BUT WHEN TO-MORROW
But when to-morrow, down the lane,
I walk among the flowers again,
Between the tall red hollyhocks,
Here I shall find you as before,
Asleep within your fastened door,—
My lazy four-o’clocks!
MARGARET JOHNSON.
THE SNOW WITCH.
There was skating on the ponds where the snow had been cleared; there were icicles on the trees, nice blue, clear skies in the daytime, cold, bright, wintry moonlight at night.
Lovely weather for Christmas holidays! But to one little five-year-old man, nothing had seemed lovely this Christmas, though he was spending it with his Father and Mother and his big sisters at Grandpapa’s beautiful old country house, where everybody did all that could be done to make Grandpapa’s guests happy. For poor little Roger was pining for his elder brother, Lawson, whom he had not seen for more than four months. Lawson was eight, and had been at school since Michaelmas, and there he had caught a fever which had made it not safe for him to join the rest of the family till the middle of January. But he was coming to-morrow.
Why, then, did Roger still look sad and gloomy?
“Stupid little boy!” said Mabel. “I’m sure we’ve tried to amuse him. Why, Mamma let him sit up an hour later than usual last night, to hear all those funny old fairy tales and legends Uncle Bob was telling.”
“Yes, and weren’t they fun?” answered Pansy. “I did shiver at the witch ones, though, didn’t you?”
Poor little Roger! Pansy’s shivering was nothing to his! They had all walked home from the vicarage, tempted by the clear, frosty moonlight and the hard, dry ground; and trotting along, a little behind the others, a strange thing had happened to the boy. Fancy—in the field by the Primrose Lane, through the gateway, right in a bright band of moonlight, he had seen a witch. Just such a witch as Uncle Bob had described—with shadowy garments, and outstretched arms, and a queer-shaped head, on all of which the icicles were sparkling, just as Uncle Bob had said. For it was a winter-witch he had told the story about, whose dwelling was up in the frozen northern seas—“the Snow Witch” they called her.
Cold as it was, Roger was in a bath of heat, his heart beating wildly, his legs shaking, when he overtook his sisters. And the night that followed was full of terrible dreams and starts and misery, even though nurse and baby were next door, and he could see the night-light through the chinks. If it had not been that Lawson was coming—Lawson who never laughed at him or called him “stupid little goose,” Lawson who listened to all his griefs—Roger could not have borne it. For, strange to say, the little fellow told no one of his trouble; he felt as if he could only tell Lawson.
No wonder he looked pale and sad and spiritless; there was still another dreadful night to get through before Lawson came.
But things sometimes turn out better than our fears. Late that afternoon, when nursery tea was over and bedtime not far off, there came the sound of wheels and then a joyful hubbub. Lawson had come! Uncle Bob had been passing near the school where he was, and had gone a little out of his way to pick him up. Every one was delighted—oh, of them all, none so thankful as Roger.
“Though I wont tell him to-night,” decided the unselfish little fellow, “not to spoil his first night. I sha’n’t mind when I know he’s in his cot beside me.” And even when Lawson lovingly asked him if anything was the matter, he kept to his resolution.
But he woke in the middle of the night from a terrible dream; Lawson woke too, and then—out it all came.
“I thought she was coming in at the window,” Roger ended. “If—if you look out—it’s moonlight—I think p’r’aps you’ll see where she stands. But no, no! Don’t, don’t! She might see you.”
So Lawson agreed to wait till to-morrow.
“I have an idea,” said Lawson. “Roger, darling, go to sleep. I’m here, and you can say your prayers again if you like.”
Lawson was up very early next morning. And as soon as breakfast was over he told Roger to come out with him. Down the Primrose Lane they went, in spite of Roger’s trembling.
“Now, shut your eyes,” said Lawson, when they got to the gate. He opened it, and led his brother through.
“Look, now!” he said, with a merry laugh. And what do you think Roger saw?
An old scarecrow, forgotten since last year. There she stood, the “Snow Witch,” an apron and ragged shawl, two sticks for arms, a bit of Grandpapa’s hat, to crown all—that was the witch!
“Shake hands with her, Roger,” said Lawson. And shake hands they both did, till the old scarecrow tumbled to pieces, never more to frighten either birds or little boys. “Dear Lawson,” said Roger, lovingly, as he held up his little face for a kiss. And happy, indeed, were the rest of the Christmas holidays.
May they never love each other less, these two; may they be true brothers in manhood as they have been in their childish days!
L. Molesworth.
THE THREE BLIND MICE.
THE STORY TOLD BY A BROWNIE.
Well, first of all, I must tell you that I am a Brownie, and although I am ever and ever so old, I look as young to-day as I did when I was but one year old. Well, it was about seven hundred years ago, and I used to be a great deal with some other Brownies, cousins of mine, visiting at the same farm-houses as they did, and helping them with their work. And it was in this way that I got to know the Three Blind Mice,—Purrin, Furrin, and Tod.
Pretty, pleasant little fellows they were; and they were not blind then,—far from it. They lived up in the loft of Dame Marjoram’s room, over at Fiveoaks Farm.
Such merry supper-parties as never were, I think, before or since, we used to have then. We would think nothing of finishing a round of apple and a walnut-shell full of honey between us, in one evening, to say nothing of scraps of cheese-rind and the crumbs we stole from the birds. Purrin had a most melodious voice, and could sing a good song, while Tod was never at a loss for an amusing story. As to Furrin, he was almost as quaint as our Mr. Puck, and, though perhaps it is not for me to say so, when those in high places do encourage him, not one-tenth as mischievous.
When Angelina, the old stable cat, had kittens, he would get into all sorts of out-of-the-way places, and imitate their squeaky little voices, so that she was always on the fidget, thinking she must have mislaid one somewhere, and never able to find it. For you see, as she could not count, she never knew whether they were all beside her or no. Often he would coax a whole hazel-nut out of Rudge, the Squirrel, who lived on the Hanger, just above, and whom every one believed to be a miser. And then his Toasting-fork Dance was so sprightly and graceful, it did your heart good to see it. Ah, me! those days are gone, and Furrin is gone too; and the Moon, when she looks through that chink in the barn roof, no longer sees us feasting and making merry on the great beam.
And this is how they became blind:
They were very fond of Gilliflower, Dame Marjoram’s little daughter, and after the nurse had put her to bed, Furrin, Purrin, and Tod used to creep up into her room, and read her some of the funny little tales from Mouse-land till she went to sleep. She would lie there with her eyes shut, and perhaps imagined that it was her own thoughts that made her fancy all about the fairy tales that came into her head; but really it was the mice who read them to her, but in such a low voice that Gilliflower never thought of opening her eyes to see if any one was there. I must tell you that the print in Mouse-land is very, very small and hard to read. This did not matter so much during the long Summer evenings, when there was plenty of light to see to read by; but when the Winter came on, and the mice had only the firelight to read by, then reading the small print began to tell its tale. You know how bad it is for the eyesight to read any print by firelight, and it must be very much worse when the print is very small; and so Furrin would say to Purrin, “My eyes are getting quite dim, so now you must read;” and before Purrin had read a page he would say the same thing to Tod, and then Tod would try; but after a time their eyes became so dim they couldn’t see at all, and so they had to invent stories to tell little Gilliflower; so the poor little mice went quite blind, trying to amuse their little girl friend.
I took what care of them I could; but their blindness was very sad for them. No longer had Purrin the heart to sing or Furrin to dance and jest. Only they would sit close together, each holding one of Tod’s hands, and listening to his stories, for he kept his spirits best, and did all he could to cheer the others. All the marketing fell to me then, and it gave me plenty to do; for, poor souls, the only amusement left them was a dainty morsel, now and then.
And, by and by, they became so tired of sitting still, when Tod had exhausted all his stock of stories, that they got reckless, and would go blundering about the house after Dame Marjoram, whom they knew by the rustle of her silken skirt, and the tapping of her high-heeled shoes. They all ran after her, forgetting, that although they could not see her, still she could see them, and trying to follow her into her store-room, where the almonds, and raisins, and sugar, and candied-peel were kept.
I told them she would get angry, and that harm would come of it; but I think their unhappiness and dulness made them quite foolhardy, for they still went on, getting under her feet, and well-nigh tripping her up; clambering into the lard-pot before her very eyes; in short, doing a thousand irritating and injudicious things day by day, until her patience was quite worn out. And at last, when they scrambled on to the dinner-table, thinking it to be the store-room shelf, and sat all in a row, quietly eating out of Miss Gilliflower’s plate, Dame Marjoram, who had the carving-knife in her hand, thought it high time for them to have a lesson in manners. So, thinking the knife was turned blunt side downwards, she rapped them smartly across their three tails. What was her horror and their dismay, to find them cut off quite cleanly. The little tails lay still on the table, and the three little mice, well-nigh crazed with terror and pain, groped their way off the table and out of the room.
I was returning from the cheese-room, and met them crossing the great hall.
Of course, I took in at a glance all that had occurred, and I must say that I felt but little surprise, though much sorrow. I guided them to our old haunt in the loft-roof and then sat down to prepare a Memorial for Dame Marjoram, giving a full account of all that they had suffered for the sake of her family.
This I placed on the top of the key-basket; and while she was reading it, with my usual tact I silently brought in Purrin, Furrin, and Tod, and pushed them forward in front of her.
The tears stood in her eyes as she finished reading my scroll, and from that time forth nothing was too good for the Three Blind Mice. The good wife even tried to make new tails for them.
But they did not live long to enjoy their new happiness. The loss of their sight, followed by the shock of having their tails cut off, was too much for them. They never quite recovered, but died, all on the same day, within the same hour, just a month afterward.
Their three little graves were made beneath the shadows of a lavender bush in the garden.
Sometimes I go there to scatter a flower or two, and to shed a tear to the memory of Purrin, Furrin, and Tod.
Helen J. Wood.
