Title: Railroad building, and other stories
Author: Pansy
Release date: August 24, 2023 [eBook #71478]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: D. Lothrop Company
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
CHAPTER II. LAYING THE FOUNDATION
CHAPTER III. MORE ABOUT LEAVES
CHAPTER IV. THE DIFFERENT ORGANS
"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?
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.
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.
"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."
"But, Lettie, I've read all the books except that new one, and I do want to hear it."
"Well, I can't read so fast aloud, and I'm sure I get little enough time to read," and Lettie enjoyed her book alone till the dinner-bell rang. A step on the stairs and in came Rob with a waiter holding Carrie's dinner.
"Here is your steward, ma'am," he said, setting down the waiter with a flourish. Lettie took up the baby to go down-stairs.
"Oh! it's dismal eating alone," said Carrie.
"So it must be," said Rob. "I'll just ask mother to let me bring my dinner up here."
"Oh! How nice; do," and in a few minutes Rob was back with his plate.
Dinner was over and Lettie was busy helping her mother with the week's ironing. "Mother," she burst out, "I think it's just dreadful to have such a large family as ours."
Her mother looked at her a moment. "Which of them would you like to do without?" she asked.
"But, mother, I do want to do so many things—draw and paint, and study music, and read, and there is no time for anything but scrub and iron and bake and churn, and—" She stopped suddenly as she saw Cousin Patty in the doorway.
The next afternoon Cousin Patty and Mrs. Edmonds were seated at their sewing in the shady dining-room. Cousin Patty was a woman of much experience, and an independent fortune. She was a cousin of Mrs. Edmond's mother, and an old and tried friend. The children, however, knew her only from her letters, as her home was in a distant city, and until lately she had been closely confined at home by the care of an invalid mother.
"Cousin," said Mrs. Edmonds, "I'm puzzled to know what to do with Lettie. Haven't you noticed how fretful and impatient she is?"
"Why, I couldn't well help it," was the answer.
"I hoped she would outgrow it, but it seems rooted. Of course there is a great deal to do in such a family as ours, but her lot is no worse than the rest, and we all have good health."
"I think I can put you on a plan that will cure her," said Miss Patty, and then followed a low-toned conversation.
"Cousin tells me," said Mrs. Edmonds at the supper-table, "that she is going home on Thursday."
"Why, cousin," said Mr. Edmonds, "you should have told me sooner, that I might have sat and looked at you all the time you were here."
"I had intended to make a longer visit, but this afternoon I heard of urgent business requiring my return. Now, Benjamin, I have a proposition to make. You know I am a lonesome old maid, and as I see that Letitia is quite hampered here among so many, I think you might let her come and live with me. Of course old maids don't like children, but neither does Letitia, so we will just suit one another. You have so many you can spare one. I have won Caroline's consent if I can get yours."
The result was that at 8 A. M. Thursday Sidney left Miss Patty and Lettie on the platform of the morning train bound for the great city.
As they entered the car Miss Patty said to Lettie "Let me sit next the window. I hate to sit next the aisle. Some one always tramps my clothes." After they were seated she shut down the wooden screen.
"Why, Cousin Patty," exclaimed Lettie, "don't you want to see out?"
"And let in the cinders? Why, I've been over the road so often I know every stone in it."
Evening came, and they went up the steps of a large handsome house, and were admitted by a trim serving woman, who looked a little older than Miss Patty.
"Good evening, Tibbie. You got my note?"
"Yes, ma'am; and the room is ready, and everything as you told me."
Tibbie helped them carry their bundles upstairs, and while Miss Patty went on to the front room, she said to Lettie, "This is your room, Miss Letitia." Lettie found it beautifully furnished, mid rejoiced in the thought of the elegant leisure she was about to enjoy. It was rather lonely at night without Hattie's chatter, and it seemed so strange to have only Miss Patty to bid good-night.
The next day Miss Patty said, "My dear, I want you to feel that you have nothing to do but enjoy yourself. I do not want you to make your own bed even. Tibbie will do that. Choose your own amusements and employments."
It was very nice at first, and Lettie was loud in her praises of the new life, in writing to her mother and Hattie. By and by, however, she became tired of playing the piano in the lonely parlor, of drawing pictures which no one saw. Reading had made her head ache—a new experience—and she wearied of sitting and looking out of the window. She soon found that Tibbie did not like intruders in the kitchen. It was so quiet! Cousin Patty had provided her with nice clothing, but there was no one to see it. Cousin Patty's visitors were all elderly, and talked about things above her comprehension. If she hadn't felt ashamed, she would have asked for even a doll to keep her company. One day she asked Miss Patty, "Do no children ever visit you?"
"Why, not often, dear. Isn't it pleasant that they don't? They make such a disorder. Now at your father's it is so different. Sid wants something mended, or Rob has lost something and wants you to find it, or Lily has lost your thimble, or the baby has upset your work-basket, or some confusion all the time. Now here we have such perfect quiet."
Lettie said nothing, but a few moments later she slipped quietly to her own room. Miss Patty smiled and said, "The cure is working."
One morning, while Miss Patty was busy in the garden, Lettie stole out, as she thought, unseen. But Miss Patty saw her, and ran around to the kitchen and said to Tibbie, "She's gone. Run to the station, and keep her in sight."
"Dear, dear! If the child should get lost!" said Tibbie, rolling down her sleeves. In a little while she came back, quite excited.
"If you please, Miss Patty, she's gone the other way. I went and asked Towne if she bought a ticket. He said yes, she bought a ticket for Redpath, then Sam Pierce said, 'If she did she went on the wrong train then, for she took the down.'"
"Well, don't worry, Tibbie. There are telegraphs, you know," throwing off her gardening attire. "Get me my bonnet and gloves."
In a few moments she had arranged with Towne, and paid for a return ticket from the other end of the road. A message was sent to the conductor of No. 7. "Send back young lady for Redpath. Mistake in train."
Then Miss Patty sent a telegram to Mr. Edmonds: "Lettie left this morning. Will be home in the evening." So there at the station were Sid and Rob with the spring wagon, and Lily perched up between them, clapping her hands at the sight of the engine. Lettie hugged them all three, crying and laughing, and then asked, "What are you doing down here?"
"Came to meet you," said Rob.
"How did you know I was coming?"
"Miss Patty sent a telegram."
"Miss Patty! How did she know? Boys, I ran away."
"Whew!" whistled Sid. "She'll come and take you back, then."
A vague terror entered Lettie's heart, and she made up her mind that she would never go. What a joyful uproar there was, and how they all talked together! In the evening, when all had gone to bed except Lettie, Hattie, and their mother, Lettie said, "Mother, I think now that a large family is just delightful, and I don't know how you all put up with me before. Please forgive me. I'll not fret any more, if you'll only let me stay at home." You may be sure Mrs. Edmonds forgave her.
The next morning in stepped Miss Patty. Lettie caught up Ruby and went to meet her, with a little defiance and a great deal of shame in her face. "Miss Patty, I'm very sorry. You have been very good to me, but I can't go back. I'm glad I went with you, for I've learned that I do love the folks at home so much that I would rather be here than any place in the world."
"What! among these noisy children, and in all this fuss! What a curious taste!"
Miss Patty made quite a long visit, and Lettie confided to her mother her thought that she was much nicer there than at home.
HER name was Rosalie; but she was such a little creature that it seemed more natural to call her Rosie.
Besides, she was always among the roses. On this morning while her father talked with Dick, she hovered between the study and the flower garden, now gathering her flowers, now peeping her head into the study to see if papa was not almost through and ready to talk to her. She was shy of Dick; he was a new boy, had only been with them a few days, and papa more than suspected was not a good boy; so Rosie had strict orders not to visit him in the stable, or have any talk with him unless papa or some one else was within hearing. Only this morning papa had heard Dick use language which made him feel afraid that he ought not to keep him in his employ. Yet how sorry he was for poor orphan Dick, that nobody seemed to care for!
He tried to make him feel that he was his friend; tried to rouse him to want to be a man, and to overcome his grave faults. "You are just the age of my boy Harris," Rosie heard her father say, "and he is just about your size. Harris is a grand boy; he never gave his mother an hour of anxiety, and I can trust him anywhere. I have such faith in his word that when he says a thing, I do not have to inquire into it, I know it is true. Isn't it worth while for a boy to have such a character as that? Don't you think you would enjoy hearing people say: That thing is so, you may depend on it, for Dick Sanders told me, and he is to be trusted, you know.'"
Dick shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and his face seemed to be growing red over some feeling, Rosie's papa was not sure what.
At last he said, "It is all very well for a boy like yours to be honest, and all that; why shouldn't he be? Look what chances he has had; and then look what chances I've had! Kicked and cuffed about the world all my life; nobody cares what becomes of me. I heard you pray for Harris this morning, and I thought of it then. There never was a person in this world who cared enough for me to make a prayer about me!"
What a strange boy Dick was! For a moment, Rosie's father did not know what to say. Just then Rosie, her head framed in the window, where she had been standing for a few minutes, her hands full of flowers, her face sweetly grave, spoke her troubled thought: "Didn't Jesus pray for you when he lived here? That time when he said 'Now I pray for all who shall believe on me?'"
Dick started so suddenly as to nearly overturn the little table on which he leaned, turned to the window, and looking steadily at Rosie, said hoarsely: "What do you mean?"
"Why, that time, don't you know? When he prayed for his disciples; then he said, 'neither pray I for these alone,' and after that he prayed for everybody who should ever live, who would love him and mind him. If you mean to mind him, he prayed for you, too, mamma told me. Don't you mean to mind him? Because it isn't nice to leave yourself out of his prayer."
Wise little Rosie! Papa said not another word. He thought Dick had gotten his sermon, text and all. Neither did Rosie say any more; she did not know she had preached a sermon.
She went away, humming—
"I am so glad that our Father in heaven,
Tells of His love in the book He has given."
Years and years after that, when Rosie was nineteen, one day she went to church in a city five hundred miles away from her childhood home, and she heard a man preach on these words: "Neither pray I for these alone, but for all them which shall believe on me through their words." It was a grand sermon; Rosalie Pierson thought she had never heard one more wonderful. At the close of service the minister came straight to her seat, held out his hand and said: "It was a blessed text, Miss Pierson; I never forgot the sermon you preached from it. I know now that the Lord Jesus prayed for me, that day. And I know that I believe on Him through your words."
"Why!" said Rosalie, in astonishment, "I don't understand, this surely cannot be—"
"Yes," said the minister, "I am Dick."
"MAMMA, what do you think? You know the willow chair that we had in the summer-house last year? Well, we left it out there all winter, and Lily left that mat she was making for the fair—and that she looked for everywhere, after we got back to the city—in the chair!"
"Well?" said Mrs. Browne as Ella stopped to take breath.
"And will you believe it!"
"I always have believed your stories," replied Mrs. Browne, smiling.
"Thank you!" returned Ella, kissing her mother's cheek. "Well, this morning is the first time I have been down to the summer-house since we came back here, and as soon as I opened the door I saw the funniest sight! There lay the mat in the chair, and a bird's nest on the mat, with three eggs in it. It seems that we left the window open, and the birds thought it was a good place for a nest. And there sat the bird on a branch just outside, singing away as if its little body was full of happiness."
"I hope you did not touch the eggs?" said Mrs. Browne.
"Indeed I did not! I just took a peep and ran off for fear of frightening the bird."
"Have you told the boys?"
"No, not yet. They will find it out; but, mamma, do you think they will disturb the nest?" asked Ella anxiously.
"I do not think they would, but we will talk it over together before they find it out. They might rush into the summer-house and frighten the birds so as to make them desert the place."
"And can't we go to the summer-house at all!" exclaimed Bennie when they were talking it over. That summer-house was a favorite resort. It was a large, pavilion-like structure, a little distance from the house, where they took their games, books, or work; sometimes they had luncheon or tea there, a rustic table affording accommodations for the tea-tray.
"It will not be so very long that you will have to stay away," replied Mrs. Browne; "you surely would not wish to drive the birds away from their home?"
"Can't we build a rustic booth, or something, down in the woods?" asked Tom. "It would be something new, and by the time we were tired of that the young birds will have hatched and flown away."
Mamma agreed that this was a good suggestion; she had another scheme which interested the children.
"How would you like to have a botany class?" she asked. "You can build your booth just in the edge of the woods, and we will go out there every morning and study the plants which you will find handy."
All agreed that this was a fine scheme, and with a little assistance from Patrick, a very substantial booth was erected in the course of a few days; and, wild with delight, the Brownes took possession at once.
"Now for the first lesson," said Mrs. Browne, as she allowed herself to be seated in the one low rocker which the children had brought from the house, especially for her use. She had in her hand a small tin can such as baking-powder comes in, filled with earth, and two or three tiny plants were just showing themselves. First she showed the children some dry, dark-colored seeds. "These are morning-glory seeds," she said. "A few days ago, when we first talked about botany lessons, I put some like them in this can of earth, and here you see what they have already come to. I will pull up one; what do you see?"
"A root," replied Ella.
"Yes; and what else?"
"Two leaves," said Tom.
"And a stem!" was Bennie's discovery.
"Yes; and now you notice this from which the covering has not yet fallen. You see the same parts, and if you could look at one of these dry seeds through a microscope you would see coiled around inside, the same three parts; now when the seed is planted, we cannot tell how, but in some way, the moisture of the earth and the warmth cause the little plantlet which we call the embryo, to swell and grow. It soon bursts the walls of its house, and the two seed-leaves which we call cotyledons, expand. The little stem which we call the radicle, pushes up and supports them, while from the opposite end the root begins to grow. I think if you will look carefully under that beech-tree, you will find some beech-nuts which have just sprouted. I used to gather them when I was a little girl; the crisp seed-leaves are very palatable."
For a little while the children were busy looking for "beech-nut sprouts," while Mrs. Browne sat under her green canopy enjoying the clear air and the fresh wood odors.
Then the lesson was gone over again.
"What are these called?" touching the tiny seed-leaves.
"Cotyledons!" answered Ella promptly, the others coming in more slowly upon the same word.
"And this?" pointing to the slender stem bearing the cotyledons at the top.
"The radicle."
"And what do we call the whole as it lies coiled up in the nut before it is planted?"
"The embryo!"
"That will do for this morning," said Mrs. Browne.
"COTYLEDONS, radicle, embryo! Cotyledons, radicle, embryo!" Bennie was saying these words over to himself, then he added, "The cotyledons are the seed-leaves, the ones that pop out of the seed after it has lain a while in the ground. The radicle is the little thing like a stem that supports the cotyledons, and from the other end of it the root begins to grow. I know so much, anyway! Then the embryo? Oh! that's the whole thing curled up in the seed."
"I wonder which mamma will tell us about this morning," said Ella as she and Tom skipped across the meadow, leaving Mrs. Browne to follow more leisurely with Bennie.
"The root, of course," said Tom; "the root is—well, it is the root of the whole thing. The foundation, you know."
"I hate foundations; that is what Miss Lyman is always saying, 'Young ladies, lay the foundation well!' I thought we would get away from all that in vacation," and she laughed merrily.
"Well, there can't be a great deal to be said about roots, I am sure," returned Tom; "that'll comfort you, I suppose."
When they were all ready Mrs. Browne said:
"I think we will talk about roots to-day." Tom and Ella exchanged glances at this, but Mrs. Browne continued, "the root has two uses; it serves to fix and hold the plant firmly in the ground, and also it is the part of the plant that takes up food from the soil. The plant needs to be fed with certain minerals and gases, and these are dissolved in the moisture of the soil, and the water is sucked up by the roots."
"I do not understand," said Ella, "how the root can suck up water! Are there holes in the root which stand for mouths?"
"The roots are covered with what we call fibrils or root hairs, and these are very delicate, and through their surfaces they take in the moisture. Now if you will examine this root of a young tree which Tom has pulled up for our lesson you will see that the root has branched, and every year the branches multiply and spread farther and deeper into the ground. Now notice that the branches grow smaller and smaller. Look through this microscope and you will see the tiny hair-like projections; these take up the moisture, and as there are so many of them upon every little rootlet, they take up a great deal. We call this a branching root; some roots are what we call fibrous. Tom, suppose you see if you can find a buttercup root and bring it here."
Tom sprang to do his mother's bidding, and soon returned with what looked like a hank of thread—long fibres bound together at the surface of the ground, at the top of what we call the axis of the plant. Mrs. Brown explained that the central stem is called the axis, and that the part which goes downward is the descending axis, and the part that shoots upward and bears the branches, is the ascending axis.
"You observe," she said, "that in the case of this plant there is no descending axis, the long fibrous roots spring from the collum or collar, which is the place where the root and stem join, or from the line of division between the ascending and descending axis. The fibrous roots are mainly for the purpose of absorbing nourishment for the immediate use of the plant, and this structure gives them greater surface by which to take up the moisture for rapid growth. Other roots serve an additional purpose. They store up food for the future growth of the plant, and such roots are called fleshy roots, and many of them are useful to us for food. In such the axis is long and thick and with only short branches and of course fewer fibrils."
"Now if we leave one of these fleshy roots—for instance the beet—in the ground through the winter instead of storing it in the cellar for table use, when spring comes the plant will begin to put forth a new growth, much more vigorous than that of the first year, and quite different. It will send up strong shoots bearing flowers and ripening seed. And all this will use up the food stored in the root, and when the seed has ripened the plant will die. This we call a biennial plant."
"The fibrous roots belong largely to annual plants, while the branching roots belong principally to the woody plants, as trees and shrubs. I heard Tom talking about transplanting trees. You should take great care not to injure the small roots and fibrils, for, by breaking or cutting off these, you lessen the absorbing power of the root."
"You spoke of annuals and another kind—those which live two years," began Ella.
"Biennials; be sure you get the names; it is just as well to learn a thing thoroughly in the beginning—a few facts, names or dates thoroughly fastened upon the memory are better than a vague idea of a whole subject, without any definite knowledge. We classify plants as annuals, biennials and perennials; those which live one year, those which die after perfecting the seed the second year, and those which live on year after year."
"Aren't we almost through with roots?" asked Ella.
"I could tell you a great deal about roots, but I suppose you want to get to leaves and flowers, so we will drop the subject of roots and take up the stem next time," said Mrs. Browne, smiling upon her impatient little girl.
"WHO wants to study in vacation?"
The speaker was Mr. Browne's nephew; he sat upon a stump in the woods not far from the pretty booth where Mrs. Browne awaited the coming of her class. He kicked his heels against the half-decayed bark which, giving way under the repeated kicks and falling to the ground, was picked up by the youngest of the trio of Brownes and stored away for the gypsy fire which he proposed to build after a while.
"And botany too! I don't care a flip about that stuff; I wanted to go fishing; it's lots more fun."
"But we can't fish all the time; and mother makes botany real interesting. The other day we had to talk about roots, because that comes first, and we thought it would be terribly stupid; but it wasn't! We liked it first-rate, and we know quite a number of things now about roots, so come on, Charlie."
"Bother!" Charlie very slowly descended from his perch, and followed the others with a scowl on his rather handsome face. Mrs. Browne welcomed him with a smile, not appearing to notice his surly mood.
"We will talk a little about leaves to-day," she said. "There are two principal sorts of leaves; now I want you to look at these which I have brought and see if you can find out the difference between them." She handed the children some leaves of the lily of the valley and the tulip, with others from a maple tree near by.
"The shape is different," said one.
"Yes; but that is not what I mean; try again."
"They are not the same color?"
"Try again."
"The maple leaf is divided off by three little ridges spreading apart from the stem," said Ella.
"And how about the others?" asked Mrs. Browne.
"There's only one running through the middle."
"And there's a lot of little cross-marks, or threads, or whatever you call them, in the maple; and in the lily of the valley, and in the tulip they run all one way."
"Ah! now you are coming at it. The two great divisions of leaves of which I just spoke are characterized by these threads, or, as we call them, veins. The maple belongs to the netted-veined leaves, and the others to the parallel-veined. You remember that at our first talk we learned about seed-leaves? Can any of you tell what we called the seed-leaves?"
"Cotyledons," said all three in a breath.
"Right. Well, the parallel-veined leaves belong to the sort of plants which have only one seed-leaf or cotyledon, and we call them monocotyledonous plants; and the netted-veined leaves belong to and distinguish those with two cotyledons, and are called dicotyledonous plants. Now notice that a leaf has three parts: a blade, the broad thin part, a petiole, or, as you would call it, the stem-stalk, which supports it; and, as you see in these quince leaves, there is also a pair of small leaf-like appendages which are called stipules. All leaves do not have these, and some have no petioles. In such cases we say the leaf is sessile, and sessile means sitting; and we shall find the word used in regard to other parts of the plant as we go on in our study. This quince, and also the apple leaf, have one large vein running through the middle as if the petiole were extended to the tip or apex of the leaf. This sends off branches, and these in turn break into smaller ones until the leaf is all over network. It is tilled in with a green pulp and covered with a thin skin called the epidermis."
"Why, we had that word in physiology," exclaimed one of the listeners. "It means the same as cuticle or outside skin."
"Exactly; so you see we have in the blade the fibrous framework or skeleton, the pulpy filling, and the transparent covering."
Charlie had been listlessly fingering a leaf, seemingly not interested in the talk, but at this moment he started up, exclaiming, "I know how to make skeleton leaves! You just put the leaf into some kind of acid—I have forgotten the name, that eats out the pulp and leaves the framework—sister Anna has a whole lot of them."
"Yes; and if we had one here we could see the method of veining very plainly. In the parallel-veined leaves all the larger ribs run lengthwise, and there are no branching veins which you can see plainly, only very small vein-lets. Now just a glance at the leaves of a plant or tree will tell you to which of two great divisions the plant or tree belongs."
"I did not suppose there could be so much to say about leaves," said Ella, turning her leaf over and looking curiously at it.
Mrs. Browne smiled. "We have only just begun to examine them. We might find things enough about them to fill a great many morning hours. We might talk about the shapes. We have: ovate and lanceolate, oblong and orbicular and a great many more you might find it hard to remember. Then the margins. Some are entire, that is, even, not notched, and others—but look for yourselves and find out the differences."
"This willow is notched, and so is the elm leaf," said Charley, growing interested.
"But are they alike?"
"No; the elm has what I should call double notches."
"Exactly; one is serrate or saw-toothed, the other double serrate."
"And here is a leaf that is scalloped."
"You will find many forms if you take notice, and each has a name."
"I shall be looking at leaves after this," said one.
"You must try to find out all you can about them. Notice the arrangement upon the stem. Some are opposite, like the maple, others like the rose are alternate; now here is a pansy—excuse me for picking to pieces this pretty bouquet which you gave me, but it is in the interest of Science. The pansy or violet has alternate leaves with stipules, while the sweet pea has a compound leaf; but I know you are anxious to get to flowers, and we will take them up next time, only we ought to talk a little about the uses of leaves. You may find as many uses as you can before we come here for another talk."
"Didn't you like it?" asked one of the Brownes as they stopped on the way home to enjoy the top rail of the fence.
"It wasn't so bad as I thought it would be," replied Charlie. "I never should have suspected that there was so much talk to be made over a leaf."
"Nor I," echoed all the others.
MRS. BROWNE and Ella were sitting upon the porch which ran along the front of their country home. They were waiting for the boys to come to the botany study. Mrs. Browne had decided to have her class at home, thinking that the heavy rain of the evening before must have made it very damp in the woods.
Tom had gone to the office, and Ben—well, Ben was somewhere. That is what they always said of Ben, "Oh! He is somewhere."
"Mamma," said Ella in a whisper, "do look! There is the old man coming up the walk."
Mrs. Browne arose, and stepping forward waited. Evidently the man coming towards her was blind. He was led by a large dog, and was talking either to himself or to the dog.
"Yes, I'm sure of it; I should know the odor anywhere; it is wild roses; Ned, my dog, we must find them."
He had nearly reached the steps, and Mrs. Browne said,—
"Sir, can I do anything for you?"
"Pardon," said the stranger; "I did not know any one was here. Perhaps I am intruding? The perfume of wild roses carried me back to my early home, and it seemed as if I must be standing under my mother's window, and Ned and I thought we would find the roses."
"Ella," said Mrs. Browne, "get the scissors and cut some roses for the gentleman."
When the flowers were brought the stranger handled them tenderly.
"You wonder I should care, when I cannot see," he said; "but every leaf and petal is pictured in memory. I know the shade of green of the calyx; the delicate tint of the petals, the beauty of the half-open buds as well as if I could see. Thank you, madam, thank you!"
"Will you sit down and rest?" said Mrs. Browne kindly.
"No, thank you; I want to reach my journey's end at the next town this morning. My faithful Ned and I will jog on. Good-morning!"
"Mamma," said Ella, "can we study about the flowers themselves this morning? That blind man talked about things that I did not understand at all. I'm tired of leaves and roots and things."
"I do not know as we will study at all this morning," replied Mrs. Browne. "The boys are slow about getting here."
"There comes Ben, and I hear Tom whistling around the corner," and in a moment more the boys appeared and settled themselves for the talk.
Tom had brought a bunch of pinks, and Ben had some poppies which a neighbor had given him, while Ella held a spray of the wild roses.
"And so you want to talk about the flowers themselves?" said Mrs. Browne. "Well, if you will look, each of you, at the flowers you have you will find them made up of several parts. Tom, what do you find?"
Tom busied himself for a moment pulling apart a pink blossom, then replied, "I find this outside green part, and then there are the leaves of the flower and little slender thread-like things in the centre."
"The leaves of the flower, as you call them, are called the corolla; and the green envelope, which in your flower is shaped like a cup, is the calyx, while the slender parts in the centre are the stamens. And the one exactly in the middle is the pistil. Sometimes there are more pistils than one. Each division of the calyx is called a sepal, and each division of the corolla is a petal. Now you have quite a number of new names to-day to remember. What is the outside envelope?"
"Calyx," said Ella promptly, the boys chiming in a little behind time.
"And the separate parts of the calyx?"
"Sepals," said all together.
"Now the colored part of the flower?"
"The whole is the corolla, and the parts or divisions are petals."
"Correct."
"But, mamma!" exclaimed Bennie, "my flower has no green part on the outside. Do not all flowers have a calyx?"
"Some do not; but in the case of the poppy, the calyx falls off as the corolla expands. Notice the bud which you have, the calyx is just ready to fall off."
"I see," said Bennie, and the rest examined the bud which he passed around.
"Now notice that in the pink the sepals are united in one piece, forming a cup, while the petals are separate. Some flowers have united petals. Those we call monopetalous, and those like the pink we call polypetalous. The sepals, calyx and corolla taken together, are sometimes called the perianth. I do not remember if I told you that the root, stem and leaves are the organs of vegetation while the flower, fruit and seed are the organs of reproduction. Now the calyx and corolla are only the protecting parts, while the essential organs are the stamens and pistils. If you can remember all this, with all the new names, you will do well for to-day, and next time we will talk about the stamens and pistils. Just one thing more, you notice that as you pull out one of the petals of the pink there is a long, narrow part running down into the deep cup. We call that the claw of the petal. Now see if you can find all these organs in other flowers, and give them their names."
And leaving the children to busy themselves Mrs. Browne resumed her sewing, though she sat near and now and then joined in the talk which followed.