my mouth, and formed the words, but I didn’tblazeat all.

My throat was parched and swollen, there was ringing in my ears,

There was blackness all around me, I forgot my awful fears.

“I reeled, and then plunged headlong down from my lofty place,And next I was out in the dooryard with water on my face,And Kate was bending over me, fanning, to give me air,And mother was gently bathing that wound near the edge of my hair.

“I reeled, and then plunged headlong down from my lofty place,

And next I was out in the dooryard with water on my face,

And Kate was bending over me, fanning, to give me air,

And mother was gently bathing that wound near the edge of my hair.

“And that was how I got the scar; but, boys,I didn’t give in,I resolved as old Demosthenes, sooner or later to win.I resolved to be an orator, then and there, that day,And so I never faltered, though to me ’twas a thorny way.

“And that was how I got the scar; but, boys,I didn’t give in,

I resolved as old Demosthenes, sooner or later to win.

I resolved to be an orator, then and there, that day,

And so I never faltered, though to me ’twas a thorny way.

“But, let me tell you one thing, here: whatever you aim to doYou’ll be pretty sure to do it, if youwillto carry it through.”And then the lecturer said: “My boys, it is late and we must part.”But father said: “Robert and Christopher, take that lesson to heart.”Emily Baker Smalle.

“But, let me tell you one thing, here: whatever you aim to do

You’ll be pretty sure to do it, if youwillto carry it through.”

And then the lecturer said: “My boys, it is late and we must part.”

But father said: “Robert and Christopher, take that lesson to heart.”

Emily Baker Smalle.

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Volume 13, Number 42.Copyright, 1886, byD. Lothrop& Co.August 21, 1886.

THE PANSY.

two boys talking“I WEAR TROUSERS, AND YOU DON’T!”

“I WEAR TROUSERS, AND YOU DON’T!”

THEY found the scissors in Mrs. Harrison’s work basket and then sat down together on the doorstep to open the package. When the outside paper was taken off they saw there were really two small packages, both wrapped alike in white paper, but one was square and flat, and the other round and slender,—indeed one might almost have guessed it to be, as Rose said, a very large stick of candy.

“Oh, let me open the round one!” cried Priscilla.

“No, I want to open that myself,” said Rose, “but I’ll let you open the other.”

“Well,” answered Priscilla pleasantly, “I will.”

So saying, she began to tear off the paper, but stopped at an exclamation from Rose.

“See! see! Priscilla, this is old gold satin!”

Sure enough. The round roll proved to be a banner, fastened to a slender brass rod, and finished with a fringe of bright little stars. There was a spray of blue forget-me-nots painted upon it, and as Rose held it up in the sunlight, both girls declared that it was very beautiful indeed.

“Isn’t aunt Alice lovely to send me this,” cried Rose, after they had examined it to their full satisfaction. “But I can’t see how it’s an answer to my letter.”

“Maybe this is the answer,” said Priscilla, taking up the other package. “See, it’s just sheets of paper, fastened together, and lots of writing on them.”

“Yes,” said Rose, “it’s a letter. Why, no it isn’t,” she added. “Oh goody! goody! it’s a story! aunt Alice does tell splendid stories, but I never thought of her writing one. Come, let’s read it.”

The pages of the paper were neatly fastened together, and every word was so plainly written that the two girls could easily read them.

Rose began as follows:

Long ago, in a small village whose cottages clustered upon a mountain slope, a great number of people had come together to celebrate a fair which was held each year for the benefit of that district.

Some had come to sell and some to buy, but many were there for pleasure only. Hucksters and villagers, peasants, and venders of trinkets, or of useful articles—all were there in bustling confusion.

Among the crowd had come a man whom no one could recollect having seen before, and yet he spoke to each whom he met, calling him by name. His manner was dignified, quiet and gentle, and he said that he came neither to buy nor sell, but that he had a wonderful cloak which he would give for the asking. He said, moreover, that it was the safeguard which all travellers wore who journeyed to the Pleasant Land.

Now this kingdom, as the people well knew, lay just beyond their own boundary, toward the setting of the sun; and indeed many of them had wished that they might sometime go thither, for they had heard wondrous reports of its beauty and of the happiness of its people. But they had been deterred from setting out by their affairs at home, and by certain sayings that had got abroad concerning the difficulties of the way. So when the stranger spoke thus, a large number of the people gathered around, and began to comment on the cloak, which hung upon the man’s arm and was of some soft woollen goods. It gave out too, a scent more delicate and sweet than the fragrance of any flower that blooms.

Their criticisms were various. One old peasant said that while he should like to own the cloak, he feared its elegance might excite the contempt of his neighbors, who heretofore had never seen him clothed in anything but coarse garments.

A woman at his elbow also had a voice in the matter.

“The opinion of the neighbors,” said she, “would have little weight with me. But such a cloak hanging from the shoulders would greatly hinder one when at work.”

“Yea, that it would,” answered another, “and work we must, if we would lay up dowries for our daughters, or buy a bit of land for our sons. We have none of us time to journeytowards that Western country,” she added reflectively.

Just then a youth wearing the heavy shoes and blouse of a workman drew near. After asking some questions, of the way that led to the Pleasant Land, he declared his intention of setting out that very hour, but added that he should have no need of the mantle, for he was young and sturdy and used to depending upon himself.

“Yet take the cloak!” urged the stranger, “for I have never known any traveller to reach the kingdom without one.”

The youth, however, shook his head, and, laughing lightly, waved his hand in farewell to the people.

He turned his face confidently toward the West, taking a narrow path that led over the mountain, and thence into a little valley.

It was a quiet, peaceful way bordered by grass of a tender green and by flowers whose delicacy showed that they were the blossoms of spring.

One end of the vale was almost shut in by the rocky walls of two high mountains, and the pass between them was barred by a massive gate. Toward this gate the narrow footpath tended. The youth still felt fresh and vigorous and it was not long ere he had reached the portal where at each hand he now beheld a sentinel.

“Few are the days of the journey,” said the first.

“And, alas! wearisome and profitless to him who weareth not the mantle of loving kindness,” said the second.

Immediately the great gate turned noiselessly on its hinges, and when it closed again the youth had entered what proved to be a busy city, with people of all descriptions hurrying along the streets. Two things were most noticeable: there was no one amid all the throng who did not carry a burden of some kind, and there was not one who had not something peculiar to himself which was an annoyance to all whom he met.

“Ah ha!” cried the youth, “I see how it is. If one wants to get through this crowd in any comfort he must use a sharp tongue, and elbows or fists to the best advantage.”

So saying, he set out again upon his way, but was soon met by a band of merry-makers, who seemed inclined to take up most of the path.

“Now for it!” said the youth to himself, and, setting his arms akimbo he attempted to push his way among them. But it was not without several hard blows that he escaped and passed on, so perfectly did the company imitate his manner and attempt to bar his way.

The next to claim his attention was a woman carrying a heavy basket—and more especially as the basket was set around with thorns.

“Let me but escape their sharp points,” cried the youth, “and I care little how hard they press her.”

The result of the encounter was some scratches to both travellers, which might have been saved if each had sought to spare his neighbor pain.

Thus it went from day to-day, sometimes with sharp words, occasionally with blows, but oftener a slight push from one passer to the other, until at last we must leave the youth to pursue his hopeless journey, while we return to the village whence he had set out.

Hazlett.

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“IDON’T like grandma at all,” said Fred,“I don’t like grandma at all,”And he drew his face in a queer grimace;The tears were ready to fall,As he gave his kitten a loving hug,And disturbed her nap on the soft, warm rug.“Why, what has your grandma done?” I asked,“To trouble the little boy?O what has she done, the cruel one,To scatter the smiles of joy?”Through quivering lips the answer came,“She—called—my—kitty—a—horrid—name.”“She did? are you sure?” and I kissed the tearsAway from the eyelids wet.“I can scarce believe that grandma would grieveThe feelings of either pet.What did she say?” “Boo-hoo!” cried Fred,“She—called—my—kitty—a—quadruped!”—Selected.

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NOW I seem to see some of you Pansies skipping this article, because you think is a biographical sketch of the great musician Mozart, and possibly you “don’t like biographical sketches.” Or if you do, those of you who are members of the “P. S.” have read all about Mozart in your book—“Great Composers.” But let me assure you at the beginning that while this is a biographical sketch, and as true a one as ever was written, and about a person named Mozart, who was something of a musician, possibly you will not pass it by so scornfully when I tell you this Mozart is a cat!

kitten lloking at a butterflyMOZART.

MOZART.

He belonged to a family which is quite small, I believe, though its members are very large, so that when he was but two or three months old, he was as large as many ordinary cats, while his mother was positively colossal!

The way I came to get Mozart was this: his mother, brothers and sisters, and he, were owned by my auntie May, and this same auntie was, once upon a time, about to move from her home in New York, to New Jersey. Knowing how I loved cats, when my mother was visiting her, she proposed that one of the kittens should be taken home to me. So, on the morning of my father and mother’s start, one was procured, and imprisoned in a willow basket which was tied with strong cord. Just as the good-bys were being said, when the basket was reposing in the bottom of the sleigh, and as the driver was raising his reins preparatory to the start, my uncle called out, “Don’t step on the kitten!” To which the driver responded, “It ain’t here!” and grinned broadly, as the disappointing animal jumped to the ground, and sped across the snow to the stable. There was no time to recapture him, for they were then almost afraid they would miss the train, and the sleigh-bells jingled as the sleigh ran down the hill to the depot, the occupants thereof looking curiously at the empty basket in the bottom. “How did he get out?” was the question; and became the question for discussion on the train, as all day my mother and father whizzed along from New York into Pennsylvania. The basket had been found to be just as securely tied as it was when the kittenhad first been placed therein, and the only explanation that could be given when my parents reached home was, that the kittenhadbeen in the basket, and wasnot!Which explanation was, as you may not be surprised to hear, exceedingly unsatisfactory to me, for I dearly loved, and do dearly love all members of the feline kingdom. I never see one but I feel that I must stop and pat its soft fur.

But so far, instead of telling you how I did get Mozart, I have been telling you how I didnotget him!

It was about a week after my father and mother had reached home, when, one morning, as we were seated at the breakfast table, the door-bell rang, and an expressman appeared, with a grin on his face that seemed literally to reach from one ear to the other! “’Ere’s a cat!” he exclaimed, and forthwith produced a box a foot or two square, the top of which was decorated, in good-sized letters, with this injunction:

“THIS SIDE UP WITH CARE!”

As the official brought it into the hall, the listeners and lookers-on heard a prolonged “Waa-a-a-a-a-a!” which seemed to echo and re-echo, and at last died away into silence.

“It is the kitten that we didn’t bring!” said my mother, while I ran for a hammer and chisel with which to open the box. When the operation was performed, there jumped out a large, yellow, cat-like kitten, which escaped as far as possible from us, as we tried to grasp it, repeating its mournful, yet decisive cry of—“Waa-a-a-a-a-a!”

Strange to say, he did not recognize us as friends, immediately, but preferred to wait until he formed a closer acquaintance before he was victimized by our embraces or pettings, so he was consigned to the cellar, where he spent much of his time. When we would try to get him up, unless we succeeded in finding him asleep, he would climb a beam, and with great agility elude our efforts to capture him.

Having heard many stories of cats returning to their former homes, and having had some experience in that line ourselves, we were careful to keep Mozart in the house, lest he should make his escape and be seen no more. If he did manage to get out of the kitchen door in a clandestine manner, a ridiculous procession was formed of the bareheaded members of our family, and no peace was given the poor animal, until, after racing around the yard once or twice, he surrendered to our clutches. Truly our anxious efforts to capture the unwilling prisoner must have been a ludicrous sight to any unsympathizing spectator.

We let Mozart sleep in the kitchen, and this gave him the chance he apparently coveted, of sleeping on the table, which he did so obstinately, that we were finally compelled to resort to the expedient of turning the table on its side every night, so that if he slept on it, it would have to be in direct resistance to the law of gravitation!

Mozart also showed a great desire to make the table his dining-room, though this freak was explained on the arrival of my auntie May, who said that he had eaten on an old table in the barn at home. He also probably slept there. But with us he was obliged to make his couch on some old pieces of carpeting.

I now remember that I have not yet given a thorough description of my hero, and as that is properly one of the first things to do in a sketch of this kind, I must hasten to it. Mozart was clothed with a stationary garment of brownish-yellow fur—I do not know whether the artists would call it chrome yellow, yellow ochre, Naples yellow, or what. This garment was at regular intervals striped with rings of a darker shade, and these went completely around his body.

These rings reached their abrupt termination at the tip of the wearer’s tail. It is quite proper to insert just here the fact that once upon a time one of them fell off, and was found, a little wad of dark yellow fur, on the floor of the dining-room.

Mozart had eyes of a rather uncertain color (a peculiarity of his family, which you perhaps have observed), but they were probably nearer the color of his fur than any other of which I think. His head was shapely, and his ears and caudal appendage were graceful. Thus endeth the description of his personal appearance.

The reason for naming Mozart as I did, will be obvious when I state that he had unmistakable musical talent. As I cannot conscientiously praise his voice, I will remain silent about it, simply saying that it was very expressive, and that is more than can be said of some of the so-called fine singers of this country. His vocal organs seemed exceedingly devoid of elasticity, for their use was always confined to the one syllable and note—“Waa-a-a-a-a-a!” differing only in pitch and the length of time it was prolonged.

This difficulty prevented us from always comprehending Mozart’s language, save by his accompanying gestures and actions, and by the surrounding circumstances. But I have said more about his voice than I intended. As I said before, he had unmistakable musical talent. If he had not a musical voice, he had a musical ear (two of them, indeed!) and would listen with rapturous delight to any music. If anyone was playing on my piano, he would come and sit by the side of it, and either listen intently or try to find out by his whiskers from whence the sound proceeded. But if, while he was making these investigations, the piano would play very loud for a moment, he would shrink away, much frightened by the noise. If it was a special friend of his who was playing, he would sometimes jump into the person’s lap, getting as near as possible to the keys. Any rational and unprejudiced persons giving heed to these statements, will believe what I said about Mozart’s ears, I am sure.

Unlike most of his sex, the second John Chrysostom Wolfgang Theophilus Mozart (for we had given him the full name of the great musician, calling him simply Mozart for short) seemed to take an interest in the art of sewing. I may record as a proof of this that when my aunt Julia would be sewing on her machine, my hero would jump up into the vacancy between her spinal column and the chair, and there remain until he was dismissed. If he had been allowed a longer time to stay there thanwasgiven him, he would, probably, not have left so soon, but as to that I cannot positively speak.

Before recording the following incident I will repeat the aforesaid statement that every word of this biographical sketch is strictly true, and unto that fact I will set my signature and seal, any time you wish. (Possibly that is one particular in which this differs from most biographical sketches.)

Mozart’s saucer from which he was in the habit of eating and drinking, stood out in the kitchen by the sink. On the day of which I speak, he came in and told in plaintive accents that something was the matter. As I have remarked heretofore, he always left us in uncertainty as towhat, for a time, at least. When questioned, however, he earnestly smelled of his empty saucer, and then, jumping up on the sink, put his paw on the cold water faucet, and then, descending, repeated his summons for aid. The saucer was speedily filled with water, and he drank long and eagerly.

This same incident was repeated in every particular, at another time, with the faucet in the bath-room upstairs.

On one occasion Mr. Mozart did a most disgraceful thing—one that was enough to bring disrepute on any family—namely, he ran away. There were several cats living around our barn in those days, and whether he eloped with one of them or not, I never heard, but certain it was that he disappeared, and no trace of him could be found.

But after sin, remorse is sure to come, and conscience speaks earnestly to the sinner, so “in the stilly night,” when “slumber’s chainshadbound” the inmates of our house, some of them were awakened by mournful and heart-rending sounds coming from the rear of the house. Under some circumstances, we might have thought we were being serenaded; one of the members of the household was despatched to the back door, to admit the runaway! The lost had returned! the prodigal had come home! And as he rested once more on his couch of carpeting, how sweet it must have smelled to him (in which respect he would have differed from us), and how soft it must have felt, because his conscience was at rest, and because he could once more sleep the sleep of the innocent! Some of his feline friends had returned to the door with him, and had uplifted their voices with his, but only the proper inhabitant of the house was admitted.

Paranete.

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IN a volume of nearly six hundred pages, the husband of this gifted woman tells the story of her life, or rather he lets her tell it in extracts from her letters and journal. In the little space allotted me for a sketch of Mrs. Prentiss, I can only give you a few facts of her life. When you are older you must read this volume and learn more about her. She was the daughter of a clergyman, a highly gifted man, and one who was no less remarkable for his piety than for his learning, and after reading a sketch of Edward Payson, one is not surprised that the daughter of such a man should develop into a remarkable woman. Mrs. Prentiss was born at Portland, Maine, October 26, 1818. You would like to know about her as a child? She is described as “a beautiful child, slender, dark-eyed, light-footed, very quiet, evidently observant, saying little, affectionate, yet not demonstrative.”

She was devotedly attached to her father, and the impression which the teachings of his beautiful, godly life made upon her childish mind was never effaced. Though he died when she was only nine years old, her recollections of him are said to have been remarkably vivid.

She could tell how he looked and talked and acted, things he said and did. Once coming upon him suddenly she found him engaged in prayer, and so lost in communion with God that he did not become conscious of her presence; and she afterwards said that she never forgot the scene, neither did its influence upon her cease while she lived. She was never strong, having inherited a nervous temperament along with a feeble constitution. Once when she was grown to womanhood she said, “I never knew what it was to feel well.”

At the age of twelve years she was very ill with a fever, so ill that the family thought the hour had come when they must part with Elizabeth. But she was spared, perhaps in answer to the mother’s prayers, for that mother recorded in her journal the circumstance of her illness and restoration with a comment upon God’s goodness in sparing the child, wondering whether it might be to the end that she would one day devote herself to the Saviour and do something for the honor of religion. And in the spring of the following year, this child of many prayers, publicly confessed her faith in Christ, and was enrolled among his people.

She grew to girlhood developing a lovely Christian character, also showing a marked talent in composition. She contributed when quite young to theYouth’s Companion. As she passed on through her girlhood into womanhood she became her mother’s faithful friend and assistant, thoughtful for her comfort, and also a tender sympathizing friend towards her brothers.

I want to copy for you a little bit of verse which she wrote for theYouth’s Companion, which I think will please some of our little folks.

What are little babies for?Say! say! say!Are they good-for-nothing things?Nay! nay! nay!Can they speak a single word?Say! say! say!Can they help their mother’s sew?Nay! nay! nay!Can they walk upon their feet?Say! say! say!Can they even hold themselves?Nay! nay! nay!What are little babies for?Say! say! say!Are they made for us to love?Yea!yea!YEA!!!

A friend says of her: “Human nature seems to have been her favorite study. There seemed to be no one in whom she could not find something to interest her, none with whom there was not some point of sympathy.”

And now I wonder if you have guessed, or if you knew all the while that this remarkable woman was the author of some of your favorite books!

The Susy books! ah! your mothers will tell you that these books weretheirfavorites as well as your own!Susy’s Six Birthdayswas published thirty-three years ago, then followed the others of the series, andFlower of the Family, andPeterchenandGretchen, andTangle Thread,Silver ThreadandGoldenThread, besides many others, up to twenty-five volumes. The book which has been more widely read than any other of her works is probably “Stepping Heavenward.”

More than seventy thousand copies have been sold in this country, and the work has also been translated into the French and German languages.

Mrs. Prentiss’ books were all written after her marriage to Rev. George L. Prentiss, which occurred in 1845. Mr. Prentiss was the pastor of a church in New Bedford. Afterwards they lived in New York and, in the year 1866, they went to a quiet place among the Green Mountains to spend the summer, and so delighted were they with the beauties of Dorset that they made it their summer home, building a cottage there in which Mrs. Prentiss died about twelve years later.

It is impossible to give you any account of the varied scenes of her life in such a brief sketch. She was called to pass through many sorrows. The death of the father to which I have already referred; later the loss of her mother, sister, brother and children.

These bereavements came one after another, yet her Christian character only shone out the brighter.

“Though the death of her children tore with anguish the mother’s heart, she made no show of grief, and to the eye of the world her life soon appeared to move on as aforetime. Never again, however, was it exactly the same life. She had entered into the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings and the new experience wrought a great change in her whole being.” She was remarkably happy in the children spared to her, and in all her home life. A friend has written of her:

“I have ever regarded her as favored among women, blessed in doing her Master’s will and in testifying of Him, blessed in her home, in her friends, in her work and blessed in her death.”

Faye Huntington.

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