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THE NEW-YEAR’S BARGAIN.

“There was only one body there,—an old, old man with snow-white hair; but there was a long row of clay figures in front of him.”

THE
New-Year’s Bargain.

BY
SUSAN COOLIDGE.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD.

BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1884.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
ROBERTS BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.

A little golden head close to my knee,

Sweet eyes of tender, gentianella blue

Fixed upon mine, a little coaxing voice,—

Only we two.

“Tell it again!” Insatiate demand!

And like a toiling spider where I sat,

I wove and spun the many-colored webs

Of this and that.

Of Dotty Pringle sweeping out her hall;

Of Greedy Bear; of Santa Claus the good;

And how the little children met the Months

Within the wood.

“Tell it again!” and though the sand-man came,

Dropping his drowsy grains in each blue eye,

“Tell it again! oh, just once more!” was still

The sleepy cry.

My spring-time violet! early snatched away

To fairer gardens all unknown to me,—

Gardens of whose invisible, guarded gates

I have no key,—

I weave my fancies now for other ears,—

Thy sister-blossom’s, who beside me sits,

Rosy, imperative, and quick to mark

My lagging wits.

But still the stories bear thy name, are thine,

Part of the sunshine of thy brief, sweet day,

Though in her little warm and living hands

This book I lay.

CONTENTS.

“This afternoon, in spite of the cold, they are out gathering wood.”

CHAPTER I.
THE BARGAIN WITH THE MONTHS.

IT is a cold, wintry day. The Old Year is going to die to-night. All the winds have come to his funeral, and, while waiting, are sky-larking about the country. It is a very improper thing for mourners to do. Here they are in the Black Forest, going on like a parcel of school-boys, waltzing with leaves, singing in tree-tops, whooping, whistling, making all sorts of odd noises. If the Old Year hears them, he must think he has a very queer sort of “procession.”

Max and Thekla are used to the winds, and not afraid of them. They are not afraid of the Forest either, though the country people avoid it, and tell wonderful stories about things seen and heard there. The hut in which they and their Grandfather live is in the heart of the wood. No other house stands within miles of them. In summer-time the wild lilies grow close to the door-step, and the fawns creep shyly out to drink at the spring near by; and sometimes, when the wind blows hard on winter nights, strange barkings can be heard in the distance, and they know that the wolves are out. They do not tremble, though they are but children. Max is eleven, very stout and strong for his age, and able to chop and mark the wood for Grandfather, who for many years has been Woodman. Thekla, who is nine, keeps the house in order, cooks, mends clothes, and knits stockings like a little house-fairy. All their lives they have lived here, and the lonely place is dear to them. The squirrels in the wood are not more free and fearless than these children, and they are so busy and healthy that the days fly fast.

This afternoon, in spite of the cold, they are out gathering wood, of which the Ranger allows them all they need to use. There is a pile at home already, almost as high as the cottage roof: but Thekla is resolved that her fire shall always be bright when Max and the Grandfather come in from out-doors, blue and cold; and she isn’t satisfied yet. For hours they have been at work, and have tied ever so many fagots. The merry winds have been helping in the task, tearing boughs and twigs off overhead, and throwing them down upon the path, so that the bundles have collected rapidly, and wise little Thekla says, “This has been a good day.”

“I’m getting tired, though,” she goes on. “Let’s rest awhile, and take a walk. We never came so far as this before, did we? I want to go up that pretty path, and see where it comes out. Don’t you think we have got wood enough, Max?”

Yes, Max thought they had. So hand in hand the children went along the path. Every thing was new and strange. Into this part of the forest they had never wandered before. The trees were thick. Bushes grew below. Only the little foot-track broke the way. Thekla crept closer to her brother as the walk grew wilder. A great forest is an awful sort of place; most of all in winter, when the birds and squirrels are hushed and the trees can be heard talking to one another. Sweet, curious smells come from you know not where. The wind roars, and the boughs creak back sharply as if the giants and dwarfs were quarreling. All is strange and wonderful.

And now the bushes grow thinner. They were coming upon a little open space fringed about with trees, and suddenly Thekla exclaimed, in an astonished voice,—

“Why, Max! Look! There are people in there. I can see them through the bushes!”

“People?” cried Max. “Stealing wood, no doubt. Quiet, Thekla! don’t make any noise: we’ll creep up, and catch them at it. They shall see what the Ranger says to such doings.”

So, like mice, they crept forward, and peeped through the screen of boughs. But there was no sound of chopping, and nobody was meddling with the wood. In fact, there was only one body visible,—an old, old man with snow-white hair. But there was a long row of clay figures in front of him, men and women as large as life; and they looked so natural, it was no wonder Thekla had made the mistake. Some were half-finished; some but just begun: one only seemed perfect,—the figure of a beautiful youth, with a crescent moon on his cap; and, even as they looked, the old man took a pinch of something, molded it with his hand, and stuck it on the side of the head, from which it hung like a graceful plume. Then he seemed satisfied, and began to work on one of the others.

“How lovely! but did you ever see any thing so queer?” whispered Thekla. “If we only dared go nearer!”

“Dared!” cried Max: “this is our wood, and we have a right to go where we like in it. Come on!” and he took Thekla’s hand, and drew her boldly forward.

There were two great jars standing there, which seemed to hold the stuff out of which the figures were made. The children peeped in. One was full of a marvelous kind of water, sparkling and golden and bubbling like wine. The other held sand, or what seemed like sand,—fine, glittering particles,—most beautiful to see. It was wonderful to watch the old man work. His lean fingers would twist and mold the sand and water for a second, and there would be a lovely head, an arm, or a garland of flowers. The forms grew like magic; and the children were so charmed with watching, that they forgot either to speak or to go away.

At last, the old man turned, and saw them. He didn’t smile, nor did he seem angry. He only stood, and fixed his eyes upon them in silence. Thekla began to tremble, but Max bravely addressed him:—

“What curious work this is you are doing!” he said. “Is it very hard?”

“I’m used to it,” was the brief reply.

“You have been doing it a long time perhaps,” said Thekla, shyly.

“Seven thousand years or so,” answered the old man.

“Why, what a story!” cried Max. “That’s impossible, you know: the world wasn’t made as long ago as that.”

“Oh, yes! it was. You were not there at the time, and I was. I got there about as soon as it did, or a little before.”

“He’s certainly crazy,” whispered Thekla; “let’s run away.”

“Run away,” replied her brother, “from that old fellow? Why, he’s ten times as old as Grandfather, and I’ll bet he’s not one quarter so strong. There’s something very queer about it all, though, and I’m bound to find it out. Would you dislike to tell us your name, sir?” he asked politely.

“Oh, no!” answered the old man: “I haven’t the least objection. Most people, however, don’t remember to inquire till they’re about seeing the last of me. They mistake me for my brother, Eternity, I suppose. My name is Old Time. That’s my scythe hanging on the tree. Don’t you see it?”

There it was sure enough, only they had not noticed it before. “And what are these beautiful figures?” asked little Thekla.

“Those are the Months,” replied Time. “I come here every year to renew them. They get quite worn out, and need building up. It’s a nice dry place, and they can stand till they are wanted. This one is January. He’s finished; but I’m a little behind hand with the others.” As he spoke, he turned again to his task.

“And what is this stuff you are making them of?” inquired Max, dipping his finger in the sparkling liquid.

The old man fixed upon him a fiery eye. “Don’t meddle with that, boy!” said he, in a severe tone: “nobody can touch those drops safely but myself. That is water from the stream of Time.”

“And these?” asked Thekla, pointing to the second jar.

“Those are what you know as ‘moments,’” was the reply. “They are really the dust of dead years, though somebody or other has given them the name of ‘sands of Time.’ Pretty things they are, but they won’t keep. Everybody in the world can have one at a time, but nobody can lay up a stock for next day. I’m the only person to whom that is allowed.”

Just then a naughty idea entered into Max’s head. “We’ll see whether that is true,” he muttered; and, watching till the old man’s back was turned, he plunged his fingers into the jar, stole a double handful of the sand, and hid it in the tin can which was slung to his side, and in which his dinner and Thekla’s had been. Old Time was too busy to heed him. Pretty soon after, Max took Thekla’s hand, and, without saying “Good-by,” dragged her away down the narrow path towards home. It was almost nightfall when at last they got there.

It was not till after supper when Grandfather had gone to bed that Max confessed what he had done. Thekla felt dreadfully about it; but he wouldn’t say he was sorry, and was sitting by the fire letting the shining particles drift through his fingers, when suddenly voices were heard out of doors as if a large company was approaching. He had just time to hurry the can into a safe hiding-place when the latch rattled, the door flew open, and in long procession streamed in the very figures they had seen that afternoon in the wood.

No longer lifeless however, but angry, noisy, reproachful. “Ah, little thief!” cried January. “Where are the stolen moments?”

“Yes,” shouted March, a blustering fellow with wild hair and eyes. “Where’s the third finger of my left hand? Where are my Brother February’s thumb-nail and right ear-tip?”

“And my roses,” wept June, a fair young woman. “See, I ought to have a whole lap full, and there are only five. Oh, naughty, naughty boy!”

“And my holly sprig?” vociferated December. “Who’s to know which I am without it? Not a child in the world will hang up his stocking at the right time.”

“Didn’t you know,” sobbed April, “that the jar only held just enough to make us complete, and no more? And here all of us but January are ugly, maimed creatures, and the New Year will be so disgusted with us.”

It was too true. Every one lacked something. September had no wheat-ears. May mourned over her want of violets. November raged up and down, declaring that he must have a turkey. “And what do you think,” grumbled March, “the world is going to say, when we all come in docked after this ridiculous fashion? The tides will be wrong and the almanac-makers will tear their hair. The moon will go wandering about like a lunatic. And all because a little boy in the Black Forest couldn’t keep his hands out of what didn’t belong to him. Oh, fie! fie! wait till my turn comes! won’t I blow you about!”

And the Months clustered about poor Max, scolding, threatening, crying, till he didn’t know which way to look. He began to feel dreadfully ashamed of himself, especially as Thekla was sobbing as loudly as April, and imploring him to make amends. But he kept up a bold front.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I think you’re very unreasonable. Time belongs to us all. I never had so much to myself before, and I mean to keep it unless you make it worth my while to give it up.”

“What shall we do?” cried July. “Shall we all make you a present? or tell you a story?” said November.

“Or sing you a song?” chanted May.

“No music, thank you,” answered Max. “Little Thekla here sings to me, and that is sweet enough. But if you each will make us a gift, and each tell us a story, I will restore the sand you are making such a fuss about. What do you say? Is it a bargain?”

“I won’t,” said January. “I’ll have nothing to do with it: I am finished, and have no favors to ask of anybody.”

The others, however, all cried, “Yes!” And so the bargain was struck. Each Month was to come in turn on the last night of the month before, tell a story, bring a present, and get his missing moments. With this agreement, they said good-by. April gave Thekla a kiss, and they went away. For a time their voices could be heard growing more and more distant in the forest, then all was silent again.

“Isn’t that splendid?” cried Max, exultingly.

“It’s very nice about the presents and stories,” answered Thekla; “but I can’t help wishing you hadn’t taken the moments, Max. It’s dreadful to think of your stealing any thing.”

“Pooh!” said Max: “it isn’t stealing to take time. Everybody does that.”

“Where are the stolen moments?”

CHAPTER II.
THE BEAR STORY.

IT seemed a long month to Max and Thekla, but at last it was over. The 31st of January came. Grandfather was tucked up early in bed, the fire was poked, the tin can brought out, and all made ready. The children sat in expectation. At last there came a rap at the door.

“Walk in,” cried Max; and February entered. He was a short, thick-set fellow, with red eyes, a red nose, and a gruff, surly voice. Very unhappy he looked just now; and when Max pulled up a chair for him, he sat down on the edge, and began,—

“Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking,”—

“Hallo!” cried Max, interrupting him. “That’ll never do in the world. That’s a horrid beginning: you must try again.”

“The brothers and sister believed every word of it; but Mamma put her tongue in her cheek, and gently pointed over her left shoulder with her paw.”

“Oh, must I?” said February, much relieved. “I thought I had to take pains with my language. People who ‘address the young’ usually do. Well, if I may go ahead in my own way it’s all right: you’ve taken a weight off my mind.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Max; “but before you begin, where’s the gift?”

“Here,” said February; and he pulled from his pocket something that looked like a big icicle. It was an icicle, only it didn’t melt in your fingers or feel cold; and it had a delicious taste, like buckwheat cakes, maple molasses, sausages, baked apples, turkey, cranberry sauce, and nuts and raisins, all at once. Max broke it in two, and while Thekla sucked one half and he the other, February began:—

“It’s only about the bears in the North-West Hollow.”

“Bears!” cried Max: “what bears?”

“A real nice family of bears who live up there. Last year when I saw them, they were little fellows about the size of kittens; but they are quite big now, and have got grown-up growls. I thought perhaps you’d like to hear about ’em.”

Oh, wouldn’t they? Both children crept close to him, and drank in every word with red cheeks and round eyes.

“Bears!” cried Max, quite stuttering with excitement. “I didn’t know there were any in the Forest. Oh, do go on!”

“They used to lie all curled up in a heap,” continued February, “at the bottom of a nest in the rocks, which their mother had lined with leaves and moss to keep them warm. They looked just like funny bundles of brown hair. There were four of them,—Snap, Snooze, Roll-about, and Greedy. Roll-about was the fattest and the best-natured, but they were all nice. They lay tangled together, and couldn’t help pulling each other’s fur a good deal; but they quarrelled much less than most brothers and sisters who live in such close quarters.

“I went away before they were old enough to go out, so I couldn’t tell you much about them if it were not for April. April and I,” said February, with a sentimental air, “were always great friends. She used to see the Mamma Bear and her little ones go walking together. One day when they were in the wood a barking of dogs and blowing of horns was heard.

“‘Run! run!’ cried Mamma; and off they went,—all but Greedy who had straggled away in pursuit of a honey-tree. He was too young to know how to take care of himself, and getting confused ran into the very track of the hunters. They would have killed him, but one shouted, ‘Take him alive! take him alive! I want him;’ so instead they put him into a sack and carried him away.

“Nothing more was heard of him for a long time. The others were sorry, but they went prowling about all summer stuffing themselves with good things, and did very well without him. By October they were as fat as pigs. And all of a sudden one day, as they were lunching on ground-nuts in a lonely place among the hills, as happy and friendly as could be, they heard a scratching of claws, and smelt a fur which seemed uncommonly familiar; and lo and behold! it was Greedy, back again, as big as any of them, but not nearly so fat.

“Of course they growled with astonishment, and flew to meet him. He was glad too, but his manner seemed a little cold. Where had he been? Oh! he had been in a town of Germany getting his education. And where had he been living? Oh! in the family of his tutor of course. Slept in the same room with the children, and treated like a child. None of them knew what a tutor might be; and Roll-about asked innocently if it was something good to eat, but Greedy shook his head. The town was a college town, he said. All persons of refinement were sent there to study.

“‘Are you a person of refinement, Greedy?’ asked little Snooze.

“Greedy froze him with a look. He didn’t answer, but went on with his tale. He had learned to dance. He could pick out the Ace of Hearts, and A, B, and Z from the alphabet. He could jump over a stick. This last he did on the spot, to show them how it went; and, in the middle of the jump, Snap noticed something which made him cry out, ‘O Greedy! your poor paws! What is the matter with them? They’re all brown, and dried up?’

“Greedy looked foolish. ‘Oh!’ he replied, ‘that’s nothing: they—they—got a little burnt one day,—that’s all,—on some hot iron. Stoves are very hot in Germany.’

“Mamma looked queer when she heard this, and relieved her feelings by a low growl. The little ones could not tell what to make of it.

“When asked how he managed to get back, Greedy explained it in this way: ‘He was travelling,’ he said, ‘with some friends. They were in a cage together, which was the fashionable way of going about just now. By an accident, the cage upset and some of the bars broke; and, as it was so near home, Greedy thought he might as well run over, and make them a visit.’ All this he said with a lofty air, and the brothers and sister believed every word of it; but Mamma put her tongue in her cheek, and gently pointed over her left shoulder with her paw.

“They had a grand walk home; but no sooner had they got there, than Greedy began to find fault with every thing in the most unpleasant manner. The Hollow was the dampest hole he ever had seen. No place was fit to live in without a stove. As for the food, it was horrid. It gave him the stomach-ache, he declared; and he called for beef-steaks, as if he expected a butcher to appear round the corner. When the honeycomb was brought in, he fell upon it tooth and nail, and ate a great deal more than his share. Mamma reproved him; but he snubbed her, and said that was the way all the children did in the city; and when poor little Roll-about, who had to go without any, gave a low whine or two just to comfort herself, he boxed her ears with his paw savagely, and then excused himself by telling them that Master Jack, his tutor’s son, often cuffed his sister, Miss Gretchen, in that way, and nobody took any notice. It wasn’t any particular consolation to Roll-about to hear of it, and she crept away into a lonely corner, and moaned and licked her paws for a long time.

“Master Jack and Miss Gretchen,”—how the Bear family did learn to hate those children! Every rude and disagreeable thing Greedy did, he quoted them as examples. Jack, it seemed, said, ‘I won’t,’ and fought for his dinner; and Gretchen scratched and bit right and left; and they quarrelled with each other. Their evil example had ruined all that was good in poor Greedy. He said the most unpleasant things. He found fault with every thing. He pitched into the others on all occasions, and boxed Roll-about’s ears till the hair grew quite thin. Then he advised her to use ‘bears’ grease.’ ‘All the city young ladies did so,’ he said; but what good was that, when the poor little thing could get none but her own,—or his, which, as you may suppose, he wasn’t very likely to offer her!

“‘Oh,’ Mrs. Bear used to say to herself, ‘if I only had Master Jack and Miss Gretchen here, wouldn’t I give them a lesson?’ And as Greedy, for all his fault-finding, had such a big appetite, that provisions were growing scarce, two or three bad children, needing to be eaten by way of example, would have been convenient. Every thing went wrong in the once happy home. The brothers and sisters were always sulking in corners, and complaining to each other in low growls of the way in which Greedy had treated them. Roll-about lost her plump sides, and grew thin. Snap was finding out the advantages of bad temper, and beginning to carry on like Greedy. At last Mrs. Bear declared she would stand it no longer.

“‘You are grown up,’ she said: ‘go out and shift for yourself. As long as you were good and content, I was glad to have you here: now you only make my life miserable, and I can’t endure it.’ And she raised her large paw, and showed her teeth, for the first time in her life; and Greedy, with a snarl of fright, slunk away from the den.

“Out of her sight, however, his temper revived. He got into a great huff. ‘Leave the den?’ Of course he would, and very glad to see the last of it. So he went and chose a hole for himself to live in. It was quite close to the village,—a great deal too close for safety. But the silly creature had lost all his instinct by living with human beings. And whenever the bells rang or any thing seemed to be going on, he would rush out to peep, and find what it was. I only wonder they didn’t catch him long ago.”

“Did they catch him, then?” asked Max.

“You shall hear. Only yesterday it was that a caravan with a band of music came into the village. Greedy heard the sounds, and it seemed as if he would go wild. He dodged among the bushes, and looked on as long as he could stand it, and then, seized with a desire to distinguish himself, out he came. The circus people couldn’t believe their eyes when they saw him prancing after them, his head on one side, and taking steps like a dancing-master. Of course such a prize was not to be resisted. They lost no time; and, when I caught sight of them, poor Greedy had already a muzzle on his jaws and a rope round his neck. A boy was banging his sides with a stick, his tail was between his legs, and I must say,” ended February, laughing heartily, “he didn’t look particularly happy at being taken back into fashionable life after this manner.”

“That’s first-rate,” cried Max, in fits of amusement.

“I’m so glad you liked it,” replied February, much pleased. “Now I’ll trouble you for my thumb-nail and left ear-tip.”

The can was brought, and Max carefully measured out what was wanted. February kissed Thekla’s hand (the tip of his nose felt very cold), made a clumsy bow to both, and went away.

The children hugged each other. “If they’re all like that,” cried they, “how jolly it will be!”

Greedy.

CHAPTER III.
LITTLE TOT.

FEBRUARY went by like a flash, or the children thought so. It was really a short month: but, besides, they were very busy; and work, you know, makes time fly. Thekla, who had just learned to spin, had a job on hand of which she was proud. It was no less than spinning and carding the wool for a bran-new suit of clothes which Max was to wear next year. Dyed brown, and woven by Mother Gretel the cunning weaver, they were to be something grand. As for Max, his work was wood-carving. Nearly all the German boys can carve; and he and Thekla thought the spoon over which he was so busy, and which had grape leaves and tendrils on the handle, most beautiful. It would go to the great Spring Fair, and fetch a large price, perhaps as much as a silver dollar. Altogether, they could hardly believe the calendar when it showed them a month had gone by, and that evening they must look for another visitor.

“Then the Tot said, ‘Budda hundry.’”

It was a dark night, and very cold. As they sat by the fire waiting, they could hear the frost cracking and snapping the tree-boughs. Now and then a crash like thunder came. It was a limb, overloaded with ice, breaking off, and falling to the ground. And by and by, among the other noises, a strange, wild voice began to mingle, making them all more fearful. It was March, who, as he came through the forest, was talking to himself.

“Blow, blow!” he was saying. “I’m coming on to blow. Rock, rock! There’d better be no babies in my tree-tops. To and fro, to and fro, roots and trunks alike, and the very stones must laugh and roll if I choose to tickle them.” And then he gave a loud thump at the door, and, without waiting answer, banged it open and marched in. He looked so big and fierce and stormy that Thekla shrank back, without daring to push forward a stool for him to sit upon; and even Max, who had pluck enough for ten boys, felt afraid.

“Won’t you sit down, sir?” he said at last very meekly, and went to shut the door, which March had left open. Quite a little heap of dead leaves and snow had collected on the sill; and Thekla, who was a born housewife, ran to brush them up. March twirled round on his stool, and watched her proceedings with great scorn.

“Sweep!” he said in a voice like a big wind. “You call that sweeping? You should see me when I get at it. I scoop up all the leaves in the world at once, and send them spinning. Whole snow-storms go into my dust-pan. Ho! ho!”

“But I am so little,” replied Thekla, in her bird’s voice; “and, beside, I have brushed up all there are.”

“All there are? Nonsense,” cried March; “but no matter. Am I, or am I not to tell a story? If not, let me know at once; for I have an engagement with a couple of hurricanes, and want to be off. A pretty business,” he went on, glaring fiercely, “to sit here by this melting fire to amuse a couple of thieving brats, when I have so much to do. Ho! ho!”

“Oh!” whispered Thekla to Max, “let’s give him his moments, and let him go: he makes me afraid.”

“Not I,” said Max, who was plucking up courage, “not if I know it!—Of course you are to tell a story,” he continued aloud: “you promised, and you ought to be a Month of your word. Thekla, put away that broom. Now we’re all ready, sir.”

March scowled, but made no resistance. As Max had said, he was a Month of his word; and he began in a queer voice, which was now loud and then soft, now dying away to a murmur and then bellowing out again in a way that made you jump.

“Once upon a time, as I was driving across a prairie, I saw a house.”

“I don’t know what a prairie is,” said Thekla, gently.

“I don’t suppose you do,” growled March: “that’s one of the things you don’t know, and there are a good many more of ’em. A prairie’s a big field without any fences, and several thousand miles square. People live there,—some people do: I spend a good deal of time there myself. First-rate place for a promenade,—no corners to turn, plenty of room. As I said, I saw a house.

“There was a snow-storm along with me. We had nine hundred billion horses, all white as wool; and we went fast. Killing pace. Horses kept dropping down dead, lay in heaps wherever we went; and we left ’em there. About four million dashed up against the house I was telling you about. They ’most covered it up, for it wasn’t a big house. There were two little windows and a door. Windows had curtains; but one was slipped aside, and the fire looked out like a red eye. I didn’t like that; so I put my eye to the other side, to see if I couldn’t look him down.

“Funniest thing I ever saw!” said March, giving a hoarse chuckle. “Such tots! Biggest only four years old; t’other not a year. There was a pussy too. They three—true, on my word—were the only creatures in the house that night.”

“Where could their father and mother be?” asked Max, excessively interested.

“Oh! went off that morning to the town,—like fools,—and couldn’t get back. We saw to that. Stuck in ten drifts, most frozen to death. Wife half-crazy about the babies; husband just managed to get to shelter. Ho! ho!” cried March. “Served ’em right, I say. Ho! ho!

“Don’t you think, that Tot, the biggest one, was putting a stick of wood on the fire when I looked in? Stick as big as she was, almost! How she did it was a mystery. Little apron blew into the flame, but I flew up the chimney and blew it the other way. ’Tisn’t often I do a good turn, but I couldn’t help it then.”

“That was right,” said Thekla.

“Hold your tongue!” cried March, rudely. “What do you know about it? Two sticks that little thing got on. I never did! How she managed it, and such a baby!

“Then she put a shawl over the other tot. Patted the corners down just like an old woman, and put one on herself. Hind side before, but no matter for that. Then she got into bed, and sang, ‘Hush by, Budda,—hus’ by, Budda,’ till the baby went to sleep. Then she went to sleep too. I thought I’d like to see what would happen when they woke up, so I sent the snow-storm on and stayed behind with my eye to the chink.

“I’m not a tender-hearted person myself,” said March, modestly, “but really I couldn’t bear to disturb those children. Several times I wanted to roar dreadfully,—roaring is one of my greatest pleasures,—but I didn’t. I never quite knew why, but so it was. The snow isn’t noisy, so it was as still all night about the little house as if it had been mid-summer.

“I watched, and the children slept. By and by when morning came, the baby woke up and began to cry. The Tot patted him and said, ‘Hush-a-by, Budda,’ a great many times; but he wouldn’t stop. Babies don’t stop,” added March, reflectively, “as a general thing. Then the Tot said, ‘Budda hundry;’ and she got up, and tugged and tugged to put a stick on the fire, and fetched a tin cup and spoon, and set them on a chair by the table where there was a milk-pan. She had to tip it with her little hands, and a great deal spilled on the floor and a great deal on her apron, but some went in the cup. She began to cry at first; then she said, ‘Mamie didn’t mean to,’ and brightened up again. And she warmed the milk and fed that baby like a woman,” cried March, giving his knee a great slap. “I never did! Baby ate it all, and went to sleep again. Tot drank some too, but not much. Wanted to save it for the baby, I guess.

“It was a very cold day. I kept in a long time; but at last I had to howl or I should have burst. Tot got frightened. She said her little prayers, and hid her head under the pillow; but when the other cried, she stopped, and gave him some milk, and sang, ‘Hush by, Budda,’ till he went off again. I tell you what,” said March, “I did feel sorry for that child.

“There was only one stick of wood left, and that was a big one. Tot couldn’t move it. Pussy got on the table, and lapped up all the milk in the pan. Then Tot cried hard, and said, ‘Mamma, come! oh do come!’ over and over. She put all the clothes there were on the bed. When the baby cried, she patted him with her little hand, and cried too. When morning came, they were both still. I could see them through the window. Away off on the prairie I heard the slow jingle of a bell.

“‘Hurry! hurry!’ I roared, ‘or you’ll be too late.’ Then I scooped up the snow, and blew open a path. The sleigh got nearer. The woman couldn’t wait. She held out her arms to the cottage. At last she jumped into the snow (it was up to her waist), and floundered to the door. She beat upon it, threw it open, and cried out, ‘Mary! baby! O my baby!’

“They lay in the bed; but no little voices answered. The mother gave a loud scream. ‘Oh, they are dead!’ she shrieked, and flung herself over them.

“The men ran in. There were four of them. They built a fire and warmed blankets, and put hot milk into the mouths of the little ones.

“‘This little fellow isn’t dead,’ said one of them. He wasn’t. Pretty soon he opened his eyes, and when he saw his mother he began to cry. Tot had wrapped him up so warm that the cold didn’t kill him,—only made him dull.

“It took longer to bring her round, but at last they did. And the first thing she said was, ‘Mamie didn’t mean to spill the milk.’

“I declare,” said March with a frog in his throat, “I never did see the beat of that child.”

“And is that the end?” asked Thekla, who had been quietly crying for some time past over little Tot’s troubles.

“Of course it’s the end,” replied March. “What did you expect? And a very nice story it is, though I say it as shouldn’t.

“And now I’m off,” shouted he, and made a rush for the door.

“One minute!” cried Max: “you’ve forgotten something. Here’s your moments, you know. And then there is the present you were to give us: don’t leave that out.”

“I’m glad you reminded me,” said March,—“very glad indeed.” His wild eyes sparkled with a fierce light which was ugly to see. With one hand he seized his “moments,” the other was fumbling in his pocket.

“Here it is!” he cried, and flung something in their faces. Another instant he had banged the door and was gone. They could hear him roaring and whooping as he went.

The poor children—all red in the face, sneezing, coughing—looked at each other.

“Ow! ow!” cried Max.

“Thzs! thzs!” responded Thekla.

March’s present was a bad cold in the head!

Little Tot and the Baby asleep.

CHAPTER IV.
“MARIA.”

SUCH colds! Never was any thing like them. Day after day Max sat by the fire with a splitting headache, cold chills running down his back; while night after night Thekla awoke, coughing and choking from a spot in her throat which burned like a live coal. I can tell you, when March gives a present he does it in real earnest.

“One day in an old garret I found the doll, who, as I said, was living in a closet.”

They were so miserable you might have thought that even March must pity them a little. But he didn’t,—not a bit. As he told the children, he was any thing but a “tender-hearted person.” When they were at the very worst, they could hear him astride the roof, roaring and whooping down the chimney in the most unfeeling way; and he regularly banged the door open on cold nights to let the wind in; so that, at last, Max never thought of sitting down to supper without first putting a heavy chair against it to keep it shut. So blustering and ill-tempered a Month was never known. But at last his turn came to go; and, by that time, what with patience and catnip tea the children had begun to get better.

There is a great difference, however, between being better and being well. Thekla’s hands were still too weak and thin to twirl the spindle, and for many a day the wood-carving had lain untouched in the cupboard. It seemed as if they were too languid to enjoy any thing; and, when the evening came for April’s visit, Max would hardly take the trouble to rise and fetch the can, though Thekla reminded him. After it was brought out, however, and the fire poked into a blaze, they felt a little brighter. Poor things, it was a long time since any thing pleasant had happened to them!

The night was still. The noisy winds had fallen asleep, so that you could hear the least sounds far away in the forest. By and by light footsteps became audible, drawing nearer; and Max had time to run for a chair and place it in the cosiest corner, before a soft tap fell upon the door.

“May I come in?” said a voice, very gently and politely. How different from rude March!

This was April. She looked very young and small; and, as Thekla went forward to greet her, she felt as if it were some little visitor of her own age come to tea. It was with a sense of protection and hospitality that she took from her hand a great bundle, which seemed heavy. April sat down, and then she put her arm round Thekla’s waist and pulled her nearer, bundle and all. She had an odd, pretty face when you came to look at it. The lips laughed of themselves; but the eyes, which were blue and misty, seemed to have tears behind them all ready to fall. Or if, as sometimes happened, the lips took a fancy to pout, then the eyes had their turn, and brightened and twinkled so that you could not help smiling. It would have puzzled anybody whether to call the countenance most sad or most merry. April’s hair was all wavy and blowsy, as if she had been out in a gale of wind. Two or three violets were stuck in it; and the voice with which she spoke sounded like the tinkle of rain-drops on the leaves.

“Look,” she said, “what I have brought you!” and she unfastened the bundle, which was pinned together with a long red thorn.

O mercy! It seemed as if the sun, which went to bed three hours ago, had got up again, and was pouring over April’s lap on to the kitchen floor. For there lay a great heap of dandelions, golden and splendid, which perked up their heads, and laughed and winked on all around. The whole room seemed to brighten from their glorious color. And, what was funny, these dandelions had voices, as it seemed; for out of the middle of the heap came queer sounds of peeping and chirping, which the children could not at all understand.

April laughed. She parted the flowers, and there were two little new-born chicks, as yellow as the yolk of an egg. They were soft and downy; and their cunning black eyes and little beaks gave them a knowing look, which was astonishing, when you recollected how short a time they had been in the world. “Cheep! cheep!” they cried, and one ran directly into Thekla’s outstretched hands. The warm fingers felt to it like a nest; and the little creature cuddled down contentedly, with a soft note which expressed comfort. The other, April handed to Max.

“They are for you,” she said. “If you like them and take care of them, you may have a whole poultry-yard some day. My broods are not always lucky; but these will be.”

“Like them,” indeed! You should have seen the happy fuss which went on over the new pets. Max ran for a basket; Thekla brought flannel to line it, and meal and water; and the chicks were kissed, fed, and tucked away as if they had been babies. By and by they fell fast asleep under their warm coverlet; and then the children went back to the fire, and, while Max made ringlets of the dandelion-stalks and stuck them in Thekla’s hair, April began:—

“My story isn’t much,” she said. “I’ve told so many in the course of my life that I’m quite exhausted, for I make it a rule never to tell the same twice. Some are so sad that it makes me cry merely to think of them,”—and as she said this April’s tears suddenly rained down her face,—“and others so jolly that I should split my sides if I tried.” Here April giggled like a school-girl, and her eyes seemed to send out rays of sun which danced on the wet tear-stains. “So it must always be new,” she went on; “and, ever since I saw you, I’ve been trying to decide what it should be. There was a delightful one about ducklings which I thought of,—but no!” and she solemnly shook her head.

“Oh, why not? Do, pray do!” cried Max.

“Couldn’t,” said April. “That story—the first half of it at least—I told to a little girl in England last year. I didn’t finish because something came along and set me crying, but half is just as bad as the whole. I couldn’t tell that again. Don’t look so disappointed, though! I’ve got one for you; and, though it isn’t one of my best, I dare say you’ll like it well enough. It’s about a doll.”

“A doll! Pshaw!” said Max, impolitely.

“Why, what a rude boy you are!” cried April, beginning to sob. “I declare, I ne—never was t—treated so before.”

“Max!” exclaimed Thekla, “how could you? You’ve hurt her feelings. Don’t cry any more, dear,” she went on,—for somehow Thekla felt older and bigger than this fascinating little maiden who laughed and cried by turns,—“he didn’t mean to. He is a real kind boy, only sometimes he speaks before he thinks. And I like dolls—oh, so much!”

“Do you?” said April, brightening. “Then it’s all right. As for you,” she added, turning sharply round on Max, “you can go out and sit on the steps, if you don’t want to hear it.”

“Oh!” stammered Max, dreadfully ashamed of himself, “I do. I’d just as lief hear it as not. And I beg your pardon, if I spoke rudely.”

“Very well then,” said April, pacified. “If you feel that way, I’ll proceed. This doll lived in a closet. I should never have come across her probably if it hadn’t been for the house-cleaning.

“You must know that there are countries in the world where every spring and fall the houses are all turned upside down and inside out, and then downside up and outside in, all for the sake of being clean. The women do it. What becomes of the men I don’t know: they climb trees or something to be out of the way, I suppose. I like these times, of all things. I like to swing the heavy carpets to and fro on the lines, and flap the maids’ aprons into their faces as they stand on the ledge outside to wash the windows. It is great fun. And I love to creep into holes and corners, and rummage and poke about to see what folks have got. And one day, when doing this in an old garret, I found the doll, who, as I said, was living in a closet. They had put her there to be out of the way of the cleaning.

“Her name was Maria. She was big, but not very beautiful. Her head was dented, and there were marks of finger-nails on her cheeks, which were faded and of a purplish-pink. But her arms and legs were bran new, and white as snow, and her body was round and full of sawdust. I couldn’t understand this at all until she explained it. Her head, it seemed, was twenty-five years old; and her body had only been in the world six weeks!

“Once, she said, she had possessed a body just the same age as her head, and then she belonged to a person she called ‘Baby May.’ Baby May used to bump her on the floor, and dig the soft wax out of her cheeks with her nails. This treatment soon ruined her good looks; and when she mentioned this, Maria almost cried,—but not quite, because, as she said, years had taught her self-command. I don’t know what she meant,” added April, reflectively. “I’m sure years never taught me any thing of the sort. However, that is neither here nor there! If she hadn’t had a fine constitution, Maria never could have endured all this cruelty. Her body didn’t. It soon sank under its sufferings; and, after spitting sawdust for some months, wasted away so much that May’s mother said it must go into the ragbag. People make a great fuss about having their heads cut off, but Maria said it was quite easy if the scissors were sharp. Snip, snip, rip, rip, and there you are. The head was put carefully away in a wardrobe because it was so handsome, and May’s mamma promised to buy a new body for it; but somehow she forgot, and by and by May grew so big that she didn’t care to play with dolls any more. So Maria’s head went on living in the wardrobe. Having no longer any cares of the body to disturb it, it gave itself up to the cultivation of the intellect. A wardrobe is a capital place for study, it appears. People keep their best things there, and rarely come to disturb them. At night, when the house is asleep, they wake up and talk together, and tell secrets. The silk gowns converse about the fine parties they have gone to, and the sights they have seen. There were several silk gowns in the wardrobe. One of them had a large spot of ice-cream on its front breadth. She used to let the other things smell it, that they might know what luxury was like; and once Maria got a chance, and licked it with her tongue, but she said it didn’t taste as she expected. There was an India shawl, too, which would lift the lid of its box, and relate stories—oh, so interesting!—about black faces and white turbans and hot sunshine. The laces in the drawer came from Belgium. That was a place to learn geography! And the Roman pearls had a history too. They were devout Catholics, and would tell their beads all night if nobody seemed to be listening. But the Coral in the drawer below was Red Republican in its opinions, and made no attempt to hide it. Both hailed from Italy, but they were always quarrelling! Oh, Maria knew a deal! As she grew wise, she ceased to care for tea-parties, and being taken out to walk as formerly. All she wanted was to gain information, and strengthen her mind. At least so she said; but for all that,” remarked April, with a sly smile, “she had some lingering regard for looks still, for she complained bitterly of the change in her complexion. Perhaps it was putting so much inside her head made the outside so dull and shabby!

“Well, for twenty-three long years Maria lived in the wardrobe at the head of polite society. She was treated with great respect. The dresses always bowed to her when they went in and out. When their time came for being ripped up and pieced into bedquilts, they said farewell with many tears. All this gratified her feelings, of course. So you can imagine what a shock it was when, one day, the wardrobe door was suddenly opened, and she was lifted down and laid in a pair of little clutching hands, which grasped her eagerly. A small thumb-nail pierced her left cheek. ‘I could have screamed,’ said Maria; ‘but where would have been the use? Dolls have positively no rights.’”

“Who was it took her down?” asked Max, quite forgetful of his original scorn about Maria’s history.

“It was Baby May. Not the same May, but another as like her as two peas. In fact, the first May was grown up; and this was her little girl. Grandmamma had bought a beautiful new body, and now Maria’s head had to be sewed on to it. Her feelings when the stitches were put in, she said, she could never describe. They were like those of a poor old soldier, who, after living fifty years on his pension, finds himself dragged from pipe and chimney-corner, and obliged to begin again as a drummer-boy.”

“It was really cruel, I think,” said Thekla, indignantly.

“Yes,” said April; “but you haven’t heard the worst. Think of being suddenly united to such a young body! There was Maria, elderly and dignified, full of wisdom and experience, longing for nothing so much as to be left alone to think over the facts she had learned. And there were her arms and legs always wanting to be in motion. New, impulsive, full of sawdust, it was misery to them to be still. They wanted to dance and frisk all the time, to wear fine clothes, to have other dolls come on visits, to drink tea out of the baby-house tea-set, and have a good time generally. When Maria assured them that she was tired of these things, and had seen the vanity of them, they said they wanted to see the vanity too! And if ever she got a quiet chance, and had fallen into a reverie about old times and friends,—the silk stockings in the wardrobe, for instance, and the touching story they had told her; or the shoe-buckles, who were exiles from their country,—all of a sudden her obstreperous limbs would assert themselves, out would flourish her legs, up fly her hands and hit her in the eye, and the first thing she knew she would be tumbled out on to the floor. Just think what a trial to a lady of fine education and manners! It was enough to vex a saint. She assured me she had lost at least three scruples of wax. But nobody cared in the least about her scruples.”

“And what became of the poor thing in the end?” asked Thekla.

“That I can’t say,” replied April: “I had to come away, you know; and I left her there. One of two things, she told me, was pretty sure to happen: either her arms and legs would sober with time, or she would get so hideous from unhappiness that May’s mamma would buy a new head to match them. ‘Then, ah then!’ said she, ‘I may perhaps be allowed to go back to my beloved top-shelf in the wardrobe. Never, never will I quit it again so long as I live!’ She ended with a sigh. I bade her farewell, but on the way downstairs I met a little girl coming up and calling out, ‘Where dolly? me want dolly!’ And I fear poor Maria was not left any longer in peace in the attic closet.”

April closed her story. She took her moments from the can, poured the dandelions into Thekla’s lap, and rose to go.

“I am late,” she said: “all my violets must be made before midnight. I have none but these few in my hair.”

“Not yet.—stay a little longer!” pleaded the children.

“Ah, no!” said April: “I must go. You won’t miss me long: May is coming, my sister May. Everybody loves her better than they do me,” and she wiped her eyes dolefully as she shut the door.

“What a goose I am!” she cried, flinging it open again, with a merry laugh. “Don’t mind my nonsense. Good-by, dears,—good-by!”

Oh, how cheerful the kitchen seemed now! Where were the colds and the disconsolate looks? All gone; and Max and Thekla laughed gayly into each other’s faces.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Max, “if April didn’t cry so easily, she’d be one of the jolliest girls in the world.”

“Good-by, dears!”

CHAPTER V.
MAY’S GARDEN.

THE chicks throve. Day by day their legs grew strong, their yellow bodies round and full, and their calls for food more clamorous. As the snow melted, and the sun made warm spots on the earth, they began to run from the cottage-door, and poke and scratch about with their bills. But they always came back to the basket to sleep; and Thekla prepared their food, and watched over them as well as any old hen could have done.

“Round his head she put a wreath of long sprays. It was great fun.”

She found time for this in the midst of other work. There was much to do, after a whole month’s neglect: the house needed cleaning and setting to rights, and the yarn for the new suit must be finished at once. The busy wheel hummed and whirred more noisily than ever, in the afternoons, now growing long and bright; and Max, his cold quite cured, sat by, with his carving-tools, as busy as she. Altogether, the time flew rapidly; and the cheerfulness left by April’s visit still lay upon the cottage when the evening came for May to appear.

There was no languor or dulness this time. The hearth was cleanly swept, and the door left ajar that the guest might see the light as she walked through the Forest. But so quiet was her coming, that her hand was on the latch before they knew it, and both of them jumped at the sound of her knock. As she came in, they saw that a lamb was trotting beside her, held by a band of young spring grasses, curiously woven together.

“This is my present,” she said.

Judge if the children danced for joy. A lamb! a real lamb! all for their own! Never was any thing like it. They patted the pretty creature, and lavished caresses upon him, till finally the chicks woke up at the stir, peeped, called, and at last flew out of their baskets to see what was going on; and one of them fluttered up on to the lamb’s back, where he sat like a yellow buttercup on a bank of snow. May gazed upon the scene with a calm smile.

“Now,” she said at last, “if you’re quite done, I’ll venture to remind you that my time’s important. Business first, and pleasure after. Suppose you put off kissing that creature again until I am gone.”

Thus admonished, the children reluctantly left the lamb, tied by his grassy chain to the dresser, and came back to the fire. So far they had been almost too busy to look at May; but now they did. At first Thekla thought her the sweetest thing she had ever seen. Her hair curled like the tendrils of a wild grape; no shell was ever lined with lovelier pink than the bloom of her cheek. But, as she gazed, Thekla became aware of an expression which contradicted the tender lines of the face,—a certain teasing look, a frostiness about the blue eyes, which baffled and surprised her. The same quality appeared in her words, and even in the soft voice which uttered them. Fair and winsome as she was, Thekla did not venture close, as she had done to April, but clung tightly to Max’s hand while she listened.

“I reminded you,” proceeded May, “because I have really too much to do to allow of my wasting time. Very few Months have the work put upon them that I have. June pretends to be busy; but, after all, most of it is finishing off what I began. And as for April, she is a sad, idle girl, and does almost nothing. Why, I came upon her just now,” said May, in an aggrieved voice; “and there she was having a game of play with that good-for-nothing Jack Frost, tickling him with her warm fingers and screaming with laughter; and of course I shall be expected to make up for all she leaves incomplete. There’s the great wash of the year, for instance. It fairly belongs to her; but she never will do it. And I’ve all the plants to wake too, which is a hard job, for they are the sleepiest little things imaginable; and the gardens to tidy, and all. So you won’t wonder that I can’t spare many minutes for telling stories.

“Did you ever have a garden?” she went on.

“Oh, yes!” replied Thekla. “Max makes me one every summer.”

“It’s very pleasant,” said May; “but when your flower-beds are as big as all outdoors, as mine are, there’s a great deal of care and responsibility in them, I assure you. I like it, however. I enjoy sowing millions of seeds, and setting little roots to straggle, and pruning and clipping. Every flower that ever grew is in my list, and I manage to see it in bloom somewhere or other. If I were subject to rose-cold, I should go crazy; for smelling is my delight. Ah! you should see my rose-beds in Damascus. But the nicest garden I ever made was a very tiny one which was planted to please some little children. Shall I tell you about it?”

“Oh, yes, do!” cried Max.

“It was in a cold country, a long way from here, which I never visit till pretty late in the season. You have to cross the sea to get to it. Once only red people lived there. They dwelt in wigwams, and didn’t care much for me, except that I melted the snow which kept them from their hunting-grounds. But one year, on arriving I found something new. A ship lay on the shore, and people with white faces were pitching tents and building huts as if they meant to stay. Among them were some children.

“Of these, two particularly took my fancy, two little sisters, fair as lilies. One was almost a baby. When they sat at the door of the tent, I used to steal up unseen, and pat their cheeks with my hand. They did not know it was I; but they liked it.

“The men were busy in cutting trees for the houses. The women had to cook and wash and sew. There was hard work in plenty for all. No one had time to amuse the little ones, and the idea occurred to me of making them a garden.”

“That was good of you,” said Thekla, her heart warming to this Month who was so kind to little children.

“Ah!” replied May, coldly, “you think so?” Thekla felt snubbed, and she said no more.

“The place I chose,” said May, resuming her story, “was a good way off in the woods, a hidden nook, just such as I love. The trees stood thickly about it, but they opened and left a spot where the sunshine could come in and warm the earth. There for many days I worked with busy fingers, clearing away dead leaves and roots, and covering the ground with a moss carpet thick and soft, into which tiny coral points were stuck to please baby eyes. In the very middle I set a snow-white mushroom, glistening and white as an ivory umbrella; and all about it I planted and wreathed the sweetest flower I know,—a flower whose cups are as pink as a rose, and hold a fragrance so rare, that if a perfumer could collect it in his bottles it would be worth its weight in gold. When all was done, it was the daintiest little garden ever seen; and now it only remained to entice the babies thither to enjoy it.

“This was easy. I selected a warm day, that they might not catch cold; and, as they sat at the door of the tent, I crept up and sat beside them. They did not see me, but I whispered in their ears,—a low, coaxing whisper which I only use for babies.

“‘In the woods,’ I said, ‘the pretty, pretty woods, are such beautiful things! Red flowers and blue flowers, for you to play with; and squirrels with frisky tails, and birds which sing all the time. Oh, such fun as it is!’

“The baby laughed out, and showed her teeth white as milk; but it was only at the song in my voice, the words she did not understand. The elder one listened; and, as I went on, her small feet began to twitch and dance, as if they could no longer keep still.

“‘Come, Sissy,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and take a walk over yonder where it is so green. Sister’ll find you some flowers to play with.’

“Baby was all ready for that, or any thing else. To her, ‘Sister’ was quite a grown-up person, because she could talk plain, and wore a funny little russet petticoat like their mother’s. So side by side the little lambs trotted away. There was nobody on the watch to see them go, and soon the dark wood hid them from view. I held ‘Sister’s’ other hand, and gently guided to the right path.

“It wasn’t much of a path. There were tangled mosses and rough boughs to catch the little feet; but I held fast, and did not let them trip. And by and by, when we came to a smoother place, I took from my bosom a butterfly I had brought on purpose, and set it flying before their eyes. There was no danger of tears or fright after that.

“Such a jolly race as then began! I had ordered the butterfly to fly slowly, so the clutching fingers seemed always just about to grasp it. Such funny, tripping steps, such peals of glee! Never was a merrier hunt! The hunt led them a long way. Once Baby’s fingers almost closed on the painted wings, but still the butterfly flew before, and still the children ran behind; when all at once a third baby appeared, to share the chase—another child, a tiny Indian boy. No dress hid his small, dark limbs. A little bow was in his hand, a quiver on his back; and as he jumped from behind a bush, and joined in the frolic, it was like a brown twig flying after two snow-white blossoms blown from the tree.

“The little ones were not frightened. They took kindly to a new playmate, whatever his color might be. ‘Sister’ made friends at once, while Baby stared at him with her big blue eyes. On they trotted together; and by and by the nimble boy made a clutch which secured the butterfly, and the brown head and the fair ones met together over the prize.

“‘Pitty! pitty!’ cried Baby, and she patted the little Indian with her soft hand. Then the same soft fingers made a grab at the purple wings. Ah me! one of them came off in her grasp. My poor butterfly! The first of the season!

“The children were sorry. Children are always sorry,” said May, tartly, “after the mischief is done; but I don’t see that it makes them any more careful next time. In two minutes the dead insect was forgotten by everybody but me. I picked him up, you may be sure; and that evening made him a little grave under a partridge-berry vine.

“It was droll to hear the three babies talk together. They had no words in common; but they had fingers to point with, comical little heads to nod and wag, and eyes to explain the meaning of each gesture. So they got on wonderfully. The brown baby’s name was Al-a-gon-qua, but ‘Sister’ called him Ally.

“‘My name Ruth,’ she said, ‘her name Baby,’ speaking very loud to make it easier to understand.

“Ally tried to say it, but couldn’t get nearer than ‘Tute.’ This was stupid; but he was a clever baby, for all that. He could take straight aim with his bow, and bring down a robin or a quail ten yards off. He knew how to find the water-springs. He could climb a tree, and swim like a jolly little polliwog. Fearless as a squirrel, he sprang about the trackless wilderness without pathway or guide, and needed neither, and knew no fear.

“All the time they talked, the little ones were getting deeper and deeper into the wood. They did not know where they were going; but I knew, and guided every step.

“And now they reached the garden. The sun lay warm and bright on the moss; and, at sight of the fairy cups of pink and snow and of the ivory mushroom, they laughed for joy.

“‘Pitty! pitty!’ cried Baby again, using her sole little word; and, with one consent, all three sat down together in the midst of the flowers. How I did enjoy it! The long, cold voyage at sea, the bleak spring, the crowded home in the tents where all were too busy to notice them, were forgotten as they sat there in my garden; and they buzzed like bees in the sunshine. It was the sweetest sight to see!

“Such games as they played! Baby pulled flowers till her lap was full. She tossed them about. She put heaps of them on her head, and screamed with laughter as they rained down into her eyes. Ruth meantime was turning the little Indian into a big nosegay. She stuck leaves all over him. His quiver she filled with blossoms. Round his head she put a wreath of long sprays. It was great fun. Luckily, the small russet petticoat had a pocket, and in it was a big ship’s-biscuit; so, when dinner-time came, they ate that, and were not hungry. As long as the sun shone, the play lasted; and he stayed late that night, as if to enjoy the pretty show as long as possible. But at last the long shadows had begun to creep over the place, and I to feel embarrassed as to how to get my babies home again, when the bark of a dog was heard close at hand. Then I was easy; for I knew somebody was coming to find them.

“Sure enough, before the dusk had crept over the happy group in the sun, they came,—two men with anxious faces, and guns on their shoulders, and a pale, frightened woman. That was the Mother. They could hardly believe what they saw. Bears and savages had been in their thoughts all the way. Never once had they dreamed that the little ones were playing in my garden.

“How the woman ran when she saw the children! How she caught up and kissed Baby, and hugged little Ruth in her arms! ‘O children!’ she cried, as soon as she could speak, ‘how came you here? How could you frighten us so?’

“Ruth looked puzzled. ‘I guess it was the butterfly,’ she said: ‘it came along, and showed us the way.’

“‘Who is this?’ asked one of the men.

“‘That’s Ally,’ explained Ruth.

“‘Poor boy!’ said the Mother. ‘I thought even the savages were too tender of their babes to let them thus alone in the forest. We will take him home with us, husband, and cherish him. Perchance his friends may seek him out.’

“But to all their words and kind looks the little Indian was deaf. When they pointed to the setting sun in token that night was near, he pointed to the east as if to say that the same sun would rise again before long. They tried to entice him with caresses; but he shook himself free, and, signing to some distant part of the wood where his home lay, he emptied the flowers from his quiver, threw back his black hair with a toss, and with a few active bounds disappeared from their sight. Ruth cried after him, ‘Ally! Ally!’ but it was all in vain. He was gone; and he never came back.”

“And what became of Ruth and Baby?” asked Thekla.

“Oh! they went home with their Father and Mother; and good care was taken that they should not stray again. I used to visit them sometimes, and play with their hair and soft cheeks; and I taught them to call the pink blossoms by my name. ‘May-flowers’ they are termed to this day; and they are such favorites, that I plant immense beds of them in that country every spring, and then people grumble that there are not enough.”

“And is that all about the little girls?” persisted Thekla.

“Dear me!” said May, “you are hard to satisfy. No: of course it’s not all. Baby grew up. Some one said she married the Governor. Only think, Baby marry a Governor! As for little Ruth, she didn’t grow up: she went to Heaven instead; and so stayed a child for ever. Nobody knows now where her grave is, excepting me; and every year I plant May-blossoms upon it.”

May’s voice was a little sad, and her eyes looked sweet and tender.

“How about Algonqua?” inquired Max, who was rather ashamed of feeling affected.

“He became a great chief,” said May, “and lived to be a hundred. I heard that he was buried in a mound out West, over the top of which a railroad now runs. But about that I am not sure: my business is not with the dead, but the living.”

And saying this, she rose briskly up. “I meant to have done in just half an hour,” she remarked, “and it is nearly an hour and a quarter. I’ll take those moments at once, if you please.”

Her manner was so sharp and decided that they did not dare urge her to stay. Max brought the can, and Thekla lighted her to the door. When she had departed with a curt “good-by,” they felt perplexed and puzzled.

“She’s very pretty,” said they, “but somehow not at all what we expected.”

“This is my present,” she said.

CHAPTER VI.
THE LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS.

THE lamb speedily became accustomed to his new home. When Thekla brought him food, he would cuddle close, and lick her fingers, bleating softly. Before long he was grown so tame that, if Max seized his two fore feet and waltzed round the room, he made no objection, but frisked funnily, as if enjoying the joke. Best of all, however, he loved to lie beside Grandfather’s chair, within reach of his stroking hand. The old man found continual pleasure in the gentle creature, whose wool was scarcely whiter than his own snowy hair. With the serene faith of old age, he asked no questions as to the new possession, but accepted it calmly and without wonderment; for Grandfather was getting very old.

“You should have seen Dotty, with her sleeves rolled up, sweeping away for dear life, and ordering ‘dear’ about.”

As for Thekla, she thought there was never a lamb like this. For his sake, she loved all lambs; and often, at her wheel, would sing the “Lamb Song,” with which babies are hushed to sleep. It ran something like this:—

“Lambs in the daisies,

Whiter than they;

So in her snowy bed,

Tossing her golden head,