Queer Stories

 For Boys and Girls

 BY

 EDWARD EGGLESTON

 AUTHOR OF "THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER, " "THE HOOSIER SCHOOL-BOY, " ETC. 

 NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1884

 Copyright, 1884, by

 EDWARD EGGLESTON

 TROW'S PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, NEW YORK. 

 PREFACE. 

The stories here reprinted include nearly all of those which I havewritten for children in a vein that entitles them to rank as "QueerStories, " that is, stories not entirely realistic in their setting butappealing to the fancy, which is so marked a trait of the minds of boysand girls. "Bobby and the Key-hole" appeared eight or nine years ago in_St. Nicholas_, and has never before been printed in book form. Theothers were written earlier for juvenile periodicals of wide repute intheir time--periodicals that have now gone the way of almost all youngpeople's magazines, to the land of forgetfulness. Although I recall withpleasure the fact that these little tales enjoyed a considerablepopularity when they first appeared, I might just as well as not havecalled them "The Unlucky Stories. " In two or three forms some of thestories that form this collection have appeared in book covers in yearspast, but always to meet with disaster that was no fault of theirs. Twolittle books that contained a part of the stories herein reprinted wereburned up--plates, cuts and all--in the Chicago fire of 1871. Anotherbook, with some of these stories in it, was issued by a publisher inBoston, who almost immediately failed, leaving the plates in pawn. Thesefell into the hands of a man who issued a surreptitious edition, and theninto the possession of another, to whom at length I was forced to pay around sum for the plates, in order to extricate my unfortunate tales fromthe hands of freebooters. This is therefore the first fair and squareissue in book form that these stories have had. For this they have beenrevised by the author, and printed from plates wholly new by theliberality of the present publisher. 

E. E. 

Owls' Nest, Lake George, 1884. 

 CONTENTS. 

QUEER STORIES. PAGE

 Bobby and the Key-hole, a Hoosier Fairy Tale, 3

 Mr. Blake's Walking-stick, 23

 The Chairs in Council, 60

 What the Tea-kettle Said, 67

 Crooked Jack, 72

 The Funny Little Old Woman, 77

 Widow Wiggins' Wonderful Cat, 83

CHICKEN LITTLE STORIES. 

 Simon and the Garuly, 91

 The Joblilies, 101

 The Pickaninny, 111

 The Great Panjandrum Himself, 120

STORIES TOLD ON A CELLAR-DOOR. 

 The Story of a Flutter-wheel, 137

 The Wood-chopper's Children, 143

 The Bound Boy, 149

 The Profligate Prince, 155

 The Young Soap-boiler, 160

 The Shoemaker's Secret, 168

MODERN FABLES. 

 Flat Tail the Beaver, 177

 The Mocking-bird's Singing-school, 181

 The Bobolink and the Owl, 185

 Queer Stories. 

 BOBBY AND THE KEY-HOLE. 

 _A Hoosier Fairy Tale. _

You think that folks in fine clothes are the only folks that ever seefairies, and that poor folks can't afford them. But in the days of thereal old-fashioned "Green Jacket and White Owl's Feather" fairies, itwas the poor boy carrying fagots to the cabin of his widowed mother whosaw wonders of all sorts wrought by the little people; and it was thepoor girl who had a fairy godmother. It must be confessed that themystery-working, dewdrop-dancing, wand-waving, pumpkin-metamorphosinglittle rascals have been spoiled of late years by being admitted intofine houses. Having their pictures painted by artists, their praises sungby poets, their adventures told in gilt-edge books, and, above all, getting into the delicious leaves of St. Nicholas, has made them "stuckup, " so that it is not the poor girl in the cinders, nor the boy with abundle of fagots now, but girls who wear button boots and tie-backskirts, and boys with fancy waists and striped stockings that arebefriended by fairies, whom they do not need. 

But away off from the cities there still lives a race of unflatteredfairies who are not snobbish, and who love little girls and boys inpinafores and ragged jackets. These spirits are not very handsome, andso the artists do not draw their pictures, and they do not get intogilt-edge Christmas books. Dear, ugly, good fairies! I hope they will notbe spoiled by my telling you something about them. 

Little Bobby Towpate saw some of them; and it's about Bobby, and thefairies he saw, that I want to speak. Bobby was the thirteenth child ina rather large family--there were three younger than he. He lived in alog cabin on the banks of a stream, the right name of which is "IndianKentucky Creek. " I suppose it was named "Indian Kentucky" because it isnot in Kentucky, but in Indiana; and as for Indians, they have been gonemany a day. The people always call it "The Injun Kaintuck. " They tuck upthe name to make it shorter. 

Bobby was only four years and three-quarters old, but he had been inpantaloons for three years and a half, for the people in the IndianKaintuck put their little boys into breeches as soon as they canwalk--perhaps a little before. And such breeches! The little white-headedfellows look like dwarf grandfathers, thirteen hundred years of age. Theygo toddling about like old men who have grown little again, and forgotteneverything they ever knew. 

But Bobby Towpate was not ugly. Under his white hair, which "looked everyway for Sunday, " were blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, and a mouth as prettyas it was solemn. The comical little fellow wore an unbleached cottonshirt, and tattered pantaloons, with home-made suspenders or "gallowses. "The pantaloons had always been old, I think, for they were made out of apair of his father's--his "daddy's, " as he would have told you--andnobody ever knew his father to have a new pair, so they must have beenold from the beginning. For in the Indian Kaintuck country nothing everseems to be new. Bobby Towpate himself was born looking about a thousandyears old, and had aged some centuries already. As for hat, he wore oneof his daddy's old hats when he wore any, and it would have answered wellfor an umbrella if it had not been ragged. 

Bobby's play-ground was anywhere along the creek in the woods. There wereso many children that there was nobody to look after him; so he just kepta careful eye on himself, and that made it all right. As he was not avery energetic child, there was no danger of his running into mischief. Indeed, he never ran at all. He was given to sitting down on the groundand listening to the crazy singing of the loons--birds whose favoriteamusement consists in trying to see which can make the most hideousnoise. Then, too, he would watch the stake-drivers flying along thecreek, with their long, ugly necks sticking out in front of them, andtheir long, ugly legs sticking out behind them, and their long, uglywings sticking out on each side of them. They never seemed to have anybodies at all. People call them stake-drivers because their musicalvoices sound like the driving of a stake: "Ke-whack! ke-whack!" They alsocall them "Fly-up-the-creeks, " and plenty of ugly names besides. 

It was one sleepy summer afternoon that Bobby sat on the root of abeech-tree, watching a stake-driver who stood in the water as if lookingfor his dinner of tadpoles, when what should the homely bird do but walkright out on the land and up to Bobby. Bobby then saw that it was not astake-driver, but a long-legged, long-necked, short-bodied gentleman, ina black bob-tail coat. And yet his long, straight nose did look like astake-driver's beak, to be sure. He was one of the stake-driver fairies, who live in the dark and lonesome places along the creeks in the Hoosiercountry. They make the noise that you hear, "Ke-whack! ke-whack!" It maybe the driving of stakes for the protection of the nests of their friendsthe cat-fish. 

"Good-morning, Bobby, ke-whack!" said the long, slim gentleman, noddinghis head. He said ke-whack after his words because that is the politething to do among the stake-driver fairies. 

"My name haint Bobby Ke-whack, nur nothin', " answered Bobby. The peopleon Indian Kaintuck say "nor nothin', " without meaning anything by it. "Myname haint on'y jeth Bob, an' nothin' elth. "

But the slender Mr. Fly-up-the-creek only nodded and said ke-whack two orthree times, by way of clearing his throat. 

"Maybe you'd like to see the folks underground, ke-whack, " he addedpresently. "If you would, I can show you the door and how to unlock it. It's right under the next cliff, ke-whack! If you get the door open, youmay go in and find the Sleepy-headed People, the Invisible People, andall the rest, ke-whack!"

"Ke-whack!" said Bob, mimicking, and grinning till he showed his row ofwhite milk-teeth. But the gentleman stake-driver must have been offended, for he walked away into the water and disappeared among the willows, saying, "Ke-whack! ke-whack!" in an indignant way at every step. 

When once the stake-driver fairy had gone, Bob was troubled. He waslonesome. He had always been lonesome, because the family was so large. There is never any company for a body where there are so many. Now Bobwished that "Ole Ke-whack, " as he called him, had not walked off into thewillows in such a huff. He would like to see who lived under the ground, you know. After a while, he thought he would go and look for the doorunder the cliff. Bobby called it "clift, " after the manner of the peopleon the Indian Kaintuck. 

Once under the cliff, he was a long time searching around for a door. Atlast he found a something that looked like a door in the rock. He lookedto see if there was a latch-string, for the houses in the Indian Kaintuckare opened with latch-strings. But he could not find one. Then he said tohimself (for Bobby, being a lonesome boy, talked to himself a great deal)words like these:

"Ole Ke-whack thed he knowed wharabout the key mout be. The time I wentdown to Madison, to market with mammy, I theed a feller dretht up to killcome along and open hith door with a iron thing. That mout be a key. Wonder ef I can't find it mythelf! There, I come acrost the hole what itgoeth into. "

He had no trouble in "coming acrost" the key itself, for he found itlying on the ground. He took it up, looked at it curiously, and said:"Thith thing muth be a key. " So he tried to put it into the key-hole, butan unexpected difficulty met him. Every time he tried to put in the key, the key-hole, which before was in easy reach, ran up so far that he couldnot get to it. He picked up some loose stones and piled them up againstthe door, and stood on them on his tiptoes, but still the key-hole shotup out of his reach. At last he got down exhausted, and sat down on thepile of stones he had made, with his back to the door. On looking round, he saw that the key-hole was back in its old place, and within a fewinches of his head. He turned round suddenly and made a dive at it, withthe key held in both hands, but the key-hole shot up like a rocket, untilit was just out of his reach. 

After trying to trap this key-hole in every way he could, he sat down ona stone and looked at it a minute, and then said very slowly: "Well, Inever! That beats me all holler! What a funny thing a key-hole muth be. "

At last he noticed another key-hole in the rock, not far away, andconcluded to try the key in that. The key went in without trouble, andBob turned it round several times, until the iron key had turned to brassin his hands. 

"The blamed thing ith turnin' yaller!" cried little Towpate. You mustexcuse Bob's language. You might have talked in the same way if you hadbeen so lucky as to be born on the Indian Kaintuck. 

Seeing that he could not open anything by turning the key round in thiskey-hole, since there was no door here, he thought he would now try whatluck he might have with the "yaller" key in opening the door. Thekey-hole might admit a brass key. But what was his amazement to find ontrying, that the key-hole which had run upward from an iron key, now randown toward the bottom of the door. He pulled away the stones and stoopeddown till his head was near the ground, but the key-hole disappeared offthe bottom of the door. When he gave up the chase it returned as before. Bobby worked himself into a great heat trying to catch it, but it was ofno use. 

Then he sat down again and stared at the door, and again he said slowly:"Well, I never, in all my born'd days! That beats me all holler! What athing a keyhole ith! But that feller in town didn't have no trouble. "

After thinking a while he looked at the key, and came to the conclusionthat, as the key-hole went up from an iron key, and down from a brassone, that if he had one half-way between, he should have no trouble. "Thith key ith too _awful_ yaller, " he said. "I'll put it back andturn it half-way back, and then we'll thee. "

So he stuck it into the key-hole and tried to turn it in the oppositedirection to the way he had turned it before. But it would not turn tothe left at all. So he let go and stood off looking at it a while, when, to his surprise, the key began turning to the right of its own accord. And as it turned it grew whiter, until it was a key of pure silver. 

"Purty good for you, ole hoss, " said Bob, as he pulled out the brightsilver key. "We'll thee if you're any better'n the black one and theyaller one. "

But neither would the silver one open the door; for the key-hole was asmuch afraid of it as of the brass one and the iron one. Only now itneither went up nor down, but first toward one side of the door and thentoward the other, according to the way in which the key approached it. Bobby, after a while, went at it straight from the front, whereupon thekey-hole divided into two parts--the one half running off the door to theright, the other to the left. 

"Well, that'th ahead of my time, " said Bob. But he was by this time somuch amused by the changes in the key and the antics of the nimblekey-hole, that he did not care much whether the door opened or not. Hewaited until he had seen the truant key-hole take its place again, andthen he took the silver key back to the other key-hole. As soon as heapproached it the key leaped out of his hand, took its place in thekey-hole, and began to turn swiftly round. When it stopped the silver hadbecome gold. 

"Yaller again, by hokey, " said Bob. And he took the gold key and wentback, wondering what the key-hole would do now. But there was now nokey-hole. It had disappeared entirely. 

Bob stood off and looked at the place where it had been, let his jaw dropa little in surprise and disappointment, and came out slowly with this:"Well, I never, in all my born'd days!"

He thought best now to take the key back and have it changed once more. But the other key-hole was gone too. Not knowing what to do, he returnedto the door and put the key up where the nimble key-hole had been, whereupon it reappeared, the gold key inserted itself, and the dooropened of its own accord. 

Bob eagerly tried to enter, but there stood somebody in the door, blocking the passage. 

"Hello!" said Bob. "You here, Ole Ke-whack? How did you get in? By theback door, I 'low. "

"Put my yellow waistcoat back where you got it, ke-whack!" said thestake-driver, shivering. "It's cold in here, and how shall I go to theparty without it, ke-whack!"

"Your yaller wescut?" said Bob. "I haint got no wescut, ke-whack or noke-whack. "

"You must put that away!" said the fly-up-the-creek, pecking his longnose at the gold key. "Ke-whack! ke-whack!"

"Oh!" said Towpate, "why didn't you say so?" Then he tossed the gold keydown on the ground, where he had found the iron one, but the key stoodstraight up, waving itself to and fro, while Bobby came out with hisdrawling: "Well, I never!"

"Pick it up! Pick it up! Ke-whack! You've pitched my yellow waistcoatinto the dirt, ke-whack, ke-whack!"

"Oh! You call that a wescut, do you. Well, I never!" And Bobby picked upthe key, and since he could think of no place else to put it, he put itinto the key-hole, upon which it unwound itself to the left till it wassilver. Bobby, seeing that the key had ceased to move, pulled it out andturned toward the open door to see the stake-driver wearing a yellowvest, which he was examining with care, saying, "Ke-whack, ke-whack, " ashe did so. "I knew you'd get spots on it, ke-whack, throwing it on theground that way. "

Poor Bobby was too much mystified by this confusion between the gold keyand the yellow vest, or "wescut, " as they call it on the Indian Kaintuck, to say anything. 

"Now, my white coat, put that back, ke-whack, " said the fly-up-the-creekfairy. "I can't go to the party in my shirt sleeves, ke-whack. "

"I haint got your coat, Ole Daddy Longlegs, " said Bobby, "'less you meanthis key. "

On this suspicion he put the key back, upon which it again unwound itselfto the left and became brass. As soon as Bobby had pulled out the brasskey and turned round, he saw that the fairy was clad in a white coat, which, with his stunning yellow vest, made him cut quite a figure. 

"Now, my yellow cap, " said the stake-driver, adding a cheerful ke-whackor two, and Bobby guessed that he was to put the brass key in thekey-hole, whereupon it was immediately turned round by some unseen poweruntil it became iron, and then thrown out on the ground where BobbyTowpate had found it at first. Sure enough, the fairy now wore a yellowcap, and, quick as thought, he stepped out to where the key was lying, and struck it twice with his nose, whereupon it changed to a pair ofthree-toed boots, which he quickly drew on. Then he turned and bowed toBobby, and said:

"Ke-whack! You've ironed my coat and vest, and brushed my cap and blackedmy boots. Good-day, ke-whack, I'm going to the party. You can go in ifyou want to. "

Bobby stood for some time, looking after him as he flew away along thecreek, crying "ke-whack, ke-whack, ke-whack!" And Bobby said once again:"Well, I never, in all my born'd days, " and then added, "Haint DaddyLonglegs peart? Thinks he's _some_ in his yaller wescut, I 'low. "

When once the fly-up-the-creek had gone out of sight and out of hearing, Bobby started on his search for the Sleepy-headed People. He travelledalong a sort of underground gallery or cave, until he came to a roundbasin-like place. Here he found people who looked like fat little boysand girls, rather than men and women. They were lolling round in a ring, while one of the number read drowsily from a big book which was lying ona bowlder in the middle of this Sleepy-hollow. All seemed to be lookingand listening intently. But as soon as those who sat facing Bobby caughtsight of him, they gave a long yawn and fell into a deep sleep. One afteranother they looked at him, and one after another the little round, lazyfellows gaped, until it seemed their heads would split open, then fellover and slept soundly, snoring like little pigs. Bobby stood still withastonishment. He did not even find breath to say, "Well, I never!" Forpresently every one of the listeners had gone off to sleep. The reader, whose back was toward the new-comer, did not see him. He was the only oneleft awake, and Bobby looked to see him drop over at any moment. But thelittle fat man read right along in a drawling, sleepy mumble, somethingabout the Athenians until Bob cried out: "Hello, Ole Puddin'-bag, everybody'th gone to thleep; you'd jeth as well hole up yer readin' awhile. "

The little man rolled his eyes round upon Bob, and said: "Oh, my! I'mgone off again!" And then he stretched his fat cheeks in an awful yawn. 

"Hey! You'll never get that mouth of your'n shet, ef you don't be mightykeerful, " cried Bob; but the fellow was fast asleep before he could getthe words out. 

"Well now, that'th a purty lookin' crowd, haint it?" said Bob, lookinground upon the sleepers. 

Just at that moment they began to wake up, one after another, but as soonas they saw Bob, they sighed and said: "He's so curious, " or, "He's sointeresting, " or something of the sort, and fell away into a deep slumberagain. At last Bob undertook to wake some of them up by hallooing, butthe more noise he made, the more soundly they slept. Then he gave overshaking them and shouting at them, and sat down. As soon as he was quietthey began to wake up again. 

"Hello!" cried Bob, when he saw two or three of them open their eyes. 

"If you'd only keep still till I get awake, " said one of them, and thenthey all went to sleep again. 

By keeping quite still he got them pretty well waked up. Then they allfell to counting their toes, to keep from becoming too much interested inBobby, for just so sure as they get interested or excited, theSleepy-headed People fall asleep. Presently the reader awoke, and beganto mumble a lot of stuff out of the big book, about Epaminondas, andSesostris, and Cyaxeres, and Clearchus, and the rest, and they all grew alittle more wakeful. When he came to an account of a battle, Bobby beganto be interested a little in the story, but all the others yawned andcried out, "Read across, read across!" and the reader straightway readclear across the page, mixing the two columns into hopeless nonsense, soas to destroy the interest. Then they all waked up again. 

"I know a better thtory than that air!" said Bobby, growing tired of thelong mumbling reading of the dull book. 

"Do you? Tell it, " said the reader. 

So Bobby began to tell them some of his adventures, upon which they allgrew interested and fell asleep. 

"Don't tell any more like that, " said the little reader, when he awoke. 

"What'th the matter weth it? Heap better thtory than that big book thatyou're a mumblin' over, Mr. Puddin'. "

"We don't like interesting stories, " said the sleepy reader. "They put usto sleep. This is the best book in the world. It's Rollin's AncientHistory, and it hasn't got but a few interesting spots in the whole ofit. Those we keep sewed up, so that we can't read them. The rest is allso nice and dull, that it keeps us awake all day. "

Bobby stared, but said nothing. 

"Can you sing?" said one of the plump little old women. 

"Yeth, I can sing Dandy Jim. "

"Let's have it. I do love singing; it soothes me and keeps me awake. "

Thus entreated, little Bobby stood up and sang one verse of a negro songhe had heard, which ran:

 "When de preacher took his tex' He look so berry much perplex' Fur nothin' come acrost his mine But Dandy Jim from Caroline!"

Bobby shut his eyes tight, and threw his head back and sang through hisnose, as he had seen big folks do. He put the whole of his little soulinto these impressive words. When he had finished and opened his eyes todiscover what effect his vocal exertions had produced, his audience wasof course fast asleep. 

"Well, I never!" said Bob. 

"The tune's too awful lively, " said the little old woman, when she wokeup. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Now, hear me sing. " And shebegan, in a slow, solemn movement, the most drawling tune you ever heard, and they all joined in the same fashion:

 "Poor old Pidy, She died last Friday: Poor old creetur, The turkey-buzzards----"

But before they could finish the line, while they were yet hanging to thetails of the turkey-buzzards, so to speak, Bobby burst out with:

"La! that'th the toon the old cow died on. I wouldn't thing that. "

"You wouldn't, hey?" said the woman, getting angry. 

"No, I wouldn't, little dumplin'. "

Whereupon the little woman got so furious that she Went fast asleep, andthe reader, growing interested and falling into a doze, tumbled off hischair on his head, but as his head was quite soft and puttyish, it didhim no particular harm, except that the fall made him sleep more soundlythan ever. 

When they had waked up again, Bobby thought it time to move on, but assoon as he offered to move, the Sleepy-heads surrounded him and began tosing a drawling song, which made Bobby sleepy. He soon found that theymeant to make him one of themselves, and this was not at all to histaste. He struggled to get away, but something held him about the feet. What should he do?

Suddenly a bright thought came to his relief. The Sleepy-heads were nowall standing in a ring around him. He began to tell a story at the top ofhis voice:

"My gran'pappy, he fit weth a red Injun. An' the Injun he chopped mygran'pappy's finger off weth his tomahawk, and----"

But at this point all the little people got intensely excited overBobby's gran'pappy's fight, and so, of course, fell asleep and fellforward into a pile on top of Bobby, who had an awful time getting outfrom under the heap. Just as he emerged, the people began to wake up andto lay hold of his feet, but Bobby screamed out:

"And my gran'pappy, he up weth his hatchet and he split the nasty ole redInjun's head open----"

They were all fast asleep again. 

Bobby now ran off toward the door, not caring to go any furtherunderground at present, though he knew there were other wonders beyond. He reached the door at last, but it was closed. There was no key-holeeven. 

After looking around a long time he found the Fly-up-the-creek fairy, notfar from the door, sitting by a fire, with a large, old owl sitting overagainst him. 

"Give me the key to the door, Ole Ke-whack!" said Bobby. 

"Oh, no! I will not give you my clothes, ke-whack! Do you think I wouldgive you my party clothes? If you hadn't sung so loud, the door wouldn'thave shut. You scared it. Now I can't give you my fine clothes, and soyou'll have to stay here, ke-whack!"

Poor Bobby sat down by the fire, not knowing what to do. "I don't want tostay here, Ke-whack!" he whimpered. 

"Tell him about the Sleepy-headed People, " said the owl to Bobby, solemnly. 

"Shut up, old man, or I'll bite your head off!" said the Fly-up-the creekto the owl. 

"Do as I say, " said the owl. "If you stay here, you'll turn to an owl ora bat. Be quick. The Sleepy-heads are his cousins--he doesn't like tohear about them. "

"Don't mind a word the old man says, ke-whack!"

"Give me the key, then, " said Bobby. 

"Do as I say, " said the owl. 

The Fly-up-the-creek uttered an angry "ke-whack" and tried to bite offthe owl's head, but the "old man" hopped out of his way. Bobby began totell the story of his adventures among the Sleepy-heads, and thestake-driver kept crying, "Ke-whack! ke-whack!" to drown his words; butas Bobby's shrill voice rose higher the stake-driver's voice becameweaker and weaker. Bobby was so amazed that he stopped. 

"Go on!" groaned the owl, "or you'll never get out, or I either. "

So Bobby kept up his talk until the stake-driver was lying senseless onthe floor. 

"Put the key in the lock, quick, " cried the owl. 

"Where is the key?"

"His fine clothes. Take them off, quick! Cap first!"

Bobby began with the cap, then stripped off the coat and vest and boots. 

"Put them in the keyhole, quick!" said the owl, for the stake-driver wasreviving. 

"Where is the key-hole?"

"There! there!" cried the owl, pointing to the fire. By this time theFly-up-the-creek had already begun to reach out for his clothes, whichBobby hastily threw into the fire. The fire went out, the great door nearby swung open, and the big-eyed owl, followed by Bobby, walked out, saying, "I'm free at last. "

Somehow, in the daylight, he was not any longer an owl, but an old man ingray clothes, who hobbled off down the road. 

And Bobby looked after him until he saw the stake-driver, shorn of hisfine clothes, sweep over his head and go flying up the creek again. Thenhe turned toward his father's cabin, saying:

"Well, I never! Ef that haint the beatinest thing I ever did see in allmy born'd days. "

And I think it was. 

 MR. BLAKE'S WALKING-STICK. 

 I. 

 THE WALKING-STICK WALKS. 

Some men carry canes. Some men make the canes carry them. I never couldtell just what Mr. Blake carried his cane for. I am sure it did not oftenfeel his weight. For he was neither old, nor rich, nor lazy. 

He was a tall, straight man, who walked as if he loved to walk, with acheerful tread that was good to see. I am sure he didn't carry the canefor show. It was not one of those little sickly yellow things, that somemen nurse as tenderly as they might a lapdog. It was a great black stickof solid ebony, with a box-wood head, and I think Mr. Blake carried itfor company. And it had a face, like that of an old man, carved on oneside of the box-wood head. Mr. Blake kept it ringing in a hearty way uponthe pavement as he walked, and the boys would look up from their marbleswhen they heard it, and say: "There comes Mr. Blake, the minister!" And Ithink that nearly every invalid and poor person in Thornton knew thecheerful voice of the minister's stout ebony stick. 

It was a clear, crisp, sunshiny morning in December. The leaves were allgone, and the long lines of white frame houses that were hid away in thethick trees during the summer, showed themselves standing in straightrows now that the trees were bare. And Purser, Pond & Co. 's great factoryon the brook in the valley below was plainly to be seen, with its longrows of windows shining and shimmering in the brilliant sun, and itsbrick chimney reached up like the Tower of Babel, and poured out a steadystream of dense, black smoke. 

It was just such a shining winter morning. Mr. Blake and hiswalking-stick were just starting out for a walk together. "It's a finemorning, " thought the minister, as he shut the parsonage gate. And whenhe struck the cane sharply on the stones it answered him cheerily: "It'sa fine morning!" The cane always agreed with Mr. Blake. So they were ableto walk together, according to Scripture, because they were agreed. 

Just as he came round the corner the minister found a party of boyswaiting for him. They had already heard the cane remarking that it was afine morning before Mr. Blake came in sight. 

"Good-morning! Mr. Blake, " said the three boys. 

"Good-morning, my boys; I'm glad to see you, " said the minister, and heclapped "Old Ebony" down on the sidewalk, and it said "I am glad to seeyou. "

"Mr. Blake!" said Fred White, scratching his brown head and looking alittle puzzled. "Mr. Blake, if it ain't any harm--if you don't mind, youknow, telling a fellow, --a boy, I mean----" Just here he stopped talking;for though he kept on scratching vigorously, no more words would come;and comical Sammy Bantam, who stood alongside, whispered, "Keepa-scratching, Fred; the old cow will give down after a while!"

Then Fred laughed, and the other boys, and the minister laughed, and thecane could do nothing but stamp its foot in amusement. 

"Well, Fred, " said the minister, "what is it? Speak out. " But Fredcouldn't speak now for laughing, and Sammy had to do the talking himself. He was a stumpy boy, who had stopped off short; and you couldn't guesshis age, because his face was so much older than his body. 

"You see, Mr. Blake, " said Sammy, "we boys wanted to know--if therewasn't any harm in your telling--why, we wanted to know what kind of athing we are going to have on Christmas at our Sunday-school. "

"Well, boys, I don't know any more about it yet than you do. The teacherswill talk it over at their next meeting. They have already settled somethings, but I have not heard what. "

"I hope it will be something good to eat, " said Tommy Puffer. Tommy'sbody looked for all the world like a pudding-bag. It was an india-rubberpudding-bag, though. I shouldn't like to say that Tommy was a glutton. But I am sure that no boy of his age could put out of sight, in the samespace of time, so many dough-nuts, ginger-snaps, tea-cakes, apple-dumplings, pumpkin-pies, jelly-tarts, puddings, ice-creams, raisins, nuts, and other things of the sort. Other people stared at himin wonder. He was never too full to take anything that was offered him, and at parties his weak and foolish mother was always getting all shecould to stuff Tommy with. So when Tommy said he hoped it would besomething nice to eat, and rolled his soft lips about, as though he had acream-tart in his mouth, all the boys laughed, and Mr. Blake smiled. Ithink even the cane would have smiled if it had thought it polite. 

"I hope it'll be something pleasant, " said Fred Welch. 

"So do I, " said stumpy little Tommy Bantam. 

"So do I, boys, " said Mr. Blake, as he turned away; and all the way downthe block Old Ebony kept calling back, "So do I, boys! so do I!"

Mr. Blake and his friend the cane kept on down the street, until theystood in front of a building that was called "The Yellow Row. " It was along, two-story frame building, that had once been inhabited by genteelpeople. Why they ever built it in that shape, or why they daubed it withyellow paint, is more than I can tell. But it had gone out of fashion, and now it was, as the boys expressed it, "seedy. " Old hats and oldclothes filled many of the places once filled by glass. Into one room ofthis row Mr. Blake entered, saying:

"How are you, Aunt Parm'ly?"

"Howd'y, Mr. Blake, howd'y! I know'd you was a-comin', honey, fer Ihyeard the sound of yer cane afore you come in. I'm mis'able these yerdays, thank you. I'se got a headache, an' a backache, and a toothache inde boot. "

I suppose the poor old colored woman meant to say that she had atoothache "to boot. "

"You see, Mr. Blake, Jane's got a little sumpin to do now, and we can gitbread enough, thank the Lord, but as fer coal, that's the hardest of all. We has to buy it by the bucketful, and that's mighty high at fifteencents a bucket. An' pears like we couldn't never git nothin' ahead onaccount of my roomatiz. Where de coal's to come from dis ere winter Idon't know, cep de good Lord sends it down out of the sky; and I reckonstone-coal don't never come dat dar road. "

After some more talk, Mr. Blake went in to see Peter Sitles, the blindbroom-maker. 

"I hyeard yer stick, preacher Blake, " said Sitles. "That air stick o'yourn's better'n a whole rigimint of doctors fer the blues. An' I've beena-havin' on the blues powerful bad, Mr. Blake, these yer last few days. Iremembered what you was a-saying the last time you was here, abouttrustin' of the good Lord. But I've had a purty consid'able heartacheunder my jacket fer all that. Now, there's that Ben of mine, " and hereSitles pointed to a restless little fellow of nine years old, whose pantshad been patched and pieced until they had more colors than Joseph'scoat. He was barefoot, ragged, and looked hungry, as some poor childrenalways do. Their minds seem hungrier than their bodies. He was rocking ababy in an old cradle. "There's Ben, " continued the blind man, "he's aspeart a boy as you ever see, preacher Blake, ef I do say it as hadn'torter say it. Bennie hain't got no clothes. I can't beg. But Ben orter bein school. " Here Peter Sitles choked a little. 

"How's broom-making Peter?" said the minister. 

"Well, you see, it's the machines as is a-spoiling us. The machines makesbrooms cheap, and what can a blind feller like me do agin the machineswith nothing but my fingers? 'Tain't no sort o' use to butt my head aginthe machines, when I ain't got no eyes nother. It's like a goat trying iton a locomotive. Ef I could only eddicate Peter and the other two, I'd besatisfied. You see, I never had no book-larnin' myself, and I can't talkproper no more'n a cow can climb a tree. "

"But, Mr. Sitles, how much would a broom-machine cost you?" asked theminister. 

"More'n it's any use to think on. It'll cost seventy dollars, and if itcost seventy cents 'twould be jest exactly seventy cents more'n I couldafford to pay. For the money my ole woman gits fer washin' don't gonoways at all towards feedin' the four children, let alone buying me amachine. "

The minister looked at his cane, but it did not answer him. Somethingmust be done. The minister was sure of that. Perhaps the walking-stickwas, too. But what?

That was the question. 

The minister told Sitles good-by, and started to make other visits. Andon the way the cane kept crying out, "Something _must_ be done--somethingMUST be done--something MUST be done, " making the _must_ ring out sharperevery time. When Mr. Blake and the walking-stick got to the market-house, just as they turned off from Milk Street into the busier Main Street, thecane changed its tune and begun to say, "But what--but _what_--butWHAT--but WHAT, " until it said it so sharply that the minister's headached, and he put Old Ebony under his arm, so that it couldn't talk anymore. It was a way he had of hushing it up when he wanted to think. 

 II. 

 LONG-HEADED WILLIE. 

"De biskits is cold, and de steaks is cold as--as--ice, and dinner'sspiled!" said Curlypate, a girl about three years old, as Mr. Blake camein from his forenoon of visiting. She tried to look very much vexed and"put out, " but there was always either a smile or a cry hidden away inher dimpled cheek. 

"Pshaw! Curlypate, " said Mr. Blake as he put down his cane, "you don'tscold worth a cent!" And he lifted her up and kissed her. 

And then Mamma Blake smiled, and they all sat down to the table. Whilethey ate, Mr. Blake told about his morning visits, and spoke of Parm'lywithout coal, and Peter Sitles with no broom-machine, and describedlittle Ben Sitles' hungry face, and told how he had visited the widowMartin, who had no sewing-machine, and who had to receive help from theoverseer of the poor. The overseer told her that she must bind out herdaughter, twelve years old, and her boy of ten, if she expected to haveany help; and the mother's heart was just about broken at the thought oflosing her children. 

Now, while all this was taking place, Willie Blake, the minister's son, aboy about thirteen years of age, sat by the big porcelain water-pitcher, listening to all that was said. His deep blue eyes looked past thepitcher at his father, then at his mother, taking in all theirdescriptions of poverty with a wondrous pitifulness. But he did not saymuch. What went on in his long head I do not know, for his was one ofthose heads that projected forward and backward, and the top of whichoverhung the base, for all the world like a load of hay. Now and then hismother looked at him, as if she would like to see through and read histhoughts. But I think she didn't see anything but the straight, silken, fine, flossy hair, silvery white, touched a little bit--only a little--ashe turned it in looking from one to the other, with a tinge of whatpeople call a golden, but what is really a sort of a pleasant strawcolor. He usually talked, and asked questions, and laughed like otherboys; but now he seemed to be swallowing the words of his father andmother more rapidly even than he did his dinner; for, like most boys, heate as if it were a great waste of time to eat. But when he was done hedid not hurry off as eagerly as usual to reading or to play. He sat andlistened. 

"What makes you look so sober, Willie?" asked Helen, his sister. 

"What you thinkin', Willie?" said Curlypate, peering through the pitcherhandle at him. 

"Willie, " broke in his father, "mamma and I are going to a wedding out atSugar Hill----"

"Sugar Hill; O my!" broke in Curlypate. 

"Out at Sugar Hill, " continued Mr. Blake, stroking the Curlypate, "and asI have some calls to make, we shall not be back till bedtime. I am sorryto keep you from your play this Saturday afternoon, but we have no otherhousekeeper but you and Helen. See that the children get their suppersearly, and be careful about fire. "

I believe to "be careful about fire" is the last command that everyparent gives to children on leaving them alone. 

Now I know that people who write stories are very careful nowadays not tomake their boys too good. I suppose that I ought to represent Willie as"taking on" a good deal when he found that he couldn't play all Saturdayafternoon, as he had expected. But I shall not. For one thing, at least, in my story, is true; that is, Willie. If I tell you that he is good youmay believe it. I have seen him. 

He only said, "Yes, sir. "

Mrs. Blake did not keep a girl. The minister did not get a small fortuneof a salary. So it happened that Willie knew pretty well how to keephouse. He was a good brave boy, never ashamed to help his mother in aright manly way. He could wash dishes and milk the cow, and often, whenmamma had a sick-headache, had he gotten a good breakfast, neverforgetting tea and toast for the invalid. 

So Sancho, the Canadian pony, was harnessed to the minister's rustybuggy, and Mr. And Mrs. Blake got in and told the children good-by. ThenSancho started off, and had gone about ten steps, when he was suddenlyreined up with a "Whoa!"

"Willie!" said Mr. Blake. 

"Sir. "

"Be careful about fire. "

"Yes, sir. "

And then old blackey-brown Sancho moved on in a gentle trot, and Willieand Helen and Richard went into the house, where Curlypate had alreadygone, and where they found her on tiptoe, with her short little fingersin the sugar-bowl, trying in vain to find a lump that would not go topieces in the vigorous squeeze that she gave in her desire to make sureof it. 

So Willie washed the dishes, while Helen wiped them, and Richard put themaway, and they had a merry time, though Willie had to soothe severalrising disputes between Helen and Richard. Then a glorious lot of woodwas gotten in, and Helen came near sweeping a hole in the carpet in hereager desire to "surprise mamma. " Curlypate went in the parlor and piledthings up in a wonderful way, declaring that she, too, was going to"_susprise_ mamma. " And doubtless mamma would have felt no littlesurprise if she could have seen the parlor after Curlypate "put it torights. "

Later in the evening the cow was milked, and a plain supper of bread andmilk eaten. Then Richard and Curlypate were put away for the night. Andpresently Helen, who was bravely determined to keep Willie company, foundher head trying to drop off her shoulders, and so she had to give up tothe "sand man, " and go to bed. 

 III. 

 THE WALKING-STICK A TALKING STICK. 

Willie was now all by himself. He put on more wood, and drew therocking-chair up by the fire, and lay back in it. It was very still; hecould hear every mouse that moved. The stillness seemed to settle cleardown to his heart. Presently a wagon went clattering by. Then, as thesound died away in the distance, it seemed stiller than ever. Willietried to sleep; but he couldn't. He kept listening; and after all he waslistening to nothing; nothing but that awful clock, that would keep upsuch a tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick. The curtains were down, andWillie didn't dare to raise them, or to peep out. He could _feel_ howdark it was out doors. 

But presently he forgot the stillness. He fell to thinking of what hisfather had said at dinner. He thought of poor old rheumatic Parm'ly, andher single bucket of coal at a time. He thought of the blind broom-makerwho needed a broom-machine, and of the poor widow whose children must betaken away because the mother had no sewing-machine. All of thesethoughts made the night seem dark, and they made Willie's heart heavy. But the thoughts kept him company. 

Then he wished he was rich, and he thought if he were as rich as CaptainPurser, who owned the mill, he would give away sewing-machines to allpoor widows who needed them. But pshaw! what was the use of wishing? Histhreadbare pantaloons told him how far off he was from being rich. 

But he would go to the Polytechnic; he would become a civil engineer. Hewould make a fortune some day when he became celebrated. Then he wouldgive Widow Martin a sewing-machine. This was the nice castle in the airthat Willie built. But just as he put on the last stone a single thoughtknocked it down. 

What would become of the widow and her children while he was learning tobe an engineer and making a fortune afterward? And where would he get themoney to go to the Polytechnic? This last question Willie had asked everyday for a year or two past. 

Unable to solve this problem, his head grew tired, and he lay down on thelounge, saying to himself, "Something must be done!"

"Something must be done!" Willie was sure somebody spoke. He lookedaround. There was nobody in the room. 

"Something _must_ be done!" This time he saw in the corner of the room, barely visible in the shadow, his father's cane. The voice seemed to comefrom that corner. 

"Something MUST be done!" Yes, it was the cane. He could see its head, and the face on one side was toward him. How bright its eyes were! Itdid not occur to Willie just then that there was anything surprising inthe fact that the walking-stick had all at once become a talking stick. 

"Something MUST be done!" said the cane, lifting its one foot up andbringing it down with emphasis at the word must. Willie felt pleased thatthe little old man--I mean the walking-stick--should come to his help. 

"I tell you what, " said Old Ebony, hopping out of his shady corner; "Itell you what, " it said, and then stopped as if to reflect; then finishedby saying, "It's a shame!"

Willie was about to ask the cane to what he referred, but he thought bestto wait till Old Ebony got ready to tell of his own accord. But thewalking-stick did not think best to answer immediately, but took entirelya new and surprising track. It actually went to quoting Scripture!

"My eyes are dim, " said the cane, "and I never had much learning; canesweren't sent to school when I was young. Won't you read the thirty-fifthverse of the twentieth chapter of Acts. "

Willie turned to the stand and saw the Bible open at that verse. He didnot feel surprised. It seemed natural enough to him. He read the verse, not aloud, but to himself, for Old Ebony seemed to hear his thoughts. Heread:

"Ye ought to support the weak, and to remember the words of the LordJesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive. "

"Now, " said the walking-stick, stepping or hopping up toward the loungeand leaning thoughtfully over the head of it, "Now, I say that it is ashame that when the birthday of that Lord Jesus, who said it is moreblessed to give than to receive, comes round, all of you Sunday-schoolscholars are thinking only of what you are going to get. "

Willie was about to say that they gave as well as received on Christmas, and that his class had already raised the money to buy a Bible Dictionaryfor their teacher. But Old Ebony seemed to guess his thought, and he onlysaid, "And that's another shame!"

Willie couldn't see how this could be, and he thought the walking-stickwas using very strong language indeed. I think myself the cane spoke toosharply, for I don't think the harm lies in giving to and receiving fromour friends, but in neglecting the poor. But you don't care what I think, you want to know what the cane said. 

"I'm pretty well acquainted with Scripture, " said Old Ebony, "havingspent fourteen years in company with a minister. Now won't you pleaseread the twelfth and thirteenth verses of the fourteenth chapter of----"

But before the cane could finish the sentence, Willie heard some oneopening the door. It was his father. He looked round in bewilderment. Theoil in the lamp had burned out, and it was dark. The fire was low, andthe room chilly. 

"Heigh-ho, Willie, my son, " said Mr. Blake, "where's your light, andwhere's your fire. This is a cold reception. What have you been doing?"

"Listening to the cane talk, " he replied; and thinking what a foolishanswer that was, he put on some more coal, while his mother, who waslighting the lamp, said he must have been dreaming. The walking-stickstood in its corner, face to the wall, as if it had never been a talkingstick. 

 IV. 

 MR. BLAKE AGREES WITH THE WALKING-STICK. 

Early on Sunday morning Willie awoke and began to think about Sitles, andto wish he had money to buy him a broom-machine. And then he thought ofwidow Martin. But all his thinking would do no good. Then he thought ofwhat Old Ebony had said, and he wished he could know what that text wasthat the cane was just going to quote. 

"It was, " said Willie, "the twelfth and thirteenth verses of thefourteenth chapter of something. I'll see. "

So he began with the beginning of the Bible, and looked first at Genesisxiv. 12, 13. But it was about the time when Abraham had heard of thecapture of Lot and mustered his army to recapture him. He thought aminute. 

"That can't be what it is, " said Willie, "I'll look at Exodus. "

In Exodus it was about standing still at the Red Sea and waiting forGod's salvation. It might mean that God would deliver the poor. But thatwas not just what the cane was talking about. It was about giving giftsto friends. So he went on to Leviticus. But it was about thewave-offering, and the sin-offering, and the burnt-offering. That was notit, and so he went from book to book until he had reached the twelfth andthirteenth verses of the fourteenth chapter of the book of Judges. He wasjust reading in that place about Samson's riddle, when his mamma calledhim to breakfast. 

He was afraid to say anything about it at the table for fear of beinglaughed at. But he was full of what the walking-stick said. And at familyworship his father read the twentieth chapter of Acts. When he came tothe part about its being more blessed to give than to receive, Williesaid, "That's what the cane said. "

"What did you say?" asked his father. 

"I was only thinking out loud, " said Willie. 

"Don't think out loud while I am reading, " said Mr. Blake. 

Willie did not find time to look any further for the other verses. Hewished his father had happened on them instead of the first text whichthe cane quoted. 

In church he kept thinking all the time about the cane. "Now what couldit mean by the twelfth and thirteenth verses of the fourteenth chapter?There isn't anything in the Bible against giving away presents to one'sfriends. It was only a dream anyhow, and maybe there's nothing in it. "

But he forgot the services, I am sorry to say, in his thoughts. At lastMr. Blake arose to read his text. Willie looked at him, but thought ofwhat the cane said. But what was it that attracted his attention soquickly?

"The twelfth and thirteenth verses----"

"Twelfth and thirteenth!" said Willie to himself. 

"Of the fourteenth chapter, " said the minister. 

"Fourteenth chapter!" said Willie, almost aloud. 

"Of Luke. "

Willie was all ears, while Mr. Blake read: "Then said he also to him thatbade him, When thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors, lest theyalso bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee. But when thou makesta feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind. "

"That's it!" he said, half aloud, but his mother jogged him. 

Willie had never listened to a sermon as he did to that. He stopped twoor three times to wonder whether the cane had been actually about torepeat his father's text to him, or whether he had not heard his fatherrepeat it at some time, and had dreamed about it. 

I am not going to tell you much about Mr. Blake's sermon. It was a sermonthat he and the walking-stick had prepared while they were going roundamong the poor. I think Mr. Blake did not strike his cane down on thesidewalk for nothing. Most of that sermon must have been hammered out inthat way, when he and the walking-stick were saying, "Something must bedone!" For that was just what that sermon said. It told about the wrongof forgetting, on the birthday of Christ, to do anything for the poor. Itmade everybody think. But Mr. Blake did not know how much of that sermonwent into Willie Blake's long head, as he sat there with his white fullforehead turned up to his father. 

 V. 

 THE FATHER PREACHES AND THE SON PRACTISES. 

That afternoon Willie was at Sunday-school long before the time. He had aplan. 

"I'll tell you what, boys, " said he, "let's not give Mr. Marble anythingthis year; and let's ask him not to give us anything. Let's get him toput the money he would use for us with the money we should spend on apresent for him, and give it to buy coal for old Aunt Parm'ly. "

"I mean to spend all my money on soft gum-drops and tarts, " said TommyPuffer; "they're splendid!" and with that he began, as usual, to roll hissoft lips together in a half-chewing, half-sucking manner, as if he had ahalf dozen cream-tarts under his tongue, and two dozen gum-drops in hischeeks. 

"Tommy, " said stumpy little Sammy Bantam, "it's a good thing you didn'tlive in Egypt, Tommy, in the days of Joseph. "

"Why?" asked Tommy. 

"Because, " said Sammy, looking around the room absently, as if he hardlyknew what he was going to say, "because, you see"--and then he opened abook and began to read, as if he had forgotten to finish the sentence. 

"Well, why?" demanded Tommy, sharply. 

"Well, because if Joseph had had to feed you during the seven years ofplenty, there wouldn't have been a morsel left for the years of famine!"

The boys laughed as boys will at a good shot, and Tommy reddened a littleand said, regretfully, that he guessed the Egyptians hadn't anydoughnuts. 

Willie did not forget his main purpose, but carried the point in his ownclass. He still had time to speak to some of the boys and girls in otherclasses. Everybody liked to do what Willie asked; there was somethingsweet and strong in his blue eyes, eyes that "did not seem to have anybottom, they were so deep, " one of the girls said. Soon there was anexcitement in the school, and about the door; girls and boys talking anddiscussing, but as soon as any opposition came up Willie's half-coaxingbut decided way bore it down. I think he was much helped by Sammy's wit, which was all on his side. It was agreed, finally, that whatever scholarsmeant to give to teachers, or teachers to scholars, should go to thepoor. 

The teachers caught the enthusiasm, and were very much in favor of theproject, for in the whole movement they saw the fruit of their ownteaching. 

The superintendent had been detained, and was surprised to find theschool standing in knots about the room. He soon called them to order, and expressed his regrets that they should get into such disorder. Therewas a smile on all faces, and he saw that there was something more in theapparent disorder than he thought. After school it was fixed that eachclass should find its own case of poverty. The young men's and the youngwomen's Bible classes undertook to supply Sitles with a broom-machine, aclass of girls took Aunt Parm'ly under their wing, other classes knew ofother cases of need, and so each class had its hands full. But Williecould not get any class to see that Widow Martin had a sewing-machine. That was left for his own; and how should a class of eight boys do it?

 VI. 

 SIXTY-FIVE DOLLARS. 

Willie took the boys into the parsonage. They figured on it. There weresixty-five dollars to be raised to buy the machine. The seven boys weretogether, for Tommy Puffer had gone home. He said he didn't feel likestaying, and Sammy Bantam thought he must be a little hungry. 

Willie attacked the problem--sixty-five dollars. Toward that amount theyhad three dollars and a half that they had intended to spend on a presentfor Mr. Marble. That left just sixty-one dollars and fifty cents to beraised. Willie ran across the street and brought Mr. Marble. He said hehad made up his mind to give the boys a book apiece, and that each bookwould cost a dollar. It was rather more than he could well afford; but ashe had intended to give eight dollars for their presents, and as he waspleased with their unselfish behavior, he would make it ten. 

"Good!" said Charley Somerset, who always saw the bright side of things, "that makes it all, except fifty-one dollars and a half. "

"Yes, " said Sammy Bantam, "and you're eleven feet high, lacking a coupleof yards!"

Willie next called his father in, and inquired how much his Christmaspresent was to cost. 

"Three and a half, " said his father. 

"That's a lot! Will you give me the money instead?"

"Yes; but I meant to give you a Life of George Stephenson, and some otherbooks on engineering. "

This made Willie think a moment; but seeing the walking-stick in thecorner, he said: "Mrs. Martin must have a machine, and that three and ahalf makes seventeen dollars. How to get the other forty-eight is thequestion. "

Mr. Blake and Mr. Marble both agreed that the boys could not raise somuch money, and should not undertake it. But Willie said there was nobodyto do it, and he guessed it would come somehow. The other boys, when theycame to church that evening, told Willie that their presents werecommuted for money also; so they had twenty-five dollars toward theamount. But that was the end of it, and there were forty dollars yet tocome!

Willie lay awake that night, thinking. Mr. Marble's class could not raisethe money. All the other classes had given all they could. And theteachers would each give in their classes. And they had raised all theycould spare besides to buy nuts and candy! Good! That was just it; theywould do without candy!

At school the next morning, Willie's white head was bobbing abouteagerly. He made every boy and girl sign a petition, asking theSunday-school teachers not to give them any nuts or candy. They allsigned except Tommy Puffer. He said it was real mean not to have anycandy. They might just as well not have any Sunday-school, or anyChristmas either. But seeing a naughty twinkle in Sammy Bantam's eye, hewaddled away, while Sammy fired a shot after him, by remarking that, ifTommy had been one of the shepherds in Bethlehem, he wouldn't havelistened to the angels till he had inquired if they had any lemon-dropsin their pockets!

That night the extra Teachers' Meeting was held, and in walkedwhite-headed Willie with stunted Sammy Bantam at his heels to keep him incountenance. When their petition was presented, Miss Belden, who sat nearWillie, said, "Well done! Willie. "

"But I protest, " said Mrs. Puffer--who was of about as handsome a figureas her son--"I protest against such an outrage on the children. MyTommy's been a-feeling bad about it all day. It'll break his heart if hedon't get some candy. "

Willie was shy, but for a moment he forgot it, and, turning hisintelligent blue eyes on Mrs. Puffer, he said--

"It will break Mrs. Martin's heart if her children are taken away fromher. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Puffer, "I always did hear that the preacher's boy wasthe worst in the parish, and I won't take any impudence. My son will jointhe Mission School, where they aren't too stingy to give him a bit ofcandy!" And Mrs. Puffer left, and everybody was pleased. 

Willie got the money; but the teachers had counted on making up theirfestival mostly with cakes and other dainties, contributed by families. So that the candy money was only sixteen dollars, and Willie was yet along way off from having the amount he needed. Twenty-four dollars wereyet wanting. 

 VII. 

 THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS. 

The husband of Widow Martin had been killed by a railroad accident. Thefamily were very poor. Mrs. Martin could sew, and she could havesustained her family if she had had a machine. But fingers are not worthmuch against iron wheels. And so, while others had machines, Mrs. Martincould not make much without one. She had been obliged to ask help fromthe overseer of the poor. 

Mr. Lampeer, the overseer, was a hard man. He had not skill enough todetect impostors, and so he had come to believe that everybody who waspoor was rascally. He had but one eye, and he turned his head round in acurious way to look at you out of it. That dreadful one eye always seemedto be going to shoot. His voice had not a chord of tenderness in it, butwas in every way harsh and hard. It was said that he had been aschool-master once. I pity the scholars. 

Widow Martin lived--if you could call it living--in a tumble-down-lookinghouse, that would not have stood many earthquakes. She had trieddiligently to support her family and keep them together; but the wolfstood always at the door. Sewing by hand did not bring in quite moneyenough to buy bread and clothes for four well children, and pay theexpenses of poor little Harry's sickness; for all through the summer andfall Harry had been sick. At last the food was gone, and there wasnothing to buy fuel with. Mrs. Martin had to go to the overseer of thepoor. 

She was a little, shy, hard-working woman, this Mrs. Martin; so when shetook her seat among the paupers of every sort in Mr. Lampeer's office, and waited her turn, it was with a trembling heart. She watched the hardman, who didn't mean to be so hard, but who couldn't tell the differencebetween a good face and a counterfeit; she watched him as he went throughwith the different cases, and her heart beat every minute more and moreviolently. When he came to her he broke out with--

"What's _your_ name?" in a voice that sounded for all the world as if hewere accusing her of robbing a safe. 

"Sarah Martin, " said the widow, trembling with terror, and growing redand white in turns. Mr. Lampeer, who was on the lookout for any sign ofguiltiness, was now sure that Mrs. Martin could not be honest. 

"Where do you live?" This was spoken with a half sneer. 

"In Slab Alley, " whispered the widow, for her voice was scared out ofher. 

"How many children have you got?"

Mrs. Martin gave him the list of her five, with their ages, telling himof little Harry, who was six years old and an invalid. 

"Your oldest is twelve, and a girl. I have a place for her, and, I think, for the boy, too. You must bind them out. Mr. Slicker, the landlord ofthe Farmers' Hotel, will take the girl, and I think James Sweeny willtake the boy to run errands about the livery stable. I'll send you someprovisions and coal to-day; but you must let the children go. I'll cometo your house in a few days. Don't object; I won't hear a word. If you'reas poor as you let on to be, you'll be glad enough to get your young onesinto places where they'll get enough to eat. That's all--not a word, now. " And he turned to the next applicant, leaving the widow to go homewith her heart cold. 

Let Susie go to Slicker's tavern! What kind of a house would it bewithout her? Who would attend to the house while she sewed? And whatwould become of her girl in such a place? And then to send George, whohad to wait on Harry--to send him away forever was to shut out all hopeof ever being in better circumstances. Then she could not sew, and thechildren could never help her. God pity the people that fall into thehands of public charity!

The next few days wore heavily on with the widow. What to do she did notknow. At night she scarcely slept at all. When she did drop into a sleep, she dreamed that her children were starving, and woke in fright. Then sheslept again, and dreamed that a one-eyed robber had gotten in at thewindow, and was carrying off Susie and George. At last morning came. Thelast of the food was eaten for breakfast, and Widow Martin sat down towait. Her mind was in a horrible state of doubt. To starve to deathtogether, or to give up her children! That was the question which many apoor mother's heart has had to decide. Mrs. Martin soon became so nervousshe could not sew. She could not keep back the tears, and when Susie andGeorge put their arms about her neck and asked what was the matter, itmade the matter worse. It was the day before Christmas. The sleigh-bellsjingled merrily. Even in Slab Alley one could hear sounds of joy at theapproaching festivities. But there was no joy in Widow Martin's house orheart. The dinner-hour had come and passed. The little children werehungry. And yet Mrs. Martin had not made up her mind. 

At the appointed time Lampeer came. He took out the two indentures withwhich the mother was to sign away all right to her two eldest children. It was in vain that the widow told him that if she lost them she could dono work for her own support, and must be forever a pauper. Lampeer had anidea that no poor person had a right to love children. Parental love was, in his eyes, or his eye, an expensive luxury that none but the richshould indulge in. 

"Mrs. Martin, " he said, "you may either sign these indentures, by whichyour girl will get a good place as a nurse and errand-girl for thetavern-keeper's wife, and your boy will have plenty to eat and get to bea good hostler, or you and your young ones may starve!" With that he tookhis hat and opened the door. 

"Stop!" said Mrs. Martin. "I must have medicine and food, or Harry willnot live till Sunday. I will sign. "

The papers were again spread out. The poor-master jerked the folds out ofthem impatiently, in a way that seemed to say, "You keep me anunconscionable long time about a very small matter. "

When the papers were spread out, Mrs. Martin's two oldest children, whobegan to understand what was going on, cried bitterly. Mrs. Martin tookthe pen and was about to sign. But it was necessary to have twowitnesses, and so Lampeer took his hat and called a neighbor-woman, forthe second witness. 

Mrs. Martin delayed the signature as long as she could. But seeing noother help, she took up the pen. She thought of Abraham with the knife inhis hand. She hoped that an angel would call out of heaven to her relief. But as there was no voice from heaven, she dipped the pen in the ink. 

Just then some one happened to knock at the door, and the poor woman'snerves were so weak that she let the pen fall, and sank into a chair. Lampeer, who stood near the door, opened it with an impatient jerk, and--did the angel of deliverance enter?

It was only Willie Blake and Sammy Bantam. 

 VIII. 

 SHARPS AND BETWEENS. 

Let us go back. We left Willie awhile ago puzzling over that twenty-fourdollars. After many hours of thought and talk with Sammy about how theyshould manage it, two gentlemen gave them nine dollars, and so there wasbut fifteen more to be raised. But that fifteen seemed harder to get thanthe fifty they had already gotten. At last Willie thought of something. They would try the sewing-machine man. Mr. Sharps would throw off fifteendollars. 

But they did not know Mr. Sharps. Though he made more than fifteendollars on the machine, he hated to throw anything off. He was alwaysglad to put on. Sammy described him by saying that "Mr. Sharps was notfor-giving but he was for-getting. "

They talked; they told the story; they begged. Mr. Sharps really couldnot afford to throw off a cent. He was poor. Taxes were high. He gave agreat deal. (I do not know what he called a great deal. He had been tochurch three times in a year, and twice he had put a penny in the plate. I suppose Mr. Sharps thought that a great deal. And so it was, for him, poor fellow. ) And then the butcher had raised the price of meat; and hehad to pay twenty-three dollars for a bonnet for his daughter. Really, hewas too poor. So the boys went away down-hearted. 

But Sammy went straight to an uncle of his, who was one of the editorsof the _Thornton Daily Bugle_. After a private talk with him he startedback to Mr. Sharps. Willie followed Sammy this time. What Sammy had inhis head Willie could not make out. 

"I'll fix him!" That was the only word Sammy uttered on the way back. 

"Now, Mr. Sharps, " he began, "my uncle's name is Josiah Penn. Maybe youknow him. He's one of the editors of the _Thornton Daily Bugle_. I'vebeen talking with him. If you let me have a Feeler and Stilsonsewing-machine for fifty dollars, I will have a good notice put in the_Daily Bugle_. "

Mr. Sharps whistles a minute. He thought he could not do it. No, he wastoo poor. 

"Well, then, Willie, " said Sammy, "we'll go across the street and try theagent of the Hillrocks and Nibbs machine. I think Mr. Betweens will takemy offer. "

"O!" said Mr. Sharps, "you don't want that machine. It's only a singlethread, and it will ravel, and--well--you don't want that. "

"Indeed, my mother says there isn't a pin to choose between them, " saidSammy; "and I can give Mr. Betweens just as good a notice as I could giveyou. "

"Very well; take the machine for fifty dollars. I do it just out of pityfor the widow, you know. I never could stand by and see suffering and notrelieve it. You won't forget about that notice in the _Daily Bugle_, though, will you?"

No, Sammy wouldn't forget. 

It was now the day before Christmas, and the boys thought they had betterget the machine down there. 

So they found Billy Horton, who belonged to their class, and who drove anexpress wagon, and told him about it. He undertook to take it down. Butfirst, he drove around the town and picked up all the boys of the class, that they might share in the pleasure. 

Meantime, a gentleman who had heard of Willie's efforts, gave him afive-dollar bill for Widow Martin. This Willie invested in provisions, which he instructed the grocer to send to the widow. 

He and Sammy hurried down to Widow Martin's and got there, as I told youin the last chapter, just as she was about to sign away all right, title, and interest in two of her children; to sign them away at the command ofthe hard Mr. Lampeer, who was very much irritated that he should beinterrupted just at the moment when he was about to carry the point; forhe loved to carry a point better than to eat his breakfast. 

 IX. 

 THE ANGEL STAYS THE HAND. 

When the boys came in, they told the widow that they wished to speak withlittle sick Harry. They talked to Harry awhile, without noticing what wasgoing on in the other part of the room. 

Presently Willie felt his arm pulled. Looking round, he saw Susie'stearful face. "Please don't let mother give me and George away. " Somehowall the children in school had the habit of coming to this long-headedWillie for help, and to him Susie came. 

That word of Susie's awakened Willie. Up to that moment he had notthought what Mr. Lampeer was there for. Now he saw Mrs. Martin holdingthe pen with trembling hand, and making motions in the air preparatory towriting her name. Most people not used to writing, write in the airbefore they touch the paper. When Willie saw this, he flew across theroom and thrust his hand upon the place where the name ought to be, saying, --

"Don't do that, Mrs. Martin! Don't give away your children!"

Poor woman! the pen dropped from her hand as the knife had dropped fromAbraham's. She grasped Willie's arm, saying, --

"How can I help it? Do tell me!"

But Lampeer had grasped the other arm, and broke out with--

"You rogue, what do you mean?"

Willie's fine blue eyes turned quickly into Lampeer's one muddy eye. 

"Let go!" he said, very quietly but very determinedly; "don't strike me, or my father will take the law on you. "

Lampeer let go. 

Just then the groceries came, and a minute later, Billy Horton's wagondrove up with the machine, and all the other boys, who came in and shookhands with the poor but delighted mother and her children. I cannot tellyou any more about that scene. I only know that Lampeer went out angryand muttering. 

 X. 

 TOMMY PUFFER. 

Willie was happy that night. He went down to the festival at the Mission. There was Tommy Puffer's soft, oyster-like body among the scholars of theMission. He was waiting for something good. His mouth and eyes werewatering. He looked triumphantly at the boys from the other school. Theywouldn't get anything so nice. The superintendent announced that no boy'sname would be called for a paper bag of "refreshments" but those who hadbeen present two Sundays. And so poor starving Tommy Puffer had to carryhis pudding-bag of a body home again without a chance to give it an extrastuffing. 

 XI. 

 AN ODD PARTY. 

I cannot tell you about the giving of the broom-machine to the blindbroom-maker; of the ton of coal to Aunt Parm'ly, and of all the otherthings that happened on Christmas Day when the presents were given. Imust leave these things out. As for Aunt Parm'ly, she said she did notknow, but dat dare coal seemed like it come from de sky. 

But there was an ample feast yet for the boys at the Sunday-school, formany biscuits, and cakes, and pies had been baked. But every time Willielooked at the walking-stick he thought of "the poor, the maimed, thelame, and the blind. " And so he and Sammy Bantam soon set the wholeschool, teachers and all, a-fire with the idea of inviting in the inmatesof the county poor-house. It was not half so hard to persuade the membersof the school, to do this as it was to coax them to the first move; forwhen people have found out how good it is to do good, they like to dogood again. 

Such a company it was! There was old crazy Newberry, who had a game-bagslung about his neck, and who imagined that the little pebbles in it wereof priceless value. Old Dorothy, who was nearly eighty, and who, thanksto the meanness of the authorities, had not tasted any delicacy, not somuch as a cup of tea, since she had been in the almshouse; and there werehalf-idiots, and whole idiots, and sick people, and crippled people, armless people and legless people, blind people and deaf. Such anassortment of men, women, and little children, you cannot often find. They were fed with the good things provided for the Sunday-schoolchildren, much to the disgust of Tommy Puffer and his mother. For Tommywas bent on getting something to eat here. 

There were plenty of people who claimed the credit of suggesting this wayof spending the Christmas. Willie did not say anything about it, for heremembered what Christ had said about blowing a trumpet before you. But Ithink Sammy Bantam trumpeted Willie's fame enough. 

It would be hard to tell who enjoyed the Christmas the most. But I thinkthe givers found it more blessed than the receivers. What talk Mr. Blakeheard in his rounds I cannot tell. If you want to know, you must ask theOld Ebony. 

 THE CHAIRS IN COUNCIL. 

It was a quiet autumn afternoon. I was stretched on a lounge, with a pileof newspapers for a pillow. I do not know that I succeeded in getting anyinformation _into_ my head by putting newspapers _under_ it. But on thisparticular afternoon I was attacked by a disease of the eyes, or ratherof the eyelids. They would droop. I don't know by what learned name thedoctors call this disease, but, as I could not read with my eyes closingevery second or two, I just tucked my newspapers away under my head andrested my eyelids awhile. 

I remember that there was a hen cackling in the barn, and a bigbumble-bee buzzing and bumbling around in a consequential way among theroses under the window, and I could hear the voices of the children inthe front yard playing with their dishes. 

I don't know how long I had lain thus. But I remember that the cacklinghen and the bumbling bee and the laughing children seemed to get fartherand farther away, the sounds becoming less and less distinct. All at oncethe sewing chair that sat alongside of me, with a pile of magazines onit, began to rock, and as it rocked it moved off from me. I feltsurprised, and at first thought of taking hold of it, but my arm seemedso _tired_ that I couldn't move it. And the chair rocked itself acrossthe floor, and through the door into the sitting-room. And as I lookedafter it, I saw my old library chair hobble into the sitting-room, also. Then came the well-cushioned easy chair, puffing and panting goodnaturedly, as it rolled smoothly along on castors. I was just wonderingwhat all this meant, when the parlor door opened, and there marched in aprocession of parlor chairs, behind which gathered the plainer cane-seatones of the dining-room. Next came a solemn line of black, wooden kitchenchairs. Then I heard a commotion above, and the staid bedroom seats madea fearful racket as they came down the steps. 

"Are we all in now?" said the easy chair, blandly. 

A faint noise was heard on the steps, and presently in came an old armchair that had belonged to my grandmother. It had lain in the garretcovered with spider webs for years, and indeed it was quite infirm in thejoints, and must have had a hard time getting down two flights of stairs. 

I now tried to move, determined to go and see what was the matter withthe furniture, but the _tired_ feeling crept all over me and I lay still. 

"Well, " said the easy chair, who seemed to be president, "we are readyfor business. "

There was a confused murmur, and the next I knew one of the damask satinparlor chairs was speaking in a very polished and dignified way about thegrievances of parlor chairs in general. 

"It's too bad, " said he, "to be always shut up in a close room exceptwhen there's company. There are no better-looking chairs than we are. Webelong to a superior class of beings, and it is trying to one's nerves tolead so secluded a life when one wants to be generally admired. Thesecane-seat chairs, and those low, black, wooden fellows----"

"I trust there will be no personalities, " said the easy chair. "Thekitchen chairs are wooden, but that is not their fault; and as to theirbeing black, that's a mere matter of paint, a mere matter of paint;" andthe easy chair shook his cushioned sides as if he thought this lastremark a piece of exquisite pleasantry. 

"I say, " continued Damask Satin, Esq. , "I say that these common-placefellows are constantly admitted to the society of the family, and we, genteel as we are, have to live secluded. But for that matter I shouldrather be shut up always than be forced into association with thesecommon cane-seat and those low, vulgar, wooden----"

"Order!" said the easy chair; "I must call Mr. Satin to order. "

"Why, sir, " said one of the cane-seats, "the insolence of that parlorfellow is insufferable! He's good for nothing but show. Nobody likes touse him. He wasn't made for any useful purpose. Talk about a thing beingtrying to his nerves! Let him have the children make a steamboat of himas they do of me! Let him have some awkward fellow rack his joints bysitting on him and leaning back against the wall. Then let him talk aboutnerves! It's hard enough, sir, to have to be used in that fashion withoutbeing compelled to associate, as we have to, with those low, woodenfellows, and then have to listen to the abuse of that pampered, good-for-nothing dandy in damask satin, that----"

"I trust, " said the easy chair, "that the debate will not proceed in thisway. I am sorry that so much discontent is manifested. The life of achair is certainly not altogether unpleasant; at least I have not foundit so. "

"Sir, " said one of the kitchen chairs, "I know I am wooden, but I wasmade so; and I know I am black, but, as you observed awhile ago, that isa question of paint. "

"A mere question of paint, " said the easy chair again, evidentlydelighted to have his witticism quoted. 

"But, sir, " continued the wooden chair, "when I was new I was not to belaughed at. If I was black, I was varnished brightly and glistenedbeautifully when the chair-maker set me and my brothers, here, out in arow in the sun. And then, sir, we each had a large yellow rose on ourforeheads, and I assure you we were beautiful in our own way, sir, in ourway. But, sir, you talk about the life of a chair not being altogetherunpleasant. Perhaps not, for an easy chair, so nicely cushioned as youare. Every time our owner sits down in your arms she says, 'Well, this isjust the most comfortable seat in the world!' But nobody ever praises me. If a neighbor drops in and takes me or one of my fellows, the mistressjust says, 'Don't take that uncomfortable chair, ' and immediately offersone of these cane-seats. That's the way we're insulted, sir; and whenanybody wants a chair to stand on, the mistress says, 'Take a woodenone. ' Just see the marks of Johnny's boot nails on me now, and thatscratch, caused by Bridget's using me and one of my fellows to put thewashtub on!"

The black chair subsided with the look of an injured individual, and thehigh chair commenced to complain, but was interrupted by the sewingchair, who thought that "females had some rights. " She was silenced, however, by my grandmother's old chair, who leaned on the table while shespoke. The old lady complained of the neglect of old age by the youngergeneration. 

Just at this moment, as the meeting was getting into a hubbub, and badefair to dissolve as unceremoniously as some ward political meetings do, my staid old library chair began to talk, looking very learned at thesame time. 

"Mr. President, " said he, "I regret the turn affairs have taken. The raceof chairs is a very honorable one. A chair is an insignia of honor, as Imight prove by many eminent authorities. When human beings wish to callsome one to the presidency of a meeting, they move that the Hon. JonathanWire-worker be called to _the chair_. And then they call him the_chair_-man. Now it is an honor to be a chair, whether it be a parlorchair, bottomed with damask satin, or a hair-seat chair, or a cane-seatchair, a high chair, or a baby's rocking chair, or a superannuated chairin a garret, or an easy chair, or a wooden-bottomed chair, or a learnedlibrary chair, like myself. I tell you, sir, it is an honor to be achair. I am proud of the fact that I am a chair. [Cries of hear! hear!!]

"And now, sir, we are each adapted to our station. What kind of a kitchenchair would one of these high-headed, damask satin parlor gentlemen make?How would they stand washtubs and boot heels? And what sort of a lookingparlor chair would my friend, Mr. Wooden Bottom, be? Even if he were new, and covered with black varnish, and had a yellow rose on his forehead, how would he look among the pictures, and on the nice parlor carpet?

"Now let us each stick to our several stations, and not degrade ourselvesby learning the evil and discontented habits of human beings, each one ofwhom thinks his lot the hardest. "

I felt a little provoked at this last remark, and was going to get up anddissolve the meeting, but the library chair said something about what aglorious thing it was to be a chair, and then they all applauded, damasksatins, wooden bottoms, and all; and then everything was in a whirl, andI rubbed my eyes, and the sewing chair sat just as it was at first, withthe pile of magazines on it, and I peeped into the parlor, and the damasksatins were in their places as stiff as ever. How they all got back intheir places so quickly I couldn't tell. I went into the dining-room andfound Allegra perched on the high chair, lashing two of the cane-seatones that were thrown down for horses. 

And I rubbed my eyes again, --I must have slept. 

 WHAT THE TEA-KETTLE SAID. 

About the time the chairs had a talk together, I believe I told you. Well, ever since that time I have been afflicted, now and then, with thatsame disease of the eyes, inclining them to close. In fact, I am ratherof the opinion that the affliction must be one of the ear, too, for Ihear some curious things while the spell is on. Either that, or elsesomething has "gotten into" the furniture about my house. It beats all, the time I had the other day. It was a cold, wet October day, the windwhistled through the key-holes and shook the sash violently, while therain drizzled wretchedly against the glass. 

As there happened to be no fire anywhere else, I took a seat in thekitchen. There I sat in the heat of the cooking-stove, and reading, ortrying to read Rollin's "Ancient History. " But the book was dull, and theday was dull, and it really seemed to me that I was duller than anythingelse. Hannibal and Themistocles, Spain and Carthage, and Rome seemed tome the dullest things in the world. I wondered how people that were sodull had managed to live, and how so stupid a fellow as Monsieur Rollinever contrived to write so big and dull a book. It did seem very dull inthe rain, too, to keep pattering away at the glass in that stupidfashion. 

And so I leaned back in my chair, and watched Bridget fill the tea-kettleand set it over the fire. 

"Good!" said I; "Bridget, there's no music on a dull day like the cheerysinging of the tea-kettle. "

And Biddy laughed, as she went out, and I leaned back again, and closedmy eyes. All at once I heard a keen, piping voice, saying, "Hum--hum! Simmer! We'll soon have things a-going. "

The sound seemed to come up out of the tea-kettle spout. I was sosurprised that I rubbed my eyes and looked around. There was thetea-kettle, but I could hear no sound from it. Closing my eyes again, Iheard it begin, "Simmer, simmer, hum, hum, now we'll have things a-going. Hot fire, this!Simmer, simmer, hum, hum, simmer. There's nothing like contentment, " itwent on. "But it's a little hard to sit here and simmer, simmer, simmerforever. But I keep on singing, and I am happy. There's my sister, thetea-pot. Bridget always keeps her bright. She goes into the best society, sits by the side of the china cups on the tea-tray that has flowerspainted on it; vain little thing is my sister tea-pot! Dreadful proud ofher graceful waist. Thinks her crooked nose is prettier than my straightone. She _is_ handsome, and I am glad of it. I feel proud of her when Isee her sitting among the china. But, la, me! of what account would shebe if I didn't help her? I'd like to know how they'd make tea without hotwater! What would she be good for, any how, if I didn't do the drudgeryfor her? This fire would ruin her complexion!

"Whew! this is hot work. "

The tea-kettle's voice had grown higher and higher, until she was almostshrieking by this time, and so she went on. 

"But then, I don't mean to be proud or envious. I mean to keep cheerful. But I do get tired of staying in the kitchen, always among the pots. I'ma good singer, but the world don't seem to appreciate my voice, and'Chicken Little' says that I sing through my nose. 

"But I wish I could travel a little. There are my cousins, the family ofsteam boilers. They won't acknowledge their relationship to me any more. But what is that huge locomotive, with such a horrid voice, that goespuffing and screeching past here every morning? What is he but a great, big, black tea-kettle on wheels! I wish I was on wheels, and then I couldtravel, too. But this old stove won't budge, no matter how high I get thesteam. 

"And they do say the tea-kettle family is much older than the steamboiler family. But wouldn't I like to travel! I wonder if I couldn'tstart off this old stove. Bridget's out, and the master's asleep, and----"

I was just going to tell the kettle I was wide awake, but I didn't feellike talking, and so the kettle went on. 

"Yes, I have a good mind to try it. Wouldn't it be a brilliant thing, ifI could move the old cooking stove? Wouldn't Bridget stare, when she cameback, if she should see the 'Home Companion' running off down therailroad track?

"Whew! I believe I'll burst. Bridget's jammed the lid down so tight Ican't breathe!

"But I'm going to try to be a locomotive. Here goes. "

Here the kettle stopped singing, and the steam poured out the spout andpushed up the lid, and the kettle hissed and rattled and rattled andhissed so that I really was afraid it would run off with the stove. Butall its puffing was in vain. And so, as the fire began to go down, thekettle commenced to sing again. 

"Well, what a fool I was!

"I'm only a tea-kettle; I never shall be anything else; and so there'sthe end of it. It's my business to stay here and do my duty in thekitchen. I suppose an industrious, cheerful tea-kettle is just as usefulin its place as a steam engine; yes, and just as happy, too. And if Imust stay in this kitchen among the pots the rest of my days, I mean todo my share to make it the cheerfulest kitchen in all the country. "

Here the voice of the tea-kettle died down to a plaintive simmer, simmer, and I heard Sunbeam say, "He's asleep. " She always thinks I'm asleep whenI rest my eyes. 

"Tea is ready, " said three of them, at once. 

 CROOKED JACK. 

Jack Grip was a queer fellow. Queer because he never got enough money, and yet never seemed to know the right use of money. His family had thebare comforts of life, but his wife was a drudge, and his children hadneither books nor pictures, nor any of those other things so necessary tothe right education of children. Jack was yet young, but he was in greatdanger of becoming a miser. The truth was, he had made up his mind to getrich. It took him some time to make up his mind to be dishonest, but hewas in a hurry to be rich, and lately he had been what his neighborscalled "slippery" in his dealings. Poor Jack! he was selling hisconscience for gold, but gold could never buy it back. 

On a certain night in November, the night that my story begins, Jack wasnot at ease. His accounts showed that he had made money. He was gettingrich very fast, but something troubled him. Shall I tell you what it was?

Just next to Jack's farm was a perfect beauty of a little place, on whichlived the Widow Lundy. Her husband had bought the farm, and borrowedmoney of Jack Grip to pay for it. It was about half paid for when poorLundy was killed by a falling tree. There was some money due him, and hehad a little property besides, so that the widow sent word to Mr. Gripthat if he would only wait till she could get her means together, shewould pay up the remainder. But times were hard, and Jack saw a chance tomake two thousand dollars by forcing the sale of the farm and buying ithimself. It just fitted on to his lower field. It went hard to turn thewidow out, but Jack Grip made up his mind that he would be rich. He triedto make it seem right, but he couldn't. He had forced the sale; he hadbought the place for two thousand less than it was worth. 

The widow was to move the next morning. She had little left, and it was asad night in the small brown house. Poor little Jane, only ten years old, cried herself to sleep, to think she must leave her home, and Harry wasto go to live with an aunt until his mother found some way of making aliving. 

Poor Jack could not sleep and dare not pray. He kept thinking ofsomething in the Bible about "devouring widows' houses. " He could notforget the face of an old Quaker who had met him on the road that day andsaid: "Friend Jack, thy ways are crooked before the Lord!" "Maybe theyare, " said Jack, "but my money is as straight as anybody's, and my farmis a good deal nearer straight than it was before I bought the Lundyplace. " Jack could not sleep, however, for thinking of the old Quaker andhis solemn words. He tried to think that his possessions were straightanyhow. When he did sleep, he dreamed he was the young ruler that gave upChrist for the sake of his money; then he was the rich man in torment. Atlast he opened his eyes, and though the sun was shining in at thewindows, he thought things looked curious. The chairs were crooked, sowas the bedstead. The window was crooked, the whole house seemed to becrooked. Jack got up, and found he was old and crooked himself. The catand dog on the crooked hearth were crooked. There was nobody in the housebut Jack. He took his crooked stick, and went out through the crookeddoor, down the crooked walk, among the crooked trees, along the wall intothe crooked cemetery, where were crooked graves with the names of hiswife and children over them. As crooked Jack, with his crooked stick, followed by his crooked dog, took his crooked way back, he met the oldQuaker, who said again: "Friend Jack, thy ways are very crooked. " He wentin at a crooked gate, and up the crooked walk among the crooked trees, inat the crooked door, and sat down on the crooked chair by the crookedhearth. The crooked dog lay down by him, and the crooked cat mewed. Heopened his crooked money-box and the gold coins were all crooked. "Here Iam, " said Jack, "a crooked old man in a crooked old house, with nofriends but this crooked old dog and crooked old cat. What is all mycrooked money worth? What crooked ways I took to get it. "

Crooked old Jack felt sick and lay down upon his crooked old bed. Somehow, his crooked old money-box got upon his breast and seemed tosmother him. Then his crooked account-books piled themselves upon him, and it seemed impossible for him to breathe. He tried to call out, buthis voice died to a whisper, and the only answer he received was a lowgrowl from the crooked old dog. Then the crooked old cat mewed. 

Just then Jack Grip awoke, and found that all this was a crooked dream;but the perspiration stood in beads on his brow, and though it was broaddaylight, and his wife and children were about him, Jack thought thingswere indeed crooked. In the first place, Jack was sure that his farm wascrooked, for his new addition was little better than stolen. His home wascrooked, for he had not made it a pleasant home. His children werecrooked, for he was not educating them right. And then, at bottom, heknew that his own heart was the crookedest thing of all. The Lundys wereall packed ready to start that morning. Bitter were their tears. But amessenger from Mr. Grip brought them a deed to their farm, and a note, saying that, as some amend for the trouble he had given them, Mrs. Lundywould please accept the amount still due on the farm as a present. 

There are many crooked people in the world; some in one way, some inanother. When you get to be a crooked old man, or a crooked old woman, will your life look crooked to you as crooked Jack's did to him?

 THE FUNNY LITTLE OLD WOMAN. 

Little Tilda Tulip had two lips as pretty as any little girl might want. But Tilda Tulip tilted her two lips into a pout, on a moment's notice. Ifany thing went wrong--and things had a way of going wrong with her--ifany thing went at all wrong, she would go wrong, too, as if it would doany good to do wrong. Some people are always trying to mend crookedthings by getting crooked themselves. There are some little girls, andnot a few big ones, that seem to think the quickest way of straighteninga seam that is puckered is to pucker a face that is straight. 

Sometimes her friends would ask what she would do if her face were tofreeze in frowns, but her Uncle John used to say that she was always toohot to freeze. One evening she came to Uncle John with the usual frown, showing him her new brocade doll dress. She had put it away carelessly, and it was all in "beggars' presses. "

"Just see, Uncle John, " she whined; "dear me! I never get any thing nicethat it isn't spoiled somehow or other. Isn't that too bad? This dresshas been wrinkled for a week, and now it will never come smooth at all. "

"That's bad, surely, " said Uncle John, "but there is something more thanthat. I know something of yours that is finer than that brocade silk, that is all in 'beggars' presses. '"

"Why, no, Uncle John, I haven't any thing so fine as this, you know, andnow this is all puckered and wrinkled and krinkled, and what will I do?"

"Give me your hand, " said Uncle John. "Do you see that skin? There is nosilk so fine as that. These chubby cheeks are covered with a skin that isfiner. But you have kept this skin puckered about your eyes and yourforehead and the corner of your mouth, you have kept it puckered andwrinkled and krinkled as you say, till I am afraid it will never bestraight. I don't think a hot iron would smoothe it. Do you?"

Now Uncle John spoke very kindly, indeed. There were no wrinkles in hisvoice. Some people have wrinkles in their words. But notwithstanding heruncle's kindness, naughty little Tilda Tulip went off in a pout, anddeclared that Uncle John was "real mean. He never feels sorry for a bodywhen they are in trouble. " And so she wrinkled her voice into a whine, and wrinkled and puckered her face up most frightfully. 

At last, tired of teasing and talking and troubling, Tilda Tulip tumbledinto her trundle-bed and was tucked tightly in. Everybody was glad whenshe went to sleep. Everybody dreaded the time when she should wake up. She was a good girl when she was asleep. 

She dreamed. It was a funny dream. I think she must have remembered whatUncle John said, for she thought she saw a funny little old house, by afunny little old hill, near a funny little old bridge. Out of this housecame a funny little old woman, with a funny little old bonnet, carrying afunny little old bag on her back, and with a funny little old cane in herhand. Her face was wrinkled and cross--wrinkled all over, and she stoopeddreadfully. But she tossed her funny little old bag on to the back of afunny little old donkey, and climbed up herself. Then she was cross withthe funny little old bag, and mad with the funny little old donkey, andshe beat him with a funny little old stick, and scolded and scolded witha funny little old cracked, quivering, peevish, hateful voice. 

And so Tilda followed her as she rode, and all the rude boys along theroad cried out, "There goes the funny little old woman and her donkey!"And a beautiful lady came along, and when she met the funny little oldwoman, she sat down on a stone and wept, and said, "O Miriam, mydaughter!" But the funny little old woman only beat her donkey andscolded more than ever. And Tilda wondered why the beautiful woman calledthe funny little old woman her daughter. And Tilda dreamed that many dayspassed, and that every day the funny little old woman rode on the funnylittle old donkey to the city. And every day the beautiful woman wept andsaid, "O Miriam, my daughter!" One day Tilda approached the beautifulwoman and spoke to her. 

"Why do you call that funny, hateful, little old woman your daughter?"

"Because she is my daughter. "

"But she is so much older than you are. "

"Why, " said the beautiful woman, "don't you know the history of the funnylittle old woman that rides her donkey to town every day? She is mydaughter. She is not old; but she was a cross child. She fretted andpouted, and scolded and screamed. She frowned till her brow began towrinkle. I do not know whether a fairy enchanted her or not, but when shebecame angry there was one wrinkle that could not be removed. The nexttime she was mad, another wrinkle remained. When she found that thewrinkles would not come out she became mad at that, and of course, everytime she got into a passion there came other wrinkles. Then, too, hertemper grew worse. Her once beautiful voice began to sound like a crackedtin horn. The wrinkles soon covered her face; then they grew crosswise;you see it is all in beggars' presses. She got old; she shrivelled up;she stooped over. She became so cross that she spends most of her time inthat funny little old house, to keep away from the rest of us. She musthave something to do, and so she gets angry at the stones and breaks themup. She then carries them to the city and throws them into the river. Shemust have something to beat, and so we let her have this poor donkey, whose skin is thick. She beats him, and thus people are saved from herravings. I do not know whether she will ever come to her senses or not. OMiriam, my daughter!"

At last Tilda dreamed that the funny, wrinkled, cross, little old woman, got down one day off her donkey, poured the stones out of the bag, andcame and sat down by the beautiful lady. Then the funny little old womancried. She put her head in the lap of the beautiful lady, and said, "Omother, how shall I get these wrinkles away!"

And the beautiful lady kissed her and said, "Ah! my daughter, if you willbut cast out the bitterness from your heart, as you poured the stonesfrom the bag, I shall not care for the wrinkles?"

The next day Tilda saw the funny little old woman feeding and petting thedonkey. Then she saw her carrying food to a poor widow. And every timethe funny little old woman did a kind act there was one wrinkle less onher face. And then she went into a hospital, and she was so kind to thesick that they all loved the funny little old woman. And still thewrinkles grew fewer, and the form grew straighter, and the face grewfresher, until all the people in the hospital said, "Our funny little oldwoman is really getting younger. " And younger and still younger shebecame, until the beautiful lady kissed her beautiful Miriam again, andthe music came back into her voice once more. And Tilda Tulip thought inher dream that Miriam looked like herself, and that the beautiful ladyseemed like her own mother. And then she waked up and found it morning, for she had dreamed all this long dream in one night. 

And when she was about to fly into a passion with her stockings, indressing, the thought of the funny little old woman and her face inbeggars' presses kept her from it. When she was dressed she told uncleJack all about the dream, and he smiled. 

"Suppose you try the plan that the funny little old woman did, and see ifyou can't get rid of some of your wrinkles, " he said to Tilda. 

 WIDOW WIGGINS' WONDERFUL CAT. 

Widow Wiggins was a wee, wiry, weird woman, with a wonderful cat--a verywonderful cat, indeed! The neighbors all said it was bewitched. Perhapsit was; I don't know; but a very wonderful cat it was. It had a strangeway of knowing, when people were talking, whether what they said wasright or wrong. If people said what they ought not to say, wee WidowWiggins' wonderful cat would mew. Perhaps the cat had lived so long withthe wee, wiry, weird widow woman, who was one of the best in the world, that it had gotten her dislike to things that were wrong. But the weewidow's neighbors were afraid of that cat. When Mrs. Vine, a very vile, vinegar-tongued, vixenish virago, abused her neighbors to the wee, wiry, weird, widow woman, the Widow Wiggins' wonderful cat would mew. And sothe vile, vixenish virago wished the cat was dead. And when slender, slim, slippery Sly Slick, Esq. , tried to persuade the widow to swindleher neighbor, the cat mewed furiously. And so it came that Mr. Slick didnot like the wee widow's wonderful cat. In fact, he said it was anuisance. And Tilda Tattle, the tiresome-tongued, town tale-bearer, couldnot abide the cat, because it mewed all the time she was tattling. 

And so it happened that good Deacon Pettibone, and his wife, who was evenbetter than the deacon, were about the only visitors the wee, weird WidowWiggins had. As the deacon never said any harm of anybody, and as thedeacon's wife never thought any harm, and as the wee widow woman neverfelt any harm, the cat would lie stretched out on the hearth all daywhile these three good people talked. 

But though the deacon was good, and his wife was better, yet the deacon'soldest son was not the boy he ought to have been. Somehow or other, as itwill happen sometimes, he listened to everybody but his father and hismother. Bad company led him astray. At first the deacon did not suspecthim; but when he showed signs of having been drinking, the deacon wasvery severe. I am afraid there was not enough of kindness in the father'sseverity. At any rate, after awhile, Tom was told that if he repeated theoffence he must go from home. Tom had got to be a hard boy. The deaconfelt greatly provoked. But when a boy shows that he is not able toovercome temptation while he is at home, I am not sure that he will beany better if he is sent by himself. I don't think that helps it. But Tomwas bad, and so he had no right to complain. He yielded to temptation, and was sent away, his father telling him that he should never come backagain. Deacon Pettibone thought he was doing right, but I am afraid hewas angry. 

Well, when Tom got away he did not get any better. He went down faster. At last his health broke down. He thought of home as he walked aroundhardly able to stand up. But the deacon would not ask him back, nor wouldhe encourage him even by a kind look to ask to be taken back again. Thedeacon's wife tried to persuade him. She cried. But the deacon said hemust not break his word. His wife told him that a rash word ought to bebroken where it did others harm. The deacon's wife grew sick, and thevile, vinegar-tongued, vixenish virago said that the deacon was an oldbrute. The tattling, tiresome-tongued, town tale-bearer talked about agood many things that she _might_ say, if she wanted to, and she did saythat the deacon and his wife did not get on like angels. But the wee, wiry, weird Widow Wiggins watched wearily by the bedside of the sick Mrs. Pettibone. And still Deacon Pettibone refused to break his word, thoughhe was breaking his wife's heart, and breaking God's command, and ruininghis son. 

At last the sick mother, longing for her son, thought of a plan by whichto bring her husband to reason. 

"Fetch your cat over the next time you come, " she said to the wee, wiry, widow woman. 

And so when the wee, weird Widow Wiggins came again, the wonderful catfollowed her and lay down by the stove. Soon after the deacon came in, looking very sad but very stern. 

"Did you see Tom?" asked his wife. 

"No, I didn't, " said the deacon, "and I don't want to. "

"Mew!" said the cat. 

The deacon noticed the cat, and got a little red in the face; but he wenton talking. 

"I tell you what, wife, Tom has made his bed and he must lie on it, that's all!"

"Mew! mew! mew!"

"I can't break my word anyhow; I said he shouldn't come back, and heshan't; so now there's no use in pining yourself to death over ascapegrace. "

"Mew! mew! mew! m-e-e-o-w!" shrieked the cat, with every bristle on end, and her claws scratching the floor. 

"Mrs. Wiggins, I wish you would keep that miserable cat at home, " saidthe deacon; and so the wee widow woman took up the wonderful cat andcarried it home. 

But the poor deacon couldn't rest. That night he thought he could hearthat cat mewing at him all the time. He remembered that he had not seenTom for some days. What if he was dying? It was a long night. The deaconat last got to thinking of the touching and wonderful Parable of theProdigal. And then in the stillness he thought he could hear something inhis heart mewing at him. 

At last daylight came, and he hastened to find Tom in a wretched garretracked with disease. He brought him home tenderly, and Tom got well bothin his body and in his soul. 

 The Chicken Little Stories. 

 SIMON AND THE GARULY. 

Chicken Little fixed herself up in her new rocking-chair, set her mouthin a very prim fashion, leaned her head on one side, and began to rockwith all her might, jerking her feet from the floor every time. 

"I yish, " she began, "I yish somebody yould tell some stories yat youldbe little for me to hear. "

And having made this speech, which was meant as a hint for me, she rockedharder than ever, nearly upsetting herself two or three times. 

"What shall it be about?" I said. 

"'Bout some naughty boy or 'nother. "

She likes to hear of naughty boys, but not of naughty girls. She thinksstories of naughty girls are a little personal. And so, with her chairgoing and her shining eyes peering out from under her overhangingforehead, I began

 _THE STORY. _

Simon was a selfish fellow. He was always willing anybody should dividegood things with him, but was never willing, himself, to divide withanybody else. He was never willing to play with others, for fear he wouldnot be treated right. His two brothers and his sister had their playthingstogether, but Simon would not play with them, for fear he should not gethis rights in all things, and so he took his little stock and set up forhimself. His brothers and sister, of course, by putting theirs together, had many more than he. Then, too, by working together, they managed tofix up many nice things. But poor Simon had nobody to help him, andnobody to play with him. So he came to feel very bad. He thoughteverybody was angry with him. 

One sunny afternoon, when the other children were laughing and shoutingmerrily, poor Simon tried in vain to be happy by himself. Something inhis throat kept choking him. 

("I guess it was the cry that choked him, " broke in the Small Chicken. "Ihad a cry in my throat yesterday. It was bigger than my fist, and mostchoked me to death, till I let it out. ")

Yes, that was what hurt him, and presently he let it out, as you say, andhad a good, hard cry. Then gradually he went off into a sort of doze. Soon he felt something strike him on the head. 

"Wake up! wake up!"

Simon opened his eyes, and saw a funny, little, old man standing overhim, who kept one of his eyes shut all the time, and looked out of theother with the queerest twinkle in the world. He had a knotty stick inhis hand, and was tapping Simon over the head with it. 

"What do you want?" growled Simon. 

With that the old man hit him another sharp blow over the head. 

"Get up, " he said, "and come with me, and I will show you where I live. Iam one of the Garulies. "

Simon got to his feet, partly because he was afraid of another blow fromthe cudgel, and partly because he had a very great desire to knowsomething of the Garulies. 

"Come along! come along!" said the queer little man, as he gave Simonanother tap. 

He took the road through the woods pasture, down under Swallow Hill, andthen through the blackberry patch, until they came to the brook known as"Bee Tree Run. " Here, just at the foot of a large sycamore, and among itsroots, was fastened a curious boat, made of a large turtle shell turnedupside down. 

"Get in! get in!" squealed the little old Garuly. 

"I am too large, " said Simon; "that craft will sink if I step in. "

In an instant the little man whirled round and hit him three tremendousraps over the head with his cudgel, shouting, or rather _squeaking_, "Smaller! smaller! smaller!"

The blows made Simon's head ring, but when he recovered himself, he foundthat the turtle-shell boat appeared a great deal larger than before. Notonly that, but every thing about him appeared larger. He soon discovered, however, that he was smaller, and that that was what made other thingsseem larger. For you know we measure everything by ourselves. 

("Mamma doesn't, " said the Chicken; "she measures with a yard-stick. ")

Well, Simon prided himself on being so big, and it was not pleasant tohim to find himself suddenly become so small that a large rooster couldhave looked down upon him. But he did not say any thing, for fear of oldGaruly's stick, but just got into the boat as soon as possible. The oldman got in, too, and they were soon floating down the stream. The brookseemed like a river, and the grass upon the banks was like trees, toSimon, now. The old Garuly guided the boat over the rapids, that seemedfrightful to Simon, and floated it down to where the cliffs were steep, and presently came to a place where the water runs under a large rock. The old man steered the queer craft into this dark, cave-like place, andshot up to a shelving landing-place. 

"Get out!" he squeaked. 

Simon did as he was commanded. 

"Go in! go in!" cried the Garuly, pointing to a hole in the cliff. 

"I am too large, " said Simon. 

And immediately the old man struck him over the head three times, asbefore, crying, "Smaller! smaller! smaller!"

Simon now found himself not more than half as large as he was before. Hewent in with the Garuly, who had also grown smaller. Inside there was thedaintiest chamber, all full of beautiful shells wrought into tinyarticles of furniture. The floor was paved with shining pebbles, and theroom was lit up by three fire-flies and two glow-worms. 

"How could you make the place so beautiful?" cried Simon. 

"The Garulies work together, " said the old man, sharply. 

The little man told Simon to go in through another door, but Simon wasstill too large for that, and so the Garuly again pounded him, crying, "Smaller! smaller! smaller!"

Once in, Simon saw indeed the treasures of the Garuly's household. Therewere easy-chairs, made of the hulls of hickory-nuts; hammocks, made ofthe inside bark of the paw-paw; wash-bowls, curiously carved from thehulls of beech-nuts; and beautiful curtains, of the leaves of the silverpoplar. The floor was paved with the seeds of the wild grape, andbeautifully carpeted with the lichens from the beech and maple trees. Thebeds were made of a great variety of mosses, woven together with theutmost delicacy of workmanship. There was a bath-tub made of amussel-shell, cut into beautiful cameo figures. 

"How wonderful!" cried Simon, clapping his hands. 

"The Garulies work together!" said the old man, more decidedly thanbefore. 

Simon noticed that his own voice was beginning to squeak like that of theold Garuly himself. But after seeing the interior of his dwelling, hewould not have minded being changed into a Garuly. 

The old man was now leading him out through a different entrance. Thenalong a path they went until they came to a fence, the rails of whichseemed to Simon to be larger than logs. They crawled through the fence, and found themselves in a farm-yard. The chickens seemed to be largerthan those great creatures that geologists say once lived on the earth, and that were as high as a house. Presently they came to a bee-stand. Thebees seemed to Simon to be of immense size, and he was greatly afraid;but the old Garuly spoke to the fierce-looking sentinel bee that stood bythe door and shook one of his antennæ in a friendly way. 

("His Aunt Annie?" said Chicken Little. "What do you mean?"

"His antennæ are his feelers, the little hair-like things that stand outfrom his head. ")

Now the bees seemed to know the Garuly, and so they let him pass in. Butpoor Simon had to be pounded down again before he was small enough to goin. When he got in, he saw a world of beauty. Being so small himself, andso near to the bees, he could see how beautiful their eyes were, made upof hundreds of little eyes, with little hairs growing out between them. And then, too, the honey-comb seemed like great, golden wells, full ofhoney. Each well seemed as large as a barrel. They climbed up along thesides of the combs, and saw some bees feeding the young, some buildingcells, some bringing in honey, some feeding the queen bee, some clearingout the waste matter, and others standing guard. They all seemedcheerful. 

"Bees all work together!" piped the old man. "No bee is selfish. Thesebees will not live to eat this honey. Bees that work hard in summer onlylive to be about two months old. This honey is stored for others. But seehow happy they all are. How much may be done by those who work togethercheerfully. "

Out of the hive they went, and back toward the Garuly's house. But theold man turned aside to go to an ant-hill. 

"Let's go in here, " said the Garuly. 

"No, I am too large, " said Simon. 

"Smaller! smaller! smaller!" cried the Garuly, beating him over the headagain, until Simon was not much larger than the ants, and the antsappeared to be as large as ponies. Down the well-like hole they climbed, until they entered the chambers of the ants. Here all were busy, somecarrying out earth, others excavating new chambers, others caring for theeggs, others bringing in food, while others were clearing out the road. But no one grumbled, none said that he had the heaviest load. 

"See!" cried the Garuly, "the little ants work together. They have allthings in common. There is no selfishness and no quarrelling among them. "

Just then a wise old ant came up, and hearing the Garuly's remark, hesaid, "Did you never hear the

 _"STORY OF THE SELFISH ANT?_

"There was once a selfish ant who could never be satisfied. He alwaysthought he had the hardest work in the world. If he carried burdens, hecomplained that those who cared for the eggs had the easiest time; and ifhe had charge of the eggs, he wished to be changed to some other kind ofwork. At last he thought he would set up for himself. It was exceedinglyhard work for him to dig and find his own food with no help, so that halfthe summer was gone before he got a place to live in, and a sorry placeit was. Before he got any food laid by, the rain filled up his house, andhe had to spend another month in digging. And so, with one mishap andanother, and no one to help him, the summer was soon almost gone, and hehad no store for winter. When the first frost came, the selfish fellowcame back, heartbroken and crestfallen, and begged to be taken into thecolony again. All winter long he had to eat the bread that others hadgathered, and he never afterward grumbled because his work was a littleharder than that of others. "

"You see, " said the Garuly, "that the ants work together. What a shame itis that you should not be able even to play with your brothers andsister!"

And with that the little old man turned his one eye on Simon, and itshone like a coal of fire, and Simon thought he could feel it burninghim. Just then an ant came up, who had heard the conversation, and askedthe Garuly what it meant. 

"He will not even play with his brothers, " said the old man, lookingfiercer than ever. 

"Put him out!" cried the ant. And then a hundred ants cried, "put himout!" and they began tugging at him with all their might. One caught holdof his right foot and another of his left, one took him by the arm andanother by the head, and as they were nearly as big as he was, they wereabout to carry him off bodily, when Simon suddenly awoke, and started up, to find that instead of the ants tugging at him, it was the otherchildren, who had come to awaken him, for fear he would catch coldsleeping in the night air, and to find that what he thought was the onefiery eye of the Garuly, was the full moon shining through the trees. 

 * * *

"There, " said the Wee Chick, "that spoils the story. I don't want it tobe a dream. What made 'em yake him up so twick?"

"Was he better afterward?" said Fairy. 

"Yes, for the very next day he moved to the same playhouse with the restof the children, and whenever he was selfish he would look around to seeif the old Garuly was looking at him out of one eye. "

 THE JOBLILIES. 

We have oak trees and green grass at our house, what many children incrowded cities do not get. Three little girls love to play in the greengrass, with some pet chickens, and a white, pink-eyed rabbit forcompanions. Now, you must know that I am quite as fond of the oaks andthe grass and the blue sky as Sunbeam, or Fairy, or the brown-facedLittle Chick. And so it happens, when the day is hot, and the lazybreezes will not keep the house cool, that I just move my chair and tableout by the lilac-bush that grows under the twin oaks, and then I think Ican write better. And there I sit and watch the trains coming and goingto and from the great, bustling city, only a dozen miles away, or listento the singing of the robins while I write. 

I was sitting thus one dull, hot afternoon, trying to write; but it was alazy day; the robins had forgotten to sing, the little sparrows that liveup in the oaks had stopped twittering, and the very honey bees werehumming drowsily, when Chicken Little came up with a wreath of whiteclover around her head, and begged for a story. The older children wantedone, also, and so I had to tell one. To tell the truth, I was a littlelazy myself, and so I willingly sat down in the grass among the childrenand began. 

"Shall I tell about a lazy girl about as big as Chicken Little?" I asked. 

"No, sir, " she said; "tell about a lazy boy that was as big as Sunbeam. "

Sunbeam laughed at this, and nodded her head for me to go on. 

And so I began thus: "Little Lazy Larkin laughed and leaped, or longedand lounged the livelong day, and loved not labor, but liked leisure. "

"Ha! ha!" cried the Wee Chick; "that sounds so funny!"

"It's got so many l's, that's the reason, " said Fairy. 

"Tell it right, " said Sunbeam. 

"Well, then, " I said, "Larkin was an indolent juvenile, fond ofmirthfulness and cachinatory and saltatory exercises--"

"I don't know what you mean!" said Fairy, just ready to get angry. 

"Sech awful big words!" cried the Little Pullet; "they is as big--asbig as punkins!"

"I guess that's what they call hifalutin, " said Sunbeam; "now do tell itright. "

And so I told it "right. "

Larkin was an idle fellow, and was so utterly good-for-nothing, that hecame to be called "Lazy Larkin. " It is a dreadful thing to get a bad namewhen you are young. It sticks to you like a sand burr. Larkin wouldneither work nor study. He did not even like good, hearty play, for anygreat length of time, but was very fond of the play that boys call_mumble-the-peg_, because, as he said, you could sit down to play it. Hefished a little, but if the fish did not bite at the first place, he satdown; he would not move, but just sat and waited for them to come to him. 

He had gone out to Bass Lake to fish, one day, in company with some otherboys, but they had put him out of the boat because he was too lazy to rowwhen his turn came. The others were rowing about, trolling for pickerel, and he sat down on a point of land called "Duck Point, " and went tofishing. As the fish would not bite, he sat looking at them in the clearwater, and wishing that he was a fish--they had such a lazy time of it, lying there in the sun, or paddling idly around through the water. He sawa large pickerel lying perfectly still over a certain spot near theshore. When other fish came near the pickerel, it darted out and drovethem off, and then paddled back to the same place again. Larkin droppedhis bait near by, but the fish paid no attention to it, and, indeed, seemed to have nothing to do but to lie still in the same place. 

"I wish I were a pickerel, " said the lazy fellow; "I wouldn't have tocarry in wood or pull weeds out of the garden, or feed the chickens, orget the multiplication table, or--or--do anything else;" and he gave onevast yawn, stretching his mouth so wide, and keeping it open so long, that it really seemed as if he never would get it together again. When itdid shut, his eyes shut with it, for the fellow was too lazy to hold themopen. 

"Ha! ha! lazy fellow! lazy fellow!"

Larkin heard some one say this, and raised up his head to see who it was. Not finding any one about, he thought he must have been dreaming. So hejust gave one more yawn, opening his mouth like the lid of an old tincoffee-pot, and keeping it open nearly a minute. Then he stretchedhimself upon the grass again. 

"Ha! ha! lazy fellow! lazy fellow!"

This time there seemed to be half a dozen voices, but Larkin felt toolazy to look up. 

"Ha! ha! very lazy fellow!"

Larkin just got one eye open a little, and looked around to see where thesound came from. After a while, he saw a dozen or more very odd, queer-looking creatures, sitting on the broad, round leaves of thewater-lilies, that floated on the surface of the lake. These littlepeople had white caps, for all the world like the white lily blossomsthat were bobbing up and down around them. In fact, it took Larkin sometime to make out clearly that they were not lilies. But finally he sawtheir faces peeping out, and noticed that they had no hands, but onlyfins instead. Then he noticed that their coats were beautifully mottled, like the sides of the pickerel, and their feet flattened out, like afish's tail. Soon he saw that others of the same kind were coming up, alldripping, from the water, and taking their places on the leaves; and aseach new-comer arrived, the others kept saying, "Ha! ha! lazy fellow! very lazy fellow!"

And then the others would look at him, and shake their speckled sideswith laughter, and say, "Lazy fellow! ha! ha!"

Poor Larkin was used to being laughed at, but it was provoking to belaughed at by these queer-looking folk, sitting on the lilies in thewater. Soon he saw that there were nearly a hundred of them gathered. 

"Come on, Joblilies!" cried one of them, who carried a long fish-bone, and seemed to be leader; "let's make a Joblily of him. "

Upon that the whole swarm of them came ashore. The leader stuck hisfish-bone in Larkin, and made him cry out. Then they all set up anotherlaugh, and another cry of "lazy fellow!"

"Bring me three grains of silver-white sand from the middle of the lake, "said the leader; and two of them jumped into the water and disappeared. 

"Now fetch three blades of dry grass from the lining of the kingfisher'snest, " he said; and immediately two others were gone. 

When the four returned, the leader dropped the grains of sand in Larkin'seyes, saying, "Three grains of silver sand, From the Joblily's hand! Where shall the Joblily lie, When the young owl learns to fly?"

Then they all jumped upon him and stamped, but Larkin could not move handor foot. In fact, he found that his hands were flattening out, like fins. The leader then put the three blades of grass in Larkin's mouth, andsaid, "Eat a dry blade! eat a dry blade! From the nest that the kingfisher made! What will the Joblilies do, When the old owl cries tu-whoo?"

And then the whole party set up such a cry of "tu-whoo! tu-whoo!" thatLarkin was frightened beyond measure; and they caught him and rolled himover rapidly, until he found himself falling with a great splash into thewater. On rising to the surface, he saw that he was changed into aJoblily himself. 

Then the whole party broke out singing, "When the sun shines the Joblilies roam; When the storm comes we play with the foam; When the owl hoots Joblilies fly home!"

When they had sung this, they all went under the water; and the leader, giving Larkin a thrust with his fish-bone, cried out, "Come along!" andLazy Larkin had nothing to do but to swim after them. Once under thewater, the scene was exceedingly beautiful. The great umbrella-likeleaves of the lilies made spots of shadow in the water and on the pebblesof the bottom, while the streaks of sunshine that came down betweenflecked everything with patches of glorious light, just as you have seenthe hills and valleys made glorious by alternate patches of light andshade, produced by the shadows of the clouds. And the tall lily stems, inthe soft light, appeared to be pillars, while the great variety of waterweed, that wound about them in strange festoons, was glorious beyonddescription. There were beautiful bass turning their sides up to the sun, and darting about through these strange, weird scenes, seeming to enjoytheir glorious abode. 

"You have an easy time of it, no doubt, " said Larkin, to one of thesefish. 

"Easy time of it, indeed! I have rather a happy time of it, because Ihave plenty to do; but you are a strange Joblily if you do not know thatI have anything but an easy time of it. Chasing minnows, jumping threefeet out of water after a butterfly, catching wigglers and mosquitoes, and keeping a sharp lookout for unlucky grasshoppers that may chance tofall in my way; all these are not easy. I tell you, there is no family ofour social position that has more trouble to earn a living than the bassfamily. "

"Come along, " said the Joblily, giving another punch with his fish-bone;and Larkin travelled on. 

Presently they came to a log with something growing on it. 

"What beautiful moss!"

"Moss, indeed!" said one of the Joblilies; "that is a colony of smallanimals, all fast to one stem. "

"They have an easy time of it, I suppose, " said Lazy Larkin; "they don'thave to travel, for they cannot move. "

"True, but these beautiful, transparent moss animals have to get theirliving by catching creatures so small that you cannot see them. They havegreat numbers of little fingers or feelers that are going all the time. "

Larkin touched one, and it immediately drew itself in, --really _swalloweditself_; for these little things take this way of saving themselves fromharm. 

And so Larkin swam on, and found that it was a busy world beneath thelake. He saw mussels slowly crawling through the sand; he found that thepickerel, which he had supposed idle, was really standing guard over hernest, and fanning the water with her fins all day long, that a current offresh water might be supplied to her eggs. And all the time the Joblilieskept singing--

 "Work! work! Never shirk! There is work for you, Work for all to do! Happy they who do it, They that shirk shall rue it!"

And after their long swim around the lake, the Joblilies came back toDuck Point again, and climbed out on the lily leaves. No sooner hadLarkin seated himself with the rest than he heard a great owl cry, "Tu-whit! tu-whoo!"

Immediately the Joblilies leaped into the air, and the whole hundred ofthem dashed into the water like so many bull-frogs, crying, as they camedown, "What will the Joblily do, When the great owl cries tu-whoo?"

Larkin looked around suddenly to see whither they had gone, but coulddiscover no trace of them. A moment after, he found himself sitting underthe same tree that he was under when the Joblilies came for him. The boyshad gone, and he was forced to walk home alone. He thought carefully overhis trip with the Joblilies, and, I am glad to say, gradually learned tobe more industrious, though it took him a long while to overcome his lazyhabits, and still longer to get rid of the name of Lazy Larkin. But heremembered the jingle of the Joblilies, and I trust you will not forgetit:

 "Work! work! Never shirk! There is work for you, Work for all to do! Happy they who do it, They that shirk shall rue it!"

 THE PICKANINNY. 

It was rather a warm day in autumn. Aunt Cheerie had given thesewing-machine and the piano a holiday, and was sitting in the woodshed, paring apples for preserves. Wherever Aunt Cheerie was, the children weresure to be; and so there was Sunbeam, knife in hand, and Fairy, cutting aparing something less than half an inch thick, while the dear littleChicken was wiping apples for the others to pare, and little Tow-head, baby-brother, was trying to upset the peach-box, in which were a coupleof pet chickens, that were hatched out too late, and that had to be keptin-doors to secure them from Jack Frost. For you must know that at "TheNest" Sunbeam is called the "Old Hen. " That is, she has charge of thechickens. They know her so well that, when she feeds them, they fly up onher shoulders and eat out of her hands. And if there is any unfortunateone, it is well cared for. One poor, little wayward pullet wandered intoour neighbor's garden. She was very naughty, doubtless, but she gotseverely punished; for our neighbor thinks a great deal of his garden, and not much of chickens, unless they are fricasseed. He shot at ourlittle runaway pullet, and the poor thing came home dragging a broken anduseless leg. Now, if any chicken ever had good care, our little "Lamey"has. After weary weeks of suffering in hot weather, it is at last able towalk on both feet, though the broken leg is sadly crooked. The childrendo not object to having the other chickens killed for the table, butlittle Lamey's life is insured. 

But how did I get to talking about chickens? I was going to say that whenI came home, and found the folks paring apples, I went out in the shed, too, and sat down by the Little Chick. 

And Chicken Little jerked her head and looked mischievously out of herbright eyes, and said: "See how nice we is peelin' apples. We's makin'peserves, we is; 'cause they is good to eat, they is. And you mus' tellme a story, you mus', 'cause I'm a-helpin' Aunt Cheerie, I am. "

For you must know that the Small Chick is not very polite, and doesn'tsay "please, " when she can help it. 

"Lend us a hand at the apples, too, " said Aunt Cheerie. 

"No, I can't tell stories and pare apples, too. "

"Does you need your fingers to tell stories wid, like the dumbers that weheard talk without saying anything?"

Chicken Small had been to an exhibition of Professor Gillett's deaf anddumb pupils. 

"Well, no, " I said; "but you see, Chicken, I never could make my tongueand my fingers go at the same time. "

"I should think you had never done much with your fingers, then, " saidAunt Cheerie; "for I never knew your tongue to be still, except when youwere asleep. "

I felt a little anxious to change the subject, and so began the story atonce. 

"Little Sukey Gray----"

"What a funny name!" cried the Fairy. 

Yes, and a funny girl was Sukey Gray. She had yellow hair that was tiedup in an old-fashioned knot, behind, though she was only eleven yearsold; for you must know that Sukey lived in a part of the country wherechignons and top-knots of the latest style were unknown. Now Sukey's wayof doing up her hair in a great knot, behind, with an old-fashioned tuckcomb, was not pretty. But Susan Gray lived in what was called the"White-Oak Flats;" a region sometimes called the "Hoop-Pole Country. " Itwas not the most enlightened place in the world, for there was no school, except for a short time in winter, and the people were verysuperstitious, believing that if they carried a hoe through the house, orbroke a looking-glass, somebody "would die before long, " and thinkingthat a screech-owl's scream and the howling of a dog were warnings; andthat potatoes must be planted in the "dark of the moon, " because theygrew underground, and corn in the "light of the moon, " because it grewabove ground; and that hogs must be killed in the increase of the moon, to keep the pork from frying away to gravy!

As Sukey had always lived in the White-Oak Flats, she did not know thatthey were dreary, for she was always happy, doing her work cheerfully. But one of Susan's cousins, who lived a hundred miles away, had made hera visit. This cousin, like Sukey, lived in the country, but she hadplenty of books and had read many curious and wonderful things, withwhich she was accustomed to delight Sukey. 

But when Cousin Annie was gone, Sukey found the Flats a dreary place. Shewished there were some pagodas, such as they have in India, or that therewere some cannibals living near her. She thought if she were rich, shewould buy an omnibus, with four "blaze-faced" sorrel horses, to drive forher own amusement. She got tired of the pumpkins and cabbages, and longedfor grizzly bears and red Indians. She hated to wash dishes and feed thechickens, but thought she would like to be a slave on a coffee plantationin Ceylon. 

"Oh, dear!" she sighed, "I wish I was out of the Hoop-Pole Country. Thereis nothing beautiful or curious in these flats. I am tired of greatyellow sunflowers and hollyhocks and pumpkin blossoms. I wish I could seesomething curious or beautiful. "

Now, isn't it strange that any little girl should talk so, with plenty ofbirds and trees and sunshine? But so it is with most of us. We generallyrefuse to enjoy what is in our reach, and long for something that wecannot get. Just as Chicken Little, here, always wants milk when there isnone, and always asks for tea when you offer her milk. 

"Well, 'cause I'm firsty, that's the reason, " said the Chicken. 

Now, when Sukey said this, she was up in the loft, or second story, ifyou could call it story, of her father's house. She sat on a bench, looking out of the gable window at the old stick chimney, made bybuilding a square _cob-house_ arrangement of sticks of wood, taperingtoward the top, and plastering it with clay. The top of the chimney wassurrounded by a barrel with both ends open, through which the smokeclimbed lazily up into the air. Near by stood an oak-tree, in which ajay-bird was screaming and dancing in a jerky way. Sukey then lookedaway into the blue sky, and the clouds seemed to become pagodas, andpalm-trees, and golden ships floating drowsily away. All at once sheheard somebody say, in a queer, birdlike voice--

"Pray, look this way, little Sukey Gray. May I make bold to say you arelooking grum to-day? You neither laugh nor play; now what's the reason, pray?"

Sukey started up to see where this funny jingle came from. There, in theoak-tree, where the jay-bird had stood a few minutes before, was aqueer-looking little chap, in blue coat and pants, with a top-knot capand a rather sharp nose. He looked a little like a jay-bird, but had amost comical face and blinky eyes, and brought his words out in shortjerks, making them rhyme in an odd sort of jingle. And all the time hewas dancing and laughing and turning rapid somersaults, as if the littleblue coat could hardly hold so much fun. 

"Well, now, " broke out Sukey, "you are the only curious thing in all theHoop Pole Country. I've been wishing for something odd or strange, and Iam glad you have come, for there is nothing beautiful or curious in allthe White-Oak Flats. "

"Why, Sukey Gray! What's that you say? You must be blind as a pumpkinrind, or a leather-winged bat; this White-Oak Flat is just the place tolook the beautiful right in the face. Now come with me, and we will seethat the little bee, or this great oak tree, or the bright, blue skies, are beautiful things, if we open our eyes. "

All the while the little fellow was getting off this queer speech, he wasswinging and tumbling along up the great limb that reached out toward thewindow at which Sukey sat. By the time he had finished it, he wasstanding on the window-sill, where he had alighted after a giddysomersault. He laughed heartily--so heartily that Sukey laughed, too, though she could not tell why. Then he took off his cap, and said, "A pickaninny, at your service, Sukey Gray! Will you take a walk with meto-day? Now jump, while you may!" and he took hold of her two hands andjumped, and she jumped after him, feeling as light as a feather. 

They alighted on the branch of the oak-tree. He immediately began to pulllichens off the bark, and show Sukey how curious they were. He showed herhow curiously one kind of lichen grew upon another, omitting its ownstalk and leaves, and making use of those of the other. Then he laughedat her, because he had found curious things within ten feet of herwindow. 

Next he took her to her own rosebush, and showed her how the limbs wereswelled in some places. Then breaking off the twig, he placed it againsta tree, and began to pound it with his fist. But his little arm was notstrong, and he had to strike it several times before he could break itopen. When it did fly open, Sukey started back at seeing it full ofplant-lice, or aphides. 

"Now, " said the pickaninny, "in this little house what curious things!These little aphides have no wings. But their great-great-grandfathers, and their great-great-grandmothers had. Their mothers and grandmothersand great-grandmothers had none, and their children will have none, andtheir grandchildren will have none, and their great-grandchildren willhave none; but their great-great-grandchildren will have wings again, forevery ninth generation can fly. "

"How curious!" said Sukey. 

Then the pickaninny found a swamp blackbird's nest, and showed her howstrangely it was made; then they climbed down the chimney of theschool-house, and he showed her how the chimney swallow glued her nesttogether; and he coaxed a katydid to fiddle with his wings, that shemight see that. At last they entered the pumpkin patch. 

"Well, " said Sukey, "there's nothing curious here. I know all aboutpumpkins. "

With that the pickaninny commenced to jump up and down on one, but he wasso light that he could not break it. He kept jumping higher and higher;now he was bouncing up ten feet in the air, then fifteen, then twenty, until at last he leaped up as high as the top of the oak-tree, and comingdown, he struck his heels through the pumpkin. Sukey laughed till thetears ran off her chin. The pickaninny thrust his arm in and took out aseed. Then breaking that open, he showed Susan that the inside of apumpkin seed was two white leaves, the first leaves of the young pumpkinvine. And so an hour passed while the pickaninny showed her many curiousthings, of which I have not time to tell you. 

At last he said, "Now, Sukey Gray, pray let me fly away!"

"I shall not keep you if you want to go, " said Susan. 

"Then pluck the mistletoe, and let me go. "

"What do you mean?" she asked. 

"I cannot go until you pluck the mistletoe. "

Sukey pulled a piece of mistletoe from the limb where they were standing, and he bowed and said, "Now, Sukey Gray, good-day. Don't waste your sighs, but use your eyes. "

With that he leaped into the air. Susy looked up, but there was only thebluejay, crying, "Jay! jay! jay!" in a peevish way, and herself lookingout the window. 

"What a wonderful country the White-Oak Flats must be, " she said. And themore she used her eyes, the more she was satisfied that the Hoop-PoleCountry was the most wonderful in the world. 

 THE GREAT PANJANDRUM HIMSELF. 

Chicken Little was a picture, sitting on the floor by the window, with astereoscope--"the thing 'at you look fru, " she calls it--in her hand, andthe pictures scattered about her. 

Now some of the children think that I have been "making up" ChickenLittle, and that there is no such a being. A few weeks ago, after I hadbeen talking to a great church full of people, there came up to me a verysweet little girl. 

"Do you write stories in _The Little Corporal_?" she asked. 

When I told her I did, she looked up, and asked, earnestly, "Well, isthere any real, live Chicken Little?"

Now there may be others of the great army of _The Little Corporal_ thatwant to know whether there is any "real, live Chicken Little. " I tell youthere is. If you could see her merry mischievous face; if you could seeher when she stands up on my shoulders like a monkey; if you had heardher, yesterday, explain that God could see in the stove when all thedoors were shut; if you could see how she always manages to do what youdon't want her to do, and then find a good excuse for it afterward; youwould think there was a live, real "Chicken Little. " If you could haveseen the old, funny twinkle in her eye, when I found her with thestereoscope, you would have thought she was a real, live Chicken, sureenough. 

"Now, then, you've got to tell me a story, " she said. 

"'_Got to_' don't tell stories. "

"Well, p'ease tell me one, then. "

"Yes, " said Sunbeam, peeping in, "about the Great Panjandrum himself. "

"Ah! you little mink, " I said, "how did you get hold of my secret?"

"Why, I knew it all the time. "

Now, you see, the case was this; I did not know that the childrenunderstood where the names of the Garuly and the Joblily, and thePickaninny came from. But Sunbeam, who dips a little here and there intoa great many books, and who never forgets anything she hears, had somehowgotten hold of my secret. It was this. There was a man who could repeatwhatever he read once. One of his friends undertook to write somethingthat he could not remember. So he wrote nonsense, and the man with thelong memory failed to remember it. The nonsense, which I read when I wasa boy, is, if I remember it rightly, as follows:

"She went into the garden to cut a cabbage leaf to make an apple pie; anda great she-bear coming down the street thrust his head into the shop. 'What, no soap?' So he died, and she very imprudently married the barber. And there were present the Garulies, and the Joblilies, and thePickaninnies, and the Great Panjandrum himself, with his little, roundbutton-at-the-top; and they all fell to playing the game of'Catch-as-catch-can, ' till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of theirboots. "

Now you see where the Garulies and the Joblilies and the Pickaninniescame from. And that's why the children thought the next story should beabout the Great Panjandrum. And so I began:

I was wandering, one day, in the Land of Nod, in that part of it known asthe state of Dreams, and in the county of Sleep, and in Doze township, not far from the village of Shuteyetown, in Sleepy Hollow, where standsthe Church of the Seven Sleepers, on the corner of Snoring Lane andSluggard Avenue, near Slumber Hall, owned by the Independent Associationof Sleepy-headed Nincompoops. 

"What a place!" said Fairy. 

Well, as I was going to say, I was walking through Sleepy Hollow, when Imet some children. 

"Where are you going?" I asked. 

"We want to find a four-leaved clover and a beetle with one eye, " saidone of them; "for if we can find them, we shall be able to get into theGreat Panjandrum's place, and there we can learn whether there is a bagof gold at the end of the rainbow or not. "

Now, I was seized with a great desire to see the illustrious Panjandrumfor myself, and to know what he had to say of that wonderful bag of goldthat was to be found at the place where the rainbow touched the ground. And so I fell to work with the happy boys and girls, looking for aone-eyed beetle and a four-leaved clover. The clover was soon found, butit was a long time before we got the beetle. At last we came to a log onwhich two of that sort of beetles that children call "pinch-bugs" werefighting. Whether they were prize-fighters, engaged in a combat for onethousand dollars a side, or whether they were fighting a duel about someaffair of honor, I do not know; but I did notice that they fought mostbrutally, scratching away savagely on each other's hard shells, withoutdoing a great deal of damage, however. But one of them had lost one eyein the fight, and so we seized him and made off, leaving the other tosnap his tongs together in anger because he had nobody to pinch. It mustbe a dreadful thing to want to hurt somebody and have nobody to hurt. 

When we had gone some distance, we came to a gate that had a very curioussign over it. It read, "The Great Panjandrum Himself. " There was a Garulywith a club standing by the gate, and a Pickaninny, in a blue coat witha long tail, hopping around on top of it. We showed the one-eyed beetleand the four-leaved clover, and the Garuly immediately hit the gate aringing blow with his club, and shouted, "Beetle! beetle! beetle!" in awonderfully sharp and squeaking voice, while the Pickaninny on top jerkeda little bell rope, and sung out "Clover. " Then we could see through thegate a Joblily lifting his head up out of a pond, inside the enclosure. 

"How many eyes?" he asked. 

"One, " said the Garuly. 

"How many leaves?" he said, again. 

"Four, " returned the Pickaninny. 

"Then let them in that they may see the Great Panjandrum himself, andlearn whether there be a bag of gold at the end of the rainbow. " Sayingthis the Joblily went under the water and the gate opened. 

We passed three gates, that were opened in the same manner, and foundourselves in front of a queer old house, with seventy-seven gables andever so many doors, and over every door was written, "The GreatPanjandrum Himself. " There was a great bustle about the place, dried-upGarulies running around, dandy-looking Pickaninnies hopping about, andJoblilies swimming in the lake. We asked what it all meant, and were toldthat "she was going to marry the barber;" and then they all tittered, andwe could not for the life of us tell what this pother meant. When we tolda Garuly that we wanted to see the Great Panjandrum himself, and to findout whether there was a bag of gold at the end of the rainbow, he tookour one-eyed beetle, and gave the four-leaved clover to a Pickaninny. Together they took them into the house, and a Joblily came out in amoment to tell us that the Great Panjandrum was having his little roundbutton-at-the-top brushed up, and that if we chose we could wait for himin the museum. 

The museum was a queer place. It was just inside the seventy-seventhgable of the house. There was an old Garuly who acted as showman. Wefirst stopped before a cage that contained a crazy mouse. "This, " saidthe showman, "is the mouse that ran up the clock. Just as he got upthere, the clock struck one, and though the poor fellow ran back again, he has never been right since. This long slender cow, that you see, has agreat taste for music. She is the one that jumped over the moon when thecat played the fiddle. The cat has never been allowed to play since. Thisis the little dog that laughed on that occasion. He was so much amusedthat he has never been able to get his face straight since. In this potyou see some of the cold plum porridge, with the eating of which the manin the South burnt his mouth. Here is a portrait of the man in the moon, when he came down too soon to inquire the way to Norwich. In one of theother gables of this house I can show you Mother Goose's cap frill. Andhere is the arrow with which Cock Robin was cruelly murdered by thesparrow. This is the original and genuine arrow; all others are humbugs. This is the bone that Mother Hubbard went to look for, but failed tofind. Here are the skates on which the

 "Three boys went a-skating All on a summer's day, They all fell in, And the rest ran away. "

And here is the skin of the wolf that Little Red Ridinghood met in thewoods. "

I was just going to inquire of him which was the true version of thatstory, whether the wolf really ate Little Red Ridinghood up, or whethershe ate the wolf; but before I got a chance, a Joblily came in to saythat the Great Panjandrum himself was coming, and soon the queerestlittle, old, round, fat man came in, puffing like a porpoise, and rollingfrom side to side as he walked. His hair looked like sea grass, and waspartly covered by a queer concern, nothing less than the celebrated"little round button-at-the-top. "

"And so you want to see whether there is really a bag of gold at the endof the rainbow, do you? Well, I'll show you, though I haven't much time, for he died last week, and she very imprudently intends to marry thebarber. "

This is what the Panjandrum said, and we never could tell who "she" was, nor, indeed, whom he meant by the barber. 

"Pickaninnies, open the wonderful Pantoscopticon, and let them see. "

The wonderful Pantoscopticon was brought out, and we were allowed to lookin it. 

There were holes enough for us all to see, and we beheld several rainbowsin one sky. On one of them was marked "Get and keep, " on another "Eat, drink, and be merry, " besides some that were too far away for me to read. There was one that had an inscription in unknown letters that shone withtheir own light. Though I could not read the words, they reminded mesomehow of the Latin sentence which I once read over the gate of a parkbelonging to the richest duke in England, which says, that goodness isthe only true nobility, or something of the sort. 

All the time we were looking the Great Panjandrum Himself, with hislittle round button-at-the-top on his head, was turning a crank in theside of the wonderful Pantoscopticon, which had a hopper on the top of itlike that of an old-fashioned coffee-mill. As he turned he kept puffingout:

"If you want to find out whether there is any gold at the end of therainbow, please walk up the ladder, get into the hopper, and be grounddown to a proper size. " He hissed out the word size, drawing it as longas his breath would hold. 

I didn't know what his words meant until a lady with a red parasol wentround behind the Pantoscopticon and climbed to the top. After lookingdown at the rattling wheels of the machinery a moment, she jumped intothe hopper, just as the Panjandrum came round again to the word"s--i--z--e. " I looked into the machine and had the satisfaction to seethis lady come out, not in pieces as I expected, but looking just as shedid when she went in, except that she was reduced to rather less than aninch in height. Her parasol was a mere rose-leaf for size--about as bigas a silver three-cent piece. A gentleman with a white hat, whom I hadseen walking through the museum with this lady, and who seemed to be herhusband, stood looking into the peep-holes when she came out. He cried:

"Hold on, Amanda, and I'll go with you to see about the rainbows and thepot of gold. "

But the little lady with the red parasol didn't seem to hear him, sheonly walked ahead eagerly toward the rainbows. The gentleman with thewhite hat rushed up the stairs and leaped into the hopper without amoment's pause, and the Great Panjandrum Himself, seeing that the man wasin a hurry, turned the crank twice as fast as before. The gentleman wascaught in the wheels and sent a-whirling. When he came to the bottom, properly reduced, the speed of the machinery was such that he was thrownout with a shock and his white hat, about the size of a doll's thimble, fell off, so that he had to pick it up, crying out as he did so:

"Hold on, Amanda, and I'll go with you. "

The little lady with the red parasol seemed to hear him this time, forshe turned her head long enough to say something, but she kept walkingbriskly forward, either because she couldn't help it, or more likely forfear somebody else would get the pot of gold which, as everybody knows, lies at the end of a rainbow. However, by running, the little inch-longgentleman caught up with the seven-eighths of an inch lady, and the twowent along together to find the pot of gold. 

Still the Great Panjandrum kept toiling at the crank, while othersplunged into the hopper and came out "ground down to a proper size, " asthe Great Panjan kept saying. Presently some of the children who had comein with me jumped into the hopper and came out about half an inch inlength. The others followed, and I went up to the top and looked at thewhirling wheels, fearing to make the leap. But at last I becamefascinated and could not take away my eyes. I did not care about the potof gold, nor about the rainbows, nor did I exactly like the idea of being"ground down to a proper size. " But I looked at the wheels until I becamedizzy, and at length fell into the whirl and was pitched and turned aboutin the most frightful way until I came out at the bottom. I felt as bigas ever, but when I looked up and saw the eyes of the people staring atme through the peep-holes and found that these eyes were nearly as largeacross as I was tall, I knew that I must have been ground down. I ranafter the children and went on for a long time, trying to find the endsof the rainbows. There were many suns in the sky and many rainbows, butno pots of gold, nor would the ends of the rainbows wait for us. 

At length we came to the one written over with unknown letters that shonewith their own light. This one stood still, having one end resting in alow-lying valley and the other end on top of a high mountain, which wasvery steep and difficult to climb. At the lower end we found an earthenpot sealed up, which the gentleman in the white hat proceeded to open. Tothe disappointment of the lady with the red parasol and all of us, therewas not a piece of gold in it--only a paper on which was written, "THE GOLD IS AT THE HIGHEST END OF THE RAINBOW. "

We looked up the mountain-side, but all of us by this time felt too wearyand lazy to scramble up the cliffs, and among the thorns to find a pot ofgold. Besides we were hungry, and not a little uneasy as to how we shouldget back our proper size. A ground-down Pickaninny who had joined usproposed to hop over along the arch of the rainbow and see whether therewas any gold on the mountain-top. Being very light he easily ran up thebow, while we, anxious to get out, did not even wait for him to comeback, but hurried down the long road toward the peep-holes and thegrinding-machine. I say the long road, for it seemed miles to us littlepeople. I suppose we had travelled twice the length of a good-sized housefrom the starting-point, and that is a long journey for legs so short. 

All the way we wondered how we should get out, and whether we should everregain our proper stature. When we came to the grinding place the millwas still. We accosted an old Garuly who was wandering about. 

"How do we get out?" I said. 

"Why, by getting the Great Panjandrum Himself to set the thing a-goingthe other way, " he squeaked. 

Then he walked to a speaking-tube and shouted:

"O Great Pan, grind 'em upward. "

All this time I could see the eyes of ladies and gentlemen looking at usthrough the peep-holes, and their eyes were about as big as wagon-wheelsto my sight. I felt mean to be stared at by such gigantic goggle-eyedcreatures. 

The Panjandrum did not start the wheels at once because he was lookingaround for his little round button-at-the-top without which he cannot doanything. At length when the wheels were set a-going, the man in thewhite hat and the lady with the red parasol went up, and I was just aboutto climb up the pipe myself, to get out of the glare of the people'seyes, when one of the children cried out:

"O sir! we'll never get home. We can't reach the tube. "

So I took hold of them one after another and pushed them up the spoutuntil the wheels running backward caught them. Whenever a boy or girlslipped out of my hands I would soon after see two more of those hatefulbig eyes looking at me through the peep-holes. All the time I was afraidthe Panjandrum Himself would quit turning or that his little roundbutton-at-the-top would blow off before I could get out. And just as Ithrust the last boy up the spout the wheels began to slacken. 

"Quick, " cried the Garuly, "the Great Pan has let go of the machine. Yourlast chance for to-day is to get through on the headway. "

I climbed in, immediately, but I could feel the works gradually stopping. Slowly my head and my body came out at the top, but the wheels stoppedstock-still before my left foot could be drawn out. It was only byslipping my foot out of my boot that I escaped. 

Just as I got out there came along the Pickaninny that had gone over onthe rainbow. He had come back some other way known to Pickaninnies andhad in his arms a pot just like the one we had seen. But this one wasfull, and he set it down for us to look at. There were doubloons ofSpain, there were pistoles, guineas, Arabian pieces, Jewish money, coinsof Alexander the Great, and I know not what besides. 

While we were examining these, a Garuly came in to say that the she-bearhad brought the soap, and that the barber was waiting. The GreatPanjandrum, in a state of flustration, hurried past us, and we, notknowing what else to do, stood looking at each other. Just then a Joblilywent by with a cabbage leaf. 

"What is that?" asked one of the little girls of our party. 

"A cabbage leaf to make an apple pie, " he replied, without lookingaround. 

Presently a Pickaninny came along with a small keg in his hands. 

"What is that?" asked the same curious little girl. 

"Gunpowder for the heels of their boots, " he answered, and went on. 

And a spark of fire from one of the seventy-seven chimneys fell into thekeg, and there was a frightful explosion. 

But I don't think it was the Panjandrum's house that got blown up, but weourselves, for we found ourselves outside in the woods going home fromShuteyetown. I for one resolved that the next time I came to the rainbowwith one foot in the valley and the other in the mountain. I should climbto the upper end of it. 

 Stories Told on a Cellar-door. 

 THE STORY OF A FLUTTER-WHEEL. 

What queer places boys have of assembling. Sometimes in one place, sometimes in another. Hay-mows, river-banks, threshing-floors, these werethe old places of resort for country boys. And nothing was so sweet tome, when I was a boy, as the newly cut clover-hay where I sat with two orthree companions, watching the barn swallows chattering theirincomprehensible gabble and gossip from the doors of their mud houses inthe rafters. And what stories we told and what talks we had. In the citywho does not remember the old-fashioned cellar-door, sloping down to theground? These were always places of resort. 

Tom Miller was the minister's son, and there was a party of boys who metregularly on Parson Miller's cellar-door. Mrs. Miller used herself tolisten to the stories they told, as she sat by the window above them, though they were unconscious of her presence. They were boys full of lifeand ambition, but they were a good set of boys on the whole, and it wasnot till lessons were learned and work done that they met thus on thecellar-door. They belonged to the same class in school, and besides were"cronies" in all respects. There was Tom Miller, the minister's son, whointended to be a minister himself, and Jimmy Jackson, the shoemaker'sboy, as full of fun and playfulness as a kitten, and poor Will Sampson, who stammered, and Harry Wilson, the son of a wealthy banker, and a braveboy too, and John Harlan, the widow's son, pale and slender, the pet ofall, and great, stout Hans Schlegal, who bade fair to be a great scholar. These half dozen were nearly always on the cellar-door for half an houron Friday evenings, when they happened to have a little more leisure thanon other evenings. 

"I say, boys, " said Hans, "I've got an idea. "

"How strange it must seem to you, " said Tom Miller; whereupon they alllaughed, good-natured Hans with the rest. 

"Do let's hear it, " said Harry; "there has not been an idea in this crowdfor a month. "

"Well, " said Hans, "let's every fellow tell a story here on the cellardoor, turn about, on Friday evenings. "

"All except m-m-me, " stammered Sampson, who was always laughing at hisown defect; "I c-c-couldn't g-g-get through be-be-fore midnight. "

"Well, " said Miller, "we'll make Will Sampson chairman, to keep us inorder. "

They all agreed to this, and Sampson moved up to the top of thecellar-door and said: "G-g-gentlemen, th-th-this is th-th-the proudestm-m-moment of my life. I'm president of the C-c-cellar-d-d-door C-club!M-m-many thanks! Harry Wilson will tell the first st-st-story. "

"Agreed!" said the boys. After thinking a minute, Harry began. 

 _HARRY WILSON'S STORY. _

I will tell you a story that my father told me. In a village inPennsylvania, on the banks of the Schuylkill River, there lived a wealthyman. 

"Once upon a time, " said Jimmy Jackson. 

"B-be st-still! Come to order th-th-there, Jackson, " stammered thechairman, and the story went on. 

Yes, once upon a time, there lived a wealthy man who had two sons. Thefather was very anxious to make great men of them, or at least, educatedmen. I think, or rather my father thinks, that their father used to dreamthat one of these boys would grow to be President, and that the otherwould be a member of Congress, at any rate. But while his younger songrew to be a good student, the other one was a good, honest, industrious, and intelligent boy, who did not much like books. His father intended tomake him a lawyer, and he got on well enough in Arithmetic and Geography, but Grammar came hard, and when he got into Latin he blundereddreadfully. He studied to please his parents, and from a sense of duty, but it mortified him greatly to think that he could not succeed as theother boys did. For you know it is hard to succeed at anything unlessyour heart is in it. And so one night he sat down and cried to think hemust always be a dolt. His mother found him weeping and tried to comforthim. She walked out in the dusky evening with him and talked. But poorDavid, for that was his name, was broken-hearted. He had tried with allhis might to get interested in "Hic, hæc, hoc, " but it was of no use. Hesaid there was something lacking in his head. "And I'll never amount toanything, never! Brother Joe gets his lesson in a few minutes, and Ican't get mine at all. "

His mother did not know what to say. But she only said that there wassome use for everybody. She knew that David was not wanting inintelligence. In practical affairs he showed more shrewdness than hisbrother. But his father had set his heart on making him a scholar. Thatvery day the teacher had said to his father that it was no use. 

"Your father, " she said, "intends to take you from school, and it is agreat disappointment to him. But we know that you have done your best, and you must not be disheartened. If you were lazy, we should feel agreat deal worse. "

Just then they came to the orchard brook. Here she saw in the dim lightsomething moving in the water. 

"What is that, David?" she said. 

"That's my flutter-wheel, and I feel like breaking it to pieces. "

"Why?"

"Well, you see, all the boys made little water-mills to be run by theforce of the stream. We call them 'flutter-wheels. ' But I made one socurious that it beat them all, " he said. 

"Show it to me, Davie, " she said. And David explained it to her, forgetting all about his unhappiness in the pleasure of showing thelittle cog-wheels, and the under-shot wheel that drove it. 

"And why did you want to break it up?" she asked. 

"Because, mother, Sam Peters said that I should never be good foranything but to make flutter-wheels, and it is true, I am afraid. "

"If you were a poor man's son, Davie, you might be a good mechanic, " saidhis mother. 

That night Davie resolved to be a mechanic. "I won't be agood-for-nothing man in the world. If I can't be a learned professor, Imay be a good carpenter or a blacksmith. If I learn to make a goodhorseshoe, I'll be worth something. " So the next morning he asked hisfather's leave to enter a machine-shop. His father said he might, andwith all the school-boys laughing at him, he took his tin-pail with hislunch in it, and went into the shop each morning. And now he began tolove books, too. He gathered a library of works on mechanics. Everythingrelating to machinery he studied. He took up mathematics and succeeded. After a while he rose to a good position in the shop. And he became atlast a great railroad engineer. He built that great bridge at Blankville. 

"Why, " said John Harlan, "I thought your Uncle David built that. "

"So he did, " said Harry. "My uncle was the boy that could not learnLatin. "

"I suppose, " said Tom Miller, "that God has use for us all, boys. PerhapsJimmy's father was as much intended to make shoes as mine to preach. Whata mistake it must be to get into the wrong place, though. "

"Come, you're getting too awfully solemn, Tom, " said Jimmy Jackson;"you'll put a fellow to sleep before he has time to go to bed. " AndJackson pretended to snore. 

"The m-m-meeting's adjourned, " said the president. "Jimmy Jackson will bethe sp-speaker at the n-next m-m-meeting of the Cellar-d-door S-society. "

 THE WOOD-CHOPPER'S CHILDREN. 

The next Friday evening found all the members of the Cellar-door Club intheir places. Will Sampson, the stammering "chairman, " was at the top, full of life and fun as ever. Jimmie Jackson, running over with mischief, was by him, then came Tom Miller and John Harlan, while Hans Schlegel andHarry Wilson sat at the bottom. After a half-hour spent in general talkabout school and plays, and such miscellaneous topics as every gatheringof boys knows how to discuss, the "chairman" called out, "Come t-to order! Th-th-the C-cellar-d-d-door Society is c-called toorder. G-g-gentlemen, the Hon. J-Jeems Jackson is the speaker f-for theevening. I h-have the pl-pleasure of introducing him to you. "

"No, you don't!" said the shoemaker's son; "don't put it on so thick. Ifyou want me to tell my yarn along with the rest of you, why, I'm ready, but if you call it a speech, you scare me out of my shoes, just like theman that tried to make a speech in the legislature, but couldn't get anyfarther than 'Mr. Speaker, I am in favor of cartwheels and temperance. 'Or, like a boy I knew, who tried to declaim the speech beginning:'Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears!' and who got so badlyconfused on the first line that he said, 'I'd like to borrow your ears!'"

This raised a laugh at the expense of Harry Wilson, who had broken downon that line, though he did not make it as bad as Jimmy represented it. 

"G-g-go on with your story!" stammered the chairman, and Jacksonproceeded. 

 _JIMMY JACKSON'S STORY. _

There lived in a country a long way off--it don't matter where--a poorwood-chopper whose name was--let's see--well, we will call him Bertram. It wasn't the fashion to have two names in those days, you know; peoplecouldn't afford it. He had a son, whose name was Rudolph, and a daughter, Theresa. The boy was twelve and the girl was eleven years old. Thewood-chopper earned but a scanty subsistence--that means an awfully poorliving, I believe--and the children soon learned to help him. Rudolph andTheresa were hard-working and cheerful, and as they had never been rich, they did not know what it was to be poor. That is, they thought they hadplenty, because they never had any more; and had no time to sit down andsee how nice it would be to have a fine house, and be drawn in an elegantcarriage. But one day a tree fell on poor Bertram, and he was carriedhome with a broken arm and leg. I suppose if he had been rich enough tosend for a great surgeon that lived in the city, only two leagues away, he would have recovered without much trouble, but poor men have to dowithout such attentions, and so Bertram's arm and leg, which were fixedby a country "bone-setter, " were so crooked that he could not work. Andnow the burden fell heavily on the wife, who had to gather berries andnuts in the forests, which she loaded on the donkey, and carried away tothe city to sell. But the poor woman was never very strong, and thisextra tax was fast breaking her down. 

The children did what they could, but it was not much. After working hardall day, they amused themselves in the evening by manufacturing littlearticles out of nutshells. Rudolph had a sharp knife which had been givenhim for showing a gentleman the way out of the forest. But thecircumstances of the family had become so distressing that they had givenup their evening employments, creeping sadly away to bed after a frugalsupper. 

One day, as they were gathering nuts in the forest, Rudolph said, "Sister, I fear that mother is breaking down. What can we do to help her?The winter is coming on, and times will be harder than ever. "

"I'll tell you what, Rudolph, " answered Theresa; "why can't we dosomething with your little nut-baskets and nut-boats? I've heard say thatthe little city children, who wear fine clothes and have plenty of money, are very fond of such things. Let us send all you have by motherto-morrow. "

And so on the next morning the mother's basket took the whole stock. Whenevening came the children walked a quarter of a league down to thecrossing of the brook to meet her, and hear the fate of their venture. But the poor woman could only tell them that the work was admired, butthat she had not succeeded in selling any of it. That night they went tobed more than ever disheartened. The next day, their mother carried theirtrinkets to town again, and when she returned they were delighted to knowthat some of them had sold for a few pence, and that a lady had sent anorder for some mosses to make a moss-basket with. 

"We'll make the basket ourselves, " exclaimed Rudolph, and the next daythey gathered the mosses, and Rudolph and his sister worked nearly allnight framing a basket of twigs, and fitting in the different coloredmosses. What was their delight when they learned that the lady had paid agood price for the basket. 

It was still up-hill work to live. Sometimes the trinkets sold andsometimes they did not. But Rudolph kept whittling away, and his sistersoon became a good whittler, too. Besides, she often sewed littlepin-cushions in the nut shells, and did other things by which her littlebrown fingers were quite as useful as Rudolph's. But often they werediscouraged by complete failure to sell. 

There was a fair to take place some time later, and Rudolph and Theresaworked hard making swinging baskets and nut-shell boats for the fair. Andas the poor mother was fairly broken down, and could not go to the city, they had not to pick berries, but could spend all their time making theirlittle articles. They even made little faces out of the nut shells. Atlast came the day of the fair; and, alas! the poor mother was still sick, while the father was not able to move out of his chair for rheumatism. This was a sad disappointment, but Rudolph had often been to the citywith his mother, and he resolved to take Theresa and go himself. As thefood was out, the parents could not refuse, and the two children climbedup on the donkey and set out. It was a wearisome and anxious day to theparents. At last, when evening came, there came no returning children. But an hour after dark the donkey stopped before the door, and Rudolphand his sister came joyfully in to tell the day's adventures. Very happywere the parents to learn of their complete success. And now the childrenwent regularly to the weekly markets or fairs, and had a stall of theirown. Their constant whittling made them more and more skilful, and theirtrinkets were soon much sought after. They were able to buy a little goldand silver, and soon learned to inlay their nut-shell snuff-boxes andwooden jewel-cases, so as to make them very beautiful. And as thewood-chopper grew better he was able to do the rougher work of preparingthe wood for them. And the money they realized was more than thewood-chopper was ever able to make in his best days. After a while somewood-carver's tools helped Rudolph to do still more curious work. And henow has a shop in town. Theresa prepares his drawings and patterns forhim, and does the staining and moss-work, and the firm is always known asThe Wood-Chopper's Children. If anybody wants a moral to the story theycan furnish it themselves. 

"I suppose the moral is, that EVERYBODY CAN DO SOMETHING IF HE TRIES, "said Miller. 

"I s-s-suppose it's b-b-bed-time, " said the chairman, and the boysadjourned. 

 THE BOUND BOY. 

On the third Friday evening the boys came together in some uncertainty inregard to who was to be the story-teller. But Will Sampson, thestammering president of the club, had taken care to notify John Harlan, the widow's son, that he was to tell the story. If there was any generalfavorite it was John; for while his poverty excited the sympathy of all, his manliness and generousness of heart made everybody his friend, andso, when Sampson got the boys quiet, he announced: "G-g-gentlemen of theorder of the c-c-cellar-door, the story-teller for th-the evening is ourfriend Harlan. P-p-please c-come forward to the t-top, Mr. Harlan. "

"I say, Hurrah for Harlan!" said Harry Wilson, and the boys gave a cheer. 

"Give us a good one, John, " said mischievous Jimmy Jackson. 

"Order!" said the chairman. "Mr. Harlan has the fl-floor, --thec-c-cellar-door, I mean. Be q-quiet, J-J-Jackson, or I'll reprimand youseverely. "

"I'm perfectly quiet, " said Jackson. "Haven't spoken a word for an hour. "

 _JOHN HARLAN'S STORY. _

Well, boys, I don't know that I can do better than tell you the story ofone of my mother's old school-mates. His name was Samuel Tomkins----

"Couldn't you give your hero a prettier name?" said Jackson; but thepresident said "order, " and the story went on. 

He lived in one of the counties bordering on the Ohio River. It was arough log cabin in which his early life was passed. He learned to walk onan uneven puncheon floor; the walls were "chinked" with buckeye sticks, and the cracks daubed with clay, and a barrel, with both ends knockedout, finished off the chimney. His father had emigrated fromPennsylvania, and was what they call in that country a "poor manager. " Henever got on well, but eked out a living by doing day's works, andhunting and fishing. But Samuel's mother was a woman of education, andhad just given him a good start, when she died. He was then but eightyears of age. A few months later his father died of a congestive chill, and little Sammy was thrown on the world. He was indentured to old SquireHiggins. The Squire was a hard master; and in those days a bound boy wasnot much better off than a slave, any how. Up early in the morning "doingchores, " running all day, and bringing the cows from the pasture in theevening, he was kept always busy. The terms of his indenture obligatedthe Squire to send him to school three months in the winter; and it was adelightful time to him when he took his seat on the backless benches ofthe old log school-house, with its one window, and that a long, low one, and its wide old fireplace. He learned to "read, write, and cypher" veryfast. And in the summer time, when he was employed in throwing clods offthe corn after the plough, he had only to go once across the field whilethe plough went twice. By hurrying, he could get considerable time towait at each alternate row. This time he spent in studying. He hid awayhis book in the fence-corner, and by concealing himself a few minutes inthe weeds while he waited for the plough, he could manage to learnsomething in a day. 

After he grew larger the Squire failed to send him to school. When askedabout it, he said, "Wal, I 'low he knows a good deal more'n I do now, an''taint no sort o' use to learn so much. Spiles a boy to fill him chockfull. " But Sammy was bent on learning, any how; and in the long wintermornings, before day, he used to study hard at such books as he couldget. 

"I never seed sich a chap, " old Mrs. Higgins would say. "He got a inviteto a party last week, and my old man tole him as how he mout go; but, d'ye b'lieve it? he jist sot right down thar, in that air chimney-corner, and didn't do nothin' but steddy an' steddy all the whole blessed time, while all the other youngsters wuz a frolickin'. It beats me all holler. "

But the next winter poor Sam had a hard time of it. The newschool-master, who was hired because he was cheap, knew very little; andwhen Sam got into trouble with his "sums, " and asked the school-masterabout them, he answered, "Wal, now, Sam, I hain't cyphered no furder'n'reduction, ' and I can't tell you. But they's a preacher over inJohnsonville a-preachin' and a-teachin' school. He is a reg'lar collegefeller, and I reckon he knows single and double rule of three, and allthe rest. "

Sam coaxed the Squire to let him have old "Blaze-face, " the blind mare, to ride to Johnsonville, three miles off, the next morning, if he wouldpromise to be back "on time to begin shuckin' corn bright and airly. " Andbefore six o'clock he hitched old Blaze in front of "Preacher Brown's"door. When he knocked, Mr. Brown was making a fire in the stove, and hewas not a little surprised to see a boy by the door in patched blue-jeanspantaloons that were too short, and a well-worn "round-about" that wastoo tight. He looked at the boy's old arithmetic and slate in surprise. 

"If you please, sir, " said Sam, "I'm Squire Higgins' bound boy. I want tolearn somethin', but I can't go to school; and if I could, 'twouldn'tamount to much, because the master don't know as much as I do, even. Igot stalled on a sum in cube root, an' I come down here to get you tohelp me out, for I'm bound to know how to do everything there is in theold book; and I've got to be back to begin work in an hour. "

The minister shook him by the hand, and sat down cheerfully, and soon putdaylight through the "sum. " Then Sam got up, and feeling down in thebottom of his pocket, he took out a quarter of a dollar. "Would that payyou, sir? It's all I've got, and all I will get in a year, I guess. Ihope it's enough. "

"Keep it! keep it!" said Mr. Brown, brushing away the tears; "God blessyou, my boy, we don't charge for such work as that. I'd like to lend youthis History of England to read. And come over any evening, and I'll helpyou, my brave fellow. "

One evening in every week the bound boy rode old Blaze over to theminister's house, and rode back after eleven o'clock, for he and theparson came to be great friends. The next year Mr. Brown threatened theold Squire with the law for his violation of his part of the terms of theindenture, and forced him to release Sam, who was eighteen now, from anyfurther service. He dug his way through college, and is now Professor ofMathematics in ---- University. The old Squire, when he hears ofProfessor Tomkins' success, always chuckles, and says, "You don't say, now! Wal, he used to feed my hogs. "

"We'll adj-j-journ with three cheers for Harlan, " said Sampson. And theygave them. 

"Oh, don't go yet, " said Tom Miller; and so another half-hour was passedin general talk. 

 THE PROFLIGATE PRINCE. 

Friday evening next after the one on which John Harlan told his story, itrained; so the club did not meet. But they came together on the followingFriday evening, and it was decided that Hans Schlegel should tell thestory. 

"Come, Schlegel, " said Harlan, "you must know a good many, for you arealways studying big German books. Tell us one of the stories that thoseold German fellows, with jaw-breaking names, have to tell. "

"Yes, " said Jackson, "tell us about Herr Johannes Wilhelm Frederich VonSchmitzswartsschriekelversamanarbeitfrelinghuysen!"

Jimmy's good-natured raillery raised a hearty giggle, and Hans joined init with great gusto. 

"I think, " said Harry Wilson, "Schlegel can make a better story than anyof those old fellows, whose names take away your breath when youpronounce them. Tell us one of your own, Hans. "

"D-d-d-do just as you p-p-please, Sch-sch--" but the stammering chairmanfairly broke down in trying to pronounce the name, and the boys all hadanother laugh. 

"Really, gentlemen, " said Schlegel, "I should be delighted to please you, but as you have asked me to tell you a story that I've read in German, and to tell you one of my own make, and to do just as I please, I fear Ishall be like the man who tried first to ride, and then to carry hisdonkey to please the crowd. But, I think I can fulfil all three requests. I read a story in Krummacher some time ago, and I have partly forgottenit. Now, if I tell you this story, partly translating from the German asI remember it, and partly filling up the story myself, I shall do just asI please, and gratify you all. "

"Good, " said Jackson; "takes Schlegel to make a nice distinction. Go onwith the story. "

 _THE STORY. _

Hazael was the name of the son of an oriental prince. He was carefullyeducated by command of his father, and grew up in the valley of the wisemen. What that is, I cannot tell you, for Herr Krummacher did not deignto tell me. At last, when he came to be a young man, his father thoughtbest to have him travel, that he might know something of other peoplebesides his own. For people who stay at home always are apt to thinkeverything strange that differs from what they have been accustomed to. Thus it is that English-speaking people, where knowledge is limited, think that German names are uncouth, when it is only the narrowness oftheir own culture that makes them seem so. 

Now, in the country in which Hazael lived, they didn't send young men toEurope, as we do, to complete their education by travelling at lightningspeed over two or three countries, and then coming back to talk of theirtravels. But in that country, they sent them to Persia to live awhile, that they might study the manners and customs of the people. So Hazaelcame into Persia. He was allowed every liberty, but his old tutor, Serujah, followed him without his knowledge, and watched his course. 

When Hazael reached the great city, he was dazzled with its splendors. The signs of wealth, the excitements of pleasure, and the influence ofcompanions were too much for him. He saw the crowds of pleasure-seekers, he was intoxicated with music, he was charmed with the beauty andconversation of giddy women. He forgot all the lessons of Serujah. Heforgot all his noble resolutions. Days and nights were spent in pleasureand dissipation. In vain Serujah looked for any signs of amendment. Hewas a "fast" young man, _fast_ because he was going down hill. 

One day, as he wandered in the pleasure gardens of Ispahan with hisdissolute companions, he beheld his old master, Serujah, dressed as apilgrim, with staff in hand, hurrying past him. 

"Whence come you, and whither do you journey?" cried out the young princeto Serujah. 

"I do not know where I am going, " answered Serujah. 

"What!" said Hazael, in astonishment, "have you left home and gone on apilgrimage, and yet do not know where you are going?"

"Oh, yes, " said Serujah, "I just go here and there, taking the road thatseems to be the pleasantest, or that suits my fancy. "

"But where will you come to at this rate? Where will such travelling leadyou?" asked Hazael. 

"I do not know. That matters not to me, " said the wise man. 

Then Hazael turned to his companion and said, "See! this man was oncefull of wisdom. He was the guide of my youth. But his reason hasdeparted, and now, poor lunatic, he is wandering over the earth notknowing where he is going. How has the wise man become a fool!"

Serujah came up to the young prince, and taking his knapsack from hisback, threw it upon the ground. 

"You have spoken rightly, " he said. "Hazael, I once led you, and youfollowed me. Now, I follow where you lead. I have lost my road, andforgotten where I am going. So have you. You set me the example. You arewandering round without purpose. Which is the greater fool, you or I? Ihave forgotten my destination. You have forgotten your high duties as aprince, and your manhood. "

Thus spoke the wise man, and Hazael saw his folly. 

"That story is solemn enough for Sunday-school, " said Jimmy Jackson. "Butit isn't bad. Sharp old fellow that Jerushy or Serujy, or whatever hisname was. But I don't believe it's true. When a fellow gets a-going tothe bad you can't turn him around so easy as that. "

 THE YOUNG SOAP-BOILER. 

It was a mild evening in the early fall, when the boys got together forthe next story, which of course fell to the lot of Tom Miller, theminister's son, whom the boys familiarly called "The Dominie. " No boy inthe cellar-door club was more obliging to his friends, more forgiving tothose who injured him, than "The Dominie, " and none was more generallyloved. But Tom had some strong opinions of his own. He was a believer in"the dignity of work, " and when he wanted a little spending money, wouldtake a saw and cut wood on the sidewalk, without any regard to some ofthe fellows, who called him wood-sawyer. He was given to helping hismother, and did not mind having the boys catch him in the kitchen whenhis mother was without "help. " If anybody laughed at him he only replied, "There is nothing I am more proud of than that I am not afraid to beuseful. " This independence, this utter contempt for the sneers of otherswhen he was right, made the boys look for something a little peculiarwhen Tom should come to his story. 

"G-g-gentlemen! this c-c-cellar-door society will come to order. TomMiller, the dominie----"

"The wood-sawyer?" said Jackson, good-naturedly. 

"Y-yes, the w-wood-sawyer, the f-fearless reformer, the b-b-believer inhard work, the bravest member of the c-cellar-door cl-club, has theslanting floor, the cellar-door itself, and I hope he will st-st-stand byhis colors, and give us a story that has the meanest kind of work in it, made honorable by d-d-dig-dignity of character. " I think Sampsonstammered a little on "dig-dig" just for the fun. But the boys all agreedto his request and so they heard

 _TOM MILLER'S STORY. _

My story, boys, shall be what you ask. I shall call it "The YoungSoap-Boiler, " for I suppose you'll admit that boiling soap is about asunpleasant work as there is. 

"Touched bottom that time, " interposed Harry Wilson. 

Well, the boy that I'm going to tell about was Dudley Crawford. With acheery eye and voice, a quick eye, a quicker hand and a fleet foot, hewas a great favorite on the play-ground. If there was a weak boy, whomthe others imposed upon, Dudley was always his fast friend, and the meanfellows who make up for their cowardice toward boys of their size by"picking" at little fellows or green boys, had always a wholesome fear ofDudley, though I do not think he ever struck one of them. But hisfearless, honest eye cowed them, and I am sure he would have struck hardif it had been necessary to protect the poor little fellows who keptunder his wing. The boys called them "Dud's chickens. "

There was one boy in the school, Walter Whittaker, who had a specialdesire to be on good terms with Dudley. Walter's father had gotten richduring the war, and Walter had a special fondness for being genteel. Hewore gloves, and kept his boots brighter than there was any occasion for. He was not much of a scholar, though older than Dudley. But he was fondof calling young Crawford his friend, because Dudley's father was a richand talented lawyer. 

At last, there came a financial crash that sent all of Mr. Crawford'shalf-million of dollars to the winds. He was in feeble health when itcame, and the loss of his property hastened his death. The very same"panic" left Whittaker poor also. But the two boys took it verydifferently. Whittaker looked as crestfallen as if he had committed acrime. Dudley mourned the loss of his father, but held up his headbravely under the sudden poverty. Whittaker looked around for a"situation. " But the times were hard, and situations were not to be had. Every clerk that could be dispensed with was sent away, and besides, merchants do not like to employ a fellow who wears gloves and looksafraid of soiling his hands. Dudley had his mother to support, and lookedabout bravely for work. But no work was to be had. He tried everything, as it seemed, until at last he asked stern old Mr. Bluff, who owned halfa dozen factories of different kinds. 

"You want work, do you, young man? I s'pose you want to keep books orsuthin' o' that sort. I never saw such a lot o' fellers askin' for workand afraid to dirty their fingers. "

"I'll do any honest work by which I can earn my bread, without beingdependent on friends. "

"Any honest work, will you? I'll make you back out of that air. I'll betyou won't begin where I did. "

"Try me, sir, and see. "

"Well, then, I'll give you good wages to go into my soap factory nextMonday morning. Ha! ha! that's honest work; but fellers of your clothdon't do that sort of honest work. "

"_I_ will, sir. "

Mr. Bluff was utterly surprised, but he gave Dudley the situation, sayingthat he reckoned the smell of soap-grease would send him out. 

Dudley hardly knew what to make of his own boldness. But he only told hismother that he had a situation with Mr. Bluff, and that he did not knowthe precise nature of his duties. He was not ashamed of his work, butafraid of giving her pain. 

Monday morning he went early to the soap factory, stopping at thetailor's on the way, and getting a pair of blue overalls that he hadordered. It must be confessed that the smell of the factory disgusted himat first, but he soon became interested. He saw that brains were used insoap-making. He became more and more interested as he saw how accuratesome of the chemical processes were. He soon learned to cut the greatblocks of hard soap with wires; he watched with eager interest the use ofcoloring matters in making the mottled soaps, and he soon became soskilful that surly Mr. Bluff promoted him to some of the less unpleasantparts of the work. 

But there was much talk about it at first. Some of the young ladies whohad been useless all their lives, and who had come to think thatuselessness was necessary to respectability, were "surprised that DudleyCrawford should follow so low a trade. " But those very people never oncethought it disgraceful in Walter Whittaker to be a genteel loafer, livingoff his father's hard-earned salary, and pretending that he was lookingfor a situation. And I will not be too hard on Whittaker. I think if hecould have had a situation in which he could do nothing, and be paid wellfor it, he would have been delighted. But he shunned Dudley. Partlybecause he was afraid of compromising his own respectability, and partlybecause he had sense enough to see that Dudley's honest eyes lookedthrough him, and saw what a humbug he was. 

After a year Dudley's father's estate was settled, and owing to anunexpected rise in some of the property, it was found that the debtswould all be paid, and a small balance be left for the family. It was buta small amount, but it enabled Dudley to lay aside his blue overalls, andreturn to the old school again. Dr. Parmlee, the principal, was delightedto have such a good pupil back again. Whittaker came back about the sametime, and the very first day he whispered to some of the boys that Dudleysmelled of soap-grease. The boys laughed thoughtlessly, as boys are aptto do, and passed the poor joke round. Dudley maintained the respect ofthe school in general, but there was a small clique, who never knew theirlessons, but who prided themselves on being genteel dunces. These folksused to talk about the soap-grease, even in Dr. Parmlee's presence; butthe Doctor quietly retorted that if Crawford's hands smelled ofsoap-grease, that was better than to have soap-grease inside his head andpomatum on the outside. They were a little more modest after this, butthey could not forbear allusions that kept Dudley under fire. His mother, who was very proud of her son's independence, could not but feel sorrythat he was subject to such persecutions. "Ah, mother, " he would say, "the thing that I am proudest of in my life is, that I spent a year inBluff's soap factory. Don't think that I am annoyed at the barkings oflap-dogs. "

At last came the day of graduation. Dudley led the class. There was agreat crowd of fine people. The last speech of all on the programme was"Honest Work Honorable--Dudley Crawford. " With a characteristic manlinesshe stood up bravely for work. So fine were his arguments, so undauntedhis bearing, that the audience were carried away. Dr. Parmlee took offhis spectacles to wipe his eyes. Dudley's mother could not conceal herpleasure. "Franklin's hands had printers' ink on them, " he said, "butthey were shaken by princes and savans--the lightning did not despisethem. Garibaldi's fingers were soiled with candle-grease, but they havemoulded a free nation. Stephenson's fingers were black with coal, andsoiled with machine oil of a fireman's work, but they pointed outhighways to commerce and revolutionized civilization. There are those"(Whittaker and his set looked crestfallen here) "who will gladly take thehand of worthless loafers, or of genteel villains" (here certain ladieslooked down), "but who would not have dared shake hands with Franklin, the printer, with Garibaldi, the tallow-chandler, with Stephenson, thestoker. But before God and right-thinking men there are no soiled handsbut guilty hands or idle ones. "

When he sat down, others beside his mother shed tears, and good Dr. Parmlee shook his pupil's hand in sight of the audience, but the applausewas so great that nobody could hear what he said. And the next day a notecame from the chief editor of a leading paper, saying that one whobelieved enough in labor to carry out his principles in his life, wouldmake an earnest advocate of them. He therefore tendered Mr. Crawford aplace on the editorial staff of his paper. 

"P-pretty well done, Dominie, " stammered Will Sampson. 

 THE SHOEMAKER'S SECRET. 

All things have an end. Among other things that had an end was the finesummer weather. Many other things came to an end with it. Grass, flowers, and leaves came to an end. Chirping of katydids came to an end, andchattering of swallows and songs of robins. And with the summer ended theCellar-door Club, like all other out-door things that could not stand thefrost. The boys understood that their last meeting had come. But WillSampson, the stammering chairman, was to tell his story, and though thecold evening made them button up their coats, they determined to have onemore good time together. And so with many a merry joke they took theirplaces for what Jimmy Jackson called the "inclined plane of socialenjoyment. " Tom Miller got up under the window and called the meeting toorder, announcing that Mr. Sampson would tell the story for the evening. 

"I d-don't know about th-that, " said Will. "You s-s-see, b-boys, if Itell it I shall have to d-do it b-by fits and starts. If you w-want as-story told straight ahead, g-g-get somebody whose tongue w-will w-wagwhen they want it to. If you want a y-yarn j-j-jerked out, I am yourman. "

"We will take it jerked or any other way you choose, Will, " said Miller. I want to say just here that patience and self-control would have curedSampson of his stammerings. There is no excuse for anybody going throughthe world with such a defect, when there are so many instances of thevictory of a strong and patient resolution over it. I shall give thestory here as if he had spoken it smoothly. 

 _WILL SAMPSON'S STORY. _

In a country a long way off--I don't care to tell you the name of it forfear I should make some mistake in regard to its geography or history ormanners, and besides don't think it's anybody's business just where astory happened--in a country a long way off--perhaps that country neverexisted except in somebody's head, who knows? Besides, a country that isin your head is just as good as one that is on the map. At least it's asgood for a story. Well, in this country there was a village known as thevillage of shoemakers, because nearly all the people made shoes. Peg, peg, peg, could be heard from one end of it to the other, from morningtill night. It was a perfect shower of hammers. Into this town came oneday a peasant lad of twelve years of age, with a blue blouse and a queerred flannel cap. He had travelled many a weary mile, and he asked atevery shop that he might learn the shoemakers' trade. At last he wastaken into the shop of a hard master, who was accustomed to beat his boysseverely. But when the master went out, the new boy in the red flannelcap did not throw bits of leather about as the rest did, but attended tohis work and said nothing, even when the leather was thrown at his ownred cap. And somehow he always got more work done than the rest. And themaster never beat Hugo, the boy in the red flannel cap. The other boyssaid it was because of the charm that he wore round his neck. For Hugowore an old copper coin suspended like a school-boy's medal. The masterpaid a little something for extra work, and for some reason, the boyssaid on account of his charm, Hugo always had more than the rest. He didnot spend it, but once a year a man with a red flannel cap like Hugo'sappeared and received all the boy's pay for overwork, and then went away. The boys made up their minds that Hugo had some sort of witchcraft in hiscopper coin. After some years his apprenticeship expired, and Hugo becamea journeyman, working in the same quiet way and doing more work than anyother man in the village, though he did not work any faster. Meantimeseveral of his brothers, each with the same quiet way, had appeared, andsat down to work in the same shop. Each of them wore the red flannel capwith a tassel, and each of them had a copper coin about his neck. Hugohad disappeared for a few days once, and had brought back a wife. Hisbrothers lived in his house. Soon he set up a shop. As the othershoemakers were afraid of his charm, he had neither apprentice norjourneyman except his brothers. Fortunately there were no less than tenof them, all with red flannel caps and blue blouses, and wearing coppercoins about their necks. But Hugo's shop turned out more than any other. The dealers over the border, when there was an order to be quicklyfilled, always said, "Send to Hugo, he wears a charm. "

At last there came a war. The king of the country in which the "villageof shoemakers" was, sent a herald into the town, who proclaimed that ifthe village would furnish a certain number of shoes for the army by agiven day, the young men should be exempt from conscription; but that ifthe village failed, every man in the town, young and old, should bemarched off into the army. There was a great cry, for the task appearedto be an impossible one. Whether it was a superstitious reverence forHugo's charm, or that in trouble they naturally depended on him, certainit is that the crowd by common consent gathered before the shop-door ofthe silent shoemaker in the blue blouse and red flannel cap. For so busyhad Hugo been that he had not heard the herald's proclamation. 

"Neighbors, " said Hugo, "this is a great waste of time. We have a veryfew days to do a great work, and here is one hour wasted already. Everyjourneyman and apprentice is here idle. Let every one of them return totheir benches and go to work. Let the masters step into my little househere to consult. " The journeymen hastened off, the masters divided thework between them, and Hugo was put in charge of the whole village as onegreat shop. He did not allow a man to be seen on the street. He set thewomen at work doing such work as they could. He did not allow a shop toclose until far into the night. But as the last day given by the kingdrew near, the masters were about to give up, for it was found that everyshop was falling behind its proportion. But Hugo sternly told them tohold their men in their places. When the last night came, he did notallow a man to sleep. When morning came he made the women count the shoesfrom each shop, but kept the men at work. As the accounts were made up, it was found that each shop fell behind. The men quit work in despair atlast, and women were crying in the streets. Hugo's shop came last. It wasfound that he and his brothers had made just enough over their share tomake up the deficiency. The whole village hailed him as their deliverer, and everybody said that it was because of his charm. 

When the war was over the king came to the village to thank the shoemakersfor their aid. All but Hugo appeared before him. When he heard of Hugo'sconduct he sent for him. "They tell me, " said the king, "that you are theman who had the required number of shoes done. They say that you and yourten brothers wear charms. Tell me your secret. "

Hugo, holding his red flannel cap in his hand, began: "Sire, when I was alad my father had many children. I left my mountain home, and came hereto earn something to help support them. These my ten brothers came afterme. When each one left, our good mother hung a copper coin about hisneck, and said, 'Remember that you are going to a town where there ismuch idleness among the shoemakers, masters and men. Whenever you aretempted to be idle or to be discouraged, remember what I tell you, KEEPPEGGING AWAY!' Behold, sire, the charm by which we have succeeded, bywhich we saved the village from your wrath, and your land fromdestruction. "

And after that there might have been seen in the king's employ, invarious affairs of importance, ten men in blue blouses and red flannelcaps, wearing each a copper coin about his neck. 

When Sampson had stammered his way through this story, the boys agreed tomeet for the winter in Tom Miller's house. 

 Modern Fables. 

 FLAT TAIL, THE BEAVER. 

A colony of beavers selected a beautiful spot on a clear stream, calledSilver Creek, to build themselves a habitation. Without waiting for anyorders, and without any wrangling about whose place was the best, theygnawed down some young trees and laid the foundation for a dam. With thatskill for which they are so remarkable, they built it so that it wouldprotect them from cold, from water, and from their foes. When it wascompleted, they were delighted with it, and paddled round joyously in thepond above, expressing their pleasure to each other in true beaver style. 

In this colony there was one young beaver, by the name of Flat Tail. Hisfather, whose name was Mud Dauber, had been a celebrated beaver, who, having very superior teeth, could gnaw through trees with great rapidity. Old Mud Dauber had distinguished himself chiefly, however, by saving thedam on three separate occasions in time of flood. He had done this by hiscourage and prudence, always beginning to work as soon as he saw thedanger coming, without waiting till the damage had become too great torepair. 

But his son, this young fellow Flat Tail, was a sorry fellow. As long asold Mud Dauber lived, he did pretty well, but as soon as his father diedFlat Tail set up for somebody great. Whenever any one questioned hispretensions, he always replied:

"I am Mud Dauber's son. I belong to the best blood in the colony. "

He utterly refused to gnaw or build. He was meant for something better, he said. 

And so one day in autumn, when the beavers were going out in search offood for winter use, as Flat Tail was good for nothing else, they set himto mind the dam. After they had started, Flat Tail's uncle, old Mr. Webfoot, turned back and told his nephew to be very watchful, as therehad been a great rain on the head-waters of Silver Creek, and he wasafraid there would be a flood. 

"Be very careful, " said Webfoot, "about the small leaks. "

"Pshaw, " said Flat Tail, "who are you talking to? I am Mud Dauber's son, and do you think I need your advice?"

After they had gone the stream began to rise. Little sticks and leaveswere eddying round in the pool above. Soon the water came up faster, tothe great delight of the conceited young beaver, who was pleased with theopportunity to show the rest what kind of stuff he was made of. Andthough he disliked work, he now began to strengthen the dam in the middlewhere the water looked the most threatening. But just at this point thedam was the strongest, and, in fact, the least in danger. Near the shorethere was a place where the water was already finding its way through. Afriendly kingfisher who sat on a neighboring tree warned him that thewater was coming through, but always too conceited to accept of counsel, he answered:

"Oh, that's only a small leak, and near the shore. What does a kingfisherknow about a beaver dam anyway! You needn't advise me! I am the great MudDauber's son. I shall fight the stream bravely, right here in the worstof the flood. "

But Flat Tail soon found that the water in the pond was falling. Lookinground for the cause, he saw that the small leak had broken away a largeportion of the dam, and that the torrent was rushing through it wildly. Poor Flat Tail now worked like a hero, throwing himself wildly into thewater only to be carried away below and forced to walk up again on theshore. His efforts were of no avail, and had not the rest of the SilverCreek beaver family come along at that time, their home and theirwinter's stock of provisions would alike have been destroyed. Next daythere was much beaver laughter over Flat Tail's repairs on the strongpart of the dam, and the name that before had been a credit to him wasturned into a reproach, for from that day the beavers called him, inderision, "Mud Dauber's son, the best blood in the colony. "

Don't neglect a danger because it is small; don't boast of what yourfather did; and don't be too conceited to receive good advice. 

 THE MOCKING-BIRD'S SINGING-SCHOOL. 

A lady brought a mocking-bird from New Orleans to her home in the North. At first all the birds in the neighborhood looked upon it with contempt. The chill northern air made the poor bird homesick, and for a few days hedeclined to sing for anybody. 

"Well, I do declare, " screamed out Miss Guinea-fowl, "to see the care ourmistress takes of that homely bird. It don't seem to be able to sing anote. I can make more music than that myself. Indeed, my voice is quiteoperatic. Pot-rack! pot-rack! pot-rack!" and the empty-headed MissGuinea-fowl nearly cracked her own throat, and the ears of everybodyelse, with her screams. And the great vain peacock spread his sparklingtail-feathers in the sun, and looked with annihilating scorn on the dullplumage of the poor mocking-bird. "Daddy Longlegs, " the Shanghai rooster, crowed louder than ever, with one eye on the poor jaded bird, and said:"What a contemptible little thing you are, to be sure!" Gander White, Esq. , the portly barn-yard alderman, hissed at him, and even DuckWaddler, the tadpole catcher, called him a quack. 

But wise old Dr. Parrot, in the next cage, said: "Wait and see. There'smore under a brown coat than some people think. "

There came a day at last when the sun shone out warm. Daddy Longlegscrowed hoarsely his delight, the peacock tried his musical powers byshouting Ne-onk! ne-onk! and Duck Waddler quacked away more ridiculouslythan ever. Just then the mocking-bird ruffled his brown neck-feathers andbegan to sing. All the melody of all the song-birds of the South seemedto be bottled up in that one little bosom. Even Miss Guinea-fowl hadsense enough to stop her hideous operatic "pot-rack, " to listen to thewonderful sweetness of the stranger's song. Becoming cheered with his ownsinging, the bird began to mimic the hoarse crowing with which DaddyLonglegs wakened him in the morning. This set the barn-yard in a roar, and the peacock shouted his applause in a loud "ne-onk!" Alas! for him, the mocking-bird mimicked his hideous cry, then quacked like the duck, and even Miss Guinea-fowl found that he could "pot-rack" better than shecould. 

The Shanghai remarked to the peacock that this young Louisianian was aremarkable acquisition to the community; Gander White thought he ought tobe elected to the city council, and Miss Guinea-fowl remarked that shehad always thought there was something in the young man. Dr. Parrotlaughed quietly at this last remark. 

The very next day the mocking-bird was asked to take up a singing-school. The whole barn-yard was in the notion of improving the popular capacityto sing. And Daddy Longlegs came near breaking his neck in his hurry toget up on a barrel-head to advocate a measure that he saw was likely tobe popular. 

But it did not come to anything. The only song that the rooster couldever sing was the one in Mother Goose, about the dame losing her shoe andthe master his fiddle-stick, at which Professor Mocking-bird couldn'thelp smiling. Mr. Peacock, the gentleman of leisure, could do nothingmore than his frightful "ne-onk!" which made everybody shiver more than asaw-file would. Gander White said he himself had a good ear for music, but a poor voice, while the Hon. Turkey Pompous said he had a fine bassvoice, but no ear for tune. Dr. Parrot was heard to say "Humbug!" whenthe whole company turned to him for an explanation. He was at that momenttaking his morning gymnastic exercise, by swinging himself from perch toperch, holding on by his beak. When he got through, he straightened upand said:

"In the first place, you all made sport of a stranger about whom you knewnothing. I spent many years of my life with a learned doctor of divinity, and I often heard him speak severely of the sin of rash judgments. Butwhen you found that our new friend could sing, you all desired to singlike him. Now, he was made to sing, and each of the rest of us to dosomething else. You, Mr. Gander White, are good to make feather beds andpillows; Hon. Turkey Pompous is good for the next Thanksgiving day; andyou, Mr. Peacock Strutwell, are good for nothing but to grow tail-feathersto make fly-brushes of. But we all have our use. If we will all do ourbest to be as useful as we can in our own proper sphere, we will dobetter. There is our neighbor, Miss Sophie Jones, who has wasted twohours a day for the last ten years, trying to learn music, when naturedid not give her musical talent, while Peter Thompson, across the street, means to starve to death, trying to be a lawyer, without any talent forit. Let us keep in our own proper spheres. "

The company hoped he would say more, but Dr. Parrot here began toexercise again, in order to keep his digestion good, and the restdispersed. 

 THE BOBOLINK AND THE OWL. 

Having eaten his breakfast of beech-nuts, a bobolink thought he wouldshow himself neighborly; so he hopped over to an old gloomy oak tree, where there sat a hooting owl, and after bowing his head gracefully, andwaving his tail in the most friendly manner, he began chirrupingcheerily, somewhat in this fashion:

"Good-morning, Mr. Owl! what a fine bright morning we have. "

"Fine!" groaned the owl, "fine, indeed! I don't see how you can call itfine with that fierce sun glaring in one's eyes. "

The bobolink was quite disconcerted by this outburst, but after jumpingabout nervously from twig to twig for a while, he began again:

"What a beautiful meadow that is which you can see from your southwindow! How sweet the flowers look! Really you have a pleasant view, ifyour house is a little gloomy. "

"Beautiful! did you say? Pleasant! What sort of taste you must have! Ihaven't been able to look out of that window since May. The color of thegrass is too bright, and the flowers are very painful. I don't mind thatview so much in November, but this morning I must find a shadier place, where the light won't disturb my morning nap. "

And so, with a complaining "Hoo! hoo! hoo-ah!" he flapped his melancholywings and flitted away into the depths of a swamp. 

And a waggish old squirrel, who had heard the conversation, asked thebobolink how he could expect any one to like beautiful things who lookedout of such great staring eyes. 

The pleasantness of our surroundings depends far more upon the eyes wesee with, than upon the objects about us. 

 THE END. 

 -----------------------------------

 THE HOOSIER SCHOOL-BOY. 

 By EDWARD EGGLESTON, Author of "The Hoosier Schoolmaster, " etc. 

 _With full page Illustrations. _ 1 vol. , 12mo $1. 00

Mr. Eggleston is one of the very few American novelists who havesucceeded in giving to their work a genuine savor of the soil, adistinctively American character. His _Roxy, Hoosier Schoolmaster, Circuit Rider_, and the rest, are home-spun and native in all theirfeatures. The scene of the stories is the _Western Reserve_, and thecharacters are types of the pioneers of the early part of this century, in the territory now comprised in Indiana and Ohio. 

_The Hoosier School-boy_, as its title shows, belongs to the samelocality, and depicts some of the characteristics of boy life, years ago, on the Ohio, characteristics, however, that were not peculiar to thatsection only. The story presents a vivid and interesting picture of thedifficulties which in those days beset the path of the youth aspiring foran education. These obstacles, which the hero of the story succeeds byhis genuine manliness and force of character in surmounting, are justsuch as a majority of the most distinguished Americans, in all walks oflife, including Lincoln and Garfield, have had to contend with, and whichthey have made the stepping stone to their future greatness. Mr. Bush'sstrong and life-like illustrations add much to the attractiveness of thebook. 

 "Edward Eggleston's new story is a thoroughly excellent one to be put in the hands of a boy whose parents wish him to become a manly, high-minded American citizen. "--_Philadelphia Bulletin. _

 "A particularly wholesome volume. There is a delightful absence of the goody-good in it, and the incidents are all natural and true to life. "--_Madison_ (Ind. ) _Courier_. 

 "Nobody has pictured boy-life with greater power or more fidelity than Mr. Eggleston. This story is one of his best--it should be in the hands of every boy. "--_Hartford Times. _

 "It has all the peculiarities of its author; his careful reproduction of nature, his vivid descriptions, and the naturalness of his characters, drawn, as they must have been, from life. "--_Indianapolis News. _

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------

 THE MERRY ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD. 

 OF GREAT RENOWN IN NOTTINGHAMSHIRE. 

 Written and Illustrated by HOWARD PYLE. 

 One volume, 4to, full embossed leather, antique, from the author's designs $4. 50

 Cheaper edition, 1 vol. , small quarto, cloth $3. 00

There is something thoroughly English and home-bred in these episodes inthe life of the bold outlaw. His sunny, open air nature, his matchlessskill at archery, his generous disposition, his love of fair play, andhis ever present courtesy to women, form a picture that has nocounterpart in the folk-lore of any other people. The simple balladEnglish has been most successfully preserved in Mr. Pyle's easy prose, and, as regards the text, this edition is in all respects the mostcomplete and in every way the most desirable that has ever been issued. 

But it has other claims to notice in the admirable illustrations whichMr. Pyle has strewn profusely throughout his book. These pictures setforth most graphically every eventful scene in the narrative, and theyare in perfect keeping with the story, even to the smallest detail; asspecimens of figure-drawing they form the most admirable and artisticseries that an American artist has created for many years. In them thepersons of Robin Hood, Little John, Will Stutely, the Sheriff ofNottingham, Allan-a-Dale, Queen Eleanor, Friar Tuck, and all the rest, become as familiar as their names and characteristics. 

 "A volume that stands at the head of books for the young, both in the attractiveness of its letter-press, and singular beauty, variety, and antique character of its illustrations. * * * It is a book of varied delight, a credit to the author, illustrator and publisher, and will please every boy who has taste and likes to see a thorough piece of work. "--_Hartford Courant. _

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------

 THE STORY OF SIEGFRIED. 

 By JAMES BALDWIN. 

 With a series of superb illustrations by Howard Pyle. One volume, square 12mo $2. 00

 "To wise parents who strive, as all parents should do, to regulate and supervise their children's reading, this book is most earnestly commended. Would there were more of its type and excellence. It has our most hearty approval and recommendation in every way, not only for beauty of illustration, which is of the highest order, but for the fascinating manner in which the old Norse legend is told. "--_The Churchman. _

 "What more calculated to inspire the courage, to elevate the imagination, to mould the conduct of youth, than these reproductions of the heroic legends of the old Norse and German folk?"--_Minneapolis Tribune. _

 "No more delightful reading for the young can be imagined than that provided in this interesting book, and the manner of the recital is so graceful that older readers will derive from it scarcely less pleasure. "--_Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. _

 "The story is told simply and strongly, preserving the fire and force of the original, and not losing the subtle charm of the old fable with all its pathetic beauty. "--_Brooklyn Union-Argus. _

 "It is a good, strong story; it comes in among the mass of juvenile books like a wind blown from Northern woods. "--_Philadelphia Sunday-School Times. _

 -----------------------------------

 THE STORY OF ROLAND. 

 By JAMES BALDWIN. 

 With a series of illustrations by R. B. Birch. One volume, square 12mo $2. 00

This volume is intended as a companion to _The Story of Siegfried_. As_Siegfried_ was an adaptation of Northern myths and romances to the wantsand the understanding of young readers, so is this story a similaradaptation of the middle-age romances relating to Charlemagne and hispaladins. As Siegfried was the greatest of the heroes of the North, sotoo was Roland the most famous among the Knights of the Middle-Ages. While _The Story of Siegfried_ exemplifies the sublime old-world spiritof the Gothic nature myths, its counterpart, _The Story of Roland_, isless remote, and the incidents, though equally wonderful, are of a morehuman character and appeal with greater force to our sympathies. 

Mr. Birch has contributed a number of spirited illustrations that bringclearly before the eye the forms of Roland and his friend Oliver, ofOgier, the Dane, and other famous knights and paladins, as well as thescenes of their wondrous exploits and adventures. 

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------

 THE AMERICAN BOY'S HANDY BOOK;

 Or, What to Do and How to Do It. 

 By DANIEL C. BEARD. 

 Fully illustrated by the author. One volume, 8vo $3. 00

_Mr. Beard's book is the first to tell the active, inventive andpractical American boy the things he really wants to know; the thousandthings he wants to do, and the ten thousand ways in which he can do them, with the helps and ingenious contrivances which every boy can eitherprocure or make. _ The author divides the book among the sports of thefour seasons; and he has made an almost exhaustive collection of thecleverest modern devices, --besides himself inventing an immense numberof capital and practical ideas--in

 SPRING. AUTUMN. ------------------ ------------------ Kite-Making, Trapping, Fishing, Taxidermy, Aquarium-Making, Home-made Hunting Etc. Apparatus, etc. 

 SUMMER. WINTER. ------------------ ------------------ Boat-Building, Ice-Boating, Boat-Rigging, Snow-Ball Warfare, Boat-Sailing, Winter-Fishing, Camping-Out, Sled-Building, Balloons, Puppet-Shows, Etc. Etc. 

 "We can conceive of few books more useful and interactive to the average boy than this. "--_Troy Times. _

 "This is by far the most intelligible, comprehensive and practical boy's book which we have ever seen. "--_Kingston Freeman. _

 "When selecting books for a boy it should be remembered that such a one as this tends to make him handy, skillful and self-reliant, and that the boy would probably choose it himself. "--_Boston Globe. _

 "Each particular department is minutely illustrated, and the whole is a complete treasury, invaluable not only to the boys themselves, but to parents and guardians who have at heart their happiness and healthful development of mind and muscle. "--_Pittsburgh Telegraph. _

 "The boy who has learned to play all the games and make all the toys of which it teaches, has unconsciously exercised the inventive faculty that is in him, has acquired skill with his hands, and has become a good mechanic and an embryo inventor without knowing it. "--_Milwaukee Evening Wisconsin. _

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------

 THE BOY'S LIBRARY OF LEGEND AND CHIVALRY. 

 -----------------------------------

 THE BOY'S PERCY. 

 Edited with an Introduction by Sidney Lanier. With 50 text and full page illustrations by E. B. Bensell. 1 vol. , 12mo $2. 00

 "He who walks in the way these following ballads point will be manful in necessary fight, fair in trade, loyal in love, generous to the poor, tender in the household, prudent in living, plain in speech, merry upon occasion, simple in behavior, and honest in all things. "--_From Mr. Lanier's Introduction. _

 -----------------------------------

 KNIGHTLY LEGENDS OF WALES; or, THE BOY'S MABINOGION. 

 Being the Earliest Welsh Tales of King Arthur in the famous Red Book of Hergest. Edited for Boys, with an Introduction by Sidney Lanier. With 12 full-page illustrations by Alfred Fredericks. One volume, crown 8vo, extra cloth $2. 00

 "Amid all the strange and fanciful scenery of these stories, character and the ideals of character remain at the simplest and purest. The romantic history transpires in the healthy atmosphere of the open air on the green earth beneath the open sky. . . . The figures of Right, Truth, Justice, Honor, Purity, Courage, Reverence for Law are always in the background; and the grand passion inspired by the book is for strength to do well and nobly in the world. "--_The Independent. _

 -----------------------------------

 THE BOY'S KING ARTHUR. 

 Being Sir Thomas Mallory's History of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Edited for Boys, with an Introduction by Sidney Lanier. With 12 full-page illustrations by Alfred Kappes. One volume, crown 8vo, extra cloth $2. 00

 "Unconsciously as he reads of the brave deeds wrought by the gallant soldiers told of by Froissart or fancied by Mallory, the boy's heart is thrilled and his higher nature throbs with knightly longings. He craves for himself the sturdy courage of Bevis of Hampton, the courtly grace of Launcelot, the purity of Gallahad; and he hates with an honest hatred that unleal scoundrel, King Mark. He learns that he should protect those who are less strong than he is himself; that a man should never be rude to a woman; that truth must never be sacrificed, and that the most cowardly thing that a man can do is to flinch from his duty. "--_Philadelphia Times. _

 -----------------------------------

 THE BOY'S FROISSART. 

 Being Sir John Froissart's Chronicles of Adventure, Battle and Custom in England, France, Spain, etc. Edited for Boys, with an Introduction by Sidney Lanier. With 12 full-page illustrations by Alfred Kappes. One volume. Crown 8vo, extra cloth $2. 00

 "It is quite the beau ideal of a book for a present to an intelligent boy or girl. * * * Mr. Sidney Lanier, in editing a boy's version of Froissart, has not only opened to them a world of romantic and poetic legend of the chivalric and heroic sort, but he has given them something which ennobles and does not poison the mind. "--_Baltimore Gazette. _

 -----------------------------------

 *** In sets. Four volumes put up in a box, uniform binding, $7. 

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------

 WILLIAM O. STODDARD'S CAPITAL STORIES FOR BOYS. 

The _Boston Globe_ says of Mr. Stoddard's books for boys:

 "It was a bold attempt, in the face of the great success of sensational literature for the young, to seek to bend boys to self-reliance, duty and honor, by interesting them in the incidents and rewards of manly boy-life at home and at school, and in its games and sports; and a good deal of knowledge of boy character, of sympathy with boy nature, and skill in reaching boy interest, and regard, were required to accomplish his purpose. The plan was a noble one, and its results are a triumph which shows that it is possible, without thrilling adventure on the ocean or in Western wilds, in exciting scenes of peril and death, or unnatural and bad characters and situations, to secure the earnest attention of boys and their approval. "

 -----------------------------------

 SALTILLO BOYS. 

 One volume, 12mo $1. 00

 "The story appeals to boys, not only on their better side, but on the side which is strongest and highest in the boy view of the matter. "--_The Independent. _

 -----------------------------------

 DAB KINZER. 

 A Story of a Growing Boy. 

 One volume, 12mo $1. 00

 "It is written in that peculiarly happy vein which enchants while it instructs, and is one of those thoroughly excellent bits of juvenile literature which now and then crop out from the surface of a mass of common-place. "--_Philadelphia Press. _

 -----------------------------------

 THE QUARTET. 

 A Sequel to "Dab Kinzer. "

 One volume, 12mo $1. 00

 "The Quartet is marked by all the brightness and incident which made 'Dab Kinzer' such a favorite with the boys. "--_Examiner and Chronicle. _

 -----------------------------------

 AMONG THE LAKES. 

 One volume, 12mo $1. 00

Mr. Stoddard's bright, sympathetic story, _Among the Lakes_, is afitting companion to his other books. It has the same flavor of happy, boyish country life, brimful of humor and abounding with incident and thevarious adventures of healthy, well-conditioned boys turned loose in thecountry, with all the resources of woods and water and their own unspoilednatures. 

*** Mr. Stoddard's stories, DAB KINZER, THE QUARTET, SALTILLO BOYS, andAMONG THE LAKES, are furnished in sets, in uniform binding, in a box. Price, $4. 00. 

They are especially recommended for Sunday-school libraries. 

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------

 NOAH BROOKS' OUT-OF-DOOR STORIES FOR BOYS. 

 -----------------------------------

 THE FAIRPORT NINE. 

 By NOAH BROOKS, _Author of "The Boy Emigrants. "_

 One volume, 12mo $1. 25

The Fairport Nine have their closely contested base-ball matches with the"White Bears, " and the description will bring vividly before every loverof that manly sport similar scenes in which he has shared. But they alsohave their Fourth of July frolic, their military company, their camp inthe woods, and the finding of hidden treasure, with many boyish episodes, in which are faithfully portrayed the characteristic features of Americanboys' life in the country. It is a capital story, with a manly andhealthful tone, and will go straight to a boy's heart. 

 "As a thoroughly wholesome and delightful book for boys, 'The Fairport Nine' is not likely to have its superior this season. It is published, moreover, in an attractive form, with a taking cover and frontispiece. "--_N. Y. Evening Mail. _

 -----------------------------------

 THE BOY EMIGRANTS. 

 By NOAH BROOKS. 

 One volume, 12mo, cloth. New edition. With Illustrations by Thomas Moran, W. L. Sheppard, and others $1. 50

"_The Boy Emigrants_" is a story of the adventures of a party of younggold seekers on the Overland Emigrant Route, and in California, duringthe early rush to the mines. Since the author was himself an emigrant ofthis description, the scenes and incidents are drawn from life, and thebook may be accepted as a fresh and vivid picture of life on the Plainsand in the mines from an entirely novel point of view. 

 "It is one of the best boy's stories we have ever read. There is nothing morbid or unhealthy about it. The author sets before his readers no impossible goodness or unattainable perfection. His heroes are thorough boys, with all the faults of their age. "--_Christian at Work. _

 "We do not think we have had so far any painting of the scenes on the Plains in the early days of the emigration to this State which, artistically, will at all compare with that dashed off by Mr. Brooks. The sketches of mining adventures which subsequently occurred have the rare merit of being true to the life and the fact. "--_San Francisco Bulletin. _

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------

 MRS. MARY MAPES DODGE'S CHARMING BOOKS. 

 -----------------------------------

 _A NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF_

 HANS BRINKER; or, the Silver Skates. 

 A Story of Life in Holland. 

 By Mrs. MARY MAPES DODGE. 

 _Author of "Rhymes and Jingles, " and Editor of "St. Nicholas. "_

 With twelve full-page illustrations. One vol. 12mo, cloth, beveled edges $1. 50

 "For children, what could be better as a gift than a copy of Mrs. Dodge's 'Hans Brinker; or, the Silver Skates, ' of which we are now given a new and beautiful edition? This is one of the most charming of juvenile stories, dealing with fresh scenes and a strange life, and told with sweet simplicity and great beauty. "--_Congregationalist. _

 "'Hans Brinker' is a charming domestic story, which is addressed, indeed, to young people, but which may be read with pleasure and profit by their elders. * * The lessons inculcated, are elevated in tone, and are in the action of the story and the feelings and aspirations of the actors. "--_The Atlantic Monthly. _

 "This book has been a great favorite, not only in America but in other lands. The author has every reason to be gratified at the success and constant popularity of this charming narrative, which teaches so finely the noblest lessons of character and life, while picturing the customs and scenes of Holland. "--_Boston Advertiser. _

 -----------------------------------

 RHYMES AND JINGLES. 

 By Mrs. MARY MAPES DODGE, _Editor of "St. Nicholas. "_

 Profusely illustrated. One vol. Small quarto, extra cloth, a new edition $1. 50

There are in this collection nonsense rhymes and verses of the soundestsense; there are brief bits of wisdom for little folks, and stories inverse for those who are older, while some of the so-called rhymes includeverses which are as truly poetical as anything in the language. 

Some of these poems have been pronounced "without rivals in ourlanguage. " In the new edition now published, Mrs. Dodge has made acareful revision of the work. Every child should have a copy of thesewitty and beautiful verses. 

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------

 GODFREY MORGAN. 

 A CALIFORNIA MYSTERY. 

 By JULES VERNE. 

 With numerous illustrations. One volume. 12mo $2. 00

Jules Verne's cyclopedic fancy this time finds scope for its vagaries inthe Californian Eldorado, among the millionaires of absolutely limitlessresources, who, the French romancer would have us believe, form a largeclass of the population around the Golden Gate. Nevertheless, the storyis of the Crusoe order, and is concerned with the adventures of therestless young Californian, Godfrey Morgan, and his companion, thedancing-master, Tartlet, upon a strange island where they have beenwrecked. The story is one of the most amazing efforts of Verne's genius, and certainly lacks neither interest nor amusement. The illustrations arevery numerous and equal the text in force and character. 

 -----------------------------------

 PHAETON ROGERS. 

 By Rossiter Johnson. 

 One volume. 12mo. With illustrations $1. 50. 

 "As for 'Phaeton Rogers, ' the adventures of that remarkable boy and his colleagues who investigate the mysteries of the art preservative, are full of delightful humor, in which the oldest member of the family can sympathize. "--_Minneapolis Journal. _

 "One of the funniest, liveliest juvenile stories of the year is 'Phaeton Rogers, ' by Rossiter Johnson. The writer shows as much ingenuity in inventing comical adventures and situations as Phaeton does with his kite-teams, fire-ladders, and comets. "--_Holyoke Transcript. _

 -----------------------------------

 _A NEW EDITION AT REDUCED PRICE. _

 ABOUT OLD STORY-TELLERS. 

 OF HOW AND WHEN THEY LIVED, AND WHAT STORIES THEY TOLD. 

By Donald G. Mitchell. Author of "The Reveries of a Bachelor, " etc. , etc. With numerous illustrations. One volume, 12mo $1. 25. 

 "Mr. Mitchell's literary style, so chaste, simple and pure, is admirably adapted for this kind of writing, and he employs his facile and congenial pen, in the present instance, with entire success. 'About Old Story-Tellers' is made up of the best of the old stories, gathered from all sources, re-told in Mr. Mitchell's inimitable manner, and interwoven with lively sketches of the original writers and the times in which they flourished. "--_New Haven Journal and Courier. _

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------

 FRANK R. STOCKTON'S POPULAR STORIES. 

 "Stockton has the knack, perhaps genius would be a better word, of writing in the easiest of colloquial English without descending to the plane of the vulgar or common-place. The very perfection of his work hinders the reader from perceiving at once how good of its kind it is. * * With the added charm of a most delicate humor--a real humor, mellow, tender, and informed by a singularly quaint and racy fancy--his stories become irresistibly attractive. "--_Philadelphia Times. _

 -----------------------------------

 A JOLLY FELLOWSHIP. 

 By Frank R. Stockton, author of "Rudder Grange. " Illustrated. 1 vol. , 12mo, extra cloth $1. 50

 -----------------------------------

 THE FLOATING PRINCE, AND OTHER FAIRY TALES. 

 By Frank R. Stockton. With illustrations by Bensell and others. 1 vol. , quarto, Boards, New Edition. Price reduced to $1. 50

 -----------------------------------

 _NEW EDITIONS OF OLD FAVORITES. _

 -----------------------------------

 THE TING-A-LING TALES. 

 By Frank R. Stockton. Illustrated by E. B. Bensell. 1 vol. , 12mo $1. 00

 -----------------------------------

 ROUNDABOUT RAMBLES IN LANDS OF FACT AND FICTION. 

 By Frank R. Stockton. 1 vol. , 4to, boards, with very attractive lithographed cover, 370 pages, nearly 200 illustrations. A new edition. Price reduced from $3 to $1. 50

 -----------------------------------

 TALES OUT OF SCHOOL. 

 By Frank R. Stockton. One volume, 4to, boards, with handsome lithographed cover, 350 pages, nearly 200 illustrations. A new edition. Price reduced from $3 to $1. 50

 "_The Roundabout Rambles_ and _Tales Out of School_ are two large handsome volumes, full of stories of home, travel and adventure, and the elegance and finish of the engravings can scarcely be surpassed in juvenile literature. Without and within, they are a treasury of beauty and enjoyment for the children. "--_St. Paul Pioneer. _

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------

 STANDARD BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 

 TRAVEL, HISTORY, SCIENCE AND ART. 

 -----------------------------------

 _A NEW EDITION AT REDUCED PRICE. _

 BAYARD TAYLOR'S LIBRARY OF TRAVEL. 

 _6 Vols. , Square 12mo, with many illustrations. Handsomely bound. _

 JAPAN IN OUR DAY. CENTRAL ASIA. TRAVELS IN ARABIA. THE LAKE REGIONS OF CENTRAL AFRICA. TRAVELS IN SOUTH AFRICA. SIAM, THE LAND OF THE WHITE ELEPHANT. 

 _Price per set, in a box, $6. 00 or sold separately at $1. 25 per volume. _

 -----------------------------------

 EPOCHS OF HISTORY. 

 "These volumes contain the ripe results of the studies of men who are authorities in the respective fields. "--_The Nation. _

 EPOCHS OF MODERN HISTORY. THE ERA OF PROTESTANT REVOLUTION. THE CRUSADES. THE THIRTY YEARS' WAR, 1618-1648. THE HOUSES OF LANCASTER AND YORK. THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AND FIRST EMPIRE. THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. THE FALL OF THE STUARTS. THE PURITAN REVOLUTION. THE EARLY PLANTAGENETS. AGE OF ANNE. THE BEGINNING OF THE MIDDLE AGES. THE NORMANS IN EUROPE. FREDERICK THE GREAT AND THE SEVEN YEARS' WAR. THE EPOCH OF REFORM, 1830-1850. EPOCHS OF ANCIENT HISTORY. THE GREEKS AND THE PERSIANS. THE ATHENIAN EMPIRE. THE MACEDONIAN EMPIRE. EARLY ROME. THE GRACCHI, MARIUS AND SULLA. THE ROMAN TRIUMVIRATES. THE EARLY EMPIRE. THE AGE OF THE ANTONINES. ROME AND CARTHAGE. TROY. THE SPARTAN AND THEBAN SUPREMACY. (In press. )

 ***_Each one vol. , 16mo, with Maps. Each volume complete in itself, and sold separately. Price per vol. , in cloth, $1. 00_

 _The same in sets, Roxburgh binding, gilt top, at the rate of $1. 00 per vol. _

 -----------------------------------

 ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY OF WONDERS. 

 The First Series Comprises:

 _Illus. _ WONDERFUL ESCAPES 26 BODILY STRENGTH AND SKILL 70 BALLOON ASCENTS 30 GREAT HUNTS 22 EGYPT 3, 300 YEARS AGO 40 THE SUN. By Guillemin 58 WONDERS OF HEAT 93 OPTICAL WONDERS 71 WONDERS OF ACOUSTICS 110 THE HEAVENS 48 THE HUMAN BODY 43 THE SUBLIME IN NATURE 44 INTELLIGENCE OF ANIMALS 54 THUNDER AND LIGHTNING 39 BOTTOM OF THE SEA 68 ITALIAN ART 28 EUROPEAN ART 40 ARCHITECTURE 60 GLASS-MAKING 63 WONDERS OF POMPEII 22

 _Price per single vol. , cloth, $1. 25_ _The same, in sets of 20 vols. , cloth, with a rack, 25. 00_

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------

 THE WORKS OF JULES VERNE. 

 THE COMPLETE AND AUTHORIZED EDITIONS. 

 -----------------------------------

 _JULES VERNE'S GREATEST WORK_

 THE EXPLORATION OF THE WORLD. 

Three volumes, 8vo, extra cloth, with 100 full-page engravings in each. Price per volume $3. 50

The work includes three divisions, each in one volume complete in itself. 

 I. Famous Travels and Travellers. II. The Great Navigators. III. The Explorers of the Nineteenth Century. 

Each volume in the series is very fully illustrated with full-pageengravings by French artists of note; and the volume of "FAMOUS TRAVELS"is made still more interesting by many fac-similes from the originalprints in old voyages, atlases, etc. 

 "Even if truth were not stranger than fiction, to the healthful mind it ought to be far more fascinating. Such works as this are not only entertaining and informing, but their whole atmosphere is bracing. They are as much better than sentimental heart histories or imaginary personal experiences as a day in the open air is better than a day in a close and crowded apartment. "--_N. Y. Observer. _

 "The book may very well be a favorite at the holiday time, but it has permanent worth and permanent interest also, which will give it a place in well-selected libraries. "--_N. Y. Evening Post. _

 -----------------------------------

 JULES VERNE'S OTHER WORKS. 

Michael Strogoff; or, the Courier of the Czar. Profusely illustratedafter designs by Riou. 1 vol. , 8vo. New edition $2. 00

The Mysterious Island. Vol. I. Dropped from the Clouds. Vol. II. Abandoned. Vol. III. The Secret of the Island. The complete work in 1vol. With 150 illustrations. 8vo $3. 00

A Journey to the Centre of the Earth. With 52 full-page illustrations. 1 vol. , 8vo $3. 00

Stories of Adventure. Comprising "Meridiana, " and "A Journey to theCentre of the Earth. " 68 full-page illustrations. 1 vol. , 12mo $1. 50

A Floating City, and the Blockade Runners. With numerous illustrations. 1 vol. , 8vo. , extra cloth, gilt. (New edition) $2. 00

Hector Servadac; or, The Career of a Comet. With over 100 full-pageillustrations. 1 vol. , 8vo, elegantly bound (new edition) $2. 00

From the Earth to the Moon Direct in Ninety-Seven Hours, Twenty Minutes;and a Journey Around it. 1 vol. , 12mo $1. 50

Dick Sands. Superbly illustrated by 100 full-page cuts. 1 vol. , 8vo $3. 00

The Demon of Cawnpore. (Part I. Of the Steam House). Illustrated. 1 vol. , 12mo $1. 50

Tigers and Traitors. (Part II. Of the Steam House). Illustrated. 1 vol. , 12mo $1. 50

Eight Hundred Leagues on the Amazon. (Part I. Of the Giant Raft). Illustrated. 1 vol. , 12mo $1. 50

The Cryptogram. (Part II. Of the Giant Raft). Illustrated. 1 vol. , 12mo $1. 50

 ----------------------------------- CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, 743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. -----------------------------------