AND OTHER STORIES

FROM

THE PANSY

[ISABELLA ALDEN]

BOSTON

D. LOTHROP COMPANY

FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STREETS

COPYRIGHT, 1888

BY

D. LOTHROP COMPANY

CONTENTS

RAILROAD BUILDING

A VERY SLY FELLOW

MABEL'S "INASMUCH"

FRETTING LETTIE

HOW ROSIE HELPED

MRS. BROWNE'S BOTANY CLASS

CHAPTER I. THE FIRST LESSON

CHAPTER II. LAYING THE FOUNDATION

CHAPTER III. MORE ABOUT LEAVES

CHAPTER IV. THE DIFFERENT ORGANS

RAILROAD BUILDING.

"COME, boys," said Will to the others, "I'm tired of this humdrum play. Let's get up something new and big."

"Agreed," came from the others; "but what shall it be, Will?"

"A railroad," was the prompt reply.

And they all shouted, "A railroad! Hurrah, boys! That's just grand. We'll do it. But who knows how?"

"I do," came from Will. "Father's an engineer, and you see I hear him talk to mother about it every day."

"Your father an engineer!" exclaimed several. "Don't Mike Rilley and Tim Sullivan run all the engines?"

And Will answered with a loud "Ha, ha, ha! Run engines! ha, ha, ha!" and his sides shook with laughter. "Compare my father to Mike and Tim! My father builds railroads."

And they all said "Oh!"

"But what's the first thing, Will, to build a road? A spade and hoe, or what?"

"Money; ten hundred thousand dollars, and just as much more as you can get. Father says you can do anything with money; but all the money in the world couldn't have saved little sister Rose from dying." At that a large tear came to Will's eye and the boys all looked at him in silence.

Then he wiped his eyes and went on, "Come, boys, say how much you'll give to the new railroad."

Thereupon Will smoothed off a spot in the sand and wrote his name, and opposite he put, "The right of way and no charge for engineering."

"And what's 'the right of way?'" they asked.

"You can't build roads in the air. You must have ground, and when you get it, you've 'The right of way.' See? I'll get that from father, down in the orchard, along the trout brook."

"Good for you, Will," they all shouted.

"Here, Rob, you sign for the ties; Alec, for the rails, and Jim for the rolling stock; Dan must build the depot. Come up, now, and sign like men of enterprise. Be liberal and prompt, and we'll have the cars running by the first of June, and declare a dividend—of fun at least—every day."

All this speech from Will. And each one wrote his name under Will's, saying what he would give or do.

Then came the word of command from our young engineer:

"Now to business. Each one to his home as fast as his legs will carry him, and bring an axe or spade or hoe or some tool. I'll run to father for the charter—what's that? Then let's make the dirt fly."

When I went by a few days after, by the foot of the orchard, sure enough, there they were; coats off, each one busy as a bee, Will acting as engineer.

The grading—what's that?—was nearly all done. Will said they would lay the ties—what are they?—and rails(?) the next Monday, and soon I should hear the whistle.

True to his promise, on the appointed day came the "toot, toot, toot," louder and louder till the hills sent back the sound.

I looked, and there came the train, built of wood "from stem to stern," and drawn by two stout goats, instead of steam, while Jim sat on the engine with a tin horn to his mouth, his cheeks puffed out like two pumpkins.

That's years ago. Will is now Mr. William —, a first class railroad man. So are some of the others.

But when I see them building those fine roads, I wonder if they will ever travel on "The King's Highway of Holiness." Have you a ticket to go up in His chariot one of these days and enter the City of God?

A VERY SLY FELLOW.

RIGHT here at the start I must tell you that this story is true. It all really happened, in a city whose name commences with B; and it is not Boston.

It was a clear, wintry afternoon when it happened, and the children of the street were playing over in the sunshine.

There was a long row of houses on either side of this street, which is one rather sad thing about cities, and in one of the houses Morris Bell and his friend Jack were having a royal good time together, and quite by themselves too, for Morris's mamma had gone down town, and the servants were busy ironing in the kitchen.

"I think it's splendid to be left all alone," said Jack, as they roamed through the house.

"I think so too," replied Morris. "I wouldn't have a nurse for anything," which was rather hard upon Jack, who was still in kilts, and did have a nurse, only this was her "afternoon out" as well as his.

Morris showed Jack all his Uncle Will's neckties, and a great many other things as well, and both of them tried their hand on his new banjo, but one of the strings broke, with a very loud noise, and frightened them out of his room and back to the nursery.

When it began to grow dark, Morris dragged the pillows from his mother's bed, and placing one at either end, on the rockers of his hobby-horse, he and Jack sat down for a very comfortable see-saw. Bridget put her head in at the door just then.

"Ah! Morris, but you're going to get it," she said in an angry voice; then she slammed the door and the boys heard her run down the stairs.

Jack held on to the tail of the hobby-horse and looked round at Morris; Morris held on to the mane of the hobby-horse and looked round at Jack. Perhaps they were thinking of the banjo string. At any rate, Morris said "he didn't care," and Jack said "he didn't." Once in a while they would stand up to shake the pillows, which kept sinking through in bags between the rockers, and then go rocking away again. Meantime Morris's mamma came home.

"Where are the boys?" she asked, as Bridget shut the front door.

"Oh! they're in the nursery now, Mrs. Bell, but there isn't a place in the house where they haven't been, even into our bonnet boxes, May's and mine, mum."

Morris's mamma gave a troubled little sigh as she patiently followed Bridget from room to room. Oh! Such mischievous work as met her on every side. Pincushions ripped open; bottles emptied, and bottles with their corks pulled out; burnt matches strewed about the floors; the broken banjo string, and in the servants' room, whisps of straw, and draggled bits of flowers and feathers, and ribbons—all that was left of the poor girls' bonnets.

The boys were in the midst of one of their grand shakings of the pillows when Mrs. Bell came into the room. "Why, Morris! Why, Jack!" she said very gravely.

Morris hung his head very low.

"I must go home now," said Jack.

"Indeed you must not do anything of the kind," said Mrs. Bell, and she made the boys sit down, one on either side of her, on the sofa.

"I did not mean to do it," said Morris.

"And I did not touch it at all," added Jack.

"Did not mean to do it, Morris! Did not mean to do all that! And what is it, Jack, which you say you did not touch?"

"Why, the banjo!" answered Jack.

"The string breaked of itself, mamma," Morris explained, "and I was afraid to lift it back into the case. I thought Uncle Will would rather we wouldn't bother with it."

"But the banjo is the least part of the mischief, Morris, as you know very well. I never heard of such naughty, naughty boys in all my life." Morris was crying now, and Jack was kicking the side of the sofa very hard with the heels of his boots.

"Why did you go into the girls' room at all, Morris? You know they do not like it."

"I only wanted to show Jack the pigeons on the Jones's roof," sobbed Morris.

"And who was the one to take the bonnets out of the boxes?"

"Neither of us did that, Mrs. Bell," answered Jack.

"So neither of you did that, Jack, and I suppose neither of you burnt all those matches, nor upset the bottles, nor indeed did any of the other very naughty things!"

"No, mamma, we didn't," Morris answered stoutly. Mrs. Bell looked very much surprised.

"Boys," she said, "it is very, very wrong to tell a lie about it; yes, a lie!" for neither Jack or Morris would own up to any misbehaviour beyond the meddling with the banjo.

"You may go now, Jack," Mrs. Bell said at last, "but, remember: I must come in to-morrow and tell your mother, unless you come back before then and confess to your share of this mischief."

"I do not think I will ever come in this house again," said Jack indignantly, as he strode out of the room, with his rubber boots tucked under his arm, and the belt of his little ulster flying out behind him.

After a supper of bread and milk, with never a taste of cake or jam, Morris was put to bed a whole hour earlier than his bedtime. At first he thought he would lie awake all night; but he must have changed his mind about that, for he fell asleep in two minutes, and he found affairs in a much happier state when he woke.

It chanced the next morning that Morris's sister, Lou, stood braiding her hair in front of the window, instead of the looking-glass, so instead of seeing another blue-eyed Lou gazing back at her, she looked right through it, and saw—what do you think?—a live monkey sitting astride the fence in the yard below, and staring about. Lou ran to her mother's door.

"O mamma!" she cried. "Look out the back window, quick, quick!"

Mrs. Bell stepped to the window, and then ran straight into Morris's room.

"O Morris!" she cried. "Mamma knows now that her little boy didn't do it," waking him up from the soundest little nap.

"Didn't do what?" said Morris, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

"Why, all the mischief; a monkey did it, Morris, a monkey."

"A monkey?" cried Morris, for that was enough to wake him right up. Then Mrs. Bell bundled him up in an afghan and carried him to have a look at the sly fellow.

The monkey looked up at Morris and grinned, as much as to say, "Well, didn't I get you in a pretty fix?"

"I suppose he belongs to some one and has run away," said Lou. "I'll run down and open the door of the back porch, then perhaps he'll come in and we'll keep him."

"O no! Don't keep him," urged Morris, pathetically, "because mamma could never tell what things the monkey did, and what things Jack and me did, and it's very hard to have nuffing but bread and milk for your supper when you've only breaked a banjo string."

"Morris," said Mrs. Bell, "mamma will never doubt your word again. But Lou only means to keep him till we find his owner."

So they opened the door of the back porch, and after a while in walked Mr. Monkey. Then Bridget ran up from outside and shut him in. At first he jumped around as if he did not know what to make of it, but suddenly, spying the children's hammock, he swung himself into it and lay very still for a long time.

"Perhaps he's sleepy," said Morris, who stood watching him through the glass door.

"Of course he is," answered Lou. "I guess you'd be sleepy too, if you had been out all night."

Just then some one gave the bell a good strong pull. Morris ran and opened the door, and there stood a foreign-looking little gentleman.

"Can you tell me, my leetle fellow, if my monkey has been in this house?" he asked in broken English.

"O yes! He's been here, and he's here now," Morris replied, leading the way to the hammock.

"I hope he has not done much mischief," said the gentleman.

"O yes! He has," Morris answered frankly. "He did so much mischief they thought it must be me, and put me to bed very early, with only bread and milk for my supper."

They found the monkey fast asleep. His owner gave him two or three pokes with his cane, and he opened his round black eyes. He knew his master at once, and with the funniest grin, leaped on to his shoulder, fastening his hairy little paws tightly round his neck as though he never meant to let go.

"I will look to it that he runs away not soon again," said the gentleman as he left the house.

"Then you had better tie him up very tight, sir, with a very strong chain," advised Morris, closing the door with an honest little sigh of relief.

MABEL'S "INASMUCH."

NURSE HAMMOND was in a fidgety state of mind; it was an hour past the time when Miss Mabel should have returned from taking her music lesson. As it was a rare thing for Mabel to be otherwise than prompt, her old nurse was growing uneasy. Nurse Hammond had been in the Taylor family ever since Mabel, who was now a young lady of sixteen, was born. All through the years of babyhood and childhood the good woman had watched over her young charge, and now, when she had grown almost to womanhood, she still exercised the same tender, loving watchfulness.

Mabel Taylor's mother died before the child had learned to speak the sweet name of mother. And in all the years that followed, Mabel had only Nurse Hammond to go to for love and petting. Mr. Taylor was a kind father, but he was always at the office, and Mabel saw little of him. And besides, the loss of his wife had cast a shadow over his life which he had never been able to throw off.

At length the anxious woman could endure the anxiety no longer, and putting on her bonnet, and the soft white shawl which Mabel's own fingers had knitted for her, she started out to "see what had become of the child."

The Taylor home was set down in the edge of a lovely piece of woodland; a park, a more pretentious man would have called it. That which was only a village when Mr. Taylor's father built the house, had grown into a city, and had stretched itself out to the boundary of the Taylor place, where it was forced to stop; for Mr. Taylor would not yield an inch of the homestead, nor suffer the woodland to be cleared. By a path through the woods Mabel was accustomed to make a short cut to the house of the music professor whose pupil she was, and Nurse Hammond hoped by taking this path to meet her charge. Sure enough, she came upon her suddenly. The young girl had thrown herself upon the ground beside an old, half-decayed log, and was quietly weeping. The woman who stood watching her for a moment knew that there had been a storm of tears, and that this quiet had come only after the violence of the grief was spent. Hat and music-roll lay upon the ground, and the attitude of the girl was one of dejection.

"What is the matter with my darling child?" asked the kind-hearted woman.

"O, Nursie!" exclaimed Mabel. "It is perfectly dreadful," and she burst into another flood of tears.

"What is it? What is the matter?"

"Oh! I have been down to papa's office, and he told me about it, and I can't stand it—I don't want her!"

"Can't stand what? Don't want who?" and Nurse Hammond sat down beside Mabel and tenderly stroked the fluffy brown hair. "Do tell me about it!"

"You'll say just as papa did, that I am very silly, and very selfish, but I can't help it. Papa got the letter this morning, and he will tell you about it to-night. Maybe he would think I ought not to speak of it until he tells you himself; but perhaps he won't mind, and oh! Maybe you will want to go away to your daughter's when she comes. Dear, dear! I wish she wasn't coming."

Nurse was distressed. What was the child talking about? Could it be—a suspicion flashed through her mind—could it be that Mr. Taylor was going to bring home a new wife? No; she could not think that, yet what did it mean? She waited, and presently Mabel sat up, saying:

"There! I'm done with fretting; but I don't like it at all. Oh! I haven't told you yet," and then she laughed hysterically. "Well, papa had a letter, this morning, from his brother, my uncle John, and he is coming next week to bring cousin Emma here to stay a long time, maybe always. He is going abroad for a business house in Chicago, and maybe he will remain abroad as the agent, and then she'll have to stay with us. Uncle John says he cannot bear to think of leaving her with strangers, and papa telegraphed a reply, and told him to bring her to us."

"Of course, Childie, what would he do?" asked Nurse Hammond.

"He might send her to a boarding school, I should think," replied Mabel.

Nurse tried to reason with Mabel, though her own heart sank at the prospect of having their quiet times spoiled by the coming of a stranger, and her own cares increased, but she gave no sign of this disturbed state of feeling. She tried to comfort the girl, telling her how pleasant it would be to have a companion, and how sad it was for a girl, motherless, like herself, to be separated from her father; and suggesting that it might not be so bad, after all. But Mabel could not see any bright side to the picture.

However, by the time her cousin arrived she had schooled herself into receiving her with composure, and even something like cordiality. Emma was a brown little thing, with sad eyes and stooping figure, several years younger than Mabel. She certainly was not an attractive child, and Mabel said to herself a dozen times a day,—"I cannot love her! I shall never be reconciled to having her here."

One day nurse said,—

"She follows one with those great hungry eyes, and it seems as though she was just hungering for love."

Quickly there flashed through Mabel's mind the words,—

"For I was an hungered and ye gave me no meat; I was a stranger and ye took me not in;" and then she remembered the "inasmuch" which concludes this passage.

Now Mabel was a young Christian, and she had much to learn. It had not before occurred to her that she could make the disagreeable duty of loving and cherishing her cousin into something done "for His sake." But now with this motive she could rise above the unpleasantness, and she soon became not only tolerant of her presence, but quite fond of the forlorn child, who, under the softening influences of home love, became herself quite lovable.

FRETTING LETTIE.

"LET! Let! Lettie!"

"I do wish," snapped Lettie Edmonds, as her brother Sidney rushed into the room, "that you wouldn't call me Let. I'm sure it is not so hard to speak two syllables together, Sid."

"Oh! I suppose Sid-ney is much more difficult, or perhaps your organs of speech are more delicate than mine. But I say, mother says for you to come and pare the potatoes for dinner."

Lettie slammed down the lid of the piano with a bang, and went into the kitchen with a discontented air.

"When you put on the potatoes, Lettie," said her mother, "run up and make the boys' beds. I must go and dress Carrie's burn. Poor child! She has been left too long this morning."

Lettie's frown deepened. "What are boys good for, I should like to know? They might just as well make their own beds as I."

"Yes," said Theo, coming in at the back door, "and I suppose you might just as well feed the cows and horses and hoe corn as we."

"Well, you don't have to slave from morning till night for somebody else, and put up with all the children's whims." And the potatoes were tumbled into the pot with a vim that sent the scalding water up over her hands, which of course was a new grievance.

Up-stairs went Lettie and jerked off the bedclothes, and flung them on a chair.

"Lettie," called her mother's voice from her own room, where she was dressing Carrie's burn.

"In a moment," answered Lettie crossly. When she was done she went to see what her mother wanted.

"Run and lift Ruby. I've heard her talking to herself for the last fifteen minutes, and I'm afraid she will fall out of bed."

O baby Ruby! With your clear black eyes shining with love for everybody, your dimpled peachy cheeks, your hair in little damp ringlets, and your four little teeth peeping like pearls through your parted lips. Why does your cry of joy hush, and a grieved look come into the pretty eyes? What could any mortal do but take you up and hug you again and again? Ah! Lettie's frowning face bends over her instead of mother's, and with a jerk she is lifted. Of course she cries and Lettie's evil spirit whispers, "What a nuisance a crying baby is!" In vain she tried to hush her, for she was in no mood to sing or talk baby talk to her. But now mother is done, and in a very short time Ruby's tears are changed to smiles.

"Ruby will play with her doll here," said Mrs. Edmonds, "while I go and see how cousin Patty is enjoying herself, and then get dinner."

"Lettie, won't you please read to me?" said Carrie, as Lettie took a book from the shelf.

"Oh! I'll give you a book, and you can read to yourself. Your arm don't affect your eyes."