Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

The Aimwell Stories.

JESSIE;
OR,
TRYING TO BE SOMEBODY.

BY

WALTER AIMWELL,

AUTHOR OF “MARCUS,” “WHISTLER,” “ELLA,” ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.

BOSTON:

GOULD AND LINCOLN,

59 WASHINGTON STREET.

NEW YORK: SHELDON AND COMPANY.

CINCINNATI: GEO. S. BLANCHARD.

1870.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by

GOULD AND LINCOLN,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

PREFACE.

While this series of books is designed to furnish a succession of pleasant and instructive lessons and recreations for boys and girls, each volume has also a specific aim, more or less prominently wrought into its woof. The special object of Jessie is to kindle in the hearts of the young, especially the children of misfortune and poverty, a pure and noble ambition, and to encourage them to strive for that “good name” whose price is far above rubies, and that “conscience void of offence” which is of still more inestimable value.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.
THE NEW HOME.
PAGE
The trunk—What made it so heavy—Jessie’s gold—The Hapley family—The separation—Jessie’s new position—Her mother’s departure—The Pages—Going to work—Ronald’s flag—A patriotic appeal—A job for Jessie—The flag-staff—Ronald’s shrewdness questioned—Some criticisms on the flag—Worth all it cost—Alterations proposed—An unexpected difficulty—How to make an American flag—The repairs completed—The flag hoisted—A surprise—Crying before breakfast—Two sober ones—Jessie in retirement—Traces of tears—Henry’s visit—Homesickness—A dory voyage across the ocean—What Marcus was thinking about—Celebrating Washington’s birth-day—Marcus explains his plan—An objection to a bonfire—The committee of arrangements—Preparations for the celebration—The pictures—Washington and his home—A busy time—The programme—The parlor and the audience—The exercises—The tableau—A scene not in the bill—Sound sleepers, [19]
CHAPTER II.
SOMETHING ABOUT DIARIES.
How Jessie happened to keep a journal—Advantages of the habit—The blank book—The title-page—origin of the motto—Abby Leonard—A cutting remark—Its effect—Jessie’s resolution—Divine aid sought—Abby conquered by kindness—The first record in the journal—Benny’s death—Specimen of a Diary in Dry Measure—One in Long Measure—One in Solid Measure—Which is best, [41]
CHAPTER III.
SNOW AND ICE.
Building a snow-house—A disagreement—The work goes on—Another dispute—Obstinacy—View of the snow-hut—Going to see the ice-boat—Angry words—Ronald’s early life—Esquimaux snow-houses—A traveller’s testimony—An ice-boat—Round Hill Pond—A lively scene—The coasters—Description of the ice-boat—sailing wrong end first—A western ice-boat—Invitation declined—The boat under sail—Going home—The snow-slide—A vast heap of snow—A narrow escape—Thoroughly alarmed—Ronald’s snow-hut, [57]
CHAPTER IV.
THE REFEREE CASE.
Henry missing—Oscar’s account of the falling out—Jessie incredulous—Henry’s defence—A reluctant admission—Jessie’s plan for settling the quarrel—Rights of partners—Henry obstinate—Another proposal—Referees—Henry’s reluctance—He yields—The award to be binding—Ronald’s version of the quarrel—Wherein he was to blame—He agrees to the referee plan—The referees chosen—The meeting—Henry’s arrival—His embarrassment—Ronald’s talkativeness—Fast skating—Subsiding into silence—Examination of the two parties—Ronald’s comments on the proceedings—Anticipating the decision—Making up—Summoned to the tribunal—The referees surprised—They take it coolly—Looking after the fees—Reading the award—The decision carried out—The gallery of literary portraits—Jessie’s taste for drawing—Twenty-four characters enigmatically expressed—The key, [71]
CHAPTER V.
A DAY AT SCHOOL.
Two new comers—The academy—The opening exercises—The sentence on the blackboard—The definition of wisdom—Knowledge brings promotion—Education a good investment—Cuffee and the calf—Charging for “the know how”—Building a house—The laborers—Masons and carpenters—The “boss”—The architect—Knowledge promotes a man in other ways—Jessie’s appointment as assistant—The monitorial desk—The dinner hour—Good riddance—The slow boy—A good time among the girls—Abby and her pickles—The cake—Bragging—The squint-eyed girl—Making fun of Abby—How she tried to make herself pale—Is it scandal to tell the truth?—Evil speaking—Jessie called to account—Lucy Grant—Strabismus, or squinting—A surgical operation—The slight put upon Lucy—Jessie dispels the clouds—Closing the afternoon session—Mr. Upton’s remarks—The evening hymn, [91]
CHAPTER VI.
SWEETS AND BITTERS.
The Home Wreath—Jessie’s doubts about the nature of scandal—Light from the dictionary—A note of inquiry—Henry missing—His appearance—The temple of peace abandoned—Henry’s explanation—His troubles—Mrs. Allen—Making husk mats—What Jessie said—How to be loved—Jessie’s entreaties—The promise—The sugar season—Ronald’s sugar enterprise—Tapping the trees—The sap—Sugar grown, not made—Boiling down the sap—Clarifying it—“Sugaring off”—The cakes—Going to a sugar camp—Who went, and who did not—Description and view of the camp—Appearance of the Home Wreath—Editorial reply to Jessie’s inquiry—The Bible on scandal—Writers on moral science—Scandal is the worst kind of robbery—Cases in which it is right to speak evil of another—Prevalence of scandal—A noble exception—A secret well kept—Oscar’s career, [110]
CHAPTER VII.
HOW TO BE HAPPY.
What Henry thought of his promise—The real origin of Henry’s troubles—Mrs. Allen’s rigid neatness—Scrubbing through the floor—Henry roughly touches her weak point—Grows reckless—The change in Mrs. Allen—The scolding—A forgotten duty—Dressing up—Henry’s altered bearing—His explanation about the wood—Attending school—Work and play—A decided improvement—An approving conscience—Disappointment—Voluntary mat-braiding—A welcome order—Another disappointment—How Henry bore it—Story of the tornado—A stage-coach blown over—Freaks of the wind—Firm buildings—A song—Learning it—Henry’s pictures—The top in rhyme—A story—An abrupt ending—Willie’s talk about sending Henry to the “Boy-Tamer”—A call from Jessie—Her gratification—Mrs. Allen’s return, [130]
CHAPTER VIII.
SABBATH LESSONS.
The miniature—Sad Associations—A life history—Melancholy thoughts—Going to church—The sermon—The universal burden—Laughing it away—Moping over it—Running away from it—The man who was haunted by a goblin—One only true remedy for sorrow—How to cast our burdens on the Lord—The Sabbath School—The lesson—Why prayer is a duty—God requires it—Our dependence upon Him—Not to pray is unnatural—Our need of forgiveness—The boy who was too old to pray—A talk with him—His great mistake—A ridiculous excuse—The climax of meanness—Conscience prompts us to pray—Prayer a natural and universal instinct—Prayer of infidels—Prayer brings blessings—Its happy influence on our hearts—Good men have always been praying men—Examples from history—Recapitulation—Jessie’s eighth argument for prayer—Evening devotions, [149]
CHAPTER IX.
RAINY-DAY DIVERSIONS.
The equinoctial storm—An argument postponed—Distribution of work—An afternoon of leisure—Nothing to do—Andrew Airpump and his comrades—An unceremonious check—Alliteration—Univocalic verses—Task verses—Thread-paper poetry—How to write it—A specimen—Cento verses—Pith-tumblers—The Grand Mufti—The sleepy Brahmin—Balancing a coin on a needle—The trick explained—Ronald’s experiment—The Moslem oracle—Its five responses—Kate’s cento poem—How she found the lines—Contents of the Wreath—Arithmetical puzzles and answers, [169]
CHAPTER X.
ALL FOOLS’ DAY.
The boys’ chamber—Early and late rising—Ronald’s trick—Otis enjoys a long nap—The clean plate—Suspicions allayed—More tricks—Imaginary chalk—The railroad whistle—Easter—Easter eggs—Trial of strength—Another trial—The soft egg—The pitched seat—Otis missed at school—Inquiries—Aunt Fanny’s discovery—Vexation—Otis at school—Interview with Ronald—A talk about April-fooling—Difference of opinion—A court proposed—A family custom—How the court managed business—The trial—The prosecuting Attorney’s speech—The complaint—The plea of “not guilty”—The first witness—Amusing cross-examination—Other witnesses—The prisoner’s speech—A question arises—The judge’s decision—The prisoner’s admission—His argument and appeal—The prosecuting attorney’s closing plea—An interruption—Can you tell a lie to a hen?—Conclusion of the argument—The charge—The verdict—The sentence—Its execution, [185]
CHAPTER XI.
SCHOLARS.
Good spelling—A spelling match—Choosing sides—Evils attending spelling matches—An incident—Jessie blamed for an act of kindness—Another incident—The last of choosing sides—Jessie’s rank in school—Disadvantages—Secret of her success—Good and poor memories—Abby’s memory—Lord Adolphus D’Orsay—The list of irregular verbs—Saying over lessons before sleep—A contrast—The good and the poor scholar—Concentrating the mind—Luther’s testimony—Anecdote of St. Bernard—Power of early culture and discipline—Why Jessie and Abby associated—Novel reading—Its effects on Abby—Objections to it—Jessie proof against the temptation, [209]
CHAPTER XII.
A FEW BUSINESS MATTERS.
Driving a bargain—Beating down the price—Jessie’s rule, in trading—Mrs. Page’s practice—How Jessie got her new dress so cheap—Shillings and pence—Was Jessie to blame?—Selling for less than cost—Motives for doing so—Meanness—Getting out of debt—An unexpected application of good advice—Ronald’s debt—The lost Reader—Plans frustrated—Dunning—An arrangement effected—The note of hand—Interest—The receipt—Negotiating the note—A good rule—Keeping account of expenses—Jessie’s poverty—Longings—Uncle Morrison—His proposal to adopt Jessie—Jessie’s perplexity—Her uncle’s tavern—His character—His wife—The decision—Surprise—Further proposals—Jessie firm—A wise choice, [222]
CHAPTER XIII.
THE NEW GAME.
Family portraits in the Home Wreath—A startling announcement—Portrait of the sociable contributor—Portrait of the high-minded contributor—Ronald’s literary enterprise—A new pleasure heralded—Directions for playing the game—Transformations—Literary patchwork—Literary puzzle—Peter Coddle’s Trip to New York—Setting out on the journey—Peter’s sudden return—State of excitement—Conjectures—Peter’s own story—His departure from home—A smash-up—The ruins—The railroad depot—Riding in the cars—Curious sights—Quizzed by a dandy—Returning the compliment—The dandy in a rage—A long nap—Unceremonious awaking—Peter in New York—Incidents in the depot—The music—Peter accosted by a stranger—Disinterested benevolence—The boarding-house—Private grief—The nice little room—Something to drink—The pictures—Queer feelings—The dream—The awaking—Unpleasant discoveries—Inquiries—Peter’s eyes opened—He is overwhelmed—A walk out—A free ticket for home—His safe arrival—Settling down for life—List of phrases to supply the blanks, [236]
CHAPTER XIV.
JUST OUT OF JAIL.
Sam’s sentence—Changes during his imprisonment—Unanswered letters—The note to Jessie—The meeting—Sam’s appearance—His refusal to see any one—Why he came to see Jessie—His selfish purpose thwarted—Jessie’s appeal—The promise—A call at Mr. Allen’s—An early morning walk—The package for Sam—Henry’s burden—A talk about Mrs. Allen—Henry informed of Sam’s visit—The graveyard—The two hillocks—Setting out the trees—Sam’s non-appearance—Disappointment, [260]
CHAPTER XV.
SHOW AND SUBSTANCE.
How Charlie Doane made money—Maple sugar—Picking greens—Learning to be a miser—Mr. Doane and the widow’s cow—Free remarks—Marcus justifies himself—Ronald wants a new-fashioned cap—Oscar unburdens his mind—What the girls talk about—Jessie’s defence—Oscar renews the assault—Kate enters the ring—Her explanation—Her good nature for once overpowered—Oscar beats a retreat—Ronald and Otis come to the rescue—A telling shot from Kate—The debate arrested—Mrs. Page awards justice impartially—Evils and folly of thinking too much of dress—The fault not quite universal—Oscar takes back a portion of his charge—Aunt Fanny’s testimony—Little souls—A dwarfed mind—Testimony of foreign travellers—A good rule about dress—An inspired command—Failure of Abby’s father—Telegraph despatch—Free comments—Sympathy—Abby at school—An unexpected placidity, and a sudden explosion—First effect of the intelligence upon Abby—A secret struggle—Shutting herself out from sympathy—One Friend in the time of need—Lessons and consolations—How Abby received Jessie’s kind offices, [271]
CHAPTER XVI.
GETTING UP IN THE WORLD.
Reviewing studies—The scholar’s countersign—Step by step—How men become eminent—The idea, if not the language—Porson’s testimony—A French grenadier on the top of the pyramid—A lesson from a picture—What man has done, man may do—Kate’s promotion—Why Ronald failed—Better late than never—The Grade of Honor—A substitute for prizes—The two honorary grades—Ceremony of admission to the Grade of Fidelity—Popularity of the Grade—Exclusion from it—Difficulty of getting into the Grade of Honor—Admission ceremonies—Privileges of members—Abby called home, [286]
CHAPTER XVII.
TIDINGS.
Unpleasant news—Sam injured in a fight—Anxiety—The letter of inquiry—The reply—Visit to Sam—His injuries—His account of the fight—Mr. Preston’s kindness—Oscar’s proposed visit home—Jerry Preston’s return from sea—A present from Ralph to Ronald—Jessie writes to Sam—Oscar and Jerry—Their relations to one another—Capt. Page—Possibility of his survival—Ronald’s present—Cage and bird—Principle on which the toy is constructed—Other applications of the principle—Oscar’s trip to Boston—An unexpected pleasure, [301]
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE SURPRISE PARTY.
Exhibition day—Jessie invited out to tea—The return home—A surprise—The academy party—The collation—Marcus makes a speech—The box—Its contents—The nest of boxes, and their mottoes—Jessie’s curiosity excited—The letter—The portemonnaie and its contents—A new surprise—Jessie’s acknowledgment—The Hymn—Conclusion, [310]

Illustrations.

Portrait of Jessie,[FRONTISPIECE]
Vignette,[TITLE PAGE]
Washington and his Home,[36]
The Snow-House,[59]
Esquimaux Snow-Huts,[62]
Gallery of Literary Portraits (twenty-four figures),[89], [90]
Sugar Boiling,[124]
The Miniature,[149]
Grand Mufti and Sleepy Brahmin (two figures),[176]
The Balanced Coin,[177]
Mild Punishment,[208]
Portrait of the Sociable Contributor,[237]
Portrait of the High-Minded Contributor,[238]
The Interview,[262]
Tip-top,[290]
How to Cage a Bird,[307]
The Picture on the Box,[314]

JESSIE.

CHAPTER I.
THE NEW HOME.

It was on a dull and cold morning in February, that Jessie Hapley, a girl between fourteen and fifteen years old, stood before a window in the farm-house of Mrs. Page, watching a couple of boys who were drawing a sled on which was lashed a trunk. The sled dragged heavily through the new-fallen snow, and when yet some distance off, the cord by which it was drawn suddenly snapped asunder. After a few moments’ delay, the boys took a position behind their load, and pushed it along to its destination, without meeting with any further obstacles.

“Where will you have it, Jessie—up in your chamber?” inquired the oldest boy, as he and his companion landed the trunk in the entry.

“Yes, you may carry it up stairs, if you please,” replied Jessie.

“I hope you have got something good in that trunk, Jessie,—it’s heavy enough, if that’s all,” said the younger boy, when they came down from the chamber.

“Is it heavy?” inquired Jessie. “Well, I don’t wonder—it contains all my gold, except this pin and ring, and you know gold is heavy.”

“Is that it?” continued the boy, whose name was Ronald. “I didn’t know but you had filled it with stones, to make us think you had got something valuable. They say rogues play that game sometimes, when they put up at hotels. But about that gold; how much is there of it?”

“Well, I can’t tell you exactly how much there is, but I will show it to you some time, if you wish to see it,” replied Jessie.

“Is it visible to the naked eye?” inquired the boy, with a roguish look.

“Of course it is,” replied Jessie. “You can see it plain enough, but that is the best you can say about it.”

This was an enigma which Ronald could not solve, and it was not until Jessie exhibited to him her portion of the precious metal, displayed upon the covers and edges of several books, that he comprehended the mystery.

The fact was, whatever else might have been Jessie’s possessions, at this time, she was far from being rich in gold and silver, or any of the paper representatives of those metals. Within a period of about two months, a fearful train of calamities had overwhelmed the family to which she belonged. The oldest son, Samuel, a youth of sixteen, had committed a burglary in a neighboring town, for which he was now serving a sentence in prison. The youngest child, an interesting and lovely boy of nine, had sickened and died, at the beginning of the year. The father, who for many years had been a victim of intemperate habits, sought to drown his sorrows by still deeper draughts at the fountain of woe and death, and came to a dreadful end, a few weeks after his boy was laid in his frozen grave. Mr. Hapley’s farm and other property, on which there were heavy mortgages, were taken to pay his debts, and the widow and children were left homeless and moneyless.[[1]]

[1]. These events are more fully related in the fifth volume of this series, entitled, “Marcus; or the Boy-Tamer.”

Jessie, and her brother Henry, a lad of thirteen, were the only children now living with their mother. A home was soon found for Henry, in the village, where he was to work for his board and clothes. Mrs. Hapley, whose health was poor, was invited to return to the home of her childhood, in another town, where her parents were still living. Jessie was at that time attending the village academy, with a view of fitting herself for the profession of teaching. With no slight struggle, she relinquished this cherished purpose of her heart, and, as the readiest way of supporting herself and aiding her mother, volunteered to work in a factory. But in this hour of extremity, a new door was opened to her. Mrs. Page and her family, who were next neighbors to the Hapleys, were so much interested in the welfare of Jessie, that they offered her a home for a season, on conditions that she could not well refuse. Her services in the family were to be considered an equivalent for her board, but she was to have the privilege of attending the academy. Her mother was to provide her with clothes, and there was a prospect that she would be able to offset her tuition bills, by rendering some assistance to the lower classes. It was thought that by this arrangement she would be enabled to enter upon her chosen work in less than a year.

On the morning with which our story opens, Mrs. Hapley had bidden her daughter farewell, and started for the home of her parents. It was not without a strange sinking of heart, and eyes blurred with tears, that Jessie took leave of her mother and her old home; but nothing of this was visible on her countenance, now. She was apparently as calm and cheerful as any of those around her.

The family of which Jessie had now become an inmate, comprised the following named persons: Mrs. Page, who was the widow of a sea-captain; her sister, Miss Fanny Lee, usually called Aunt Fanny; Marcus, Mrs. Page’s son, a young man in his nineteenth year, who had just served his first term as assistant teacher in the academy, of which he was a graduate; Ronald, an adopted son of Mrs. Page, about twelve years old; and Oscar Preston, a nephew of Mrs. Page, in his sixteenth year, who came to live with the family the previous fall. They lived upon a small farm, in one of the pleasant hill towns of Vermont, which we shall call Highburg.

Jessie at once began to busy herself with various household duties, taking hold almost as handily as though she had been at home. Knowing that constant occupation is a great security against desponding thoughts, Mrs. Page was careful to provide her with something to employ her time. It was “washing day,” and of course there was no lack of work. In the course of the forenoon, Ronald came in, with his arms full of rope and bunting, and exclaimed:

“There, mother, I’ve got my flag, at last. But just see how dirty it is. Can’t you wash it, right off, so I can have it all bright and clean for to-morrow?”

“Our washing is done, and on the line, and the suds are thrown away; so you had better let it be till next Monday,” replied Mrs. Page.

“But who wants to hang up such a dirty thing as that on Washington’s birth-day?” continued Ronald. “We’ve got our staff almost ready, and we want to raise our flag to-morrow morning; but it’s all soiled, and dingy—and here’s a big rip in it, too. Why, mother, haven’t you got any patriotism at all? I should think you’d consider it an honor to wash the stains out of your country’s flag.”

Mrs. Page smiled at this sally, but did not accede to Ronald’s request.

“Couldn’t I wash it out for him, Mrs. Page?” inquired Jessie.

“You can, if you choose to,” was the reply.

“That’s right, Jessie—you ought to have three cheers for your patriotism, and I’ll give ’em to you to-morrow, when I hoist the flag,” said Ronald, as Jessie commenced preparations for the work.

Ronald detached the flag from the rope, and then went out to the barn to see how Oscar was getting on with the pole. He found it nearly ready for its place, although only the day before it was a young tree in the forest. As it was to be fastened to the gable of the barn, it was not very large, but was tall, straight, and rounded in a smooth and uniform manner. Oscar was now inserting into the top of it a small pulley or grooved wheel for the line to run over. Ronald, meanwhile, went to work upon the cap that was to surmount the whole, which he made out of a wooden knob that belonged to an old bureau.

Before they had finished the staff, Jessie had washed the flag, and hung it upon the line. It was much improved in appearance. Soon after Marcus came along, and having examined the flag a minute or two, he entered the barn, saying:

“Ronald, I don’t think you made much of a bargain when you bought that flag.”

“You don’t? Why, what is the matter with it?” inquired Ronald.

“Oh, it’s an old thing, and it wasn’t made properly in the first place, either,” replied Marcus.

“I don’t care, so long as it’s a flag,” said Ronald. “I’ll get that torn place mended, and then I guess it will do.”

“I think it is altogether too large for your staff,” continued Marcus.

“I don’t think so,” replied Ronald.

“Besides, it strikes me it is not in good proportion,” added Marcus.

“I don’t care for that,” replied Ronald.

“And it has got only twenty-nine stars, when there ought to be thirty-two,”[[2]] continued Marcus.

[2]. Thirty-two is the number at the time this is written, but there is a prospect of an early increase of our family of States, which happy event will of course add to the ever-enlarging galaxy of stars on our national banner.

“Well, nobody would have noticed that if you hadn’t told us,” added Ronald, somewhat vexed at these free criticisms of his flag.

“One star for every State in the Union, is the rule—I shouldn’t suppose such a patriotic boy as you would ignore three of the States in the confederacy,” added Marcus.

Ronald felt the force of these criticisms more than he was willing to admit. The purchase of the flag was his own individual enterprise. He gave in exchange for it sundry articles of personal property, and flattered himself that he had made a good trade. And so, in fact, he had, for flags cost more than Marcus imagined, and Ronald’s, though somewhat dilapidated, was worth all that he gave for it. But Ronald did not feel quite at ease about his bargain, after what Marcus had said. He soon after had a conference with Jessie, and the result was apparent in the evening, when that young lady undertook the task of making the flag over new.

Jessie was somewhat at a loss where to begin upon the novel job she had undertaken, and neither Ronald nor any of the family could give her much light upon the subject. Marcus soon came in, however, and his advice was sought.

“What do you propose to do with it?” was his first inquiry.

“I want to make it smaller, for one thing—you said it was too large,” replied Ronald.

“Well,” said Marcus, surveying the flag quite calmly, as it lay spread out upon the floor, “I’m afraid Jessie wont get much sleep to-night, if you intend to have it ready to hoist in the morning. She will have to rip the stripes apart, and make them all narrower; and then the blue field and the stars will be too large, and they must all be altered; but I don’t see exactly how that is to be done, for you can’t very well make the holes for the stars any smaller.”

“But why can’t we take off one or two stripes, and cut a piece off the length, and let it go so?” inquired Jessie.

“There is one slight objection to that,—it wouldn’t be an American flag,” replied Marcus.

“Well, I don’t pretend to know much about the science of flags,” said Jessie, smiling.

“You must have just thirteen stripes and thirty-two stars; didn’t you know that?” inquired Ronald.

“The outside stripes must be red,” continued Marcus. “That gives us seven red and six white stripes. The field for the stars should be square, and of just the width of the first seven stripes.”

“This is right, then, as it is, and I don’t see how we can make it any smaller without spoiling it,” said Jessie.

“I think it will bear shortening a little,” added Marcus, “and that will make it look smaller, and give it better proportions, too. It should be just one-half longer than it is broad. For instance, if it is four feet broad, it should be six feet long. Let us measure it, and see how it is.”

The flag was found to be too long, as Marcus suspected. So Jessie cut off the superfluous part, mended the rents, added three new stars to the field, and it was pronounced fit for service. Before sunrise, the next morning, it was run up to the top of the staff on the barn, amid the shouts of the boys. Soon after, the family were startled by a loud report from behind the barn. All ran to ascertain the cause, and it was found to proceed from a small cannon which Ronald had procured, in order to add eclat (which in this case means noise) to his celebration of Washington’s birth-day. He had kept this little secret entirely to himself, intending to surprise the family with this new proof of his patriotism. But the surprise did not prove quite so pleasant as he anticipated; for Marcus quickly took possession of the cannon and ammunition, and the young patriot found himself so severely condemned by all the family for playing with powder without leave, that he burst into tears, and betook himself for a while to the uncensuring society of the cows in the barn. So the bright sun of his hopes went into a cloud before breakfast!

It was noticed by all that Jessie did not eat much at the table that morning, and she did not appear to be in her usual good spirits. Ronald, too, was uncommonly sober, and altogether it did not seem much like a holiday. The flag, however, which was visible for a considerable distance, soon drew together several of the boys and girls of the neighborhood, and Ronald’s lengthened countenance gradually assumed its wonted form. Among the visitors was Henry, Jessie’s brother, who, after a while, inquired for his sister. Ronald went in search of her, but no one could tell him where she was. At length, having looked everywhere else, he ran up stairs, and thoughtlessly opened her chamber door, without asking permission. Jessie was there, and as the door opened, she closed a book that she held, with a startled look, and Ronald saw very plainly that she had been weeping, although she quickly turned her face away. Frightened at the impropriety of which he had been guilty, in thus intruding upon her privacy, he made a ludicrous attempt at apology.

“I—I didn’t know you were here,” he said; “but I’ve been hunting for you all over the house. Henry is down stairs, and wants to see you.”

“You may ask him to come up here,” replied Jessie, without turning her face towards Ronald.

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.

The committee at once began to discuss the order of arrangements, and the leading features of the celebration were soon decided upon. The work of preparation was then divided among the committee, a particular line of duties being assigned to each member. As the front parlor, usually called “the best room,” was the largest apartment, it was selected as the place of entertainment, and Jessie at once commenced preparing it for the occasion. She removed to this room an engraved portrait of Washington, which hung in one of the chambers, and then despatched Ronald to the woods for some evergreens, with which to adorn its old black frame. She also found an old engraving of the Washington mansion at Mount Vernon, among a large collection of prints in Miss Lee’s closet, which she had liberty to overhaul. When Ronald returned, she made a pretty frame of evergreen for this, and hung it by the side of the portrait. A small work table, intended to serve as the orator’s desk, was placed directly in front of these pictures, so that one would appear on either side of him. The wall back of the table was further ornamented by a large star in evergreen, and several wreaths and festoons were displayed in other parts of the room.

Jessie seemed in better spirits at noon, and talked with much interest of the anticipated celebration. The committee continued their labors in the afternoon, and apparently had about as much on their hands as they could conveniently manage. This was especially true of Ronald, who did not seem content to do less than three or four things at once. Before sunset, however, the business was finished; and when Marcus came home, he found on his desk the following paper, in the handwriting of Jessie, with the exception of one line—the last—which was evidently an interpolation by Ronald:

PROGRAMME

FOR THE

CELEBRATION OF WASHINGTON’S BIRTH-DAY.

1. Music—“Washington’s Grand March”—piano-forte. 2. Reading of a sketch of Washington’s Life, by Jessie Hapley. 3. Music—“Hail Columbia”—sung by the Company. 4. Webster’s Oration on Washington, read by Mr. Marcus Page. 5. Music—“My country, ’tis of thee”—sung by the company. 6. Tableau. 7. Music—“Yankee Doodle”—piano-fort. 8. Going Home with the Girls.

Early in the evening the company assembled, embracing eight or ten lads and misses from the neighborhood, among whom was Henry Hapley. The old parlor never looked more beautiful, with its generous wood-fire blazing upon the hearth, its extra display of lamps disposed around the room, its decorations in evergreen and bunting, (for Ronald’s flag was hauled down at sunset, and now figured as drapery around the “orator’s desk,”) and its rows of smiling faces duly arranged in audience fashion. The programme was carried out in a style that gave the utmost satisfaction. One of the guests, a young lady, furnished the instrumental portion of the music, while all joined in the singing. By way of refreshing the memories of the audience, Jessie read from a book a brief summary of the leading events in Washington’s life, concluding by reading a poem on the same subject, from a popular English authoress, (Miss Eliza Cook,) commencing,

“Land of the west! though passing brief

The record of thine age,

Thou hast a name that darkens all

On history’s wide page!”

The oration, which was well delivered by Marcus, consisted of the principal portion of Webster’s eloquent address on the centennial anniversary of the birth-day of Washington. The tableau was exhibited in an adjoining room, the door being opened to the “audience,” when the figure was arranged. It was a scene that had been enacted at a Christmas party in which most of the people of the town participated, two months previous. The figure represented was “Liberty,” which was personated by a beautiful girl, arrayed in flowing antique drapery, holding with one hand a staff, on the top of which hung a liberty cap, and with the other hand supporting a shield bearing the United States arms. As the company were crowded around the door,—which they were not allowed to pass,—gazing at the tableau, Rover, a handsome spaniel, who had been sleeping all the evening under a table in the room devoted to “Liberty,” now came forth to see what the stir was all about. At a sly signal from his young master, Ronald, he saluted the goddess with one of his loudest barks, at which everybody laughed except the statue-like figure; and it is not improbable that she moved the muscles of her face a trifle, for Rover seemed suddenly to recognize her and, wagging his shaggy tail, he lay down by her side, close to the shield, as much as to say,—

“Ah, yes, I understand it, now. This is Miss Liberty, and I am bound to be her protector and defender.”

This unexpected addition to the tableau was received with a shout that upset the gravity even of Liberty herself, and she joined in the laugh, while the piano-forte struck up “Yankee Doodle” in the liveliest style, and the guests began to hunt up their hoods and caps, in anticipation of the grand finale smuggled into the programme by Ronald, who, by the way, in consideration of his tender years, was excused from any participation in that performance.

So ended the memorable twenty-second. There were half a dozen sound sleepers in the house, that night, but dull Care and the dolorous Blues and Dumps could find no chance to lodge there!

CHAPTER II.
SOMETHING ABOUT DIARIES.

Jessie had one secret that she preserved very carefully from even her most intimate friends. She kept a “journal,” or daily record of her life. Not that she was ashamed to have this known, but regarding it as a strictly private matter, she preferred to keep it entirely to herself. She was induced to commence keeping a journal by some remarks made by Mr. Upton, the preceptor of the academy, to his older scholars, near the close of the previous year. He recommended the practice of journalizing very highly, and mentioned quite a number of benefits that were usually derived from it, by the young, the chief of which were these:

1. It aids in acquiring an improved and distinctive handwriting.

2. It promotes ease and rapidity of composition.

3. It assists the young to acquire and retain knowledge.

4. It cultivates habits of thought and observation.

5. It encourages habits of system and method.

6. It is often of great value in after life, when we wish to recall facts, events, impressions, etc., of earlier years.

7. As a history of one’s life, it must always possess great interest.

Jessie at once procured a small blank book, determined to put the advice in practice at the beginning of the year. Supposing that every book ought to have a title-page, she set apart the first ruled page of her journal for this purpose, and at sundry odd moments inscribed upon it, in the handsomest characters she could make, a title expressive of its object. Jessie was tolerably expert with the pen, and her best efforts with this implement were by no means devoid of merit. But you must not suppose that they were chiefly remarkable for the fantastic shapes of the letters, or elaborate shadings, or fanciful and intricate scrawls, and other frippery. Her taste was rather for the chaste, graceful and simple, than for the grotesque and the tawdry. To illustrate this, I will show you the title-page of her Journal, or rather a fac simile of it, reduced in size, if the printer can imitate it with his types. Here it is:

I suppose the motto which Jessie inscribed upon her title-page will strike some minds as being both too ambitious and too indefinite, to say nothing of its inelegance. To her, however, it had a history and a significance that rendered it quite appropriate for the place. Its history was as follows. There was a girl attending the academy, named Abby Leonard, who came from a distant city, and whose parents were reputed to be very rich. She was fifteen years old, had more and better dresses than any other girl in town, and prided herself on her superior gentility and refinement. She was a sad dunce, it is true, but her ample stock of self-esteem did not seem to suffer in the least from that circumstance, and in spite of it she contrived to wield a pretty potent influence over the other girls of the academy. When Jessie became a pupil, and it was whispered from one to another that she was a scholar of unusual promise, Abby contemptuously remarked:

“Oh, it’s that drunken Hapley’s daughter, isn’t it? I wonder who pays the bills? Well, I don’t think I shall associate with such folks, if they do feel smart. If there’s anything I despise, it’s to see a poor girl all the time trying to be somebody.”

This cruel remark was quickly reported to Jessie, by some well-meaning but inconsiderate friend. Foolish as it was, it entered her sensitive heart like an arrow, and for days and nights she tried in vain to dislodge the poisoned shaft. But at length she was fortunate enough to find a complete antidote for the envenomed wound. She had studied until late in the evening, and on retiring, her wakeful thoughts refused to be composed, and the old ogre which had haunted her of late, returned to torment her. Then she resolutely and calmly said to herself:

“I will endure this no longer. Henceforth I will ‘try to be somebody,’ if I never have tried before; not in the foolish sense that Abby Leonard meant, but in a higher and nobler one. Her taunt shall furnish me with a motto and a spur. I will show to her and all my acquaintances that I have no ambition to become a fine lady, or to affect gentility, or to pass for what I am not. I will show to them that even a poor girl may aspire to something better than these. The ‘somebody’ that I try to be, shall possess a pure heart and a spotless character. She shall, if possible, reach an honorable, independent and useful position. She shall make her influence felt in the world for good. She shall win the love and respect of those who know her. The poor, the suffering and the erring shall always find in her a friend. But whether she succeeds in all these things or not, her life shall be strictly governed by christian principles, and she shall always patiently submit to the will of God;” and Jessie concluded her soliloquy with a silent prayer that no unworthy motive might mingle with the purpose she had formed, and that she might be enabled to adhere to her resolution through life.

From that hour, “Try to be somebody” was Jessie’s motto. The sting was at once withdrawn from her wounded spirit, and the ogre was suddenly transformed into an angel of light. The weeks of the academical term flew swiftly by, but ere half of them had sped, the aristocratic Miss Leonard manifested not only a willingness but a desire to associate with “that drunken Hapley’s daughter,” little suspecting that her thoughtless and cruel remark on the first day of the term had ever reached the ears of Jessie.

The first record Jessie was called to make in her journal was a very sad one. On the afternoon of New-Year’s day, her youngest brother, Benjamin, fell asleep in the arms of his mother, never more to awake in this world, until the dead shall arise from their graves. For a day or two, all thoughts of the journal vanished from her mind; but when the first outburst of grief was past, she found a melancholy satisfaction in recording the incidents of Benny’s sickness and death, and from that time she continued her daily entries without intermission.

In the remarks which Mr. Upton made to his scholars on keeping journals, he said there were several ways of doing this. The diaries of some people, he said, were merely a very brief and dry record of events. Supposing one of his scholars to keep a diary after this style, he said something like the following would be a fair specimen of its pages:

SPECIMEN OF A DIARY—IN DRY MEASURE

“Monday, Dec. 20.—Cloudy and cold. Attended academy all day. Studied in the evening.

“Tuesday, Dec. 21.—Pleasant, but very cold. Attended the academy, as usual. Went over to Sarah Cobb’s and spent the evening.

“Wednesday, Dec. 22.—It snowed a little in the forenoon. I studied an hour in the morning, and then went to school. In the afternoon pa carried us to ride. Got a lesson in the evening, and then read till bed-time.”

Mr. Upton, who was in a rather funny mood, said this might be called a diary in dry measure. Another method of keeping a journal he illustrated somewhat after this fashion, denominating it a

SPECIMEN OF A DIARY—IN LONG MEASURE.

“Monday, Dec. 20.—The weather is really dismal. The sun has not shown himself to-day, and it is so cold it is of no use to try to keep warm. I meant to have had an hour for study in the morning, but it was so cloudy and dark that I over-slept myself and lost it. It seems as if the mornings were always cloudy, when the days are shortest. I shall be thankful when they begin to lengthen. How many precious hours I waste abed, when the days are so short! I attended the academy morning and afternoon, and got through tolerably well with all the recitations, though I thought I should break down in grammar. I do wish I could take more interest in grammar, but I don’t think I shall ever like it. I suppose it is a necessary study, but I think it is the dryest and hardest one we have. I wore my new plaid winter dress to school, to-day, for the first time. The girls all think it is pretty, and so do I. I fixed my hair in a new way, this morning, which I think becomes me much better than the old way though John laughed at it until he got me almost angry. I wonder that father will let that boy plague me so. After tea I spent two hours in trying to learn my history lesson, but did not get it perfectly, after all. I think it is too bad to give us such long lessons. Two pages and a half, full of hard names, is enough to try anybody’s patience. I got sleepy over it, and went to bed at nine o’clock.

“Tuesday, Dec. 21.—We have had a pleasant day, at last, but such a cold one! I ought to have got up early, and looked over my history lesson again, but it was so awful cold I dreaded to, and so I laid abed till ma called me to breakfast. Somehow, all my good early-rising resolutions vanish, these cold mornings. I had a terrible time getting to school, and for a while I really thought I had frozen my nose. It actually felt stiff. The academy was so cold, that Mr. Upton let those of us who sit back come forward and gather around the stove to warm ourselves. Then he made all the scholars form a procession, and march around the room half a dozen times, in double quick time, to quicken our blood. I missed once in history, just as I expected, but was marked perfect in all the other recitations. I went over to Sarah Cobb’s and spent the evening. She sent for me to come, as she was going to be alone. We sewed, and talked, and had a good time; but we got terribly frightened, just before the folks got back. We thought we heard steps around the house, for two or three minutes. We listened, and kept hearing strange noises, and knew there must be a man around, but we wondered why he did not knock at the door, if he had come with good intentions. Pretty soon he did knock, sure enough, and such a knock! We thought he was banging at the door with a club. Sarah was frightened out of her wits, and declared she would not go to the door, and so did I. At last she went into the entry, and mustered courage enough to say, ‘Who’s there?’ Nobody answered, but immediately after there were three tremendous raps, louder than the first. Sarah says she thought the door would be broken down the next time, and so she opened it, when behold, there stood old Deacon Melcher, who had come to borrow some spearmint for his wife! The old gentleman is quite infirm, and that is the reason he was so long in getting to the door, after we first heard him; and he is so deaf, that I suppose he does not know how loud he knocks at people’s doors with his big cane. But I would not go through such a fright again for a good deal. Mr. Cobb soon returned, and brought me home in his sleigh.

“Wednesday, Dec. 22.—More snow! Oh, dear, I wish it would never snow any more—I am tired of the sight of it. Two or three inches fell this forenoon, and then the sun came out bright. As I was away last evening, I had to get up this morning, and study my geography lesson. Mr. Upton says he wishes us to study at least two hours every day, out of school, and I should think he meant we should, by the long lessons he gives us. I only half got my lesson, before it was time to go to school; but I made out to finish it, before we were called to recite. I was marked perfect in all my lessons, to-day. There is real satisfaction, after all, in being able to give a perfect recitation, if it does cost some labor. I think I have improved some this term, in this respect. As father says I am not going to school after this winter, I must make the best of my advantages, while they last. How thankful I ought to be for them! After dinner, father tackled up Bessy, and took mother, John and me in the sleigh, and carried us to ride. We went about two miles beyond Mr. Clarkson’s mill, on the Dodgeville road, to where Mr. Rogers lives. Father had some business there, but Mr. Rogers was away, and so he did not accomplish anything. We saw Mrs. Rogers’s baby. It is as fat as butter, and is a real cunning little thing; but it was not dressed neatly, at all. It is strange how little taste some people have. Father says looks are of no consequence, if the child is only kept comfortable, but I don’t believe he really means it. He likes to be on the opposition, and get me into an argument. We had a real nice ride, but it was very cold coming home. I do wish I could have a good warm pair of fur mittens—I think I really need them. Father says I might make them myself, but I am sure I never could do it. It took all of two hours to get my philosophy lesson in the evening. Then I had an hour to read the Advertiser. As usual, it was half filled up with politics. I don’t see why they want to publish such dry stuff. But I found two or three good things in it, and a long list of articles advertised for Christmas and New Year’s gifts. How I should like to take my pick from them!”

“There is still another method of keeping a journal,” said Mr. Upton, “which, by way of distinction from the others, we may call a diary in solid measure. I will give you an illustration of it, and we will suppose the young lady to pass through the same scenes that the others record:”

SPECIMEN OF A DIARY—IN SOLID MEASURE.

“Monday, Dec. 20.—Cold and cloudy. I intended to study an hour before going to school, but as usual, these short mornings, I over-slept myself. However, I got through my recitations tolerably well. I got one or two new ideas on grammar, to-day. Mr. Upton says ‘had rather’ is a very vulgar expression, although it is often used by people who ought to know better. ‘I had rather go’—had go—what tense is that? ‘I would rather go,’ is the correct phrase. ‘Had better,’ he says, is also bad grammar. He says he sometimes hears the girls say such a dress or bonnet is ‘tasty,’ but there is no such word—we should say tasteful. I studied my history lesson two hours in the evening, but did not quite master it. I was tired and sleepy, and I am afraid I did not apply my mind very closely to it.

“Tuesday, Dec. 21.—Pleasant, but the coldest day yet, this winter. Thermometer 3° below zero, at sunrise. The almanac says ‘winter commences’ to-day, and I should think it did, in good earnest. This is the shortest day of the year, the sun having reached its greatest southern declination. Mr. Upton explained it to us, this morning. I was perfect in all my recitations except history, in which I missed one question. It is strange how we go on mispronouncing words for a long time, without discovering our error. Our history lesson to-day had a good deal to say about magna charta, the great charter of liberty which the English barons compelled King John to sign; and it turned out that only two in the class knew how to pronounce charta. I always supposed the ch should be pronounced as in chart, but it seems they have the sound of k. Distich is another word that I never knew how to pronounce until to-day. It occurred in our reading lesson, this morning, and I pronounced the ch as in stitch; but Mr. Upton corrected me, and told me to call it distick. I could not believe he was right, until I looked into the large dictionary. I wish I could learn as easily as some of the scholars do. While we were reciting history, several of us missed, and Mr. Upton asked us if we had studied two hours out of school, according to the rule. By-and-by he came to Jerry Hall, who recited so well that Mr. Upton said, ‘There’s a boy that has studied his two hours, I am very certain.’ ‘No, sir, I didn’t,’ said Jerry, ‘I only read it over twice; that’s all that I ever study my history lessons.’ And yet I spent two hours over it, and did not learn it perfectly, even then. I stayed with Sarah Cobb in the evening, as she was alone. When the family got back, Mr. C. brought me home in his sleigh.

“Wednesday, Dec. 22.—A little more snow fell in the forenoon, but the afternoon was pleasant. I got up early and studied an hour, before school-time. My recitations were all perfect. After dinner, father took us all to ride. We went as far as Mr. Rogers’s house, on the Dodgeville road. We stopped there, and warmed ourselves, and on the whole, had a pleasant time. I noticed that the snow-birds were very plenty and lively, this afternoon. Father says that is a sign of a storm. These birds are not the same as the little chipping sparrows that are around here in summer. I always supposed they were the same, but father says it is a mistake. He says the snow-birds go to the Arctic regions in the spring, and breed, and do not come back again till winter. I studied a philosophy lesson, in the evening, about two Lours, and then read the ‘Advertiser’ till bed-time.”

After giving these illustrations of the different methods of journalizing, Mr. Upton said any one of them was better than no diary, but there was a marked difference in their value. No. 1, he said, was dry, bare, and uninteresting—a mere skeleton; useful, it is true, but not half so useful as it might be. No. 2 was too wordy, and recorded too many trivial things, and dealt too much in moral reflections that seemed to be lugged in for effect. It was quite a tax on one’s time and patience to keep such a journal, and perseverance in so serious an undertaking was almost too much to expect. No. 3 came nearer to the true idea of a diary, which should be a register of daily observations as well as occurrences—a record of ideas as well as events. This was the system, “solid measure,” which he recommended; and it was this that Jessie took as her model, when she began the experiment of keeping a journal.

CHAPTER III.
SNOW AND ICE.

One day Ronald and Henry, Jessie’s brother, took it into their heads to build a large snow-house in the yard back of the house. It was to be capacious enough to receive half a dozen boys at once, and so high as to admit of their standing upright within it. There was plenty of snow all around, and by working diligently with their shovels about an hour, they accumulated a pretty large heap. They had beat it down hard with their shovels, as they piled it up, so that it was quite solid. But after working harmoniously together, all this time, some differences of opinion at length began to arise between the two builders. Henry wanted to pile on more snow, and make the house larger. Ronald insisted that it was large enough, now. Henry, who was taller than Ronald, declared that he should not be able to stand up straight in it. Ronald told him not to be alarmed about that, for in digging out the inside, he meant to go clean down to the ground, which would make the hut nearly two feet higher than it appeared to be.

So Ronald carried his point, and Henry yielded somewhat reluctantly. They worked together again for a while, though not quite so merrily as before, smoothing and rounding off the pile into a regular shape. But when this was completed, they again began to dispute. Not that either of them was of a quarrelsome disposition, but there was an honest difference of opinion between them, and, as will sometimes happen in such cases, each was more ready to argue his own side than to listen to the other. Henry was for throwing a quantity of water upon the heap, by which means the outside would be turned into solid ice, as the water froze. He proposed to do this now, and to leave the work of excavation until another day. But Ronald thought the heap was compact and solid enough as it was, and it would only be throwing away labor to put water upon it. He determined to dig it out at once; and having marked a place for the door, he forthwith began to hollow out the hut, without further argument. Henry stood leaning upon his shovel, apparently not much pleased with the independent spirit displayed by Ronald; but he said little, and offered no further assistance.

Such was the position of affairs, when footsteps were heard on the other side of the fence, and Ronald, looking over, spied Jessie, who had evidently set out for a walk.

“Where are you going, Jessie?” he inquired.

“Down to the pond, to see the ice-boat,” replied Jessie.

“Hold on a minute and I’ll go, too,” said Ronald, throwing down his shovel, and brushing the snow from his clothes.

“That’s right—I should like company,” replied Jessie. “Wont you come, too, Henry?”

“I can’t—it’s about time for me to go home,” replied Henry.

“Well, don’t you touch my snow-house, while I’m gone, will you?” interposed Ronald.

“Your snow-house, I should think!” retorted Henry, in a sneering tone.

“Yes, it is mine, for it’s on mother’s land, and you’ve no right to come into the yard, if I tell you not to,” replied Ronald.

“It’s your mother’s land, is it? I thought she died in the poor-house, years ago,” responded Henry, with a bitter look that did not seem to sit at all naturally upon that open, good-natured face.

“Well, you touch it if you dare, that’s all,” replied Ronald, with an angry look; and leaping over the fence, he ran to overtake Jessie, who had walked on, and had heard none of this ill-natured conversation.

To explain Henry’s ungenerous fling about Ronald’s mother, it should be mentioned that the parents of that boy were poor French Canadian emigrants, who were suddenly carried off by a fever, in Highburg, leaving their only child, Ronald, at the age of eight years, homeless and friendless. He was a singularly bright and lively boy, and Marcus Page took such a fancy to him, that he induced his mother to adopt the orphan. Never having received much training, Ronald had many wild and strange ways, and had fallen into some bad habits, though his disposition was naturally affectionate, kind-hearted and docile. Marcus, from the first, exerted a great influence over him, acting the part of teacher and father to him; and from his success in making a good boy of this little semi-savage, he earned the name of “the Boy-Tamer.”

Ronald’s anger was somewhat cooled off, by the time he overtook Jessie, although he was not yet in a very pleasant mood. He looked back several times, to see what Henry was about, but the latter stood leaning upon the fence, apparently undecided what to do. Jessie asked several questions about the snow-house, as they walked along. Although Ronald did not seem inclined to say much about it, he was careful to give her no intimation of the quarrel that had arisen. She had been recently reading a volume of Arctic travels, and Ronald’s snow-house reminded her of the huts of snow in which the Esquimaux live. She explained to him the manner in which they are built. They are circular in shape, rising in the form of a dome, and are built wholly of ice and snow. We give a representation of one nearly completed. The picture also shows a finished hut, in the distance, and the low and narrow entrance to a third, in the foreground. It does not seem as though these snow hovels could be much more comfortable to dwell in than the one which Ronald and Henry built; but the poor Esquimaux, though living in a climate far colder than the coldest in the United States, are glad to make their homes in these rude huts, which seem fit only for boys’ playthings. An American traveller in those regions says that although these snow-houses might not be considered exactly comfortable, particularly by those who had a fondness for dry clothing, and for joints that did not creak with frost in the morning, yet he confessed he had often slept soundly in them.

From snow-houses the conversation glided to iceboats, which are sleds or boats constructed to sail on the ice. One of these had been recently rigged up by a young man in town, and as it was a novelty, it was the object of Jessie’s walk to see it. Ronald had already seen it, and explained its construction to her; and she, in return, told him how in Arctic expeditions the sledges were sometimes provided with sails, by which the men were greatly aided in their tedious journeys over vast fields of ice.

Merry voices soon informed Jessie and Ronald that they were in the vicinity of the pond. Round Hill Pond, it was called, taking its name from a prominent hill near its borders. It was a beautiful sheet of water, surrounded on all sides by hilly land, much of which was covered with forest trees. At this time, there was quite a large gathering of young men and boys upon its glassy surface. There were parties of merry skaters, performing their quick and graceful evolutions, or cutting fantastic figures upon the ice. Some of the skaters had bats and balls, and others were drawing sleds, on which were seated their little brothers or sisters. There were also some famous coasts on the pond, which many of the boys were improving. Starting high up on the steep sides of the pond, they came down with a railroad speed that sent them whizzing across the narrow part of the pond; and here, fortunately, was another icy hill-side, by which they were returned to their first starting place, in the same way they came. I cannot say what would have been the consequences of a collision between these two opposite trains of coasters; but as each side had its own track, and the law of keeping to the right was enforced by common consent, they got along without anything more serious than an occasional narrow escape from an accident.

But the great attraction of the pond was the ice-boat. This was a large, rough sled, shaped somewhat like a flat-iron, and instead of runners, having three skate irons, two behind and one forward. The forward skate could be turned, and thus served as a rudder to steer the craft. Near the centre of the sled there was a mast, capable of supporting a large, square sail. The sail was dropped, and the ice-boat was at rest, near the edge of the pond, when Jessie and Ronald arrived. They went down upon the ice, to have a nearer view of it, and found the young man who made it getting ready for a sail. Several persons were standing around, one of whom, a middle-aged man, was endeavoring to convince the youth that he sailed his craft wrong end first.

“Why, look here, John,” said the man, “doesn’t it stand to reason that the rudder of a boat ought to be in the stern? Now just answer me that, will you?”

“Well,” replied the boy, availing himself of the Yankee’s privilege of answering a question by asking another, “supposing you were making an ox-sled with a set of double runners, would you put the traverse runners behind, because you were going to steer with them?”

“That’s nothing to do with it,” replied the other; “of course I wouldn’t build an ox-sled as I would a sail-boat. But, let me tell you, I’ve seen these things before to-day. I was out in Iowa, one winter, and crossed the Mississippi in a sail-sled, a good deal like this, only she had the two stationary runners in front, and the single one behind. She was running as a ferry-boat, and she flew across the river like a bird. And then she’d mind her rudder just as quick as any boat you ever saw; you could whirl her right about in a moment.”

“So I can my boat,” replied the youth; “and as to that, I don’t believe it makes any difference whether the steering runner is in front or behind. Come, jump on, Mr. Grant, and you shall see for yourself,” added the young man, as he hoisted his sail.

“No, you’ll sail better with one than with two on board, with this wind,” replied the man.

“Well, Jessie, you’re light—I’ll take you, if you want to have a sail,” continued the young man.

“No, I thank you, I had rather stand here and see you sail,” replied Jessie.

“Yes, go, Jessie,” interposed Ronald; “I would, if he asked me.”

John did not take the hint, but setting his sail to the breeze, and giving his craft a push by means of a boat-hook, he started on his trip alone. There was a light wind, and the ice-boat, after a few minutes, got up a pretty good speed, sailing along very handsomely at the rate of four or five miles an hour, which is a little faster than a good walker usually travels. The young man frequently changed her course, and conclusively showed that the craft obeyed her rudder, if it was, as Mr. Grant asserted, in the wrong end of the boat.

As the sun was nearing the western horizon, Jessie and Ronald did not wait to see the return of the ice-boat, but started for home after it had disappeared behind the hills. They had not proceeded far, when they discovered, with astonishment and awe, that since they had passed securely over the road, but little more than an hour before, a fearful snow-slide had taken place at a particular point, burying up the highway for nearly a dozen rods, to the depth of twenty feet! The road at this place wound around the foot of a steep hill, upon the side of which the deep snow had become softened by the afternoon sun, and slipping from the grasp of its icy moorings, had swept down from the heights above in an avalanche which must have shaken the solid ground beneath. There was a farm-house just beyond, and Jessie and Ronald, as soon as their first surprise was over, began to feel serious apprehensions that it had been swept away in the rushing tide from the mountain. They accordingly scaled the immense pile of snow, which was as hard and compact as if it had been trodden down by the feet of an army, and hurried forward to ascertain the extent of the disaster. To their great relief, they found the house safe, but so near had the destructive avalanche come to it, that a shed attached to the barn was demolished and buried up, and a wagon standing in it was crushed to pieces. The family which occupied the house had not yet recovered from their alarm and excitement. At the time the slide occurred, the mother and her two children were alone in the house. Hearing an unusual noise, which jarred the building like an earthquake, she ran to the door, and saw the whole hill-side apparently sliding down into the road. Comprehending her danger at a glance, she seized her little girl with one hand, and her babe with the other, and fled from the house with all possible speed—all of them bareheaded, and with only such garments as they wore indoors. Fortunately, she soon met her husband, who at first thought his wife had suddenly become crazy; but after hearing her story, he took the little girl into his arms, and they went back to the house. When Jessie and Ronald got there, the man was trying very earnestly to convince his wife that there was no further danger, but she kept glancing anxiously at the snow on the hill behind the house, as if momentarily expecting to see it commence its destructive march. There was, however, really little danger, now, for such was the form of the hill above the house, that a slide would not be likely to occur there, unless in connection with an avalanche on the more precipitous part of the mountain.

Jessie and Ronald now hurried home, thankful that an unseen Hand had held back the crashing snow-slip, while they were slowly passing along its track, unconscious of danger. So intently were their minds engaged with the fearful scene they had just witnessed, that Ronald did not notice, as he passed into the yard, that his snow-house was reduced to a shapeless heap, and its ruins scattered around in every direction.

CHAPTER IV.
THE REFEREE CASE.

“I wonder where Henry is; I haven’t seen him for three or four days,” said Jessie one morning, as Ronald was mending one of the straps of his skates, preparatory to an excursion to the pond with several boys who were waiting outside.

No reply was made, and after a moment’s pause, she added,

“I am afraid he is sick. Have you seen him, lately, Ronald?”

“No, I haven’t seen him since that day we went over to Round Hill Pond, to see the ice-boat,” replied Ronald.

“You haven’t heard of the falling out of Ronald and Henry, have you?” inquired Oscar of Jessie, as soon as Ronald left the room.

“A falling out? No, I have heard nothing about that. What is the trouble between them?” inquired Jessie.

“I didn’t know anything about it until yesterday,” replied Oscar, “although I suspected something was wrong. It seems, according to Ronald’s story, that he and Henry undertook to build a snow-house, and had got it nearly done, when Henry got mad about something or other, and knocked it all to pieces, while Ronald was away.”

“But I can hardly believe that,” said Jessie. “It doesn’t seem at all like Henry, to do such a thing as that—and such good friends as he and Ronald have always been, too. Did anybody see Henry tear the house down, or is it all mere suspicion?”

“It’s nothing but suspicion, I believe,” replied Oscar; “but Ronald says he’s certain Henry did it, and he declares he will never have anything more to say to him. It’s a little suspicious that Henry hasn’t been over here, since that day, isn’t it?”

“Well, I shall not believe Henry did it, unless he acknowledges it, or some witness testifies that he saw him do it,” added Jessie. “I will go over and see Henry, to-day, and find out the truth about the matter.”

In the afternoon, when her work was finished up, Jessie went over to Mr. Allen’s, where Henry lived, and made inquiries about the report she had heard in the morning. Her brother readily admitted that he had destroyed the snow-house; but he justified himself on the ground, first, that Ronald did not treat him well, but provoked him to do it; and secondly, that he had a right to destroy it, as the snow-house was just as much his as it was Ronald’s. Jessie listened patiently to all he had to say in his defence, and then simply inquired:—

“Why haven’t you been over to see us, since that day?—you used to come almost every day.”

Henry bit his thumb nail nervously, and gazed intently at the corner of the carriage-shed, but made no reply.

“Come, Henry, I want an answer to that question,” added Jessie. “You know that you and I have no better friend, next to our mother, than Mrs. Page. Then all the rest of the family have always been very kind to us. Now I want to know why you should shun them all, and your own sister, too, if you only did what your conscience approved, the last time you were over there. Will you answer me that?”

After a long pause, finding that Jessie was still patiently waiting for a reply, he stammered:—

“I don’t know—I suppose I didn’t do exactly right—but Ronald’s more to blame than I am—he began to pick upon me, first.”

“Well,” added Jessie, “I want this quarrel settled right up, before it grows any worse. You acknowledge that you did wrong; now are you willing to confess this to the one you wronged, and to ask his pardon?”

“If he’d apologize to me first, perhaps I would,” replied Henry, after a little hesitation.

“How much nobler it would be for you to go to him, first,” replied Jessie. “According to your own showing, you are the one most to blame, even if Ronald did provoke you a little. Now I will engage, that if you go and acknowledge to him that you have done wrong, he will make ample apology to you for whatever provocation he may have given. Will you do it?”

“But I only did what I had a right to do—the snow-house was mine as much as it was his,” said Henry, evading the question.

“I have some doubts about that,” replied Jessie. “The snow-house was in Ronald’s yard, and you were his guest. I think he had the best right to it. But even if you were equal partners in the matter, you had no right to destroy it without his consent. He has rights, as well as you. Two men sometimes build a house together; but if they should get into a dispute, when it was finished, and one of them should go and set the building afire, or pull it all to pieces, I think he would have to go to the State prison, even if he did own half the property. It would be a crime. And it is just the same in your case. At most you only owned half the snow-house, and you had no right to destroy even your own half, because it would interfere with Ronald’s rights to do so.”

Henry attempted no reply to this reasoning, but still manifested an unwillingness to make any advances towards a reconciliation. Jessie then tried to persuade him to go home with her, and have an interview with Ronald, she promising to do her best to arrange matters to the satisfaction of both; but Henry resolutely refused to do this.

“I have thought of one other way to settle this quarrel,” added Jessie, after a little pause; “and that is, to refer it to two or three referees, and let them decide who is most to blame, and who shall make a first confession. Will you agree to that?”

“I don’t see any need of going to all that fuss about it—Ronald began the quarrel, and if he wants to make up, let him say so,” replied Henry.

“It is not considered a very good sign,” resumed Jessie, “when a man refuses to submit his dispute with a neighbor to two or three disinterested persons. People say he does not act in good faith. It looks as though he were neither innocent nor honest. Must I go home and tell the folks that you have done this?”

“No, I didn’t refuse, but I don’t see any use in doing it, though,” answered Henry.

“Suppose Ronald insists that you are more to blame than he, and refuses to acknowledge his error until you have confessed yours; how can you ever come to terms, unless by some such means as I have proposed? It is a very simple thing, and if you are both acting in good faith, I don’t see how you can object to it. Will you agree to it, if Ronald will?”

“Y-e-s,” replied Henry, with evident reluctance.

“Well, you had better choose your referee now—that will save the necessity of seeing you again about it,” added Jessie.

“I’ll choose you,” said Henry.

“Very well, I’ll accept,” replied Jessie. “Ronald shall choose another, and we two shall elect a third; then both parties shall have a hearing, and you agree to abide by the decision we make, without any question or grumbling, do you?”

“Why—but—”

“No whys or buts now, bub,” interrupted Jessie, “the award of the referees is final—there’s no appeal from it.”

“Well, but suppose you referees should decide that Ronald should give me a thrashing; do you suppose I’d stand still and take it?” inquired Henry.

“That is not a supposable case,” replied Jessie. “All I can say to it, is, that if the referees think the breach cannot be healed, and justice done to all, without some kind of reparation, or punishment, we shall expect the guilty one to submit to it, whatever it is. But I must be going, now—you will probably hear from us to-morrow.”

Jessie had a private interview with Ronald, on her return home, and found that he was really much offended with Henry. He gave his version of the difficulty, dwelling particularly upon Henry’s ungenerous fling at his parents, and the spite he exhibited in destroying the snow-house.

“But,” Jessie suggested, after patiently hearing his statement, “isn’t it possible that you were the aggressor, after all? Were you not a little arbitrary, and self-willed, about that time? And didn’t you provoke Henry by telling him you could order him out of the yard, if you chose, and by daring him to touch the snow-house, after you left it? You know Henry is older than you, and that made it harder to submit to such treatment. He feels that he did wrong, and I think he is sorry for it; but he says you began the quarrel, and are more to blame than he is. If you should go to him, and apologize for what you said, I am confident he would be melted into penitence in an instant, and make all the reparation possible for the wrong he has done you.”

Ronald was ready to admit that some of the blame should be placed to his account, but he did not think he was called upon to take the first step towards a reconciliation. Jessie then told him of the referee plan, and he cheerfully assented to it, and chose Marcus as his arbitrator.

It happened that Marcus heard nothing about the quarrel until Jessie apprised him of the honorable office to which he had been chosen. He approved of the course Jessie had taken, and accepted the appointment; and as a third referee was wanted, they selected Oscar for that post. Shortly after this, Mr. Allen rode by, and Marcus, hailing him, asked permission for Henry to come over for a little while in the evening, which he readily granted. So it was decided that the matter should be settled up at once.

Henry arrived early in the evening, before the referees had commenced their business, Jessie being engaged with her duties in the kitchen. He was ushered into the sitting-room, where several of the family were seated, including Ronald.

“Mr. Allen said you wanted me to come over here, this evening,” he said to Marcus, with some embarrassment of manner, as he entered the room.

“Yes, walk in and take a seat—I’m glad to see you once more,” replied Marcus.

“Good evening, Henry,” said Ronald, very composedly, after the others had all saluted the newcomer.

“Good evening,” Henry feebly responded, blushing a deeper red than before.

“Been skating, to-day?” inquired Ronald.

“No,” replied Henry, in an almost inaudible tone, hitching uneasily in his seat.

“I have,” continued Ronald, warming up. “Oh, you ought to have been there, and seen Gil Bryant skate. Did you ever see him?”

“No, I believe not,” replied Henry, who was winking intently at the fire.

“Well, if he isn’t a splendid skater, then I never saw one,” continued Ronald. “Why, they say he has skated a mile in three minutes and a half; shouldn’t you call that pretty quick travelling?”

Henry silently nodded assent—to the fire, and looked more “worked up” than ever.

“What, don’t you believe it, Marcus?” inquired Ronald, in a tone of surprise, as he noticed a broad smile illuminating Marcus’s face.

“Believe it?” responded Marcus; “of course I do. I’ve skated about as fast as that myself, before now.”

The fact was, Marcus was smiling at the thoughtless, good-natured talkativeness of Ronald, as contrasted with the timid and nervous reserve of Henry, and was balancing in his mind the question whether, after all, the services of the board of arbitrators would be necessary to bring the opposing parties to a reconciliation. That smile, however, seemed to have broken the spell that was upon Ronald. He dropped the thread of conversation, and was soon lost in his book, while Henry continued to sit winking at the glowing, coal-enveloped back-log. Aunt Fanny, who sat at the table sewing, now endeavored to draw him into conversation by inquiries after Mr. Allen’s family, but did not meet with much better success than Ronald. Pretty soon Mrs. Page and Jessie came in, and Marcus inquired:

“Can we have the kitchen, now, mother?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Page.

“Well, Jessie and Oscar, suppose we withdraw,” continued Marcus.

The three referees retired to the kitchen, and after consulting a few moments, decided to examine the two parties to the dispute separately. Henry was then called in, and gave his version of the difficulty, from its beginning to his destruction of the snow-house. He defended himself, as well as he could, and promptly and frankly answered all the questions that were put to him by the referees. He was then requested to withdraw, and Ronald was called in, and underwent a similar examination. The latter seemed in quite a merry mood, when he returned to the sitting-room.

“Mother,” he said, “you ought to go out there, and see what an august tribunal we’ve got. They’re all as sober as judges, and Marcus has got a sheet of paper, and is scribbling away on it as fast as he can. He made believe that he was writing down all I said, but I guess I can talk faster than he can write, any day.”

“He was only noting down the leading points of your testimony, I suppose,” remarked Mrs. Page.

“Leading points?” continued Ronald; “he must have found them pretty thick, then, for he kept scribbling the whole time I was in the room. Did he when you was in there, Henry?”

“Yes,” replied Henry, “he filled a whole page, and began another.”

“Well,” added Ronald, with an air of mock gravity, “I suppose the momentous question is almost decided. I tremble for my fate—don’t you, Henry?”

“Not much,” replied Henry, with a smile.

“After all, I suppose we might as well be resigned,” continued Ronald; “I’m not going to worry about it, any way.”

“I don’t think it will be a very great hardship to either of you, to shake hands and become friends again, if that is all the referees ask,” remarked Mrs. Page.

“Nor I, neither. Come, Henry, let’s do it now, and get the start of them,” cried Ronald; and grasping each other’s hands, the two estranged playmates indulged in a long and hearty shake, and felt that their quarrel was at once healed.

“Well done, boys!” exclaimed Mrs. Page. “Now how much better that is, than to let such a trifling thing make enemies of you. I shouldn’t wonder if you both remembered this act as long as you live; and you’ll always remember it with pleasure, too.”

“Do you suppose that’s all they’ll tell us to do—to shake hands and make up?” inquired Ronald.

“I haven’t any idea what kind of a decision they will make, as I know but little about the facts in the case,” replied Mrs. Page.

“It seems to me they are a good while making their decision,” said Henry; “I should think it was about time to hear from them.”

Oscar appeared at the door, a few minutes afterward, and summoned Ronald and Henry before the referees. Marcus requested them to stand, while he read the decision.

“Mayn’t I say something, first?” inquired Ronald.

“Yes,” replied Marcus.

“Well, Henry and I have made up,” added Ronald.

“Ah, I’m glad to hear that,” said Marcus. “If you had done this a little sooner, you might have saved yourselves and us some trouble; but as we have finished up the business you employed us to do, we shall expect you to abide by our decision, and to pay us our fees.”

“Fees? Have we got to pay you fees?” inquired Ronald, with a laugh.

“To be sure you have,” replied Marcus, with the utmost gravity. “It is customary to pay the referees, in such cases.”

“Well, I don’t believe you’ll make much out of me—I can’t raise more than one cent apiece for you, any way,” said Ronald, feeling in his pocket.

“We wont discuss that point now, but I will read the decision,” observed Marcus; “and he proceeded to read the following paper:

“AWARD OF REFEREES.

“The Board of Referees in the case of Hapley vs. Page, have carefully considered the matter committed to their judgment, and have come to the following decision. They find that Page originated the trouble, by manifesting an overbearing and unaccommodating spirit towards Hapley; by claiming exclusive ownership of the snow-house erected by their joint labors; and by using taunting language. They also find that Hapley was to blame, for using unkind language towards Page, and especially for destroying the snow-house, in a spirit of retaliation. Supposing the structure in dispute to have been the joint property of Page and Hapley, the Referees are clearly of opinion that neither party had a right to pull down the whole of it, or even one-half, without the consent of the other. Buildings, ships, etc., are often owned by several persons, jointly; but one party may not do any thing to the common property that would injure the other owners. The Referees, therefore, decide that Hapley, being the elder, ought to express to Page his regret for what has occurred in connection with this affair, and to ask his forgiveness; and that Page, in return, ought to make a similar acknowledgment to Hapley, asking his pardon for commencing the quarrel. The Referees also recommend both parties cordially to forgive each other, and to manifest their determination to do so by shaking hands.

“The Referees further order, that at the earliest practicable day, the said Hapley and Page shall erect a new snow edifice, on the site of the one destroyed, to be called the Temple of Peace. Said structure shall be of such size and proportions as the said Hapley and Page may agree upon, and when completed, it shall belong to the Referees, who shall accept the same as full payment for their services in this case.

“Marcus Page, }

“Jessie Hapley, } Referees.

“Oscar Preston, }

“Highburg, March 4.”

As soon as Marcus concluded the reading of this paper, Henry stepped up to Ronald, and taking his hand, told him he was sorry for what he had done, and asked his forgiveness. Ronald responded in a similar spirit, and a cordial shaking of hands concluded the ceremonies. Marcus then thanked them for submitting so promptly and good-naturedly to the decision of the Referees, after which they all withdrew to the sitting-room.

“Jessie, have you finished your gallery of literary portraits?” inquired Marcus, as he drew his chair to its accustomed place at the table.

“Yes, I have done about all I shall do to it—I am getting a little sick of it,” replied Jessie.

“Suppose you pass it around, then, for the entertainment of the company,” said Marcus.

“I’m almost ashamed to show it,” continued Jessie, going to a drawer in the secretary. “There are so many figures that I did not have time to take much pains with them. I think you’ll be puzzled to tell what some of them represent.”

“So much the better for that,” replied Marcus.

Jessie had a taste for drawing, and had taken a few lessons in this art. Her interest in it had been rekindled, since removing to her new home, by the offer of Miss Lee to give her further instruction in the use of the pencil. Miss Lee was an accomplished sketcher and painter, and had formerly taught these branches in the academy, for several terms. The “gallery of literary portraits,” alluded to by Marcus, was undertaken by Jessie to furnish amusement to the younger members of the family, rather than as an exercise in drawing. It consisted of a series of names of literary characters, enigmatically expressed. She handed the sheets to Marcus, who passed them round the circle. Some of the portraits were recognized by all at first sight; but others proved quite puzzling to the younger folks, and there were several which no one could solve, until Jessie gave a clue to them. On the next two pages we give a transcript of this Gallery of Literary Portraits.

Key to the Gallery of Literary Portraits.

1. Swift.

2. Locke.

3. Young.

4. Fox.

5. Lamb.

6. Hogg.

7. Akenside.

8. Kane.

9. Gay.

10. Cowper.

11. Paley.

12. Cooper.

13. Bacon.

14. Longfellow.

15. Pitt.

16. Shakspeare.

17. Opie.

18. Pope.

19. Sparks.

20. Hood.

21. Herschel.

22. Hooker.

23. Drake.

24. Crabbe.

CHAPTER V.
A DAY AT SCHOOL.

Early the next Monday morning, a sleigh drove up to Mrs. Page’s door, containing a large man wrapped in a shaggy bear-skin coat, a girl about fourteen years old, to whose cheeks the frosty morning air had lent a beautiful glow, and a boy whose age might have been between twelve and thirteen years. The girl and boy hurried into the house, and were warmly greeted by all the family. They were Katharine and Otis Sedgwick, and had boarded in the family for six months past, during which period they had attended the academy. They belonged in a town about ten miles distant. Their father, after hitching his horse in the shed, and throwing a blanket over him, came in to have a chat with the family, and to settle the “term bills” with Marcus. He stopped about half an hour, and then set out for home; after which the young folks began to prepare for school.

The academy building was about a mile distant from Mrs. Page’s. In good weather, Marcus and the students in the family usually walked to and from school, taking their dinners with them. This first morning of the new term was a bright though cool one, and soon after half-past eight o’clock, the six “academicians,” as Ronald called them, might have been seen wending their way through the snow-path, towards a little white belfry that gleamed over the tops of an evergreen forest in the distance.

At nine o’clock the bell rang, and as the students assembled in the hall, it was found that the attendance was quite large. The old scholars took their former seats, and desks were assigned to the new ones. Mr. Upton, the preceptor, then touched a little hand-bell—the signal for silence; after which he took the Bible, and read from it a passage rich in instruction to the young—the fourth chapter of Proverbs. Every head was then bowed, as he offered up a simple and fervent prayer for the divine blessing upon the students and teachers there assembled.

After these exercises were concluded, Mr. Upton went to the large blackboard, facing the school, and wrote upon it this sentence, in characters that could be seen in the remotest part of the room:

“EXALT HER, AND SHE SHALL PROMOTE THEE.”

“‘Exalt her’—can any one tell me what this refers to?” inquired Mr. Upton.

“Wisdom,” was the general answer from all parts of the room.