Arrived at the door of Mr. Leonard’s parlor, Artie did, indeed, try to give a genteel knock, but somehow the nervous little fist tightened itself into a young sledge-hammer, and the sound startled the inmates of the room and dyed Daisy’s face with crimson blushes, as the French maid opened the door with a surprised look, as she said,—
“Oh, est-ce-vous, petits? Voila un grand tappage!”[A]
Aunt Julia came to meet them, with a pleasant smile, for Charlie had talked to her of little else besides “his new splendid New York friends.” Then Charlie laughed out his merry greeting, and showed them his treasures from Aunt Julia’s trunk. A regular fort, with soldiers and cannon, and dried-peas-cannon balls, and a scrap-book, and heaps of colored pictures to paste in, and Charlie screamed with laughter, as he showed them how he had cut off Louis Napoleon’s head with Nannette’s big scissors, when Artie’s heavy knock startled them so, and Artie apologized, saying—
Charlie Leonard’s Scrap Book. Page 166.
“I did not mean to give such a banger, but somehow, the fun in my mind seemed to run right down into my fist, for only think, Charlie, we have come to invite you to go with all of us, to stay two nights and the Fourth of July at Bristol, where there’s an Indian pony and used to be true Indians in King Philip’s time, and is now a bay for fishing and clam-bakes, and two squirrels and a cart, and your father said you might.”
Charlie looked bewilderingly from one to the other, but when Daisy explained the grand plan, in her more quiet manner, Charlie’s delight became intense, and to the children’s great surprise, he ran and hid his head on his Aunt’s shoulder, and they were still more astonished when, a moment after, his Aunt loosened her clasp about him, to see tears in both their eyes, for how could they know that the little fellow’s great joy made him long for the dear Mamma, who had passed away with the coming of the June roses she had longed for; a Mother who was never too feeble to sympathize in his child-joys, or help him bear his child-griefs.
A good old poet has truly said—
“The tear down childhood’s cheek that flows,