MUSICAL CONVERSATIONS
Oncein a great while Marian and Ella had a chance to play together. These rare occasions were times of joy.
Mrs. St. Claire usually took Ella with her wherever she went, but sometimes she was compelled to leave the child at home with her father or Tilly, and there was merriment in the house. The little cousins had gay times and their only regret was that such hours of happiness were few. At last Marian thought of a plan. Her new room was opposite Ella's. As Aunt Amelia insisted upon sending Marian to bed at seven, Uncle George declared that early hours were necessary for Ella's welfare. Accordingly, both children went to their rooms at the same time with instructions not to talk. No one cautioned them not to sing and singing was one of Marian's habits. After listening to the solos a few nights, Ella trieda song of her own and that gave Marian an idea. She listened until Ella stopped for breath and then expressed a few thoughts to the tune of "Home, Sweet Home."
"O-oh, I know what will be great funAnd I'll tell you what it is,We will play go to gay old concerts,And take our children too."First the other ladyCan sing a good long song,And then it will be my turn next,And I'll sing a song myself."Fun fu-un-fun, fun-fun,I guess it will be fun-fun,I guess it will be fun."
"O-oh, I know what will be great funAnd I'll tell you what it is,We will play go to gay old concerts,And take our children too."First the other ladyCan sing a good long song,And then it will be my turn next,And I'll sing a song myself."Fun fu-un-fun, fun-fun,I guess it will be fun-fun,I guess it will be fun."
"O-oh, I know what will be great funAnd I'll tell you what it is,We will play go to gay old concerts,And take our children too.
"First the other ladyCan sing a good long song,And then it will be my turn next,And I'll sing a song myself.
"Fun fu-un-fun, fun-fun,I guess it will be fun-fun,I guess it will be fun."
It was fun. The other lady took the hint quickly. She and her children went to the concert without waiting to get ready. Furthermore she left herself sitting beside her children in the best seat in the hall and at the same time took her place on the stage. She even went so far as to become a colored man while she sang
"Way down upon the Suwanee River."
"Way down upon the Suwanee River."
"Way down upon the Suwanee River."
Ella's mother came up-stairs for something as the gentleman was rendering this selection with deep feeling, but she had no idea that her little daughter was singing on the stage, nor did she know that the greatest soprano in America was the next performer, although she did hear Marian begin in tragic tones, "'There is a happy land, far, far away.'" "Far, far away" was tremulous with emotion.
From that hour dated many a concert, and after the concerts, the ladies continued to sing everything they had wished to talk over during the day. Often the musical conversations were cut short by an admonition from the hall below, but even Tilly never learned the nature of those evening songs. As the children disturbed nobody and were put to bed long before they were sleepy, Uncle George said, "Let them sing." In this way Marian and Ella became well acquainted.
One night Marian asked Ella if she knew anything about how she happened to be taken to the Little Pilgrim's Home when she was a baby.
"No-o-o," replied Ella in shrill soprano,"They won't tell-ell me-e a thing now-ow daysBut a long time ago-goThey used to talk about everythingRight before me-e, only the trouble is-s,I was such a little goo-ooseI didn't think much about it.""Do you know anything about my mother-other-other?"Chanted the musician across the hall."No-o-o," was the response,"I only know-o that my mother-otherDidn't know your mother-other, ever in her li-ife,But I do-oo remember-ember that the folks at that Ho-o-meHad some things that used to belong-longTo your mother-other.And they are packed away-way somewhere in the house.I guess they are in the attic-attic,But of course I don't know-o."Once I saw-aw a picture of your mother-otherBut I don't remember-emberWhat she looked like, looked like-looked like.Don't you wi-ish your mother wasn't dead?If you had a mother-otherI could go to your hou-ouseAnd your mother-otherWould let us play together-ether.""Yes, yes, she would," Marian's voice chimed in,"She would let us play-ayAll the day-ay.And sometimes I thi-ink my mother is ali-ive,And if she is, won't I be gla-ad.If I do find my mother-otherAnd I go to live with her-er,Why, may be your mother-other will die-iAnd then you can come and live with u-usAnd won't that be gay-ay.You never know what's going to happen in this world."
"No-o-o," replied Ella in shrill soprano,"They won't tell-ell me-e a thing now-ow daysBut a long time ago-goThey used to talk about everythingRight before me-e, only the trouble is-s,I was such a little goo-ooseI didn't think much about it.""Do you know anything about my mother-other-other?"Chanted the musician across the hall."No-o-o," was the response,"I only know-o that my mother-otherDidn't know your mother-other, ever in her li-ife,But I do-oo remember-ember that the folks at that Ho-o-meHad some things that used to belong-longTo your mother-other.And they are packed away-way somewhere in the house.I guess they are in the attic-attic,But of course I don't know-o."Once I saw-aw a picture of your mother-otherBut I don't remember-emberWhat she looked like, looked like-looked like.Don't you wi-ish your mother wasn't dead?If you had a mother-otherI could go to your hou-ouseAnd your mother-otherWould let us play together-ether.""Yes, yes, she would," Marian's voice chimed in,"She would let us play-ayAll the day-ay.And sometimes I thi-ink my mother is ali-ive,And if she is, won't I be gla-ad.If I do find my mother-otherAnd I go to live with her-er,Why, may be your mother-other will die-iAnd then you can come and live with u-usAnd won't that be gay-ay.You never know what's going to happen in this world."
"No-o-o," replied Ella in shrill soprano,"They won't tell-ell me-e a thing now-ow daysBut a long time ago-goThey used to talk about everythingRight before me-e, only the trouble is-s,I was such a little goo-ooseI didn't think much about it."
"Do you know anything about my mother-other-other?"Chanted the musician across the hall.
"No-o-o," was the response,"I only know-o that my mother-otherDidn't know your mother-other, ever in her li-ife,But I do-oo remember-ember that the folks at that Ho-o-meHad some things that used to belong-longTo your mother-other.And they are packed away-way somewhere in the house.I guess they are in the attic-attic,But of course I don't know-o.
"Once I saw-aw a picture of your mother-otherBut I don't remember-emberWhat she looked like, looked like-looked like.Don't you wi-ish your mother wasn't dead?If you had a mother-otherI could go to your hou-ouseAnd your mother-otherWould let us play together-ether."
"Yes, yes, she would," Marian's voice chimed in,"She would let us play-ayAll the day-ay.And sometimes I thi-ink my mother is ali-ive,And if she is, won't I be gla-ad.If I do find my mother-otherAnd I go to live with her-er,Why, may be your mother-other will die-iAnd then you can come and live with u-usAnd won't that be gay-ay.You never know what's going to happen in this world."
"What kind of a song are you singing?" called Aunt Amelia.
"Opera house music," replied Marian, who feared that concerts were over for the season when she heard the question.
"I thought," responded Aunt Amelia, "that a lunatic asylum was turned loose. Don't let me hear another sound to-night."
The musicians laughed softly, and there were no more solos that evening.
The following day Ella and Aunt Amelia went visiting and in the middle of the forenoon, when Tilly was busily working in the kitchen, Marian climbed the attic stairs with determination in her eye. An old portrait ofGeorge Washington on the wall at the landing seemed to question her motives. "Don't worry, Mr. Washington," remarked the child, "I'm not going to tell a lie, but sir, I'm looking for my mother and I'm going to find her if she's here." Marian gazed steadily at the face in the old oaken frame, and meeting with no disapproval there, passed on, leaving the Father of her Country to guard the stairway.
There were numerous trunks, boxes, barrels and an old sea-chest in the attic. Marian hesitated a moment before deciding to try the yellow chest. Her knees shook as she lifted the cover. At first she was disappointed; there seemed to be nothing but blankets in the chest. Then a bit of blue silk peeping from beneath the blankets caught her eye and Marian knew she was searching in the right place. From the depths of the chest she drew forth a bundle, unfolded it and beheld a beautiful gown of pale blue silk, trimmed with exquisite lace. Tears filled her eyes as she touched the shimmering wonder. She had never seen anything like it.
"This was my mother's," she whispered, andkissed the round neck as she held the waist close in her arms. "She wore it once, my mother." Marian would gladly have looked at the dress longer but time was precious and there was much to see. Embroidered gowns of purest white, bright sashes and ribbons were there, and many another dainty belonging of the woman whose name was never mentioned in the presence of her child. In a carved ivory box, were jewels. Marian closed it quickly, attracted by a bundle at the bottom of the chest. She had found it at last. The picture of her mother. It was in an oval frame, wrapped in a shawl of white wool.
"Oh, if I had her, if she could only come to me," cried Marian, as the lovely face became her own. Though the child might never again see the picture, yet would it be ever before her.
When she dared stay in the attic no longer, Marian kissed the picture, wrapped it in the white shawl and laid it tenderly away. As she did so she noticed for the first time a folded newspaper on the bottom of the chest. Inside the paper was a small photograph.Marian tiptoed to the attic stairs and listened a moment before she looked at the photograph. Then she uttered a low exclamation of delight. There was no doubt that the face in the oval frame was her mother's, for the small picture was a photograph of Marian's father and a beautiful woman. "It's the same head," whispered the child, "and oh, how pretty she is. I am so glad she is my mother!
"I wonder what they saved an old newspaper so carefully for?" continued Marian. "Maybe I had better look at it. What does this mean? 'Claimed by Relatives,' who was claimed, I wonder? Oh! I was! Now I'll find out all I want to know because, only see how much it tells!"
Marian laid the photograph down and read the article from beginning to end. She didn't see George Washington when she passed him on the landing on the way down-stairs and for the rest of the day the child was so quiet every one in the house marveled. There were no concerts that evening. The leading soprano had too much on her mind. The following morning Marian sharpened her leadpencil and opened her diary. After looking for a moment at the white page she closed the book.
"No use writing down what you are sure to remember," she remarked, "and besides that, it is all too sad and finished. I am going outdoors and have some fun." Marian was in the back yard watching a cricket, when Ella sauntered down the path singing, "Good-morning, Merry Sunshine."
"Where are you going, sweetheart?" called her mother from the kitchen window.
"Just down here by the fence to get some myrtle leaves," Ella replied and went on singing.
Marian bent over the cricket nor did she look up although Ella gave her surprising information as she passed.
"If I were you, Miss Marian Lee,I'll tell you what I'd do,I'd pack my doll and everything I wanted to take with me,Because in the very early morning,You're surely going awayTo a country town where you will stayUntil school begins again."I knew they were going to send you somewhere,But I didn't know just when,Until I just now heard my father and motherBoth talking all about it.I know you'll have a pretty good time,I wish I were going too,But maybe you'll find some girls to play with,I'm sure I hope you do."
"If I were you, Miss Marian Lee,I'll tell you what I'd do,I'd pack my doll and everything I wanted to take with me,Because in the very early morning,You're surely going awayTo a country town where you will stayUntil school begins again."I knew they were going to send you somewhere,But I didn't know just when,Until I just now heard my father and motherBoth talking all about it.I know you'll have a pretty good time,I wish I were going too,But maybe you'll find some girls to play with,I'm sure I hope you do."
"If I were you, Miss Marian Lee,I'll tell you what I'd do,I'd pack my doll and everything I wanted to take with me,Because in the very early morning,You're surely going awayTo a country town where you will stayUntil school begins again.
"I knew they were going to send you somewhere,But I didn't know just when,Until I just now heard my father and motherBoth talking all about it.I know you'll have a pretty good time,I wish I were going too,But maybe you'll find some girls to play with,I'm sure I hope you do."
Marian smiled but dared not reply, especially as the singer broke down and laughed and Aunt Amelia knew there were no funny lines in "Good-morning, Merry Sunshine."
The hint was enough. Marian straightened her affairs for a journey and a long absence from home.
LITTLE SISTER TO THE DANDELION
Marianasked no questions the following morning until she was on her way to the station with Uncle George. "Where am I going?" she finally ventured.
"Where you passed the summer last year," was the reply. "How does that suit you?"
"Suit me," repeated Marian, "nothing ever suited me better. I'm pretty glad I'm going there. Why didn't you send me back to school, Uncle George? School won't be out for two months. I'm glad you didn't, but why?"
"Well, sis, you told me you wanted to go to the country school."
"Yes, but——"
"Now's your chance," interrupted the man, "learn all you can and try to do some onething better than any one else in school, will you?"
"Well, but Uncle George, big boys and big girls go to country schools."
"What of it, Marian? You do some one thing better than any one else in school, and when you come home this fall you may choose any book you wish at the book store, and I will buy it for you."
"But, Uncle George, how will you know whether I really do something better than any one else or not?"
"I'll take your word for it, Marian."
"My word is true," the child remarked with dignity.
"No doubt about it," added Uncle George, turning away to hide a smile.
Just as the train pulled into the station, Marian caught a glimpse of a small blue butter-fly. It fluttered away out of sight as Uncle George said "good-bye." "Oh, I hate to leave that butter-fly," exclaimed Marian, and those were the last words Uncle George heard as he left her. The passengers smiled, but Uncle George looked thoughtful. There wasso much to be seen from the car windows and so many folks to wonder about within the car, the journey seemed short.
Two young ladies welcomed Marian at the train, hugging and kissing her the minute the small feet touched the platform. "I guess folks will think you're some relation to me," laughed the child.
"So we are," replied Miss Ruth Golding. "We are your cousins."
"Certainly," agreed Miss Kate, "your Uncle George knew us when we were little girls, so of course we are your cousins."
"Of course!" echoed Marian, "and I know my summer of happiness has begun this day in April."
"Your troubles have begun, you mean," warned Miss Ruth; "the school-teacher boards with us and you'll have to toe the mark."
"Oh, goody!" exclaimed Marian. "I can walk to school with her."
"You won't say 'goody' when you see the lady," predicted Miss Kate. "She's as sober as a judge, very quiet, and keeps to herself."
"What's the matter with her?" asked Marian.
"She's lived in the city all her life and eaten books," explained Ruth. "She eats them, Marian, covers, binding, pictures and everything. Too bad, but maybe you'll get used to it. Here is mother coming to meet you, and here comes Carlo."
Marian ran ahead to throw her arms around Mrs. Golding's neck. "I am so glad they sent me back to you," she cried. "I didn't say anything about it to my aunt because she would have sent me somewhere else. It doesn't do to let her know when you're too happy. She isn't a bit like you, not a bit."
"No, I think not," was the response. "You see, dear, your neighbor, Mrs. Russel, is one of my old friends, and she has told me so much about your aunt I feel as if I know her. I am sure we are not alike."
"Why, I should say not!" laughed Marian. "Why she's as thin as—as knitting needles, and you're as plump as new pin cushions. Won't we have fun this summer,though? Well, Carlo, old fellow. Didn't forget Marian, did he? Nice old doggie."
"Down, sir!" Mrs. Golding commanded. "He is so glad to see you, Marian, he can't express his feelings without trying to knock you over."
"I wish Uncle George owned a dog," commented Marian; "there'd always be some one glad to see you when you got home. I like dogs. Does the teacher come home at noon, Mrs. Golding?"
"No, sometimes we don't see her until supper time. She won't be such jolly company for you as my girls. She's too quiet."
"Is she cross, Mrs. Golding?"
"No, oh, no indeed."
"Then I shall like her," was the quick reply.
There were callers in the late afternoon, so Marian wandered out alone. She had gone but a short distance down the lane when she saw dandelions ahead. She gathered a handful of the short-stemmed blooms and walked on. In the distance she heard a bluebird singing. Marian ran to find it and was rewarded by a flash of glorious blue as the bird sought a tree across the river. Marian followed it as far as she could, being obliged to stop at the river's bank. As she stood gazing after the bird, she was startled by a woman's voice.
"What have you in your hand, little girl?"
Turning, Marian saw a young lady sitting on a log near by. "Just dandelions," the child replied, and would have hidden the bunch behind her if the young lady had not forbidden it.
"We all love dandelions, little girl," she said; "come and show them to me."
Marian wonderingly obeyed.
"Did you ever look at a dandelion through a microscope?" continued the young lady.
"No, I never did."
The stranger passed Marian a microscope and asked her to tell what she saw.
"Oh, I never knew a dandelion was like this," said Marian; "why there are a thousand little blossoms in it all crowded together, and they are the goldenest golden ever was! Oh, oh, oh! Wasn't it lucky you were hereso I could see through your microscope? What if I had never seen that dandelion!"
"Would you like to borrow the microscope often?" asked the young lady, smiling so pleasantly Marian straightway decided that she was pretty.
"Well, I should say yes, Miss—Miss—you see I don't know what your name is?"
"Oh, that's so, I am Miss Smith, Miss Virginia Smith. Who are you?"
"My name," was the reply, "is Marian Lee, but who I am I don't really know."
Miss Smith repressed her curiosity, believing that Marian was the little girl the Goldings were to meet that day.
"It's everything to have a name," said she.
"Yes, but I'd like some relatives," Marian explained, "some real sisters and cousins and aunts of my own."
"Why don't you do as Hiawatha did?" Miss Smith suggested.
"You mean play all the birds and squirrels are my brothers and sisters? I think I will. I'll be little sister to the dandelion."
Miss Smith laughed with Marian. "I'll dothe same thing," said she, "and if we are sisters to the dandelion, you must be my little sister and I'm your big sister and all the wild flowers belong to our family."
"It's a game," agreed Marian. "I suppose little Indian children picked dandelions in the spring-time before Columbus discovered America."
"There were no dandelions then to pick," Miss Smith remonstrated. "The plant was brought here by white men. Its name is from the French, meaning lion's tooth."
"I don't see anything about a dandelion to mean lion's tooth," objected Marian; "do you?"
"No, I don't, Marian, nor does any one know exactly how it came by its name. Some believe it was given to the plant because its root is so white; then again, in the old days lions were pictured with teeth yellow as dandelion blossoms. The explanation I like best is that the dandelion was named after the lion because the lion is the animal that used to represent the sun, and all flowers named after him are flowers of the sun."
"Do you know anything more about dandelions?" questioned Marian.
"If I don't," said Miss Virginia Smith, smiling as she spoke, "it isn't because there is nothing more to learn. Did you ever hear the dandelion called the shepherd's clock?"
"No, Miss Smith, never. Why should they call it that?"
"Because the dandelion is said to open at five and close at eight."
"Well!" exclaimed Marian, "I guess you could write a composition about dandelions."
"Possibly," was the laughing response. "As far as that goes, Marian, there isn't a thing that grows that hasn't a history if you take the time and trouble to hunt it up."
"Skunk cabbages?" suggested Marian.
"Yes, 'skunk cabbages,'" was the reply. "What flowers do you suppose are related to it?"
"I don't know, unless Jack-in-the-pulpit, maybe, is it?"
"That's right, guess again."
"I'll have to give up, Miss Smith. I neversaw anything except Jack-in-the-pulpit that looks a bit like old skunk cabbage."
"The calla lily, Marian, what do you think of that?"
"I don't know, Miss Smith, but such things happen, of course, because Winnie Raymond has a horrible looking old Uncle Pete, and Winnie's awful pretty herself. But how do you know so much about plants?"
"By reading and observation, Marian."
"Are there many books about wild flowers, Miss Smith?"
"More than we can ever read, little girl. Better than that the country around this village is a garden of wild flowers. Down by the old mill and on the hills, in the fields and woods and along the river bank, we shall find treasures from now on every time we take the shortest walk."
"Oh, dear," grumbled Marian, "isn't it too bad I've got to go to school?"
"Why don't you like to go to school, child?"
"At home I do, on account of recesses. I don't like the school part of it much, buthere it would be recess all the time if I could go in the woods with you, besides having a good time with the Golding girls and playing all day long where I don't get scolded. Dear! I wish I didn't have to go to school, or else I wish they'd have lessons about birds and flowers and butterflies and little animals, instead of old arithmetic. I hate arithmetic."
"Do you?" sympathized Miss Smith. "That's too bad, because we all need to understand arithmetic."
"I don't," protested Marian. "I don't even think arithmetic thoughts."
"Some day, Marian, you will wish you understood arithmetic," said Miss Smith. "Now if you and I went for a walk and we saw ten crows, three song sparrows, five bluebirds, seven chipping sparrows and twenty-seven robins, and Mrs. Golding asked us when we got home how many birds we saw, I wonder how you would feel if you couldn't add?"
"Well, but don't you see," interrupted Marian, "I could add birds, yes and subtract and multiply and divide them. That's different. What I don't like is just figures and silly arithmetic things."
"Well, Marian, I may as well tell you now that I'm the school-teacher and we'll have arithmetic stories about birds and flowers and little animals."
"Oh, are you the teacher?" exclaimed Marian. "I thought she was—was—different, you know."
"Different, how?"
"Well, they told me the teacher was—was quiet."
"So she is, usually," agreed Miss Smith, "but this afternoon she met one of her own folks. This little sister to the dandelion."
"Won't we have fun!" was Marian's comment.
PROFESSOR LEE, BOTANIST
Miss Virginia Smithknew how to teach arithmetic. Fractions lost their terror for Marian, even the mysteries of cube root were eagerly anticipated. History became more than ever a living story to the child, and geography was a never failing joy. On rainy days every stream and puddle between Mrs. Golding's home and the schoolhouse was named, and if several Mississippi Rivers emptied into Gulfs of Mexico, and if half a dozen Niles overflowed their banks over the country road, what difference did it make? When the sun shone bright and only dew-drops glistened in the shade, Marian saw deserts and plains, mountains and volcanoes along the dusty way.
For a time the game of geography became so absorbing Marian played it at the table, forming snowy peaks of mashed potatoes andsprinkling salt upon the summits until the drifts were so deep, only the valleys below were fit to be eaten. Brown gravy was always the Missouri River winding its way across Marian's plate between banks of vegetables. Ice cream meant Mammoth Cave. A piece of pie was South Africa from which the Cape of Good Hope quickly disappeared. However hungry Marian might be, there was a time when she ate nothing but continents and islands.
Whatever Miss Virginia Smith tried to teach the country children, Marian Lee appropriated for herself. She listened to all recitations whether of the chart class or the big boys and girls. Perhaps if Marian had attended more strictly to her own lessons, she might have made the kind of a record she thought would please Uncle George. As it was, Jimmie Black "Left off head" in the spelling class more times than she did, the first month. Belle Newman had higher standings in arithmetic and geography, and some one carried off all the other honors.
Marian, however, knew something aboutbotany before the end of May, and she gloried in the fact that she could name all the bones in her body. Mr. Golding was proud of her accomplishment and once when she went with him to see old Bess newly shod, he asked her to name the bones for the blacksmith: and the blacksmith thought it wonderful that a little girl knew so much. "Yes, but that's nothing," remarked the child, "all the big boys and girls in the fifth reader class know their bones."
"Ain't you in the fifth reader?" asked the blacksmith.
"No," was the reply, "I can read the whole reader through, but I'm not in that reader class. That's the highest class in the country. I suppose being in the fifth reader here is like being in the high school at home just before you graduate. I won't have to learn bones when I get up to the high school."
"And still you say that ain't nothing," protested the blacksmith.
Marian shook her head. "I haven't done one thing in school better'n anybody else," she said, "and to do something better'n anybody else is all that counts. Don't you try to be the best blacksmither in the country?"
Old Bess flourished her tail in the blacksmith's face and the man spoke to her next instead of to Marian. He wasn't the best blacksmith and he knew it. Some years afterwards when he had won an enviable reputation, he told Mr. Golding that the first time he thought of trying to do unusually good work was when the little Lee girl asked him if he tried to be the best blacksmith in the country.
Concerning botany, Miss Smith knew that Marian was interested in the wild flowers and had told her many a legend of wayside blooms when walking with her through the fields and across the hills: but she had no idea how much the child had learned from listening to the recitations of the botany class, until the Saturday morning when the wax doll went to school. Miss Smith happened to pass the corn-crib unnoticed by teacher or pupil.
The doll was propped in an attitude of attention among the ears of corn.
"Now, little girl," the instructor was saying, "if you ever expect to amount to anything inthis world, you've got to use your eyes and ears. I'm the Professor of Botany your mother was reading about last night, who knew nothing about botany until she began to study it. Next winter when we can't get outdoors, I am going to give you lessons on seeds and roots and things and stems and leaves. The Professor of Botany has got to learn the names of the shapes of leaves and how to spell them. She really ought to own a book but she doesn't, and that can't be helped. You're sure to get what you want some time though, if you only try hard enough, and the Botany Professor will get a book. You just wait.
"Don't think, little girl, because we are skipping straight over to flowers this morning that you are going to get out of learning beginnings. We're taking flowers because it is summer. Of course you know this is a strawberry blossom I hold in my hand. Well, if it wasn't for strawberry blossoms you couldn't have strawberry shortcake, remember that. That's the principal thing about strawberries. This little circle of white leaves is called thecorolla. Now don't get the calyx mixed with the corolla as some children do. I tell you it makes me feel squirmy to hear some big girls recite. You ought to see this flower under a microscope. I guess I'll go and ask Professor Smith for hers."
Marian turned around so quickly Professor Smith was unable to get out of sight. The doll's instructor felt pretty foolish for a moment, but only for a moment.
"Marian Lee," said Miss Smith, "you shall join the botany class next Monday morning and I'll give you a book of mine to study."
"What will the big girls say?" gasped Marian.
"About as much as your doll in there," laughed Miss Smith, adding seriously, "I won't expect too much of you, Marian, but you may as well be in the class and learn all you can."
On Monday morning, although the big girls smiled and the little girls stared, Professor Lee became a member of the botany class and learned to press the wild flowers.
"I won't have the most perfect lessons ofanybody in the class," Marian confided to her doll, "because the big girls know so much; but I'll try and have the best specimens in my herbarium. I can do that, I am sure. I have just got to do something better than any one else in school before I go home."
The following Saturday the doll listened with unchanging face to a confession. "Every one of the big girls can press specimens better than I can. Their violet plants look like pictures but mine look like hay. I guess Uncle George will be discouraged. I don't do anything best. A robin is building a nest just outside the window where my seat is in school and I forgot to study my spelling lesson. Of course I missed half the words. It was the robin's fault. She ought to keep away from school children."
THE COMPOSITION ON WILD FLOWERS
Allthe children in Marian's class were writing in their copy-books "Knowledge is Power." The pens squeaked and scratched and labored across pages lighted by June sunshine. The little girls' fingers were sticky and boy hands were cramped. It was monotonous work. The "K" was hard to make and the capital "P" was all flourishes.
Marian sighed, then raised her hand.
"What is it?" asked Miss Smith.
"Will you tell which one of us has the best looking page when we get through with 'Knowledge is Power'?"
Miss Smith consented and Marian, determined to conquer, grasped her pen firmly and bent to the task. Two days later the page was finished and seven copy-books were piled upon Miss Smith's desk for inspection. At first Miss Smith smiled as she examined thevarious assertions that "Knowledge is Power," then she grew serious.
"Did you try your best, children?" she asked, whereupon five girls and two boys looked surprised and hurt.
"Well, then, I wonder what is the trouble?" continued Miss Smith. "I am ashamed of your work, children, it seems as if you could do better."
"Which is best?" demanded Marian. It made no difference how poor her copy was if only it was better than the others. The child was sorry she had asked the question when she knew the truth. "I think it is pretty discouraging," she said, "when you try your best and do the worst."
"We will begin something new," Miss Smith suggested. "Next week we will write compositions on wild flowers and to the one who does the neatest looking work, I will give the little copy of 'Evangeline' I have been reading to you. It will make no difference whether the compositions are long or short, but the penmanship must be good. Every one of you knows the spring flowers for wehave had them here in school and have talked about them every day."
"Will we have to write in our copy-books just the same?" asked Tommy Perkins.
"No," was the reply; "you may work on your compositions all the time we usually write in the copy-books, and remember, it doesn't make a bit of difference how short your compositions are."
That was exactly what Marian did not remember. At first she wrote:
"No flower is so pretty as the anemone that blooms on the windy hill."
At recess she consulted Miss Smith. "Is that long enough?" she asked.
"Yes, that will do," was the reply.
"Is it fair if I copy off her composition?" asked Tommy Perkins, "and practice writing it? I can't make up one."
"That sentence will do as well as any other," agreed Miss Smith. "I simply wish you to write something you choose to do."
Marian beamed upon Tommy. "I'll copy it for you," she said. "I don't really think anemones are the prettiest flowers, Tommy,but they are easy to write; no ups or downs in the word if the flowers themselves do dance like fairies all the day long."
"I wish't you'd write me a composition," put in Frankie Bean.
"I will," assented Marian, "after school calls, but now, come on out and play."
After recess, Marian passed Frankie a piece of paper upon which was written this:
"Clover loves a sunny home."
"That's easy, Frankie, because 'y' is the only letter below the line. You can say sun-kissed if you would rather keep it all above the line. If I don't get the book, may be you will. I hope you won't be disappointed, though. I would try if I were you. Something may happen to me before next week, you never can tell."
Monday and Tuesday Marian wrote compositions for the four girls to copy. They were more particular than the boys had been and their compositions were longer.
By the time Marian was ready to settle down to her sentence on the anemone, she was tired of it and determined to write somethingnew. Soon she forgot all about penmanship and Friday afternoon found her with a long composition to copy in an hour. Even then, after the first moment of dismay, she forgot that neatness of work alone, would count.
Miss Virginia Smith read the composition aloud.
"Wild Flowers, by Marian Lee.
"When you shut your eyes and think of wild flowers, you always want to open them and fly to the hills and the woods. You wish you had wings like the birds.
"In an old flower legend book that tells about things most folks don't know, I found out what you were always sure of before you knew it. The anemones are fairy blossoms. The pink on the petals was painted by the fairies and on rainy nights elves hide in the dainty blooms.
"Tulips are not wild, but how can I leave them out when the fairies used them for cradles to rock their babies in.
"Some folks laugh at you when you hunt for four-leaved clover, but you can never seethe fairies without one nor go to the fairy kingdom.
"The old book says, too, that the bluebells ring at midnight to call the fairies together. I believe it because I have seen bluebells and have almost heard the music. I don't believe they ever were witches' thimbles.
"You most always get your feet wet when you go after marsh marigolds, but it can't be helped. They are yellow flowers and live where they can hear the frogs all the time. I wonder if they ever get tired of frog concerts. I never do, only I think it is mournful music after the sun goes down. It makes you glad you are safe in the house.
"There is one lovely thing about another yellow flower. It is the cinquefoil and you find it before the violets come if you know where to look. On rainy days and in damp weather, the green leaves bend over and cover the little yellow blossom. The cinquefoil plant must be afraid its little darling will catch cold.
"If you ever feel cross, the best thing you can do is to go out where the wild flowersgrow. You will be sure to hear birds sing and you may see a rabbit or a squirrel. Anyway, you will think thoughts that are not cross."
"Evangeline" was given to Tommy Perkins. He had practiced writing the anemone sentence until his perfectly written words astonished Miss Virginia Smith.
"I know my writing isn't good," admitted a little girl named Marian. "Only see how it goes up-hill and down-hill and how funny the letters are."
MARIAN'S LETTER HOME
Marian'sletters to her Uncle George were written on Sunday afternoons. She wrote pages and pages about Miss Smith and the country school and begged him not to come for her in August.
"I haven't done anything better than any one else in school yet," she wrote, "but I am learning all kinds of things and having the best time ever was. I want to go to the country school until I graduate. I'll be ready for college before you know it if you will only let me stay.
"I am good all the time because Mrs. Golding says so and Miss Ruth and Miss Kate take me almost everywhere they go—when they drive to town, circuses and things and I have lovely times every day.
"I would tell you who I play with only you would forget the names of so many children. When I can't find any one else I go to the mill to see the miller's boy. That isn't much fun because the miller's boy is half foolish. His clothes are always covered with flour and he looks like a little old miller himself. He jumps out at you when you don't know where he is and says 'Boo!' and scares you almost out of your wits, and that makes his father laugh. I tried to teach him to read but I didn't have good luck. He read 'I see the cat' out of almanacs and everything.
"The old miser died last night, Uncle George, and I saw him in the afternoon. Only think of it, I saw a man that died. After dinner I went to see the miller's boy and he wasn't there. His father said he was wandering along the river bank somewhere, so I stayed and talked to the miller. Pretty soon the boy came back making crazy motions with his arms and telling his father the old miser wanted to see him quick.
"I went outside and watched the big wheel of the mill when the boy and his father went away, but it wasn't any time before the boycame back and said the old miser wanted to see me. Of course I went as fast as I could go, and when I got to the hut, the miller asked me if I could say any Bible verses, and if I could to say them quick because the old miser wanted somebody to read the Bible quick—quick. I thought it was queer, Uncle George, but I was glad I had learned so much out of the Bible.
"The old miser was all in rags and I guess he didn't feel well then, because he was lying down on a queer old couch and he didn't stir, but I tell you he watched me. I didn't want to go in the hut, so I stood in the doorway where I could feel the sunshine all around me. Some way I thought that wasn't any time to ask questions, so I began the Twenty-third Psalm right straight off. When I got to the end of that I was going to say the first fourteen verses of John, but the old miser raised one hand and said, 'Again—again,' but before I got any further than 'The valley of the shadow,' he went to sleep looking at me and I never saw his face so happy. It smoothed all out and looked different. Poorold miser, the boys used to plague him. The miller motioned to his boy and me to go away. I guess he was afraid Jakey would wake the old miser. Of course I knew enough to keep still when a tired looking old man dropped to sleep.
"I don't know just when the old miser died, Uncle George, nobody talks about it where I can hear a word. Mrs. Golding says when I grow up I will be glad that I could repeat the Twenty-third Psalm to a poor old man who hadn't any friends. She says it isn't true that he was a miser, he was just an unfortunate old man. I wonder if he was anybody's grandfather? You never can tell.
"I am well acquainted with all the folks in the village, Uncle George, and lots of times I go calling. There are some old folks here who never step outside of their houses and they are glad to have callers. One old blind woman knits all the time. She likes to be read to, real well. And there is one woman, the shoemaker's wife, that has six children that bother her so when she tries to work; she says it does her good to see me coming.
"Only think, Uncle George, how lonesome I will be when I get home where I am not acquainted. The only sad thing that has happened here all summer is that the miser died, and of course you know that might be worse.
"I would like to be with Miss Smith more than I am but she studies almost all the time. I don't see what for because she knows everything, even about the stars. She likes me a great deal but I guess nobody knows it. You mustn't have favorites when you are a school-teacher, she told me so.
"You don't know how hard it is, Uncle George, to do something better than anybody else. You might think it would be easy, but somebody always gets ahead of you in everything, you can't even keep your desk the cleanest. Some girls never bring in anything from the woods, so of course they can keep dusted.
"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed in
"Your loving niece,"Marian Lee."
THE MOST TRUTHFUL CHILD IN SCHOOL
Inthe early morning the schoolhouse was a quiet place, and there Miss Virginia Smith went to study. No one knew why she worked so hard, though Marian often wondered. It was her delight to please Miss Smith, and when the teacher waited several mornings until a certain mail train passed and the letters were distributed, Marian offered to stop at the post-office and get the mail.
"Are you sure you won't lose anything?" asked Miss Smith.
"Sure," promised Marian. "You go to school early as you used to do and I'll bring your letters when I come."
Usually the postmaster gave Marian something to carry to Miss Smith, and all went well until a few days before school closed. Elizabeth Gray called for Marian that morning and together they went to the post-office where they waited on tiptoe for the postmaster to distribute the mail. There was one letter for Miss Smith, a thin, insignificant looking letter.
"That's nothing but an old advertisement," declared Elizabeth; "it wasn't worth waiting for."
"I guess you're right," agreed Marian, "see what it says in the corner. What's a seminary, anyway? Do you know?—'Young Ladies' Seminary.' Some kind of a new fashioned place to buy hats, may be, come on."
"Yes, let's get started before the Prior kids and the Perkinses catch up with us. I can't bear that Tommy Perkins."
"We could play De Soto if we had a crowd," suggested Marian. "You and I could be the head leaders and the Priors and the Perkins could be common soldiers."
"How do you play De Soto?" asked Elizabeth. "I never heard of it."
"You've heard of De Soto, the man that discovered the Mississippi River, I hope."
"Of course, he's in the history."
"Well, Elizabeth, I've been reading about him in one of Mr. Golding's books about early explorations and I knew in a minute that it would be fun to play De Soto on our way to school. Now, I'm De Soto."
"No, I'm going to be De Soto," insisted Elizabeth.
"You don't know how, Elizabeth Jane Gray, and you didn't think of it first. All right, though, you be De Soto if you want to. What are you going to do? Begin."
"You always want to be the head one in everything, Marian Lee. You needn't think I'm Tommy Perkins!"
"I don't, Elizabeth, I think you're that brave Spaniard Moscoso who was leader of the soldiers after De Soto died and was buried in the Mississippi River where the Indians couldn't find him. But if you want to be De Soto, go on, only I don't believe you know a thing about him except what the history says. Well, you're De Soto."
"You'll have to tell me what to do, Marian."
"I guess not, Miss Elizabeth, if you're De Soto you ought to know."
Elizabeth walked on in silence for a few moments until seized by an inspiration. "I'll be De Soto to-morrow morning," she remarked; "it's your turn first, of course, because you thought of the game. I'm—who did you say I am, Marian?"
"You're Moscoso, one of my officers, Elizabeth. Well, I'm De Soto and I have had wonderful adventures in my life. I was with Pizarro in the conquest of Peru and I went back to Spain rich, rich, rich. Now I am the Governor of Cuba and Florida and not long ago I had orders from Spain to explore Florida. Of course, Moscoso, you remember all about it, how we left Cuba with nine ships and landed at Tampa?"
"I remember it, Soty, just as well as if it was yesterday," and Moscoso, laughing merrily, swung his dinner pail in a perfect circle.
"Don't laugh, Moscoso, at serious things," continued De Soto; "and I think you really should call me Governor and I'll call you General. Well, General, we sent most of ourships back to Cuba, and now we're searching for gold in Florida, not in our little State of Florida, but the big, wide, long Florida that used to be. Now, Elizabeth, we'll play wander around for three years, living in Indian villages winters and camping out summers and having fights and discovering new birds to write to Spain about and having all kinds of adventures, until we get to that big ditch at the four corners and that will have to be the Mississippi River, and we'll cross it. We can tie our handkerchiefs to sticks for banners.
"Let's play all the trees are Indians and all the little low bushes are wild beasts. The fences will do for mountains and I guess we'll think of other things to play as we go along. We'll have trouble with our soldiers, of course, they always do when they are hunting for gold. All these fields and woods, no, not woods, forests, I mean, are what you call the interior. Dandelions and buttercups will be gold that we steal from the Indians. We'll be awfully disappointed because this isn't a gold country like Peru, but we will take all there is, and I think we had better talk someabout going home to Spain. Of course I don't know I'm going to die of fever beyond the Mississippi and you don't know you'll have to go back to the coast without me. I wish we could talk a little bit of real Spanish, don't you, Elizabeth?"
"Hush," warned the General from Spain. "I hear Indians. Let's play the wind in the trees is Indian talk, Marian."
"Sure enough, Elizabeth, we must advance cautiously, General Moscoso, they always 'advance cautiously' in the books, or else 'beat a hasty retreat.' We won't dare play retreat or we'll never get to school. Oh, they're friendly Indians, General, how fortunate."
De Soto had crossed the Mississippi when he grew pale as death and suddenly deserted his followers. The banners of Spain trailed in the dust. "Elizabeth Jane Gray, where's that letter?"
Two little girls gazed at each other in dismay.
"Have you lost it?" gasped Elizabeth.
"If I haven't, where is it?" asked Marian.
"Can't you remember anything about it?"Elizabeth went on, "when you had it last, or anything?"
"No, I can't. Let's go straight back over the road and hunt. I must have dropped it and perhaps we may find it if we look. I can't believe it is really lost. Oh, Elizabeth, what shall I do if it is? I adore Miss Smith and what will she think?"
"She won't think anything if you keep still, Marian; the letter was only an old advertisement, anyway."
"Oh, dear, dear, dear!" wailed Marian. "This is dreadful. I don't see a thing that looks like a letter anywhere. I am going to climb a tree and look way off over the fields." Although the children searched faithfully, they could not find the letter.
"We'll hunt at noon," suggested Elizabeth, deeply touched by Marian's distress, "and if I were you I wouldn't say a word about it."
"But Elizabeth, what if she asks me if there was a letter?"
"Fib," was the response.
"It's enough to make anybody, Elizabeth."
"You'll be a goose, Marian, if you own up.I won't tell on you and the letter didn't amount to anything, anyway. Let's run for all we're worth and get there before school calls if we can. Sure's we're late she'll ask questions."
Just as the bell was ringing, two breathless little girls joined their schoolmates. Their faces were flushed and their hair was tumbled. Miss Smith smiled when she saw them, but asked no questions. Noticing Marian's empty hands, she said evidently to herself, "No letter yet!"
"You're going to get out of this as easy's pie, just keep your mouth shut," whispered Elizabeth.
"I shall have to tell," groaned Marian.
"Don't be silly," Elizabeth advised.
During the morning exercises Marian determined to confess no matter what happened. When the chart class was called to the recitation seat she raised her hand and was given permission to speak to Miss Smith. Marian didn't glance towards Elizabeth Gray as she walked to the desk. Elizabeth had never stolen cookies. "Miss Smith," said Marian,"you had a letter this morning and I lost it."
"You dear child, I am so glad you told me," and Miss Smith who had so often insisted that a school-teacher must never have favorites, put her arms around the little girl and kissed the soft, brown hair. "Now tell me what was printed on the envelope if you can remember."
Word for word Marian described the letter.
"It is the one I was expecting," said Miss Smith, and while the chart class waited, their teacher wrote a letter, stamped it and sent it to the post-office by Tommy Perkins.
Two days later, Marian carried Miss Smith a letter exactly like the one she had lost. Miss Smith read it, smiled and asked Marian to stay after school.
"You're going to get your scolding at last," predicted Elizabeth. "I told you not to tell."
At four o'clock the children trooped out and flew down the road like wild birds escaped from a cage, leaving Marian uneasily twisting her handkerchief while she waited for MissSmith to speak. Nothing was said until the sound of childish voices came from a distance. Then Miss Smith looked up and laughed. "Can you keep a secret for a few days, Marian?" she asked. "Come here, dear, and read the letter you brought me this morning."
Marian read the short letter three times before she asked, "Are you going?"
"Going," echoed Miss Smith; "that is the position I have long wished for, Marian. Only think how I shall enjoy teaching botany and English in a boarding-school. You see what they say, Marian, they want an immediate reply or it will be too late. If you hadn't told me about the letter you received the other day, I should have lost the position. I imagined what the letter was and sent for a copy. If you hadn't told me the truth, Marian, only think what a difference it would have made!"
"I just have to tell the truth," said the little girl.
"I believe you, dear, I never saw a more truthful child in my life."
"Would you dare say I am the most honestchild in school?" asked Marian, a sudden light making her face beautiful. "Will you write it down and sign your name?"
"Well, you are the queerest mortal," exclaimed Miss Smith, but reaching for a piece of paper and a pen, she wrote this:
"Marian Lee is the most truthful pupil in my school.
"Virginia Smith, Teacher."
"It's for Uncle George," Marian explained. "He told me to try to do something better than anybody else and I haven't done it. He's coming for me Saturday and please do ask him to send me to your boarding-school. He has often talked about sending me away to school, but I used to be afraid to go and made a dreadful fuss, and then I had diphtheria."
Uncle George arrived on Friday in time to have a long talk with Miss Smith before she left on the evening train. Had Marian known the nature of their conversation, she might not have cried so bitterly when the hour of parting came.
MORE CHANGES
Marianhad been home a month when Uncle George decided to send her to boarding-school.
"It is a curious thing," he remarked to the child, "that other people find it so easy to get along with you, and here at home there is no peace in the house while you are in it."
The man's tones were savage and Marian cried. Tears always angered Uncle George, and when Uncle George was angry with Marian, Aunt Amelia generally sighed and straightway did her duty: and Aunt Amelia's duty towards Marian consisted in giving a detailed account of the child's faults and a history of her sins. She never failed to mention cookies. When Marian was wise, she kept still. If she ventured a remonstrance serious trouble was sure to follow. Out in the fresh air and sunshine, the child managed to behappy in spite of everything: but within the four walls of Aunt Amelia's home it took courage to face life. She didn't know that her uncle had written to Miss Virginia Smith.
"They're going to do something with you, I don't know what," confided Ella. "I'll let you know as soon's I find out." Ella was as good as her word. "They're going to send you to boarding-school," was her next secret announcement, "but when or where, I don't know."
One morning Marian went to her room after breakfast and sat long by the open window, wondering what would become of her and why she had been taken from the Little Pilgrim's Home by an aunt who didn't want her. Tears splashed upon the window sill. Marian wiped her eyes quickly. Young as she was, the child realized how dangerous it is to be sorry for oneself. Without a backward glance, Marian walked from the room and closed the door she was never to open again. When she came home from school that night, the child played in the orchard until supper-time. Then she wondered why Aunt Ameliadidn't send her to her room. An hour passed before the woman looked at the clock and spoke. Instead of the words Marian expected to hear, Aunt Amelia said calmly:
"Your trunk is packed and the carriage is waiting to take you to the station. Get your coat and hat."
"Where am I going and who is going with me?" demanded the child, beginning to tremble so she could scarcely stand.
"I shall accompany you," replied Aunt Amelia, "and it makes no difference where you are going. You will know soon enough."
Marian shot a grateful look towards Ella, who was sobbing in a corner. But for the little cousin's assurance, Marian would have believed she was about to start for the long dreaded reform school. Nevertheless it was a shocking thing to be suddenly torn from every familiar sight and to be going so blindly into the unknown. Marian looked appealingly at Aunt Amelia and Uncle George before she broke down and cried. Aunt Amelia's face was stony, Uncle George looked cross and annoyed. Marian's grief became wild and despairing.
"I wish I could have my mother's picture to take with me," she sobbed, "I wish I could."
"That's a reasonable request and you shall have it," said Uncle George.
"It will be time enough when she is older," Aunt Amelia put in, while Marian held her breath. Would she get the picture or not? A word might ruin her chances, so she kept still, trying hard to smother her sobs.
"Are you going for the picture or shall I?" demanded Uncle George. Aunt Amelia went.
Marian was disappointed when she saw the small photograph of her father and mother. She wished for the face in the oval frame. She would have been more disappointed had she never seen the photograph, because instead of giving it to the child or allowing her to look at the picture, Aunt Amelia wrapped it in a piece of paper and put it in her own satchel.
Outside in the cool, silent night, Marian stopped crying. There was comfort in thesteadily shining stars. During the first long hours on the sleeping car, Marian tossed, tumbled and wondered where she was going. Asleep she dreamed of reform school: awake she feared dreams might come true. When trains rushed by in the darkness the child was frightened and shivered at the thought of wrecks. At last she raised her curtain and watched the stars. Repeating over and over one verse of the poem she had recited the last day of school in the country, she fell peacefully asleep. There were no more troubled dreams nor startled awakenings. When Marian opened her eyes in the morning, the verse still haunted her memory.