FOOTNOTES:
[2] This is a fairy tale, pure and simple, but we must have a little nonsense now and then, and it does us no harm, but on the contrary much good.
Harry Pemberton's Text.
BY ELIZABETH ARMSTRONG.
"He that hath clean hands and a pure heart."
Harry Pemberton went down the street whistling a merry tune. It was one I like very much, and you all know it, for it has been played by street bands and organs, and heard on every street corner for as many years as you boys have been living on the earth. "Wait till the clouds roll by, Jenny, wait till the clouds roll by." The lads I am writing this story for are between ten and fourteen years old, and they know that the clouds do once in a while roll around a person's path, and block the way, because fogs and mists can block the way just as well as a big black stone wall.
At the corner of the street a red-headed, blue-eyed lad, a head taller than Harry, joined the latter. He put his hand on Harry's shoulder and walked beside him.
"Well," said this last comer, whose name was Frank Fletcher, "will your mother let you go, Harry, boy? I hope she doesn't object."
"But she does," said Harry, quickly "Mother doesn't think it right for us to start on such an expedition and she says all parents will say the same."
"Of all things, where can the harm be? Only none of the rest of us have to ask leave, as you do."
"Mother," said Harry, disregarding this speech, "is of the opinion that to enter a man's garden by the back gate, when the family are all away, is breaking into his premises and going where you haven't a right, and is burglary, and if you take flowers or anything, then it's stealing. Mere vulgar stealing, she says."
"Why, Harry Pemberton, how dare you say stealing to me?" And Frank's red hair stood up like a fiery flame.
"I'm only quoting mother. Don't get mad, Frank."
"Does your mother know it's to decorate the soldiers' graves that we want the flowers, and that Squire Eliot won't be home till next year, and there are hundreds 'n hundreds of flowers fading and wasting and dying on his lawn and garden, and furthermore that he'd like the fellows to decorate the cemetery with his flowers? Does she know that, I say?" and the blue-eyed lad gesticulated fiercely.
"All is," replied Harry, firmly, "that you boys can go ahead if you like, but mother won't let me, and you must count me out."
"All is," said Frank, mimicking Harry's tone, "you're a mother-boy, and we fellows won't have anything more to do with you." So they sent him to Coventry, which means that they let him alone severely. They had begun to do it already, which was why he whistled so merrily to show he did not mind.
I never for my part could see that there was any disgrace in being a mother-boy. But I suppose a boy thinks he is called babyish, if the name is fastened on him. As Harry went on his errand, he no longer whistled, at least he didn't whistle much. And as he went to school next day, and next day, and next day, and found himself left out in the cold, he would have been more than the usual twelve-year-old laddie if he had not felt his courage fail. But he had his motto text to bolster him up.
"Clean hands, Harry, and a pure heart," said Mrs. Pemberton, cheerfully. "It cannot be right to steal flowers or anything else even to decorate the graves of our brave soldiers."
And so the time passed—kite time, top time, hoop time, marble time.
It was the evening before Memorial Day, at last.
There was a good deal of stirring in the village. It was splendid moonlight. You could see to read large print. A whole crowd of boys met at the store and took their way across lots to the beautiful old Eliot place. The big house, with its broad porch and white columns, stood out in the glory of the moon. The gardens were sweet in the dew. Violets, lilies, roses, lilacs, snow-drops, whole beds of them.
Every boy, and there were ten of them, had a basket and a pair of shears. They meant to get all the flowers they could carry and despoil the Eliot place, if necessary, to make the cemetery a grand looking spot to-morrow, when the veterans and the militia should be out with bands of music and flying flags, and the Governor, no less, coming in person to review the troops and make a speech in the very place where his own father was buried.
In went the boys. Over the stile, up the paths, clear on toward the front portico. They separated into little groups and began to cut their flowers, the Eliots' flowers, all the Eliots in Europe, and not a soul on hand to save their property.
Suddenly the boys were arrested and paralyzed with fright.
An immense form leaped from behind the house and a deep-throated, baying bark resounded in a threatening roar. Juno, Squire Eliot's famous mastiff, the one that had taken a prize at the dog show, bounded out toward the marauders. They turned to fly, when a stern voice bade them stop.
"You young rapscallions! You trespassers! You rascals! Stop this instant or I'll thrash every one of you! Humph!" said Squire Eliot, brandishing his cane, as the boys stopped and tremblingly came forward. "This is how my neighbors' sons treat my property when I'm away. Line up there against the fence, every one of you. Charge, Juno! Charge, good dog!"
Squire Eliot looked keenly at the boys, every one of whom he knew.
"Solomon's methods are out of fashion," he said, "and if I send you boys home the chances are that your fathers won't whip you as you deserve to be whipped, so I'll do the job myself. Fortunate thing I happened to change my plans and come home for the summer, instead of going away as I expected. I heard there was a plan of this sort on foot, but I didn't believe it till I overheard the whole thing talked of in the village this afternoon. Well, boys, I'll settle with you once for all, and then I'll forgive you, but you've got to pay the penalty first. Frank, hold out your hand."
But just then there was an interruption. Lights appeared in the windows and a dainty little lady came upon the scene. The boys knew Grandmother Eliot, who wore her seventy years with right queenly grace, and never failed to have a kind word for man, woman and child in the old home.
"Eugene," she called to the Squire, imperatively, "I can't allow this, my son. The boys have been punished enough. Their fault was in not seeing that you cannot do evil that good may come. Let every one of these young gentlemen come here to me. I want to talk with them."
Now it is probable that most of the boys would have preferred a sharp blow or two from the Squire's cane to a reproof from his gentle old mother, whose creed led her to heap coals of fire on the heads of those who did wrong. But they had no choice. There was no help for it. They had to go up, shears, baskets and all, and let old Lady Eliot talk to them; and then, as they were going away, who should come out but a white-capped maid, with cake and lemonade, to treat the young depredators to refreshments.
"There's only one fellow in our class who deserves cake and lemonade," exclaimed Frank, "and he isn't here. We've all treated him meaner than dirt. We've been horrid to him, because he wouldn't join us in this. Now he's out of this scrape and we're in."
"Harry Pemberton," said Squire Eliot, who had locked up his cane, and was quite calm, "Harry Pemberton, that's Lida Scott's boy, mother. Lida would bring him up well, I'm sure. Well, he shall have a lot of roses to-morrow to lay on Colonel Pemberton's grave. Isn't that fair, boys?"
"Yes, yes," assented they all, with eagerness.
"And as you have by your own admission treated Harry rather badly, suppose you make it up to him by coming here in the morning, carrying the roses to his house, and owning that you regret your behavior."
It was rather a bitter pill, but the boys swallowed it bravely.
Next day, as Harry and his mother, laden with dog-wood boughs and branches of lilac, set out for the little spot most sacred to them on earth, they met a procession which was headed by Frank Fletcher. The procession had a drum and a flag, and it had roses galore.
"Honest roses, Harry," said Frank. "The Squire is at home and he gave them to us for you. Let me tell you about it."
The story was told from beginning to end. Then Mrs. Pemberton said, "Now, boys, take for your everlasting motto from this time forth, 'Clean hands and a pure heart.'"
Our Cats.
The first cat of our recollection was a large, sleek, black and white animal, the pet and plaything of our very early childhood. Tom, as we called him, seemed much attached to us all, but when we moved from the house of his kittendom and attempted to keep him with us, we found that we had reckoned without our host; all our efforts were in vain; the cat returned to its former home and we gave it up as lost to us.
The months sped along and we children had almost forgotten our late favorite, when one day he came mewing into the yard, and in so pitiable a condition that all our hearts were moved for him. He was in an emaciated state distressing to behold, and then one of his hind legs was broken so that the bone protruded through the skin. The dear old cat was at once fed, but it was soon seen that his injury was incurable, and our truly humane father said the only thing to do with Tom was to put him out of his misery. This was done, but we have ever kept in mind the cat that would not go from its first home, even with those it loved, and yet remembered those friends and came to them in trouble. I should have stated above, that the two homes were less than a mile apart.
Morris was another black and white cat, named Morris from our minister, who gave him to brother. He was a fine fellow, and would jump a bar four feet from the floor. But brother obtained a pair of tiny squirrels, the striped squirrels, and feared that Morris would catch them, for he was all alert when he spied them, and so the cat was sent to the house of a friend, as this friend wished to possess him. Morris was let out of the basket in which he was carried into our friend's kitchen, and giving one frightened look at his surroundings he sprang up the chimney and was never seen by any of his early friends again. Poor Morris, we never knew his fate!
One cat we named Snowball, just because he was so black. This cat was an unprincipled thief, and all unknown to us a person who disliked cats in general, and thieving cats in particular, killed Snowball.
We once owned an old cat and her daughter, and when the mother had several kittens and the daughter had but one, the grandmother stole the daughter's kitten, and though the young mother cried piteously she never regained possession of her child. Again, once when our brother was ploughing he overturned a rabbit's nest, and taking the young rabbits therefrom he gave them to the cat, who had just been robbed of her kittens. Pussy was at once devoted to these babies, and cared for them tenderly, never for a moment neglecting them. Nevertheless, they died, one by one; their foster mother's care was not the kind they needed.
Of all our cats we speak most tenderly of Friskie. She was brought when a kitten to our farm home, and if ever cat deserved eulogy it was she. A small cat with black coat and white breast and legs, not particularly handsome, but thoroughly good and very intelligent. The children played with her as they would; she was never known to scratch them, but would show her disapproval of any rough handling by a tap with her tiny velvet paw. She was too kind to scratch them.
Friskie grew up with Trip, our little black and tan dog, and though Trip was selfish with her, Friskie loved him and showed her affection in various ways. If the dog came into the house wet with dew or rain the dear little cat would carefully dry him all off with her tongue, and though he growled at her for her officiousness she would persevere till the task was accomplished, and then the two would curl up behind the stove and together take a nap.
When we became the owner of a canary, Friskie at once showed feline propensities; she wanted that bird, and saw no reason why she should be denied it. But when, from various tokens, Friskie learned that we valued it, she never again evinced any desire for the canary. And when, afterward, we raised a nest of birdlings, the little cat never attempted to touch them; no, not even when one flew out of doors and alighted almost at her feet. Instead of seizing it, Friskie watched us as we captured and returned it to the cage.
The writer of this story became ill with extreme prostration, and now Friskie showed her affection in a surprising manner. Each morning she came into our room with a tidbit, such as she was sure was toothsome: Mice, rats, at one time a half-grown rabbit, and, at length, a bird.
It was warm weather, the room windows were open, and being upon the first floor, when Friskie brought in her offerings they were seized and thrown from the window to the ground. At this she would spring after the delicacy and bring it back in a hurry, determined that it should be eaten, mewing and coaxing just as she might with her kittens. That the food was not accepted evidently distressed her. When she came with the little bird, she uttered her usual coaxing sound, and then, when it was unheeded, she sprung upon the bed and was about to give it to the invalid, who uttered a scream of fright. At this dear Friskie fled from the room and, we think, she never brought another treat. It was useless to try to treat a person so unappreciative.
At one time, when Friskie was the proud mother of four pretty kittens, she was greatly troubled with the liberties that young Herbert, aged three, took with her family. The little boy didn't want to hurt the tiny creatures, but he would hold them and play with them.
Mother cat bore this for a time, and then carried the kittens away to the barn, and hid them where no one but herself could find them.
While these babies were yet young Herbert was taken away for a visit. Strange to say, that upon the morning of the child's departure Friskie came leading the little ones down to the house. They could walk now, and at first she came part of the distance with three of them, stopped, surveyed her group and went back for the remaining kitten. All we have told is strictly true; it was evident that the cat knew when the disturber of her peace was gone, and also evident that she knew how many were her children.
Friskie died at the age of twelve, the most lovable and intelligent cat we have ever known.
Of late we have had two maltese cats in our kitchen, one old, the other young. The old cat has been jealous and cross with the young one, while the young cat has been kind and pleasant with her companion. One day the young cat, Friskie's namesake, sat and meowed piteously. We were present, and for a time did not notice her, for she is very demonstrative. What was our surprise to see her go to a low closet in the room and lie down, stretch her paws over her head, and by an effort pull open the door to release the old cat, who had accidentally been shut up in this closet.
The old cat is always very reticent, and would not ask to be let out. Her usual way of asking to have a door open is to tap upon it with her paw. She scarcely ever meows.
We might have enlarged upon these incidents, but have simply told facts.
Outovplace.
There's a very strange country called Outovplace,
(I've been there quite often, have you?)
Where the people can't find the things they want,
And hardly know what to do.
If a boy's in a hurry, and wants his cap,
Or a basin to wash his face,
He never can find that on its nail,
Or this in its proper place.
His shoe hides far away under the lounge;
His handkerchief's gone astray;
Oh! how can a boy get off to school,
If he's always bothered this way?
Oh! a very queer country is Outovplace—
(Did you say you had been there?)
Then you've seen, like me, a slate on the floor
And a book upon the stair.
You think they are easy to find, at least!
O, yes! if they would but stay
Just there till they're wanted; but then they don't;
Alas! that isn't the way.
When a boy wants his hat, he sees his ball,
As plain as ever can be;
But when he has time for a game, not a sign
Of bat or a ball finds he.
Sometimes a good man is just off to the train,
(That is, it is time to go);
And he can't put his hand on his Sunday hat!
It surely must vex him, I know.
How 'twould gladden the women of Outovplace,
If the boys and girls themselves
Should wake up some morning determined quite
To use hooks, closets and shelves.
The Boy Who Dared to Be a Daniel.
BY S. JENNIE SMITH.
Sunday-school was dismissed and the children were going, some in one direction, some in another, to their homes. The majority of them were chatting merrily of the proposed strawberry festival, but one little fellow seemed to be engrossed with more serious thoughts. He was alone and apparently unconscious of the nearness of his companions until a lad about his own age joined him and inquired, "Say, Ralph, what are you thinking of? You look as wise as an owl."
"I should hope I was a little bit wiser than a bird," answered Ralph, with a smile. "But I was just awondering, Ned, if I could be brave enough to go into the lion's den like Daniel did. I wouldn't like to stop praying to God, but it would be pretty hard to make up your mind to face a lot of lions."
"Yes, indeed; but then father says that we don't need grace to do those hard things until we are called upon to do them, and then if we ask God, He will give us the strength we require. All we've got to do is to attend to the duty nearest us, and seek for strength for that."
Ned was the minister's son and had enjoyed many an instructive talk with his kind father.
"He says, too, that we are often called upon to face other kinds of lions in this life, if we persist as we ought in doing the right. But here we part, Ralph, good-bye," and the boy turned off into a side road, leaving Ralph again alone.
Ralph's way led through a quiet country lane, for his home was beyond the village where nearly all of his companions lived.
"Well, I won't have to go into the lion's den to-day," he said to himself, as he sauntered along; "and when I do I guess God will give me the strength," and with this thought a gayer frame of mind came to him. "But it must be grand to be a Daniel."
Just then two large boys crept stealthily from the bushes that lined one side of the road and looked anxiously around. "Say, John, there's Ralph," one of them muttered. "He'll tell we didn't go to Sunday-school. Let's frighten him into promising not to."
"Hello!" cried John, in a loud voice.
Ralph turned and was surprised to see his brothers approaching him.
"Going home?" one of them asked.
"Why, yes, Tom, ain't you?"
"No, not yet; and if any one inquires where we are, just mention that we've been to Sunday-school and will be home soon."
Ralph's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "But you didn't go to Sunday-school," he replied, "because your teacher came and asked me where you were, and I told her I didn't know; I thought you were coming."
"Well, it isn't any of your business whether we went or not," growled John. "All you've got to do is to say we were there if you're asked."
"I can't tell a lie about it, can I?"
"Yes, you can, if you just make up your mind to do it."
"But I won't tell a lie about it," said Ralph, sturdily.
"No, I suppose you'd rather get your brothers in a scrape. You know what will happen if we're found out."
Ralph hesitated. He was an affectionate child and disliked to see anybody in trouble, especially his own brothers, but he had a very decided opinion that he was in the right, and therefore concluded to speak the truth at all hazards.
"I'm just as sorry as I can be," he returned, sadly, "and I'll beg papa to forgive you and say I know you won't ever do it again, but if they ask me I can't tell a lie about it."
"You won't, eh, little saint?" cried John, angrily, grabbing his brother's arm. "Now just promise to do as we say, or we'll pitch you into that deep pond over there."
Ralph was too young to realize that this was only an idle threat, and he was very much frightened, yet in that moment of terror the thought of Daniel in the lion's den flashed through his mind and gave him the strength that he had not dared to hope for. He saw in an instant that he had come to his temptation and his den of lions, and he felt that as God had protected Daniel in that far-away time, He would now protect him. Ralph had never learned to swim, and he was in fear of the big frogs and other creatures that inhabit ponds, but he did not flinch. With a boldness that surprised even himself, he looked steadily at his brother and replied, "You cannot frighten me into doing that wrong thing. I will not pray to the image of falsehood that you have set up."
It was now his brothers' turn to be astonished. They had never thought of Ralph as anything but a timid, little boy who could be overcome by the slightest threat, and for a moment they were at a loss what to say. Of course, Ralph was merely repeating some of his teacher's words, but they were not aware of that fact, and consequently wondered at his remarks. Finally John managed to stammer, "Do—do you want to go in that pond?"
"No manner of hurt was found upon him because he believed in his God," continued Ralph, with his mind still on his Sunday-school; "God delivers His faithful ones in time of trouble."
Turning away, John was about to walk off, but Tom detained him. "Wait a moment, John," he said, and then the others noticed that there were tears in his eyes. "I want to tell my brave little brother that I honor him for sticking to the truth. As for me, I shall confess to father, and promise not to repeat the offence."
"I am with you," John replied. "Come Ralph, we'll go together now and hereafter. We need never be afraid to go where a Daniel leads."
Little Redcap.[3]
BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.
There was once a sweet little maid, much beloved by everybody, but most of all by her grandmother, who never knew how to make enough of her. Once she sent her a little cap of red velvet, and as it was very becoming to her, and she never wore anything else, people called her Little Redcap. One day her mother said to her:
"Come, Little Redcap, here are some cakes and a flask of milk for you to take to your grandmother; she is weak and ill, and they will do her good. Make haste and start before it grows hot, and walk properly and nicely, and don't run, or you might fall and break the flask of milk and there would be none left for grandmother. And when you go into her room, don't forget to say, 'Good morning' instead of staring about you."
"I will be sure to take care," said Little Redcap to her mother, and gave her hand upon it. Now the grandmother lived away in the wood, half an hour's walk from the village, and when Little Redcap had reached the wood, she met the wolf; but as she did not know what a bad sort of animal he was, she did not feel frightened.
"Good day, Little Redcap," said he.
"Thank you kindly, Wolf," answered she.
"Where are you going so early, Little Redcap?"
"To my grandmother's."
"What are you carrying under your apron?"
"Cakes and milk; we baked yesterday; and my grandmother is very weak and ill, so they will do her good, and strengthen her."
"Where does your grandmother live, Little Redcap?"
"A quarter of an hour's walk from here; her house stands beneath the three oak trees, and you may know it by the hazel bushes," said Little Redcap. The wolf thought to himself:
"That tender young thing would be a delicious morsel, and would taste better than the old one; I must manage somehow to get both of them."
Then he walked beside little Redcap for a little while, and said to her softly and sweetly:
"Little Redcap, just look at the pretty flowers that are growing all round you, and I don't think you are listening to the song of the birds; you are posting along just as if you were going to school, and it is so delightful out here in the wood."
Little Redcap glanced round her, and when she saw the sunbeams darting here and there through the trees, and lovely flowers everywhere, she thought to herself:
"If I were to take a fresh nosegay to my grandmother, she would be very pleased, and it is so early in the day that I shall reach her in plenty of time;" and so she ran about in the wood, looking for flowers. And as she picked one she saw a still prettier one a little farther off, and so she went farther and farther into the wood. But the wolf went straight to the grandmother's house and knocked at the door.
"Who is there?" cried the grandmother.
"Little Redcap," he answered, "and I have brought you some cake and some new milk. Please open the door."
"Lift the latch," cried the poor old grandmother, feebly; "I am too weak to get up."
So the wolf lifted the latch, and the door flew open, and he fell on the grandmother and ate her up without saying one word. Then he drew on her clothes, put on her cap, lay down in her bed and drew the curtains, the old wretch that he was.
Little Redcap was all this time running about among the flowers, and when she had gathered as many as she could hold; she remembered her grandmother, and set off to go to her. She was surprised to find the door standing wide open, and when she came inside she felt very strange and thought to herself:
"Oh, dear, how uncomfortable I feel, and I was so glad this morning to go to my grandmother!"
And when she said "Good morning!" there was no answer. Then she went up to the bed and drew back the curtains; there lay the grandmother with her cap pulled over her eyes, so that she looked very odd.
"Oh, grandmother, what large ears you have got!"
"The better to hear you with."
"Oh, grandmother, what great eyes you have got!"
"The better to see you with."
"Oh, grandmother, what large hands you have got!"
"The better to take hold of you with, my dear."
"But, grandmother, what a terrible large mouth you have got!"
"The better to devour you!" And no sooner had the wolf said this than he made one bound from the bed and swallowed up poor Little Redcap.
Then the wolf, having satisfied his hunger, lay down again in the bed, went to sleep and began to snore loudly. The huntsman heard him as he was passing by the house and thought:
"How the old lady snores—I would better see if there is anything the matter with her."
Then he went into the room and walked up to the bed, and saw the wolf lying there.
"At last I find you, you old sinner!" said he; "I have been looking for you for a long time." And he made up his mind that the wolf had swallowed the grandmother whole, and that she might yet be saved. So he did not fire, but took a pair of shears and began to slit up the wolf's body. When he made a few snips Little Redcap appeared, and after a few more snips she jumped out and cried, "Oh, dear, how frightened I have been, it is so dark inside the wolf!"
And then out came the old grandmother, still living and breathing. But Little Redcap went and quickly fetched some large stones, with which she filled the wolf's body, so that when he waked up, and was going to rush away, the stones were so heavy that he sank down and fell dead.
They were all three very much pleased. The huntsman took off the wolf's skin and carried it home to make a fur rug. The grandmother ate the cakes and drank the milk and held up her head again, and Little Redcap said to herself that she would never again stray about in the wood alone, but would mind what her mother told her, nor talk to strangers.
It must also be related how a few days afterward, when Little Redcap was again taking cakes to her grandmother, another wolf spoke to her, and wanted to tempt her to leave the path; but she was on her guard, and went straight on her way, and told her grandmother how that the wolf had met her and wished her good-day, but had looked so wicked about the eyes that she thought if it had not been on the high road he would have devoured her.
"Come," said the grandmother, "we will shut the door, so that he may not get in."
Soon after came the wolf knocking at the door, and calling out, "Open the door, grandmother, I am Little Redcap, bringing you cakes." But they remained still and did not open the door. After that the wolf slunk by the house, and got at last upon the roof to wait until Little Redcap should return home in the evening; then he meant to spring down upon her and devour her in the darkness. But the grandmother discovered his plot. Now, there stood before the house a great stone trough, and the grandmother said to the child: "Little Redcap, I was boiling sausages yesterday, so take the bucket and carry away the water they were boiled in and pour it into the trough."
And Little Redcap did so until the great trough was quite full. When the smell of the sausages reached the nose of the wolf he snuffed it up and looked around, and stretched out his neck so far that he lost his balance and began to slip, and he slipped down off the roof straight in the great trough and was drowned. Then Little Redcap went cheerfully home and came to no harm.