Henry went up to Jessie’s room, and remained with her some time. When he came out, he, too, seemed more sober and silent than usual, and Ronald half suspected, from his looks, that he had been crying. And so he had. The fact was, both he and his sister were suffering from that distressing malady—homesickness. It seems strange that one who has exchanged a poor home for a better one, should pine after what he has relinquished; but so it is. We cannot separate ourselves from the friends with whom we have always lived, and the associations and haunts with which we have for years been familiar, without suffering more or less from homesickness, no matter into how excellent hands we may have fallen. And this feeling is sometimes very prolonged and distressing, especially with those who are exiled from their native land. A few years ago, a German emigrant in Boston became insane from homesickness, and bought a little boat, called a dory, which he fitted up in a peculiar manner, with oars, sails, a canvas covering, and provisions for a fortnight’s subsistence. He intended to put to sea in this frail skiff, hoping, as he said, to reach his fatherland in twenty-two days. When asked how he should supply himself with food, after his stock was exhausted, he said he had a little money to buy more. Perhaps he thought he should find a half-way house on the great deep, or meet a baker’s or butcher’s cart, on the voyage.
Marcus had been sitting for an hour or more before a small portable desk—a parting gift from his late pupils—which lay open upon the table in the sitting-room, with papers and books scattered around it. He had been engaged in studying a Greek lesson; for he intended at some future day to enter college in an advanced class, and with this view was continuing his studies. He was now leaning back in his chair, with his eyes intently fixed upon the ceiling, while his thoughts were busily engaged in trying to devise some way to relieve the melancholy of Jessie, and to dispel the shadows which from sympathy seemed to be stealing over other members of the family. After remaining in this position about ten minutes, he stepped into the kitchen, and held a short consultation with his mother and his aunt. He then went out to the woodshed, where Oscar and Ronald were at work, and accosted them with—
“Boys, what do you say to getting up a little celebration of Washington’s birth-day, this evening?”
“Good! First rate!” cried the impetuous Ronald, without giving Oscar a chance to reply. “What kind of a celebration shall we have? If I were you, I’d have the whole house illuminated, or else I’d build a great bonfire on the hill, that will show off all over town—wouldn’t that be grand, Oscar?”
“That isn’t exactly the kind of a celebration that I was thinking of,” said Marcus. “What I propose is, to invite in a few of our young acquaintances, and have an oration, and some appropriate music, and perhaps a tableau or two. How does that strike you, Oscar?”
“I think it’s a good idea; but who can get an oration ready, in so little time?” inquired Oscar.
“O, we can manage that—the oration will be the easiest part to arrange,” replied Marcus.
“But why couldn’t we have a bonfire, too?—I’ll take the whole care of it,” interposed Ronald, who just now thought more of material than mental illumination.
“I am afraid that might draw together more company than we want,” replied Marcus, “and so interfere with our indoor arrangements. I think you had better give up that idea.”
Ronald readily assented to this, and Marcus appointed him and Oscar a “committee of arrangements,” to invite guests, and make other preparations for the festival, giving them such instructions as he deemed necessary. He afterwards added Jessie to this committee, who entered into the plan with much interest. Marcus then returned to his studies, leaving the affair almost entirely in the hands of the committee.