[to be continued.]
NOT UP IN HIS PART.—Drawn by Sol Eytinge, Jun.
[PHIL'S BURGLAR.]
BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.
I am Phil Morris, fourteen years old, and the youngest clerk in Covert Savings-Bank. The cashier is my uncle Jack, and he began at the bottom, where I am, when he was a boy. He says that a boy had better grow up with a country bank than go West and grow up with the country. He thinks there's more money in it.
"If there's anything in you," he said one day, "you'll work your way up to be bank president some time." And I guess it's better to be president of a country bank than to be President of the United States. Anyway, you wouldn't have to be shot before folks began to find out that you were doing your level best to keep things straight. Uncle Jack says and does such queer things sometimes that people say he's odd. They tell about his being so wrapped up in our bank that he never had time to hunt up a wife. I notice, though, that when father and mother died, and left me a wee little baby, Uncle Jack found time to bring me up, and give me a good education to boot. Oh, he's as good as gold or government bonds, Uncle Jack is.
We live in rooms over the bank, where old Mrs. Halstead keeps house for us. Underneath, we do the business. There's heaps of money in our two big vaults.
Last summer—and, mind you, this was while I was away on vacation—two men broke into the building. They came up stairs, and into Uncle Jack's room. One had a bull's-eye lantern that he flashed in Uncle Jack's face as he sat up in bed, and the other pointed a big pistol right at his head.
"Tell us where the vault keys are, or I'll shoot you," he said.
"Oh, Uncle Jack," I broke in, when he was telling me about it, "what did you do?"
"What would you have done?" he asked, in his odd way.
"I know what I wouldn't have done," I answered him, straightening up a bit—"I wouldn't have given 'em the keys."
"Ah!" Uncle Jack says, kind of half doubtful, and then went on: "Well, I told them to shoot away. And they knew as well as I did that shooting wouldn't bring them the keys. So when they found they couldn't frighten me, the scoundrels tied me, and went off in a rage, with my watch and pocket-book."
That was last summer. One night along in the fall Uncle Jack started off down town. "It's Lodge night, and I may not be back until late," he said. "You won't mind staying alone—a great boy like you." And of course I said "No."
But somehow, after Mrs. Halstead went to bed, I found I did mind it. I don't know what made me feel so fidgety. Perhaps it was reading about a bank robbery in Bolton, which is the next town to Covert. It was thought to be the work of Slippery Jim, a notorious burglar. And while I was thinking about it, I dozed off in Uncle Jack's easy-chair.
"Ow-w-w!" I sung out all at once. And if you'd woke up of a sudden to see a rough-looking man, with a slouch hat pulled over his eyes, standing right in front of you, you'd have done the same. "What—what do you want here?" I sort of gasped; and I tried to speak so he wouldn't hear my teeth knock together.
"The vault keys—where are they?" he answers, short and gruff. And then he kind of motioned with his hand—I suppose to show the revolver he was holding.
I was pretty badly scared; but all the same, I didn't mean he should have those vault keys, if he shot the top of my head off.
"Come, hurry up," he said, with a sort of grin. And I noticed then that he had red whiskers, and some of his upper front teeth were gone, so that he didn't speak his words plain.
"I should know you anywhere," I thought. "Strategy, Phil Morris," I said to myself, bracing up inside; for a story I'd read about how a lady caught a live burglar came across me like a flash. "Please don't shoot, sir," I began to say, with all sorts of demi-semi-quavers in my voice—"please don't; indeed I'll show you where they're kept." So making believe to shake all over, I took the lamp, and led the way into Uncle Jack's bedroom. "The k-k-k-eys are in th-there, sir," I told him.
You should have seen how my fingers trembled when I pointed to the little store-room that opened out of the chamber. The keys were there, true enough, but I'd like to see any one except Uncle Jack or I find them. I suppose you have heard of such things as secret panels.
The store-room floor is lower than the chamber floor. Many a time, when I haven't been thinking, I've stepped down with a jar that almost sent my backbone up through the top of my head.
"In there, eh?" said my bold burglar, quite cheerful like, and pushed by me to the open door.
I set the lamp down, and my heart began to beat so that I was almost afraid he could hear it. "Now or never," I whispered.
It was all done quicker than you could say "knife." I put my head down like a billy-goat, and ran for the small of his back. "Butted" isn't a nice word, but that's just how I sent him flying headlong into the closet. I heard him go down with a crash that shook Mrs. Halstead's biggest jar of raspberry jam off the shelf.
I didn't stop to take breath until I'd locked the door and barricaded it with Uncle Jack's big mahogany bureau—just as the lady did in the story. Then I breathed—and listened. What I heard made my eyes stick out a bit. First I almost felt like crying. Then I laughed until I did cry. I suppose the excitement made me hystericky. It wasn't ten minutes before I roused up Mr. Simms the constable, and Jared Peters, who lives next door. Mr. Simms brought along an old pepperbox revolver and a pair of handcuffs. Jared Peters had his double-barrel gun, but in his flurry he forgot to load it.
Up stairs we hurried. The two men pulled away the bureau, and Mr. Simms, who was in the army, stationed us in our places.
"Look a-here, you feller," Mr. Simms called out, "the strong arm of the law is a-coverin' of you with deadly weepons. Surrender without resistance.—Phil, yank open the door."
I flung open the door. Jared Peters covered the prisoner with his gun. He was covered with something else too—Mrs. Halstead's raspberry jam, that he'd been wallowing round in. He didn't look proud, though, for all he was so stuck up.
Before he could open his mouth Mr. Simms had him handcuffed and dragged out into the chamber.
"There," he said, with a long breath, "I guess you won't burgle no more right away."
"For goodness' sake, Simms—Peters—don't you know me—Mr. John Morris, cashier of the savings bank." That was what the prisoner said just as soon as he could speak.
Well, I didn't wait any longer. I just bolted for my own room, where I could lie down on the floor. And there I lay laughing until I was purple clear round to my shoulder-blades. Then I went to bed.
"Philip," said Uncle Jack, solemnly, while we were at breakfast next morning, "I should beg your pardon for trying to test your courage in the—the consummately idiotic way I took to do it last night, but"—and he looked pretty sheepish—"I—I think I got the worst of it."
"I think you did, sir," I answered him, choking a bit.
"The disguise was a good one, though," he went on, with a sort of feeble chuckle, "and leaving my false teeth out, changed my voice completely—eh, Phil?"
"Yes, sir—until you hollered out in the closet that it was all a joke, and wanted me to let you out," I answered him, as I got up and edged toward the door.
"Why didn't you let me out then?" roared Uncle Jack, who is rather quick-tempered.
I hope I wasn't impudent. Truly, I didn't intend to be. "Because, Uncle Jack," I said, as I turned the door knob, "I have heard you say more than once that he who can not take a joke should not make one." And as I dodged through the door I heard Uncle Jack groan.
NOT TALL ENOUGH.
[GOOD-NIGHT.]
BY W. T. PETERS.
Good-night, happy stars,
With your yellow eyes;
Good-night, lady moon,
In the evening skies;
Good-night, dusky world
And the boundless deep;
I am tired out;
It is time to sleep—
Time, time to sleep.
Good-night! Good-night!
Good-night, weary boy;
It has been decreed
That some mysteries
Only a child can read;
But the sweet child-heart
May you always keep,
And the stars will be yours,
And the boundless deep—
The boundless, boundless deep.
Good-night! Good-night!
[SEEING THE BIG WORLD.]
BY F. E. FRYATT.
Andrew, the florist, set out one fine day for a trip to the wood that lay a mile beyond his greenhouses.
He was a grand old man, who loved all the beautiful things God has scattered over this earth, from the tiny grass blade pushing up through the brown mould, to the mighty oak spreading its branches like a giant in the forest. As he entered the wood he marked how the sunshine, flickering down through the trees, made patches of gold on the green turf, and turned the pebbles in the brook into pearls. Time had not dimmed old Andrew's eye nor dulled his ear, nor had he lived his sixty years without learning to understand the soft voices of nature. As he strolled thoughtfully along he became aware of a gentle murmuring sound proceeding from groups of flowers that seemed to nod and smile when he drew near them. Throwing himself at full length on the turf, he listened; at first he could make nothing out of all the sweet babble poured into his ear, until Jack-in-the-pulpit became spokesman for the occasion.
In a pretty speech Jack told how they had heard of a grand flower show that was soon to come off in the great city, and confessed to the annoyance he and his companions felt at always being neglected on such interesting occasions, closing his long address by praying that the wild flowers might be treated with as much respect as the Pelargoniums, the Gladioluses, and all their other fashionable cousins.
Andrew heard Jack's remarks with a smile that was more sad than merry, marvelling how these innocent creatures, shut up in the heart of the wood, could have heard anything of the show.
"I have it," said he: "some gadding bee, or perhaps a gossiping sparrow, fresh from town, has carried the matter. Well, well, they must learn how profitable is content, and how foolish silly ambitions."
"My pretty dears," sighed the old man, leaning on his spade, and regarding the blossoms, "you will 'never be sorry but once, and that will be always.' As well might a fish try to live on land as you in the stifling city."
So saying, Andrew thrust his spade deep into the rich soil, disengaging the delicate roots that bound the flowers to their sylvan home.
When he had deposited as many Trilliums, Lilliums, Violets, and Anemones in his basket as he desired, the good old man proceeded to a boggy spot in the woods, and brought away with him Lady-slippers, Orchids, Pitcher-plants, Irises, Sundews, and Sweet-cicely, who wished to see the big world too.
Andrew now turned to go home, but, dear me! his work was but half done, for a butterfly, fluttering seaward, carried the news to the pine-barrens, and straightway Pyxidanthera, the beauty, cried out—and the soft sound of her crying came pitifully: "Don't leave me all alone in the pine-barrens; it is too lonely; I too would see the great world at the flower show."
"It is strange that you've never been lonesome before," thought Andrew, stooping down where the wee pink beauty sat on her mossy throne, and lifting her gently into his basket. Nor did his labors end here; for a troop of Daisies in a field near by heard the tidings, and almost burst their green jackets in impatience to be going; nor could he resist the pleadings of a band of young Buttercups, so he kindly added these to the delicate passengers in the wicker car, and hastened on. But once more his fine ear caught the sound of complaining.
Looking toward his right hand, he discovered a group of ancient Dandelions bowing their gray heads to him, and listening, heard them sighing: "Once we had tresses like the sun. Why come so late, so late?"
"Too late! too late!" chimed another voice.
"Ay, ay, too late," replied the old man, trudging on toward his greenhouse, for he had much to do to prepare his rustic beauties for their trip to the city.
"Oh dear," said a young Violet a week after, when they were all flourishing in the greenhouse, "why am I always to be in the shade, and that great Japonica towering above me?"
"And I too," murmured a Wind-flower, flushing faintly.
"Who cares for any of them?" chirruped a Daisy. "Here or there matters not to me."
"You are near the sun, madam," argued an Orchid.
"Be quiet, all of you," roared Jack-in-the-pulpit. "Who'll care for Japonicas and such common folk when we go to town?"
There was common-sense in that, so the wild flowers settled down in silence.
The day before the show there was a fine uproar in the greenhouses. The wild flowers babbled and laughed and danced on their stems for joy. No one knew it but Andrew, and he said nothing.
Such a snipping and binding and showering was kept up all day that when evening came they were glad to fall asleep in their packing boxes, nor did they waken until daybreak, when the men moved them into a large covered van on wheels.
By-and-by they heard a great trampling of hoofs, and a clatter. The horses were being harnessed to the van. Presently, with a jerk, they were off to the wonderful city—the big world they had never seen.
Now began their troubles in true earnest. The ground quaked and trembled beneath them; it was pitchy dark. Would the sun never shine again? Could no one speak a word of encouragement or consolation?
On, and on, and on they kept going, until at last, as nothing fearful happened, they ventured a little conversation.
"What a dash I shall cut at the show!" exclaimed a Turk's Lily.
"And I, in white and pink ribbons!" cried the pine-barren's beauty.
"Be quiet, little vanity," muttered a muffled voice in the corner. "Who will look at you when I am by?"
Andrew knew the great scarlet Amaryllis had spoken, and he said to himself, "We'll see, my fair lady."
The beauty cowered in silence, but a Violet whispered, "Shame!"
When the flowers reached the hall, with its long baize-covered tables, they forgot their troubles, and were greatly pleased. Men were running to and fro, boxes were being opened, and flowers all muffled from top to toe were coming in by the dozens. Here stood a regiment of Azaleas in white hoods and muffs, like a young ladies' boarding-school ready for a winter walk. There stood a company of Lilies with their night-caps on, and yonder a tall object swathed in tissue-paper. "Who can she be?—some grand personage truly," whispered a Daisy.
At that moment came a young man with sharp scissors. He cut off her cloak, and there stood lovely Miss Clereodendron, in white and scarlet from head to foot. "How exquisite!" cried all the flowers together.
But soon they found other wonders. On a table near at hand lay the daintiest sprays of flowering Peach, Almond, and Cherry, bunches of tiny Jonquils, creamy Magnolias, flaming Pirus, and May-apple.
As soon as all the flowers were comfortably settled in their stands and vases, they began to look around, and recognized their neighbors.
"Ha! ha!" laughed Jack-in-the-pulpit; "who expected to see you here?"
"Why not, as well as you, Sir Impudence?" retorted May-apple, sharply.
But by-and-by the visitors came pouring in by the dozens. Beautiful ladies swept by in silks and diamonds and laces; gallant gentlemen came too, with eye-glasses perched on their noses. They did not even look at the wild flowers.
The wild flowers grew troubled, and commenced to murmur; but Jack whispered, "Bide your time."
"I don't envy them," said an Orchid, looking complacently down at her own yellow slippers.
"Nor I," laughed a Daisy, smoothing her satin petticoat.
"If they didn't hold their heads so high, they would see us," murmured a Violet.
But the crowd passed on, drawn by the brilliant beauties of the Cacti, the flames of the Amaryllis Lilies, the purple of the great Pansies.
"They will never come near us," sighed the Violet.
"I faint—I faint!" murmured the Pitcher-plant, dropping her urn.
"Oho! oho! now we shall have a change," cried Jack, as the clock struck three. And sure enough the bright-eyed school-children came trooping in, and caught sight of them.
"Oh, my darling little Violets, where did you come from? And oh, you sweet, sweet Daisies!" cried one yellow-haired lassie.
"And these Buttercups!" screamed another.
"And droll old Jack; who would have thought to see him in town?" chimed a third.
"Tit for tat, Master Jack," whispered May-apple, tartly.
The moment the children recognized the beauties of the wild flowers, every one else did. Old gentlemen with high-bred noses came and peered at them through big spectacles. Young ladies talked of their families, and—oh, horrors!—said they would like to dissect them. Old ladies smiled on them pleasantly, and one, a grandmother, actually shed tears, and said, "I haven't seen their like in fifty years."
But now it began to grow tiresome, this big world they had come to see; the sunlight streamed through the great windows, the tiny blossoms grew faint in the sultry air. When would the hum of speech grow silent, the clouds come brooding above them, and the soft rain-drops patter down?
The flowers grew fainter and fainter. A grand old man is now speaking at the end of the hall; but they can not listen.
"Oh, for a breeze from the pine-barrens!" sighed the beauty.
"Give me to drink the dew of the meadow," moaned the Daisy.
"I die for the woodland shadows," murmured the Violet.
"And I for the sound of cool waters," wept the Lily.