THE COUNTRY CHRISTMAS

Works of

Frances Margaret Fox

L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
New England Building, Boston, Mass.

CHOOSING THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
[(See page 99)]

Cosy Corner Series
THE COUNTRY
CHRISTMAS
By
Frances Margaret Fox
Author of
"Farmer Brown and the Birds," "Little Lady
Marjorie," "Betty of Old Mackinaw," "How Christmas
Came to the Mulvaneys," etc.
Illustrated by
Etheldred B. Barry
Boston
L. C. Page & Company
1907

Copyright, 1907
By L. C. Page & Company
(INCORPORATED)

All rights reserved
First Impression, June, 1907
COLONIAL PRESS
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, U. S. A.

THE COUNTRY CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER I
HOPE FOR THE MULVANEYS

Sally Brown remembered the Mulvaneys. It was no wonder the child talked of them at first; but, when she had lived in the country two months, her mother and brother Alfred begged her to change the subject.

"Give us a rest," was Alfred's repeated command.

"Really, Sally," her mother remonstrated one morning, "what is the use of thinking of the Mulvaneys all the time? If it did any good I wouldn't say a word, but you only make us uncomfortable without helping them in the least."

"Well, mamma," was the reply, "you see I can't help hoping."

"Hoping," mocked Alfred, "hoping for what, I'd like to know?"

"If your name was Chinky Mulvaney you'd guess quick enough," was Sally's retort. "I am hoping the Mulvaneys will get out of the city same as we did."

"Hoping won't get them out," said Alfred.

"Maybe it won't and maybe it will," Sally remarked. "I notice that when you hope for things hard enough, you're pretty sure to get them. That is," she added, "if you do some squirming too. Don't you know, Alfred, you can help things happen if you try. I've discovered there's more'n one way of hoping."

Mrs. Brown was ready to go out. "Sally, my child," was her parting advice, "hope all you wish, but please don't mention the Mulvaneys to Alfred or me for one week."

"She'd never live," Alfred said, as he grabbed his cap and followed his mother.

Sally flew to the kitchen. "I can talk to you about the Mulvaneys, can't I, Mrs. Turner? Now I am ready to wash the dishes. Alfred's gone to the post-office, and mamma has gone to sew for Mrs. Reuben Smith; that's why I didn't get out here sooner; I had to see them off. Mamma says,—what do you think?—that I mustn't say Mulvaney to her for a week. I can talk to you, though, can't I?"

"Indeed you may," laughed Mrs. Isaac Turner. "I feel as if I had known the Mulvaneys all my life. Talk about them, of course you may. Is Mrs. Mulvaney a nice looking woman?"

"Dear me, no," laughed Sally, playing with the soapsuds in the dishpan. "She's about as unpretty as any one you ever saw. She's cross as a bear, too, but who wouldn't be? Just 'magine, Mrs. Turner, if you lived in a horrid little pig-pen house, and you had seven acting children and your Mr. Mulvaney was dead, and you had to take in washing? I do wish they could come out in the country. I wish they could live in this very village. Why, Mrs. Turner, they are the most discouraging children you ever saw. There's Hannah and Chinky and Nora and Dora and Mike and Johnnie and Stubbins, and they all look worse'n they act."

"Yes," agreed Mrs. Turner, "I know them every one, Sally, just as well as if I had seen their photographs. Hannah is tall and thin; Chinky is red-headed and freckled; Mike is full of mischief; and Johnnie's always getting into trouble; and Stubbins is a terror. Now why do you want such a family turned loose in our pretty village?"

"Don't laugh, Mrs. Turner, because it is dreadful for children not to have better things. They live down by the railroad tracks and the river, in mud and dirt. I think it is worse for them because they have always lived there, and they don't know anything different. They are not so very bad yet, but you just wait and see what'll happen if they stay there."

"How is it, Sally, that you like such children?"

"Because," was the instant response, "I got acquainted with them. I've discovered that you're pretty sure to like every one if you only get well enough acquainted. I never knew how good Mrs. Mulvaney was until mamma was taken to the hospital, and Mrs. Mulvaney took me and Alfred in. Of course she was cross and everything, but I'll never forget how good she was to us, nor how she cried for joy,—that's what mamma said,—because they had a gay Christmas for once in their lives. She was glad mamma and Alfred and I could come here to live, too; and now I'll tell you something, Mrs. Turner. I'm not the only one that's hoping. This is exactly what Mrs. Mulvaney said when we talked it over. 'We'll put for the country, too, Sally, if we ever get a chance!' So you see, she wants to come."

Nothing more was said about the Mulvaneys for a week, which doesn't mean that Sally forgot them. It happened this way: Alfred brought a letter from the post-office that Saturday morning addressed to Mrs. Elizabeth Brown, and as Mrs. Elizabeth Brown was away all day, the children passed their spare time wondering about its contents. At night their curiosity was satisfied. A farmer's daughter needed the help of a dressmaker for two weeks. Better than that she wrote, "Come as soon as possible, and bring both your children. They can walk to school every day with my brother."

"That lets me out," declared Alfred; "but you may go, Sally, just the same." To show how little he cared, Alfred whistled "Yankee Doodle."

"Perhaps Mr. Turner would give you a vacation," suggested Sally.

"Wouldn't ask him," was the reply. "When they take a feller to work for his board in a grocery store after school hours, and to do chores around the house, he's got to tend to business or lose his job."

Alfred sometimes put on airs. Sally always felt humiliated when her brother talked about working for his board, and how fortunate it was that one of his mother's children happened to be a boy. "What if we'd both been girls?" he used to ask in tones of scorn. Instead of feeling sorry for Alfred, when she and her mother were driven to the Randall farm, Sally envied him because of his importance at home.

"How do you like it out there?" asked the boy at recess a few days later.

"'HE PUT ON ONE OF HER NEW DRESSES'"

"The only thing I don't like," was the reply, "is coming to school with Tom Randall. I am glad he isn't my brother. He's the worst tease I ever saw. Why Alfred, you are a perfect angel beside of him. He made Cornelia Mary cry last night, and she's sixteen."

"Who's Cornelia Mary?"

"She's his sister. He put on one of her new dresses mamma is making, and said he was going to wear it out to milk the cows."

"Did he do it?" inquired Alfred.

"No, his mother made him take it off. He's fourteen and he thinks he knows it all."

"The boys all like him, Sally. If girls weren't so silly they wouldn't have so much trouble."

"You needn't think that bothers me," laughed Sally, "because I want to tell you about the Randalls. They're the nicest people ever, all but Tom. They live in a great big white house with green blinds and wide verandas. It must be lovely in the summer. You ought to see their cows and their horses and their chickens, and when I say chickens I mean everything with feathers; pigeons, ducks, and geese, turkeys, and even guinea hens. Oh, but it's nice. I can't begin to tell you. Cornelia Randall is the sweetest girl you ever saw, too. She told me to call her Cornelia Mary except when I go visiting her school next summer, then I must say 'Miss Randall,' to set the country children a good example."

"Is she going to be a school teacher?"

"Yes, Alfred, and she says she can hardly wait for summer. She's passed her examination and got her certificate, and she's going to teach over in the Hodgkins district. Tom declares he'll visit her school and make speeches to the children. It would be just like him, and she couldn't put him out either, if she tried. Cornelia Mary says sometimes she wishes she was an only child."

"Nice and selfish," suggested Alfred.

"You never lived with Tom Randall," observed Sally. "There he comes now, and don't you dare tell what I told you."

"Won't I though?"

"Oh, no, you won't, Alfred. Wait a minute," she called, "I want to tell you something. I'm still hoping about the Mulvaneys; they would have such a good time in the country!"

CHAPTER II
SALLY BROWN'S NEW IDEA

The following Saturday Tom Randall heard some news.

"You can't guess the latest!" he shouted, as he ran up the stairs three steps at a time, reaching the door of the sewing-room out of breath, and beaming with smiles.

"It must be something good," ventured Sally, forgetting to pull basting threads in her eagerness to hear more.

Cornelia Mary looked doubtfully at her brother. "Well, what is it?" she asked.

"Get your camphor bottle ready. I'm going to let you down easy, but you had better be prepared. Corny, your school's gone. You won't teach in the Hodgkins district this year, I can tell you right now."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said."

"Did the schoolhouse burn up?"

"Worse'n that."

"Have they hired another teacher?"

"Worse yet."

"Come, Tom, tell us," besought Mrs. Brown.

"He's fooling!" declared Sally.

"No, sir, I mean what I say," insisted Tom. "Corny's school has gone, bag and baggage."

"Well, how could it?" demanded Cornelia Mary.

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know how it could be so cruel," he said, "but maybe it didn't like to have you for a teacher. Fact is, it's gone. The Beans and the Kilpatricks have got work in the sugar factory, and they moved to town. There goes your A Class and your B Class and—"

"Well, the Chart Class isn't gone," interrupted Cornelia Mary, laughing in spite of herself at Tom's antics. "You can have a school if there's only one child in the whole district and little Willie Jessup begins this summer. Poor little fellow, he'll be lonesome."

"No, little Willie won't be lonesome," mocked Tom, "because little Willie's going too. I tell you, Corny, your school's gone. Cheer up, you've got me left. I'll be home all summer. Never mind the Hodgkins district, let it go."

"You go away," retorted Cornelia Mary, struggling with tears, "you're a comfort, aren't you?"

"It was my painful duty, Corny, to tell you before the neighbours did and this is all the thanks I get, just 'go away.' What an ungrateful world it is. Never mind, Corny, if you ever need a friend, you come back to your sweet brother. He'll forgive you."

"Will you go away!" repeated Cornelia Mary.

"Oh, yes," was the reply, "I mustn't stay in a damp place for fear of rheumatism. Better get up your umbrella, Sally," and Tom went away whistling.

Cornelia Mary did cry, at least she cried until Sally Brown appeared to be very much excited about something.

"What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Brown, while Cornelia Mary wiped her eyes and stared.

"Why—why the Mulvaneys!" exclaimed Sally. "Why can't they move out here and go to school?"

"Who are the Mulvaneys?" asked Cornelia Mary.

"Well, they're the Mulvaneys," Sally insisted, "and—"

"Can it be," interrupted Mrs. Brown, "that Sally has never mentioned them to you?"

"Never," replied Cornelia Mary. "Do tell me about them."

"You, mamma, you will tell it so much better than I could."

"It is a dismal story," began Mrs. Brown, "and one I would gladly have forgotten."

"Why Mamma Brown!"

"Don't misunderstand me, Sally; I shall never forget Mrs. Mulvaney's kindness, but as I have said a dozen times, we cannot help the family and there is no use in continually dwelling upon their misery."

"Only I can't help hoping," murmured Sally. "Go on, mamma."

When the story was finished, Cornelia Mary turned to Sally with a puzzled look on her face.

"How do you think we could get that family into the Hodgkins district?" she asked. "What would they do? I mean, where would they live, and what could Mrs. Mulvaney do to earn their bread and butter, I'd like to know?"

"Couldn't she take in washing?" demanded Sally.

Cornelia Mary shook her head. "I'm afraid not in the country."

"Oh, but she could," Sally declared. "Mrs. Turner says she could get more washing to do in the village than five women could manage, especially when the summer boarders are there. Mrs. Turner says too she's even wondered why some one doesn't start a laundry."

"But that's in the village and wouldn't help my school any."

"Maybe that's true," agreed Sally, "but couldn't they live in the country, and couldn't Chinky and Hannah go after the washings and take them home? The worst trouble is finding a place for the Mulvaneys to live. There isn't a house they could get in the village."

"How do you know?" asked Mrs. Brown.

Sally smiled. "Oh, Mrs. Turner and I went house-hunting only last Saturday. We thought maybe we could find a cheap little house, but we couldn't on account of the new sugar factory. Houses are scarce and rents are high. We found out a few things. That's the way I do my hoping, mamma."

"Would they come?" inquired Cornelia Mary, growing interested.

"Come!" echoed Sally, "they'd come flying!"

"Yes, they would," agreed her mother. "There's no doubt of it. But how could we manage, Cornelia Mary? Where could they get a house, and how could they furnish it?"

"Of course they would have to bring their furniture," suggested Cornelia Mary.

"But they haven't anything worth mentioning, even if they could afford the expense. I doubt if Mrs. Mulvaney ever had money enough ahead to buy tickets for the whole family, and their clothes are unthinkable. No, it is hopeless."

"Don't say that, Mrs. Brown, on account of my school. If there is a way to get them here, Sally and I must do it. Father will help us, I know. Come on, Sally, we'll go and find him. If what Tom says is true, and I'm sure it is because I heard something about it last week, why, there'll be three houses empty and perhaps we may be able to get one of them cheap."

"You never can tell until you try," added Sally.

CHAPTER III
HOUSE-HUNTING

The Beans, the Kilpatricks, and the Jessups might as well have taken their houses with them so far as the Mulvaneys were concerned. Mr. Bean's father and mother were to live in their vacant house. The Kilpatrick home was rented to an old couple related to the Beans, while the residence of the Jessups was to be torn down.

Cornelia Mary and Sally drove slowly homeward after their first experience in country house-hunting.

"Now what do you think?" inquired Cornelia Mary, giving the reins an impatient jerk.

"I think—" began Sally, "well, I think we got left."

That remark made the girls laugh. Having laughed the prospect seemed less dismal.

"POINTING TO A DILAPIDATED WEATHER-BEATEN STRUCTURE ALMOST
HIDDEN FROM VIEW"

"Wasn't it too bad about the Jessup house?" Cornelia Mary resumed. "It was so tumbled down the rent couldn't be much and they might have got along somehow. Was it a great deal worse than the house they live in?"

"Worse," echoed Sally, "it was sixty hundred times better. Why, the Mulvaneys live in a little bit of a black old shanty—" Sally stopped suddenly, then exclaimed in excited tones, "A house! A house! Whoa!"

"A house?" questioned Cornelia Mary, looking into the sky as if expecting to see it drop from the clouds.

"Right there!" continued Sally, pointing to a dilapidated weather-beaten structure almost hidden from view by overgrown bushes and old weed stalks.

"Giddap," laughed Cornelia Mary, "trot along. Why, Sally, you gave me such a start. I am sure I know now how Columbus felt when the mariners shouted land."

"But it's a house," insisted Sally, "and no one is living in it. Whoa, horse! Make him stop, Cornelia Mary, I want to get out. Who owns that house and why is it empty?"

"All right, whoa, Bess! Climb out, Sally, you shall see the house, that is if you can reach it without tearing your dress. Wait a minute while I tie the horse to this tree."

"But it's deserted!" Sally exclaimed, "and the windows are all boarded up; we can't see much. Who owns it? Let's go for the key?"

"No one will ever live in that house again," declared Cornelia Mary. "To begin with, it's the oldest house in the country and the man who built it lived in it for a long time. Then he built a new house and his hired man lived here. After that a great many different families rented it; then for years it was empty. One time a crazy man, whose folks owned the mill, broke in the house and said he was going to stay there until he died. The owner said let him have his own way as he was harmless, and if the family would supply his wants he might have the house rent free."

"And did he live here all alone way back from the road?" asked Sally, gazing curiously about the place.

"Yes, and they say he was happier than he ever was in his life before; he kept chickens and pigs and had gardens—why, Sally, there is a regular wild flower garden here every summer to this day, and the man's been dead since long before I was born."

"And hasn't anybody lived here since?" asked Sally.

"Of course not."

"Why?"

Cornelia Mary shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, folks are queer about some things, Sally. I wouldn't stay all night in this house for anything, myself, not for anything."

"Why not?"

"Well, don't you see, the old fellow was crazy, and sometimes he used to sing and howl all night long."

"But, Cornelia Mary, he's dead now, and this is a good, big house. It would be a palace for the Mulvaneys. Who owns it?"

"The same man who allowed the poor old lunatic to have it for a home. He's queer, too. I never said anything but 'good morning,' or 'how do you do' to him in my life."

"Where does he live?"

"Oh, just a little way from here around the next corner on the Bay Shore road."

"What's his name?"

"Welcome Hodgkins."

"Oh, he's the Hodgkins district, is he?"

"No," laughed Cornelia, "not exactly, although his ancestors gave the district its name. I tell you he's a queer old fellow—the only Hodgkins left in the country. I really shouldn't like to call on him, but we'll do it if you think the Mulvaneys would live here, and if you'll do the talking."

"Well, come on then," said Sally.

"Oh, Sally, but my heart is set on teaching school this summer; I do hope they'll come. Yes, I'll go with you to see Mr. Hodgkins. We'll walk. He has the best farm in the country but I tell you he's queer; nobody ever goes to see him. He lives in that large white house straight ahead."

"But, Cornelia Mary, the blinds are all closed. I don't believe he's at home."

"That's nothing, Sally, he lives alone in the back of his house. I told you he was queer."

"Where's his wife?"

"Dead, years ago."

"Glad to see you, come in," said Mr. Hodgkins, opening wide his kitchen door, at the girls' timid knock.

The man's eyes were so kind and he smiled so pleasantly Sally liked him.

"We've come on an important errand, Mr. Hodgkins," she began. "It's about Cornelia's school. Unless you will help us, Cornelia Mary can't teach school this summer."

"Indeed?" questioned Mr. Hodgkins. "I shall certainly be pleased to do all in my power to assist the young lady."

Sally told him the story of the Mulvaneys. When she finished speaking there was silence for a moment. "Guess he is queer," thought Sally. Mr. Hodgkins's first remark was unsatisfactory, to say the least.

"Oom—um—I dunno," he murmured.

"Is it about the rent?" Sally inquired.

"Ooom—um," replied Mr. Hodgkins.

"Unless you wanted too much money," continued the child, "I think she could manage it. She has to pay rent where they live now."

At that Welcome Hodgkins found his voice. "It's the children," he confessed. "They could have the house and welcome, but I can't say as I relish having the young savages raising Cain on my farm."

"It seems to me they could be trained," faltered Sally.

Something in her tone troubled Welcome Hodgkins. "Come with me and see the house," he suggested, "and we'll consider the matter."

For the first time in years spring sunshine streamed across the threshold of the lonely dwelling among the bushes. Once more the old rooms echoed a childish voice and footsteps from the outside world.

"It's not a bad sort of a house after all," remarked the owner, having lighted the lamp he carried. "Musty and damp now to be sure, but it's roomy and might easily be repaired. Well, I dunno, let them come and if they misbehave, we'll train them."

"Mr. Hodgkins, you're an awful nice man, and Mrs. Mulvaney'll say so too, when she gets my letter."

"I don't know how to thank you," added Cornelia Mary.

"Well, children, here's the key. I'll unboard the windows any time you give the word. I'm thinking, Miss Cornelia Mary, that you and I will have our hands full this summer. Good day."

"Isn't he a nice man?" whispered Sally, as Welcome Hodgkins sauntered homeward.

"Oom—um—I dunno," was the response. "I still think he's queer."

CHAPTER IV
TOM MAKES A SUGGESTION

Every one in the Randall family became interested in the fortunes of the Mulvaneys. Even the hired man offered his services in getting the house ready for the new tenants.

"Like enough a little fresh paint'd be a good thing," he remarked.

"Fresh paint," repeated Tom, "yes, sir, that's just the thing to furnish a house with. If I couldn't have but one piece of furniture, I'd take fresh paint. I wouldn't say give me a bed, or a table, or a chair, or a small article like a kitchen stove; no, sir, I'd say, fresh paint for me, if you please, fresh paint or nothing."

"Tom, you are the most consoling mortal," interrupted Cornelia Mary. "We completely forgot about the furniture."

"Jake didn't, though; he knew that as long as the Mulvaneys had fresh paint they'd be all right. Now, who'll give the paint? Corny, you ought to do it, because think of the salary you'll earn teaching that school."

"Hold on, young man," said Mr. Randall, "Jake's idea is good, and I'll donate all the paint he'll put on."

"Father has a lot left from painting the barn," Cornelia Mary whispered to Mrs. Brown.

"They may have our old kitchen stove, too," added Mrs. Randall. "It's a nice little stove, but we've had no use for it since we bought the range, and it's in the woodshed covered with rust. I should be glad to get it out of the way."

Without warning Tom stood on his head and waved his feet in the air.

"Tom Randall, what possesses you?" asked his mother, giving the pillows on the sitting-room couch a vigorous shake.

"I wish to speak in meeting," explained Tom. "It's no circus performance. Cheer up, Corny, I'll teach the Mulvaneys how to raise their feet instead of their hands when they have to ask questions in school."

"I'll give you a new lesson in shingling if you try it," observed his father, laughing with the rest of the family at the change of expression on Tom's face.

"I was about to make a suggestion," Tom continued. "Now don't giggle, Corny and Sally, I'm serious. I say let's go furniture-hunting all through the country."

"Oh, Tom, you dear!" exclaimed Cornelia Mary. "The very thing! I suppose every one of our neighbours has old furniture in their woodsheds and attics they would be glad to get rid of."

Sally clapped her hands and tried to speak. She had barely time to open her mouth before Cornelia Mary had finished a request.

"Oh, Tom, will you go with us? We'll hitch Bess to the lumber wagon and you drive. Will you?"

Tom considered a moment, as became his dignity, before replying. "I'll go on one condition. If mother and father and Mrs. Brown will let us all stay home from school, we'll begin to-morrow morning."

"Oh, let them," begged Cornelia Mary, "do say yes."

Permission was given, to the great surprise of Master Tom.

"But he's such a tease," objected Sally.

"You're only half-acquainted with Tom," declared his sister. "He has streaks of real goodness, and when he says he'll help, he always does it."

Bess must have thought picnics had begun early when Tom, Cornelia Mary, and Sally scrambled into the lumber wagon the following morning. They laughed so much, and acted so generally foolish, the old horse turned her head several times, as if she couldn't understand the occasion for such hilarity.

"We must ask for left over rolls of wall paper," suggested Cornelia Mary. "Jake and father promised to open the house to-day. They are going to put up the stove and build a fire. Mother says that old crazy man was neat as wax, and that the relatives left the house in perfect order after the funeral."

"How many rooms in the shebang?" questioned Tom.

"Let me think; there's a sitting-room, a bedroom, a dining-room, and a kitchen downstairs. I think Mr. Hodgkins said there were three rooms upstairs, didn't he, Sally?"

"Yes, three rooms, and kind of an attic over the kitchen. Oh, what will the Mulvaneys think? They have only two little rooms and a place above for the children to sleep, where they live, and the children were never in a decent house in their lives. They are not used to furniture, let me tell you. They didn't own but one real bed."

The first donation was a what-not, given by Mrs. George Saunders.

"That thing'll be a comfort," commented Tom.

"It'll help fix up the sitting-room," commented Cornelia Mary.

"What's it for?" asked Sally.

"To stand in the corner," was the reply. "You're supposed to put pretty things on the shelves."

"Hope nobody'll give us another," faltered Sally.

Deacon Trowbridge happened to be thinking of buying new furniture. He was glad to help load his old lounge, two arm-chairs, and a marble-topped table upon the lumber wagon.

"Furniture's picking up," remarked Tom as he drove on.

Before the day was done the old horse was resting her feet in the barn, while the Randall family, including grandfather and the hired man were examining second-hand furniture in the woodshed.

"I wouldn't have believed it possible," said Mrs. Brown.

"Nor I," Mrs. Randall added. "Do you see the lace curtains! And if there isn't Mrs. Moses Pendleton's old sewing-machine! I didn't suppose she'd give a thing. How did it happen, Cornelia Mary?"

"You see, mamma, I knew that woman had two machines because I was there the day the new one was brought home, and I suppose she guessed what I was thinking about when Sally told the story."

"Oh, but I'm getting sick of telling that old story," laughed Sally. "I'll be glad when we get through collecting furniture."

The hired man kept his word. With a great deal of advice and more or less help from the children, he painted, papered, and got the house in order inside and out. Many of the neighbours assisted with the work of settling, then went home to ransack their attics afresh to supply newly discovered needs.

In the village Mrs. Isaac Turner used her influence. Through her efforts a barrel of flour and a box of groceries found their way to the Mulvaney pantry. Tubs and a wash-boiler were purchased by the future school teacher. Inspired by her example Tom made a wash-bench. It was a good one, too, strong and heavy. Mrs. Brown bought the material and Sally hemmed towels. Mrs. Randall provided sheets while Mr. Randall gave a generous load of wood.

At last, when all was ready, Sally wrote to Mrs. Mulvaney.

CHAPTER V
SOMETHING HAPPENED

It would be hard to say who was more surprised by Sally's letter, the postman or Mrs. Mulvaney. Both stared doubtfully at the envelope, the postman appearing unwilling to leave the letter, while Mrs. Mulvaney was equally uncertain of her right to it. The children were out. When the postman was gone their mother put a stick of wood in the kitchen stove, poked the clothes in the boiler, glanced at the wash-tubs, then went in the Other Room.

"Well, I never!" she remarked, turning the envelope over and over before opening it. "I wonder what Mulvaney would think!"

Three times while Mrs. Mulvaney was reading the letter she opened and closed her mouth without uttering a sound. The fourth time she managed to say, "Well I never!" At last she returned to the wash-boiler and poked the clothes so vigorously it is a wonder she didn't punch holes through them. Next she made an attack on the wash-tub. She flipped, flapped, and jerked the clothes over the board, pounded on the soap, and worked with such energy Johnnie didn't dare enter the kitchen. He always peeped in the window before venturing further.

"She'd spank us," he murmured, running to warn his brothers and sisters to "keep back."

It was well that he did so. His mother was in no mood to be trifled with. In the shortest possible time the washing was finished and hung on the line.

"Now then," said Mrs. Mulvaney, going in the Other Room and searching under the bed for an old stocking which she dragged forth quickly, "we'll see."

"More in it than I thought," she went on, pouring the contents in her lap, then rapidly counting the money. "Eight tickets! It won't take long to find out what they'll cost. I'll go to the Grand Central Station and price them. Where's my good skirt?"

The garment was easily found. It was on the floor in the corner with soiled clothes and various other articles. Mrs. Mulvaney slipped it over her working-dress unmindful of apron strings sticking through the placket hole in the back.

"Now my bonnet," she continued. Mrs. Mulvaney owned a bonnet, but where to look for it was perplexing. She found it under the bed, then twisted her hair in a tighter knot before putting it on. Finding her shawl was a harder matter, until Mrs. Mulvaney recalled having placed it over the dishpan in which the bread was rising, or trying to rise.

"Now I'm ready; I wonder where the young ones are? Hannah, Hannah Mulvaney?" she called from the kitchen door, "step lively, you're all to come in this minute."

Obedience was a shining virtue in the Mulvaney family. The children came.

"Why, ma," protested Mike, "you ain't going to leave us, I hope."

By way of reply Mrs. Mulvaney jerked Mike through the doorway, knocking him against Johnnie with such force the little fellow sat down in the dishpan containing the uncovered bread dough.

"Don't stir out of this house while I'm gone," commanded Mrs. Mulvaney, sailing away without looking behind, which was a fortunate thing for Johnnie. Before his mother's return he had scraped off most of the dough from his trousers, with the help of the twins.

"Kind o' sthicky, ain't it?" commented Stubbins, tasting of the dough. "Thay! I'd give a thent to know where ma went."

"Maybe she ain't never coming back," suggested Hannah, after a long silence.

"Yes she is; look alive, kids," shouted Chinky, "she's coming like the fire engine. Watch out!"

"I bet she's been after a policeman, and we'll all get took to jail," whispered Johnnie, looking for a place to hide and finding none.

When Mrs. Mulvaney returned she said nothing at first, and the children were too frightened by her behaviour to dare speak. They didn't know what to think as they watched their mother count eight green slips of paper which she afterward pinned inside her dress. The next astonishing performance was the writing of a postal card which the woman straightway mailed.

"Whath going to happen?" questioned Stubbins. No one knew.

"My thaketh!" was a later exclamation from Stubbins. "My thaketh alive! Here cometh the thecond-hand man with ma!"

Even his errand was a mystery to the seven, as before he was invited in, the children were turned out.

That night when Chinky carried the washing home, he told the customer that it was the last work his mother would ever do for her.

"Why?" demanded the woman.

"Can't prove it by me," was the reply, "I dunno no more about it'n you do."

The next morning the second-hand man called at eight, and carried away the stove, the wash-boiler, the tubs, Mrs. Mulvaney's bed and bureau, the few chairs, in fact everything that he could possibly sell. By this time the children were absolutely terrified.

"We're going to move!" announced their mother. "What's more, we're going to have a ride on the cars. You must all wash up and I'll tidy your hair. Then we'll get ready to start. We ain't got a trunk to pack things in, but we've got pa's satchel. Eight of us ought to carry what's left here in our hands."

"How'll we take all the clothes that was give to us Christmas?" asked Hannah.

"You'll wear 'em," was the reply. "You ain't got but three dresses to your name, and if you can't get 'em all on, you ain't good for much. Thin as you be, I don't know but you'll hold more clothes than just your own. We'll see."

Mrs. Mulvaney began on poor Stubbins. He was plump and given to stumbling anyway, but by the time his mother had squeezed him into two suits and three overcoats of various sizes, he could scarcely wiggle, nor could he bend his arms.

"I'll tie up a little bundle of stuff for you to carry in one hand," said Mrs. Mulvaney, "and you can take the clothes-stick in the other. It's too good to leave behind. Now don't you stir," she continued, "until the others are ready."

"Well, ma," grumbled Stubbins, "I couldn't sthir if I wanted to. I sthick out all around ith like a pig. I thay! I'm too warm!"

Mike laughed at Stubbins, so Mrs. Mulvaney chose him for the next victim. He quickly felt and looked like his little brother.

"You can take the kerosene can in one hand, and the dishpan in the other," said Mrs. Mulvaney. Then Mike felt worse than Stubbins, but protest was useless. He had to carry the kerosene can and the old dishpan.

Johnnie looked too pleased, whereupon he was taken in hand,—"rigged out," as his mother said. "You can carry the wash-board," she went on, "it's almost as good as new; I don't care what the second-hand man had to say."

"Oh, ma," besought Johnnie, "let Chinky carry the wash-board, he's bigger. I might fall and break it."

Mrs. Mulvaney was so in the habit of spanking Johnnie she began as usual, before she thought how well padded he was.

"Thay, ma, you'll have to thlap him," advised Stubbins. "He ith only got hith fathe."

"Lucky for once," chuckled Mike. Even Mrs. Mulvaney laughed.

In the meantime Hannah made clothes-racks of Nora and Dora. Fearing she might have to carry the rusty tin pails herself, she asked her mother what she wished to put in them for the twins to take.

"Provisions," was the reply, "you can pack up the bread and whatever's left in the cupboards. Get your own extra clothes on right lively now. You're to carry pa's picture. The frame ain't heavy and you know how to be careful."

"Maybe I better take the pails an' you carry the picture," objected Hannah. "I'm afraid I might spoil it. It's all I can do to manage my arms on 'count of so many sleeves."

"I'll take the picture," offered Chinky, trying to evade the mop, broom, clothes-line, pole, and clothes-pin basket his mother thrust upon him.

"You'll carry what I say," declared Mrs. Mulvaney, putting on all the garments she owned. Then she packed Mr. Mulvaney's old satchel so full the sides burst.

"I can tie it up," said she, tearing a strip from a ragged blanket for the purpose. "I'll have to carry pa's satchel and make these quilts and things into a bundle. There now! there are two of your pa's old coats. Who'll take 'em? Can't carry 'em, you say, got your hands full? I'll fix it, Chinky, you can wear one and Hannah can wear the other. Hold still and I'll button them around you. They're just short enough so they won't drag."

"Look here, ma?" offered Chinky, "you roll 'em up in a tight bundle and I guess I can carry 'em after all."

"I thought you could manage," agreed Mrs. Mulvaney. "You see we're going where I may get some time to do fancy work, and I'm thinking of making rugs of pa's old coats to remember him by."

"Oh, ma, look at us!" wailed Hannah when the procession was ready to start. "Have we got to go looking like this?"

"I don't see no other way and you needn't feel bad, Hannah, because we don't look stylish. You may be a school teacher some day," predicted her mother. "Fact is we're all going to have a chance to be folks, and if I was you young ones, I'd try and forget what we look like now, and think hard about how fine we'll look next time we go on the cars with our trunks and umbrells and land knows what; and when we all get set down in the Grand Central Station to wait for the cars, I'll tell you where we're going and all about it."

"Thaketh alive, ma! it don't theem ath if I could ever get there with tho many thingth on, and thay! but you look—"

"You start your boots," interrupted the mother of Stubbins, "or you'll feel worse'n you look."

CHAPTER VI
HOW STUBBINS WENT TO SEE MR. HODGKINS

Tom Randall, Cornelia Mary, and Sally met the Mulvaneys with a lumber wagon. In spite of all Cornelia Mary could do to prevent such actions, Tom fairly shouted when he saw the family lifted from the train by the grinning brakeman, while Sally's face was the colour of a poppy as she went forward to greet her friends. It wasn't easy to claim the Mulvaneys in the presence of the amused passengers, whose faces filled the car windows. It was a relief to hear the engine whistle and see the train start.

"We're going right straight to your house," Sally told Mrs. Mulvaney. "Mamma is there this morning waiting for you. Why won't the children talk? What's the matter? Have they lost their tongues?"

"They never was on the cars before," explained Mrs. Mulvaney, "and they behaved real well. They act kind of bashful now." Whereupon the seven looked foolish, and wouldn't speak to Sally. Even Stubbins was dumb.

"This is your new teacher," Sally continued by way of introducing the family, "and that boy on the front seat is her brother Tom. Climb in, children. Where will you sit, Mrs. Mulvaney?"

"I'll just hist myself on to the front seat with the boy," was the reply, and that must have been the reason Tom drove home by way of Park's Corner instead of through the village.

"Why, Tom," remonstrated Cornelia Mary, "it's three miles farther the road you've started on!"

"Want to give your school a chance to see the country," was the response. "Geddap, geddap!"

"This spring air won't hurt anybody," Sally put in. "Oh, Hannah, isn't it lovely? Aren't you ever going to talk again, Hannah?"

Not a word from Hannah. Stubbins was the first to find his voice. "Oh, pigth, pigth, thop the horthe!" he cried. "Thay, boy, I want to thee the pigth!"

"Whoa!" said Tom. "Didn't you ever see pigs before, Stubbins?"

"Yeth, but I never thaw pigth in the country, did I?"

"Do you like pigs?"

"I geth I do! Are they pigth where we are going?"

"Giddap," repeated Tom, pulling at the reins, and then turning so that he could look at Stubbins he said this:

"Pigs? Why, I should say yes! Look here, Stubbins, there are so many pigs in the country they run wild—wild, I say, and if any little kid is a pig catcher all he's got to do is catch a pig and keep it if he can. You can even take pigs to school here, ride 'em right into the schoolhouse if the door's open."

Stubbins glanced inquiringly at Cornelia Mary, but she and Sally were busy talking with Mike and Johnnie, while Chinky and Hannah were busy listening to them. Mrs. Mulvaney was thinking, and paid no attention to Tom's nonsense.

"Thay, boy," suggested Stubbins, "leth thop the horthe and go back and get thome pigth now."

"Haven't time," was the reply, "plenty of wild pigs all through the country; you'll want something to do when you get home."

During the rest of the drive, Stubbins hugged his bundle and dreamed of pigs, and after a few minutes' silence Tom entertained Mrs. Mulvaney with stories of the house in which she was to live.

"I wouldn't stay in that house over night for one thousand dollars!" he remarked.

"Land sake, why not?" asked the woman.

In low tones lest Cornelia Mary should overhear, Tom did his best to scare Mrs. Mulvaney. He told nothing but the truth, but he handled the truth in such a way Mrs. Mulvaney felt cold chills going up and down her back in spite of all the clothes she had on. At last she spoke.

"Now that's enough, young man," she said, "and if I ever catch you telling my young ones any of that stuff, I'll shake some sense into you. You'll be more rattled-headed than you are now, if I ever lay hands on you."

"Giddap," remarked Tom, astonished for once in his life.

If Heaven had opened to receive the Mulvaneys, they could scarcely have been more pleased than when the new home was reached.