Author of "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," etc.
Chapter X.
THE ACCIDENT.
That night Toby and Abner went to the circus grounds with Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive; and when old Ben approached the party, as they were nearing the tent, Toby motioned the cripple to come with him, for he thought it might be better that the boy should not hear the conversation concerning him.
It had been decided by Uncle Daniel that the boys should go to the circus grounds that evening, and stay there until it was nearly dark, when they were to go home to bed; for he did not believe in having boys out after dark, being certain it was better for their health to go to bed early.
Toby therefore intended to make this visit simply one of farewell. But first he wanted Abner to see a little more of the bustle and confusion that had so fascinated him in the afternoon.
To that end the boys walked around the inclosure, listened to the men who were loudly crying the wonderful things they had for sale, and all the while kept a bright look-out in the hope of seeing some of their circus friends.
It was nearly time for the performance to begin when the boys went into the skeleton's tent, and said good-by to the thin man and his fat wife.
Then Toby, anxious to run around to the dressing-rooms to speak with Ella, and not daring to take Abner with him, said to the boy:
"Now you wait here for a minute, and I'll be right back."
Abner was perfectly contented to wait; it seemed to him that he would have been willing to stay there all night, provided the excitement should continue, and as he leaned against one of the tent ropes, he gazed around him in perfect delight.
Toby found Ella without much difficulty; but both she and her mother had so much to say that it was some time before he could leave them to go in search of Ben.
The old driver was curled up on his wagon, taking "forty winks," as he called a nap, before starting on the road again.
When Toby awakened him he explained that he would not have taken the liberty if it had not been for the purpose of saying good-by, and Ben replied, good-naturedly:
"That's all right, Toby; I should only have been angry with you if you had let me sleep. I've fixed it with your uncle about that little cripple; and now, when I get pitched off and killed some of these dark nights, there'll be one what'll be sorry I'm gone. Be a good boy, Toby; don't ever do anything you'd be afraid to tell your uncle Dan'l of, and next year I'll see you again."
Toby wanted to say something; but the old driver had spoken his farewell, and was evidently determined neither to say nor to hear anything more, for he crawled up on the box of the wagon again, and appeared to fall asleep instantly.
Toby stood looking at him a moment, as if trying to make out whether this sudden sleep was real, or only feigned in order to prevent the parting from being a sad one; and then he said, as he started toward the door:
"Well, I thank you over and over again for Mr. Stubbs's brother, even if you have gone to sleep." Then he went to meet Abner.
When he reached the place where he had left his friend, to his great surprise he could see nothing of him. There was no possibility that he could have made any mistake as to the place, for he had left him standing just behind the skeleton's tent.
Toby ran quickly around the inclosure, asked some of the attendants in the dressing-room if they had seen a boy on crutches, and then he went into Mr. Treat's tent. But he could neither hear nor see anything of Abner, whose complete disappearance was, to say the least, very strange.
Toby was completely bewildered by this event, and for some minutes he stood looking at the place where he had left his friend, as if he thought that his eyes must have deceived him, and that the boy was still there.
There were but few persons around the outside of the tent, those who had money enough to pay for their admission having gone in, and those who were penniless having gone home, so that Toby did not find many of whom to make inquiries. The people belonging to the circus were busily engaged in making ready for the night's journey, and a number had gathered around one of the wagons a short distance away. But Toby thought it useless to ask them for tidings of his missing friend, for he knew by experience how busy every one connected with the circus was at that hour.
After he had stood for some time looking helplessly at the tent rope against which he had seen Abner leaning, he went into the tent again for the purpose of getting Uncle Daniel to help him in the search. As he was passing the monkey wagon, however, he saw old Ben—whom he had left apparently in a heavy sleep—examining his wagon to make sure that everything was right, and to him he told the story of Abner's strange disappearance.
"I guess he's gone off with some of the other fellows," said Ben, thinking the matter of but little importance, but yet going out of the tent with Toby as he spoke. "Boys are just like eels, an' you never know where to find 'em after you once let 'em slip through your fingers."
"But Abner promised me he'd stay right here," said Toby.
"Well, some other fellows came along, an' he promised to go with them, I s'pose."
"But I don't believe Abner would; he'd keep his promise after he made it."
While they were talking they had gone out of the tent, and Ben started at once toward the crowd around the wagon, for he knew there was no reason why so many men should be there when they had work to do elsewhere.
"Did you go over there to see what was up?" asked the old driver.
"No; I thought they were getting ready to start, an' I could see Abner wasn't there."
"Something's the matter," muttered the old man, as he quickened his pace, and Toby, alarmed by the look on his friend's face, hurried on, hardly daring to breathe.
One look into the wagon around which the men were gathered was sufficient to show why it was that Abner had not remained by the tent as he had promised, for he lay in the bottom of the cart, to all appearances dead, while two of the party were examining him to learn the extent of his injuries.
"'WHAT IS THE MATTER? HOW DID THIS BOY GET HURT?' ASKED BEN."
"What is the matter? How did this boy get hurt?" asked Ben, sternly, as he leaped upon the wagon, and laid his hand over the injured boy's heart.
"He was standing there close by the guy ropes when we were getting ready to let the canvas down. One of the side poles fell and struck him on the head, or shoulder, I don't know which," replied a man.
"It struck him here on the back of the neck," said one of those who were examining the boy, as he turned him half over to expose an ugly-looking wound around which the blood was rapidly settling. "It's a wonder it didn't kill him."
"He ain't dead, is he?" asked Toby, piteously, as he climbed up on one of the wheels, and looked over in a frightened way at the little deformed body that lay so still and lifeless.
"No, he ain't dead," said Ben, who had detected a faint pulsation of the heart; "but why didn't some of you send for a doctor when it first happened?"
"We did," replied one of the men. "Some of the village boys were here, and we started them right off."
Almost as the man spoke, Dr. Abbott, one of the physicians of the town, drove up, and made his way through the crowd.
Toby, too much alarmed to speak, watched the doctor's every movement as he made an examination of the wounded boy, and listened to the accounts the men gave of the way in which the accident had happened.
"His injuries are not necessarily fatal, but they are very dangerous. He lives at the poor-farm, and should be taken there at once," said the doctor, after he had made a slight and almost careless examination.
Toby was anxious that the poor boy should be taken to his home rather than to the comfortless place the doctor had proposed; but he did not dare make the suggestion before asking Uncle Daniel's consent to it. He was about to ask them not to move Abner until he could find his uncle, when Ben whispered something to the doctor that caused him to look at the old stage-driver in surprise.
"I'll ask Uncle Dan'l to take him home with us," said Toby, as he slipped down from his high perch, and started toward the tent.
"I'll take care of that," said Ben, as he went toward the tent with him. "I had just fixed it with your uncle so's he'd take Abner from the poor-farm an' board him, an' now there's all the more reason why he should do it. You go back an' stay with Abner, an' I'll bring your uncle Dan'l out."
Then Toby went back to the wagon, where the poor little cripple still lay as one dead, while the blood flowed in a tiny stream from one of his arms, where the physician had opened a vein.
Not understanding the reason for this blood-letting, and supposing that the crimson now was due to the injuries Abner had received, Toby cried out in fear; but one of the men explained the case to him, and then he waited as patiently as possible for the driver's return.
Both Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive came out with Ben, and within a very few moments Abner was being carried to the farm-house, in the same wagon that had taken him there before in company with the skeleton and his party for that famous dinner.
It frightened Toby still more to see the unconscious boy carried into the house by Ben and the doctor as though he were already dead; and when Aunt Olive led them into the best room, where no one had slept since Uncle Daniel's sister died, it seemed as if every one believed Abner could not live, or they would not have carried him there.
Toby hardly knew when Ben went away, or whether he said anything before he left, or, in fact, anything else, so sad and confused was he. He did not even think about Mr. Stubbs's brother, but remained in one corner of the room, almost hidden by one of the flowing chintz curtains, until Uncle Daniel heard him sobbing, and came and led him away.
"There is good reason to hope Abner will recover," said the old man, as he stroked Toby's hair; "but he is in the keeping of the One who never errs, and whatsoever He does is good."
Then Uncle Daniel actually kissed the boy, as he told him to go to bed and go to sleep. Toby went to bed as he was commanded, though it seemed impossible he should sleep while Abner might be dying.
[to be continued.]
[THE BOYHOOD OF WILLIAM CHAMBERS.]
Boys and girls who can buy Harper's Young People every week for four cents, and other periodicals and books almost as cheap, can have very little notion of the difficulty that little folk had seventy or eighty years ago in getting something to read. It was only fifty years ago, indeed, that the first efforts were made to supply cheap, instructive, and entertaining literature, and one of the men who made those efforts is still living in Scotland. Mr. William Chambers, who is now eighty-two years of age, has lately published a little account of his life, and what he has to tell of his boyhood and youth is very interesting.
His father was unfortunate in business, and became so poor that young Chambers had to begin making his own way very early in life. He had little schooling—only six pounds' (thirty dollars) worth in all, he tells us—and as there were no juvenile books or periodicals in those days, and no books of any other kind, except costly ones, it was hard for him to do much in the way of educating himself. But William Chambers meant to learn all that he could, and that determination counted for a good deal. There was a small circulating library in his native town, and he began by reading each volume straight through, without skipping one. Then he got hold of a copy of the Encyclopædia Britannica, which most boys would regard as very dry reading. He read it carefully. When that was done, young Chambers was really pretty well educated, although he did not know it.
About this time the boy had to go to work for his living. He became an apprentice to a bookseller in Edinburgh. His wages were only four shillings (about a dollar) a week, and on that small sum he had to support himself, paying for food, lodging, clothes, and everything else, for five years. "It was a hard but somewhat droll scrimmage with semi-starvation," he says; for after paying for his lodgings and clothes, he had only about seven cents a day with which to buy his food.
In the summer he jumped out of bed at five o'clock every morning, and spent the time before the hour for beginning business in reading and making electrical experiments. He studied French in that way too, and on Sundays carried a French Testament to church, and read in French what the minister read in English.
Winter came on, and the poor lad was puzzled. It was not only cold, but entirely dark at five o'clock in the morning during the winter months, and William, who had only seven cents a day to buy food with, could not afford either a fire or a candle to read by. There was no other time of day, however, that he could call his own, and so it seemed that he must give up his reading altogether, which was a great grief to the ambitious lad.
Just then a piece of good luck befell him. He happened to know what is called a "sandwich man"—that is to say, a man who walks about with signs hanging behind and before him. One day this man made him a proposition. The sandwich man knew a baker who, with his two sons, carried on a small business in a cellar. The baker was fond of reading, but had no time for it, and as he and his sons had to bake their bread early in the morning, he proposed, through the sandwich man, to employ William Chambers as reader. His plan was that Chambers should go to the cellar bakery every morning at five o'clock, and read to the bakers, and for this service he promised to give the boy one hot roll each morning. Here was double good fortune. It enabled Chambers to go on with his reading by the baker's light and fire, and it secured for him a sufficient breakfast without cost.
He accepted the proposition at once, and for two and a half hours every morning he sat on a flour sack in the cellar, and read to the bakers by the light of a penny candle stuck in a bottle.
Out of his small wages it was impossible for the boy to save anything, and so when the five years of his apprenticeship ended, he had only five shillings in the world. Yet he determined to begin business at once on his own account. Getting credit for ten pounds' worth of books, he opened a little stall, and thus began what has since grown to be a great publishing business.
He had a good deal of unoccupied time at his stall, and "in order to pick up a few shillings," as he says, he began to write out neat copies of poems for albums. Finding sale for these, he determined to enlarge that part of his business by printing the poems. For that purpose he bought a small and very "squeaky" press and a font of worn type which had been used for twenty years. He had to teach himself how to set the type, and as his press would print only half a sheet at a time, it was very slow work; but he persevered, and gradually built up a little printing business in connection with his bookselling. After a while he published an edition of Burns's poems, setting the type, printing the pages, and binding the books with his own hands, and clearing eight pounds by the work.
Chambers wrote a good deal at that time, and his brother Robert wrote still more, so that they were at once authors, printers, publishers, and booksellers, but all in a very small way. After ten years of this work, William Chambers determined to publish a cheap weekly periodical, to be filled with entertaining and instructive matters, designed especially for the people who could not afford to buy expensive books and periodicals. Robert refused to join in this scheme, and so for a time the whole work and risk fell upon William. His friends all agreed in thinking that ruin would be the result, but William Chambers thought he knew what the people wanted, and hence he went on.
The result soon justified his expectations. The first number was published on the 4th of February, 1832. Thirty thousand copies were sold in a few days, and three weeks later the sale rose to fifty thousand copies a week.
[THE CHILDREN'S DAY.]
The children of the city of Brooklyn, Long Island, are fortunate in having a day of their own when they have the right of way. The schools, public and private, are closed, and some of the finest streets are given up to the little folk on the day of the annual Sunday-school parade.
For weeks before May 24 bright eyes were wide with pleasure whenever the "Anniversary" was mentioned. In the various schools special songs were practiced, and mothers, whether rich or poor, were very busy at home in making the pretty dresses and suits which were to be worn on the occasion. At last the time drew near.
Then the little hearts had only one anxiety—the weather. Would it rain? Would it be clear? Oh, how many little people spelled slowly through the newspaper reports the day before, and lisped their opinions about the probabilities! The joy was great when the sun rose on Wednesday, and the sky was as blue and soft as if it had just been swept free of cloudy cobwebs on purpose for the Brooklyn procession.
At 11 a.m. the City Hall bell pealed out grandly, and its tones were answered by church bells all over the city. There was a perfect chorus of chimes.
Noon had scarcely struck when the pavements were thronged with boys and girls hastening to their several schools. There the exercises consisted of addresses and music. As soon as these were ended, the parade began. There were 60,000 children in movement at once through the beautiful tree-shaded avenues: 112 Sunday-schools took part, arranged in seven divisions. They marched, with banners flying, to the music of military bands, which played their most triumphant strains. Mottoes, emblems, flowers, white dresses, rainbow ribbons, floating curls, and cheerful faces altogether made a pageant which it did tired people good to see. Twenty-three schools formed the Prospect Park division.
The Park itself had been dressed by nature in the brightest of green and the loveliest of early-blooming shrubs. The long meadow with its velvet sward was staked off for the children's evolutions, and protected from the crowd by genial policemen. On the grand stand sat his Honor the Mayor, and with him were a number of clergymen, and persons of official dignity.
Brooklyn has been called the City of Churches. She might be styled the City of the Innocents, so many lovely little ones does she gather every year at her wonderful May Anniversary.
When the march was ended, the scholars returned to their places of meeting, where they were feasted on cake and ice-cream before going to their homes.
No doubt some of them were a little weary, but not too much so to prevent their sleeping sweetly after their happy day.
THE CHILDREN'S DAY—FIFTY-THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF THE BROOKLYN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION.
[HOW DOLLY BEAT THE HUNTERS.]
BY PROFESSOR FRED MYRON COLBY.
"Charley, it's time to go after the cows," said Farmer Goodwin to his oldest boy, one summer day, near evening.
"I'm off, father," replied Charley, a bright little fellow of eleven, and whistling to Tiger, a large brindled mastiff, he was soon marching toward the pasture with the dog at his heels.
This was ninety years ago very nearly, and the place was near the historic mountain of Kearsarge, in central New Hampshire. Moses Goodwin was one of the early settlers of that region, and his cabin stood far up the cleared slope of the mountain, on a fertile ridge of land, where the fields of corn were ripening for the harvest.
The sides of the mountain were covered with thick forests, even as they are to-day, affording excellent haunts for the wild animals of the latitude. The bark of the wolf, the screech of the cougar, and the growl of the bear were well-known sounds to most of the early settlers. Indeed, it was no uncommon thing for the families of the pioneers to be awakened at night by the fierce chorus of wild beasts around their cabins.
There were large State bounties on all of these animals, and after a few years their numbers began to diminish. At the time of our story it was very seldom that a bear or a panther was seen about the settlement. If now and then a farmer lost a fine sheep or a favorite calf, it was no more than was expected. Farmer Goodwin had himself lost that very autumn a valuable young heifer, which was supposed to have been carried off by a bear. None of the other settlers had lost any of their stock, and it was supposed that the animal had left the neighborhood.
Charley was gone longer than usual after the cows on the evening in question. His parents began to feel uneasy at his protracted absence.
"It's time he should be here," said the farmer. "The stock must have wandered farther than usual."
"I am afraid something has happened to him," observed Mrs. Goodwin, her fair face growing a shade paler at the thought of her boy's danger. "Perhaps he's met a bear or a panther."
"There he is now, all right, I guess," exclaimed the husband, as he heard the cattle going into the barn. "I'll go out and help him turn them in."
As he opened the door, in rushed Tiger, uttering fearful moans, and shaking like an aspen leaf. The mastiff was in a terrible condition. His brindled hide was all covered with blood, and there were torn places and gaping wounds on his neck and shoulders, showing conclusively that he had been engaged in a fight with some powerful animal. Mrs. Goodwin sat down, white and faint, in a chair.
"Charley is dead. I know he is. The beast has killed my boy. Oh, what shall I do?" she sobbed, half frantic in her grief.
"Be calm, mother," said the settler. "I don't believe it's as bad as that. The creature attacked the dog. Perhaps Charley is hiding somewhere. I'll get Neighbor Savary to go with me, and we'll see if he can't be found."
He lit a candle and placed it in an old tin lantern, and went to the house of his next-door neighbor. Together the two men followed the path to the pasture, and searched that inclosure all over; but they were unable to find any trace of the boy.
Once or twice they stopped and called his name, but there was no answer. As they were passing through the thick underbrush by the banks of the brook, a fierce scream stayed their steps. There was the sound of a large body tearing through the shrubbery, and by the light of their lantern they saw the fierce beast spring up into a tree and begin tearing the bark with its claws.
"It's a painter, sure enough," said Goodwin's neighbor. "We'd better start for the house, seeing as how we ain't armed."
"And must I go home without my boy? How can I? It will kill my poor wife."
"It's the only thing left us. There, the painter's going away. It's useless to stand here any longer."
The beast was heard moving off; and they turned sadly toward home.
On the following morning a large company of men and boys, neighboring settlers, were gathered with their dogs and guns around Goodwin's cabin door. The news of Charley's disappearance and of a panther in the neighborhood had spread like wildfire through the settlement. It was determined to hunt the monster to the death.
The excited party started at once, dividing into two companies, each under an experienced hunter. It was thought by this method that the panther would have fewer chances of escaping, and be brought to bay with more dispatch than if the hunters marched all in one body.
Far up on the mountain the hounds took the scent and dashed away, followed by the hunters. But away to the left, on another ridge of the mountains, was heard the bay of the pack belonging to the other division. Still the enthusiasm of the settlers was not cooled. At noon the two parties met on the other side of the mountain. A light lunch was eaten, and then they started on the homeward track. Nothing had been seen of the panther.
On the Warner side of the mountain, late in the afternoon, the hounds of one of the parties made a great outcry. It was in a swamp, not far from the Goodwin pasture. The men hurried to the spot, jumping stones and bushes and the trunks of fallen trees in their haste. They met the dogs coming back. Two of them had bloody muzzles, and bore hideous wounds on their bodies.
"The dogs have had hold of something, and something has had hold of them," said one of the men, quaintly. "It's a painter's work; I know the marks of their claws."
The hunters went through the swamp cautiously. The dogs would not go back again. No trace of the panther was found. Disappointed and weary, they proceeded down the mountain toward the settlement.
"What is that?" asked one of the men, suddenly.
A sound like that of some one shouting was plainly heard. They all stopped to listen. The shout was repeated, and was not far off.
"It's my boy! It's Charley's voice!" cried Goodwin. "He must be alive," and he rushed in the direction of the sound.
At the foot of the hill before spoken of, in Goodwin's pasture, there was a large ledge of rocks. Toward that the party hastened.
"Charley! Charley! where are you?" shouted the pioneer.
"Here I am," replied the little fellow—"down here in the rock. I can't get up."
Several of the party had already mounted the ledge, and they now saw what was the matter. There was a crevice or crack running through the rock from top to bottom, all the way from a foot to a foot and a half in width. Into this fissure the boy had fallen, and as the sides were steep and smooth, he could not possibly climb out. A hazel withe was cut, and one end given him, and he was speedily drawn to the surface.
"How came you in there, Charley?" asked his father.
"I fell in," answered the boy. "I was out there under that maple when the panther jumped on to Tige. I ran to the top of this rock, and stumbling, fell down in there. The panther came several times and tried to reach me, but he couldn't. Oh, I'm so tired and hungry!"
"We'll be at home soon," said his father. "Your mother will be looking for you."
They hastened toward the cabin with eager footsteps, and soon met the other party, who were returning from a fruitless search for boy or panther. Just then the report of a gun was heard at the settlement.
"What does that mean?" asked a brawny pioneer.
"I don't know," answered Goodwin. "Something must be the matter."
The party hastened their steps to a run.
At the close of the long afternoon, Dolly Goodwin, a girl of about sixteen, had gone out to do the milking. The cows had not been turned to pasture that day, but had been kept in an inclosure near the barn, shut in by a stone wall eight feet high.
Her mother had objected to Dolly's doing this. "Father will be at home soon," she said, "and there will be time enough then."
But Dolly, who was a busy little body, insisted. "If you are afraid for me, I will take my gun. You won't have to worry then. The cows really ought to be milked, for it's almost dark. Besides, Brindle and Loo like me."
The girl took down a small, pretty musket from its place over the deer antlers; it was her own, purchased the year before from her own savings.
The yard seemed a safe, cozy place, and Dolly felt like smiling at her mother's fears as she sat down on a stool and began milking one of the gentle, mild-eyed animals that were complacently chewing their cuds. She had one of the pails about filled, when there was a sudden disturbance among the horned inmates of the inclosure.
Dolly rose to her feet and gazed around, grasping her musket in both hands. We can see how she looked—a thin slip of a girl, with bare feet and ankles, a gown of linsey-woolsey, her gingham bonnet thrown back from her curls, and hanging to her neck by its fastened strings. The red in her cheeks and the flash in her eye made her look very charming.
Her quick eye soon caught a glance of a lithe, cat-like animal creeping stealthily along the high stone wall. Its glaring eyes, the long undulating tail, and the tawny-colored hide told well enough the character of the intruder. She knew it was a panther.
Dolly's heart rose into her throat, and for a moment, as she said afterward, she thought she should run as poor Brindle had done. But she was a pioneer girl, strong and healthy, and her nerves were soon under control. She raised her weapon to her shoulder, and levelled it full at the tawny breast of the crouching panther.
Her aim was taken instantly. She saw the greenish eyes glitter, and the long tail lash the wall excitedly. The next moment the savage beast sprang toward her. At the same moment her finger pressed the trigger.
She knew no more until she heard the baying of hounds and the loud cries of the returning hunters. Her father opened the heavy wooden gate, and came in where she was leaning half faint against the wall.
"I am all right now, father," said Dolly, in reply to his anxious interrogation, "but I was kind of sick like a while ago."
She still looked very pale.
"The girl has beat the hull of us!" cried a rough pioneer. "It's the very beast we were arter. See, there's the marks of the hounds' teeth. Well, it's saved us a journey to-morrow; that's a comfort. But you beat the dickens, Dolly, you do."
They all crowded around, offering congratulations, and for weeks afterward her exploit was the talk of the neighborhood.
The panther proved on measurement to be one of the largest of its kind; lacking only an inch of being seven feet in length, including its tail. The State bounty was forty dollars. This sum, with what she realized from its skin, made Dolly quite a rich young lady for those times.
[ROBIN GOODFELLOW.]
BY ELLA RODMAN CHURCH.
"Once upon a time, a great while agoe," begins a strange fairy tale that was written in the days of bad spelling, "there was wont to walke many harmlesse spirits called fayries, dancing in brave order in fayry rings on greene hills with sweete musicke (sometimes invisible), in divers shapes; and many mad prankes would they play."
It was at this time that a mischievous imp, named Robin Goodfellow, who was half fairy and half human being, was going about from place to place, sometimes doing good-natured things, but often bent only on mischief.
All sorts of queer stories were told of him; and when anything happened that people couldn't understand, they were sure to say, "It's some trick of Robin Goodfellow's." When he was only six years old, the neighbors complained of him to his mother for tormenting their very lives out whenever her back was turned. Finally he was threatened with a whipping, and to escape this punishment Robin ran away.
After travelling a long distance from home he met a tailor, who engaged him as an apprentice. For a time he behaved himself very well. But finally his love of mischief got the better of him, and he was at his old tricks again.
One day his master had a gown to make for a woman, and it must be finished that night; they both sat up late to work on it, and by twelve o'clock it was finished all but putting in the sleeves. The tailor was very sleepy, and said that he would go to bed. He told Robin to "whip on the sleeves," and then follow him. Robin said that he would, and as soon as his master had disappeared, he hung up the gown and whipped it most severely with the sleeves.
When the tailor came down in the morning, he found him still busy at this work, and asked him what he was doing.
"What you bade me," was the reply—"whipping on the sleeves."
"You rogue!" exclaimed his master: "I meant that you should have set them on quickly and slightly."
"I wish you had said so," rejoined Robin, "for then I need not have lost all this sleep."
The tailor was obliged to finish the work himself; but before he could get through, the woman came for her gown, and scolded because it was not ready. Hoping to soften her wrath by offering her some refreshment, Robin's master told him to bring the remnants they left yesterday. The tailor had reference to some cold meat; but the mischievous apprentice brought down the remnants of cloth left of the gown, which the tailor had intended to keep. The man turned pale; but the woman declared that she liked this breakfast better than the other, and sent Robin to get some wine. He never came back.
One day Robin had made a long journey, when he became so tired that he sat down by the road and fell asleep. Here he had a wonderful dream, in which troops of fairies danced about him to the sound of sweet music. Among them was King Oberon, who laid a scroll beside him, which was there when he awoke. On the scroll it was written that he was the Fairy King's son, that every wish of his should be granted, that he should have the power of turning himself into any shape he pleased, and that one day he should be taken to Fairy-land—on condition that he played tricks only on those who deserved them:
"But love then those that honest be,
And help them in necessity.
Doe thus, and all the world shall know
The pranks of Robin Goodfellow."
On reading this document, Robin was much delighted, and began at once to try his power. As he was tired, he wished himself a horse, and found himself leaping and curvetting as nimbly as though he had just come out of the best of stables. Then he tried being a dog, then a tree, and at last he was quite satisfied that he could do or be anything he pleased.
After this his pranks were worse than ever, but he obeyed his father's instructions, and harmed only vicious and idle and cross-grained people.
One day in crossing a field he met a rude fellow, to whom he said: "Friend, what is a clock?"—the style then of asking the time.
But the other chose to reply, churlishly, "I owe thee not so much service, but because thou shalt think thyself beholden to me, know that it is the same time of the day as it was yesterday at this time."
Then Robin resolved to amuse himself with this man, who was going further on to catch a horse that was at grass; and he turned himself into a bird to watch him. The horse was wild, and ran away over hedge and ditch, and the man after him as well, as he could. Presently Robin thought of taking the shape of the horse, and came near enough to let the churl get on his back. Then he stumbled, and hurled his rider to the ground. Robin allowed him to mount again, but only to throw him off in the middle of a large pond. Then, in the shape of a fish, he swam ashore, and laughed maliciously, "Ho, ho, hoh," leaving the poor man half drowned. It is to be hoped that this lesson in manners did the clown good.
Robin had more amiable moments; and often at night he would visit farmers' houses and help the maids to break hemp, to bolt, to dress flax, to spin, and do other work, for he was "excellent in everything."
Night was his favorite time for jokes, and he would sometimes walk abroad with a broom on his shoulder, and cry, "Chimney-sweep!" But when any one called him, he ran away laughing, "Ho, ho, hoh." Sometimes he would pretend to be a beggar in distress, and beg most pitifully; but when they came to give him alms, he would cheat them in the same way. Then again he would sing at a door after the fashion of wandering minstrels, and when people came to pay him, there was nothing left of his song but "Ho, ho, hoh."
King Oberon sometimes called his son to Fairy-land on nightly visits. He was summoned, to dance in the fairies' ring, by a shrill, sweet pipe, blown by little Tom Thumb, the order having been given,
"Whene'er you heare my piper blow,
From thy bed see thou goe."
At last he was taken to dwell there altogether, and the world was rid of the pranks of Robin Goodfellow.
[A KETTLE-HOLDER.]
BY MRS. T. W. DEWING.
Kettle-holders are things that must be in every household, and there is nothing that ingenious little fingers can spend their time upon to a better advantage in the days when they are too young to undertake more elaborate and difficult fancy-work. Here is a design that can be easily worked, and will be sure to please mamma if it is only carefully put together, and all the stitches neatly taken.
Cut the four leaves of the clover, from grayish-green cloth or flannel, and baste them on a ground of pink cloth, as shown in the design. Sew them fast with a fine button-hole stitch. Make the ribs of the leaves, the stem, the little white triangular-shaped marking in the centre of the upper edge of the leaf, and the white crescent on the lower part of the leaf, also the four little white stems that join the four leaves together, in chain stitch of white saddler's silk.
Let the border be of pink silk several shades paler than the pink ground. Sew it to the main part by over-handing it neatly on the wrong side. Work the horseshoes in the corners in chain stitch with gray saddler's silk. Represent the nails by gold beads, which must be tightly sewed on. Line the back with green flannel, turning in the edges, and hemming it very neatly. The lining at the back should always be a little—a very little—smaller and tighter than the front, or, as the holder is constantly bent, the lining becomes loose and baggy.
