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Little Men (version 2)

<h2> CHAPTER XX. ROUND THE FIRE </h2> With the October frosts came the cheery fires in the great fireplaces; and Demi's dry pine-chips helped Dan's oak-knots to blaze royally, and go roaring up the chimney with a jolly sound. All were glad to gather round the hearth, as the evenings grew longer, to play games, read, or lay plans for the winter. But the favorite amusement was story-telling, and Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer were expected to have a store of lively tales always on hand. Their supply occasionally gave out, and then the boys were thrown upon their own resources, which were not always successful. Ghost-parties were the rage at one time; for the fun of the thing consisted in putting out the lights, letting the fire die down, and then sitting in the dark, and telling the most awful tales they could invent. As this resulted in scares of all sorts among the boys, Tommy's walking in his sleep on the shed roof, and a general state of nervousness in the little ones, it was forbidden, and they fell back on more harmless amusements. One evening, when the small boys were snugly tucked in bed, and the older lads were lounging about the school-room fire, trying to decide what they should do, Demi suggested a new way of settling the question. Seizing the hearth-brush, he marched up and down the room, saying, “Row, row, row;” and when the boys, laughing and pushing, had got into line, he said, “Now, I'll give you two minutes to think of a play.” Franz was writing, and Emil reading the Life of Lord Nelson, and neither joined the party, but the others thought hard, and when the time was up were ready to reply. “Now, Tom!” and the poker softly rapped him on the head. “Blind-man's Buff.” “Jack!” “Commerce; a good round game, and have cents for the pool.” “Uncle forbids our playing for money. Dan, what do you want?” “Let's have a battle between the Greeks and Romans.” “Stuffy?” “Roast apples, pop corn, and crack nuts.” “Good! good!” cried several; and when the vote was taken, Stuffy's proposal carried the day. Some went to the cellar for apples, some to the garret for nuts, and others looked up the popper and the corn. “We had better ask the girls to come in, hadn't we?” said Demi, in a sudden fit of politeness. “Daisy pricks chestnuts beautifully,” put in Nat, who wanted his little friend to share the fun. “Nan pops corn tip-top, we must have her,” added Tommy. “Bring in your sweethearts then, we don't mind,” said Jack, who laughed at the innocent regard the little people had for one another. “You shan't call my sister a sweetheart; it is so silly!” cried Demi, in a way that made Jack laugh. “She is Nat's darling, isn't she, old chirper?” “Yes, if Demi don't mind. I can't help being fond of her, she is so good to me,” answered Nat, with bashful earnestness, for Jack's rough ways disturbed him. “Nan is my sweetheart, and I shall marry her in about a year, so don't you get in the way, any of you,” said Tommy, stoutly; for he and Nan had settled their future, child-fashion, and were to live in the willow, lower down a basket for food, and do other charmingly impossible things. Demi was quenched by the decision of Bangs, who took him by the arm and walked him off to get the ladies. Nan and Daisy were sewing with Aunt Jo on certain small garments, for Mrs. Carney's newest baby. “Please, ma'am, could you lend us the girls for a little while? We'll be very careful of them,” said Tommy, winking one eye to express apples, snapping his fingers to signify pop-corn, and gnashing his teeth to convey the idea of nut-cracking. The girls understood this pantomime at once, and began to pull of their thimbles before Mrs. Jo could decide whether Tommy was going into convulsions or was brewing some unusual piece of mischief. Demi explained with elaboration, permission was readily granted, and the boys departed with their prize. “Don't you speak to Jack,” whispered Tommy, as he and Nan promenaded down the hall to get a fork to prick the apples. “Why not?” “He laughs at me, so I don't wish you to have any thing to do with him.” “Shall, if I like,” said Nan, promptly resenting this premature assumption of authority on the part of her lord. “Then I won't have you for my sweetheart.” “I don't care.” “Why, Nan, I thought you were fond of me!” and Tommy's voice was full of tender reproach. “If you mind Jack's laughing I don't care for you one bit.” “Then you may take back your old ring; I won't wear it any longer;” and Tommy plucked off a horsehair pledge of affection which Nan had given him in return for one made of a lobster's feeler. “I shall give it to Ned,” was her cruel reply; for Ned liked Mrs. Giddy-gaddy, and had turned her clothespins, boxes, and spools enough to set up housekeeping with. Tommy said, “Thunder turtles!” as the only vent equal to the pent-up anguish of the moment, and, dropping Nan's arm, retired in high dudgeon, leaving her to follow with the fork, a neglect which naughty Nan punished by proceeding to prick his heart with jealousy as if it were another sort of apple. The hearth was swept, and the rosy Baldwins put down to roast. A shovel was heated, and the chestnuts danced merrily upon it, while the corn popped wildly in its wire prison. Dan cracked his best walnuts, and every one chattered and laughed, while the rain beat on the window-pane and the wind howled round the house. “Why is Billy like this nut?” asked Emil, who was frequently inspired with bad conundrums. “Because he is cracked,” answered Ned. “That's not fair; you mustn't make fun of Billy, because he can't hit back again. It's mean,” cried Dan, smashing a nut wrathfully. “To what family of insects does Blake belong?” asked peacemaker Franz, seeing that Emil looked ashamed and Dan lowering. “Gnats,” answered Jack. “Why is Daisy like a bee?” cried Nat, who had been wrapt in thought for several minutes. “Because she is queen of the hive,” said Dan. “No.” “Because she is sweet.” “Bees are not sweet.” “Give it up.” “Because she makes sweet things, is always busy, and likes flowers,” said Nat, piling up his boyish compliments till Daisy blushed like a rosy clover. “Why is Nan like a hornet?” demanded Tommy, glowering at her, and adding, without giving any one time to answer, “Because she isn't sweet, makes a great buzzing about nothing, and stings like fury.” “Tommy's mad, and I'm glad,” cried Ned, as Nan tossed her head and answered quickly, “What thing in the china-closet is Tom like?” “A pepper pot,” answered Ned, giving Nan a nut meat with a tantalizing laugh that made Tommy feel as if he would like to bounce up like a hot chestnut and hit somebody. Seeing that ill-humor was getting the better of the small supply of wit in the company, Franz cast himself into the breach again. “Let's make a law that the first person who comes into the room shall tell us a story. No matter who it is, he must do it, and it will be fun to see who comes first.” The others agreed, and did not have to wait long, for a heavy step soon came clumping through the hall, and Silas appeared, bearing an armful of wood. He was greeted by a general shout, and stood staring about him with a bewildered grin on his big red face, till Franz explained the joke. “Sho! I can't tell a story,” he said, putting down his load and preparing to leave the room. But the boys fell upon him, forced him into a seat, and held him there, laughing, and clamoring for their story, till the good-natured giant was overpowered. “I don't know but jest one story, and that's about a horse,” he said, much flattered by the reception he received. “Tell it! tell it!” cried the boys. “Wal,” began Silas, tipping his chair back against the wall, and putting his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, “I jined a cavalry regiment durin' the war, and see a consid'able amount of fightin'. My horse, Major, was a fust-rate animal, and I was as fond on him as ef he'd ben a human critter. He warn't harnsome, but he was the best-tempered, stiddyest, lovenest brute I ever see. I fust battle we went into, he gave me a lesson that I didn't forgit in a hurry, and I'll tell you how it was. It ain't no use tryin' to picter the noise and hurry, and general horridness of a battle to you young fellers, for I ain't no words to do it in; but I'm free to confess that I got so sort of confused and upset at the fust on it, that I didn't know what I was about. We was ordered to charge, and went ahead like good ones, never stoppin' to pick up them that went down in the scrimmage. I got a shot in the arm, and was pitched out of the saddle don't know how, but there I was left behind with two or three others, dead and wounded, for the rest went on, as I say. Wal, I picked myself up and looked round for Major, feeling as ef I'd had about enough for that spell. I didn't see him nowhere, and was kinder walking back to camp, when I heard a whinny that sounded nateral. I looked round, and there was Major stopping for me a long way off, and lookin' as ef he didn't understand why I was loiterin' behind. I whistled, and he trotted up to me as I'd trained him to do. I mounted as well as I could with my left arm bleedin' and was for going on to camp, for I declare I felt as sick and wimbly as a woman; folks often do in their fust battle. But, no sir! Major was the bravest of the two, and he wouldn't go, not a peg; he jest rared up, and danced, and snorted, and acted as ef the smell of powder and the noise had drove him half wild. I done my best, but he wouldn't give in, so I did; and what do you think that plucky brute done? He wheeled slap round, and galloped back like a hurricane, right into the thickest of the scrimmage!” “Good for him!” cried Dan excitedly, while the other boys forgot apples and nuts in their interest. “I wish I may die ef I warn't ashamed of myself,” continued Silas, warming up at the recollection of that day. “I was mad as a hornet, and I forgot my waound, and jest pitched in, rampagin' raound like fury till there come a shell into the midst of us, and in bustin' knocked a lot of us flat. I didn't know nothin' for a spell, and when I come-to, the fight was over just there, and I found myself layin' by a wall of poor Major long-side wuss wounded than I was. My leg was broke, and I had a ball in my shoulder, but he, poor old feller! was all tore in the side with a piece of that blasted shell.” “O Silas! what did you do?” cried Nan, pressing close to him with a face full of eager sympathy and interest. “I dragged myself nigher, and tried to stop the bleedin' with sech rags as I could tear off of me with one hand. But it warn't no use, and he lay moanin' with horrid pain, and lookin' at me with them lovin' eyes of his, till I thought I couldn't bear it. I give him all the help I could, and when the sun got hotter and hotter, and he began to lap out his tongue, I tried to get to a brook that was a good piece away, but I couldn't do it, being stiff and faint, so I give it up and fanned him with my hat. Now you listen to this, and when you hear folks comin' down on the rebs, you jest remember what one on 'em did, and give him credit of it. I poor feller in gray laid not fur off, shot through the lungs and dyin' fast. I'd offered him my handkerchief to keep the sun off his face, and he'd thanked me kindly, for in sech times as that men don't stop to think on which side they belong, but jest buckle-to and help one another. When he see me mournin' over Major and tryin' to ease his pain, he looked up with his face all damp and white with sufferin', and sez he, 'There's water in my canteen; take it, for it can't help me,' and he flung it to me. I couldn't have took it ef I hadn't had a little brandy in a pocket flask, and I made him drink it. It done him good, and I felt as much set up as if I'd drunk it myself. It's surprisin' the good sech little things do folks sometime;” and Silas paused as if he felt again the comfort of that moment when he and his enemy forgot their feud, and helped one another like brothers. “Tell about Major,” cried the boys, impatient for the catastrophe. “I poured the water over his poor pantin' tongue, and ef ever a dumb critter looked grateful, he did then. But it warn't of much use, for the dreadful waound kep on tormentin' him, till I couldn't bear it any longer. It was hard, but I done it in mercy, and I know he forgive me.” “What did you do?” asked Emil, as Silas stopped abruptly with a loud “hem,” and a look in his rough face that made Daisy go and stand by him with her little hand on his knee. “I shot him.” Quite a thrill went through the listeners as Silas said that, for Major seemed a hero in their eyes, and his tragic end roused all their sympathy. “Yes, I shot him, and put him out of his misery. I patted him fust, and said, 'Good-by;' then I laid his head easy on the grass, give a last look into his lovin' eyes, and sent a bullet through his head. He hardly stirred, I aimed so true, and when I seen him quite still, with no more moanin' and pain, I was glad, and yet wal, I don't know as I need by ashamed on't I jest put my arms raound his neck and boo-hooed like a great baby. Sho! I didn't know I was sech a fool;” and Silas drew his sleeve across his eyes, as much touched by Daisy's sob, as by the memory of faithful Major. No one spoke for a minute, because the boys were as quick to feel the pathos of the little story as tender-hearted Daisy, though they did not show it by crying. “I'd like a horse like that,” said Dan, half-aloud. “Did the rebel man die, too?” asked Nan, anxiously. “Not then. We laid there all day, and at night some of our fellers came to look after the missing ones. They nat'rally wanted to take me fust, but I knew I could wait, and the rebel had but one chance, maybe, so I made them carry him off right away. He had jest strength enough to hold out his hand to me and say, 'Thanky, comrade!' and them was the last words he spoke, for he died an hour after he got to the hospital-tent.” “How glad you must have been that you were kind to him!” said Demi, who was deeply impressed by this story. “Wal, I did take comfort thinkin' of it, as I laid there alone for a number of hours with my head on Major's neck, and see the moon come up. I'd like to have buried the poor beast decent, but it warn't possible; so I cut off a bit of his mane, and I've kep it ever sence. Want to see it, sissy?” “Oh, yes, please,” answered Daisy, wiping away her tears to look. Silas took out an old “wallet” as he called his pocket-book, and produced from an inner fold a bit of brown paper, in which was a rough lock of white horse-hair. The children looked at it silently, as it lay in the broad palm, and no one found any thing to ridicule in the love Silas bore his good horse Major. “That is a sweet story, and I like it, though it did make me cry. Thank you very much, Si,” and Daisy helped him fold and put away his little relic; while Nan stuffed a handful of pop-corn into his pocket, and the boys loudly expressed their flattering opinions of his story, feeling that there had been two heroes in it. He departed, quite overcome by his honors, and the little conspirators talked the tale over, while they waited for their next victim. It was Mrs. Jo, who came in to measure Nan for some new pinafores she was making for her. They let her get well in, and then pounced upon her, telling her the law, and demanding the story. Mrs. Jo was very much amused at the new trap, and consented at once, for the sound of happy voices had been coming across the hall so pleasantly that she quite longed to join them, and forget her own anxious thoughts of Sister Meg. “Am I the first mouse you have caught, you sly pussies-in-boots?” she asked, as she was conducted to the big chair, supplied with refreshments, and surrounded by a flock of merry-faced listeners. They told her about Silas and his contribution, and she slapped her forehead in despair, for she was quite at her wits' end, being called upon so unexpectedly for a bran new tale. “What shall I tell about?” she said. “Boys,” was the general answer. “Have a party in it,” said Daisy. “And something good to eat,” added Stuffy. “That reminds me of a story, written years ago, by a dear old lady. I used to be very fond of it, and I fancy you will like it, for it has both boys, and 'something good to eat' in it.” “What is it called?” asked Demi. “'The Suspected Boy.'” Nat looked up from the nuts he was picking, and Mrs. Jo smiled at him, guessing what was in his mind. “Miss Crane kept a school for boys in a quiet little town, and a very good school it was, of the old-fashioned sort. Six boys lived in her house, and four or five more came in from the town. Among those who lived with her was one named Lewis White. Lewis was not a bad boy, but rather timid, and now and then he told a lie. One day a neighbor sent Miss Crane a basket of gooseberries. There were not enough to go round, so kind Miss Crane, who liked to please her boys, went to work and made a dozen nice little gooseberry tarts.” “I'd like to try gooseberry tarts. I wonder if she made them as I do my raspberry ones,” said Daisy, whose interest in cooking had lately revived. “Hush,” said Nat, tucking a plump pop-corn into her mouth to silence her, for he felt a particular interest in this tale, and thought it opened well. “When the tarts were done, Miss Crane put them away in the best parlor closet, and said not a word about them, for she wanted to surprise the boys at tea-time. When the minute came and all were seated at table, she went to get her tarts, but came back looking much troubled, for what do you think had happened?” “Somebody had hooked them!” cried Ned. “No, there they were, but some one had stolen all the fruit out of them by lifting up the upper crust and then putting it down after the gooseberry had been scraped out.” “What a mean trick!” and Nan looked at Tommy, as if to imply that he would do the same. “When she told the boys her plan and showed them the poor little patties all robbed of their sweetness, the boys were much grieved and disappointed, and all declared that they knew nothing about the matter. 'Perhaps the rats did it,' said Lewis, who was among the loudest to deny any knowledge of the tarts. 'No, rats would have nibbled crust and all, and never lifted it up and scooped out the fruit. Hands did that,' said Miss Crane, who was more troubled about the lie that some one must have told than about her lost patties. Well, they had supper and went to bed, but in the night Miss Crane heard some one groaning, and going to see who it was she found Lewis in great pain. He had evidently eaten something that disagreed with him, and was so sick that Miss Crane was alarmed, and was going to send for the doctor, when Lewis moaned out, 'It's the gooseberries; I ate them, and I must tell before I die,' for the thought of a doctor frightened him. 'If that is all, I'll give you an emetic and you will soon get over it,' said Miss Crane. So Lewis had a good dose, and by morning was quite comfortable. 'Oh, don't tell the boys; they will laugh at me so,' begged the invalid. Kind Miss Crane promised not to, but Sally, the girl, told the story, and poor Lewis had no peace for a long time. His mates called him Old Gooseberry, and were never tired of asking him the price of tarts.” “Served him right,” said Emil. “Badness always gets found out,” added Demi, morally. “No, it don't,” muttered Jack, who was tending the apples with great devotion, so that he might keep his back to the rest and account for his red face. “Is that all?” asked Dan. “No, that is only the first part; the second part is more interesting. Some time after this a peddler came by one day and stopped to show his things to the boys, several of whom bought pocket-combs, jew's-harps, and various trifles of that sort. Among the knives was a little white-handled penknife that Lewis wanted very much, but he had spent all his pocket-money, and no one had any to lend him. He held the knife in his hand, admiring and longing for it, till the man packed up his goods to go, then he reluctantly laid it down, and the man went on his way. The next day, however, the peddler returned to say that he could not find that very knife, and thought he must have left it at Miss Crane's. It was a very nice one with a pearl handle, and he could not afford to lose it. Every one looked, and every one declared they knew nothing about it. 'This young gentleman had it last, and seemed to want it very much. Are you quite sure you put it back?' said the man to Lewis, who was much troubled at the loss, and vowed over and over again that he did return it. His denials seemed to do no good, however, for every one was sure he had taken it, and after a stormy scene Miss Crane paid for it, and the man went grumbling away.” “Did Lewis have it?” cried Nat, much excited. “You will see. Now poor Lewis had another trial to bear, for the boys were constantly saying, 'Lend me your pearl-handled knife, Gooseberry,' and things of that sort, till Lewis was so unhappy he begged to be sent home. Miss Crane did her best to keep the boys quiet, but it was hard work, for they would tease, and she could not be with them all the time. That is one of the hardest things to teach boys; they won't 'hit a fellow when he is down,' as they say, but they will torment him in little ways till he would thank them to fight it out all round.” “I know that,” said Dan. “So do I,” added Nat, softly. Jack said nothing, but he quite agreed; for he knew that the elder boys despised him, and let him alone for that very reason. “Do go on about poor Lewis, Aunt Jo. I don't believe he took the knife, but I want to be sure,” said Daisy, in great anxiety. “Well, week after week went on and the matter was not cleared up. The boys avoided Lewis, and he, poor fellow, was almost sick with the trouble he had brought upon himself. He resolved never to tell another lie, and tried so hard that Miss Crane pitied and helped him, and really came at last to believe that he did not take the knife. Two months after the peddler's first visit, he came again, and the first thing he said was, “'Well, ma'am, I found that knife after all. It had slipped behind the lining of my valise, and fell out the other day when I was putting in a new stock of goods. I thought I'd call and let you know, as you paid for it, and maybe would like it, so here it is.'” “The boys had all gathered round, and at these words they felt much ashamed, and begged Lewis' pardon so heartily that he could not refuse to give it. Miss Crane presented the knife to him, and he kept it many years to remind him of the fault that had brought him so much trouble.” “I wonder why it is that things you eat on the sly hurt you, and don't when you eat them at table,” observed Stuffy, thoughtfully. “Perhaps your conscience affects your stomach,” said Mrs. Jo, smiling at his speech. “He is thinking of the cucumbers,” said Ned, and a gale of merriment followed the words, for Stuffy's last mishap had been a funny one. He ate two large cucumbers in private, felt very ill, and confided his anguish to Ned, imploring him to do something. Ned good-naturedly recommended a mustard plaster and a hot flat iron to the feet; only in applying these remedies he reversed the order of things, and put the plaster on the feet, the flat iron on the stomach, and poor Stuffy was found in the barn with blistered soles and a scorched jacket. “Suppose you tell another story, that was such an interesting one,” said Nat, as the laughter subsided. Before Mrs. Jo could refuse these insatiable Oliver Twists, Rob walked into the room trailing his little bed-cover after him, and wearing an expression of great sweetness as he said, steering straight to his mother as a sure haven of refuge, “I heard a great noise, and I thought sumfin dreffle might have happened, so I came to see.” “Did you think I would forget you, naughty boy?” asked his mother, trying to look stern. “No; but I thought you'd feel better to see me right here,” responded the insinuating little party. “I had much rather see you in bed, so march straight up again, Robin.” “Everybody that comes in here has to tell a story, and you can't so you'd better cut and run,” said Emil. “Yes, I can! I tell Teddy lots of ones, all about bears and moons, and little flies that say things when they buzz,” protested Rob, bound to stay at any price. “Tell one now, then, right away,” said Dan, preparing to shoulder and bear him off. “Well, I will; let me fink a minute,” and Rob climbed into his mother's lap, where he was cuddled, with the remark “It is a family failing, this getting out of bed at wrong times. Demi used to do it; and as for me, I was hopping in and out all night long. Meg used to think the house was on fire, and send me down to see, and I used to stay and enjoy myself, as you mean to, my bad son.” “I've finked now,” observed Rob, quite at his ease, and eager to win the entree into this delightful circle. Every one looked and listened with faces full of suppressed merriment as Rob, perched on his mother's knee and wrapped in the gay coverlet, told the following brief but tragic tale with an earnestness that made it very funny: “Once a lady had a million children, and one nice little boy. She went up-stairs and said, 'You mustn't go in the yard.' But he wented, and fell into the pump, and was drowned dead.” “Is that all?” asked Franz, as Rob paused out of breath with this startling beginning. “No, there is another piece of it,” and Rob knit his downy eyebrows in the effort to evolve another inspiration. “What did the lady do when he fell into the pump?” asked his mother, to help him on. “Oh, she pumped him up, and wrapped him in a newspaper, and put him on a shelf to dry for seed.” A general explosion of laughter greeted this surprising conclusion, and Mrs. Jo patted the curly head, as she said, solemnly, “My son, you inherit your mother's gift of story-telling. Go where glory waits thee.” “Now I can stay, can't I? Wasn't it a good story?” cried Rob, in high feather at his superb success. “You can stay till you have eaten these twelve pop-corns,” said his mother, expecting to see them vanish at one mouthful. But Rob was a shrewd little man, and got the better of her by eating them one by one very slowly, and enjoying every minute with all his might. “Hadn't you better tell the other story, while you wait for him?” said Demi, anxious that no time should be lost. “I really have nothing but a little tale about a wood-box,” said Mrs. Jo, seeing that Rob had still seven corns to eat. “Is there a boy in it?” “It is all boy.” “Is it true?” asked Demi. “Every bit of it.” “Goody! tell on, please.” “James Snow and his mother lived in a little house, up in New Hampshire. They were poor, and James had to work to help his mother, but he loved books so well he hated work, and just wanted to sit and study all day long.” “How could he! I hate books, and like work,” said Dan, objecting to James at the very outset. “It takes all sorts of people to make a world; workers and students both are needed, and there is room for all. But I think the workers should study some, and the students should know how to work if necessary,” answered Mrs. Jo, looking from Dan to Demi with a significant expression. “I'm sure I do work,” and Demi showed three small hard spots in his little palm, with pride. “And I'm sure I study,” added Dan, nodding with a groan toward the blackboard full of neat figures. “See what James did. He did not mean to be selfish, but his mother was proud of him, and let him do as he liked, working by herself that he might have books and time to read them. One autumn James wanted to go to school, and went to the minister to see if he would help him, about decent clothes and books. Now the minister had heard the gossip about James's idleness, and was not inclined to do much for him, thinking that a boy who neglected his mother, and let her slave for him, was not likely to do very well even at school. But the good man felt more interested when he found how earnest James was, and being rather an odd man, he made this proposal to the boy, to try now sincere he was. “'I will give you clothes and books on one condition, James.' “'What is that, sir?' and the boy brightened up at once. “'You are to keep your mother's wood-box full all winter long, and do it yourself. If you fail, school stops.' James laughed at the queer condition and readily agreed to it, thinking it a very easy one. “He began school, and for a time got on capitally with the wood-box, for it was autumn, and chips and brushwood were plentiful. He ran out morning and evening and got a basket full, or chopped up the cat sticks for the little cooking stove, and as his mother was careful and saving, the task was not hard. But in November the frost came, the days were dull and cold, and wood went fast. His mother bought a load with her own earnings, but it seemed to melt away, and was nearly gone, before James remembered that he was to get the next. Mrs. Snow was feeble and lame with rheumatism, and unable to work as she had done, so James had to put down the books, and see what he could do. “It was hard, for he was going on well, and so interested in his lessons that he hated to stop except for food and sleep. But he knew the minister would keep his word, and much against his will James set about earning money in his spare hours, lest the wood-box should get empty. He did all sorts of things, ran errands, took care of a neighbor's cow, helped the old sexton dust and warm the church on Sundays, and in these ways got enough to buy fuel in small quantities. But it was hard work; the days were short, the winter was bitterly cold, and precious time went fast, and the dear books were so fascinating, that it was sad to leave them, for dull duties that never seemed done. “The minister watched him quietly, and seeing that he was in earnest helped him without his knowledge. He met him often driving the wood sleds from the forest, where the men were chopping and as James plodded beside the slow oxen, he read or studied, anxious to use every minute. 'The boy is worth helping, this lesson will do him good, and when he has learned it, I will give him an easier one,' said the minister to himself, and on Christmas eve a splendid load of wood was quietly dropped at the door of the little house, with a new saw and a bit of paper, saying only, “'The Lord helps those who help themselves.' “Poor James expected nothing, but when he woke on that cold Christmas morning, he found a pair of warm mittens, knit by his mother, with her stiff painful fingers. This gift pleased him very much, but her kiss and tender look as she called him her 'good son,' was better still. In trying to keep her warm, he had warmed his own heart, you see, and in filling the wood-box he had also filled those months with duties faithfully done. He began to see this, to feel that there was something better than books, and to try to learn the lessons God set him, as well as those his school-master gave. “When he saw the great pile of oak and pine logs at his door, and read the little paper, he knew who sent it, and understood the minister's plan; thanked him for it, and fell to work with all his might. Other boys frolicked that day, but James sawed wood, and I think of all the lads in the town the happiest was the one in the new mittens, who whistled like a blackbird as he filled his mother's wood-box.” “That's a first rater!” cried Dan, who enjoyed a simple matter-of-face story better than the finest fairy tale; “I like that fellow after all.” “I could saw wood for you, Aunt Jo!” said Demi, feeling as if a new means of earning money for his mother was suggested by the story. “Tell about a bad boy. I like them best,” said Nan. “You'd better tell about a naughty cross-patch of a girl,” said Tommy, whose evening had been spoilt by Nan's unkindness. It made his apple taste bitter, his pop-corn was insipid, his nuts were hard to crack, and the sight of Ned and Nan on one bench made him feel his life a burden. But there were no more stories from Mrs. Jo, for on looking down at Rob he was discovered to be fast asleep with his last corn firmly clasped in his chubby hand. Bundling him up in his coverlet, his mother carried him away and tucked him up with no fear of his popping out again. “Now let's see who will come next,” said Emil, setting the door temptingly ajar. Mary Ann passed first, and he called out to her, but Silas had warned her, and she only laughed and hurried on in spite of their enticements. Presently a door opened, and a strong voice was heard humming in the hall, “Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten Dass ich so traurig bin.” “It's Uncle Fritz; all laugh loud and he will be sure to come in,” said Emil. A wild burst of laughter followed, and in came Uncle Fritz, asking, “What is the joke, my lads?” “Caught! caught! you can't go out till you've told a story,” cried the boys, slamming the door. “So! that is the joke then? Well, I have no wish to go, it is so pleasant here, and I pay my forfeit at once,” which he did by sitting down and beginning instantly, “A long time ago your Grandfather, Demi, went to lecture in a great town, hoping to get some money for a home for little orphans that some good people were getting up. His lecture did well, and he put a considerable sum of money in his pocket, feeling very happy about it. As he was driving in a chaise to another town, he came to a lonely bit of road, late in the afternoon, and was just thinking what a good place it was for robbers when he saw a bad-looking man come out of the woods in front of him and go slowly along as if waiting till he came up. The thought of the money made Grandfather rather anxious, and at first he had a mind to turn round and drive away. But the horse was tired, and then he did not like to suspect the man, so he kept on, and when he got nearer and saw how poor and sick and ragged the stranger looked, his heart reproached him, and stopping, he said in a kind voice, “'My friend, you look tired; let me give you a lift.' The man seemed surprised, hesitated a minute, and then got in. He did not seem inclined to talk, but Grandfather kept on in his wise, cheerful way, speaking of what a hard year it had been, how much the poor had suffered, and how difficult it was to get on sometimes. The man slowly softened a little, and won by the kind chat, told his story. How he had been sick, could get no work, had a family of children, and was almost in despair. Grandfather was so full of pity that he forgot his fear, and, asking the man his name, said he would try to get him work in the next town, as he had friends there. Wishing to get at pencil and paper to write down the address, Grandfather took out his plump pocket-book, and the minute he did so, the man's eye was on it. Then Grandfather remembered what was in it and trembled for his money, but said quietly, “'Yes, I have a little sum here for some poor orphans. I wish it was my own, I would so gladly give you some of it. I am not rich, but I know many of the trials of the poor; this five dollars is mine, and I want to give it to you for your children.' “The hard, hungry look in the man's eyes changed to a grateful one as he took the small sum, freely given, and left the orphans' money untouched. He rode on with Grandfather till they approached the town, then he asked to be set down. Grandpa shook hands with him, and was about to drive on, when the man said, as if something made him, 'I was desperate when we met, and I meant to rob you, but you were so kind I couldn't do it. God bless you, sir, for keeping me from it!'” “Did Grandpa ever see him again?” asked Daisy, eagerly. “No; but I believe the man found work, and did not try robbery any more.” “That was a curious way to treat him; I'd have knocked him down,” said Dan. “Kindness is always better than force. Try it and see,” answered Mr. Bhaer, rising. “Tell another, please,” cried Daisy. “You must, Aunt Jo did,” added Demi. “Then I certainly won't, but keep my others for next time. Too many tales are as bad as too many bonbons. I have paid my forfeit and I go,” and Mr. Bhaer ran for his life, with the whole flock in full pursuit. He had the start, however, and escaped safely into his study, leaving the boys to go rioting back again. They were so stirred up by the race that they could not settle to their former quiet, and a lively game of Blindman's Buff followed, in which Tommy showed that he had taken the moral of the last story to heart, for, when he caught Nan, he whispered in her ear, “I'm sorry I called you a cross-patch.” Nan was not to be outdone in kindness, so, when they played “Button, button, who's got the button?” and it was her turn to go round, she said, “Hold fast all I give you,” with such a friendly smile at Tommy, that he was not surprised to find the horse-hair ring in his hand instead of the button. He only smiled back at her then, but when they were going to bed, he offered Nan the best bite of his last apple; she saw the ring on his stumpy little finger, accepted the bite, and peace was declared. Both were ashamed of the temporary coldness, neither was ashamed to say, “I was wrong, forgive me,” so the childish friendship remained unbroken, and the home in the willow lasted long, a pleasant little castle in the air. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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