“Well, it’s agreed, then,” said Aunt Mary. “I want you to entertain me awhile by telling a story.”
“A story! How? We don’t exactly understand, do we?” asked Jo, looking at one and another perplexed face.
“The story,” answered Aunt Mary, “must be altogether, ‘made up,’ as Madge would say. It must be divided in four chapters or parts, as nearly equal in length as is possible. Jo can begin it, and, after talking, say for two minutes, Madge must follow, then Ernest and Madeline will close.”
These words were followed with whistles from the boys, and “Oh, my!” from the girls, to all of which Aunt Mary said, “You promised, and of course you will do it. And when the story is told, we will all drive over to Bear’s Gulch, and that will take the remainder of the afternoon.”
These words were followed by a halt and sighs. “But it would be a burning shame,” said Madeline, “not to please Aunt Mary; besides, of course, we can do it. We can do anything, if we try.”
“So say we all of us; so say we all,” sang Ernest.
And Aunt Mary laughingly replied, “The sooner the story is started, the sooner it is through, and the sooner it is through, the sooner we have the drive.”
“Well, as I’m the starter, here goes!” said Jo.
“And,” interrupted his aunt, “when your time is up I’ll call Madge’s name, and so on. Don’t let us have any breaks. Tell me a story just as smoothly as if you were reading it from a book. Now, Jo.”
“My title is, ‘The Adventures of an Irish Setter.’ When Ned Armstrong was so small a boy that he yet wore knickerbockers, he received a short visit from his cousin William Adams. He, too, was a little boy and was often called ‘Sweet William,’ on account of his sunny disposition, for, notwithstanding he was sole heir to great wealth, being the only child of rich parents, rich enough to count their wealth by many millions of dollars,—he was neither selfish, exacting, nor in any way disagreeable, thereby an example to some grown-up people we have met. When William came on this visit, he brought with him a large, well-trained dog. He was a magnificent fellow, and Ned, his cousin, was as amazed as he was pleased to find that the dog was a present to himself from William’s father, his Uncle Ned, after whom he was named. This uncle had long known he must sometime part with Moselle; he had been his own from the time Moselle was a puppy but two months old. The reason for the separation of master and dog was the giving up of housekeeping for life in a hotel, as Aunt Cornelia, Uncle Ned’s wife, was now too much of an invalid to continue caring for a house, even with the assistance of a housekeeper, of whom she had tried many, and dogs are among the ‘not allowed’ in hotels. So, Uncle Ned, remembering his little nephew in the country, and knowing how he would prize and kindly treat his old pet and friend, sent Moselle by his son William to him. This gift made Ned, however, nearly crazy with delight, and the old gardener often feared the results to his flower beds after the races which Ned and Moselle would take over them. Indeed the dog was not to blame if he forgot many of his well-trained ways, country life with the little boy was so ungoverned by comparison with what it had been with his staid, but kind old master.