COUSIN LUCY AT PLAY

THE
LUCY BOOKS,
BY THE
Author of the Rollo Books.

New York.
Clark, Austin and Smith.

COUSIN LUCY
AT PLAY.

BY THE
AUTHOR OF THE ROLLO BOOKS.

A NEW EDITION,
REVISED BY THE AUTHOR.

NEW YORK:
CLARK, AUSTIN & SMITH,
3 PARK ROW AND 3 ANN-STREET.
1857.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841,
By T. H. CARTER,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.

PREFACE.

Two volumes of a series of little books, corresponding, in their general style and characteristics, with the Rollo Books for boys, but designed more particularly for the other sex, have already been published, under the names of Cousin Lucy’s Conversations, and Cousin Lucy’s Stories. This, and its companion, Cousin Lucy at Study, are now offered to the public, in the hope that the little readers, into whose hands they may fall, may be interested, and, in some degree at least, profited, by the perusal of them.

CONTENTS.

LUCY AT PLAY.

CHAPTER I.
THE MARBLE BOX.

There was a box, or chest, of a somewhat singular character, in the house where Lucy lived; it was called the marble box. It was not really made of marble; it was made of wood; but then it was painted marble color, and that was the reason why it was called the marble box.

The marble box had books and playthings in it. It was pretty large, and so it would hold a considerable number. There was a handle at each end, and when Lucy took hold of one handle, and Royal, her brother, of the other, the box was just about as much as they could conveniently carry. The place where the marble box was usually kept, was under a table in the back chamber entry, not far from the head of the stairs.

There was a lock to the marble box, and Lucy’s mother kept the key. She tied a piece of blue ribbon to the key to mark it, and she kept it hung up under the mantel shelf in her room.

The rule of the marble box was this—that it never was to be opened except when the children were sick,—or, rather, when they were convalescent. When children are attacked with sickness, they do not generally, for a time, wish for any playthings. But, then, when the disease is once subdued, and the pain, or the unpleasant feelings, whatever they may be, have disappeared,—then there is a period, while the patient is recovering his health and strength, which is called the period of convalescence. Now, during convalescence, children are more in need of playthings to interest and occupy their minds than at any other time.

There are various reasons why this is so. In the first place, they cannot usually be allowed to go out of doors; for, after such an attack of sickness, it generally takes some time for the system to become restored to its usual state, so as to bear safely the ordinary exposures. Thus, by being confined to the house, the child is cut off from some of his sources of enjoyment, which makes it more necessary that he should have agreeable books and playthings.

Then, besides, during convalescence, the mind is not generally in a proper state to engage in study, or in any of the usual duties of life. This is peculiarly the case if the sickness has been severe. We feel weak, and are easily fatigued, and exhausted with exertion, either of mind or body. Consequently the ordinary duties of life are usually suspended during convalescence, and this leaves a large portion of time unoccupied. It is always difficult for mothers to find the means to occupy this time pleasantly, in the case of the convalescence of their children.

There is one more reason why it is desirable to have interesting books and playthings for children, when they are in a state of convalescence; and that is, that the mind is in such a state that it is in some respects more difficult to be interested and amused then than at other times. When recovering from sickness, there is often a kind of lassitude and weariness, which makes the patient indisposed to be long occupied in any one way. Occupations and amusements, which would please him very much at some times, fail altogether now. The common books and playthings, which he is accustomed to use at other times, do not afford him much pleasure now. He very soon gets tired of them.

For these reasons, Lucy’s mother had often found it very difficult to provide the means of amusing her, and occupying her mind, when she was sick; and still more difficult to do this in the case of Royal. So she told them, one day, that she meant to have a trunk to keep books and playthings in, expressly for this purpose. She looked about the house for a trunk, but she could not find any one, which was not in use. At last, however, she met with this wooden box or chest, which was about as large as a trunk; and she said that that would do very well indeed. Royal helped her to bring it down stairs.

It was one day when Royal had been sick with the croup, that his mother first formed the plan of such a box; and she wanted to amuse and occupy him then, as well as to prepare to do it at future times, when he should be sick. So she proposed to him to take the chest into the kitchen, and line the inside of it with blue paper, so as to make it look neat and pretty within. She brought him some blue paper in large sheets; Joanna made him some paste; and then he pasted the blue paper in.

It took all the afternoon to line the box; and in the evening, when Royal’s father came home, Lucy brought him out into the kitchen to see it. It was then almost dry, and was lying down upon its side, not a great way from the kitchen fire. Lucy wanted to place it nearer; but Royal said that there was danger, if it was placed too near, that the heat would warp the wood, and so spoil the box.

“What do you think of our plan, father?” said Royal.

“I think it is a very excellent plan, indeed,” said his father. “I should like to have had a share in the execution of such an excellent plan myself.”

“What do you mean by that, father?” asked Lucy.

“Why, that I should have liked to have done something myself about this box. Mother formed the plan and found the box, and Royal has lined it. Joanna made the paste, and you,—you have done something, I suppose.”

“Yes, father,” said Lucy, “I held down the corners of the great sheets, while Royal was pasting them.”

“Yes,” rejoined her father, “all have helped excepting me.”

“Well, father,” said Royal, “I wish you would make us a till.”

“A till,” repeated his father; “what kind of a till?”

“Why, a till here in the side,” said Royal, “to keep the small things in.”

Royal explained more fully to his father what he meant by a till; and his father said that he would see if he could make one; and that he would go to work upon it that very evening, after tea.

Accordingly, about an hour after this conversation, they all came out into the kitchen to see the process of making the till. Royal and Lucy set out the table, and put the box upon the back side of it. Their mother brought her work, and took her seat upon the side opposite to the one where the children had placed a chair for their father.

“What do you suppose father is going to make the till of, Royal?” asked Lucy.

“Of boards,” said Royal.

“O Royal!” exclaimed Lucy; “boards are too heavy.”

“I mean very thin boards,” said Royal, “very thin indeed.”

But just at this time their father came into the room with a large, smooth board under his arm. The board was about as large as the top of the box; and it was pretty thick and heavy. He brought this board, and placed it down upon the table.

“O father,” said Royal, “are you going to make our till of such a great, heavy board as this?”

“Not of it, but on it,” replied his father.

“What do you mean by that, sir?” said Lucy.

“Why, I am going to make your till of pasteboard; and I am going to cut it out upon this smooth board.”

He then went out again, and presently returned bringing with him a large sheet of very thick pasteboard. He laid the pasteboard down upon the board, and then, after measuring upon the box, he marked out a square upon it, as long as the box was wide; and as it was a square which he marked out, it was, of course, as wide as it was long.

“What is that for, father?” said Lucy.

“That is for the bottom of your till,” replied her father.

He then took a large pair of dividers, which he had brought with him, and began to mark and measure in various ways, so that Lucy could not understand at all what he was doing.

Presently he said,—

“Should you prefer to have a fixed, or a sliding till, children?”

“O, a sliding till,” said Royal; “let’s have a sliding till, Lucy. But, father,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “what is a sliding till?”

“How do you know that you should like a sliding till, if you do not know what it is?” asked his father.

“Why, I am pretty sure,” said Royal, “that I should like a till that would slide. But I never saw one that would slide. They are almost always fastened in at the end.”

Royal was correct in this statement. The till of a chest is commonly a shallow box passing across the end of it, near the top, and is usually fastened to its place. But there is an inconvenience in having it fastened, unless it is made quite small; for, if it is large, it covers and conceals the things which are below it, in the bottom of the chest.

Now, Lucy’s father wanted to make his till pretty large. He cut it out square, as long, each way, as the width of the marble box. Now, as the marble box was about twice as long as it was wide, it follows that the till was large enough to cover one half of the upper part of the box. If, therefore, it had been fixed into its place, it would have been inconvenient on account of its covering and concealing the things beneath it, and making it difficult to get them out. So Royal’s father concluded to make it movable.

The arrangement which he adopted to secure this object was this: He brought in two strips of wood, which he cut off so as to make them just as long as the box itself, inside. He then bored two holes in each of these strips, and, by means of some little screws, he screwed them to the sides of the box, within, about three inches from the top. Royal and Lucy watched their father very intently while he was doing this; but they did not ask any questions. They thought that it might interrupt him, and disturb his calculations, if they were to ask him questions; so they preferred to look on and observe for themselves.

“Now I understand,” said Royal, when his father was screwing on the second strip.

“What?” said Lucy. “What is it? Tell me.”

“Why, these strips are for the till to slide on. Father is going to make a till, and put it in there, and let it rest upon those strips. Those must be the sliders for the till to slide upon. Isn’t it so, father?”

His father did not answer, but went on with his work.

“It must be so, I know,” said Royal; “and it is an excellent plan. I like a sliding till a great deal better than one that’s nailed in, so that you can’t move it.”

When Royal’s father had got the sliders secured in their proper places, he began to work again upon the till itself.

“Father,” said Lucy, “why did not you finish the till before you made the sliders? You very often tell us that we must always finish one thing before we begin another.”

“Did I say always?” asked her father, “or generally?”

“Always, I believe, father,” said Lucy, pausing a moment, as if trying to think. “Yes, I believe you said always.”

“Then I made a mistake,” said her father; “I ought to have said generally: it is a good general rule, but there are some exceptions. There are very few rules which have not some exceptions.”

While this and similar conversation was going forward, Lucy’s father continued industriously at work upon the till. He cut out a piece of pasteboard of such a shape that there was a large, square piece for a bottom in the middle, and side pieces all around. He then carefully folded up the sides, and the pasteboard thus assumed the form of a box.

“Now,” said Royal, “how are you going to fasten the sides up in their places?”

“Why, mother can sew them,” said Lucy.

“No,” replied her father, “that will not do very well; for the stitches would show through the paper that I am going to cover the till with. Besides, it would be very hard indeed to sew such stiff, thick pasteboard as this is.”

“The paper will hold it,” said Royal. “When it is all covered over with blue paper, pasted down strong, that will hold the sides together in their places.”

“No,” said his father, “not strong enough. The paste would hold; but then the paper itself would break away at the corners, after a time, and so the till would be spoiled.”

“How shall you do it, then?” asked Lucy.

“You’ll see,” replied her father.

By observing him continually, the children did see. Their father took some strips of cotton cloth, and pasted them over the corners, turning the edges over inside of the box, and pasting them down smooth. Then he covered the whole with blue paper, just as Royal had lined the inside of the box; and when this work was completed, the till was done.

He then put the till carefully into the box, and let it rest upon the sliders. He showed the children, too, how it would slide along from one end to the other.

“Let me slide it,” said Lucy.

“Very carefully,” said her father, “for it is not dry yet.”

“And will it tear, now that it is not dry?” said Lucy.

“Perhaps it may not tear, but it will easily get bent out of shape. To-morrow you can slide it as much as you please.”

The top of the till was just level with the top of the chest, so that the lid would shut down tight, just as if there was no till in it. So Lucy’s father shut the lid down when it was all ready, and told the children that they might put the box away.

“We call it the marble box,” said Lucy.

“I should think you had better call it the convalescent box,” said her father, “since it is to be kept exclusively for cases of convalescence.”

“What does that mean, sir?” said Lucy.

“Convalescence means getting well,” replied her father, “after you have been sick. So I should think that that would be the most appropriate name. It is not really a marble box.”

“No, sir,” said Lucy; “only it looks like marble, and so we call it the marble box.”

“Yes, sir,” said Royal; “and, besides, I don’t think that convalescent box would be a very good name, for that would mean that the box itself was getting well,—whereas, in fact, it is only the children.”

“True,” replied his father; “that is an objection. But let me see; I believe we do use descriptive epithets in that way.”

“Descriptive epithets,” repeated Royal; “what are descriptive epithets?”

“Why, the word convalescent,” replied his father, “is an epithet. It is applied to box, in order to describe it; and so it is called a descriptive epithet.”

“Then I think,” said Royal, “that it ought to describe the box, and not the persons that are to use it; or else it is not a good descriptive epithet.”

“So should I,” added Royal’s mother.

“But I believe we do use epithets in that way. For example, we say a sick room; but we don’t mean that the room is sick, but only the persons that are in it. And so we say a long and weary road; but it is not the road that is weary but only the people that travel it.”

“It is the road that is long,” said Royal.

“Yes,” replied his father, “but not weary.”

“But perhaps,” said Lucy’s mother, “all such expressions are incorrect.”

“No,” said her father; “usage makes them correct. There is no other rule for good English than good usage.”

“Very well, then,” said Lucy’s mother; “I’ll call it the convalescent box; and I think it will be a very convenient box indeed.”

They did no more about the box that evening; for it was now time for the children to go to bed. The next day, however, they made some rules for the box, which Royal wrote out in a very plain hand, and pasted upon the under side of the lid. They were as follows:—

“Rules.

“1. This box must not be opened for Royal or Lucy, unless they have been sick enough to have to take medicine.

“2. It must be shut and locked again, the first time they are well enough to go out of doors.

“3. The playthings and books must always be put back in good order, and the key given to mother.”

When Royal had pasted the paper containing a copy of the rules into its place, he and Lucy began to look around the house to find books and playthings to put into it. Lucy said that she meant to go and ask her mother what she had better put in.

“What do you think, mother,” said she, “that we had better put into the marble box?”

“That is rather a hard question to settle,” her mother replied. “You want very interesting books and playthings when you are sick; but then all that you put in will be entirely lost to you while you continue well; for you know the box is never to be opened when you are well.”

“Would you put in my little paint-box, mother?” asked Lucy.

“Why, no,” answered her mother, “I think I should not; for you often want to use your paint-box when Marielle comes to see you.”

“Well, at any rate,” said Royal, “we will put in all our little pictures; for we don’t care much about pasting pictures, except when we can’t go out of doors.”

They accordingly collected all their loose pictures, and old, worn-out picture-books, such as they were accustomed to cut the pictures out of, to make new picture-books with of their own. They also had a number of pieces of marble paper, and gilt paper, and other kinds of paper, of various colors, which they were accustomed to use for making little pocket-books, and wallets, and portfolios. These they tied up neatly together, and laid in the bottom of the box.

Then they selected a number of books, such as they thought they could best spare, and placed them in two rows in the bottom of the box, across the end. They also put in a number of playthings, the large ones below, and the smaller ones in the till. When all was ready, they locked it up, and gave their mother the key.

That night, however, when their father came home, the marble box had to be opened again a moment, to put in two parcels which he brought. One looked as if it had books in it, and the other something of an irregular shape. Their father would not tell them what was in the parcels. He only said it was something to amuse convalescents, whenever there should be any. He then locked up the box again immediately, and gave the key to the children, to be carried to their mother.

That evening Lucy said to Royal,—

“Royal, how long do you think it will be before you or I shall be sick?”

“I don’t know,” said Royal. “Why?”

“Because,” said Lucy, “only I should like to open our marble box.”

CHAPTER II.
METAPHYSICS.

Notwithstanding their father’s recommendation of the name convalescent box, the children continued to call it the marble box. Lucy said that that name was a great deal easier, and she thought it was prettier, besides. For some time after this, therefore, the children were accustomed to call it by one name, and the parents by the other. Whatever might be its name, however, it was found to answer a very excellent purpose. It continued to be used, according to the rules pasted upon its lid; and as, in consequence, it was not opened very often, and as new books and playthings were frequently put into it, it came to be a very valuable resource when the children were confined to the house by indisposition; so much so that Lucy’s mother said that she thought it would be an excellent plan for every family to have a convalescent box.

One time, when Lucy had been sick,—long after the convalescent box was made, and in fact, after it had been used a great many times,—she carried a little cricket up to it, in the back entry, and sat down before it, and began to read. Royal had helped her first to move it out near a window. It was placed with one end towards the window, and the lid was turned back against a chair which she had placed behind it. She had also placed another chair before it, in such a way that, when she was sitting upon her cricket, she could lay her book in this chair, using it as a sort of table. When Royal had helped her move out the great box, he had gone down into the yard to play, leaving her to arrange the other things herself.

Accordingly, when they were all arranged, Lucy asked Royal if he would not come up and see her study.

“Yes,” said Royal, “I will come.”

So Royal went up stairs again, to see Lucy’s study, as she called it. He found her seated upon the cricket, with a picture-book open before her upon the chair.

“Well, Lucy,” said Royal, “I think you have got a very good study. What are you reading?”

“I am reading stories,” answered Lucy.

“What stories?” said Royal.

“One is about a parrot,” replied Lucy; “and there are some others which I am going to read after I have finished this.”

“But I think,” said Royal, “that you had better come down and play with me, behind the garden.”

The fact was, that Royal was going to make a little ship. He was going to work upon it at a seat in a shady place beyond the garden, and he wanted some company.

“Come, Lucy,” said he, “do go.”

“But I don’t think that mother will let me go out yet,” replied Lucy. “I have not got well enough to go out.”

“I’ll run and ask her,” said Royal.

Lucy called to him to stop, but he paid no attention to her call. She did not want to have him go and ask her mother; for, even if her mother would consent, she did not wish to go out. She did not assign the true reason. The true reason was, that she was interested in the story about a parrot, that could say, “Breakfast is ready; all come to breakfast,”—and she did not wish to leave it. Her fear that her mother would not allow her to go out was, therefore, not the true reason. It was a false reason.

People very often assign false reasons, instead of true ones, for what they do, or are going to do. But it is very unwise to do this. They very often get into difficulty by it. Lucy got into difficulty in this case; for, in a few minutes, Royal came back, and said that his mother sent her word that she might go out, if she chose, and stay one hour.

Thus the false reason which Lucy gave for not going with Royal, was taken away, and yet she did not want to go; but then she was embarrassed to know what to say next. That is the way that persons often get into difficulty by assigning reasons which are not the honest and true reasons; for the false reasons are sometimes unexpectedly removed out of the way, and then they are placed in a situation of embarrassment, not knowing what to say next. It is a great deal better not to give any reasons at all, than to give those which are not the ones which really influence us, but which we only invent to satisfy other persons.

When Royal told Lucy that her mother was willing to have her go out, she hesitated a moment, and then she said,—

“Well, Royal, if I go out now, I must shut and lock the marble box; and then we cannot open it again till the next time we are sick; and that may be a great while.”

“Well,” said Royal, “and suppose it is.”

“Why, then I shall have to wait a great while before I can hear the rest about the parrot.”

“O, never mind the parrot,” said Royal; “I will tell you some stories that will be prettier than that is, a great deal, I dare say.”

“What kind of a story will it be?” said Lucy.

“O, I don’t know,” answered Royal. “What sort of a story should you like?”

“I don’t know much about the different kinds,” said Lucy. “How many different kinds of stories are there?”

“Come with me,” replied Royal, “and I will tell you. I can tell you all about it, while I am making my ship.”

“But I wish you would tell me a little about it now,” said Lucy, “and then I can decide better whether to come or not.”

“Well,” said Royal, “there are three kinds of stories—true stories, probable stories, and extravagant stories.”

“Which is the best kind?” said Lucy. “I expect true stories.”

“Why, I don’t know,” said Royal. “If you will come with me, I will tell you one of each kind, and then you can judge for yourself.”

“She looked out at the window, and saw Royal walking along through the garden.”—Page [33]

“Well, Royal,” said Lucy, as she saw that he was going away, “just tell me what sort of stories extravagant stories are.”

“Why, they are a very queer sort of stories indeed; you’ll know when you come to hear one.”

So saying, Royal went away, leaving Lucy in much perplexity of mind. She thought that she would just finish the story of the parrot, and that she would then go and hear Royal’s stories. But she could not read very fast, and her mind was distracted with wondering what sort of a story an extravagant story could be.

She looked out at the window, and saw Royal walking along through the garden. She wished very much that it was consistent with the rules of the marble box for her to go out and play with Royal an hour, and then come back and finish her story; but she knew that it was not.

Finally, her curiosity to hear the extravagant story triumphed, and she accordingly put the books away into the box, returned the till into its place, which she had taken out in order to gain more easy access to the books below, and then shut the lid and locked it. She was not strong enough to put the box back, where it belonged, without Royal; but she put away all the other furniture very carefully, and then went down stairs.

She carried the key to her mother, and said, “Here, mother, here is the key. I am going out to play with Royal. He is going to tell me an extravagant story.”

“An extravagant story!” repeated her mother, with some surprise; “what sort of a story is that?”

“I don’t know,” replied Lucy; “only Royal is going to tell me one.”

Her mother laughed, saying that she should like to hear one of Royal’s extravagant stories; and then Lucy walked away.

Lucy walked through the garden, and then climbed over the stile at the foot of it; and when at the top of the stile, she saw Royal sitting at a little distance in a shady place near some rocks.

“Ah, Lucy,” said he, when he saw her, “I am very glad that you have come; I want you very much. Come, run.”

Lucy descended from the stile, and walked along towards Royal pretty fast, but she did not run.

Royal was tying a knot, about his rigging; and he wanted Lucy to put her finger on to hold the first tie, until he secured it by a second. So he sat still, holding the ends of the thread, and waiting for Lucy to come.

“Why don’t you run, Lucy? Here I am waiting all this time,—while you are coming along so slow.”

“No,” rejoined Lucy, “I am not coming along slow. I am walking as fast as I can.”

“Walking!” repeated Royal; “well, that is coming slow. There, put your finger on there while I tie again.”

Lucy put her finger upon the place, saying, at the same time, that she did not think that all walking was slow. “I can walk very fast indeed,” she added.

“But I don’t see why you could not have run a little,” said Royal.

“Because,” said Lucy, “it is not proper for sick persons to run. I have not got well enough yet to run.”

Royal laughed aloud and heartily at this,—while Lucy looked disturbed and troubled. They came very near getting into a serious disagreement on this subject. They were both partly in the wrong. Royal ought not to have required Lucy to run to him, in that absolute manner, as if he had any right to claim that she should do it. But, then, on the other hand, when Lucy saw that Royal was in haste to have her come quick, and do something for him, she ought to have had the kindness to have run. She was mistaken in supposing that her being sick was the reason; for, in about half an hour after this, when Royal went away to sail his vessel, she ran after a black butterfly, with yellow spots, for a considerable distance.

Any serious difficulty, however, between the children, was prevented by an occurrence which fortunately intervened. It happened that, soon after Lucy left the house, her mother asked Miss Anne to be kind enough to walk down through the garden, and see where she and Royal were sitting, in order to be sure that it was a safe place, as she wished to be careful that she should not incur any danger of taking cold.

Now, it happened that, just as the conversation between Royal and Lucy was beginning to take this unfavorable turn, Miss Anne appeared coming over the stile.

Lucy walked along towards Miss Anne, with a countenance expressing some uneasiness of mind, which Miss Anne immediately observed, and she said,—

“Well, Lucy, and what is the matter now?”

“Royal is laughing at me,” said Lucy, in a complaining tone. Here Royal laughed again. “And besides,” continued Lucy, “he wants me to keep running all the time.”

“O Lucy,” said Royal; “not so. I only wanted you to run once, a little; just to put your finger on the knot while I tied it. Do you think there was any harm in that, Miss Anne?”

“No,” replied Miss Anne, “not if you asked in a proper manner. If you demanded it of her, or spoke harshly to her because she would not come,—then you did wrong; for she was under no obligation at all to run.”

“He scolded me a little,” said Lucy, “because I would not run.”

“O no,” said Royal.

“A little,” replied Lucy. “I only said a little.”

“Did you know what he wanted of you?” asked Miss Anne.

“No,” replied Lucy. “Only I supposed he wanted me to do something about his ship.”

“Well, I think, as he was waiting for you, you might have run along a little, Lucy. We ought to be willing to help one another. It is as much a duty to be kind to each other in little things as in great things; so that I think you were both somewhat to blame.”

“What was I to blame for?” asked Royal.

“For finding fault with her for not running,” replied Miss Anne, “and for speaking to her as if you had a right to require it of her. She was certainly under no obligation to come and help you at all, unless she chose to, herself.”

“Why, Miss Anne!” said Royal; “is not every body under obligation to do their duty? You said just now that it was Lucy’s duty to come.”

Miss Anne did not immediately answer this question, but stood still, looking into vacancy, as if thinking; and presently a smile, of a peculiar expression, came over her face.

“What are you laughing at, Miss Anne?” said Lucy.

Miss Anne did not answer, but only smiled the more.

“Miss Anne,” said Lucy again, pulling her hand, “what are you laughing at?”

“Why, I am laughing,” continued Miss Anne, “to think how I am cornered.”

“What do you mean by cornered?” asked Lucy, looking perplexed.

“I don’t see,” continued Miss Anne, “but that I am checkmated entirely.”

“What does that mean, Miss Anne?” asked Lucy. “I don’t understand one word you say.”

“Why, I told Royal,” replied Miss Anne, “that it was your duty to have helped him, and——”

“But I did help him, Miss Anne,” said Lucy.

“But I mean, to run along quick to help him,” replied Miss Anne.

“I did walk along as quick as I could,” said Lucy, “and I am not well enough yet to run.”

“Because I said it was your duty to make an exertion to do him a kindness,” continued Miss Anne, without appearing to notice much what Lucy said. “And that seems to be true, without any doubt. But, then, on the other hand,” she continued, “I told him that he did wrong to require it of you, for you were under no obligation to do it. That, too, seems to be true, without any doubt. Both seem to be true, considered separately; and yet, when brought together, they seem to be inconsistent; for, as Royal says, we are all under obligation to do whatever is our duty. I don’t think that I can get out of the difficulty very well.”

“I don’t see that there is any difficulty at all,” said Lucy; “for I am sure that Royal ought not to make me run when I am sick.”

The truth was, that Lucy was not old enough to understand metaphysical reasoning very well,—or any reasoning, in fact. So they dropped the subject. Miss Anne would not go on talking, and pretending to understand the subject, when really she did not; and Royal, satisfied with his victory, was desirous of turning his attention to his vessel.

“Who is going to make your sails for you, Royal?” said Miss Anne.

“I shall have to make them myself, I suppose, unless you will. See, there is my sail-cloth.”

Miss Anne looked upon a little sort of shelf in the rock where Royal kept his stores, and saw there a piece of white cotton cloth, neatly folded up, and lying in one corner. By the side of it were a pair of scissors and a spool of thread.

“Where are your needles?” asked Miss Anne.

“They are in the spool,” said Royal.

“In the spool!” repeated Miss Anne. She had never heard of needles in a spool.

“Yes,” said Royal; and he took up the spool, and showed it to Miss Anne. There was a hole through the centre of it, as is usual with spools. One end of this hole Royal had stopped with a plug, of such a shape that, when it was in, the end of it was smooth with the end of the spool; so that the spool could stand up upon this end for a bottom. Then, at the other end of the hole Royal had fitted a stopper, with a part projecting, by which he could take it out and put it in.

Thus the spool made quite a good needle-case. Royal kept it thus always in readiness for making his sails, and for rigging his little ships.

“Very well,” said Miss Anne; “and now where’s your thimble?”

“I have not got any thimble,” said Royal. “I don’t know how to sew with a thimble.”

“Well,” said Miss Anne, “if you will cut out your sails, I will hem the edges for you. Lucy and I will walk along up towards the house, where I can get a thimble; and then I can be at work, while walking back slowly through the garden.”

Royal did this, and Miss Anne made his sails. They were better sails than he had ever had before. And so much interested did they all become in this work, that Lucy did not think of the stories which Royal had promised to tell her. So she did not hear the extravagant story until another time.

CHAPTER III.
STORIES.

A few afternoons after this, when Royal came down stairs from the room where he was accustomed to study, he saw Lucy walking away from the house, with a little parcel in her hand.

Lucy turned round, but she continued moving,—walking now, however, backwards; and she said with a tone of voice expressive of great pleasure,—

“I am going of an errand, Royal, all by myself. I am going of an errand, and a good long errand too.”

Lucy was so young, that she had been very seldom, if ever, before employed to go of errands; and she was very much pleased that her mother had intrusted her with one now.

“I’ll go with you, Lucy,” said Royal.

“No,” said Lucy, “I don’t want you to go with me. I must go all alone by myself.” Lucy thought that having a companion like Royal would detract somewhat from the credit that she would deserve by going alone.

“But, Lucy,” said Royal, “I won’t trouble you at all; and, besides, I’ll show you the way.”

But Lucy did not wish to have the way shown to her. One great part of the pleasure which she took in the expedition was in the idea of finding the way herself.

Lucy kept walking along backwards all this time, and was just upon the point of turning round again, when her foot stuck the upper part of a long and large root, which ran from one of the trees which grew near the sidewalk, and the course of which was so near to the surface of the ground, that the upper part of it rose a little above the path. Royal had just time to say, “There you go,” when Lucy fell over upon the grass.

Although it was in the walk, still it was a grassy place, for the walk was not much travelled; so that Lucy was hurt only a very little. She began to cry; but, perceiving that it was not necessary in such a case, she stopped just as Royal came up to her.

“There, Lucy, I told you that you were not big enough to go alone.”

Royal did wrong to say this; for Lucy had not boasted improperly of her age and powers, but only expressed a pleasure which it was very proper that she should feel at being intrusted by her mother with a mark of increased confidence in her strength and intelligence. Besides, even if Lucy had been vaingloriously boasting, her fall ought to have protected her from taunts; for whenever people are led into difficulty by their errors, the pain they feel is punishment enough. They do not need our reproaches.

However, though Royal at first accosted Lucy in a harsh manner, he soon changed his tone, and went to help her up. He smoothed her dress, and picked up her parcel, and gave it to her; for it had been thrown off up against the tree by the concussion.

“Lucy,” said he, “I’m sorry that you fell down; but you had better let me go along with you, to take care of you, and help you up if you fall down again.”

“No,” said Lucy, “I want to go and do the errand myself alone. I shall not fall down, if you are not behind me to talk to me, and make me turn round and walk backwards.”

Royal perceived that he had been the cause of Lucy’s fall; so he said no more upon that subject, but only added,—

“Well, Lucy, since you won’t let me go with you, just sit down here a few minutes on the grass, and tell me where you are going, and all about it.”

“No,” said Lucy, “I must not stop to play or sit down by the way, when I am going of errands,—only I am going to stop half an hour at Mary Jay’s.”

“Then you are going to Mary Jay’s,” said Royal.

“Yes,” answered Lucy, “to carry this book.”

While they had been talking thus, they had both been slowly advancing along the path.

“Well, Lucy,” said Royal, “it does not do any harm for me to walk along with you like this. I will keep a little behind you, and so let you find the way yourself; and then you shall do the errand to Mary Jay, all alone. I won’t speak a word.”

By these and similar persuasions Lucy was induced, at last, to allow Royal to accompany her; and they walked along together.

“Now,” said Royal, after they had been walking along together a little while,—“Now, Lucy, I’ll tell you about the different kinds of stories.”

“Well,” said Lucy, “I should like to hear very much.”

“First,” said Royal, “there are true stories.”

“Yes,” said Lucy, “and I like true stories very much.”

“Next, there are probable stories. The things did not really happen, but there is nothing in them but what might have happened well enough.”

“Now tell me a probable story,” said Lucy.

“Well,” said Royal. “Once there was a boy who had a cat,—a beautiful Malta cat. He tied a pink ribbon around her neck for a collar.”

“O Royal,” said Lucy, “I never heard of a cat with a collar.”

“No,” replied Royal; “they generally put collars upon dogs; but this boy had no dog, and so he put a collar on his cat.”

“What was his name?” asked Lucy.

“His name was—George;—no, Jeremiah,” said Royal, correcting himself.

“How came you to say it was George first?” asked Lucy.

“Why, first,” replied Royal, “I thought I would have him named George; but then I thought that would not be so good a name; and so I changed it to Jeremiah.”

“But, Royal,” said Lucy, “I want to know what his real name was.”

“Why, he had no real name,” answered Royal, “only what I give him.”

“Why, isn’t it a true story?”

“No,” said Royal, “certainly not; this is only a probable story. I have to make it up as I go along.”

“O,” said Lucy. “Very well,—only I was thinking that it was true.”

“The boy,” continued Royal, “taught his cat to follow him like a dog. He would walk down into the fields and woods, and the cat would follow him all about. Sometimes she would climb up to the tops of the trees, trying to catch squirrels.”

“And could she catch them?” asked Lucy.

“No, indeed,” said Royal, in reply; “they were a great deal too nimble for her. Besides, they were light, and she was heavy; and so they could run out upon the light and slender branches, where she could not go. Once, she went out after one, and the branch was so slender, that it bent away down, and she came tumbling down upon Jeremiah’s shoulders.”

Here Lucy and Royal stopped to have a good laugh at this idea, which Lucy seemed to consider very amusing.

“But Jeremiah caught a great many mice with his cat,” said Royal, “although he could not catch squirrels. He caught field mice, in the grass. He would walk about, and whenever he saw a mouse, he would call, ‘Here, Merry Merry, Merry!’”

“What did he mean by that?” asked Lucy.

“Why, he meant his cat,” replied Royal; “her name was Merry.”

“And would Merry come?” asked Lucy.

“Yes,” said Royal, “she would come running along, with her red collar about her neck, and the large bow-knot under her chin.”

“You did not tell me any thing about the bow-knot before,” said Lucy.

“No,” said Royal; “I just thought it would be a good plan to have a bow-knot.”

“Well, what else?” said Lucy.

“When the boy found that he could teach his cat so much, he concluded that he would teach her to sail on a board, in the little pond;—for you must understand that there was a little pond behind his father’s house. So, in order to teach her, he used to feed her at first very near the water; then on the board, which he would place every day more and more on the water. At last he taught her to go on eating a piece of meat while the board was sailing about the pond; and finally she would lie quietly on the board, when she had not any thing to eat, and so let him sail her all about the water. He made a board of the shape of the deck of a vessel, and put two masts into it; and he fastened a long string to the bows, and he would take hold of the end of this string himself, standing on the shore. When his cat was sailing, he used to call her Captain Merry of the ship Floater. She looked beautifully when she was sailing, sitting up straight, with her face towards the bows, her tail curled round to one side, and the beautiful bow-knot under her chin.”

Here Lucy clapped her hands, and seemed much delighted with the picture which Royal thus presented to her imagination.

“Besides,” said Royal, “Merry’s red collar was useful as well as beautiful; for, after a while, the mice in the field were all terribly afraid when they saw any thing red; and so Jeremiah just scattered a parcel of red rags about, and that frightened them all away.”

Here Royal and Lucy made the road ring with long and loud peals of laughter. When their glee, however, had in some measure subsided, Lucy said,—

“And is that what you call a probable story, Royal?”

“Why—yes,” said Royal, with some hesitation, “all except frightening the mice away. I don’t think that is very probable. But all the rest is; for a boy might very easily put a red ribbon around his cat’s neck for a collar, and then he might teach her to sail on a board, by managing kindly and carefully. But as for frightening away all the mice by red rags, I think myself that that was rather extravagant.”

“And now, Royal,” said Lucy, “tell me an extravagant story.”

“Well,” said Royal. “Once there were some chimney swallows who built their nests in a great hollow tree. They thought it was a chimney.”

“O Royal,” said Lucy, “they would know, because it was not square.”

“No,” said Royal, “not at all. Chimney swallows don’t understand geometry.”

“What is geometry?” asked Lucy.

“Why, it is about squares and rounds, and all other shapes. Chimney swallows don’t know any thing about it.”

“I should think,” said Lucy, “that, if they could see at all, they could tell whether any thing was square or round.”

“Besides,” said Royal, “some chimneys are round, and perhaps these swallows thought that this was a round chimney. At any rate, they built their nests in it, and found that it was a very good place.

“By and by,” continued Royal, “there came two large gray squirrels, and they built a nest in a small hole pretty near the bottom of the tree, about as high as a man’s head. The hole went in above a branch, and was just big enough for the squirrels to creep in. And it was large enough inside to hold ever so many nuts and acorns.”

“Wasn’t the tree all hollow, from top to bottom?” said Lucy.

“No,” replied Royal, “only a small place at the top, where it had been broken off by the lightning. That let the rain in, and rotted it down some way; but the bottom of the tree was large and strong.

“So the squirrels and the chimney swallows lived here in peace for some time. At last there came a great monkey, and he climbed up into the middle of the tree, and held on there by his tail.”

“By his tail!” said Lucy.

“Yes; he curled his tail around a branch, and so held on while he gathered nuts.”

“Were there any nuts on the tree?” asked Lucy.

“Yes,” replied Royal, “monstrous great nuts, as big as my fist,—and very sweet. Well, one of the squirrels, when he saw the monkey, went up and said, ‘Monkey, this is our tree.’

“But the monkey begged the squirrel to let him stay. He said that, if they would, he would do them some favor, some day or other. So the squirrel let him stay.

“By and by, a man came along through the woods with an axe; and he went up to look at this tree. He concluded that he would cut it down. So he began to take off his coat.

“The squirrel came out of his hole, and crept around the back side of the tree, where the man could not see him, and said to the monkey, ‘Monkey, there is a man going to cut down our tree.’

“‘Ah!’ said the monkey; ‘well, I’m pretty cunning; I can contrive some way to drive him off. Do you go up and tell the swallows while I think.’ So the squirrel went up and told the swallows, and they all came down; and then the other squirrel and all the little squirrels came up, and gathered around the monkey in the middle of the tree. He then told them what to do. He told the swallows to fly off softly, and one by one, into the neighboring trees. Then he told the two old squirrels and all the little squirrels to creep down to the branches that were directly over the man’s head. Then he said that he would break off a great many branches, and have them all ready; and when he gave the signal, the birds must all fly together about his ears, making as loud a chirping as they could, and the squirrels must jump down upon his head, and he would throw his branches down, and then come tumbling down himself with a prodigious noise and chattering; and all that, he thought, would frighten the man away.”

“And did they do so?” asked Lucy.