Part 7

"Why," said Philip, "that was not very hard. You gave your rope to little Sally because she was a poor little girl, and her mother could not buy one for her. So I thought it was the best present I could give you, and the best surprise, and I took a walk into Linton to the toy-shop there, and though I saw all sorts of toys, I only asked for skipping-ropes, and I bought the prettiest that the shop-keeper had to sell. I am glad you like it."

"Yes, I like it very much. I could skip all day with it."

"Well, don't do that, for I want to have a hopping-race with you, and then we will try the new jump. Where is it?"

"It is just at the end of the playground, over hurdles. They are not very high, and I think I can jump over them. I know you can, and now that you are here I will try."

And Maud put her skipping-rope into the brown paper, and laid it on the bench.

"We will hop down to the hurdles, and then we will have a grand jumping-match," said Philip.

AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY.

Patty was fifteen when she left home for the first time to pay a visit to her Aunt Martha in London. Patty's home was in the country (for her father was a farmer), so she was very eager to see all the wonders of London. Her father drove her into the market-town very early on the morning of her departure, and as it was a very busy day with him, he was obliged to leave her in the coach office all by herself, as the London coach was not expected to start for half an hour. Patty kissed her father with tears in her eyes, and he blessed her; and telling her to be a good girl and "not learn silly town ways," he strode off, whip in hand, towards the market-place, leaving Patty alone with her possessions.

They were not many—a leathern trunk that held all her wardrobe, a basket of flowers that hid a dozen of the largest and freshest eggs from her mother's poultry-yard, and last—to Patty's extreme annoyance—a doll that her mother had insisted on making and sending to little Betsy, Aunt Martha's youngest child. Patty herself had not long passed the age for loving dolls, and was, therefore, all the more sensitive on the subject; so when the coach came thundering into the yard, and she was called to take her place by a man who addressed her as "Little Missy," she was ready to shed tears of vexation. Patty had to remember her mother's words, to "take great care of the doll, as it had been a lot of trouble to make," otherwise she might have been tempted to leave it behind, or let it drop out of the coach window.

Windsor was passed after a time, then Staines, and as the twilight came on the coach was going at a good pace, with the last rays of sunset to the left behind it, and the dark stretch of Hounslow Heath, with its dismal gallows, in front. Suddenly the coach stopped, and was surrounded by three men on horseback, armed with pistols, their faces hidden behind black crape masks. The ladies screamed, the men turned pale and trembled, the guard made a faint show of resistance, but was at once overpowered; the driver looked on with apparent indifference while the coach was ransacked.

Patty had nothing worth taking—neither watch, jewels, nor money; but when asked by one of the men what she had, she held out the doll, almost hoping that he might take it, but he only laughed loudly. In a short time the coach was allowed to proceed on its way, Patty being the only traveller who had not been robbed.

Very glad was Patty to see her uncle's kind face when the coach stopped in London at the end of its journey, and great was the excitement when it became known that they had been attacked by the way. When Patty told the story of the highwaymen to her aunt, and how she had offered them her doll, Aunt Martha gave a cry of horror.

"La, child; you were nearer the truth than you knew!" she said; and taking a pair of scissors, she cut the stitches that held together the rag body of the doll, and there fell out some golden guineas on the table, that the farmer had sent to his sister to pay for his Patty while she was in London.

Patty enjoyed her visit to London, and came home again quite safely, as did the doll, which Patty asked if she might keep in remembrance of that eventful journey.

BIRTHDAYS.

Laura had a birthday last week, and asked some children to have tea with her, and we went, but I don't think any of us enjoyed it one bit. Etty and I went, and our governess, Miss Ashton, went too; and we were very glad of that, for we like Miss Ashton, and she takes care of us, because Etta isn't very strong. Laura has no brothers or sisters, poor thing! so she doesn't know how to behave; and Miss Ashton tells us we ought to be sorry for her, and so we are, only she needn't be quite so disagreeable.

Laura was very grandly dressed. She had a new cream muslin hat on, and a frock with puffs and things on the sleeves, and all worked about in that pretty pattern Etty likes so much. Then she had on a pale-green sash, and thin bronze shoes, and white silk socks. You never saw anything so silly! We went with Miss Ashton and Miss Morris—that's Laura's governess—into a field and played games; but Laura was so disagreeable, she kept on saying, "But it's my birthday!" if any one else suggested a game, and she wouldn't think of anything nice herself.

At last Miss Morris suggested Oranges and Lemons, and Laura thought she'd like that; so we began to play, Miss Ashton and Miss Morris holding hands for the arch. But Laura didn't like me to hold her by her frock, and when I held her sash it came undone, and she was angry, and said I hit her with a little twig I had in my hand, but that wasn't true. So, as she was cross, we all sat down till it was tea-time, and after that we went away. Etty and I were glad to be home again.

I was telling mother all about it when we came home; for my birthday was yesterday, and I was to have a party too, and I didn't want Laura at my birthday party. Mother looked grave, and told me she wished Laura to be invited; and then I said—you see, I didn't think what I was saying—"But it's my birthday, mother!" Then I saw Etty looking at me, and felt so ashamed, because it was just like Laura, of whom I had been complaining. Mother wasn't angry: she only said she hoped I would set Laura a better example, and let her see that people should not be selfish, even on their birthdays.

Well, my party was yesterday. Etty and I did work hard, and we had lots of games, and took it in turns to choose them; but I forgot all about setting Laura a good example until everybody said good-by, and told us how much they had enjoyed it. Laura threw her arms round my neck when she said good-by. She didn't say anything else until she got outside the door, then she put in her head to tell us, "Next time you come to tea, Georgy, you and Etty shall choose all the games!"

A MOTHER'S PROPHECY.

"Well, children, have you been good at school?" inquired their mother, as Lina and Marie ran gleefully up the path.

"Oh, so good!" promptly answered Marie, clapping her fat little hands as if to applaud her own virtue. "We danced in a ring till Dolly was so giddy I had to sit down."

"Poor Dolly!" said Mrs. Wolf.

"Oh! she'll be better soon," said Marie cheerfully. "She's lying back because she's faint—at least, she says so; but I do believe the real reason is she likes it better than being at the bottom of the bag."

"Very likely she does," said Mrs. Wolf, smiling at Marie's speech, for the little four-year-old girl quite believed her doll felt things as she did. Then turning to Lina, "And what have you done, my darling?"

Lina was seven years old, and could read and write nicely, and was in a higher form in the school than Marie, whose school-work was, very properly, mostly play.

"We did a new sort of lesson to-day, mother," said Lina. "See!" and she handed a book to her mother, who stooped down to be on a level with the little scholar.

"Open it at page forty-six, please, mother."

"Yes; here it is, but it is only a picture of a rabbit," said Mrs. Wolf.

"That is right," said Lina: "we all looked at that picture, and then we had to shut the book and write what we could about The Rabbit. And the little girl next me put, 'The rabbit moves his nose when he eats;' and that was all she wrote. We did so laugh when she had to read it out."

"A very short essay, certainly," said Mrs. Wolf, laughing also; "still, it is strictly true, and that is something. But what did my little Lina write?"

"I'll show you, mother," said Lina; and, with a deep blush on her face, she drew her slate carefully out of her bag. "The mistress was pleased with it, and told me I might show it to you."

Lina's slate had on it a really spirited little sketch of two rabbits, and Mrs. Wolf was both surprised and delighted.

"Did you do this, Lina?" she asked, as she drew the little artist to her.

"I couldn't think of anything to write," said Lina shyly; "I never can; so I drew the rabbits instead."

"My darling," said her mother earnestly, "if you work hard you might one day be a great artist—I feel sure of it."

Mrs. Wolf's words came true in after years. Lina is now a well-known painter, and honors not a few have fallen to her share.

But that day in the garden, when mother first prophesied that she would be an artist, is still the day that Lina loves most to recall. "It was mother's praise that made an artist of me," she always declares.

THE CAPTAIN

by F. Wyville Home.

I.

I should like to be the captain of a great big ship, And to take her out a sailing for a long sea trip. I would visit all the islands of the hot south seas, And the white and shining regions where the ice-bergs freeze.

II.

I would have a little cabin fitted up quite smart, With a swinging berth, a spyglass, and a deep sea chart, And beads to please the savages in isles far hence, And a parrot who can whistle tunes and talk good sense.

III.

When a storm of wind arises, and the great waves swell, We will scud along the billows like a blown foam-bell, When 'tis glassy calm beneath a sky without one fleck, I'll play a game of skittles on the calm smooth deck.

IV.

And if the crew should mutiny on some dark night, With my left I'd seize a cutlass and a pistol in my right, And I'd show them that their Captain has a right bold heart, And I'd make each man an officer that took my part.

THE DOLL THAT TAUGHT A LESSON.

"Good-by, Annie dear; mind and take good care of Dorrie."

"Yes, mamma."

Ah! Annie, how easy it is to make a promise! A hearty kiss sealed it; then Mrs. Roby drove away in her carriage, and so our story begins.

Mamma gone out to spend the day, Annie left at home to take care of Dorrie, while nurse was cleaning the nurseries. Annie was six, Ralph, her brother, seven, Dorrie four, and the "funniest little puppet in all England," so Ralph said.

"Annie, I do fink Mab could walk almost by herself with these boots on," said Dorrie, she and Annie back in the dining-room, Dorrie busy with a family of three dolls, Annie deep in a new story-book.

The wee mamma had just contrived to put a pair of new boots, of Annie's manufacturing, on the by no means elegant feet of shock-headed Mab. Next came the suggestion from silver-tongued Dorrie, as Annie was silent—

"I fink Mab and Alice ought to go for a walk. Baby is just gone to sleep;" and the mite was laid carefully among the sofa cushions.

"Very well." Down went the book; with that promise just spoken, Annie could not well do other than go this walk with her little sister, yet in a listless, half-hearted way.

"You take the one hand, I the other;" so prattled Dorrie. "Oh! see her feet!" and certainly Miss Mab did trip it out right nimbly down to the gate. How Dorrie laughed, watching her.

Just outside the gate they met Ralph.

"What are you laughing at, old lady?" he asked.

"Because Mab can almost walk by herself," she told him.

"Then she'll be running away one of these days," said the boy.

"Oh! she wouldn't—she wouldn't run away from me, because I love her so;" and Dorrie stooped and gave her a sounding kiss.

"You just wait and see," was Ralph's answer; then he went on, and the sisters pursued their walk.

Back again, then dinner for the children, a long sleep for the dollies, and next, the golden afternoon to be lived through and enjoyed.

"Annie!" cried Dorrie, coming down from the nursery, and peering in at the dining-room, where Annie was now reading with a will, deep in the wildest tragedy of the story, where a dog, a gypsy, and a certain Sophia were playing their parts in real story-book fashion. "Annie!" so silvery-tongued Dorrie spoke her name again.

"Well, what?" was the unladylike answer from Annie.

"I fink the dollies want to go out in their mail-cart."

"Well, take them."

"But I want you to come."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't; run away."

"Must I go alone?" asked Dorrie sadly.

"Yes, of course you must." And she went.

Shock-headed Mab, Alice, and Daisy in the jaunting mail-cart, Dorrie drawing it, playing pony and careful mamma all in one; out at the gate, along the road to the copse; a river came running and babbling along by the road, as one neared the copse. Inside the copse the doves were cooing, squirrels leaping, the cuckoo crying, as the mite went along. What would send her back? Not her baby conscience, for Annie had told her to go all by herself—big, big Annie, ever so big.

At home, the afternoon wore away, tea-time came; nurse ran down from the nursery to the dining-room to fetch her two little charges. Only Annie was there, who started up from her book, like a girl awaking from sleep.

"Why, Miss Annie, I thought Dorrie was here!" cried nurse, in surprise.

"No, she—she"—Annie's conscience gave her such a prick.

"She what?" inquired nurse sharply.

"She took the dolls out in the mail-cart, and"—how Annie bowed her head as conscience whispered of that promise to her mamma broken; and her poor troubled heart also whispered, "What if something sad was going to happen?"

Well, they sought the child here, there, and everywhere, little dreaming what had happened, what was happening still. At last Ralph started off, by the way of the copse, to look for her. Annie hurried in another direction, and nurse in yet another. Rover went with Ralph—good Rover, who could fetch, carry, and find so much. Oh, dear! what a seeking and searching love makes, when even one wee maiden is lost! Ay, lost—not a trace of her could Ralph and Rover find, till they came to the babbling river, and there, on the bank, lay a posy of lilies-of-the-valley, and a knot of ribbon from Dorrie's shoulder; the river babbled out the rest of the story. Poor Ralph! how he cried now!

"Dorrie! Dorrie!" he cried, peering down into the shining river, as if fearful of seeing a sun-bonnet and a gleaming of golden hair in its depths. But no; he saw nothing, only the minnows, the water-spiders, and the pebbles.

"Lost! Rover, find!" said he to the dog, showing him Dorrie's shoulder-knot and the flowers.

Rover seemed to understand, for he sniffed at the ground, and then bounded into the river, diving down, and no doubt frightening the fishes as much as he did Ralph. Presently he came out, bringing—ah! what? Mab, dripping, water-bedabbled—a pitiful object indeed. The boy took her in his hand, too alarmed to laugh, though fright and fun almost choked him; then the dog bounded and led the way into the copse, where the doves still cooed, the squirrels leaped, and the cuckoo cried, as if no small maiden was lost, perhaps never to be found again alive. The thought made Ralph shiver.

The river flowed through one corner of the copse; he could see it shining where the sunbeams fell through the tree branches. But Rover did not go that way: he dived away among the trees and undergrowth.

"Dorrie! Dorrie!" cried the little brother.

"Wow-wow-wow!" barked Rover, but at first no response.

Presently, "Wow-wow-wow!" barked Rover again; it was a joyful bark, and Ralph ran to him. There lay poor tired Dorrie fast asleep, the two remaining dolls in the mail-cart smiling and staring at her. But Rover woke her with a pat, Ralph hugged her with such a fond hug; then they started homeward, Ralph taking the mail-cart, with poor wet Mab mounted in disgrace behind, Dorrie clinging to his other hand. They reached home in time to go in with mamma, returned from her visit.

"I left my dollies to go into the copse to pick some flowers, and when I came back Mab had run away; then I went into the copse to find her, and couldn't; then I cried and went to sleep, and Rover found me." This was Dorrie's story of herself.

"I will never, never, never break a promise again, mamma!" said penitent Annie.

ROSIE'S DISAPPOINTMENT.

It was a disappointment! Mother looked gravely at the clouds, Nurse shook her head, and Father said it would never do for Rosie, who was not strong, to go to a picnic if the weather was doubtful.

And it was more than doubtful; for a sharp shower made the grass and the trees and the flowers look all the more beautiful to the poor child, who was longing for a day in the woods.

"Mother, I believe it will clear up later," she said, looking at the sky.

"I couldn't let you go, Rosie, for the grass would be wet."

"But I could sit on a rug."

"You couldn't walk on a rug, and the grass and underwood will be damp. I am very sorry, Rosie, and it is a great disappointment; but, indeed, it can't be helped." And Mrs. Seymour stooped to kiss her little girl.

At that moment a servant came to say that Miss Peters was in the drawing-room.

Miss Peters was a very rich lady, who lived all alone in a beautiful house about two miles away, and she had come to lend Mrs. Seymour some books, and ask her if she would go for a drive with her on the following day. Mrs. Seymour said she would be quite ready at the appointed time; and when they spoke of the weather she told her friend what a disappointment the rain had been to poor Rosie.

"Won't you let me take her home, Mrs. Seymour?" said Miss Peters. "I have the carriage here, and we could wrap her up in rugs; and I will bring her home this afternoon myself. Let me have her; I shall enjoy it; and there will be an end to your difficulties."

Mrs. Seymour was very glad, but wondered if Rosie would like it, as she was rather shy; but the little girl saw that it was the only arrangement by which her brothers could have all their fun, so she went with Miss Peters. She was a very grave little visitor, but Miss Peters was so kind that Rosie could not be shy for long; and then there was so much, so very much, to see! The house was like a museum, the conservatory a fairyland, and the garden a paradise of loveliness.

The showers all passed away, and Rosie could run about on the terraces, where there were so many flowers that Miss Peters told her she might pick what she liked, and Rosie made a very pretty bunch to take home, which pleased her; and pleasanter still was Miss Peters's kiss as she said, looking at the modest little nosegay, "I am glad to see that you are not greedy, Rosie."