Author of "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," etc.
Chapter XI.
CHANGE OF PLANS.
Toby was thoroughly surprised, when he awoke, to find that it was morning, and that his slumber had been as sweet as if nothing had happened. He dressed himself as quickly as possible, and ran down-stairs. Uncle Daniel told him the doctor had just left, after saying he thought Abner would recover.
It was a sad visit that Toby paid Mr. Stubbs's brother that morning. The tears came into his eyes when he thought of poor Abner, until he was obliged to leave the monkey to himself, after having tied him so that he could take a short run out-of-doors.
Then he visited the ponies in the stable, and when he returned to the house he found all his partners in the circus enterprise, as well as several other boys, waiting to hear an account of the accident.
Dr. Abbott had reported that Abner had been injured; but as he had not given any particulars, the villagers were in a state of anxious uncertainty regarding the accident.
After Toby had told them all he knew about the matter, and had allowed them to see the monkey and the ponies, which some of them seemed to regard as of more importance than the injured boy, Bob asked:
"Well, now, what about our circus?"
"Why, we can't do anything on that till Abner gets well," said Toby, as if surprised that the matter should even be spoken about.
"Why not? He wasn't goin' to do any of the ridin', an' now's the time for us to go ahead, while we can remember what they did at the show yesterday. It don't make any difference 'bout our circus if he did get hurt;" and Bob looked around at the others as if asking whether they agreed with him or not.
"I think we ought to wait till he gets better," said Joe, "'cause he was goin' in with us, an' it don't seem fair to have the show when he's so sick."
"That's foolish," said Ben, with a sneer. "If he hadn't come up to the pasture the other day you wouldn't have thought anything 'bout him, an' he'd been out to the poor-farm, where he belongs now."
"If he hadn't come up there," said Toby, "I'd never known how lonesome he was, an' I'd gone right on havin' a good time without ever once thinkin' of him. An' if he hadn't come up there, perhaps he wouldn't have got hurt, an' it seems almost as if I'd done it to him, 'cause I took him to the circus."
"Don't make a fool of yourself, Toby Tyler!" and Ben Cushing spoke almost angrily. "You act awful silly 'bout that feller, an' father says he's only a pauper anyway."
"It wouldn't make any difference if he was, 'cause he's a poor lonesome cripple; but he ain't a pauper, for old Ben's goin' to take care of him, an' he pays Uncle Dan'l for lettin' him stay here."
This news was indeed surprising to the boys, and as they fully realized that Abner was under the protection of a "circus man," he rose considerably in their estimation.
They were anxious to know all about the matter, and when Toby had told them all he could, they looked at the case in such an entirely different light that Ben Cushing even offered to go out in the field, where he could be seen from the windows of the room in which Abner lay, and go through his entire acrobatic performance, in the hope the sight might do the invalid some good. Leander Leighton also offered to come twice each day and play "Yankee Doodle," with one finger, on the accordion, in order to soothe him.
But Toby thought it best to decline both these generous offers; he was glad they had been made, but would have been much better pleased if they had come while it was still believed Abner's only home was the poor-house.
When the boys went away, Toby pleaded so hard that Aunt Olive consented to his sitting in the chamber where Abner lay, with the agreement that he should make no noise; and there he remained nearly all the day, as still as any mouse, watching the pale face on which death seemed already to have set its imprint.
Each day for two weeks Toby remained on watch, leaving the room only when it was necessary, and he was at last rewarded by hearing Abner call him by name.
"MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER WAS BROUGHT IN."
After that, Aunt Olive allowed the two boys to talk a little, and a few days later Mr. Stubbs's brother was brought in to pay his respects to the invalid.
Many times during Abner's illness had the boys been up to learn how he was getting on, and had tried to persuade Toby to commence again the preparations for the circus; but he had steadily refused to proceed further in the matter until Abner could at least play the part of spectator.
Uncle Daniel had had several letters from Ben inquiring about Abner's condition; and as each one contained money, some of which had been sent by the skeleton and his wife to "Toby Tyler's friend," the sick boy had wanted for nothing. Ben had also written that he had gained the consent of the proprietors of the circus to have the ponies driven for Abner's benefit, and had sent a dainty little carriage and harness so that he could ride out as soon as he was able.
Chandler Merrill had grown tired of waiting for his pony, and had taken him from the pasture, while Reddy had long since returned the blind horse to its owner.
But during all these five weeks the work of getting ready for the circus had gone slowly but steadily on. Leander had become so expert a musician on the accordion that he could play "Yankee Doodle" with all his fingers, "Old Hundred" with two, and was fast mastering the intricacies of "Old Dog Tray."
As to Ben Cushing, it would be hard to say exactly how much progress he had made, the reports differed so. He claimed to be able to turn hand-springs around the largest circus ring that was ever made, and to stand on his head for a week; but some of the boys who were not partners in the enterprise flatly contradicted this, and declared that they could do as many feats in the acrobatic line as he could.
Joe Robinson had practiced howling until Reddy insisted that there was little or no difference between him and the fiercest and strongest-lunged hyena that ever walked. Bob could sing the two songs his sister had taught him, and had written out twelve copies of them in order to have a good stock to sell from; but Leander predicted that he would not be able to dispose of many, because one was the "Suwanee River," and the other "A Poor Wayfaring Man," the words of which any boy could get by consulting an old music-book.
Reddy had made a remarkably large whip, which he could snap once out of every three attempts, and not hit himself on the head more than once out of five.
Thus the circus project was as promising as ever, and Abner, as well as the other partners, had urged Toby to take hold of it again; but he had made no promises until the day came when Abner was able to sit up, and Dr. Abbott said that he could go out for a ride in another week if he still continued to improve.
Then it was that Toby told his partners he would meet them on the first day Abner went out for a ride, and tell them when he would take up the circus work again, which made every one more anxious than ever to see the poor-farm boy out-of-doors.
From the time when the tiny little carriage and the two sets of harness glistening with silver had come, Toby had been anxious for a drive with the ponies; but he had resolutely refused to use them until Abner could go with him, although Uncle Daniel had told him he could try them whenever he wished. He had waited for his other pleasures until Abner could join him, and he insisted on waiting for this one. One day, when Aunt Olive spoke to him about it, he said:
"If I was sick, an' had such a team sent to me, I'd feel kinder bad to have some other boy using it, an' so I'm goin' to let Abner be the first one to go out with the ponies."
It was hard not even to get into the little carriage that was so carefully covered with a white cloth in the stable; but he resisted the temptation, and when at last the day did come that Aunt Olive and Uncle Daniel helped the sick boy down-stairs, and lifted him into the prettiest little pony-carriage ever seen in Guilford, Toby felt amply rewarded for his self-denial.
They drove all over the town, stopping now and then to speak with some of their friends, or to answer questions as to Abner's health. When it was nearly time to return home, Toby turned the ponies' heads toward the pasture, where he knew his partners were waiting for him according to agreement.
"We'll go on with the circus now," he said to Abner, "for I can take you with me in this team, an' you can stay in it all the time we're practicin', so's it'll be 'most as good as if you could do something toward it yourself."
Abner was quietly happy; the tender, thoughtful care that had been bestowed upon him since his mishap had been such as, in his mind at least, repaid him for all the pain.
"I hope you will have it," he said, earnestly, "for even if I can't be with you all the time, I won't feel as if I was keepin' you from it."
Then he put his hand in a loving way on Toby's cheek, and the "boss of the circus" felt fully repaid for having waited for his pleasure.
At the pasture all the partners were gathered, for Toby had promised to tell them when he would begin operations; and as he drove the ponies up to the bars, he shouted:
"Abner an' me will be up here about nine o'clock to-morrow mornin', an' we'll bring Mr. Stubbs's brother with us."
There was a mighty shout, and Ben Cushing stood on his head when this announcement was made, and then Toby and Abner drove home as quickly as their ponies could scamper.
[to be continued.]
[A WONDERFUL LAKE.]
BY C. J. M.
Carniola, in the western part of Austria, and fronting on the Adriatic Sea, is a region remarkable chiefly for its subterranean streams and immense caverns and abysses. It is very mountainous, being traversed by spurs of the Alps, and covers an area of 3857 square miles. Its inhabitants are a hardy, thrifty race, engaged in the cultivation of wine, timber, maize, and millet.
Of all the wonders of nature to be met with in this country the one most deserving of notice is the lake of Zirknitz. This lake takes its name from a small market-town with a population of 1500, and situated about thirty miles northeast of Trieste, the principal sea-port city of Austria.
Lake Zirknitz lies in a deep valley surrounded by beautiful hills. It is a fair sheet of water, six miles long and three miles broad, and teeming with fishes and water-fowl. The monotony of this large expanse of water is relieved by five small islands, on one of which is the village of Ottok. These islands are favorite resorts for picnic parties. The bottom of the lake is formed of limestone rock, and is full of clefts and fissures. During prolonged dry weather the waters pass into these caverns, carrying their finny inhabitants with them. The church bells give warning when the first sign of the sinking of the lake is observed, and the people hasten to make the most of the fishing while there is yet time.
When the water has entirely disappeared, a crop of luxuriant herbage takes its place, affording pasture for the cattle of the neighboring farmers, who are thus enabled to reap where before they went a-fishing. With the recurrence of heavy rains the lake gushes forth from its under-ground retreat, rises speedily to its normal level, and resumes its ordinary appearance.
Until a comparatively recent time the causes of the periodical disappearance of the lake were involved in mystery, and people were content to accept as a fact that which they could not explain. In later years, however, scientific men have devoted many years of their lives to the task of exploring these under-ground recesses, and with the happiest results.
Although the subterranean geography of this region has been, to the present, only sketched out, still enough has been discovered to satisfy them that many of the under-ground passages extend to long distances, and it has been conclusively proven that the waters of the Zirknitz Lake at the periods of their recession flow through under-ground channels into the river Unz, which further on joins the river Save, a tributary of the Danube.
[THE LITTLE GRANDMOTHER.]
BY MARY A. LATHBURY.
It had been an eventful morning in the attic. There were six of us—three of the Guernsey cousins and three of ourselves. Fanny Guernsey and our Ned had been reading Robinson Crusoe and the Swiss Family Robinson, and so we had all suffered a most horrible shipwreck, and had finally been cast upon a desert island. The ship was an ancient cradle, into which we were packed like sardines, and which, owing to Ned's vigorous efforts at "the wheel," lurched around the attic in a fearful way, and finally tumbled us all out in a heap upon an old-fashioned braided rug in a corner. We found ourselves too dense a population for "the island," and so Jamie Guernsey and I paddled off to the wreck, and got aboard. Then all at once a change passed over the wreck, and we (Jem and I) were Mr. and Mrs. Noah, urging our sons and daughters to hurry into the ark, and be saved. They at once saw that they were huddled upon the highest peak of a mountain, and must soon be drowned, so in they clambered, bringing two dolls with them to make out eight souls, and again we went sailing over the floods. It was Ned who first thought of our little oversight in forgetting to take animals into the ark.
"What on earth are we to do?" he cried.
"There isn't any earth. It's all water," said Fanny.
"Well, when we do get on earth, what are we to do for meat and milk and wool—and—and—"
"Oh, it's all up, and we might as well stop being Noah and his wife," said Jem to me, impatiently. "What's an ark without the animals? And there isn't room for a mouse."
"Oh, Jem, you and the girls get on the chest," said the fertile Ned, "and we'll be pirates, and swoop down on you."
"I don't want to be swooped down upon," said Jem, unreconciled.
"Oh, it's fun. Come on, Phil!" And upon that we were tumbled out, and Ned and Phil leaped into the cr—cruiser with such a piratical mien, and turned so fiercely upon us, that we were glad—Fanny and Jessie and I—to clamber up on the old chest for refuge. Then the cruiser, with a black neck-tie flying from a cane mast, bore down upon us so hotly that Jem was forced to come to our defense, and manfully he fought, too. Poor Jessie shrank into a little heap, and screamed. Fanny, her eyes flashing, and her tumbled, shining hair full of dried thoroughwort leaves from a great bunch hanging close above her, was struggling desperately with Ned, who, instead of carrying her off in his arms, as a true pirate should do, was pulling her aboard his cruiser by one foot, while with a crutch that used to be our grandfather's I was pushing her off—not Fanny, but the cruiser, I mean—into deep water. I was succeeding finely, when Phil kicked the foot of the crutch aside as I was throwing my whole weight upon the top, and in a trice I had rolled into the hold of the pirate ship.
This was too much for Jamie, who seized the mast of the cruiser, with a cry of "Down with the black flag!" and dealt Phil a blow upon the back that added another voice to the general chorus of shrieks.
In the midst of the uproar we heard a soft voice from the extreme end of the attic, calling,
"Children! children!"
One by one we ceased our outcries, and listened.
"Children"—what a soft thread of a voice it was that came out of the darkness!—"children—Ned, Fanny, Phil, Jessie, Bessie, Jem—come here."
We all looked at each other, until Ned rose bravely and started for the voice, the rest of us creeping after him. Midway we stopped, and the voice called,
"Come, children, come."
There was no mistake now; it was the portrait. We huddled together, but drew nearer and nearer, for there was enchantment in the voice, and as it grew upon us in the dim light there was enchantment in the face and figure also.
"LITTLE GRANDMOTHER."
It was the portrait we were all familiar with, and which we called the "Little Grandmother." It was the portrait of our mother's grandmother, taken at the age of sixteen, and which had always hung in the library until the last holidays, when Phil had by mischance let a missile from his new toy gun fly in the direction of the portrait. It made an ugly hole in the canvas among the dark curls of our pretty Little Grandmother. It was considered a family calamity, but until it could be sent to a reliable restorer of pictures, it was set up on an old dresser at the end of the attic. It had had a piece of green baize thrown over it, which was removed, and now lay on the dresser beside it. Had she taken off the veil herself?
"Children," she continued, looking right on up among the rafters, as if she were talking to herself instead of to us, "you never heard me speak before, and you will never hear me speak again; so open your ears. Phil"—Phil started and began to quake—"I am sure I hold no personal grudge against you for that unlucky shot that mutilated my poor head in this way, but your general conduct is a distress to me. A boy of twelve should begin to show his knightly qualities, if ever he hopes to bear the grand old name of gentleman. Gentleman, indeed! to shoot his great-grandmother, with scarcely a pang of regret, and trip his girl cousin, and witness her fall with a laugh! Gentleman, indeed! And, Ned, you are scarcely a whit behind. You are brave, in a sense, but the bravery that attacks weakness, and shouts over its own triumphs, is a spurious bravery. A fine Sir Galahad or Sir Philip Sidney you would make! There is as crying need of brave and courtly men now as in the days of Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, but where are they? The dear maidens must hope in vain for protection from evil men and evil beasts if 'the boy is father to the man.' Jamie, you are not as strong and as full of action as Ned and Phil, but you are a true knight, and perhaps one of these days you can say,
"'My strength is as the strength of ten
Because my heart is pure.'
"You have nothing to fear, Sir Jamie."
By this time Fanny, Jessie, and I had sunk in a little heap on the floor. How pretty she looked, this girl grandmother! Her dark curls clung so daintily around her olive face, and the dark eyes shone out from the shaded brow with such a clear, honest light. We fancied we could see the red lips move, and the creamy white dress, with its bit of a waist and short puffy sleeves, tremble with the beating of her heart. Our own almost ceased to beat when she resumed.
"Fanny, Bessie, Jessie, you are dear girls, though I fear you are going to lack nobility and dignity of character; but what can be expected of girls that are taught French instead of their catechism, and the waltz in place of the minuet! Really, girls, I never screamed in my life—not even when a shell from a man-of-war burst in front of our house; and I must say I never witnessed such a romp as this among boys and girls in all the eighty-five years that I lived."
Eighty-five years! We looked from our Little Grandmother to each other in astonishment, and then the voice went on:
"But girls are not as they used to be, and perhaps they can not be. The world is growing weaker and wiser, and you have more already in your little noddles than I ever learned from books. I did not mean to scold you, my dears, but I have often wished to give you a bit of advice, and I have never had so fine an opportunity as this. If the great-grandsons of Mary Angela Bascombe are knightly men, brave, tender, and true, and her great-granddaughters are ladies, indeed, gracious, gentle, loyal, and loving, she will be grateful for the happy misfortune that sent her to the attic."
There was a long silence. Then Fanny drew a long breath, and each one of us immediately did the same. Ned, always the leader, stepped forward a little, and said, "Little Grandmother, we mean, you know, to be all right—but—but—"
"And we'll do our best after this; indeed we will," added Jamie.
"That's so," put in Phil, rather awkwardly.
"We love, you, Little Grandmother!" burst out Fanny—clasping her hands—in a little ecstasy, while Jessie and I murmured something in chorus about wishing to be like her; but there was no response from the portrait to anything that we said.
We had not noticed that the dim light was fading from the attic, and the portrait losing its outlines, until the sound of a bell below recalled us to outward things. Then, clutching each other as we went, we passed down the attic stairs and through the halls, and gathered in a very quiet knot in the tea-room. One by one the family gathered there also, and the seats around the long table were quietly filled.
"What is the matter with you youngsters?" said my father, scanning our faces keenly. "You are as mute as mice, and look as if you had seen your grandmother's ghost."
"We—we have," said Fanny, with a hysterical laugh, that ended in a sob; and at that Jessie and I put our napkins to our faces and began to sob too, while the boys looked at each other and smiled in a sickly sort of way.
"What does this mean, Ned?" said my father, laying down his napkin; and my mother nearly shivered a cup and saucer, she set it down so suddenly.
"Why, the—the portrait, you know, up in the attic—the Little Grandmother—has been talking to us, and we don't just know what it means," said Ned, making a strong effort to overcome his tremor.
"Talking to you! What did it say?" my father demanded again.
Here Phil came to the rescue, and said, sturdily, if not defiantly, "She said we were no gentlemen, sir."
"Gentlemen, indeed!" echoed Cousin Rob, in a sweet falsetto voice, from the end of the table; whereupon Ned, Phil, and Jamie rose in their seats, nearly overturning their chairs. Fanny and Jessie caught each other around the neck, and sobbed a short sob, with a little shriek at the end of it, and I fled crying to my mother.
It was a very trying scene. My father lost all patience, and my mother was in real distress, and as five or six were talking at the same moment, the matter became more and more hopeless, until Ned, who had gone over to speak to Rob at the end of the table, set up a clear, ringing, healthy laugh that silenced us all, and turned the force of my father's wrath full in that direction.
"Ned, we want no more of this nonsense. If this is one of your offensive practical jokes, explain at once."
"It's not mine—it's Rob's," cried Ned.
"Well, Robert?" said my father, trying to control himself.
"I beg your pardon, Uncle James," said Robert. "I am wholly to blame, but I did not anticipate such a scene as this. Aunt Fanny sent me to the store-room at the end of the attic about an hour ago for some corn for the children to pop after tea. I went up by the back attic stairs. There was fun, I can assure you, in the main attic. I never heard such a Babel. I went to the little open window that was made to let light through from the store-room into the main attic, and saw that you had set the portrait on the old dresser on the other side, and so covered the window; but through that ugly hole that Phil made in the Little Grandmother's head I could see that Ned and Phil were making terrible havoc with the girls, while Jamie was trying to defend them. When I saw poor Bessie go under, I thought it time to interfere, and began calling to them. Then the funny fact of talking through the Little Grandmother's head grew upon me, and I assumed the falsetto voice that you heard a few minutes ago. I was the falsetto in the college quintette club, and so became an expert in the use of it. I found that the youngsters really thought the Little Grandmother was calling them, and so I improved the golden opportunity. I'm afraid I didn't lecture in character. I beg the Little Grandmother's pardon if I did not, but I think I managed to make a few timely suggestions to Ned and Phil; and I saw and heard one thing that I shall never, never forget. It was Fanny, when she clasped her hands like this; and gushed: 'I love you, Little Grandmother.'"
Here all the children, who had returned to their normal state of mind, fell into fits of laughter, and were joined by the mollified father and relieved mother.
All the children, except Fanny. She cried with vexation, and did not promise to forgive "Brother Rob" until he had promised to forget.
And this is the story of the Little Grandmother.
