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600073688/

LANGLEY LITTLE ONES.

LMGLET LIHLE ONES.

Six S

TORIES.

WALTEK SMITH (Late Mozlet),

34, KING ST., COVENT GARDEN.

1882.

[All Right* reseroed.]

CLAY AND TAYLOK, PRINTBRS.

PREFACE.

It is sometimes said that stories of this
description are of far more use to the teachers
than to the taught.

It may be so. Long ago the well-known
"Langley School" taught hundreds of young
ladies to care for village school-children, and
what sort of training to give theuL If this
Kttle attempt can show to any, at a time
when change and difficulty make many feel
great discouragement, how the same happy
relations and the same mutual affection can
exist amidst the much more elaborate con-
ditions of a modem town-school, it will,
through them, at any rate, benefit their
scholars.

CONTENTS.

1. QUACK, QUACK.

2. BULLY BRINDLE.

3. SNOWDROP'S EGGS.

4. FANNY'S DOLL.

5. A MILLER, A MOLLAR,

A TEN-O'CLOCK SCHOLAR.

6. THE THIRD STANDARD.

QUACK, QUACK

There was a round pond, and a pretty pond too,
And about it white daisies and violets grew,
And dark weeping willows, that stoop to the ground.
Dipped in their long branches and shaded it round.
A party of ducks to this pond would repair.
To sport 'mid the green water-weeds that grew there.

Mi88 Jane Taylor,

Old Mr. Randall lived at the end of a
long lane, out of the postman's beat.
But he liked to have his newspaper every
morning on his breakfast table, and as
James Woodfall's cottage stood just at
the corner of the lane, he settled that the
postman should leave his bag there on his
way from Ellerby, and that little David

1]

Quack, Quack.

Woodfall should have threepence a week
for carrying it up to him.

There was plenty of time for this before
Davy had to go to school, though he
lived nearly a mile from it ; and he had a
good sturdy pair of legs, so that there
was no fear of his being too much tired,
though he was only seven years old when
he began to be Mr. Randall's little post-
man. Besides, he did not go home at
dinner-time, but left his dinner-bag at
Granny's cottage just by the churchyard,
and went to eat his meal there with her
if she was at home, and not out charring
or nursing.

Granny was a bright little kind old
woman, with a clean white skin with a
pretty pink colour in it, and very clear
blue eyes under her old-fashioned cap
tied under her chin. She could trot
about as nimbly as any girl in the parish,
and every one liked to have her help
when anything was to be done. So Davy

2

Quack, Quack.

was not at all sure of her being at home,
and that made it the greater treat when
she was there. It was not only because
she used to give him a little butter or
some brown sugar, or a little dripping,
or treacle, or may be what she called " a
few broth," or a cup of tea, to help out
his hunch of bread. He liked to talk to
her, for she was always kind and merry
with him ; and he was fond of Tom, her big
old cat, all white except his tail and one
ear. Davy thought there was not such a
fine cat in all Langley as Granny's Tom.

Granny Woodfall had a nice garden
too, with double daisies and thrift and
violets along the paths, and vegetables
beyond, also three or four stocks of bees.

She would not keep fowls, because she

said they would scratch her garden and

ruinate it, but she had ducks — which ate

the slugs and did no harm. They swam

in the pond by the churchyard, and it

was grand to see them all coming back in

3

Quack, Quack.

a line, the old drake in front, with his green
head and little black curl, wagging his
short tail, and making odd little noises
with his orange-coloured bill, and his
brown ducks with their purple pockets
waddling after him. Sometimes one of
them had a train of soft woolly, downy,
brown and yellow ducklings after her.
Davy loved to feed the ducks, and to
look for their nests when they made
them in cunning places where Granny
could not go after them.

It was a grand thing for Davy, as
Granny said, to have a chance of earning
threepence a week.

" But you won't let the child spend it
all in trash," she said to Davy's mother,
who had come in on her way to evening
service on Sunday.

" No," said young Mrs. Woodfall ; " he
is going to take it to school on Monday
for Miss Manners to put it into the Penny
Bank,"

4

Quack, Quack.

"Better put it in a money-box/' said
the old lady. "IVe got one up there,
like a little house, that I saved one pound
two and fourpence in, all in halfpence.
I'd give it to Davy, only that my son
Jack, he broke the chimney off it. He
always was an unlucky one, was Jack."

"I think the Bank is the safer. It
ain't so easy got at," said David's mother ;
*' and besides, they add to it."

"I ha'n't no opinion of banks," said
Mrs. Woodfall. " They breaks, and then
there's an end of all you've put by — ^like
as it was with poor Mr. Light."

" Mammy, how do a bank break," ex-
claimed Davy, " and do the ducks tumble
into the water ? "

His mother laughed, and said she did
not mean that sort of bank, like where
the ducks ran about, but still David said
very gravely, —

" I don't want to hide my threepenny

bit there ; the dilly-ducks would gobble

5

Quack, Quack.

it up," and his grandmother shook with
laughing and said, —

'* Listen to the child now."

But though her daughter-in-law told
her the Post-Office Savings' Bank could not
break she was not satisfied, and David
could not understand the matter at all.
His mother told him not to ask questions,
for he could not understand, but that his
money would be quite safe with Miss
Manners. David was rather sorry to
part with his pretty little silver coin with
a great 3 on the back of it ; but, on the
other hand, he liked handing it up to Miss
Manners, and her giving him in return
a little book with '^Langley, February
30th, David Woodfall— 36?." written in it.

Several other children also brought their
pence for Miss Manners to put into the
Bank for them ; but most had not much
choice about it. Their mothers sent the
money to be laid up against the time when

they would want to be fitted out for some

6

Quack, Quack.

situation. However, Charlie Anstey, who
began at the same time as David, did earn
his, for old Mrs. Cannon of Low Mead gave
him a penny for every twenty eggs he
brought in, because her hens always would
steal their nests, and she and her maid
could not be always going after them.

For two Mondays, all the money of
these two boys went to Miss Dora. But
on the third Monday morning there
was to be seen in Mrs. HoUis's window
a most beautiful new sweet — all creamy-
looking, white with stripes of pink and
blue upon it. Jim Nowel came out with a
great lump, all sticky and delicious-look-
ing, and gave a bite of it to Charlie, who
cried out as well as he could, for his teeth
were sticking together, and the loose one
in front was nearly pulled out, —

" Oh, my I if that isn t— "

Words could say no more. Charlie
dashed into the shop, and laid out all the
twopence halfpenny he had just received

7

Quack, Quack.

from Mrs. Cannon upon a great lump of
it. He gave a bit to Jim, and to his
little sister, and to Davy, and still there
was a good deal when they got to school,
for it was not possible to swallow it down
quickly, since it stuck the jaws together
like wax, especially when eaten in a hurry ;
and there was the bell ringing, and they
had to tumble into school, while the lump
went down into Charlie's trouser pocket.
Neither of the three boys could sing in the
hymn, but Jim and Davy were all right
by the time they joined in the prayers.

However, the pupil-teacher might soon
be heard saying,—

" Anstey, what are you eating ? "

He held his head down and made no
answer, and he would have escaped if,
when he was doing his sum, he had not
been so foolish as to try to pinch off a
corner of the sweet stuff that he longed
after.

Teacher Edward saw it, and called the

8

Quack, Quack.

master. Poor Charlie ! out came the
whole brown paper full of sweet, sticky
Gibraltar rock, and straight into the fire
it went ; while a cruel bright white flame
licked it up, and poor Charlie cried, with
his knuckles in his eyes, till he was put to
stand on the form 1 And there he was
when Miss Manners came in for the Penny
Bank money.

Davy felt pleased with himself as he
gave his threepence all in halfpence. Yet
he was not so very wise and saving, after
all, for he did long after a bit of that
beautiful rock ; and he almost wished
he had kept back a halfpenny to spend
on it, if only to comfort poor Charlie for
the sight of his lump burning away.
One or two other boys could have cried
for it too if they had dared, and only
one of the sums in the class came right,
and that was done by Peter Slowman,
whom nothing ever disturbed.

The boys had just found out that one

9 [1*

Quack, Quack.

can't save one's money and spend it both,
and there was no doubt which was the
nicest just then.

Davy told his Granny all about it ; and
perhaps she was a foolish old granny, but
she was a dear kind one, for she said he
was her good boy, and she went to the
big copper-coloured earthenware teapot
with a lion on the lid, and she took out
three halfpence, and told him to buy a
good lump of rock, only not till he came
out of afternoon school. Davy hugged
her and asked if he should bring her some,
which made her thank him and laugh til]
her old eyes ran over at the very notion
of her wanting any.

So Davy bought a famous bit of Gib-
raltar rock after school.

He was an open-handed little man, and

he gave a good piece to Charlie, and so

many bites to others who stood round

saying, " Give ine a taste, Davy," that

when he had saved enough for his two

10

Quack, Quack.

little sisters at home, there was a very
tiny morsel for himself ; but he had had a
full three haHpeDce worth of pleasure out
of it.

However, when he came home, and gave
Polly and Annie their treat, and their
mother heard all the story, she said, —

"Look here, Davy, you must not be
begging coppers of Granny, She's got a
hard matter to live, as it is, and I can't
have you going to her if you are to be.
getting pence from her. Td rather you
kept back a halfpenny, if you had a crav-
ing, once in a way, than go getting the
money out of her."

It would be of no use to tell what hap-
pened every week. David seldom missed
giving Miss Manners something for the
Bank, — not often the whole threepence,
and sometimes only a penny ; for he did
like to take the Httle ones home some
peppermints or some gingerbread, and

once he kept his pence to buy himself a

11

Quack, Quack.

knife, and once he broke a window and
had to pay for it.

When there was a collection in Church
it was his own penny, not his mother's,
that he put into the bag ; and when
the birthdays came round, he had his
presents for the little sisters. But he
had really missed only one week in a
whole year saving something, and that
was when little Annie was ill, and he
.brought home six oranges for her.

He came to have a bigger book now

belonging to the real Bank, and there was

a very long sum of figures, though they

were but small ones ; and as he grew older

he came to a little better understanding ot

the Savings' Bank at the Post-Ofl&ce. As

he told Granny, it was lending money to

the Queen, and she paid you for the use

of it, and that made it more, and ot

course it must be safe when it was lent

to the Queen. And Granny laughed that

they should tell the child such things, and

12

Quack, Quack.

still held that her teapot was the safer
place.

How was Charlie Anstey getting on ?
Well, his book stood still as follows : —

Charles Anstey —

Feb. 3 ... 3d.
„ 10 . . . 2^d.

It had never gone any further ; and
yet Charlie found eggs all the spring and
summer. But his halfpence never could
get past Mrs. Hollis's shop. The more
sweet things and apples he ate the more
he wanted to eat. He was never happy
without something in his mouth, and
there is no telling the number of troubles
he got into for cracking nuts or sucking
peppermint-drops at school, or even at
Church ; for the habit grew on him. Such
tastes do grow if we let them. Then
they become the sinful lusts of the flesh,
and a boy, who never tries to stint him-
self in sweets when he is little, is very

13

Quack, Quack.

likely not to try to stint himself in drink
when he is a man.

It was two years and a half since David
had begun to put into the Bank. He
was nearly ten years old, and would soon
be in the fourth standard. He took Polly
and Annie to school with him now, but
mother would not let more than one at a
time dine at Granny's, so they went turn
about. Perhaps all three every day would
have been too much for old Mrs. Woodfall,
for they made a pretty good noise alto-
gether, such as mother said would terrify
the old lady, and she would never have
been able to help giving them the best
part of whatever she had for dinner. She
was very kind to each, but on the whole
she best liked the days when Davy came.

There was a beautiful brood of ducks
that summer — twelve of them, of a top-
knotted kind, which the children thought
most beautiful. How they did like to
watch them rowing with their yellow web

14

Quack, Quack.

feet in the pond, or turning right upside
down in the water, with only a little tail
sticking straight upright — " standing tail
upwards," as the verses in the school-
book called it. Annie was so fond of
these young ducks that Granny could not
bear to vex her little tender heart by
telling her when a bargain was made,
that when there was a great public dinner
next week at EUerby the young ducks
would all be eaten up. The market-cart
had to call for them the day before, and
would bring the money on returning.
David was warned not to tell his sisters.
Some boys would have done so all the
more, out of a strange delight in teas-
ing and vexing little girls ; but Davy
really loved his little sister, and saw
no fun in making her unhappy before-
hand by telling her she would be feeding
her dilly-duckies for the last time when
she trotted off to Granny's cottage at
dinner-time. So he was not very much

15

Quack, Quack.

surprised when Annie came tearing back
to the play-ground, crpng bitterly, and
sobbing out, —

** The poor, poor dillies ! All gone."

" What ? are they gone already ? " he
said. " I thought she was to have kept
them till to-morrow."

"It's the fox — ^the nasty, horrid fox,"
said Annie ; " he has killed them all, and
not left one 1 "

David still suspected for a moment that
perhaps Granny had let Annie think it was
the fox who had taken them ; but when
the little girl said every duck, old and
young, was gone, and poor Granny was
crying, he began to believe it, and set off at
full speed to see what was the true story.

Yes, Granny was crying. She had been
out all night sitting up with a sick neigh-
bour, and had not been able to get home
tm late in the morning ; so that when the
poor ducks did not come at her call she

had not been alarmed, but thought they

16

Quack, Quack.

had gone into the long meadow to look

out for food for themselves.

Little Annie had, however, run out and

called them in vain ; no ducks came, and

at last she came on one dead body, a litde

lonely, late-hatched thing, that was all

down except some beginnings of wing

feathers. There it lay, with its neck and

web feet out, quite dead. Annie carried it

home, pitying it. Then Granny came out

to search. Some of the children and their

mothers came out to help, and by-and-by,

at the back of the hedge on the bank of

the pond, there was found a quantity of

feathers, which every one knew belonged

to the poor old drake. It looked as if

he had fought hard fof his life, poor old

fellow; and when David came to the

house the policeman had just come in,

and had given it as his opinion that it

was a two-legged fox that had done it,

and was picking out some of the feathers

to try to trace the poor old drake by. He

17

Quack, Quack.

would compare them with all the ducks
he could find in the shops, though there
was little hope that he would find
them.

Poor Granny said she had much rather
it had been a fox, for then the gentlemen
of the hunt would have made it up to her,
as they always paid for mischief foxes
could be proved to have done.

But she had made quite sure of thirty
shillings for these ducks to pay her
quarter's rent. It had been promised to
her by the poulterer at Ellerby ; and what
should she do ? The squire would have
been patient with her, only her house did
not belong to the squire, but to a trades-
man at Ellerby who had the name of
being very hard with his tenants.

"Hell seize my clock ! I know he will,''

said the poor old woman, sobbing, — " my

clock that I had when I was married and

my poor husband wound up every Satur-

'^ay night reglar — so that I always thinks

18

Quack, Qoack.

I hears his voice, when it buzzes afore
striking eight."

"Come, come, Mrs. Woodfall, don't ye
take on so ; maybe your son will help you."

" My son I He be a good lad, he be,
but he has got a family of his own, and
has got enough to do to look after them.
I'll not be a burthen on him while I can
help it, and it pleases God to give me my
health and strength. He — ^he haven't got
it to spare, not he."

David heard all this, but nobody saw
him, for four women and one old man
were standing round the old woman. He
heard, and a sudden thought struck him.
He set off running — he had never run
away from school before, but then such a
thing had never happened before. He
ran till he could run no longer, then he
walked, then he ran again, but not so far
or so fast.

However, between walking and running

at last he bounced into the house, with his

19

Quack, Quack.

face as red as fire and quite out of breath,
and, as his mother said, he " gave her such
a turn as never was."

" Davy I " she cried, "what is it ?" For
she thought one of his little sisters must
have been run over.

" Granny ! " was all he could say, he
panted so for breath.

'* Granny ! Good gracious I Is it a fit ? "

" Ducks I — All stole I " he managed to
say next.

And then his mother was, to tell the
truth, a little bit angry at the fright he
had given her, and would hardly believe
him at first. But she was grieved enough
when she properly understood that all
the fine, well-fatted ducks were gone — the
ducks that would have paid the rent.

''And what will poor Granny do?"
she said. "What are you after now,
Davy ? "

Davy was routing in a drawer under

his Sunday clothes, where, kept flat by his

20

Quack, Quack.

prize books, lay a big envelope with a
book in it. There under the name of
David Woodfall stood some figures, and
the last adding up made them come to
£1 15^.7^^?.

" Mother ! I can do it ? " said David.

" Bless the boy, he'll be for giving his
head away next," said young Mrs. Wood-
fall. " Why, Davy, youVe ' been saving
this ever so long, and I meant it to get
some nice clothes for you when you have
a place in two or three years' time."

"But, mother, I shall be able to make
it up again before that."

" You don't know that. You might be
ill, or Mr. Randall might employ some
one else. You've been a good boy to save
it all this time, and it's a real nice little
sum, and I don't like it to go in this way."

"Oh, mother, if you saw poor old

Granny crying, and talking about the

man seizing her clock that buzzes just

like grandfather."

21

Quack, Quack.

" Seizing her clock I It ain't coming to
that ? "

" She'll have to sell it, she says ; and
she would do that rather than ask father
to help, because he has a family of his
own."

"SheVe always been a good mother
to me, and a good grandmother to all of
you," said Mrs. Woodfall.

" Then you'll let me take out the money
for her, there's a dear mother," said Davy-
earn estly.

" Well, well ; we'll see what father says."

'* I'll run to him this moment ; he's
hedging in Great Courtiers," said Davy.

"Why, child, they ain't coming after
the clock this instant — there's plenty of
time."

"But Granny's crying," repeated Davy,
who could not for a moment forget the
strange sight of his dear old cheerful
grandmother in tears ; and holding tight

his envelope, he set off again at a full

22

Quack, Quack.

gallop after his father ; and Mrs. Woodfall
gave a little sigh, for she knew pretty
well how it would be, and she had liked
to think of her boy's savings at his age.

" But there I " she said to herself, " a
good heart is worth a pot of money.
It's not as if he wanted to spend it for
himself."

James Woodfall was almost as much
startled as his wife when his boy's hot
face showed itself at such a strange time
of the day, and he was, like her, quite
glad to find it was nothing worse than
ducks that were dead.

But he made much less difficulty than
his wife had done about David's money.

" Give it to Granny ? — yes, and welcome,
my lad. You'rg a good boy to have
thought of it. I only wish I had it to
give, for she's been the best of mothers to
me. It's right down lucky you had laid it
up," he added, "or I don't know what-
ever we should have done for mother."

23

Quack, Quack.

David sped away again as hard as his
legs would let him, for he could not allow
them to be tired yet. All his fear now
was that Miss Manners, might not be at
home, and his heart was beating like a
hammer when he reached her back-door
and asked for her.

Robert, the page-boy, was in his best
suit of buttons, and said she was at home,
but that she had some ladies to tea with her.

'* Oh, but please ; it is very particular,"
said David.

And Robert took in the message that
"Little Woodfall wanted to see Miss
Manners very particular."

So she came to him in the kitchen, and
he began,

" Oh, please, ma'am, ipight I have my
money," and he held up the book.

" All your money, David ? "

" Thirty shillings, please, ma'am."

"That's nearly all, isn't it? Are you

in such haste ? for I could not get it

24

Quack, Quack.

to-day, and I don't think I can go to-
morrow."

Poor David looked very blank.

"Is there so much haste?" she said
kindly, "What is it for? Did your
mother send you for it ? "

" She said I might, and father did too.
It is for Granny. SheVe had all her
ducks stolen last night, and she was cry-
ing because they were to pay the rent ;
and mother said I might take her the
money."

** My dear little boy ! " — Miss Manners
quite startled him by the words and voice
— " I'll let you have the money directly if
you will wait a moment : you and granny
shall have it. I'll get it out of the bank
in a day or two ; but I'll advance it to
you at once."

She went away, and presently came

back with a bright gold sovereign and a

half, and put them into David's hot red

hand, saying,

25

Quack, Quack.

" I think you are a very happy little
boy, David/'

Away he went again. He had not
far to go this time. The cottage door
was open; nobody was there, and he
heard Granny clattering about in the
kitchen. He began to feel shy; so he
put down the sovereign and half-sovereign
on the little round table, and crept
under the big table by the window to
watch.

Presently Granny came in, talking to
herself. How his heart beat !

" Well, a poor old body must have her

tea, any way. I thank the Lord Fve got

that. And I won't vex. Sure the Lord

will provide. Bless me I how ever did I

come to leave them two farthings out on

the table. I thought I'd put 'em in my

pocket to please the little maids, they

was so bright and new ; but my troubles

put it all out of my head. I'll give them

if they look in after school Maybe 'twill

26

Quack, Quack.

comfort little Annie a little for her poor
old Dilly Top-knot."

David could not bear it any longer.
He burst out with —

'* Oh, Granny, you mustn't ! It's golden
money ! "

Poor Granny, after the shock she had
had that morning, was almost frightened
into a fit by the roar and scramble under
the table, and fell back into her chair
looking so that Davy didn't know what
he had done to her, and came to her side
in a terrible fright, saying, — "Don't,
Granny ; it's only me. "

"Oh, Davy, how could you frighten
your poor granny so, you naughty boy ? "

And she gasped and panted before she
could understand anything, while David
did for the moment feel it very hard to
be called a naughty boy, forgetting that
it was all his own roughness that had
brought it on him. But the mist cleared
away from Granny's eyes and ears in a

27

Quack, Quack.

moment or two, and the cheery old body
was herself again.

" What did you say, Davy, with your
tricks ? What's this ? Why, 'pon my word
and honour, 'tis a gould sovereign, after
all ! "

Then David began to smile.

" Where did it come from ? " she asked.
"You never brought it."

He somehow could not speak, but he
nodded his head hard.

** You did ? Well, you are a good, kind
little lad to think of your poor granny.
But, my dear, you never went begging to
the quality for it ? I never begged in my
life, nor none of mine ever did."

" No, no. Granny. It's my own, my very
own ! Out of my Savings Bank, you know."

And he hugged her round the neck so
that the old lady's next danger was of
being choked. She hugged him in return,
and what was more, she took to crying,
which made him quite angry.

28

Quack, Quack.

"Now, granny, I did it that you
mightn't go crying/' he exclaimed, which
set her off into laughing.

Indeed she was altogether so much up-
set that it was lucky that mother walked
in just at that moment, having come as
soon as she could, to see about this whole
story.

After all, the old lady was quite hard
to persuade to take the little boy's
money. Mother said all she could, but
the more pleased the grandmother was
with her grandson's thought the less she
could bear the notion of what she
called "robbing the child of his little
earnings."

She did not quite give way till father
came in too, as he did as soon as his day's
work was over, and said he, —

" Why, mother, one would think you'd
never taught us the end of the fifth
commandment as well as the beginning.

You wouldn't wish to hinder the child

29

Quack, Quack.

from getting a blessiDg that'll be more to
him than the gold ? "

" Ah I " she gaid then, " God bless him,
and you too, Jim, and Mary too. I don't
think there's a happier old woman in all
the world than I am to-day. And to
think that I owe it all to that there
thief I"

There certainly was not a happier boy
in the parish than David Woodfall, and
he might have said he owed it all to the
good mother who taught him to deny his
taste a little, and not eat up all he earned
as fast as he had it.

As for the poor young ducks, nobody

went on grieving much for them but Polly

and Annie, as every one else knew that

they really had only had one day longer

to live. Poor old Dilly Top-knot and his

two old ducks, they had certainly had

their lives cut too short, and the pond

looked very forlorn without them ; but

two days later there came down all the

30

Quack, Quack.

nursery children from the hall with their
donkey. Miss Hilda, Miss Mary, and
Master Freddy each carried a covered
basket. And when the lid was raised,
Master Freddy's held a big snowy- white
drake, with two fine curls and beautiful
orange bill and feet, and each of the little
girls had in her basket a lovely gentle-
looking white* duck.

"They are the real Aylesbury sort,"
said Miss Hilda, " and we chose them our-
selves, and we do hope you'll accept them,
Mrs. Woodfall, for it is our own present
to you ! "

"And," said Master Freddy gravely,
'* they are so big and so white that the
next thief will think they are swans, and
not good to eat, and won't steal them."
And the great white drake said *' Quack 1
Quack I "

31

XLT BEINDLE.

moon ia up, the sky is blue,
owlet in the moonIi>;ht air
]t8 fi'om nolioily knows where.
lengthens out liis lonely shout —
ha^^Iop ! a long liaUoo I

^o moonlight lanes they go,
! moonlight dale,
or from I lie town,

W<n-dswortk.

trmer Drew buy that

ad let ]ier graze in the

le was striped black and

■, or any other savage beast

jle and cats them up ; she

the points of her great,

iing horns ; and when she

, head and stared, little hearts

l.>>rt legs ran.

1 three children from the hall
nursery-maid, Annie, came

BULLY BEINDLE.

The moon is up, the sky is blue,
The owlet in the moonlight air
Shouts from nobody knows where.
He lengthens out his lonely shout —
Halloo ! halloo ! a long halloo !
So through the moonlight lanes they go,
And far into the moonlight dale,
To bring a doctor from the town.

Wordsworth,

Why did Farmer Drew buy that
brindled cow, and let her graze in the
path-field ? She was striped black and
red like a tiger, or any other savage beast
that kills people and eats them up ; she
wore tips on the points of her great,
white, spreading horns ; and when she
lifted up her head and stared, little hearts
beat and short legs ran.

Once the three children from the hall
and their nursery-maid, Annie, came

2]

Bully Brindle.

rushing and tumbling in at Mrs. Snow's
garden-gate, because " that dreadful cow
had put down her head and came running
at their aunt's little dog Pickle," and
Master Freddy was ** quite sure that it
wasn't a cow at all, but that Mr. Drew
had bought a mad bull by mistake."

Ernest and Celia Snow heard of it.
They were only eight and seven years
old, and shy, timid-looking things, with
light hair and blue eyes, whom every one
took for twins. The story did not make
them laugh as it did older people ; and
only two days later, when they were
walking part of the way home with their
Aunt Jane and her mistress's white dog,
with a sharp nose and a very tightly-
curled tail, all the cows came down the
lane on the way back from being milked,
and what must Fritz, the dog, do but run
up and bark at their noses. Then Brindle
showed how like a mad bull she was, for
she put down her head and ran at him.

He went oflF at once to hide behind Aunt

2

Bully Brindle.

Jane ; and what would have happened
then, no one can tell, if there had not been
a gate into the field just behind. Fritz
squeezed through, Aunt Jane and the chil-
dren tumbled themselves over and stood
trembling, and the boy who was driving
the cows burst into a great rude laugh.

When they were safely past, Aunt
Jane kissed the children and went on her
way. They were far too much frightened
to go any further with her ; but ran back
hand-in-hand, as if they thought a whole
herd of mad bulls were after them.

Poor children I it was hard for them to

have to come and live in such a lonely

place, with nobody to walk with them to

school. They used to live in the middle

of the village, close to the school ; but

their father had the charge of Mr. Drew's

steam-engine, which did much of the

work in the farm, and which was kept in

one of the outhouses belonging to an old

straw- yard ; so that Mr. Drew wished

him to live in the cottage close by it.

3

Bully Bkindle.

It was a nice large cottage, with a
famous garden full of old fruit-trees ; but
Mrs. Snow, who had been brought up in
a town, and was a gentle, timid woman,
would have given up all these advantages
if only she could have had a few neigh-
bours nearer to her, and not had to send
her two eldest children such a long way
to school by themselves.

Braver children would have thought it

a very pretty way. First there was the

straw-yard, with their own pigs running

about in it, and sometimes father, oiling

up his engine. Then there was crossing

a lane ; and then came a path along the

top of the meadow, with a copse on the

other side. After the field came a lane

again, and then after a longish way

across a corner of the down, down a

path through some fir-woods, out over

another big field, where the corn closed

over their little heads, then along a

path through the churchyard, and there

they were close to the school. It was

4

Bully Brindle.

not far enough to tire the little people,
and many of their school-fellows would
have liked such a walk ; but it was
the being all alone that was distressing.
And in that path-field might be Bully
Brindle I Or she might be coming from
the farm-yard when they came back
from school ! When they saw her in
the field, they always went round the
outside of it, though thus they had to
go round three sides of a square instead
of one, and through two bad gaps and a
sticky turnip-field, so that they had to
run great part of the way to make up for
lost time. In the bit of plantation they
crossed, too, they always thought about
wolves, and the picture of Red Ridinghood
with the wolfs nose poking out behind
the tree, and they held each other very
tight, and started at the least rustle of a
rabbit in the wood, or screamed at a
wood-pigeon's heavy flight.

Perhaps they would not have been so
silly, if it had not been for the two farm-

5

Bully Brindle.

boys, whom Mr, Drew had lodged with

their mother — Fred Bates and Harry

Mole. They were about fourteen, big

fellows, and rather clever ; but they were

the sort of lads who think it very good

sport to tease and frighten little children.

They never did so before Mr. or Mrs.

Snow, for they had seen at the first that

this would bring a good stripe on them,

if nothing worse ; but they could seldom

be alone with Ernest and Cclia, or even

with little three-year-old Edgar, without

doing something to torment them, letting

the poor little things know all the time

that to speak a word of complaint would

only make it the worse for them. And

they could sometimes be good-natured.

They taught Ernest some new games with

marbles ; they used to bring home pockets

full of sweets from the shop, and share

them freely among the children; and

Ernest watched and admired them in

spite of his fears.

Sometimes they twisted the children's

6

Bully Brindle.

arms to see if they could bear pain. Some-
times they shut Celia up in the dark
coal- store in the straw-yard, and often they
pretended to be going to put her under
the engine to be chopped into little bits.
Two or three times they had made
the poor children late for Sunday School
by dancing across the lane with their
arms spread out, so that there was no
passing them, or they would roar be-
hind the hedge, jump out, and try to
catch the children as they went by.
Once Fred made as if they were going
to put Celia into the bucket and let her
down into the well, while Harry talked
of frogs and toads ; and if they did no-
thing else, they would tell the most
dreadful stories they could think of to
alarm the children. To say the truth,
it was Harry who told most of the
dreadful stories, and Fred who did the
worst and most terrifying things; but
then they always backed up one another.

Fred made Harry's stories more shocking

7

Bully Brindle.

still, and Harry helped Fred in his tricks.
Harry said old Nero, at the farm, had
bitten a piece out of the postman's leg,
and Fred added that they thought he
was going mad.

Harry said there was a wolf in the
plantation, and Fred that it had eaten
up a tramp's baby.

They looked quite shocked when Celia
on an autumn day put on her little scarlet
hood. The turkey-cock would be sure
to knock her down and stand upon her,
and Fred added that perhaps he would
peck oflf her nose. And as for Bully
Brindle — Oh, dear! they were sorry for
Celia.

" She can't get at me through the
hedge," said Celia in a trembling voice.

Harry shook his head and looked
pitiful, and Fred said, —

" You'll see 1 Hedges won't hold her."

Celia cried, and begged to wear her

hat instead of her hood ; but she would

"^ot tell the reason why, and her mother

8

Bully Brixdle.

thought it was only that she fancied the
hood would make her look like a baby,
and said she would have no such nonsense.

Celia went away crying with fright
and at being scolded. She took oft' her
pinafore and tied it over her head ; and
then she and Ernest took each other's
hands and raced along the lane as hard as
they could go. Fred, who unluckily was
in the next field, gave a horrible moo
behind them, and then burst out laughing
to think how he had scared the foolish
little things.

They used to run along in fear and
terror till they had got beyond the plant-
ation and could see the church. Then
their frights were over for the time.
They could walk quietly withqut listen-
ing and starting at every sound, their
poor little hearts did not go so fast, and
they could talk a little in peace.

" Tve learnt such a nice text, Ernie,"

said Celia one day. '**The Lord shall

preserve thy going out and thy coming

9 [2*

Bully Brindle.

in, from this time forth for evermore/
Teacher said that God would take care
of us when we went out and when we
came home, every day and always, if we
asked Him."

"We do ask Him when we say our
prayers," said Ernest.

"Yes," said Celia, "and you know
nothing has ever hurt us yet."

She said it in a trembling little voice,
though she was rather the bravest of the
two, and Ernest started as if the little
boast might bring danger on them.

" Shall I teach it you, Ernie ? " said
Celia. " If we say it all together through
the wood and the lane, maybe we shan't
get into such a fright."

They repeated the verse in their little

shaky, chirping voices over and over again,

though they often stopped and started

and listened ; but this time the noise they

heard was the panting and snorting of

father's engine coming up the lane, and

they ran towards him. They were lifted

10

Bully Brindlb

up to him to ride home, and they felt as
happy and as safe and at rest as the
little birds in their nests.

Harry did sometimes entertain himself
by telling them that engines blew up,
and that people fell into them and got
their legs and arms chopped oflf. Indeed,
he was really rather afraid of going near
the engine himself. They never thought
father or his engine could come to any
grief or harm ; and the notion troubled
them as little as other stories that Harry
sometimes told about white things and
light things, and groaning and moaning
things in the churchyard. They had once
lived near the churchyard, and they only
wished they were near it still, for it
seemed like home, and they never were
afraid there close to church and school
and all their playfellows, and out of
reach of the turkey-cock, and Nero, and
Bully Brindle, and those two cruel boys.

Mrs. Snow did not much like the boys,

though she never guessed how miserable

11

Bully BRmDLE.

they made her children. She hoped they
would have gone to the night school and
have been out of the way two evenings in
the week, but they would not go. They
said they knew enough without, and it
was true that they could read, write, and
cipher beautifully. But there were other
things they had not learnt at the school
they had been at : they did not know
anything about the Commandments, or
the Lord's Prayer, or the Bible; and
Harry laughed and said they did not care
about those things in their parts, and
they weren't going to be bothered.

They did not go out in the even-
ings ; Mrs. Snow rather wished they
would, instead of hanging about the
house. Fred seemed to be generally
trying to frighten something, and Celia's
poor pussy had taken to living in the loft
over the engine-house, and never coming
home except when the lads were out of the
way. Harry sometimes had newspapers
books with very gay pictures on the

12

Bully Brindle.

outside, sometimes quite as horrid as his
stories. Father once read one of them,
and did not like it. He advised Harry-
to get books out of the lending library
instead, but Harry said, ** Catch me. I
know what they are like."

So father only told Ernest and Celia
not to read the books, and they did not
want to do any such thing. They had
quite as much reading as, or more than,
they wanted at school and with their
lessons, and these books seemed to be full
of hard words. Besides this, Harry had a
pack of cards, and the two used to have
games with them, and sometimes to
quarrel over them. Though if Harry
was in a good-natured mood, he would
build houses with them for little Edgar ;
but his good nature was never much to
be trusted. If mother was not there, it
would often end in his making the horrid
face that always terrified the little boy so
much that he would stand staring and

shaking, and not daring to cry out. If

13

Bully Brindle.

Fred came in, something of the kind was
sure to happen ; for if either of the lads
was tolerably kind by himself, the moment
the other came up, he would seem ashamed
of his kindness, and begin to tease.

On the whole, the children liked Fred
the best, though he was the roughest.
They pretty well knew the worst that he
was likely to do, and that when he had
shouted out a great rude laugh, it was all
over. Besides, he cut and peeled lovely
sticks with a ribbon of bark running
round them, and he had made a may-
horn for Ernest, and taught him to make
as hideous a noise with it as could
delight a boy.

But as to Harry, nobody could guess
what he would do next. There was no
feeling safe from him anywhere, and
though he did not laugh quite so loud as
Fred, he never left off so soon, but seemed
more to enjoy the distress he gave.

Fred was large, big, and stout, but

Harry was thin and pale and sharp-faced,

14

Bully Brindle.

and was not much liked by any one
except Fred, for the other boys thought
him spiteful. And he was never ready to
do anything venturous. He was giddy
on a ladder, would never go near the
real bull, and ran into the coal-hole
when there was a thunderstorm.

After harvest Mr. Drew hired out his
machine to some other farmers, and Mr.
Snow had to go with it, and sleep on the
farm, for it was too far to come back at
night.

" Those lads will be worse than ever ! "
said Mrs. Snow with a sigh, for if father
was well out of reach, and could not be
told directly, they did not heed what she
said to them ; and when they were in a
real unruly mood, they did not stick at
frightening her as well as the children.

The second night of father's being
away they were in a very noisy, trouble-
some state. Mrs. Snow was a meek
woman, and could not stop them ; but

she took Edgar and the baby up-stairs to

15

Bully Brindle.

put them to bed, wishing she could have
gone thither herself, but afraid to do
so, lest they should set the place on fire
by some of their pranks.

Ernest and Celia thought the safest
place was the top step of the stairs, and
sat there huddled up together.

" Come down, you little sillies," shouted
Fred ; " come down, or we'll make you."

" I know where you are ; you needn't
pretend to hide," added Harry. " Vm
sharpening my scythe like old Time in
the picture, to mow you down."

" Have they got at the scythe," whis-
pered Ernest much shocked, for he and his
sister were never allowed to touch it.

"I hear you! Boo !" bawled Fred, ^^'m
coming."

" Never mind, Fred," said Harry.
*' They'll die, you know."

At which Celia began to cry, though it

was an old way of tormenting her, and

merely meant that she would die some

time or other.

16

Bully Brisdle.

Just then there was a thamp, a
scuffling, and a most frightfol scream
and moan, which brought Mrs. Snow
rushing out with the candle. She just
missed falling over Ernest and Celia, who
had sprung up, and she ran down, while
Harry was heard sayiug,

" There ! there ! you ain't hurt, old
chap, are you ? "

" Oh 1 oh ! ain't I though ? Oh, the

blood ! My leg's cut in two ! It is —

Oh—"

It was not quite cut in two, but in the

dark passage, the scythe had £dlen, by
its own weisrht, out of the hands that
were not used to it, and it had made a
most frightful gash in the calf of Fred's
leg, from which the blood was pouring
out in a perfect torrent ; so that as the
light came, Harry staggered back into the
kitchen white and sick. Poor Mrs. Snow
would often turn faint at a cut finger, but
she knew that if she did any such thing now
it would be as good as death to the boy.

17

Bully Brindle.

" We must stop it/' she cried. " Get a
cloth this instant — ^never mind what."

Ernest had the sense to bring her two
or three dusters, and she tried to bind
them round, but they were like nothing
against the stream of that dark-looking
blood ; and Fred sobbed and gasped that
he was killed, he should die.

"Get the round-towel down, Harry,
there, can't you ? " she called. " Oh, dear,
was there ever such a boy ? Celia, there's
one in the dresser drawer. Now, let me
get it under. My dear lad — there 1 "

With the long towel rolled round the
leg, and pulled tight with all her strength,
— not Harry's, for he was too much
frightened to come near, — the flow of
blood was a little checked, and she was
able to think, for a moment, what was to
be done. Harry sobbed out something
about a doctor.

**Yes, 'tis a job for a doctor," said
Mrs. Snow ; " but there ain't none nearer
than Ellerby. Look here, one of you —

18

Bully Bhindle.

Ernest, yes — must run over to the farm
and say Fred has had an accident with
the scythe, and if Mr. Drew would send
over some one on horseback for the doctor
— though I don't know who he'd send
unless the young master is there to go.
And if Mrs. Drew would let you bring
back a drop of something, it might help to
keep the life in him. Now, Harry," she
added, as she saw the blood still oozing
out, though not so quickly, "you must
go down as quick as ever you can into
Langley village and fetch old Mrs. Wood-
fall. She'll know what to do before
the doctor comes ; and there's need," she
added, for she really thought the Jad
would bleed to death.

" I don't know where Mrs. Woodfall
lives," muttered Harry.

" My patience ! Any one will tell you

when you get into the street. Be off

with you 1 Here, Cely, give me the cushion

out of father's chair to put under his

head ; poor lad, I don't dare to move

19

Bully Brindle.

him. Dear, dear, here's the blood again !
Be quick, I say."

Celia gave the cushion, and then Ernest
clasped hold of her hand and said, —

" Come, Cely."

She caught up her little cloak and
hood, and came out with him into the
moonliorht night.

It was about seven o'clock, the moon,
just past the full, was rising, and the
trees made lono: shadows. It had never
come into Celia's head that mother might
want her. She was so much used to
go with Ernest that she only thought
of helping him to face the farmyard;
and they held each other's hands tight
and said, —

" Let's run 1 We'll say our text —
* The Lord preserve thy going out — ' "

'^ Hark ! "

It was a great sobbing noise. Harry
was at the gate in the moonlight, crying
and shaking all over. Little Celiacs fii st
notion was to comfort him.

20

Bully Brindle.

"Don't cry so, Harry," she said.
" Granny Woodfall always knows what to
do. She quite cured Eddy when he had
his foot scalded."

" I can't go," sobbed the boy.

"There's nothing to hurt you," said
Ernest, as much amazed as if he did not
daily rush along the path in terror.

"The dark! the churchyard! Oh,
I'm afeard," cried Harry, beating the
children oflF, as if they were strong crea
tures about to drag him forward.

"The churchyard won't hurt," said
Celia. " Oh, Harry, make haste — do.
If the blood broke out — "

" You go, I say," and Harry ran back
into the shadow of the house.

He was almost beside himself with
fright at the sight of Fred indoors, and
out of doors at the bare notion of going
alone in the dark, or what was worse,
among the strange lights and shades cast
by the moon across the wood and church-
yard, of which he had told so many tales

21

Bully Brindle.

that he really had a dread of them ; and,
upset as he was by the shock, the selfish
lad felt nothing but his own fears.

" Won't he go ? " said Ernest. " We
must tell mother, and she'll make
him."

"She can't," said Celia; "she can't
come away from poor Fred ; she can't
let go one moment. Don't call her,
Ernie. You run on for Mr. Drew ; 111 go
for Granny Woodfall."

" I wish he would," said Ernest, look-
ing back. " Then you could come along
with me."

"Never mind, Ernie," she answered.
"Nero isn't loose at night, and Vixen
can t hurt much. You'll soon be there.
We'll say our verse all the way, and then
God wiU take care of us."

And as the little ones crossed the
straw-yard, their voices said together —
" The Lord shall preserve thy going out
and thy coming in, from this time forth
^^v evermore." They came to the stile

22

Bully Brindle.

where their roads parted. Ernest had
to go to the farm-house, which lay nearer
than the village. He ran all the way,
and came safe. Nero only barked at his
kennel door, and the back door was open.
Little Vixen rushed out, but the maid
called her back ; and when she heard the
boy's story, she ran in to tell her master
and mistress in the parlour.

They both came out and questioned
Ernest, so that he got frightened, and
hardly knew what he was saying, and he
could see that they did not half believe
Fred was so bad as he said.

" Just a bad cut I Serves the lads
right for larking about and meddling,"
said Mrs. Drew. " I'm sure you can't go,
dear, on a frosty night like this. Such a
cold as you have too 1 "

Young Mr. Drew was not at home, Mr.
Drew had a cold, and Mrs. Drew was
always afraid of his going out late. So
when they heard Mrs. Woodfall had been
sent for, they said that she was as good

23

Bully Brindle.

as any doctor for a cut, and they would
wait till morning.

Mr. Drew gave the boy the little bottle
for his mother, and told him to go back,
and if Fred was not better, to fetch the
doctor in the morning. Ernest went out
crying, and a big carter lad, Frank
Freeman, said, —

*' Well, what is it ? Ain't Harry gone
for the doctor for his mate."

" He's afeard," said Ernest.

*^ Afeard ! " and Frank burst out
laughing. ** That's a good one ! "

But Ernest cried so much, and gave
such an account of poor mother, and the
terrible sight at home, that Frank at last
said, —

" Come on, little chap. You run home

with the bottle as fast as you can, and

I'll make the best of my way to Ellerby

before the doctor goes to bed. Won't

I give it well to that cowardly fellow

Harry to-morrow ? "

In the mean time, Celia had had to

24

Bully Brindle.

cross the path-field, for she knew that

she must not lose time by going round.

The two children could hear one another's

voices for a little time as each went on

with their Psalm.

Then Celia, still murmuring it, tried

not to see whether the cows were in

the field. Perhaps they would not see

her. Oh dear ! here was one lying full

in the path, close to the stile. Perhaps

it was one of the tame ones ! Oh dear,

the light shone on those wide white

horos, and glanced on the metal tips.

Bully Brindle herself! But she was

quietly chewing her cud like the rest.

Celia could hear in the still, silent field

the munch, crunch, lick, and turn over, in

the creatures' mouths. Well, Bully Brindle

might perhaps not notice her, if she

respectfully went out of the path, and

walked all round the creature on the grass

that looked all silver with the dew in the

moonlight.

Brindle did, however, either see or

25

Bully Brindle.

hear the little figure, and began getting
up in a cow's own awkward way — hind
quarters first, so slowly, luckily, that
Celia, who was by this time close to the
stile, had time to roll herself over it, she
hardly knew how, before Bully Brindle
was quite on her four legs, and was puff-
ing the steam out of her nostrils in the
frosty moonlight, as she tried to make
out what strange little thing had trotted
round her.

The lane was all in shadow from the
hedge, but Celia did not mind that
greatly, and there was a nice little tinkle
from a sheep-bell, which grew louder as
she came out on the silvery down. It
seemed to her quite the middle of the
night, by the time she reached the fir-
wood. That she did not like at all. It
was terribly black and dark in the path,
and the wolf and the tramp's baby came
into her head; but there was no going
back now. She said her text again, and

bravely went through the turn-stile. But

26

Bully Beindle.

there was a rustle, and then a long, loud
shout," Hoo, hoo, hoo — ow — ow I" followed
by the oddest little "skwiow, skwiow."
Was it the wolf ? She set off running as fast
as she could, and soon had another fright,
for she hit her foot against the root of a
tree, and tumbled down right on her face.

However, nothing came to eat her up,
and she gathered herself up, rather shaken,
but hearing the " Hoo, hoo ! '' much
further off; and though "skwiow, skwiow,"
was nearer, she did not think wolves said
anything like that.

Here was the stubble-field at last, all
white and broad and shiny, with the dew
on all the white-headed wigs of thistle-
down, and the gossamer webs between
them ; and the church tower stood up
before her, and the church windows were
lighted up, the bright colours of the
painted glass looking prettier than ever.

It was quite a surprise to Celia, who
felt as if it were midnight, that service
should be going on, and the sound of the

27

Bully Brindle.

hymn came out. to her. She wondered
whether Mrs. Woodfall were in church.
It would save much time if she were ; and
the little maid crept into the porch, and
pushed open the heavy door, feeling very
glad that the last Amen was sounding.

There were not many people, and when
they got up from kneeling, they were very
much surprised to see the little red hood
standing there.

Mrs. Woodfall was moving out, and she
bent to hear the whisper, as Celia clasped
her hand.

'*0h, do please come. Fred has cut
himself dreadful with the scythe, and
mother says will you please come and
help her till the doctor comes, for she
can't stop the bleeding."

" Dear, dear ! your little brother, do'ee
say ? How came he to get at the scythe ?
Poor little fellow ! "

By this time Celia had explained that
it was " our lodger," and that they had
sent to ask Mr. Drew to have the doctor

28

Bully Brindle.

fetched. Mr. Somers came out of the
vestry, and when he heard the little girl's
story, and that father was not at home,
he said he would come too. And so Celia
had no frights at all in going back. The
strange noises did come again, but Mrs.
Woodfall said,

^^ Dear, how them owls be hollaing, to
be s ure ! "

And Celia saw a great white thing
sail silently along, and as the other thing
said " Skwiow, skwiow ! " Mr. Somers said,

"Ha, there's the little sparrow-owl.
I've always wanted to see him." Then
he added, " What, are you come here all
alone, Celia ? You are a brave little
body."

But they did not talk much, for they
wanted to get on as fast as they could.

Here they were at last — not a bit too

soon. When they opened the door Fred

was still lying at the bottom of the stairs,

ever so much more deadly-looking and

gasping than before. Mrs. Snow was

29

Bully Brindle.

still kneeling over him, pulling the roller-
towel as hard as her strength would let
her ; but she looked almost as pale and
spent as the boy. Ernest sat on the
stairs trying to hush the baby; Edgar
was asleep against his knee.

Mrs. Woodfall and Mr. Somers knew
what to do, and when the doctor came at
last he said that they had saved Fred's
life; for if they had been longer in
coming, the boy would have died before
he could arrive.

And why had not Harry gone either
for the doctor or Mrs. Woodfall ?

Poor boy, he did look and feel very
foolish the next day, for Frank Freeman
and the other lads did not spare him, but
laughed at him well for having been
afraid to take a walk in the dark, when
two scraps of children had done it instead
of him — children too whom he and his
companion had bullied.

For though Ernest and Celia did not

^^now it, more than once, Frank Freeman

30.

Bully Brindle.

and Tom Walton, big fellows of eighteen

or so, had cried shame on Harry and

Fred if they heard or saw them at their

tricks, and had saved the chidren from

many a fright by declaring that if they

saw the poor little things terrified they

should give the boys a thrashing. And

now Harry could not show his nose at

the farm without some one calling out,

" Who's the bully ? What about going

out in the dark ? "

He had a great mind to run away, but

he was hired for a year, and the policeman

would be after him if he went off. And

thus his best time was in the cottage in the

evening, as Fred began to get better. Mr.

Somers, who had hardly known such lads

were in the place, had come to see Fred,

lent him amusing books, and talked to

him pleasantly, and Mrs. Snow was quite

a mother to him. The poor boy had

been a good deal knocked about by a

rough step-mother, and had never known

such kindness as heis. And when Celia

31

BiJLLY BrINDLE.

and Ernest were at home they were
always ready to do anything for him.

So that by the time his leg was well
enough to be used again, the good that
was in the two boys had begun to wake
up, and come out. And they had begun
to take in something more precious than
reading or writing or ciphering.

It was that something which had made
those tiny timid children strong where
the big boy was weak in overcoming
fear — that something which had made
them do their best for one who had been
very unkind to them in his thoughtless-
ness.

The children grew wiser too when
there was no one to work up their fears,
and before the winter was over, they
might be seen feeding Bully Brindle with
turnips in the straw-yard, and stroking her
soft, satin, striped face, having found out
that she was the tamest and gentlest of
all the cows.

32

SNOWDROP'S EGGS.

But cried cok-cok, and up he start.
As man who was affirayed in his heart

Chaucer,

Snowdrop was a very pretty white
hen, without a coloured feather about
her. She had a lovely nodding tuft on
her head, with a fine crimson bit of comb
between it and her clean white bill, and
a little blue and white in her cheeks,
over which looked out her quick bright
eyes.

Snowdrop was a clever hen, perhaps
a little too clever, for she chose to think
for herself.

Miss Meakins and her maid Martha
8]

Snowdrop's Eggs.

had made three beautiful nests in the
hen-house, all done up with hay. One
had a china egg in it and two had chalk
ones ; but Snowdrop did not trust those
eggs, they felt hard and chilly, and be-
sides, though she was so white herself,
her own proper eggs were of a delicate
pale brown or light coflfee- colour, just
what is the fashion now. Moreover, she
knew that, lay as many eggs as she would,
day after day, there never were more than
two in the nest, counting the sham one ;
and however was she to hatch a brood of
chickens at that rate ?

So she flew over the paling into the
Long Meadow, and there, searching about,
she found in the corner of the ditch a
beautiful place under the stump of an
old tree, all soft with withered oak-leaves
and grass below, and sheltered above by
some ferns which were just spreading out
their leaves, and there was a fine large

primrose root besides, making it all

2

Snowdeop's Eggs.

beautiful, though Snowdrop only cared
for that because that it helped to hide
the nest. Here she laid her egg, one
day, two days, three, four, five days,
and they lay quite safe there. She was
so safe and so proud that she could not
help flying up to the top of the wood-
pile, and cackling out at the top of her
voice — " Buy tobacco ! buy tobacco ! buy
tobacco 1 I'll pay all." As if Miss
Meakins ever wanted to buy tobacco 1

And somebody heard her, namely,
Charlie Anstey, who had been hunting
about in Mrs. Cannon's garden and the
back-yard at the other end of the meadow
for eggs. Mrs. Cannon always gave him
a penny when he had made up twenty,
and he knew there were sixteen in already ;
but he had only been able to find one
that morning, and there was some ginger-
bread all done over with pink and white
at Mrs. HoUis's that he had set his heart
upon. It was going very fast, and he

3

Snowdrop's Eggs.

mmt have some of it. His craving made
it seem dreadful to him to think of going
without.

He knew the white hen did not belong
to Mrs. Cq.nnon, whose black hen was
sitting, while her Brown Betty had nine
chicks, and of her three pullets two were
speckled black and white and the other
was yellow, and, stupid things, only one
had laid an egg that morning, and the
other was wandering clucking about,
wanting to cheat him by going and
sitting. He would like to duck her well
in cold water and send her back to her
proper trade of laying eggs for him to get
sweeties with.

He wondered where that white hen's

nest was. He thought she looked as if

she had flown up from the outside of his

mistress's grounds, and she certainly sprang

down inside, where her cock was shouting

out his congratulations to her, and the

other hens beginning the song. Charlie

4

Snowdrop's Eggs.

thought he would go and look, and after
hunting about a little he found the five
pretty browny eggs under the primrose
root. His conscience told him he ought
to go and tell Miss Meakins or her
Martha of them, and perhaps they would
give him soniething for them. But Miss
Meakins was said to be close, and Martha
always looked sour and cross at boys.
Besides, he didn't think much of *that
there Meakins/ as the rude boys called
her.

She was a little pale woman with a
very low voice, and people said she had
been a nursery governess, till her old
uncle or cousin, or whatever he was to
her, had died and left her Woodbine
Cottage for her own, and then she had
come to live there with her maid Martha.
The boys did not know what a nursery-
governess was, but the foolish heads did
not think it was so grand as the girls'

governess, Miss Bolton, who had made

5

Snowdrop's Eggs.

them all mind her when they were in-
fants, and could do so now when they
came in her way; and certainly not so
grand as the young ladies' governess at
the Hall. And so they would not touch
their hats to her; for the foolish lads
always thought touching their hats showed
that they were inferior to the person they
greeted. They did not understand that
the putting up the hand merely means,
"I know you; good morning," though
they never saw the Squire, or even any
greater gentleman than the Squire, pass
any woman he knew, from her ladyship
at the Castle down to old Mrs. Long, with-
out touching his hat ; so that when they
s^^Ting by, quite pleased to be disrespect-
ful, they only showed how far they were
from being gentlemen.

Miss Meakins had offered to take a
class in the Sunday School, as she was
used to teaching. Mrs. Somers gave
her some little boys, of whom Charlie

6

Snowdrop's Eggs.

Anstey was one. But she had been
used to quiet, well-behaved children, and
these idle fellows soon found out that
she did not know how to keep them in
order, and they grew naughtier and
naughtier every Sunday. They talked
while she was teaching them; some
punched and cuflfed one another, and
others made faces — they would not learn
their lessons nor answer questions. Joe
Harden and Tom Long played at dibs
together, Jim Hunt and Harry Bell ex-
changed marbles and quarrelled over
them ; even David Woodfall and George
Walton, who were reckoned the good boys
of the lot, had a kicking match ; Charlie
himself had eaten peppermints under her
very nose; Albert Millar had brought a
live dormouse, a sleep-mouse he called it,
and it lived in a tea-pot. He was handing
it round, when the Vicar came upon him,
was very angry, took away the mouse and
let it run away to the wood again.

7

Snowdrop's Eggs.

Poor Miss Meakins was very mucli dis-
tressed, and when the naughty boys saw
the tears in her eyes they were not a bit
sorry for her, but only grew worse. They
brought nuts and cracked them. Albert
Millar made a grasshopper leap on her
book, and they all laughed at the start
she gave, and said she jumped as high
as the grasshopper. Tom Hunt was
even so bad as to put nonsense words
into his hymn, George Walton made
silly answers on purpose to set the
others laughing, and when she spoke
to them in a sad and trembling voice,
Harry Bell mimicked her, and they all
laughed.

That brought Mr. Somers down on
them again, very angry indeed. He said
he was ashamed of them for insulting a
lady, and sent them all home that day
in disgrace, taking away their tickets,
and when he found out how they had
gone on, threatening that they should not

8

Snowdrop's Eggs.

come to the school-feast. However, they
were forgiven and allowed to come. Mr.
Somers and Mr. Lamb told them it
was because Miss Meakins had pleaded
for them and begged that they might be
forgiven, and Mr. Somers said he hoped
they would ask her pardon, for they had
behaved so ill that he would not let her
be so treated again, and she would not
teach them any more.

David really was sorry, and brought
her a nosegay by way of making up for
his conduct, though he was too shy to say
anything; and Mrs. Walton told Miss
Meakins at the feast that she was sorry
her boy had been so led aw^ay. Harry
Bell was beaten by his mother for losing
his tickets ; but on the whole, the boys
were proud that she had not been able
to tackle them, instead of feeling what
a sad thing it was to be so hard and
rude as to have no feeling for gentle-
ness. If they had been really strong

9 [3*

Snowdrop's Eggs.

and manly, not weak and babyish, they
would have known how to behave to
her.

She taught the infants now, and they
were very fond of her, while her class had
been put again under Teacher Edward,
who was very sharp with them — ^never
gave tickets for ill-said lessons, not only
took away everything to eat or play
with, but destroyed it for ever, and if
they had only remembered the fable,
was very like King Stork after King
Log.

But these recollections remained with
Charlie Anstey, and just because he
had behaved so ill to Miss Meakins, he
did not want to go near her or have
anything to do with her. Nay, he
even felt pleased to do something to
spite her.

Three eggs — that would just make up

the number, and then he should get his

gingerbread. If the eggs were out in the

10

Snowdrop's Eggs.

open, where Miss Meakins' hens ought
not to be, where was the harm of taking
them ? Yet he knew very well that he
would not have liked his elder brother
BiUy, or his father or mother, to have
known what he was doing, as he stooped
down and took up the three clearest and
freshest-looking of the five warm eggs.
He put them in his basket and carried
them in to Mrs. Cannon«

" Deary me," said the old lady, " four
eggs I Well, you are a good boy. Where
did you find them ? "

Out in the field," said Charlie.
Ah I Speckle has stolen her nest
again, the naughty bird," said Mrs.
Cannon. ** And what brown eggs, to be
sure I What, is it twenty ? Well, there's
your penny for you."

And Charlie went oflf with it, and in
the dinner hour he bought his ginger-
bread, and went oflF behind the holly bush
to eat it all by himself, without having

11

€(
€€

Snowdrop's Eggs.

to give a bit of it even to his little sister
Alice.

He went again and again to the nest
under the primrose root, and often brought
away ^ brown egg, and Mrs. Cannon
began to be very proud of her three
wonderful pullets, that laid twenty-one
eggs in a week.

However, Snowdrop had found out
that her primrose nest was meddled with
as much as ever, and that she never was
allowed more than two eggs at a time ;
and she had been terrified besides by
Charlie's breaking in on her one day
when she was rather later than usual.

At any rate she should be safe from
boys at home, and she found a very nice
corner in under some sticks in the wood-
house ; but she did not creep out so well
but that Martha saw her, and found it
too, but as she thought it would be as
well for Snowdrop to sit, she let the
eggs alone to encourage her.

13

Snowdrop's Eggs.

Charlie was greatly vexed when he
found that the hen had deserted her nest.
He had reckoned so much on het eggs
that he felt as if she was using him ill,
and he must be even with her and find
where she went. He went at dinner-
time and looked about till he saw a hole
in the hedge, hidden by the wood shed,
and there he squeezed through on hands
and knees just to see what that bad hen
could have done.

He knew Miss Meakins would be at

dinner, so that he would not be caught,

and into the garden he crept, peeping

about ; yes, into the wood -house, and

there he found four eggs. It was plain

that no one else knew of the nest, he

thought, and the hen should not cheat

him in that way. He felt as if he had

the best right to those eggs, since he had

found the nest ; and no one knew of it or

wanted them.

One, two days went by, and Charlie

13

Snowdrop's Eggs.

had carried off an egg on two of them.
On the third day^ as Miss Meakins looked
into the nest as she made her rounds
with her india-rubber goloshes, and her
silk handkerchief tied over her cap, she
exclaimed, —

" Dear, dear 1 has Snowdrop only two
eggs ? I thought you told me you were
leaving them for her to sit, Martha ? "

" Well, so I be, miss," said Martha,
coming up. " There ought to be five or
six at the least. Only two 1 Well, I
never ! a rat must have been and got at
them ! "

" Oh, I hope not, Martha," said Miss
Meakins, stepping back and trembling.
"If there is a thing I hate it is rats.
Perhaps Mr. Grey or Mr. Nowell would
come and kill the nasty thing."

"Ay, and tear all the place to pieces

with their dogs," said Martha ; " besides

driving the poor cat right out of her

mind. No, no, miss ; FU do better than

14

Snowdrop's Eggs.

that — I'll run over to Mrs. Nowell
and borrow their rat-trap. I won't have
rats here, any 'way. Why, they'll be
eating the poor fowl as she sits on her
nest."

"They say rats always come where
fowls are kept," said Miss Meakins in
rather a melancholy voice ; for she was
rather strange to the country, and de-
pended very much on Martha to manage
the poultry, which gave the greater
pleasure to her because it was all so new.
" But what will you do, Martha ? You'll
be catching the poor bird herself/'

"No, no, miss, I know better than
that," said Martha. " I'll not lay it down
till after she has come out. I shall hear
her holloaing, you may be sure ; and then
I'll take it up before I lets her out in the
morning from the fowl-house, so that she
can't come to no harm."

So Martha went to Mrs. Nowell's, and
on the way back fell in with a cart full

15

Snowdrop's Eggs.

of sprats, and enough of the little shining
fish were bought to serve for dinner for
both mistress and maid.

Just as Miss Meakins sat at her table,
and having finished her first sprat, was
picking out the backbone of the next,
there sounded all through garden and
house a most dreadful scream and cry.
She jumped up quite pale, and Martha
exclaimed, —

" Bless me I if it ain't a child, after
all ! "

Out they both rushed, and found
Charlie dancing about, quite wild with
the dreadful pain given by a rat-trap,
whose teeth had closed on his fingers.

" You little thief, you ! Well, it has
served you right," was Martha's first cry ;
but her mistress's was — >

" The poor child 1 the poor child !
He'll lose his hand. Get it ofi", get it off,
Martha I "

"Here, stand still, can't you," said

16

Snowdkop's Eggs.

Martha, coming to him and catching hold
of him ; but he could not keep still, and
she was too nervous to find the spring
or press it; while Miss Meakins, quite
white and sick with horror, flew out at
her front door, calling out, —

** Help I help I Here's a rat in a boy-
trap — I mean a boy in a rat-trap."

It was Baker Lee whom she nearly
knocked down in her fright as he was
coming in with her bread. As soon as
he understood what was the matter, he
got hold of the bo)'-, made Martha hold
him tight, and opened the trap ; but as
soon as that was done the poor boy
turned perfectly white, and would have
fallen flat on the floor, if Martha had not
held him in her arms.

" Tis a bad job," said Mr. Lee. " I
doubt if his fingers ain't broke, besides
the tearing of them. Til tell you what,
miss, we'd best put something round his
hand, and then put him down in my cart,

17

Snowdrop's Eggs.

and I'll drive him straight off to EUerby
to the infirmary,"

" But his mother, poor soul ? " said
Miss Meakins. "Best let her go with
him."

" Who are you ? " said Martha. " Where
is mother, my dear ? " she added, as
Charlie moaned a little and gulped down
some of the cordial water Miss Meakins
was giving him.

He only moaned out something about
" mother " and " home."

'* He is Anstey's boy," said Mr. Lee.
looking him well over. " They live uj.
all across the Park, and 'tis mere folly to
take him all the way there ; nothing but
waste of time. Here, Tom," to his boy,
"you can take the rest of the bread
round. Now then, if you'd a cloak or
rug, miss, and a pillow, I'd lay him in
the bottom. There, that's the thing."

" Hadn't Martha better get in and hold

him, poor child ? " asked Miss Meakins.

18

Snowdrop's Eggs.

"WeU, I don't know; but he'll be
better lying down," said Mr. Lee. " Only
— ah, that's right," as Martha contrived
to tie a handkerchief to support the arm,
" There ! there ! 'tis very bad now, I
know, my man, but the doctors will soon
have you better."

The mention of the doctors set Charlie
oS crying and howling so strongly and
loudly that Mr. Lee said,

" Tou needn't be afraid for him, Miss
Meakins. Hold your noise, my boy ; it
won't do no good. Here, I'm going to
give you a ride."

And so somehow he was got into the

bread-cart, and laid down there on a rug ;

while poor Miss Meakins, not able to eat

another morsel of dinner, put on her

broad brown hat, and set out to find her

way to Mrs. Anstey, and tell her how

shocked she was, and how she had never

thought of the chance that a child

instead of a rat would be caught in

19

Snowdrop's Eggs.

the trap, and how Mr. Lee thought it
for the best to take him to the doctor at
once.

While she was often wiping the tears
from her eyes, and picking her way up
that long, dirty road, she met Mrs.
Anstey, for Susan Bray and Lily Bell had
rushed headlong into the cottage long
before, calling out —

" Mrs. Anstey, Mrs. Anstey, your
Charlie have been stealing Miss Meakins'
eggs, and her Martha have caught him in
a rat-trap, and the trap have snapped his
hand right off, and Baker Lee have taken
him off in his cart to the infirmary ! ''

Poor Mrs. Anstey had taken her bonnet
and cloak, and hurried off like one dis-
tracted to find out what had happened
to her boy. Mrs. Anstey knew Miss
Meakins, though that lady did not know
Mrs. Anstey, and called out,

*^Now, Miss Meakins, I'm come to
know whatever you've been doing to my

20

Snowdrop's Eggs.

poor boy. 'Tis a shame, it be, to set gins
for vermin to maim a poor child for life ;
and however is he to get his bread ? "

"Indeed," said poor Miss Meakins,
trembling, "I hope it is not so bad as
that. Mr. Lee seemed to think the
medical men there would be able to set
it right''

"Don't tell II How is they to set
it right when a poor child's hand is
snapped off?" cried Mrs. Anstey. "His
father will have the law of you, Miss
Meakins."

But in the midst of her crying, Miss
Meakins at last managed to make her
hear that the hand was in its place, and
that all they feared was that two fingers
might have been crushed. This began to
comfort the poor woman a little ; and she
perceived, as they went along together,
that Miss Meakins was as grieved and
shocked as any one could be, and never
would have let the gin be put down, if

21

Snowdrop's Eggs,

she had for a moment guessed that it
would catch anything but a rat or a
stoat She declared she would do any-'
thing, or be at any expense, and she
could not bear the poor boy's being sent
away without his mother, only he was
in such pain, that Mr. Lee and Martha
both said it would be better for him to
lose no time.

So Mrs. Anstey was a good deal
softened, and owned that it was hardly
Miss Meakins' fault, before she went off
on the EUerby road, poor woman, in
much trouble and anxiety.

The people at the infirmary had put
the boy in the doctor's hands, and would
not let her in to him, saying that till that
was over it might do great harm to dis-
turb him or make him start. After some
waiting she was allowed to come in.
Charlie was lying back on a couch with
his hand bound up and in a sling, but his

clothes were on ; and when the nurse told

22

Snowdrop's Eggs.

him he was much better, and it did not
hurt so much now, he did not say other-
wise. The doctor told her that two fingers
were broken and the skin and flesh torn ;
but it was not near so bad as it might
have been, and that he would almost
certainly get quite well if he was carefully
treated and had good food. There was
no bed to be conveniently had in the
infirmarjr. Besides, it was not a very
serious case, and he was more likely to
recover well in the open country air than
shut up there; but he must come in
twice a week to have the hand looked
to, and the doctor gave her directions
and ointment for the wounded fingers.
Mrs. Anstey was not a handy woman,
and looked rather bewildered ; so they
asked if there was no one who could
manage it for her, only warning her
against letting any one disturb the splints
in which the fingers were fixed.

" And," said the doctor, " I hope he

^.3

Snowdrop's Eggs.

has had a lesson for life against robbing
hens' nests."

Mr. Lee came back from his business
in the town to ask how the boy was, and,
if needful, to take him home ; so he went
back in the cart sitting on his mother's
knee-
He had begun to feel very much
ashamed by the time he got back, and
thought of meeting his father and his
brother Billy, who was not likely to be
as tender over him as his mother had
been ; and he was quite ready to be taken
up to bed at once before they came home
from work.

He heard through the chinks of the
floor how his mother told all the story,
and his father, who was a man of few
words, made gruflF noises in reply ; but
neither his father nor his elder brother
came up to see him. They had their
tea, and then went out to work in the

allotment. Charlie went to sleep, but

24

Snowdrop's Eggs.

woke up again when they were clumping
^ up-stairs to bed. His father came and
stood by him and said,

" What, Charlie, however came you to
do such a thing as that ? If you hadn't
been so much hurt you should have had
a good warming, that you should."

Charlie hid aAvay under the clothes,
and began crying with the pain of his
hand, which put an end to the scolding.

They were very dismal days that came

after. The poor little boy was up and

about, but his hand was very painful, and

often made him feel quite sick, and he could

not bear any of the other children to

come near him for fear they should hurt

it. He had nothing to do; and when

his mother was cleaning, there was no

place to sit down in, and she got out of

patience with him, and scolded him for

J fretting. Then Mrs. Cannon came herself

the next day to say he was not to come

about her house any more. She would

25

Snowdrop's Eggs.

v>

not employ a boy that was not honest.

How did she know how many eggs of

other people's he had brought her ? And

all Mrs. Anstey said of its not being her

wish, and his father being very angry,

and their all having an honest name,

made no difference, Mrs. Cannon would

not forgive him, nor let any of his

brothers come instead. So there were all

those pence gone. Not that they had, as

his mother said, ever done the family any

good, since Charlie had put them all

down his own throat, like a greedy boy

as he was. It was that nasty, foolish

hankering after sweeties for ever that had

made him do what she never thought a

child of hers would have done.

She scolded him again for being greedy

and fanciful, when he felt so sick and

uncomfortable that he turned against the

bit of fat mutton she had bought on

purpose for him, because the doctor said

he must live well. He felt as if he could

26

Snowdrop's Eggs.

not eat it anyhow. Fat and grease always
went against him, and he was crying most
bitterly, and his mother was very much
vexed with him, when who, of all people
in the world, should come in but Miss
Meakins herself with a basket, and in it
the prettiest little pudding in the world,
made in a tea-cup, and so smooth and
sweet and nice.

She said she did not expect the child
would be able to eat meat to-day, so she
had brought him a pudding which would
have nourishment in it. And then she
asked about his hand. His mother said
he was a naughty boy, and would not let
her touch it, and she was going to take
him down to get Granny Woodfall to
see to it.

Miss Meakins then said it would be a
great comfort to her if she might try
what she -could do for it. And when she
took off her gloves, and Charlie saw her
nice, soft, white, delicate fingers, he did

27

Snowdrop's Eggs.

not shrink from them like his mother's
hard-working, rough ones. And she spoke
to him softly and did not scold him,
though she tried to make him bear the
dressing patiently.

She made his poor fingers quite cool,
and seemed to have taken out the ache
and burning. Then she begged, just as if
it was a kindness to herself, that he might
come to her to have his hand dressed
every day, and she would give him his
dinner, and let him rest if he was tired
with the walk. Mrs. Anstey was quite
surprised, and so was Charlie, when he
had behaved so ill to Miss Meakins.

Partly, no doubt, the good lady blamed
herself for having let the gin be set where
it could hurt the child ; but whenever the
Ansteys heard of returning good for evil,
they always thought of that gentle, pale
face, and those kind hands.

And all the time that his hand was really

bad, Charlie never had such comfort as

28

Snowdrop's Eggs.

when lie was iu Miss Meakins' house. At
home the younger ones were so rough
that he was always afraid of their hurting
him ; and out of doors, the ruder Langley
boys, who hated pilfering, and felt as if
he were a disgrace to them all, used to
call after him, **Who took Meakins'
eggs ? " and " Rats, rats ! "

It was naughty and unkind of them,
and once when they hunted him up to
the very door, it made Miss Meakins so
angry that she fairly flew out at them
without her brown hat or white bonnet.
80 that they hardly knew her as she cried
out —

** Boys, boys, how can you ? If I have
forgiven him, you might."

They never did it again after that;
but Charlie never went to the infirmary
without thinking that the other patients
pointed at him and said — "There's the
boy that was caught in a rat-trap stealing

eggs."

29

Snowdrop's Eggs.

But Miss Meakins was the only person
who was always kind to him. She made
his hand comfortable ; she gave him his
dinner every day ; and then she let him
lie down on a little couch, where he went
to sleep at first, but as he grew better
she showed him pictures in a great scrap-
book, and told him stories about them,
and read easy tales to him. He came
quite to like them ; and when he was well
enough to go to school, as long as he
could not use his hand, he still came to
dinner, and she helped him learn his Sunday
lessons, so that he got on famously. He
grew very fond of her, and thought there
never was any one like her ; and she so
waked up what was good in him that he
quite left off caring for nothing but eat-
ing. Indeed, he hated the sight of bulls-
eyes and gingerbread when he thought of
all they had brought on him. By the time
his fingers were quite well, he was a very
different boy from what he used to be.

80

Snowdrop's Eggs.

He said his prayers now, and minded
them, and tried his best to be good.

His father said that rat-trap had been
the making of him. And Charlie looked
up to Miss Meakins more than anybody-
he knew, and never was so happy or so
pleased as when he could do anything
for her.

31

FANNY'S DOLL.

" It blesses him that gives and him that takes."

Shakespeare,

Little Fanny Hill was not quite seven
years old when she came to live at Lang-
ley. Her father was a shoemaker, who
came when old Cobbler Parkins grew blind,
and wanted some one to take his business.

Some of the servants at the Hall had
had their boots mended, and then came
a pretty little pair of boots that wanted
fresh toes, and the nursery girl who
brought them was measured for a pair ot
stout boots for out-of-doors.

Mrs. Hill measured her. She could
do so as well as her husband, and on the
Saturday when the boots were finished

Fanny's Doll.

she took them home, and for a great treat
Fanny was allowed to come with her.

The little girl trotted by her side look-
ing about and asking questions, as she
saw the deer with their large horns, and
was rather frightened, though her mother
told her they would not hurt her.

There was a peacock sitting on a wall
turning his beautiful crowned head and
dark blue neck, and hanging down his
long tail glittering green with purple eyes.
Fanny said " Oh ! " under her breath,
and stood still to look. She had never
seen anything so beautiful; but the
peacock suddenly cried out : * Miaou,
Miaou ' in a very loud voice, and she gave
a great jump, and was glad to get out of
the way of the strange creature.

They crossed a paved yard and rung

at a back door. A little tidy maid in a

neat brown apron and bib came to open

it, and when she heard that it was Annie

Osborne's boots, she asked Mrs. Hill to

2

Fanny's Doll.

come into the hall and wait while she
went to tell Annie.

She gave them chairs in a big room,
where there was a very large table, and
wooden chairs all round. Mrs. Hill said
that the servants dined there, and she
hoped Fanny would some day be in as
nice a place ; but the little girl wondered
how she should ever eat in such a big
silent room.

Presently the little maid came back,
and Annie Osborne with her. Annie
brought a message from Mrs. Grey, the
head nurse, to ask Mrs. Hill to come up
to the nursery to measure Master Fred.

Fanny was perched up on a high chair

with her poor little feet dangling. She

was looking with all her might at a

picture of Queen Victoria being crowned,

but she was not at all at her ease, and

felt very shy. And when she lieard that

mother was to be called away, her mouth

began to work, her eyes grew round and

3

Fanny's Doll.

then winked hard, and she was very near
beginning to cry. She was a good child^
and tried to stop herself, and it was well
that she did so ; for otherwise the house-
keeper would not have said —

" Do you want to go with your mother,
my dear ? "

'* If it is not too great a liberty, ma'am/'
said Mrs. Hill very politely.

"Oh, Mrs. Grey won't mind at all, and
the young ladies will be pleased to see
her," said the housekeeper.

So Annie the nursery-girl went on
before, Mrs. Hill followed, and Fanny,
holding tight a pinch of her mother's
gown, trotted after, all along the passage,
and up, up, up, step after step of the
long stairs, feeling quite afraid when the
steps turned round a comer, and were
three-cornered instead of straight. She
felt quite as if she had been going up a
mountain when they took her through
the little gate into the open space at the

4

Fanny's Doll.

•top, and then into the great light open
room. It was as big as the infant school,
and had as many pictures on the walls ;
but there was no carpet, only nice fresh
boards. There was a large table with a
white cloth just laid on it for tea, and a
kettle was on the fire ; but what Fanny
looked at most was a cupboard that stood
:half open, and which seemed to her the
most wonderful place she had ever seen
except the toy-shop at EUerby. The
shelves were full of charming things.
There was a great white woolly dog look-
ing out with black beads of eyes, and
all on one side, because one of his wheels
was off; there was a doll leaning out of
a perambulator with her mantle turned
hind side before ; there was a bear lying
on his back with a trumpet right across
him, and half a dozen tin soldiers and
tiny teacups and saucers scattered about,
and on the floor there was a tower
•built up with wooden bricks, and a flock-

Fanny^s Doll.

paper monkey driving a large wooden pig
with a very small china pug which had
lost his tail. This was all that Fanny had
time to see before the children came
trooping in, having just taken oflf their
walking things and put on their pinafores
for tea. Master Freddy was pounced upon
at once, and perched up on a chair, where
Mrs. Hill went to work to take the length
of his foot, measuring it with the rule
with the sliding-brass. The other children
stood gazing at Fanny, who shyly hung
her head down.

" Take her to the cupboard and show
her your toys, my dears," said Mrs. Grey.
" She would like to see the doll's house."

" Did you ever see a doll's house ? ''
said Miss Hilda, the eldest of them.

Fanny might be heard to whisper
"no," and then with a great eflfort she
added " Miss."

The other half of the cupboard was
opened, and a greater wonder than ever

6

Fanny's Doll

stood there. A little house front like
red brick with a door and windows — real
glass windows. Miss Mary tapped at
the door, and Fanny would scarcely have
been surprised if a tiny parlour-maid
had come to open it ; but instead of that
Miss Hilda took down the whole front,
while Miss Mary asked whether Lady
Florentina was at home. It was hardly
necessary to ask, for that lady was lying
on her face in a pink satin dress in the
kitchen, with the table with all its legs in
the air on the top of her.

'' Oh dear," exclaimed Miss Hilda, '* the
little ones have been at it."

"Never mind; we'll say there have
been robbers, and she's had a fit," said
Miss Mary.

"No, no," said the elder one, with a
glance at Fanny. " SAe wouldn't under-
stand."

So Lady Florentina was picked up,
and popped all sloping into a chair ; and

7

Fanny's Doll.

Fanny looked with delight at what
seemed to her so wonderful — the tiny-
kitchen-range, the table, dresser, plates,
and dishes ; and above, the charming little
drawing-room, with a carpet, and a harp,
and real pictures edged with gilt paper
.on the walls; and above, the bed-room,
"with the pretty white-curtained bed, and
the toilet-table and looking-glass. To be
sure the brushes and combs, and the bath
with the china doll in it, were much too
big for any one that was able to lie in
that bed, but they did not trouble them-
selves about that.

The brush was taken out, and Miss

Hilda fetched her biggest doll, a beautiful

creature almost as large as a baby, with

waxen arms and legs, and let Fanny brush

: the beautiful curly hair.

She was quite frightejied to do so, and
she ventured on softly touching the soft
: waxen hands.

" Have you a doll? " asked Miss Mary.

\8

Fanny's Doll.

" No — o/' said Fanny ; " only a rag

one.

^' Oh, then — " began one of the little
girls ; but at that very moment Mrs.
Hill called out —

" Come, Fanny, I . am sure you are
very much obliged to the young ladies.
Make your curtsey, my dear, and come
home."

Fanny could have cried. She really
thought Miss Mary was going to have
given her one of the dolls, so many of
them as there seemed to be ! The young
ladies, however, only wished her good-bye,
and told her they would show her some
more things when she brought back the
boots, and she had to climb down the
stairs as fast as she could after her
mother. Then she stood still with her
finger in her mouth, while Mrs. Hill took
leave of the servants down-stairs, and then
trotted away so silently that presently

her mother said,

9 [4*

Fanny's Doll.

**Well, Fanny, Tm sure you saw a
sight of pretty things/'

" Oh, mother," said Fanny, " the young
lady was just going to give me a dolly ! "

" Now, Fanny, youVe been asking for
it again, just as you did for Mrs. HoUis's
gooseberries ! I can't take you anywhere
if you are always to be hankering after
everything you see, and going asking for
it. It's being no better than a beggar."

" I didn't ask for nothing," said Fanny,
beginning to cry. " The little miss
asked me if I'd got a doll, and I said no,
and then I said a rag one — I did,
mother."

" Well, child, I'm glad you didn't ask.
I'd never have a child ojf mine craving
for all she sees. You should know your
tenth commandment better* Say it,
Fanny."

Fanny was not seven years old, and
she did not remember which was the

'^^nth at first ; so she began —

10

Fanny's Doll.

" ' Thou shalt not bear—' "

" That's not it, child. Don't you know
any better ? * Thou shalt not covet — ' "

Then Fanny did get through the
commandment, and for the first time
began to see what coveting meant.

'* But, mother,*' she said, after a long
time, "I don't want hia ox nor his
ass."

" What does it say," returned Mrs.
Hill. " ' Anything that is his '—don't it ?
Come now, Fanny ; if you can't see a
pretty thing without wanting it, you'll
always be a poor unhappy girl ; so put
all that out of your head at once, or I'll
never take you to the Hall again."

Fanny was frightened at this, for her
mother always kept her word ; so she held
her tongue, and Fanny's tongue was very
near her thoughts, so they soon went away
from the doll, and she had plenty to say
about the baby-house, and all the
wonders there. She told her father so

11

Fanny's Doll.

much about it that at last he laughed and
«aid—

** One would think the little maid had
been in among the fairies to hear her
talk."

But Fanny had not forgotten. That
evening she turned over her poor doll.
Jt really was only a bundle rolled up
tight, and when it had a shawl nicely put
on she could cuddle it up, and carry it, and
make believe it was a baby ; but there was
nothing else that could be done with it.

Poor little Fanny had not thought

much about dolls when she had one

brother older and two younger than

herself to play with her; but last year

at Ellerby there had been a sad time,

about which Fanny recollected very little,

except that she was burning hot and

aching all over, and that nobody seemed

to come to her. And when she was

better, there were no brothers ; and when

she asked for Jimmy and Alfy and Tiny,

12

Fanny's Doll.

mother cried and said they were' gone
away to a better place, and were with
their Lord in Heaven.

Since that time Fanny had been a
lonely little girl. She had been watched
very carefully as she got better; but
she had not wanted to play then — she;
was too weak, and it was hard to get
good food for her, for father had been
ill- too, and all was sad and hard till
father got the letter to propose his
coming to work for his old uncle, and
they came out to Langley. There Fann/
had got quite well and strong, and
she was merry enough in the play-»
ground with the other infants; but she
did want something to play with at
home.

" Mother,^' she said, a few days later,
** may I not have a dolly ? "

" Oh, Fanny."

" No, mammie, I ain't coveting," cried

poor Fanny. ' ** I don't want one of them

48

Fanny's Doll.

dolls in tlie baby-house now. Only a
doll ! Kate Bell has got one as long as
that, all jointed, and it only cost three-
pence! Mayn't I have threepence to
buy one ? "

"My dear love, I am sorry to deny
you,'' said her mother; "but, dear, in
those bad times last year poor father
and I were forced to run in debt. They
would never have let us come here, if
they hadn't known that we would pay
them honest every penny we could put
together, as we promised faithfully we
would do. And we passed our word not
to spend one penny more than we could
help till they be all paid. When they
be, Fan, you shall have your dolly, my
child, and welcome."

Fanny understood most of this ; indeed
she had heard a great deal about the
debt and the saving, and she knew how
mother kept the shillings and coppers
in a box, and when she could change

14

Fanny's Doll,

them into a pound, carried it to Ellerby.
But she thought that threepence would
not make much diflFerence, and it seemed
to her that, before that weary debt was
paid, she should be an old, old girl up
in the sixth standard and too big to
care for dolls. Perhaps she would have
cried for herself at the sad thought, if
luckily old Uncle Parkins had not called
to ask if his little maid would come and
lead him down to Mrs. Nowell's. There
she had a very happy game at play with
Emma Nowell and her brothers, and was
not led to think of dolls.

But three days later, as she was going
home from school, and had just parted
with the other children at the corner of
the green lane, what did Fanny see ?
There stood in the middle of the foot-
path a tiny basket perambulator, and in
it sat a beautiful little lady all fresh and
rosy in a white worked frock, a mauve
satin cloak, a large straw hat trimmed

15

Fanny's Doll.

1

^ith daisies, and a pink parasol fringed
with white, which was tied on to her
back. Fanny stood staring as if a fairy-
had come out on the dusty road. No-
body was to be seen all round. Nobody
was even to be heard. Fanny went
near and gazed at the beautiful creature
in a Sort of awe. She clasped her hands
tight at first in wonder; then she
longed j ust to feel the soft satin . and
stroke the nice round golden curls of
hair ; but " not mine " came into her head,
and one hand held the other tighter.

She knew what mother would say if she
meddled. And like a good little girl she
did the wisest thing. She ran as fast as she
could away from the sight, a little hope of,
she didn't know what, rising in her heart,
and she burst into the cottage crying out,
" Mammy ! mammy ! come and look I
There's the loveliest dolly in the world sit-
ting up in 2^ pre-ram-hulator in the lane."

(Fanny never said perambulator right.)

16

Fa^^ny's Doll.

" How the child's head do run on doUs^
to be sure ! " said mother.

But she did come out to see what it
meant, telling Fanny she had been good
to call her, and not to touch it.

Somehow Fanny's heart beat fast with
hope as she said,

"Do you think somebody lost her,,
mother ? "

" Then/' said Mrs. Hill gravely, " we
must find them that have."

And Fanny hung down her head and
fidgetted her fingers, a little disappointed
and a little ashamed.

When they came round the comer
Fanny gave a little scream. The doll
was no more to be seen on the foot-path*
No I

But looking a little further, there had
five or six little misses and masters and
two ladies come over the stile from the
coppice with their hands full of prim-
roses, and a carriage was waitinor to take

17

Fanny's Doll.

them up. They were being packed into
it tightly, tightly — ^it was a wonder how
they all managed to crowd in ; and pre-
sently Fannv spied the doll and her
<5arriage being handed up to one of them.
It was one of the Ellerbv flies, and all
was plain to Mrs. Hill now.

" See/' she said, "they have all driven
out from EUerby to pick flowers, and I
suppose Miss Dolly must needs come too.
And so the little lady forgot her, and left
her in the road for a bit. And oh, Fanny,
you may be right glad you were a good
•child and kept your hands off her, or you
would have been ashamed now."

Fanny was glad, and yet she could not
help thinking that if she had been that
•dolly's little mother she should have
loved her a great deal too well to leave
her out in the perambulator in the middle
of the path, where a cruel boy might have
thrown a stone at her, or a very naughty
little girl might have run away with hen

18

Fanny's Doll.

Fauny hoped Master Fred's boots would
be done on Saturday that she might help
to take them home, but they were not
ready, and mother would make no pro-
mises about waiting for her to go after
school.

Perhaps Mrs. Hill thought it would be
pushing to take her so often, or perhaps
the good mother thought that seeing those
wonderful toys put fancies in her little
maid's head and made her discontented.

One Wednesday evening when Fanny
came home Mrs. Hill's basket was stand-
ing on the table. • •

" Oh, mother," cried Fanny, " are the
boots done ? Are you going to the Hall ?
May I come ? Shall I put on my best
hat ? "

" Look in, Fanny," said mother.

Fanny lifted up one lid, and gave a
little scream. She saw a pair of tiny
blue silk feet sticking up, and she let
down the lid, turning quite red.

19

Fanny's Doll.

" Well, Fanny," said father, laughing.

Then Fanny lifted up the other lid,
and there she saw a rosy face, quite as
fresh as the lady's in the perambulator,
smiling at her.

" Oh ! " she said.

"There, Fan, what do you think of
that ? '* said father.

" Is she ? " began the child.

" Yes," said mother, " the young ladies
have dressed her for you themselves."

" My very own ! Oh ! " said Fanny.

And then she ventured to lift her out
by her waiat and adftire her.

It was a nice, crisp, clean frock, all
over little forget-me-not flowers, like the
ones the young ladies had on, and a clean
white pinafore with a band and bib, and
a pretty blue silk hat with a white rosette
and a blue sash !

Oh, yes ! and there was a grey frock

besides edged with pink 1 And they

could be taken on and off !

20

Fanny's Doll.

And below ? Oh ! there were petticoats
upper and under, the under one so nicely
herring-boned, and a pair of nice white
drawers, all like a real little girl.

Fanny was too happy to speak for a
long time. She stood holding the doll as
if nothing could be such pleasure, I
think she almost cried.

We need not tell how on Sunday, after
church, mother took her to meet the two
little misses, and make her curtsey, and
say, '^ Thank you, miss, for my pretty
doll.''

And we need Hot tell how Fanny
carried about her dolly, and loved her,
and let her sleep by her, and took her
to visit Emma Nowell's and Kate Beirs
dolls, and by-and-by made fresh clothes
for her, and treated her like her own dear
darling child, as she called her. She
called her Alice, for she thought Floren-
tina was too fine a name ; and besides, she
had so much wished for a sister Alice.

21

Fanny's Doll.

Mrs. Hill was happy too, for Master
Freddy's boots were so well made that
father got plenty more work from the
Hall, so much that before the autumn
was over the money that was owing at
EUerby was all paid off.

Before primrose time was over next
year there was a wonderful sight for
Fanny when she came home from school
one day.

Old Mrs. Woodfall was there, and told
her there were more dollies for her. And
there were two little brown heads side by
side — two little brothers in the cradle !

Fanny could not play with her first
dolly nearly so much now there was a
live one to be put into her arms whenever
she came home ; but she did still love her
dear old Alice, and kept her carefully.

When Johnnie and Georgie began to

run about, and lay hold of everything,

Fanny kept her out of their reach. She

knew Alice could not feel ; but it did

22

Fanny's Doll.

seem to her cruel to let them hammer
with her, pull off her head and arms, and
spoil her dress, and have only five
minutes' pleasure over her, after all, before
she was made away with !

So she kept her in her own drawer, for
fear they should see her and cry for her,,
and only took her out sometimes to drink
tea with Emma Nowell, and then dolly
behaved herself as well as ever.

One summer Sunday, Mr. Hill said, after
church he must go and see Mrs. White, his
old neighbour at Ellerby, and a sort of
cousin. He had heard that she had lost
her husband, and was badly off, and he
would take Fanny, who used to play with
her little girls. Only she must ask leave
from afternoon school.

Fanny was very glad to go. She

remembered how much she used to like

to go and play with Janie White, whose

parents were better off than her own, so

that Janie had prettier frocks and hats

23

Fanny's Doll.

than herself, and at tea there were more
cakes and more butter than what was
to be had at home. And what Fanny
cared for more, Janie had more toys than
any little girl she had known till she saw
the. young ladies at the Hall. She still
remembered the three dolls, the Noah's
ark full of creatures, and the boxes of
toys, especially the curly snake in a round
box that always frightened her, though
she should be braver now.

She thought it would be delightful to
take her own dolly for a walk out of the
babies' way, and to introduce her to
Janie's dolls. She was quite as pretty
and well-dressed as any of them, and
what a game they would have. They
could keep school for the dollies when
there were four of them, as Emma Nowell
was so fond of doing.

But mother shook her head

**No, Fanny, I can't have you carry-
ing no dolls about on a Sunday. It ain't

.24

.Fanny's Doll.

fitting, and father would be ashamed to
have you walking with him with that
thing in your arms."

Fanny was a good deal vexed and a
little ashamed, but it was a treat to walk
over the downs with father. And when
they came to the long lane, he reached
down some honey-suckle and some dog-
roses whenever she wanted them.

It was odd to get into the street that
used to be home, and to see the old door
she had looked out at so often with a
strange little girl nursing a baby at it,
and staring hard at Fanny's flowers.
Father knocked at Mrs. White's door, but
a stranger opened it, and told him that
Mrs. White had moved into lodgings.

They were not very far off*, but the
house looked very shabby and dreary.
The stairs were narrow and shaky, and
when they got up and the door was
opened, there was Mrs. White all in
black, in a clean, neat room ; but it was

.25

Fanny's Doll.

plain that it was bed-room, parlour, and
kitchen all in one.

Janie was lying partly dressed on the
bed. She cried out, " Fanny Hill 1 '' but
did not jump up, only held out her arms,
and Fanny ran to her, and they hugged
and kissed. Presently Fanny timidly
asked,

" Are you ill, Janie ? "

" Oh, don't you know I tumbled down-
stairs, stepping on a bit of orange-peel ?
My back doesn't hurt so much now, but
the doctor says I shan't never be able to
run about."

" Oh ! " said Fanny, quite frightened,
" Don't you want to ? "

" It would be a deal of trouble," said
the poor little girl. " But I wish I could
get about and go to school ! 'Tis so long
when I'm shut up here, while mother goes
out to work all day."

" Does she leave you all by yourself?"

" She has to, you know, always, except

26

Fanny's Doll.

Sundays. Bessie's got a little place as-
child's maid in Potter Street, and I lie
here all alone when mother's out."

" But where are your dolls ? I've
got a lovely one named Alice, and
I'd have brought her to see yours,
only mother said it was Sunday, and
I musn't."

The tears came into Janie's eyes, as-
from under the bed-clothes she pulled an
old headless, half- dressed stump, with a
handkerchief round it.

" Do you know her, Fanny ? "

" Is it — ^is it Maria ? " asked Fanny, in
a low, awe-struck voice.

" Yes, it's poor Maria ! It is all that is-
left of them, Fanny."

" And she used to look so sweet in her
white frock," said Fanny.

" Yes. Mother thinks they smashed her
poor head when the things were moved
here, and I was so bad I couldn't take-
care of nothing."

27

Fanny's Doll.

*'You must have been bad indeed/'
said Fanny.

"Oh, I was. But I cried so when I
knew it that mother was fit to beat me."

" And Miranda, and Lucy ? " asked
Fanny.

" Miranda broke all to pieces the day I
fell down ; and Lucy, she was stolen. A
rude boy snatched her one day when I
was out, and ran away with her."

" What a shame ! I'm glad I don't live
in the town."

" I didn't mind so much while I had
Maria to comfort me. But it makes me
sorry to have her without a head. I
-can't feel her quite alive, and I'm so sorry
for her. She'd be more company if she
had only her poor old face ; now I can't
do anything but cuddle her."

" And are all your old playthings

gone?"

" Yes, all. You see, when poor father
died, and we had to move up here, I was

28

Fanny's Doll.

terribly bad, and mother and Bessie were
in such trouble they never gave it a
thought, though I think they might have
saved my china pussy/'

There was a great thought swelling in
Fanny's heart.

" Janie," she said, " would you love my
Alice if I brought her ? "

" Oh, Fanny ! you won't ? "

"Yes, Janie," said Fanny, in a sad
but determined, old-fashioned voice ; '* I
think it will be all for the best. We've
got two twin baby boys at home that
would worrit the very life out of her if I
let them get at her, so she can't have
no play nor much notice, and that ain't
good for children."

" I'd look after her all day long," said
poor little Janie.

" And you won't let no bad boys get
at her ? "

" There's no fear of that. Why, I never

go out of this room."

29

Fanny's Doll,

" And you will love her, and keep her
nice and neat and clean ? '*

"Indeed I will. Til love her next
thing to old Maria/'

" I should think you'd love her better
than an old thing like that," said Fanny,
rather hurt.

" Oh, I can't."

However, before the little girls could
go any further, Mrs. White came to
give them some tea.

Fanny went home much more silent
than she came. One of Mr. Hill's old
friends walked with him, and she had
time to think how sorry she should be
never to see Alice on the shelf, nor to take
her down when the twins were safe in
their cradle for the night. And after all,
Janie would not love her like the stump
of old Maria without a head. Fanny
almost hoped her mother would say
that Alice was a keepsake from the
^oung ladies, and must not be given

30

Fanny's Doll.

away. But no such thing. Mrs. Hill
said,

" Yes, to be sure, child. It would be a
shame to keep it up there on the shelf
when that poor maid is pining for some-
thing to play with. A promise is a
promise, and if you've passed your word
you must keep it, even if you were hasty
about it, and not disappoint poor Janie
White. Fm sorry it is so long since
1 Ve seen Mrs. White ; she's had sore
trouble/'

The first day that mother could spare
they got out the double perambulator and
put the twins into it. Fanny carried the
doll. They very much wanted it, but
they had to go without ; and Fanny felt
very sad as she fondled the dear old thing
for the last time, and sometimes hung
back, whispering to her that she must
be very good, and a great comfort to
poor sick Janie, who would take great

care of her, and that she must not be

31

Fanny's Doll.

jealous of poor old Maria, for Janie had
her first.

Up, up the stairs went Fanny. There
lay the poor, white-faced little girl all
alone, with one old, worn-out story-book
by her side, and the last of Fanny's wall-
flowers, very fady-looking, in a cup in
the window. Fanny gently said— •

'' Janie I "

The poor little face lighted up, and
when she saw Alice there were two of
the very happiest little girls in the world
in that dull little room.

Alice never was jealous of Maria, but
Janie kept her as choice and nice as her
first mistress; and when Fanny heard
how much pleasure she gave the poor
little girl, it made her know a little how
** it is more blessed to give than to
receive," especially when giving costs us
something.

32

A MILLEE, A MOLLAB,

A TEN-O'CLOCK SCHOLAR.

" Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to da** — Isaac Watts.

I can't tell what a mollar may mean,
but I know this rhyme was very apt to
be muttered in school when Albert Millar
came into it, as he generally did when he
came at all, just as the names had been
called over.

He had missed hearing all the history
about Joseph in the pit, and Moses in the
bulrush cradle ; and when once he did come
in time, and his class were learning about
the water out of the rock, he had no no-
tion who Moses was, nor the Israelites, nor
any one else ; and he had missed learning

8]

A Miller, a Mollar,

anything about the Belief, and about what
could make him good and happy.

When the Inspector came to examine
the boys, Albert Millar could not find the
place in his book ; and when he read he
called c, o, w, sow, and read that she
gave us good milk and coam. When he
had his slate, and was to write his name,
this is what it came out —

" burd mlur/'

And he set down one hundred and five —

5001. So you may guess whether he
had passed the first standard, though he
was going on for nine years old

And people who don't pass, but have a
round O put against their names in each
line of the schedule, are not apt to be
fond of school.

Berty, as he was generally called, lived
some way off from school, and whenever
it was a wet day his mother let him stay
at home. Or if she was washing, and

2

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

that was once a-week, she let him stay to
mind baby Fred ; though, as Fred was
generally heard roaring in the lane,
toddling along, left far behind him, it is
likely that the little fellow would have
done as well or better with the door shut,
trotting about the kitchen.

However, between wet days and days
supposed to be wet, and washing days,
and days of going out to wood, and days
when something was wanted at the shop,
there were so many a's against "Millar,
Albert," in Mr. Lamb's list, that the
school-officer called on Mrs. Millar and
told her to take care or she would be fined.

She lamented much that people should

be so hard on a poor woman like her, with

nobody to help her. But Mr. Makepeace

said he could not help that, he did not

make the laws, and that he came to warn

her. Why, her boy had only been at

school twice in the last fortnight.

Then she cried and said it wasn't true,

3

A Miller, a Mollar,

for she had sent him yesterday, and
Friday, and Tuesday, and — There she
got puzzled, and Mr. Makepeace said,

" Well, if youVe sent him he's been
mouching ; so I advise you to take care
he does go."

As soon as Mr. Makepeace was gone
Mrs. Millar called Berty, but he would
not hear. He knew well enough what
Mr. Makepeace came for, and he knew
too that he had been sent to school more
times than he had been there. So he
kept out of the way, and did not come in
till his father had come home ; for he
thought that thus he should hear nothing
about it.

No ; Mrs. Millar was still very angry,
and what was worse, Mr. Makepeace had
met his father and spoken to him.

His father was asking what it meant,

and why the boy was kept at home.

He made very light of all that his wife

said about having no one to help her.

4

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

" A chad at home ! Why, Mrs. Bell
has two, and she ii,ever keeps the elder
ones at home to do nothing. Don't tell
me that ! "

And when Mrs. Millar cried and said she
had sent Berty ever so many times, but
he was a bad boy, and had not gone, his
father took the stick and beat him, and
sent him up to bed without any supper,
telling him he should have **a good
warming " if ever he missed school again.

Berty went up to bed crying, and went
on crying and howling so loud that his
father called up-stairs to bid him " stop that
there holloaing, or he would give him some-
thing more to holloa for." But he went
on, only not quite so loud, till his mother
came quietly up-stairs with a big bit of
bread-and-treacle, and coaxed him to leave
off crying, and be a good boy, and go to
school to-morrow.

And Berty did go to school, and so did

Joe Harden from Blackthorn Lane. His

5

A Miller, a Mollar,

father asked him if he had been there,
and he was able to say "Yes." Every
evening for a week or ten days his father
asked, and Berty answered, **Yes."
Only once he had been a ten-o'clock
scholar ; and one morning his mother
BCDt him for some candles to the shop,
but she made him go in the afternoon,
though he thought it very hard, when he
had so good an excuse for staying away
the tohole day ; and his father stayed out
late, and never asked if he had been to
school, so where was the use ? thought
the foolish boy.

He had tried to play with a nice long
piece of string, but the master took that
away. Then he got a button and began
to spin it, but the pupil-teacher got hold
of it directly. And when he really had
added up three and five are — are seven,
and four are ten, and had set down a
one with a nought before it, that wicked
teacher had gone and rubbed it all out,

6

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

and said he must do it again. Yes ;
and the master kept him in, and would
keep on putting it to him — if he had
three marbles and five marbles, how
many would that be ? He wished he had
them, and then he could count; but he
wasn't going to think about such stuflF.
He hated going to school to be bothered
in that way.

He hated it more every step he took
that fine summer morning, and when he
met Joe Marsden he was hating it too ;
for he had been trying to play at dibs
over his copy, and the dibs also had been
taken away from him. Why should
there be schoolmasters and pupil-teachers,
but just to spoil boys' lives and knock
them about ?

The boys did get a little fiin on their
way. They broke down two long sticks,
they knocked down all the tallest flowers
in the hedge, and they caught a daddy-
long-legs, and put him into Joe's pocket

7

A Miller, a Mollar,

to serve for sport in school. They got
there just as the names were being called,
and Mr. Lamb said he had hoped they
were turning over a new leaf. They
had missed what might have made them
better boys.

They were called to the class to read.
And while the upper ones were beginning
about *the camel,' Joe put the poor
maimed daddy-long-legs t6 walk on his
book, while Bertie pinched its leg to see
what it would do.

What happened was this — each boy
got a sharp cut across his fingers from
Mr. Lamb's cane. Mr. Lamb never struck
his boys except for something really bad,
and thus a blow was always thought
much of.

" For shame I " he said ; " I won't have
cruelty here. Give the poor insect to me."

It was so much hurt that the only
mercy was to kill it. Mr. Lamb was
really angry; he kept both boys in at

8

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

dinner-time, and made them learn the
three lines of the multiph' cation table ; be-
sides talking to them about the sin of
cruelty ; but they didn't listen to a word
of that, and only hated school the more.
Cruel 1 wasn't masters cruel to boys?
What signified nasty little flies ? Albert
told his mother about it when he went
home. Indeed, he managed to come in
cryins and said there was a weal all
across his hand.

And his mother saw it, and said it
was a shame, though any one but his
mother would have seen nothing the
matter with his hand but dirt. How-
ever, when father came home she showed
it to him, and said she would not have
her poor boy go to school to be knocked
about shameful, just for nothing at all.

But Millar himself could not manage by

looking ever so hard to see any mark, and

he wanted to know what the cut was for.

Berty mumbled out —

9 [5*

A Miller, a Mollar,

** We'd only got at play with a Bartlemy
calf."

" I thought you were after something
you ought not," said his father. " I'd be
more of a man than to make a work
about a cut like that. You should see
what old Mr. Round up at Bronswick,
where I came from, used to do to us.
He did give us something to sing out
for, to be sure ! "

So Berty did not get much comfort
from his father; and when he lingered
the next day, his mother drove him oflF,
and said he was not to be a bad boy,
and have Mr. Makepeace coming after
them again.

So Berty went off a good deal as if

the tips and nails of his boots were of

lead, and when he got to the Long Field he

looked up and down to see if Joe Marden

was coming, and stood to wait for him.

Presently he saw Joe standing up on a

gap in the hedge, and waving to him.

10

A Ten -o'clock Scholar.

His feet got light enough then, and he
ran.

"Come on!" called Joe, "here's such
a sight of things going along the road."

It was market day at Ellerby, and

there were more carts and traps and

carriages of all sorts than usual The

two boys got down into the road, and

looked at cart, carriage, tax-cart, dog-cart,

trap, and when any one was going flist

they began to holloa, " Whip behind," like

rude fellows as they were. Presently

there came a light low basket carriage

driven by a young gentleman, with a lady

and another boy in it. Joe and Berty made

a rush at that and dnxxs: on, runninfi:

behind as it went uphill, when all on !

sudden Berty felt something clutch the

top of his cap. He let go with one hand.

His head was bare. The cap was dangling

overhead on the hook of an umbrella, and

there was a shout of laughter from the boys

in the carriage. And then they came to

11

A Miller, a Mollar,

the top of the hill, and the pony began to
trot, and the driver whipped him up and
made him trot so fast that Joe let go ; but
Berty held on, for he could not give up
his cap. It was an old cricketing cap,
in scarlet and yellow quarters; he was
very fond of it, and knew that mother
would be sure to give him the stick if he
lost it. But the carriage was going much
too fast for his short legs. He panted,
his breath seemed stopping, things were
all in one daze. He gave a great scream
and loosed his hold.

And that moment a voice from the car-
riage called out — " You've got your lesson,
you little rascal," and he saw his cap flying
in the air, till it pitched on the top of the
quick-set hedge, where it hung, looking
like a fine red and yellow sort of vegetable
marrow. Berty stood staring up at it,
still out of breath and stupid with over-
running himself, and soon he began to cry.

Joe came up with,

12

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

" Come on, Berty ; what's the matter ? "

After gazing at the cap for a little
while, he said, —

" Let's shake it down."

But that was not so easily done. The
hawthorns stood very thick, and there
was no getting one's hands through, and
even if that could have been done the
sturdy stem \iaould not shake. There
was nothing to get hold of, and Berty
cried again.

** Hollo, little chap ; what's the matter
now?" said a good-natured voice. "Why,
if it bain't young Joe Harden and Bert
MiUer ! What be holloaing about ? "

And Tom Walton, Mr. Drew's carter-
boy, stopped his team for a moment.

"He've throwed my cap up there,"
said Berty between his sobs.

" Who did ? "

" Him in the carriage, as he was run-
ning after," said Joe.

Tom whistled.

13

A Miller, a Mollar,

** Oh, ho ! and what be you about out
here, you little scamps ? "

And he gave a great smack to his
whip, so that they thought he was going
on, and Berty quite howled out,

"My cap! my cap! Huck it down,
I say."

Tom was good-natured enough to use

his long stiff black whip to poke at the

cap till it fell down, and Berty could

pick it up again. As he did so Tom

said, —

** Ah ! now I suppose you're mouching.

What a couple of foolish chaps you be,
to be sure. You'll catch it, won't you.
K you were my brothers now."

This made the idle little pair take to
their heels, for Tom Walton was well
known to be as good as a father to his
younger brothers, indeed, to keep them
with a more tighter hand than was on
either Joe or Bert. So they made off
without giving him any thanks at all.

14

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

It was clearly too late to go to school
that morning ; so, for fear any one should
see them and scold them, they got through
the next gap, and sat down under the
hedge to rest after their run. They
found that they were very hungry, so they
opened their dinner-bags, where each
had a hunch of bread. It made them
thirsty, though they ate all the bits of
sorrel they could find. So they turned
down towards the meadows to get some
water, and when there they came upon
a stUl, deep pool filled with tadpoles,
polly-wags, as they called them — ^funny
black round heads with thin wagging
tails. The two boys both lay down
on the grass and tried hard to catch
them.

Happily they did not — ^happily, I say,

for truant boys like these two seldom

meddle with any poor dumb creature

except to be cruel to it, and they only

wanted the poor helpless, innocent tadpoles

15

A Miller, a Mollar,

for the mere pleasure of killing them.
They went on — how long there is no know-
ing — with their hands and their caps in
the water trying to fish some out, almost
getting them, but missing again and
again, till at last that unlucky cap of
Berty's fell quite into the pool.

He said it was Joe's fault, and Joe said
it was his, and then they began to cuflF
and kick one another, till they thought
they heard some one coming. Then Joe
went oflF, half crying, half sulking, one
way, and Albert the other.

It turned out to be nobody, and Bert
found a stick with which he fished out
his cap again, and then wandered about
at the wood-side till he heard thevoices of
the children going home from school, and
thought it safe to show himself.

Then he slunk into the cottage and
got his tea. His mother asked no ques-
tions; but when his father came home,
^aid, —

16

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

" Well, Bert, my lad, have ye been at
school ? "

*'Ay," said Berty, telling, and he
knew it, a flat falsehood to his father,
who asked no more.

Berty was, as may have been seen, not
a boy who thought about rights and
wrongs, and he never said his prayers,
or he would not have been so naughty a
boy.

But the having told that story made
him more unwilling than ever to go to
school, for he knew he might hear some-
thing dreadful about liars.

This was one of the days that Berty
and Joe played truant. There were many
more, when they dawdled out to the road
on market day, when they could bawl at
the things going by.

If they saw any one with a donkey
they always shouted at him. The foolish
fellows thought donkeys were made to be
laughed at ; and if the rider was so small

17

A Miller, a Mollar,

that they were not afraid of him, they
would race the donkey and strike at it.
What cowards they were !

When a bicycle came skimming by
they holloaed out, and threw their caps in
front, hoping to upset it.

However, they got the worst of that,
for there was another young man coming
on another bicycle. He jumped off,
caught hold of Bert, and boxed his ears
soundly, saying, —

** You little rascal, do that again, and
I'll give you to the police. Why, do you
know, if you threw over a bicycle it
would be as good as killing a fellow ? '*

And that was quite true. A bicycle
was upset by a stone on that very hill
the next day, and the rider was so
stunned and cut about the face that he
looked like death.

Bert and Joe felt very glad when they

heard of it that they had been well out of

the way, and no one could say it was they.

18

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

Or sometimes they wandered down to the
river and tried to catch minnows ; or they
would gather blackberries in the hedges.

It was not that they always meant to
miss school, and Joe went oftener than
Berty ; but when people dislike something
very much, and only do it when they are
forced, there are a great many ways of
getting oflF. And when the first alarm of
Mr. Makepeace's visit had passed oflF, Mrs.
Hill began to keep Berty at home when-
ever it saved her trouble to do so, or when
he made himself so tiresome by persuad-
ing her to let him stay at home that she
could bear it no longer.

She of course thought he was at school
all the times she saw him go off, and
thus that one day's absence now and then
could do no harm.

And matters were not mended when
Peter Potter began to keep Mr. Lee's
cows on the common. He was a great
lazy fellow of thirteen, who had longed to

19

A Miller, a Mollar

be too big for school and to go to work,
and when he was at work found the cows
such dull company that he was always look-
ing out for some one to be with him. He
rather liked making Joe and Bert mouch ;
he partly felt good-natured when he did
so, and partly he thought it fun to vex
" old Lamb," as he called the master.

So if he were in their way they were
pretty sure to stay with him — sometimes
pelting an unlucky wasps' nest with
stones, and then running away when the
wasps came out, or digging for poor little
field-mice, or playing marbles.

One Monday he took out a handful of
halfpence, and grinned, saying, " The old
woman" (he meant his poor widow
mother) " han't got 'em all this time !
I'm very thirsty. I'll give you a half-
penny a-piece, young ones, to bide here
and mind the cows while I goes and gets
a pint at the Comer hut tap."

He sauntered oflf, leaving the three cows

20

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

and two yearlings quietly grazing or
chewing their cuds, while Bert and Joe
got out their marbles and began to play
under the hedge.

How long the time was they did not
know, but by and by they heard a great
shouting and bawling.

And as they started up an angry voice
exclaimed,

** There you are, you young rascals !
Is this minding ? Whose cows are those ? "
and farmer Torwood, in a great rage,
pointed with his stick to all the five cows
in the middle of his turnip-field.

" Baker Lee's, sir."

** I'll teach Baker Lee to be setting
little scamps like you to keep his cows, as
he calls it. Fine sort of keeping."
. So the farmer ran on, all the time pull-
ing the gate open, while his two young
sons were trying to hunt out the cows, for
Mr. Torwood was stout and heavy, and

too gouty to go after them himself ; and

21

A Miller, a Mollar,

his sons were quick and lively, and in too
great a hurry.

So old White-face, the leading cow of
the lot, stuck up her tail straight out, with
the end in the air, and began to gallop
and plunge about in the turnips, with all
the other four after her, too much fright-
ened to find the gap they had gone in by
or to see the open gate, and rushing
Wund and round.

Bert and Joe would have joined in the
chase, but the farmer roared at them to
stop, while, being a hot-tempered man,
he abused Mr. Lee for giving such work to
good-for-nothing little brats, who ought
to be at school, and rated them for their
carelessness, till Bert, expecting to have
the stick about his shoulders, sobbed out
that it wasn't they as was minding the
cows, it was Peter Potter. And where
was he ?

" Down at the Corner hut tap, a getting

a pint of beer ! "

22

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

They had no such feeling about Peter
as to make them unwilling to get him
into the scrape instead of themselves ; and
when the farmer growled to them to go
and fetch him directly, muttering, " Pint
of beer ! Til beer him," off they ran, very
glad to escape ; and when they presently
saw Peter leaning against the door of
the squalid public-house, they shouted
to him,

" Come on, Peter ; your cows have got
into the turmots, and farmer Torwood's
fit to kill any one ! "

Then they went off again, out of reach
both of the farmer and of angry Peter.

" We shan't hear no more of it," they
said to one another.

They did not think it concerned them

that Mr. Torwood called on Mr. Lee to

pay for the harm his cows had done.

And Mr. Lee could have forced Peter to

pay, as it was all his fault ; but what

would the poor mother have done then ?

23

A Miller, a Mollar,

And it was for her sake that Mr. Lee
had consented to employ so lazy and rude
a lad. And he would have turned him
off at once if Peter and his mother had
not begged and promised hard.

Peter looked so black at the two run-
aways and tell-tales who had brought
him into the scrape that they knew their
pleasant times with him were over.

But they did not yet know that they
would have their share of the punishment.
The farmer was one of the Poor Law
Guardians, and the next day, at the
Board, he declared to Mr. Makepeace that
the idlest and most mischievous boys
were running about all over the place,
so that it was a perfect shame and dis-
grace, and that their parents must be made
to keep them at school, if they wouldn't
do it any other way.

Thereupon Mr. Makepeace looked at the

register, and saw there were many, many

more a's against the name of Millar than

24

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

there were of straight strokes. And the
end of it was, that George Millar was
served with a summons to attend before
the magistrates on the next Saturday.

He was as angry as a man could well
be, first with his wife for keeping Berty at
home ; and then both of them fell upon
Berty, so that if you had seen the poor boy
that night, you would have thought all his
play and fun by the river, and on the
common, ill bought by his pain and fright.
And it was worse still on Saturday night
when his father came home, having had to
give up a day's work, and besides having
been fined five shillings, which he could
ill spare. Again he beat Berty, and even
poor mother came in for many of the
angry words, and cried sadly.

Poor mother, she was frightened for

Berty, and let father think she had kept

him at home many a time when he had

played truant by his own fault. And the

trouble and punishment did not stop here.

25

A MiLLEE, A MOLLAR,

The rent and father's boots must be paid
for anyhow ; so, however cold and wet it
might be, Berty could have no new coat.
Such things were not for idle boys who
told lies to their fathers and got them
fined.

And what was to be done ? Millar said
he could not trust his wife or his son not
to play him the same trick again. So
this was what he did. He got up early
to go to his work, and he made Berty get
up too, in the dark, cold winter mornings,
that made one's fingers tingle with frost.

If Berty had been a good boy who could
be trusted, he might have lain in bed com-
fortably two hours later, and had a nice
warm cup of tea before going out. But
his father had to go to his horses before
seven o'clock, and onlv took a hunch of
dry bread, and another for Berty.

The stable was not cold, and Berty

would not have minded being there, but

when the horses went out to plough, in

26

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

the cold wet fields, or when there was
chalk to be spread, it was dreadfully cold.

His boots were terribly thin, and too
small besides, so that his chilblains grew
very bad ; his jacket had great holes in it,
his comforter was a mere wisp, and his
poor fingers looked like radishes, all stifi"
and purple and crimson.

He got no pity. If he cried with cold
and misery he was told to hold his noise,
for it all came of being a bad boy ; nor
could he go anywhere to warm himself,
for his father would not let him out of
sight till he could be put into the charge
of George Freeman, a much bigger boy,
to take care and see that he really did
get to school.

When he came in, he was often half
perished, and Mr. Lamb would pity him,
and call him to the fire ; but then came
what was still worse, for his fingers ached
so dreadfully that he was almost wild
with the pain, and cried and danced about.

27

A Miller, a Mollab,

Even then few were sorry for him, for
everybody knew it came of his playing
truant, and Joe Harden laughed at him
more unkindly than any one.

At last one morning Miss Manners
came in, and was so much shocked by his
miserable looks that the very same after-
noon she brought him a stout, thick ulster ;
but he had caught a bad cold already,
and seemed so ill the next day that Mr.
Lamb went home with him at dinner-time,
and told his mother that to go on in this
way would be the death of the boy.

She cried and said, " What was she to
do ? it was his father who was so angry,
he could not trust him," and Mr. Lamb
said he would come and speak to Millar
that evening.

So he dii He found Bert was in bed,
where he had been put as the place safest
from his father, and there he was cough-
ing dreadfully.

Millar asked again, what could he do ?

28

A Ten-o'clock Scholar.

and said he was determined not to be let
in again for a fine by an idle, good-for-
nothing boy, whose word he could not
trust.

Then Mr. Lamb offered to send home
a bit of paper every day to show
whether his scholar had been in his place,
and he said if his father would sometimes
hear the boy read or look at his writing
it would give him an interest in his
learning.

Millar growled a little, and said he was
no scholar; but at last he promised to
think about it.

Albert was a strong boy, and soon got
well, and Miss Manners let his mother
have a pair of new boots for him, to be
paid for by little and little. .

When he went to school again he made

many promises to go steadily. And he

did keep them. And he found that

going every day made school much less

tiresome than only going now and then.

29

A MiLLEE, A MOLLAR, ETC.

Of course he got on better instead of
forgetting everything he haxi learnt, and
having to begin over again every time.
He really got interested, and felt some
liking for what he learnt, and he was
pleased to show that he could read and
write a little better each week.

He began to care about the Bible-
stories he was told, and he took in some
of the good lessons that were given to
him. Chief of all, he learnt to remember
that God sees us always, and that we
cannot run away and hide from Him.

By the next summer Albert Millar had
begun to feel that there is much more
real pleasure to be had by trying to do
one's best than by only trying to do
nothing.

30

THE

THIED STANDAED.

" In work or play
Keep thou the one true way." — Kehle.

There were six little girls in the third
standard at Langley school. They had
all come to school about the same time,

•

had all come up from the infants, and
had passed the first and second standards
together, and they all held close together,
and knew each other's ways and looks
exactly. Their names were Susan Bray,
Mary Smithers, Alice Long, Lily Bell,
Myra Allen, and Lucy Hunt. Being such
friends, they went on very comfortably
together with their lessons, for Susan
Bray, who was the sharpest of them,
always answered all the diflficult questions,
6J

The Third Standard.

and then the others could repeat after
her, or if that was not allowed, they knew
how to go on from the beginning she had
made. If they were in a puzzle over
their sums, the one who saw the right
way to manage (it was generally Myra)
would show the others her slate, or make
them a sign, and Alice Long's spelKng
helped all the others.

Sometimes the pupil-teacher, Margaret
Roller, called them to sit farther apart, or
told them not to whisper nor to look at
one another's slates; but they did not
greatly attend to her, and it made very
little difference, for they knew one
another's faces so well that they could
see in a moment what was intended, and
they could read slates upside down.

They were in the same class with the
second standard, of whom there were
many more, and who of course needed
more help, so that Teacher Margaret did
not always find out what they were about.

But one week, when Myra Allen stayed

2

The Third Standard.

at home because of a broken chilblain,
all the sums were wrong, and perhaps
that made the mistress suspect some-
thing, for she took the class one day, found
Mary Smithers out in copying, and sent
her to the bottom of the class. The girls
all knew that to copy was against rule,
but they never thought for a moment
why. They liked to help one another,
and to be saved trouble in getting through
a lesson. And so they went on with
their give-and-take, always with the
chance of being punished when they were
found out. It did not seem wrong to
them like stealing, or telling falsehoods,
or hurting any one.

One Sunday, however, they were learn-
ing about the duty to our neighbour-
Miss Hollis made them say the eighth
commandment, and of course every one
answered,

" Thou shalt not steal."

' * And how does the duty to our neigh-
bour explain it ? "

3

The Third Standard.

Susan Bray began :

" To keep my hands — "

And then all the others chimed in with
her:

"From picking and stealing."

" That's right ; but there is a bit more
about it."

" And my — " said Susan.

"Tongue from evil speaking, lying,
and slandering," joined in all the little
poll-parrots.

" Now, is that one bit about the eighth
commandment ? "

Susan looked foolish, and the others
looked at her.

" Now, think," said their teacher.

Nobody did think but Susan, the others
waited and looked at her in case she
chose to do it for them ; and at last, when
she had had time to say most of the Duty
over to herself, she managed to recollect —

"To be true and just in all my
dealing — "

They took it up at once, and had

4

The Third Standard.

galloped on to " bear no malice," when
Miss Jessie cut them short, and made
each repeat what the meaning of the
commandment was.

" To be true and just in all my dealing,
to keep my hands from picking and
stealing."

" Now I doD^t want to say much about
stealing ; you all know what that is ; and
I don't think any of you would do it."

" Oh, no."

" I hope you never pick ; you know
what that is ? "

" Taking little things," said Lucy.

" Tell me of some."

" Getting plums out of a cake," said
Susan.

"Taking bits of slate pencils," said Alice.

" Yes ; or anything you are not sure

you have a right to. I mean you must

not take sticks out of a hedge, nor fallen

apples under a tree, without leave ; you

know that. But I want to tell you of a

way to be true and just that, perhaps,

5

The Third Standard.

you have not thought of. Now if you,
Lucy, had a copy to write, and you showed
up one that Alice had done, would that
be true or just ? "

"No, teacher."

" Why not ? ''

" I should not have done it."

"Well, and if you have a sum given
you, who is to do it ? "

" Me."

" How should you do it so as to be
true ? "

" Do it right," said Susan.

" Well, of course, you should try as
hard as you can to do it right. But if a
person do not do the sum herself, but only
looks to see some one else's slate and take
down their figures — ^is that being true ? "

Nobody said anything except Lucy
Hunt, and she whispered " No."

"It is not telliny a story," said Miss

Hollis, " but it is acti7iy one. You would

none of you tell Miss Bolton or Margaret

that you had done a sum if you had not.

'6

The Third Standard.

But if you write down the figures without
really working them, and then show them
up, does it not come to something very
like telling a story ? "

" Yes," said Lucy.

" And if she writes an K on your suni
or your dictation, when you have not
really known, only been helped by some
one, you get what you don't deserve."

" Yes."

" What do you get ? "

"There ain't any prizes," said Susan.

" No ; but Miss Bolton thinks you are
good, clever girls, and that you know more
than you do know, don't you see ? So yoii
get more praise or credit than belongs to
you, and that is not fair. You don't like
children who don't play fair, do you ? '^

"Oh, no. Nobody will play with the
Snookses because they cheat so."

" Well, if it is wrong to cheat one
another in play, is not it wrong to cheat
Miss Bolton and Margaret into think-
ing you know better than you do know,

The Third Standard.

or have been more industrious than you
have been ? It is not being true^ is it ?
And who wants to have us true ? "

" God," said Lucy.

"In aU our dealing. What does deal-
ing mean % "

"Selling in shops/' said Susan, who
felt a little angry and a little pert,
and thought she would give it home
to Miss Jessie, who belonged to a shop
herself.

But Miss Jessie did not seem put
out.

" That is one meaning," she said. " It
is our business to give you just as much
and as good articles as you pay for.
That's one sort of dealing. But dealing
means what we have to do with any one ;
and you have to be faithful and true with
Miss Bolton and Margaret in your work
at school. Be faithful, upright little girls,
never unfaithful in work or play."

That was Miss HoUis's lesson.

Susan felt rather hot and angry, for she

8

The Third Standard.

understood it all, and as soon as she was
out of school, she muttered, —

" Well, that be a shame of Teacher
Margaret to set her on to be at us ! "

*' I'm sure / never look at anybody's
sums," said Myra ; *' I don't need to."

" And I don't see what call she has to
be at us about weekday school," added
Susan, " Sundays is Sundays, and week-
days is weekdays."

So that pair settled the matter as they
walked to church.

The next pair, Lily Bell and Alice
Long, never thought about one word of it,
and could not have told what their teacher
had been talking about. They were much
too busy looking at Alice's new pair of
brown gloves ; Lily had been trying them
on at school, and now she had to hear the
price of them, and how mother would make
her have brown instead of green or purple.

" I never knew before it was really
naughty," said Lucy Hunt.

"Teacher is always cross when she

9 [6*

The Third Standard.

catches us/' said Mary; "but teachers
always are tiresome."

" I didn't know it was a sort of telling
stories," added Lucy again.

" Well, we won't do it no more/' said
Mary.

And then they went into church. And
there one verse of the Psalm got a hold
upon Lucy's mind.

" I hate the sins of unfaithfulness : there
shall no such cleave unto me."

She asked Polly Smithers when they
went out if she thought copying was a sin
of unfaithfulness ; but Polly said,

" Oh, goodness, don't keep on so about
that. We won't do it no more, and that's
enough."

But Lucy, as the others said, was such a

girl to keep on, that the verse rung in her

head, and came back when she was saying

her prayers, so that when she said " deliver

us from evil," she thought of unfaithfulness,

and cheating her governess and teacher

into thinking she knew more than she did.

10

The Third Standard.

She thought of it again on Monday
morning, and most of all when all the
children said their prayers together with
their eyes shut, Keading and writing ii;i
copybooks went on as usual, and then
came the sums.

The sixty-fives in five hundred and
forty — how many ?

Mary thought it went nine times ; Lucy

tried to stop her ears and eyes against

the kind of murmur that came forth

from Myra, and that efibrt took up all

her attention, so that she put sixty-five

down under fifty-four, and tried to subtract

upside down. When that got into such a

mess that she could not get on, and she

looked up to wink the tears away and keep

them from dropping on her slate, she saw

Lily twisting hers so that the corner of it

might be seen. She shook her head and

would not look, and then a glance went

round the class, while she rubbed her

attempt out and tried nine times, but did

not find out till she had subtracted, or

11

The Third Standard.

tried to subtract, that it was too much.
Then she said eight times six were thirty-
two, and so got her next trial all wrong,
just as the other girls — all but Mary —
were holding up their hands to show that
the sum was done.

" Lucy Hunt, what are you about ?
Look alive ! " called out the teacher.

Lucy was worried and upset, and could
not anyhow recollect what to do when she
got to the second step in her long division
sum, and had to subtract one hundred
and ninety-five from two hundred and
seven. She really knew, but she felt stupid
and confused, and could not recollect, and
Mary even had got on before her. So
when the time for sums was up. Teacher
Margaret exclaimed, —

" Well, Lucy Hunt, that is a shame !
Whatever have you been about ? You
must be kept in."

" That comes of being proud," whis-
pered Susan Bray, And poor Lucy began

to cry.

12

The Third Standard.

"Lucy Hunt, don't be such a baby.
It's all temper," said Margaret KoUer,
turning to the mistress ; " the sum was
as easy as possible, and all the others did
it in no time ; but I saw how it was — •
she didn't try.'*

Miss Bolton had a little more experi-
ence than Margaret, and thought perhaps
the child was not well, so she made Lucy
come and stand by her, and looked over
her as she began again on the muddy,
smeary slate ; getting her through that
one sum, and then letting her go home
to dinner.

" That child knows nothing about her
work," said Miss Bolton to her pupil-
teacher ; " you have been getting her on
too fast. You must give her easier sums.'*

" I'm sure she has always done them
right before. It is all contrariness," said
Margaret.

" So I thought," said Miss Bolton ; " but

I see she really does not understand."

Lucy had gone home very unhappy

13

The Third Standard.

and downhearted. She had very seldom
been kept in before, and her mother was
vexed, and wondered at her; but she
only said she had not been able to do
her sum. Her heart felt very heavy, as if
this *' hating the sins of unfaithfulness "
would only bring her into disgrace for
ever, and what was worse, set all her
companions against her.

'* Here comes the proud girl/' said Lily
Bell, as they gathered round the school
door.

" Well, if I would be such a silly ! "
added Alice.

' " Don't, Ally ; you know what Miss
Jessie said, that doin^ a lie was like telling
a lie."

" Well, and what has that there Jess to
do with our lessons in the week?" said
Alice ; for the whole set of them seemed
to be always repeating Susan Bray, and
to be able to think of nothing for them-
selves.

\ "I like Miss Jessie," said Polly Smithers.

14

The Third Standard.

" She's got no business with us," said
Alice.

" And she hain't a lady," added Myra,
catching hold of any foolish reason for
not minding her.

"But if it is wrong," said poor little
Lucy.

" Wrong ! why, what harm does it do ?
It don't hurt no one, do it ? " said Alice.

" Never mind, Ally," said Susan, com-
ing up. *'It's no use talking to Lucy
Hunt. She be too proud for us."

" What's all this ? " said Edith Walton,
one of the sixth standard girls, coming
up. " What, you having words I I
thought you never had I "

Polly Smithers, who was fond of Lucy,
spoke up.

"They are all at Lucy because she
wouldn't copy her sum off theirs. Miss
Jessie said 'twas naughty."

" Well, so it is, a nasty, mean trick.

We never do in our standard, nor never

did," said Edith Walton. "Our Tom

15

The Third Standard.

would be in a pretty way if he thought
I would do such a thing ! Never mind
them, Lucy ; you'll learn twice as much
as they do if you learn honest and
true."

This was a help and comfort to Lucy,
though Susan and Myra said Edith was
a stuck-up thing, who needn't give her-
self airs. It gave more force to the
little girl's resolution when the dictation
lesson was going on, and she knew she
had only to lift up her eyes to see in
Alice's face how to spell niece, and half
a dozen more words that she could only
make a dash at. Even Mary Smithers
had given up trying to find out for
herself, and Lucy was the only girl who
had written " neacer She had that and
three more words to write twelve times
over on her slate after she had done,
and Margaret Koller scolded her again,
and gave her a bad mark.

" Was it so very wrong to do as others

did ? " she said to herself. . Why should

1&

The Third Standard.

she stand out and set them all against
her, when they used to be such friends ?

She went slowly and sadly to school
the next morning. She , had said her
prayer, but her resolution was getting^
very weak. She did not want to meet
any of the others for fear they should
be cross to her, and she only came in at
the last moment before prayers. Then
came the Scripture reading. Mr. Somers
took that on Tuesday mornings, and it
was at the end of the Sermon on the
Mount, the broad and narrow way.
And what the Vicar tried hard to make
the little girls remember was — that
everybody doing a thing did not make
it a right or a safe thing to do.
It was much better to be one doing
right than among many doing wrong.
That was another strengthening help to-
Lucy; though she did dread the sums
very much, and wonder whether she-
should hold out. But to her surprise-
Margaret said in a cross voice, —

17

The Third Standard.

"Here, Lucy Hunt, you have been
too idle and careless to get on with the
rest; you are to go back to the begin-
ning. Here— seven millions, eight hundred
and fifty-six thousand, five hundred and
ninety-nine to divide by thirteen. I'd
be asliamed to have such a sum as that
after having long division for a month."

Susan laughed, and all the others ex-
cept Mary did the same; but Lucy,
though hot and ashamed, was glad, for
they could not prompt her now.

And the sum came out right.

Time went on, and the girls, who were
really good-natured and fond of Lucy,
left off teasing her to do like them, but
treated hers as a fancy, like Polly's love of
chocolate, or Lily's dislike of broth, or
Alice's turn for the infants. ** Lucy never
will," they said, and they did not trouble
themselves any more about her tastes, or
think whether they were right or wrong.
No one did, at least, except Polly Smithers,
who now and then felt that Lucy was

18

The Third Standard.

the good child among them, and wished
to be like her, but was sure to get
into trouble by it. Margaret Roller was
proud of her class, and said they hardly
•ever had a wrong sum in their long
-division and their two first rules with
money. She even got them on to multi-
plication of money — all but that little
stupid, blundering Lucy, who was behind
^11 the others.

And so came the day of the inspection,
und the school was quite full of girls all
on their forms in their standards, with
their hair in the neatest order, and their
<5lean aprons over their second best frocks,
and large sheets of paper before the three
highest standards, and new pens in their
holders, and their hearts throbbing, for
it was the best time of all the year for
testing what they had done, and they
knew that the managers of the school,
the Vicar, the Squire, and Miss Manners,
would give prizes to all who passed in
all three subjects.

19

The Third Standard.

Miss Manners was there abeady, help-
ing to arrange the needlework on the
big table — the work down from Edith
Walton's beautiful Swiss darning to little
Annie Woodfall's bit of hemming in pink
cotton.

And just as the clock struck ten, in
came j\Ir. Somers and a tall thin gentle-
man with a lono^ nose and a big black
beard — a new gentleman, whom even Miss-
Bolton had never seen before. He
shook hands with her, and asked his
questions of her, and desired her to make
the children sing. They sang, " Shall
Trelawney die ? " not quite so loud or so
heartily as generally, when they were
twenty thousand Cornishmen, for they
found themselves only forty-five little
Langley girls with very quavering hearts.
After two more songs, the Inspector began
calling out their names, and making thent
change places, so that Susan Bray found
herself in between Edith Walton and a

fourth standard girl, Myra was ever ao

20

The Third Standard.

far off, next to a fifth and the only
seventh standard girl, and Lucy Hunt had
two older ones of whom she knew very
little on either side of her, so that each
girl felt, in a manner, lonely and apart
from her own proper companions. Then

■ came the orders to write their names,
their standards, their numbers, and their
school on their papers. This was new to
the third standard, who last year had
only worked on slates, and very carefully
they wrote them ; next the cards were
dealt out — green cards with the sums that
they were to do, four in number, of which
three must be done.

How anxiously Lucy looked at them,
making quite sure they would be like what
Teacher Margaret gave the clever ones.
No — all that were marked for girls were
not a bit harder than she was well used
to. She had gone through the first on
the sheet, which was intended for rough

. copies, when the standard was called on

to listen to the dictation. It was read

21

The Third Standard.

twice over, and the more difficult words
explained, and Miss Bolton, who went
through it, took care not to go too fast>
at least Lucy thought so, for she took
in all the sense, though she was not sure
of one or two words which she had never
written before, especially something about
delicious juices.

Then she returned to the sums, and
was not disturbed in them ; indeed, she
had time to look them all over, and the
dictation too, and to alter the word here^
when it was used as a verb, into hear —
having gone wrong while trying to keep
up with the reading; but she was ^ much
afraid that some of her other words were
wroDgly spelt.

However, the six girls were called out
together to read, and then it struck Lucy
that Polly s eyes looked rather like cry-
ing. Susan would have answered all the
questions for everybody, if the inspector
would have let her, but he hushed her up,

and let Myra and Alice and Lily have no

22

The Third Standard.

peace till they had got answers out of one
kind or another.

It was over at last, the geography, and
history, and needle- work, and all. The
inspector had taken all the written papers
and rolled them up in his bag, and the
third standard were told they might go
home.

They felt very hot and weary, their
little brains aching with the strain, and
they were very glad to run out into the
air and let out their voices.

** Did you do your sums right ? " asked
Myra of Susan.

"Oh, yes, to be sure I did,*' was the
answer, with a long stretch.

" And oh ! how did you spell ' delicious
juices ' ? " asked Lily.

" Why, of course," said Myra ; " d — ^i
double 1 — i — shus."

"No, that's not it. You'll be out,"
said Susan. " Now I spelt it del — e
— t — ^i — u — s. It is always a ti, you
know."

23

The Third Standard.

" And juices ? " said Mary, anxiously.

" D — i — o — u — sh — es," said Susan
triumphantly.

" Oh, Susie, I know it is not that," said
Myra: ^'itisCh — u — s — es."

Alice Long burst out laughing. " If
you've done like that ! " she said.

"Well," said Lily, "I tried to get
Edith Walton to give me ever so little
a notion what letter to begin with, but
she was as cross as cross, and never
looked round at me, though she had done
in lots of time.

''But how did you spell it?" asked
Mary anxiously.

And as Alice, the good speller of the
lot, went through the word, Lucy's hopes
rose. She had spelt like that.

" How soon shall we know who passes ? "

was anxiously asked, and the elder girls

were consulted on how soon the paper

that they called the schedule would come

back. In two or three days' time they

thought, and eager eyes looked at Miss

24

The Third Standard.

Bolton every morning when they came
into school.

At last the schedule had come. Mr.
Somers and Miss Manners had both
come in to hear it. There were all
the names — ^beginning with the tinies
of the first standard — going up — up
— up to the elders in the sixth and
seventh, and with the columns beyond,
where blanks meant all right, crosses
meant just scraping through, and
meant failure.

How the children listened as she began
with the monitor in her extra sixth, who
had succeeded in every subject except
domestic economy ; then Edith Walton,
sixth standard, had succeeded in every-
thing ! Everybody was glad, for every-
body liked Edith; but they were too
anxious to hear their own names for much
heed to other people's. At last it came
down to the third standard.

Susan Bray passed in reading, failed
in writing and arithmetic.

25

The Third Standard.

Lilian Bell passed in reading, failed in
writing and arithmetic.

Myra Allen passed in reading and
arithmetic, failed in writing.

Alice Long passed in reading and
writing, failed in arithmetic.

Mary Smithers failed in every sub-
ject.

Lucy Hunt passed in every subject.

The third standard hardly heard a
word more, even when their own little
sisters' names were read out. Mary
Smithers and Lily Bell were crying.

Susan had her don't-care face, and
Lucy was not at all sure that she had
heard the words right. The whole six
felt that they had failed as a standard,
and that something was coming that they
would not like. They could see that
Margaret was red, and looked angrily at
them too, as if they had disgraced her.
Indeed, they really were the blot on the
whole school. There was only one other
total failure, and that was of a poor

26

The Third Standard.

child who was half silly, and could not
learn ; and the only girl besides who
had not passed was one who had come
into the parish very backward, and had
been kept to the last moment among the
infants.

When the mistress had finished reading
out the list, Mr. Somers said,

" A very creditable schedule on the
whole. Miss Bolton — all but the third
standard. Why, there is only one perfect
pass, Lucy Hunt ; one pass, Myra Allen ;
three failures in two subjects, Susan Bray,
Lillian Bell, and Alice Long, and one
total failure — Mary Smithers. How is
this, little girls ? I am afraid you can't
have been working with all your might."

" I can tell you how it is, sir," said
Miss Bolton. " Those children are always,
copying from one another. I have
reproved them for it over and over again,
and one or other of them has been
punished whenever we have found her
out; but nothing will break them of

27

The Third Standard.

it, and so when they were all out of
reach of one another they were quite at
A loss/'

" Did they copy from Lucy Hunt ? '*

" No, sir. She was the only one who
never gave in to it,'* said Margaret
KoUer, speaking up. '^ She left it off
After Jessie Hollis spoke to them about
it, and she had to do her sums separate,
because she could not keep up with the
rest."

Miss Manners said something in a low
voice, but some of the sharp-eared ones
caught it.

" Had they not all better have been
tept apart, or not had the same sums
to do ? "

And Miss Bolton replied in the same
undertone.

" Why, yes, ma am, and so I told Mar-
garet, and she did it now and then; but
it seems she could not manage, or at
Jeast she never didj''

Margaret, hot and indignant, with tears

28

The Third Standard.

in her eyes, now broke forth so loud
that every one could hear her.

" I am sure, sir, it is not my fault. If I
have told them once, I have told them fifty
times how naughty it was to look over
one another, and I have always punished
them when I caught them out; but they
never would mind, and so now they are
rightly served."

" That is quite true," said Mr. Somers-
gravely, but with a tone that hushed
Margaret's vehemence. "This is just
punishment to all who have not been
faithful in a little."

The pupil-teacher's tears came faster;
for she knew that Mr. Somers meant
that if she had been more faithful to her
own work, and had tried more to carry
out Miss Bolton's advice, she might have
done much to prevent this.

However, that did not excuse the little
girls themselves. Miss Manners gave to
all those who had passed well the prizes
which she had promised — a pretty card

29

The Third Standard.

with the date, and a shilling. But there
was only Lucy Hunt to have this in her
standard, and when she was called up
Mr. Somers said he was glad to see her,
for she had been a true and faithful
little girl, who had stood bravely up
against temptation.

And then he called the other five apart
from the rest, and asked them whether
they understood why they were in
disgrace.

Lily, who knew her mother would beat
her for failing, cried too much to answer,
but Susan said,

" For not passing, sir."

" No. We ^.re not in the least angry
with poor Janie Tubbs. Passing standards
is not the great thing above all others.
Do you know what is, Susan ? "

" Doing one's duty, sir,'' she said.

" Yes ; and you are not doing your

duty in your state of life unless you do

your best to learn now as childreii. The

inspection shows whether you have tried

30

The Third Standard.

thus to do vour best. Now, I don't think

you little girls have done so. You have

only tried to get through your lessons

each day as you could, not learning

really, but being helped by others. Is

it not so ? "

"We didn't mean no harm," said
Susan.

" But did you not know you ought
not ? "

She pinched the corner of her pinafore.

" Now, children, remember, you three
have put yourselves back a whole year
in school work, and disappointed all
who care about you ; because you were
disobedient in the first place where your
foolish young eyes saw no harm. And
that made you act deceitfully, showing
up work you had not honestly done.
When each had to work for herself,
without leaning on the others, she found
she really could not do it, and came to
this failure. It is a sad thing now, but
it will be a very good thing for you all

31

The Third Standard.

your lives, if it makes you remember that
only what is true and real and thorough
will ever stand in the end."

Then he spoke up to all the school and
said,

" Eemember, my little ones, we cannot
all be clever or strong ; but the one thing
that we can be, and that God calls on us
to be, is - faithful."

32

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