Author of "Helen's Babies."
Chapter IV.
WHO WILL TELL?
As Benny Mallow hid himself in a barn in the yard into which he had jumped, he had only one distinct thought in his mind: he wished that the Italian had never come to Laketon at all—never come to the United States, in fact. He wished that the Italians had never heard of such a place as America: if one of the race had to discover it, he need not have gone and let his fellow-countrymen know all about it, so that they should come over with organs and monkeys, and get boys into trouble—boys that weren't doing a thing to that organ-grinder when he threw a stick at them. What made the fellow go into the school yard, anyway? No one asked him to come. Now there would be a fuss made, of course; and if there was anything that Benny hated more than all other things, it was a fuss.
But what if the organ-grinder should really prove to be dead? Oh! that would be too dreadful; all the boys would have to be hanged, to be sure of punishing the murderer, just as the whole class was sometimes kept in for an hour because something wrong had been done, and no one would tell who did it.
Benny could not bear the thought of so dreadful a termination to his life, for he knew of a great deal worth living for; besides, his mother would need his help as soon as he grew old enough to earn anything. What should he do? Wait until dark, and then run away, and tramp off to the West, where other runaway boys went, or should he make for the sea-board, and from there to South America, from which country he had heard that criminals could not be brought back?
BENNY MALLOW IN THE BARN.
But first he ought to learn whether the man was really dead; it might not be necessary to run away at all. But how should he find out? Suddenly he remembered that Mr. Wardwell's barn, in which he was, had a window opening on the alley; so he crept up into the loft, and spent several moments in trying to look up the alley without putting his head out of the window. Finally he partly hid his face by holding a handful of hay in front of it, and peered out. Between the stalks of hay he was delighted to see the organ-grinder on his feet, although two men were helping him. They were not both men, either, Benny saw, after more careful looking, for one of them was Paul Grayson; but the other—horror of horrors—was Mr. Stott, a justice of the peace. Benny knew that Justice Stott had sent many men to jail for fighting, and if Grayson should tell who took part in the attack, Benny had not the slightest doubt that half of Mr. Morton's pupils would be sent to jail too.
This seemed more dreadful than the prospect of being hanged had done, but it could be done more quickly. Benny determined at once that he must find out the worst, and be ready for it, so he waited until the injured man and his supporters had turned the corner of a street, and were out of sight; then he bounded into the alley again, hurried home, seized a basket that was lying beside the back door, and a moment later was sauntering along the street, whistling, and moving in a direction that seemed to be that in which he might manage to meet the three as if by accident. He did not take much comfort out of his whistling, for in his heart he felt himself to be the most shameful hypocrite that had existed since the days of Judas Iscariot, and the recollection of having been told by his Sunday-school teacher within a week that he was the best boy in his class seemed to make him feel worse instead of better; and his mind was not relieved of this unpleasant burden until at a shady corner he came suddenly upon the organ-grinder and his supporters, when he instantly exchanged his load for a new one.
"Why, what's the matter, Paul?" asked Benny, with as much surprise in his tone and manner as he could affect.
Justice Stott had just gone into an adjacent yard for water for the Italian, when Grayson answered, with a very sober face, "You know as well as I do, Benny, and I saw the whole crowd."
"I don't!" exclaimed Benny, in all the desperation of cowardice. "I didn't do or see—"
"Sh—h!" whispered Grayson, "the Justice is coming back."
Benny turned abruptly and started for home. He felt certain that his face was telling tales, and that Justice Stott would learn the whole story if he saw him. There was one comfort, though: it was evident that Grayson did not want the Justice to know that Benny had taken part in the affair.
There was a great deal of business transacted by the boys of Laketon that night. How it all was managed no one could have explained, but it is certain that before bed-time every boy who had taken part in the assault on the Italian knew that the man was not dead, but had merely been stunned and cut by a stone; that Paul Grayson knew who were of the party that chased the man up the alley. Various plans of getting out of trouble were in turn suggested and abandoned; but several boys for a long time insisted that the only chance of safety lay in calling Grayson out of his boarding-house, and threatening him with the worst whipping that the boys, all working together, could give. Even this idea was finally abandoned when Will Palmer suggested that as Grayson boarded with the teacher, and seemed to be in some sort a friend of his, he probably would already have told all he knew if he was going to tell at all. Some consolation might have been got out of a report of Benny's short interview with Grayson, had Benny thought to give it, but he had, on reaching home, promptly feigned headache, and gone to bed; so such of the boys as did not determine to play truant, and so postpone the evil day, thought bitterly of the morrow as they dispersed to their several homes.
There was not as much playing as usual in the school yard next morning, and when the class was summoned into school the teacher had no difficulty in discovering, by the looks of the various boys, who were innocent and who guilty. Immediately after calling the roll Mr. Morton stood up, and said:
"Boys, a great many of you know what I am going to talk about. Usually your deeds done out of school hours are not for me to notice; but the cowardly, shameful treatment of that organ-grinder began in the school yard, and before you had gone to your homes, so I think it my duty to inquire into the matter. Justice Stott thinks so too. When any one has done a wrong that he can not amend, the only manly course is to confess. I want those boys who followed the organ-grinder up the alley to stand up."
No boy arose. Benny Mallow wished that some one would give the bottom of his seat a hard kick, so that he would have to rise in spite of himself, but no one kicked.
"Be honest, now," said Mr. Morton. "I have been a boy myself; I have taken part in just such tricks. I know how bad you feel, and how hard it is to confess; but I give you my word that you will feel a great deal better after telling the truth. I will give you one minute more before I try another plan."
Mr. Morton took out his watch, and looked at it; the boys who had not been engaged in the mischief looked virtuously around them, and the guilty boys looked at their desks.
"Now," exclaimed Mr. Morton, replacing his watch in his pocket. "Stand up like men. Will none of you do it?"
Benny Mallow whispered, "Yes, sir," but the teacher did not hear him; besides, Benny made no effort to keep his word, so his whispering amounted to nothing.
"Grayson," said Mr. Morton, "come here."
Bert Sharp, who sat near the front of the room, where the teacher could watch him, edged to the end of his seat, so as to be ready to jump up and run away the moment Grayson told—if he dared to tell. Most of the other boys found their hearts so high in their throats that they could not swallow them again, as Grayson, looking very white and uncomfortable, stepped to the front.
"Grayson," said the teacher, "I have known you for many months: have I ever been unkind to you?"
"No, sir," replied Grayson; then he wiped his eyes; seeing which Bert Sharp thought he might as well run now as later, for boys who began by crying always ended by telling.
"You saw the attack made on the Italian; Justice Stott says you admitted as much to him. Now I want you to tell me who were of the party."
"May I speak first, sir?" asked Grayson.
"Yes," said the teacher.
"Boys," said Grayson, half facing the school, "you all hate a tell-tale, and so do I. Do you think it the fair thing to hold your tongues and make a tell-tale of me?"
"MR. MORTON, I WAS THERE."
Grayson looked at Will Palmer as he spoke, but Will only looked sulky in return; then Grayson looked at Benny Mallow, and Benny was fast making up his mind that he would tell rather than have his friend do it, when up stood Bert Sharp and said,
"Mr. Morton, I was there."
"Bravo, Sharp!" exclaimed the teacher. "Grayson, you may take your seat. Sharp, step to the front. Now, boys, who is man enough to stand beside Sharp?"
"I am," piped Benny Mallow, and he almost ran in his eagerness.
"It's no use," whispered Will Palmer to Ned Johnston, and the two boys went to the front together; then there was a general uprising, and a scramble to see who should not be last.
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Morton, looking at the culprits and then about the school-room; "I believe you're all here. I'm proud of you, boys. You did a shameful thing in attacking a harmless man, but you have done nobly by confessing. I can not let you off without punishment, but you will suffer far less than you would have done by successfully concealing your fault. None of you are to go out at recess next week. Now go to your seats. Sharp, you may take any unoccupied desk you like. After this I think I can trust you to behave yourself without being watched."
The boys had never before seen Sharp look as he did as he walked to a desk in the back of the room and sat down. As soon as the bell was struck for recess Grayson hurried over to Sharp, and said,
"You helped me out of a terrible scrape, do you know it?"
"I'm glad of it," said Sharp. "And that isn't all; I wish I could think of something else to own up to."
[to be continued.]
THREE YOUNG HAWKS.
BY F. M. M.
One bright summer afternoon Bob and I slipped away from the other boys as soon as school was out, and went gayly down the road that led to the big bridge.
We were going birdnesting, and were determined to add something handsome this time to the collection of eggs that we had been gathering since spring.
The bobolinks knew us perfectly well; and you would have thought by the way they rose out of the meadows on each side of the road, and sang as if they were too happy for anything, that they were delighted to see us. Not a bit of it. Their singing was meant to attract our attention, and give the Mrs. Bobolinks time to glide through the tall grass, and then rise up so far away from their nests that we would not know where to look for them. We were not after their eggs, however, for we had all the bobolinks' eggs we wanted, carefully blown and laid away in our collection. Sharp as Mr. Bobolink was, we knew all his tricks, and had outwitted him often.
"Where shall we go, Bob?" said I. "We haven't been to see whether that cedar-bird's nest down by the river has any eggs in it yet."
"Oh, bother the cedar-bird! we can attend to his case any day. Let's go through the bushes on the other side of the meadow, and then down to the big bridge. We haven't been to the hill where the old dead tree is for ever so long."
"All right," said I; so we climbed the fence, crossed the meadow, and plunged into the bushes, watching every bush, and listening to every noise. Suddenly we heard a rustling of wings, and then a mournful cry like the wail of a lost kitten.
"Now, Bob, look sharp," I exclaimed; "there's a cat-bird's nest in here, and Fred Sprague asked me to get an egg for him the first time I came across any."
The old bird was fluttering from bush to bush, continually "mewing," and seeming to be in great distress. "There's the nest, Jack," cried Bob, pointing to a mass of twigs on the top of a tall bush. "You stand underneath and hold your hat to catch the eggs if they fall, and I'll bend down the branch."
The cat-bird was now in a terrible state of mind, and flew around our heads scolding at a great rate. We told her that we only meant to take one egg, but she wasn't a bit satisfied with our explanation.
Down came the bush as Bob carefully bent it, and presently we could see into the nest, where four beautiful eggs were lying. We took one of them out, and let the branch slowly up again; but the cat-bird did not seem at all grateful.
"Let's blow the egg now," said I; "'twill be easier to carry. Have you got a pin with you?"
Bob gave me a pin, with which I made a little hole in each end of the egg. Then putting one end to my lips, I blew gently and steadily, until out came the clear white and then the yellow yolk, leaving the empty shell as light as a feather. Wrapping the egg in cotton, and placing it in a little pasteboard box that I took from my pocket, I felt certain that I could carry it home safely.
We found no more nests in the bushes, and after a while Bob said: "Let's make a bee-line for the bridge, and see if there's anything in that dead tree."
So we came back to the road, crossed the bridge, and went to the foot of a great dead elm-tree that stood on the side hill a little way from the river. It must have been struck by lightning, for it was nothing but a shell, and a long blackened crack reached from the top nearly to the bottom of it.
"I don't believe there's as much as a wasp's nest in there," said I.
"We'll see, anyway," replied Bob. "I'll fire a stone at that hole up by the top, and you stand back and watch if anything comes out."
Bob could throw a stone straighter than any other boy in school. He hit the trunk of the tree close by the hole, and in an instant something darted out with a loud whir, and vanished over the tree-tops.
"Bob," cried I, "that was a hawk."
"Hawks don't build in holes," replied Bob. "Perhaps it was an eagle."
"Eagles don't build in holes either," said I; "but I read yesterday that the pigeon-hawk does build in old dead trees."
"Then that's a pigeon-hawk sure enough," exclaimed Bob. "And there she is, sailing round in a circle, and watching us. What won't the boys say when they see us bringing home a lot of hawks' eggs?"
"That's all very well; but who's going to climb the tree?"
"You are," said Bob. "You know you're the best climber. The hole isn't more than thirty feet from the ground."
I was ready enough to climb, and pulled off my jacket at once; but I could not get my arms around the tree, and the lowest branch was a dozen feet from the ground.
"I tell you what we'll do," exclaimed Bob. "Let's get a fence rail, and lean it against the tree. I'll boost you, and when you get on the end of the rail, you can reach that branch."
We selected the longest and knottiest rail we could find, and leaned it up against the tree. Then Bob boosted me, while he kept his foot at the end of the rail to prevent it from slipping. By this means I managed to reach the lower branch, and seat myself on it.
"All right so far," said I; "but, Bob, the next branch is beyond my reach, and I don't see how in the world I'm going to get any higher."
"Jack," replied Bob, in a solemn tone, "you've got to do it. There's a hawk's nest up there, and we're bound to have it."
After making a good many trials, I found that by putting one hand in the big crack of the tree I could get a hold that would support me, and by-and-by I found myself standing on the upper branch, with one arm around the trunk, and the hole within my reach.
"Now," cried Bob, "don't waste any time, but go for those eggs, or we won't get home before dark."
He looked very cool and comfortable on the ground, while I was standing in a very ticklish place, and was afraid that the dead limb might give way at any moment. I didn't very much like to put my hand into the hole, for how did I know but that there might be a big snake in it? However, it had to be done, so in went my hand. Something hit it a vicious dig, and you can be sure that I pulled it out in a hurry. To tell the truth, I was badly frightened for a minute, and nearly lost my balance. Then it flashed on me that the eggs we were in search of were young birds.
"Bob!" I shouted, "there are young ones!"
"Hooray!" cried Bob. "That's better yet. Throw 'em down, and I'll catch 'em in my hat."
Much as I hated to do it, I thrust in my hand again, and out came a young hawk, biting, scratching, and screaming. I didn't hold it long, but in less time than you can say "Jack Robinson," down it went into Bob's hat.
Just as I threw down the third and last bird I heard Bob shout, "Look out! the old one's coming." Then something hit me on all sides of my head at once, just as if half a dozen school-teachers were boxing my ears at the same time. I put up my hands to defend my eyes, lost my balance, and, crash!— I didn't know anything more for the next five minutes.
When I came to myself Bob was dashing water in my face by the hatful. I could just manage to say, "Don't drown me."
"Then you're not dead!" exclaimed Bob. "You gave me an awful scare. Why, I couldn't make you speak a word. Don't ever go and do it again."
"I'm not dead yet, Bob, but it was a pretty ugly fall, wasn't it? Where are the young hawks?"
"Oh, they're all right. I've got 'em tied up in my handkerchief. Try and see if you can stand up."
I did try, but the minute I bore my weight on my right ankle such a sharp pain went through it that down I fell, and fainted away again.
When I came to, the second time, I heard a man say, "Guess we'd better carry him right down to the house, and get the doctor to 'tend to him." Bob had gone to a farm-house near by, and had brought two men to help him take care of me.
"I'm all right now," said I, "except my ankle, and I guess Bob can wheel me home in a wheelbarrow."
"I'll wheel you myself," said one of the men. "You've done a good job breaking up that there hawks' nest, and I owe you something for it."
You'd better believe that the boys stared when they saw Farmer Jones wheeling me home, and Bob carrying three young hawks in his handkerchief. I felt pretty proud, but was laid up for three weeks with my sprained ankle, and I made up my mind that the next time I meddled with a hawk's nest, I'd shoot the old hawk first.
OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES.
BY CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN.
No. VII.
JOHN STARK AND THE INDIANS.
In April, 1752, David Stinson, Amos Eastman, William and John Stark, paddled up the Merrimac River in canoes. Just above the junction of the Contoocook River with the Merrimac they passed the last log-cabin. From thence all the way to Canada there was not a white man. They made their way forty miles farther, entered a little stream now known as Baker's River, winding through a beautiful valley, built a camp, and set their traps to catch beaver, which were building their dams along the brooks.
There had been war between France and England, but peace had been agreed upon, and the Indians, who had been on the side of France, came from Canada and traded with the settlers along the frontier; but the settlers were ever on the watch, fearing an outbreak of hostilities at any moment.
The young hunters discovered some tracks in the woods, which had been made by Indians.
"The red-skins are about," they said.
It was agreed that it would be best to take up their traps and leave quietly, for the Indians claimed the whole country as their hunting ground. John Stark went out from the camp to take up his traps, when he found himself confronted by several Indians, who made him their prisoner. They had come from the village of St. Francis, in Canada, to Lake Memphremagog, brought their canoes across the divide between the lake and Connecticut River, and had descended that stream to the present town of Haverhill, in New Hampshire, and were on their way to plunder the settlements on the Merrimac. They did not know that John Stark had any companions near at hand, nor did he inform them.
"Why is John gone so long?" was the question asked by the others.
"Perhaps he is lost. Let us fire a gun."
The report of a gun echoed through the forest.
The Indians' eyes twinkled. There were more prisoners to be had. They stole through the woods with John, and came upon his three companions. Eastman was on shore, his brother William and Stinson in the boat. The Indians seized Eastman.
"Pull to the other shore," shouted John.
"CRACK! CRACK! WENT THE GUNS OF THE INDIANS."
Crack! crack! went the guns of the Indians. Stinson fell dead, and a bullet split the paddle in the hands of John's brother, who leaped to the other bank, and escaped. Crack! crack! went the guns again, but he was so far away that they did not harm him. The Indians, enraged at William's escape, gave John a whipping; but instead of whining, he laughed in their faces. They gathered up the hunters' beaver-skins, took their guns and traps, piled them upon John and Eastman, and started for their canoes, greatly pleased with their luck. The Indians divided, one party going over the Green Mountains with the furs which they had captured, going to Albany, where they could get better prices than in Canada, and the other, with John and Eastman, going up the Connecticut to Lake Memphremagog, descending the St. Francis River to their village on the St. Lawrence.
It was a wearisome journey, and John had a heavy pack to carry, but he was young, strong, brave, and was not in the least down-hearted. He did not think that the Indians would harm him; they could do better—sell him to the French.
The Indian town of St. Francis was a collection of miserable cabins and wigwams. The Jesuit fathers had been among the tribe for many years, and had won their confidence; had converted them to Christianity; that is, the Indians had been baptized; they counted their beads, and mumbled a few prayers that the priests had taught them; but they had learned nothing of the justice, mercy, or love pertaining to the Christian religion. They were the same blood-thirsty creatures that they had always been, and were happiest when killing and scalping the defenseless settlers.
The whole population—warriors, squaws, and children—came out to welcome the returning party. True, the French and English were not at war; neither were the English at war with the Indians; but what of that? Had they not made war on their own account? There was no one to rebuke them, for were not the English always considered as their enemies?
The Indians of St. Francis always made their prisoners run the gauntlet. It is not quite certain what the word comes from, but it means running between two files of men armed with sticks and clubs, each Indian to give the runner a whack as he passes.
The Indians, squaws, children, and all, paraded in two lines about four feet apart. Eastman was the older, and was the first to run. Whack! whack! went the sticks and clubs, beating him black and blue.
"Your turn now," said an Indian to John.
He is thirty years old, tall, broad-shouldered, his muscles like springs of steel. He has an iron will, and is quick to think and act.
The Indians grasp their cudgels more firmly to give him a good drubbing. What fun it will be to bring them down upon his broad shoulders, and see him cringe!
John comes upon the run. Quick as a flash he seizes the cudgel in the hands of the first Indian, swings it about his head with the strength of a giant. Whack! it goes upon the skull of one, whack! again upon the forehead of the Indian opposite, knocking them right and left. The next two catch it, the third and fourth. They go down as the Philistines fell before Samson. His blows fall so fast that the Indians take to their heels: he breaks up the gauntlet, and marches over the ground like a conqueror. The Indians, instead of punishing him, are greatly pleased.
It is midsummer, and the corn which the Indians have planted needs hoeing. They take him into the field, put a hoe into his hands to work with the squaws.
"You hoe corn," they say. John Stark hoe corn for the Indians! Not he. He cuts up weeds and corn alike, giving a few strokes, doing what damage he can, and then flings the hoe into the river.
"Squaws hoe corn. Braves fight," he says.
Do they beat him? On the contrary, they pat him on the shoulder.
"Bono! bono!" (good! good!) they say.
The Indians look down upon work as degrading. They make their wives do all the drudgery. Women were made to work, men to fight. To humiliate their prisoners they put them to work, degrading them to the condition of women. John Stark understood their character, and acted accordingly, and his captors were so delighted that they wanted him to become an Indian.
"We make you chief," they said.
"You be my son. I give you my daughter," said the chief.
But John Stark had no idea of becoming an Indian. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes and ears open. He studied their ways. They showed him how to follow a trail over the dead leaves of the forest—how the leaves would be rustled here and there, turned up at the edges, or pressed down a little harder where men had set their feet. He saw what cowards they were unless the advantage was all on their side, and how wily they were to steal upon their enemies. He picked up a little of their language. He was ready to go with them upon a deer-hunt; but as for working, he would not.
Little did the Indians think that they were teaching one who would turn all his knowledge to good account against them a few years later; that when they were showing him how to follow a trail they were teaching him to trace their own footsteps; that when the time came he would pay them off roundly for having taken him prisoner.
He was so brave, resolute, stout-hearted, and strong that they set a much higher value upon him than upon his comrade Eastman; for when their friends sent money to Montreal to ransom them, they asked only sixty dollars for Eastman, while John had to pay one hundred. So much for being brave! The money was paid, and the two men were sent to Montreal, and from there to Albany. As they came through Lake Champlain, John Stark looked out upon scenes with which he was to become familiar in after-years, and which we shall read about at another time.
THE RIVALS.
LIL'S FUN.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
"Boys have the best of it always!" said Lil, flinging herself in the hammock with a sigh, as she saw her two brothers, several cousins, and their comrades, in battered hats, turned-up trousers, and dingiest of jackets, going down through the maples with their fishing-poles over their shoulders.
"I think so too," said Ollie, spreading out her dainty dress, and picking a daring grasshopper off her silk stocking. "It's just too mean that we can't have some fun. They say we are always in the way, that we can't even bait our own hooks—it is horrid to stick those nasty worms on!—but I can catch fish as well as any one, and if boys are around, why shouldn't they make themselves useful? And they say we scream so, and make such a fuss about every thing," went on Ollie, in the same injured tone.
"Everything is better for boys than for girls. All the stories are written for them; they can ride, and drive, and play ball, and swim, and skate, and—"
"Lil! Lillie!" called a soft sweet voice, "are you in the sun? Your complexion will be ruined."
"There! didn't I say so?" was the somewhat incoherent reply. "Isn't it always the way? See how we are watched: don't go in the sun, you'll be burned; don't do this, don't do that—all because you're a girl. I'm tired of it.—Aunt Kit, I'm not in the sun.—I wish I was," was added sotto voce.
"Country girls' mothers are not so particular," said Ollie. "Look at those Pokeby girls in their calicoes; they climb trees like monkeys, and they have lots of good times."
"Let's go over and see them; it is not far. Come, Ollie."
"In my new dotted mull and silk stockings?" cried Ollie, in amazement. "Aunt Kit won't let us."
"See if she don't;" and Lil bounced out of the hammock, and into the house, where in the cool darkness of a shaded parlor sat a slender lady, with a pile of flosses in her lap, and a graceful basket in her hands, which she was ornamenting. "Aunt Kit, I have come to ask a favor. We are just bored to death doing nothing."
"Lil, how can you use such an expression? I am shocked. You are really getting very careless in your use of words."
"Well, then, excuse me, but it's the truth all the same. Ollie and I want some fun; the boys wouldn't take us fishing, and now I want you to let us put on some old duds and go over to the Pokebys'. We will promise to come home to tea, we will be as prim as prunes afterward, and I'll play two extra exercises to-morrow, and learn three pages of French. Now you can't say no; there's every reason for saying yes, and you will have a nice quiet time all day, without being bothered. Please—that's a darling!" and she smothered her retreating relative with kisses.
After some hesitation, and after many protestations that they would remember every charge given them, the girls received permission to go to the farm.
"I never was more surprised in my life," said Ollie, as, after donning plainer attire, she and Lil started out. "Now I am going in for a day's fun."
"What are you going to do?"
"Everything. When I get hold of Clara Pokeby—There she is now!"
"Oh, Clara!" broke out both girls at once, "we have come to spend the afternoon, if we may. Is it convenient?"
"I'll ask mother," said the quiet little maid, with a sincerity which somewhat dampened Lil's ardor.
They were joined in a few moments more by two other girls, each a year older and an inch higher; and now Lil, having an audience, began to talk, as they left the orchard where they had met, and from which they were walking to the farm-house, which peered out from its thicket of lilac-bushes, syringas, and overhanging maples. She was waxing eloquent over her dissatisfaction with boarding-house amusements, the boys' neglect, and her aunt's strictness, when they reached the door, and Clara made known her wishes to her mother.
Mrs. Pokeby had heard the conclusion of Lil's speech, and a smile was dancing around the corners of her mouth.
"A little more work and a little less play would be my remedy, Miss Lil." But seeing the girl looked somewhat crest-fallen, she said, kindly: "Come in, come in, all of you, and welcome. If you can wait till my girls have helped me a little, you may have all the fun you can make for yourselves."
The farm kitchen was a very spacious room, and Lil and Ollie thought it ever so much nicer than the one in their city house. The dresser was filled with shining tins, the cupboard with blue china enough to stock two or three cabinets, the floor was white as the fine sand could make it, and the bunches of sweet herbs perfumed the room so pleasantly that bees had evidently mistaken the place for a branch of the flower garden by the way they flitted in and out.
Lil and Ollie sat down to watch Mrs. Pokeby, who was preparing to bake; but in a trice both had on aprons, and were busily assisting Clara and her sisters. It was so nice to be trusted to break and beat eggs, to sift flour, to wash currants, and weigh sugar. They whipped the eggs till they looked like snow, they made the creamy butter dissolve in the sparkling sugar, they tasted and tried the consistency of the cake, they buttered the pans, and watched the oven. Mrs. Pokeby even let them mould some biscuits, and spread the paste over pie plates, and drop in the luscious fruit. So intent were they in their occupation that they hardly noticed the lengthening shadows, and heard Clara Pokeby say it was time to be off if they were going anywhere to play.
"Oh, wouldn't it be nice to give the boys a supper?—a supper all cooked by ourselves?" said Lil, with a sudden inspiration.
"Jolly enough," said Ollie.
"And have it in the woods," said Clara. "Do you know where they have gone?" she asked.
"Yes, they were to fish in Black Creek—down where we gathered pond-lilies last week."
"That is not too far. Mother, may we do it?"
"To be sure. You may have a share of everything we have made. Let me see, there's an apple-pie, a pan of biscuit— I can whip up some corn-bread—"
"Oh, please let me do it," said Lil.
No sooner said than done. Again they went to work. By the time the corn-bread was finished, Mrs. Pokeby had packed the baskets. Lil had looked about fifty times in the oven, and fifty times more at the receipt-book, to see if she had followed the instructions properly, while Clara and Ollie and the other girls had provided glasses and spoons and napkins.
"Now we are all ready—come on, girls," was at last the order issued by Lil, and away they went. Mr. Pokeby gave them a lift on the empty hay-cart, and carried the heaviest basket to the woods. They chose a lovely spot, grassy and smooth, not far from the path where the boys would have to pass. They could hear their voices now, and the occasional splash of an oar. They spread out their table-cloth, made a fire, and Lil said she was going to scramble some eggs; meanwhile Ollie and Clara could be on the watch to secure the guests.
It was a delightful afternoon, and a cool breeze was fluttering the grasses. The water of the creek reflected the overhanging boughs in its dark surface, water-spiders were spinning their little whirls, crickets were singing, and swallows had begun their evening hunt.
The boys, tired and hungry, pushed their boat up on the bank. One or two were elated with their success, and had quite a string of fish to show; the others, disappointed, had been arguing as to their want of luck, and had subsided into silence.
"Whew!" said Lil's brother Charlie; "I smell something good; wish I was home; awful hungry. How is it with you, Ted?"
"Voracious."
"And you, Sam?"
"Tired as that trout I chased and didn't kill."
"My! how gamy you are!"
Here the group came to a sudden halt. Two small maids appeared from the woods, and making a profound courtesy to Charlie as leader, began a speech.
"Those bothersome girls again!" whispered Billy Brittain.
"The Misses Pokeby and the Misses Sinclair have the honor to—to— Oh, Clara, what was I to say?" asked Ollie, blushing tremendously.
"Cut it short, please; we're so hungry," put in Charlie.
"Well, I will. We want you boys to come and get some supper which we have prepared for you—a sort of picnic, you know."
The boys gave a shout, flung down their traps, and made for the water to wash hands and faces, only Ted looked ruefully at his string of fish.
"What is the matter, Ted?" said Lil, coming up, with her face all flushed from being over the fire.
"Why, I was wishing we could have some of these for supper; but it's no matter, after all."
"Oh yes, it is. If you'll scrape and fix them, I can put them in the frying-pan in a jiffy."
So Ted went to work with a will.
Never had the boys tasted anything half so nice as that supper; they ate till they could eat no more. Lil scrambled eggs, and fried fish, and made tea, till Ollie insisted upon it that she should sit down and be served like a princess. Then they sang, and danced, and played games till Mrs. Pokeby and Miss Sinclair came after them, and carried them all home in Mr. Pokeby's big wagon.
"Really I never had more fun in my life," said Lil to Mrs. Pokeby, as they bade her good-by at the farm gate; "and I am so much obliged to you for letting us give that supper, though the getting it ready was the best part."
"That's because you seasoned it."
"What with?" asked Lil, wondering.
"With work—actual work."
"Do you think so? Perhaps that's the reason boys have such good times."
"I dare say."