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[Illustration: The good-natured Giant]




THE

TWO STORY MITTENS

AND THE

LITTLE PLAY MITTENS:


BEING

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE SERIES.


BY

AUNT FANNY,


AUTHOR OF THE SIX NIGHTCAP BOOKS, ETC.


          NEW YORK:
          D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
          443 & 445 BROADWAY.
          LONDON: 16 LITTLE BRITAIN.
          1867.

  Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1862, by
  FANNY BARROW,
  In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
      for the
  Southern District of New York.




                        I DEDICATE

          THESE TWO STORIES AND THIS LITTLE PLAY

                      TO MY FRIEND

                    MR. FRANK A----,

who makes fun of me before my face and speaks well of me behind my back.

I don't mind the first a bit; and as long as he continues to practise
the second, we will fight under the same flag.

              LONG MAY IT AND HE WAVE!




CONTENTS.


                                                      PAGE

          MORE ABOUT THE MITTENS,                        7

          THE PARTY LILLIE GAVE FOR MISS FLORENCE,      12

          THE FAIRY BENEVOLENCE,                        45

          MASTER EDWARD'S TRIAL,                        80

          THE LITTLE PLAY MITTENS,                     139




MORE ABOUT THE MITTENS.


THE mittens were coming bravely on. Some evenings, Aunt Fanny could not
send a story; and then the little mother read an entertaining book, or
chatted pleasantly with her children.

There had been twelve pairs finished, during the reading of the third
book, and several more were on the way. George had written the most
delightful letters, each of which was read to his eagerly-listening
sisters and brothers several times, for they were never tired of hearing
about life in camp.

This evening, the mother drew another letter, received that day, out of
her pocket. The very sight of the envelope, with the precious flag in
the corner, caused their eyes to sparkle, and their fingers to fly at
their patriotic and loving work.

"Attention!" said the mother in a severe, military tone. Everybody burst
out laughing, choked it off, immediately straightened themselves up as
stiff as ramrods, and she began:

          "DEAR MOTHER, CAPTAIN, AND ALL THE BELOVED
          SQUAD:--Our camp is splendid! We call it Camp
          Ellsworth. It covers the westward slope of a
          beautiful hill. The air is pure and fresh, and our
          streets (for we have real ones) are kept as clean
          as a pin. Not an end of a cigar, or an inch of
          potato peeling, dare to show themselves. Directly
          back of the camp strong earthworks have been
          thrown up, with rifle pits in front; and these are
          manned by four artillery companies from New York.
          Our commissary is a very good fellow, but I wish
          he would buy pork with less fat. I am like the boy
          in school, who wrote home to his mother, his face
          all puckered up with disgust: "They make us eat
          p-h-a-t!!" When I swizzle it (or whatever you call
          that kind of cooking) in a pan over the fire,
          there is nothing left of a large slice, but a
          little shrivelled brown bit, swimming in about
          half a pint of melted lard, not quarter enough to
          satisfy a great robin redbreast like me; but I
          make the most of it, by pointing my bread for some
          time at it, and then eating a lot of bread before
          I begin at the pork. The pointing, you see, gives
          the bread a flavor."

The children screamed with laughter at this, and wanted to have some
salt pork cooked immediately to try the "pointing" flavor. Their mother
promised to have some for breakfast, and went on reading:


          "We are very busy at drills. I give the boys
          plenty of field exercise, quick step, skirmishes,
          double quick, and all manner of manoeuvres. After
          drill, we sing songs, tell jokes, and _play_ jokes
          upon each other, but we don't forget, in doing
          this, that we are _gentlemen_.

          "Oh dear mother, I am crazy to be in action! I am
          afraid, if we don't have a battle soon, I shall
          get motheaten. Our General is a glorious fellow,
          and is just as anxious as we are to have it over;
          peace will come all the sooner. Hollo! Here comes
          "Tapp," and I must blow out my half inch of tallow
          candle, and go to bed.

          "Good-by, all my dear ones. Love and pray for your
          affectionate son and brother,            GEORGE."

"Ah!" sighed the children, as the mother folded up the letter. Then they
were silent, thinking of the dear brother who wanted so much to be in
the dreadful battle; and the little mother was looking very mournful
when there came a ring at the bell.

The servant handed in a package, which proved to be a story from "Aunt
Fanny." It came very fortunately; and the mittens grew fast, as the
little mother read the interesting history of--

          THE PARTY LILLIE GAVE FOR MISS FLORENCE.




THE PARTY LILLIE GAVE FOR MISS FLORENCE.


"OH, mamma, please _do_ buy me a new doll," said Lillie, one day in
June.

"Why, how you talk!" answered her mother. "What has become of your large
family?"

"Oh, mamma! Minnie, the china doll, has only one leg, and my three wax
dolls are no better. Fanny has only one arm; both Julia's eyes are out;
and the kitten scratched off Maria's wig the other day, and she has the
most dreadful-looking, bald pate you ever saw! Instead of its being made
of nice white wax, it is nothing but old brown paper! I think it is
very mean not to make dolls' bald heads like other people's! Then I
could have dressed Maria up in pantaloons, and made a grandfather of
her. But now she is fit for nothing but to be put in a cornfield to
scare away the crows."

Lillie's mother laughed, and kissed her lovely daughter, who had not met
with any of the terrible misfortunes that had befallen her wax and china
family. _She_ had both her round and chubby white arms; and two pretty
and active legs, that made themselves very useful in skipping and
jumping from morning till night; and just the prettiest golden brown wig
you ever saw. It was fastened on so tight, that the kitten, with all her
scratchings, could never twitch it off; in fact, every single hair was
fastened by a root in her dear little head, and fell in soft, natural
curls over her dimpled cheeks.

That very afternoon, her mother went out shopping; and looking in at a
toy shop window, she saw a splendid wax doll nearly three feet long. It
was dressed up in all manner of furbelows, but the dress did not look
half so fresh and lovely as the doll. The arms and hands were all wax,
round, pinky-white, and beautifully shaped, with two cunning dimples in
the elbows, and four little dimples in the back of each hand. She had
dark curling hair, large blue eyes, and very small feet.

"Well," said the loving mother to herself, "I really _must_ try to get
this splendid doll for my darling Lillie." Her own gentle blue eyes
quite sparkled at the thought of the happiness such a present would
bring with it. So she walked quickly in, and asked the price.

Oh dear! It was twenty dollars!

This was more than the mother thought right to give for the doll; and
she told the man so, very politely. He was a very wise man, and what is
more and better, kept a toy shop, because he loved children dearly; so
he put his head on one side, and thought; then he looked out of the
corner of his eye at the lady, and saw what a pleasant, sweet expression
was on her face; then he thought again--this time, how disappointed the
sweet little girl at home would be, if she knew her mother was out
looking for a doll for her, and came home without one; and then he said,
"What do you think the doll is worth?"

Lillie's mother told him what she considered a fair price, and the
darling, good toyman spoke up as quick as a flash, "You shall have it,
ma'am! Here, John, put this doll in paper, and take it to 'No. 13
Clinton Place.'"

[ILLUSTRATION: Helen's Return Home.]

Lillie's sister Helen was going to spend the summer with her dear
grandmamma in Middletown. A splendid idea came into the kind mother's
head. Taking Helen into a room alone, she said, "My dear, you will want
some sewing to do, while you are away; suppose you take the beautiful
doll and make up several suits of clothes for her, just as neatly as
possible. I am sure your grandmamma will help you; and when you return,
we will have a delightful surprise for Lillie." The darling, good
sister, was just as pleased as possible with this plan: indeed, she had
not got past liking to play with dolls herself; and she was very
different from some elder sisters, who take an unamiable pleasure in
teasing the younger ones, instead of joining in their plays, and doing
everything to add to their happiness. So the doll and all sorts of
pretty muslins and silks, and materials for under garments, were
mysteriously packed away in Helen's trunk, and she went off to her
grandmother's pleasant country house, without Lillie's having the
slightest suspicion of what she was going to do. She was very busy all
summer making the clothes, with her grandmamma's help. Many of the
pleasant mornings she sat on the steps of the door, listening to the
singing of the birds as she sewed.

[Illustration]

And now this is a very good place to tell you about Lillie and her
sisters; for she had three dear sisters--Helen, Mary, and sweet little
Maggie; and no brother at all. The only one she ever had, went to live
with Jesus in heaven, after staying only fifteen months here in this
world.

You know already what a kind mother the children had; and I am very
certain their papa loved them just as much. When he is with them, his
dark, bright, and piercing eyes droop and soften into an expression of
so much affection, that one day, when I was visiting at his house, I
caught myself repeating the words of a perfect little poem, which seemed
to have been written expressly for him. It is so beautiful, and
describes the children so well, with the change of one or two words,
that I have ventured to copy it here for you. It was written by Gerald
Massey.

          "There be four maidens; four loving maidens;
             Four bonny maidens, mine;
           Four precious jewels are set in Life's crown,
             On prayer-lifted brows to shine.
           Eight starry eyes, all love-luminous,
             Look out of our heaven so tender;
           Since the honeymoon glowing and glorious
             Arose in its ripening splendor.

          "There's Lillie bell, the duchess of wonderland,
             With her dance of life, dimples and curls;
           Whose bud of a mouth into sweet kisses bursts,
             A-smile with the little white pearls:
           And Mary our rosily-goldening peach,
             On the sunniest side of the wall;
           And Helen--mother's own darling,
             And Maggie, the baby of all."

The summer was passed by our dear little Lillie in playing and
frolicking, and sometimes tearing her frocks; which last, her mother
minded not the least bit, as long as it was an accident. I don't,
either. Children had better tear their frocks a little, jumping,
climbing over fences, and getting fat and healthy, than to sit in the
house, looking pale and miserable. My Alice often comes in, a perfect
object to behold! I sometimes wonder the ragman, who drives the old
cart with a row of jingling bells strung over the top, don't mistake her
for a bundle of rags gone out for a walk. I don't feel _worried_ about
it; for if he _should_ happen to make this mistake, and pop her in his
cart some day, Alice would make one of her celebrated Indian "yoops," as
she calls it, and I rather think he would pop her out, quicker than she
went in.

When September had come, Helen returned home; and soon after, the mother
said, "Lillie, there is a young lady in town, who wishes to make your
acquaintance. She is quite grand and fashionable in her ideas, so we
must make a little flourish for her. What do you think of having a party
to receive her?"

"A party!" screamed Lillie, clapping her hands with delight; "I would
like that _very_ much; and oh! please have candy, and oranges, and oh!
mottoes--lots of snapping mottoes for the party! That would be most
delightful! And please ask Nattie, and Kittie, and Lina, and Emily, and
oh! everybody."

"You must ask them yourself. See, here is a quantity of pretty buff and
pink note paper, and here is a nice new pen: sit down and write your
invitations."

This was a tremendous business! and Lillie, spreading herself in great
grandeur, with her head on one side, took the pen and wrote very nicely,
_for her_, all the notes, in this way:

          "Miss Lillie B---- wishes you To Come to A party
          to-morrow to Meet A young Lady. Her name Is--i
          Don't Know Yet. Please Come At Seven-o-Clock.  LILLIE."

Then she doubled them up into little squares, and put them into the
envelopes; and Margery, the maid, who loved Lillie dearly, and _would_
have rode off with the notes on a broomstick to Jerusalem, if her little
lady had wanted her to--trotted about all the morning, leaving them at
the children's houses, telling the waiters who answered the doors, on no
account to stop a single moment, but rush right up stairs with them, as
they were of the greatest importance.

The next morning, Lillie got all the answers. I should think there were
about twenty little notes, all directed to her. Was ever anything known
to equal it? A lady getting so many letters at once! It was almost too
much happiness. They did not all come at once, which was very lucky; for
I do believe Lillie would have gone crazy with delight. She opened the
first with trembling eagerness, dancing up and down the whole time, and
read these enchanting words:

          "dear lillie--

          "i will come. i shall wear my best frock--what a
          funny name the young lady has. miss don't know yet

                   "good bye. yours,         NATTIE."

"Oh, mamma," she cried, laughing, "Nattie thinks the young lady's name
is 'Miss Don't Know Yet!' How funny! But really, what is her name,
mamma?"

"She will tell you that herself, when she comes. She wants to surprise
you."

"Oh!" said Lillie; and just then another note was handed to her, and she
read this:

          "DEAR LILLIE:--Mamma is writing this note for me,
          and she says--I accept your invitation with much
          pleasure. So I do, certainly. What delightful fun
          it is to go to a party! I wish you would have one
          every week.
                     "Your loving friend,      KITTY."

"Oh, mamma"--Lillie was just going to ask her mother to let her have a
party every week--when Maggie brought another note. This was from a
young gentleman, and was as follows:

          "Master Russell is coming to Your Party; and I
          will Eat all the plum Cake, and bring A pack of
          Crackers In my pocket--to fire off in honor Of
          Miss Doughnut.
                             "Yours affectionately,
                                             "SAM RUSSELL."

Lillie thought this was a splendid idea! It would be such an honor to
the young lady to receive her with popping a pack of crackers at her,
just as they fire off cannon at the President when he comes to town.

"Oh, how enchanting it is!" she cried, and she jumped up on a chair and
jumped down again three times running, she was so happy.

Everybody was coming, and all wrote notes very like those I have told
you. The weather was beautiful, and, for a wonder, everything went just
right.

Long before seven o'clock, Lillie was dressed and in the parlor waiting
for her little friends. She got very impatient, and was just beginning
to think they never meant to come; or had all been naughty, and were
sent to bed instead of going to a party, when the door bell rang--then
again--then again--and a moment after a little troop of laughing, lovely
children skipped into the room, all talking together, and all running to
kiss Lillie at once; so that not a quarter of them could find a place on
her sweet, happy face, and had to wait for their turn.

Then some nice little boys came in, with their faces scrubbed so clean
they fairly shone, and their hair parted down the middle behind so very
even that the seam looked like a streak of white chalk. They went up to
Lillie very bashfully, and shook hands; and then all got together in a
corner, because you see they were afraid of the girls, and imagined
that they were making fun of them.

But after a little while this fear seemed to fly up the chimney, for
boys and girls were playing "turn the platter," and "hunt the ring," and
the larger ones were dancing; and everybody was having the most
delightful time possible.

Dear little rosebud Maggie was the happiest of any, for she was to sit
up until every scrap of the party was over; so everybody kissed her, and
played with her, and showed her how to turn the platter, and she skipped
and danced; and that dear little chuckling, singing laugh of hers was
heard in every corner of the room. The fact is, Little Maggie is one of
my particular darlings. Don't tell anybody.

But where was the young lady all this time?

Lillie had scarcely thought of her, she was so happy with the dear
little friends she knew and loved. Of course a stranger could not expect
to have the same place in her loving heart, especially as she had not
yet had even the first peep at her.

Her sister Mary had gone out of the room a little while before, and
Lillie was wondering why she did not return, when there came a
tremendous ringing at the bell.

"She's coming!" whispered Lillie to herself, and her heart beat fast as
the door opened; and there marched gravely in--not a young lady--but a
little old gentleman, whose hair was perfectly white, though he seemed
to have a great deal of it, for his head was about the size of a half
peck measure. He wore a very long-tailed coat, buttoned up very tight;
his pantaloons only reached down to his knees; but to make up for that
his stockings came up to meet them, and were fastened with perfectly
beautiful garters, with a big silver buckle shining in the very middle;
shoes, also flourishing large silver buckles, adorned his feet. So you
see he was quite an old dandy.

Leaning on his arm was a little old lady. Her hair was also as white as
snow; and she too had so much, and it was so fuzzy, that it looked for
all the world like a pound of cotton batting. She was dressed in the
most gorgeous array, perfectly elegant to behold! white satin, and
flowers, and furbelows; and was so very dignified and stiff in her
manners that Lillie thought she must have fallen into a kettle of
starch.

Another tremendous ring at the bell! and the servant who answered it
came into the parlor and said the little old gentleman and lady were
wanted out in the hall immediately.

They made each a low bow and marched out of the room, while the
children's bright eyes grew larger and larger, and they asked each
other, with a little hop and skip apiece, what in the world was coming
next.

As to Lillie, the lovely pink roses deepened on her cheeks; her eyes
shone like diamonds, and two dimples kept playing hide and seek with the
smiles that were chasing them every instant.

It was a breathless moment! All were waiting--their eyes fastened on the
door. The knob turned--it slowly opened--and in marched the little old
lady and gentleman, holding between them by the hands, the most
perfectly beautiful young lady that was ever seen in the whole world!!

She had on a white tarleton dress, with two skirts trimmed with
cherry-colored blond lace. The waist was gathered in at the belt, and
finished round the neck with a beautiful lace berthe. She wore a sash of
cherry-colored satin ribbon, and in her belt was an elegant chatelaine,
from which hung a tiny gold watch exactly the size of a five cent piece.
A necklace was round her neck, and a wreath of flowers upon her head.
She had fine open-worked stockings and morocco shoes. In her right hand
was the cunningest little fan that ever was seen! and altogether she was
quite the belle of the evening.

All the children drew a long breath! and gazed with admiration as the
three strangers marched all round the room. Then they stopped in the
very middle, and Lillie's mother, stepping up beside them, gracefully
waved her hand and said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, let me present to you Mr. and Mrs. Grey, and Miss
Florence Grey."

The little old gentleman put his hand on his heart, and made such a low
bow to the company that they saw the back of his bushy white head, and
his long coat tails stuck out behind like a pennon in a high breeze; and
the little old lady put her hand on _her_ heart, and dropped such a low
courtesy that the children thought she meant to sit down on the carpet;
but Miss Florence looked straight before her, and never took the
slightest notice of anybody.

Just then a queer little laugh was heard; a kind of a smothered,
bursting laugh. The children stared! and there was the little old
gentleman stuffing his pocket handkerchief into his mouth, and
perfectly shaking with laughter!! What conduct in an aged person!! But
worse was coming! The little old lady began to laugh; then she screamed
with laughter, and shook so that a most dreadful thing happened! She
laughed all the hair off her head! It first tumbled over sideways, and
then fell on the carpet all in a bunch!

"Sister Mary!! sister Mary!!" cried Lillie, running up to the little old
lady, who, strange to tell! had another crop of beautiful golden brown
hair under the other, smoothed down very close to her head.

"Why, it's a wig!" screamed the children, all laughing and running up.
Was there ever anything so funny: "It's nothing but Miss Mary in a wig."

At this very moment Master Sam Russell stepped slyly behind the little
old gentleman, and twitched at his bushy white hair. It all came off in
his hand amid roars of laughter; and underneath was the brown head of
Harry, one of the greatest fellows for fun you ever saw, and a dear
cousin of Lillie's.

But Miss Florence stared at it all with a simpering smile on her face;
till Lillie, looking close at her, caught her up in her arms, and
hugging her to her breast screamed joyfully out--"It's a new doll! a new
doll!! Miss Florence is a new doll!!" and began running round the whole
length of the two rooms, all the children scampering after her, laughing
and shouting, till they threw themselves down on the sofas and chairs,
perfectly breathless.

Yes, Miss Florence was a splendid wax doll; and the children gathered
round Lillie, after just one second of rest, for they could not possibly
be expected to sit still longer than that; and admired and kissed the
stranger; and "Oh, what a darling! what lovely eyes! what pretty boots!
how big she is! and so on," was heard on all sides.

A tremendous ring at the bell! Why! were wonders never to cease? In came
Margery saying there was a trunk in the hall left by the expressman, who
said Miss Florence Grey must pay him twenty-five cents, and he would not
stir a step till she did.

Here was a difficulty! Lillie's money never had a chance to burn a hole
in _her_ pocket, because she spent it the very moment her mamma or papa
gave her any; and she did not know where twenty-five cents were to come
from.

"Suppose you feel in Miss Florence's pocket," said her mother.

"Ah! let's see!" cried Lillie; so she poked two of her little fingers in
the pocket, and sure enough! there was a bright, new quarter of a
dollar. She rushed out and gave it to the expressman, who hardly waited
to say, "thank you," but was on his wagon with a bound, and round the
corner like a flash of lightning.

Well, there in the hall was a beautiful new trunk! two of the boys
brought it in very politely. But it was locked. What was to be done now?

"Feel in Miss Florence's pocket," advised the good mother again.

Lillie poked in two little fingers as before, and said that way down in
the bottom there was certainly something. She caught it at last, and
when it was fished out, it proved to be a small key.

All the children crowded round as the trunk was unlocked; and then you
would have given a hundred dollars, only to see their faces, and hear
them clap their hands, and exclaim with delight as dress after dress,
and petticoats all tucked up, pantalettes with the most beautiful
embroidery round the legs, and a round straw hat, and two French
bonnets, and all sorts of things; and everything else besides, was taken
out. Oh, it was almost too good to believe!

Down sat the darlings on the carpet, and spread all the articles out.
The boys looking on very much pleased.

"Let's try all the dresses on," said one of the little girls.

No sooner said, than done! and before Miss Florence could say "Jack
Robinson," off came the dress she was wearing.

Did you ever! To be trying on a lady's dress at a party!! Who ever heard
of such a thing? I never did! But the best of it was, that Miss Florence
did not seem to care a button; she smiled and simpered, and allowed
herself to be tumbled over on her nose, and never squealed an atom when
pins were run into her back. But no doubt she came to the conclusion
that it was the custom of the country. At any rate, she could not help
loving Lillie; and for my part, I don't know who could.

In the middle of the dressing, supper was announced! which was joyful
news, as all the romping and playing had made the children as hungry as
hunters; and, at the sight of a great table perfectly loaded down with
cakes, oranges, and mottoes, instead of gravely marching in, looking as
solemn as owls--as grown people do--they skipped and danced with
delight: and such a little, laughing, joyous party was worth all the
grum old grown-up balls from now to never. I wish all the children would
invite me to their parties; I think it is _such_ fun! The sight of so
many happy little faces takes nearly all the sad look out of my face,
and quite all the sad thoughts out of my heart.

They all ate just as much as they wanted of the nice things, and the
little boys pulled the snapping mottoes with the girls; and very
politely gave the motto papers, all crammed full of "love and dove," and
"bliss and kiss," to those they liked best.

Then they played games and danced, and were so perfectly happy, that
when the servants came to take them home, they one and all declared that
they would not go, as their mammas had said they might stay till ten
o'clock; when, would you believe it? Lillie's mother said it was ten
minutes after ten then!

Where in the world had all the time gone to, this evening? Just the very
evening, of all others, when they wanted it to last three times longer
than usual! It really was too bad; and was very unkind in the hands of
the clock to scrabble over such delightful hours so fast. But there was
no help for it now; and they put on their coats, cloaks, caps, and hats,
and, after kissing Lillie and Miss Florence, who was going to live
there, they all went home.

And that was the end of Miss Florence's party. I mean the party that was
given in her honor. If you should like to see her, just come to me, and
I will whisper in your ear were she lives now; for they have moved away
from Clinton Place. She and Lillie have become great friends, and have
never been separated since that celebrated evening, at the party, when
the children tried on all her dresses.

Oh! I forgot one thing. The white wigs, you know. Well, the boys picked
them up to examine them; and, what do you think the queer old things
were made of? Why, nothing but a sheet of white wadding.

How they did laugh! and how surprised they were! for they looked so
respectable! just like the bushy horse hair wigs you see hanging in Mr.
Isabeau the hair dresser's windows; and I, for one, the very next time I
go to a fancy party, mean to make a wig of white wadding, for three
cents, for that was all Henry's and Mary's cost.

Won't Lillie be surprised when she sees this story in print! I'm quite
certain she will laugh and kiss me, and say, Why, Aunt Fanny! _You_ were
not at the party; how _did_ you hear? Then I shall look very mischievous
and say, "Ah! that's telling!"

[Illustration: Portrait of Miss Florence.]

But there's one thing I must tell, though I am very nearly certain you
have guessed it already. Miss Florence was the very doll Lillie's mother
had bought in the summer time, and Helen, the kind sister, had made
every one of the beautiful things in the little trunk. To show you
how handsome they all were, I have had Miss Florence's portrait taken in
an everyday dress, and begged the printer to put it in this book. Don't
it make a flourish? And was not Helen a perfect darling of a sister?
Don't you wish she was yours? I do.

       *       *       *       *       *

"There! what do you think of that story?" said the little mother, as she
rolled up the manuscript.

"Oh, it is the best of all! They are all the best stories!" cried the
children. "How we wish we knew Lillie and her beautiful doll!"

They gathered round their mother, and admired her picture, which Aunt
Fanny had sent with the MS.; and counted the flounces, and thought her
feet were "such darlings!" and then exclaimed again, "Oh, I wish we knew
her!"

"Wouldn't you rather know Harry, the little old gentleman in the wig?"
asked a voice at the door.

The children turned quickly round, and saw Aunt Fanny standing at the
door laughing at them.

They fell upon her with screams of delight, and, without meaning to,
immediately upset her upon the carpet; for she is a little woman, with
not a grain of bodily strength; all her strength is in her heart. So
there she sat, so weak from laughing, that she could not help herself;
while the children cried, "Oh, Aunt Fanny, we beg your pardon! did we
hurt you? we only meant to love you."

Then they all got hold of her, and began to pull her up different ways;
in consequence of which, down she came again, and half a dozen of the
children with her.

"Oh!" she cried, "if you don't stop, you will push me through the carpet
and floor, and make me fall plump on top of the cook's head in the
kitchen. Come, let's all sit here, while I tell you something, and
recover my breath."

This invitation suited them exactly. Down they all dropped, with Aunt
Fanny in the middle. The little ones tumbled over themselves, and
lighted on their heads at first; but after a good deal of laughing and
nestling up close together, they were tolerably quiet.

"Well," said Aunt Fanny, "I always knew you were perfect monkeys for
cutting capers; but I did not know till now, that you were also a family
of crabs."

"Crabs!" cried the children laughing.

"Yes, pulling me up, and trying to make me walk two ways at once, like a
crab: very good fun for a crab, but it brought me flat, as you see, and
has nearly frightened out of my head a fine story I have heard, about
the consequences of an odd speech your friend Harry, the little old
gentleman in the story of Lillie, made to a poor little boy."

"Oh dear, do tell it!" they cried; "try to get it back in your head
again; we want to hear it so much."

"Well, will you get up and sit in chairs, and work like beavers at your
mittens, if I do?"

"Oh, yes! yes!" They sprang up, and in a surprisingly short time the
crochet needles were glancing in the gas light; while the mittens grew
wonderfully.

It was a new pleasure to hear a story directly from her lips, especially
as she had brought two or three pictures to illustrate it, which added
greatly to their enjoyment.

It was rather late to begin one, but the little mother for once
consented to let the small ones of the family sit up; and Aunt Fanny
began the wonderful story of

                       THE FAIRY BENEVOLENCE.




THE FAIRY BENEVOLENCE.


THERE never was a more loving son than little Mark. He was only seven
years old. Yet already he was of great use to his mother, who was a very
poor widow, as poor as could be, and she had to work, without ever
resting, from morning till night, to get food and clothes for herself
and her dear child.

Oh, that terrible stitch, stitch, stitching! It must never stop; for all
she got for making a whole shirt was ten cents, and with her utmost
efforts she could only finish two in a day.

At last, what with crying and sitting up half the nights in the cold to
finish her sewing, the poor widow fell very ill. What was to be done?
There was no money to pay a physician, the rent was coming due, and
little Mark was almost crazy with grief. He sat by his mother's bedside
and bathed her head, and did all he knew how to do.

They lived in a small hut, far away from the village, to which the poor
widow had to take her work every week, from which it was conveyed to the
great city of New York. There the shirts were sold for so much money,
that the man who got them made for the shamefully small price of ten
cents, rode in his carriage and lived in splendor. Ah! how I wish this
wicked man, who was starving many a poor woman in the same way, could
have been made to feel cold, and hunger, and thirst, till he nearly
died. I think, after that he would begin to have a conscience--don't
you?

[Illustration: "Why, what is the matter, little fellow?"]

One afternoon, while his mother was in a troubled slumber, little
Mark went and sat down outside the cottage. A kind farmer had been
felling trees, and one of these he had given to Mark's mother, promising
to send one of the farm lads that evening to saw and split it for her.
Mark sat down on the log and leaned sadly upon his hand, and every
little while he wiped away a tear that rolled down his cheek.

Presently a tall, handsome boy walked past. It was Harry, the one who
personated the little old gentleman in the true story of "The Party
Lillie gave to Miss Florence." His father had a country seat in the
neighborhood, and Harry often took long walks in search of adventures.

"Why, what is the matter, little fellow?" he asked.

Mark raised his tearful eyes, and seeing a kind face, told his pitiful
story.

"Oh, don't be down-hearted," cried Harry. "Why, don't you know the
fairies are not all dead yet? Now, there's the fairy Benevolence; just
you ask her, good and loud, to help you, and see if she won't do it;"
and he patted the little boy encouragingly on the head, slipped a
quarter of a dollar--all the money he had with him--in his hand, and
walked quickly away.

Harry's father was a skilful physician, with one of the largest and most
loving hearts I ever knew; and when Harry told Mark to call upon the
fairy for assistance, his idea was that the fairy this time would come
in the shape of a rather stout gentleman, with the pleasantest smile and
finest set of snow-white teeth that ever were seen. He had a kind,
delicate way of doing a service, which made it better to take, and did
more good than all the medicine in Mr. Hegeman's apothecary shop.

Very soon little Mark got up and went into the cottage. His mother was
still sleeping. It was now sunset, and the shadows began to deepen and
darken in the room. Mark sat down by the bedside, and commenced thinking
of what Harry had told him. He was a little bit of a fellow, you know,
and of course would believe what such a great boy would say. So he
concluded it must be true that the fairies were still to be found; and
at last his longing grew so intense that he cried aloud, "Oh, Fairy
Benevolence! come quickly, and make my poor mother well."

       *       *       *       *       *

A sweet strain of music seemed to float in the air; the poor,
whitewashed wall of the cottage opened in the middle, through which a
beautiful lady entered, with a wreath of flowers round her head, and a
wand of ivory in her hand.

"Well, my little friend," said she in a soft voice, "what do you want of
me?"

Mark was almost speechless with astonishment and admiration; but he
managed to say, "Oh, lady, if you are the fairy Benevolence, save my
poor mother."

"It is not in my power, my good child. You must do it yourself. You can,
if you have the courage to go where I tell you, and hunt for a certain
plant. It grows on the top of a mountain, and is called 'The Plant of
Life.' The juice of that plant will cure your mother the moment she
tastes of it."

"I will go this instant," he cried; "but who will take care of my
mother?"

"Trust her to me, my dear boy, while you are absent. She shall have
everything she wants."

"Oh, thank you," said Mark; "now I will go."

"But you must have great courage and perseverance: there is nothing of
importance ever gained in this world without them."

"Oh, I have lots of courage!--only tell me where I shall find the
plant."

"Well--when you get to the top of the mountain, you must call the doctor
who has charge of the plant; tell him that I sent you, and he will give
you a sprig."

Mark thanked the kind fairy, and kissed her hand; he then leaned over
and softly kissed his mother, and then departed.

He walked quickly, but found the mountain further off than he expected.
He had hardly got a third of the way when he saw a crow caught in a
trap.

"Oh, poor crow!" exclaimed the kind little fellow, and he pressed down
the spring and released him. The crow flew off with a "caw, caw," and
then spoke like a human being, saying, "Thank you; I will repay you."

Mark was surprised to hear a bird talk; but he hurried on, and soon
after he saw a rooster chased by a fox. Mark caught the rooster up in
his arms, and concealed him under his coat; and the fox, staring,
surprised, in every direction, ran off disappointed. As soon as he was
out of sight Mark let the rooster go, who turned and said, with a
grateful and very long crow, "Thank you, Mark; I will repay you."

"Why, they can all talk!" exclaimed Mark; "they must be fairy people,
turned into birds!"

He walked on a long way, and jumped quickly on one side as he came up to
a great ugly bullfrog, who, charmed by a snake, was too terrified to
move. The snake was just about to swallow it whole, when Mark seized a
large stone and threw it with all his strength into the reptile's
wide-open mouth. Down went the stone into his throat, and choked him
directly.

The frog hopped joyfully into the ditch at the side of the road,
croaking out, "Thank you, Mark; I will repay you!"

"I declare the frog said the same thing," said Mark; "it is very
strange! But no doubt they are all fairies."

By this time he had arrived at the foot of the mountain; but, alas!
between it and him flowed a deep river, and so broad you could scarcely
see the other side.

"Oh dear," cried Mark, "what shall I do? I can't walk on water, and
there is neither boat or bridge." He sat down on the bank, covered his
face with his hands, and cried aloud, "Oh, Fairy Benevolence, come and
help me! Why did you tell me about the wonderful plant which would save
my dear mother's life, when you knew very well I could never get to the
mountain!"

At this instant, the rooster he had saved from the fox appeared, and
said, "Listen to me, Mark; the fairy Benevolence cannot help you here.
This mountain is beyond her dominions. But you have saved my life, and I
am not ungrateful: get on my back, and I promise you, on the faith of an
honorable rooster, I will carry you to the other side of the river."

Little Mark was overjoyed to hear this. He gave a spring, and was in a
moment astride of his comical steed, holding on by two feathers. The
rooster carried him as smoothly and easily as a steamboat; but not quite
so fast, for it took twenty-one days' paddling to accomplish the
journey; but at last he was landed high and dry on the opposite bank of
the river.

Mark now travelled for a long time, but the mountain seemed to recede;
and when at last he arrived at its foot, and began to climb, he thought
it was growing up in the air, like Jack's beanstalk. He journeyed
twenty-one days up and up, but did not get the least bit discouraged:
his great love for his mother gave him both patience and perseverance.
"If I have to walk for twenty-one years," he said aloud, "I will never
stop till I get to the top."

"Twenty-one years," echoed a malicious, sneering voice. "You are a very
conceited little chap! Pray, what do you want?" and out came, from a
cave in the mountain, a little man with one eye in the middle of his
face, and two noses side by side.

"I wish to find the plant of life, sir," answered Mark, with a bow.

"Oh, you do! Pray, whom for?"

"For my dear mother, who is lying very ill at home."

"Oh, well you look like a tolerably good boy, and I believe I will
permit you to go, under certain conditions. I am a _génie_; so, you see,
I could cook and eat you, if I liked. You must reap all my wheat,
thrash out the grains, grind them into flour, and knead the flour into
loaves, and bake them. You will find all the tools you want in the cave.
When all is done, you can call me; but till you have finished, you shall
not stir a step." So saying, he disappeared in a streak of blue smoke.

Mark had listened in terror, and, when the _génie_ was out of sight, he
looked all round him. On every side were immense fields of wheat. He
raised his arms, then dropped them in despair, and, covering his face
with his hands, cried out, "Oh, fairy Benevolence, come and help me!"

"Go to work, Mark," said a soft voice close to his ear.

Mark, upon this, took up a scythe and began to cut the wheat. This took
five times twenty-one days; four times twenty-one days were spent in
thrashing the grain; three times twenty-one days in grinding it into
flour; and twice twenty-one days in making it into loaves, and baking
them.

As fast as the loaves were taken out of the oven, they arranged
themselves in even rows, like books on the shelves.

When all was done, Mark called the _génie_, saying, "Here they are, sir,
smoking hot."

The little man appeared immediately, and counted them--five hundred
thousand loaves. He tasted a bit from the first and last loaf, smacked
his lips, and said they were "prime." Then he took a snuff box from his
pocket, and said to Mark, "Here, take this, and when you return home,
you will find it filled with a new kind of snuff."

Mark thanked the _génie_, who immediately disappeared in a streak of
brown smoke.

He went on climbing the mountain, but had not got far, when he came
suddenly upon a giant sitting at the mouth of a cave. He seemed a jolly,
good-natured old fellow, with a pipe, and a bundle of cigars, and a bag
of money on a sort of table before him.

Mark was not very much afraid of him, and, making a low bow, said,
"Please, sir, tell me if I am near the place where the plant of life
grows."

"It is not very far off, youngster; but you don't stir a step farther,
until you gather all my grapes, and make wine of them. So be in a
hurry."

Poor little Mark! He looked round and saw grape vines, with the fruit
weighing them down in every direction. It took three times twenty-one
days to gather them, and twice the same time to make the wine and put it
into casks.

When all was done, he called out, "It's all done, Mr. Giant."

The giant tasted the wine, from the first and last cask, smacked his
lips, and said, "That's what I call good! Here, monkey, take this
thistle; when you reach home you will find in it everything you wish."
In an instant, giant, casks, and all had disappeared.

But little Mark, holding fast to his thistle, journeyed on. Soon he came
to a wide ravine. It was impossible to jump across, and so deep that the
bottom could not be seen. He walked along the edge for a long time, but
it grew wider and more precipitous. "Oh!" cried Mark in despair, "no
sooner do I overcome one obstacle, than another rises in its place. How
shall I ever get past this dreadful ravine?" He covered his face with his
hands, and murmured, "Oh, fairy Benevolence, must my mother die!"

Hardly was the last word spoken, when a wolf appeared, and asked in a
rough voice what he wanted in his domains.

"Oh, Mr. Wolf," said Mark trembling, "I seek the plant of life for my
mother."

"Well," growled the wolf, "you must first kill all the game in my
forests, and make them into game pies. Here are a bow and arrows, and
here is a fire in this hole; not a step shall you stir till you have
finished."

Mark took the bow and arrows, and tried to shoot the birds, but he could
not hit a single one. Just then the crow appeared, and, with a polite
"caw, caw," said, "You have saved my life: now I will show you my
gratitude." So saying, she killed all the game for him. It took four
times twenty-one days, and he killed five hundred thousand, of all sorts
and sizes, woodcocks, partridges, quails, chip birds, robins, and cat
birds, for a wolf likes all varieties. As fast as the crow killed, Mark
cooked, and when it was all done, he called out, "Mr. Wolf, here are
your pies with plenty of pepper and salt."

The wolf tasted the first and last, smacked his lips, and exclaimed,
"My! how nice!" He then gave Mark a stick, saying, "When you have found
the plant of life, and want to go home, get astride of this stick; but
now get on my back."

Mark obeyed, somewhat frightened, and holding fast to his steed's ears;
the wolf went to the edge of the ravine, gave a prodigious jump; and, lo
and behold! Mark was safely over.

And now, at last, the high wall of the garden appeared, in which grew
the plant of life. In the distance was a tall tower, from the window of
which a pretty little girl was watching him.

Mark uttered a thankful exclamation, but alas! before he could get
inside the garden, there was a deep moat to cross. He walked along the
edge, hoping to come to a bridge; but found none. Still the brave,
determined boy was not in the least discouraged, but said aloud, "I
won't stir from this place until I find some way of getting across."

Hardly had he uttered these words before he saw an enormous cat, who,
giving a loud "mew," by way of clearing her voice, asked him what he
wanted there.

Mark repeated his story, and the cat, with another mew, said, "You
cannot go across without you catch all the fish in the moat, and fry
them with parsley and catsup. You will find a fishing rod and bait on
the sand. Come! begin! while I set the table."

"Oh!" said little Mark, "how can I catch all these fish! Oh, fairy
Benevolence! come to me."

[Illustration: The Cat shot up in the air.]

"I will help you," said a sweet voice. He turned, and there stood beside
him the very little girl he saw looking out of the window in the tower.
How she got there nobody knows; and what Mr. Nobody knows he never
tells; but the dear little maiden said, "I am called 'Little Goody.' The
old cat shall have the fish, and you shall have the plant of life; but
she shan't stay here to tease you."

So she clapped her hands and cried, scat!! so suddenly, that the cat,
catching up the table cloth, shot up in the air like a sky rocket,
screaming like forty steam whistles.

Then Goody stamped her little foot on the ground, and up started a bull
frog, who said right away, "How do you do, Mr. Mark? I don't forget that
you have saved my life, and I am not an ungrateful frog. I will catch
the fish for you."

It took three times twenty-one days to catch all the fish, and twice
twenty-one days to cook them. Then Mark called the cat, saying, "Come,
Mrs. Cat, come and look at your dinner." Down came the cat, with the
table cloth still on her shoulders, tasted the first and last fish,
smacked her lips, flourished her whiskers and tail, and cried, "Catipal!
How many kinds you have caught! I must make a catalogue of them;" and
then, to Mark's great amazement, she took the carving knife and cut off
one of her paws, and handed it to him, saying, "Take this cat's paw:
when you feel ill, weary, or are growing old, touch this paw to the end
of your nose with the claws spread out, and all illness and weariness
will disappear over your left shoulder."

Mark took it, and thanked the cat heartily. He thought he would try it
then, and sure enough, he felt the fatigue walking over his left
shoulder, just as he had been told. The little girl stood looking on
with an amiable expression, and then the cat said, "Get on my tail."

Mark did not like to step on the cat's tail. He knew by experience that
a cat is apt to claw anybody well who ventures on such a caper; but the
little Goody laughed out, and stepping on it herself, invited Mark to
her side.

Thus encouraged, the boy got on; and then the tail began to grow, till
the top of it reached the garden gate, to which it fastened itself; and
Mark and his pretty companion walked merrily over this new-fashioned
bridge.

At the entrance, Goody took an affectionate leave of him, first pointing
to a little clump of bushes with emerald green leaves, saying, "Never
mind asking my father, the doctor. There is the plant of life, Mark;
pluck it quickly, and off for home and your mother."

Oh, what joy he felt! He gathered several sprigs of the precious
talisman, mounted the stick which the wolf had given him, and presto! in
an instant was at the door of his mother's cottage.

Quickly he entered, and running up to her, pressed the plant to her
lips. She brightened up immediately, hugged him to her heart, and
exclaimed, "Oh, how rejoiced I am to have you again! You have been gone
two years, seven months, and twenty-one days! How you have grown, and
how rejoiced I am, my darling! my own boy!"

At this moment, the wall of the room opened, and the beautiful fairy
Benevolence entered. She related to the happy mother all Mark's
adventures, and the courage, patience, and goodness which he had shown.
Then she told the brave boy that he might make use of the presents
given to him by the little old man and the giant.

Mark opened the snuff box, and out sprang a number of workmen about the
size of bees, who set to work with such good will and diligence, that in
an hour they had built a pretty little house, and furnished it
completely, not forgetting a book case filled with excellent books, some
fine engravings, and a few paintings on the walls. Mark was especially
delighted at this, for he wanted of all things to learn to read and
write; and the pictures charmed him even more, for he had a natural
taste for such things.

Then he opened the thistle. Dear me! It was crammed full of clothes for
himself and his mother, with sheets, tablecloths, and napkins, all of
fine linen. Was there ever anything known like it!

While they were admiring these wonders, the busy-bee-men, who had
popped out of the snuff box, had prepared an excellent dinner of roast
beef and pumpkin pie; and while Mark and his mother were eating it, what
should march past the pretty bay window, which opened to the floor, but
two fine cows, one fine horse, a great rooster, and twenty hens;
turkeys, geese, and ducks; all lowing and neighing, and crowing, and
cackling, and gobbling, and hissing, and quacking, enough to take your
head off; but Mark and his mother and the fairy seemed to like it, for
they clapped their hands and laughed so loud that--

       *       *       *       *       *

"Why, Mark!" cried a cheery, laughing voice, "do you mean to sleep a
week?"

Mark started up wildly and looked about him. What did it mean? He was in
his own little bed, in his own little room!

"Where is the fairy Benevolence?" he said, looking perfectly bewildered.

Harry shouted with laughter. "Why, Mark, are you cracked? What has made
you sleep so soundly? Father and I came here last evening, about an hour
after dark, and found you fast asleep, sitting at your mother's bedside.

"'Poor, tired little chap, he has watched with his mother, till he is
worn out,' said father; and he took you gently in his arms and laid you
down here. Then he sat by your mother's bedside some time, to watch the
effect of some famous medicine he gave her; and when she was in a
pleasant sleep, he and I went home.

"But we came here this morning early, and found your mother much better,
and you, you little monkey, still as sound as a top.

"I've been making your mother's room more comfortable; and Betty,
mamma's maid, has brought a great basket full of all sorts of nice
things for her. Come and see her; she looks real bright! she is getting
well already."

Little Mark had listened, with his senses getting clearer every minute,
and at last he understood, with a sigh of disappointment, that his
wonderful adventures and the fairy Benevolence _were only a dream_. He
was almost crying as he said, "Oh, Mr. Harry, if you knew what I had
been dreaming, you would be sorry for me. I was so sure it was all true
about the fairy Benevolence."

"So it is," laughed Harry; "only the fairy has got whiskers. Come
along."

Mark suffered Harry to lead him into the other room; and then,
forgetting everything and everybody, he rushed up to his mother, and
bursting into tears on her neck, sobbed out, "Oh, mother! if it only
could have been true, you would have been cured, and we should have
been living in such a nice house! with cows, and hens, and turkeys, and
all--oh! oh--!"

His mother was sitting up in the bed, and Harry's father was mixing a
pleasant drink for her. Mark looked up as Harry said: "Come, Mark, don't
cry so: here is a fairy who will help you, and your mother too." When
the little boy saw the genial, kindly smile of the doctor, he felt
comforted; and sitting down on the side of the bed, he told his
wonderful dream.

It was listened to with the deepest interest; and when he had finished,
the doctor patted him on the head, and said, "Never mind, my fine little
fellow! if we can't give you a grand house and a snuff box full of
servants, and a thistle which drops out of it all the clothes you want,
I think we can cure your mother; and when she is well, we will find her
something better to do than making shirts at ten cents apiece; and you
shall go to school, and learn to be a great scholar; and I don't see the
first thing to prevent your having a good chance to become, one of these
days, the President of the United States. So hurrah!"

The kind doctor was as good as his word. The poor widow recovered
rapidly under his excellent care, which did her _heart_ more good than
her body, for it was both sweet and strange to receive so much kindness.
Good Samaritans are very scarce nowadays.

When she was well enough to go out, she found that her rent was paid, a
load of wood was piled away in the wood shed, half a barrel of flour was
in the pantry, and some nice hams were hanging up. Plenty of work at
good prices soon poured in. Little Mark was sent to the district school,
for now he had comfortable clothes and shoes on his poor little feet;
and really, as he told his mother one happy evening--"After all, dear
mother, I like my _waking_ fairy Benevolence best--whiskers and all!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A few evenings after the last story had been read, the little mother
drew from her pocket quite a thick roll of paper, saying: "Here is
something from Aunt Fanny, with a proposal that will surprise you."

"What _can_ it be?" cried the children with eagerness.

"She wants you to act a play."

"_We_ act a play! Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"Yes; she has partly written, partly translated a little play, and here
is her letter with it."

          "MY DARLING CHILDREN;

          "Don't you wish, you could get on faster than ever
          with your mittens? Well, here, is a plan that came
          into my head a few days ago, and I have been
          arranging it very industriously.

          "You must go right to work to learn the parts in
          this little play. I do not approve of some parts
          of it, because a deceit was practised to bring one
          of the boys to a sense of his selfish and
          undutiful conduct. This was 'doing evil that good
          may come,' and was very wrong. If your mother were
          to punish you by deceiving you, you would doubt
          her ever after; and for a child to doubt a parent
          is, I should think, one of the most miserable
          feelings in the world.

          "With this very important exception, the little
          play is pretty good. And this is what your mother
          and I will do: When you are perfect in your parts,
          we will have a private rehearsal. Then we will
          invite about fifty of our friends to witness this
          elegant entertainment, for which they must pay
          _one pair of mittens apiece_ for the brave
          soldiers. We will give them one week to make them,
          which will be abundance of time; and I have no
          doubt but what they will think it very cheap pay
          for so much pleasure."

A long pause took place when the letter was finished; the children were
so astonished, as well as delighted, at the new work prepared for them.

"Well!" cried Harry at last, "what _would_ George say, if he knew the
monkeys and crabs would turn actors next?"

"He would think it splendid," answered Anna. "You know the poor
soldiers, who were made prisoners at that dreadful Bull Run battle,
acted plays in their prisons, to keep themselves from dying of
home-sickness."

"I want to act," said Willie.

"I want to act," echoed Bennie.

"Well," said the Little Mother, "let us see how many characters there
are."

They all crowded round while she unrolled the paper. "Here is the
mother, Mrs. Langdon. You must take that, Anna; and Harry will be
Edward, your son."

"If he is the bad boy," said Anna, laughing, "I'll give him a thrashing
every morning before breakfast."

"That will give you an excellent appetite," returned Harry; "for I shall
run away, and you will have to catch me, first."

"Clara must be Mary Brown, Edward's nurse."

"Oh, dear little fellow," said Clara, patting Harry, "old nursey will
buy you a stick of candy."

"Ago-o-o," said Harry, like a little baby, which set them all laughing.

"Johnny shall be Mr. Sherwood, the tutor, because he is naturally such a
sober little fellow," said the mother; "and we will invite Gus Averill,
Harry's friend, to be Morris, because he and Harry are of the same age
and height, and that will be excellent. Minnie can do Jane, the maid,
very nicely; and Willie and Bennie can be Patrick and Andrew, the waiter
and gardener."

So it was all settled; and the next morning the children began to study
their parts--the larger ones assisting the little ones--so that they
learned as quickly as the best. In the evening they repeated what they
knew to their mother, working at the same time on their mittens, and
were just as busy and happy as good and industrious children always are.

It was really surprising how soon they became perfect, and the rehearsal
went off with complete success. Harry and Anna kept their faces very
well; and only Bennie and Willie grinned a little when they first came
on the stage, which was the back parlor.

The company were to sit in the front parlor, and some curtains were hung
up between that and the back room, and made to draw quickly aside, and
drop just as quickly.

The invitations had been sent out, and were every one accepted. This is
one of them:

          "An Entertainment for the Benefit
                  OF THE SOLDIERS:
             AT THE LITTLE MOTHER'S HOUSE,
            _Christmas Eve, Dec. 24, 1861_.
            ADMISSION, ONE PAIR OF MITTENS."

The great evening came; and the children, ready dressed for their parts,
were in a tremendous flutter. Even the little wee ones were to do
something. They were stationed at the parlor door with baskets, and
charged not to let a soul come in, unless the pair of mittens were paid
into one of the baskets. I warrant you they took very good care of that,
for their eyes were as sharp as needles; and the moment the door was
opened they would all cry "Mitten money! mitten money! pay your mitten
money!" which made the company laugh so they could hardly get the
"mitten money" out of their pockets.

After they had all arrived, and were comfortably seated, each with a
beautifully written play bill, with the names of the actors upon it, the
entertainment began.




MASTER EDWARD'S TRIAL;

OR, DO AS YOU WOULD BE DONE BY.

A LITTLE PLAY.



CHARACTERS.

          MRS. LANGDON. By Anna.

          EDWARD, her son, thirteen years of age. By Harry.

          MARY BROWN, his nurse. By Clara.

          MORRIS, Mary's son, of the same age as Edward. By
          Master Augustus Averill, a friend of Harry's.

          MR. SHERWOOD, Edward's tutor. By Johnnie.

          JANE, his mother's maid. By Minnie.

          PATRICK, the waiter. By Willie.

          ANDREW, the gardener. By Bennie.


SCENE--_A fine House in the Country. A Parlor opening into the Garden._


SCENE I.--MRS. LANGDON _and_ MR. SHERWOOD.

MR. SHERWOOD. No, madam; I have come to bid you adieu. It is impossible.
I cannot, I will not stay here another day.

[Illustration]

MRS. LANGDON. But, Mr. Sherwood, listen a moment!

MR. S. No! I have made up my mind! I am tired of losing my time and
pains with Edward!

MRS. L. Please have a little patience. Try him once more.

MR. S. He has already abused my patience beyond all bounds. He is
wilful, ungrateful, idle, and stupid; and all the blame will fall on
me, whom you have employed to educate him.

MRS. L. Can you believe that I would blame you, who have been so kind to
my son? Remember, that when my husband died, you promised me to devote
yourself to my fatherless boy. Will you leave your work undone? He has
talents, a good heart--

MR. S. No, madam; you deceive yourself. His heart is bad; his character
unamiable; he is proud, vain, selfish, wicked.

MRS. L. What! wicked!

MR. S. Yes, madam. Does he not treat your servants as if they were
slaves? Does not everybody hate him?

MRS. L. Oh, how severe you are! My dear son is young: he has pride, to
be sure; and that very pride once caused you to say that you would make
a great and good man of him.

MR. S. Yes, I said so; and perhaps I might have succeeded without you--

MRS. L. Without me! Why, what can you mean?

MR. S. Do you wish me to be frank with you?

MRS. L. Certainly. I shall feel obliged to you.

MR. S. Well; it is you who spoil the effect of all my lessons. It is you
who spoil Edward. Excuse me, but I must say it.

MRS. L. I, Mr. Sherwood! I confess I love him above all other earthly
possessions; but that is surely excusable. He is the image of a husband
taken away from me in the first year of our marriage. You remember my
grief was so excessive that I could not nourish my poor child; and by
the advice and entreaties of my relatives and physician, I consented
that he should be taken into the country by my humble, faithful friend,
Mary Brown, who nursed him for eighteen months with her own child, while
I was sent to the West Indies, and afterward to Europe, to recover my
health. Edward is all I have.

MR. S. If you love him so much, send him to boarding school.

MRS. L. Impossible! I cannot part with him. But I will put him entirely
under your control. Only stay, and you shall govern him just as you
like.


SCENE II.--_Enter_ PATRICK.

MRS. L. Patrick, where is my son?

PATRICK. I don't know, ma'am.

MRS. L. What? You don't know?

PATRICK. No, ma'am. After taking his lessons this morning, he made me
dress him three times. Yes, ma'am, three times! and by way of paying me
for my trouble, he hit me a blow on the side of my head, and crying,
"Take that, old bog-trotter"--he ran off laughing; and five minutes
after that, when I was talking with Andrew on the edge of the hill at
the back of the house, he came suddenly up behind and upset us both. My
back is all but cracked.

                                                  [_Rubs his back._

MR. S. You see how he treats your servants!

MRS. L. Well! but he did it laughing. It was only his fun, dear little
fellow! Patrick, go find him, and bring him here.

PATRICK. And suppose, ma'am, he won't come?

MRS. L. Tell him his _mother_ wants him.


SCENE III.--_Enter_ ANDREW.

PATRICK (_going out, to Andrew_). Where am I to find him? Have you seen
him?

ANDREW. Seen who?

PATRICK. Master Ned.

ANDREW. Yes, I have seen him; I see a great deal too much of him; he has
just chased me out of the garden with a hay fork.

PATRICK. Is he there now?

ANDREW. Oh yes; he tied an old hen fast by the leg to the fence, and is
shooting at her with his bow and arrows.

MRS. L. What a boy! how thoughtless! Patrick, go and get him.

                                                    [_He goes out._


SCENE IV.--_Enter_ JANE.

ANDREW (_twisting his hat about, and standing first on one leg, then on
the other_). Mrs. Langdon--

MRS. L. Well, Andrew, what is it?

ANDREW. I am your gardener, ma'am; am I not?

MRS. L. Yes, Andrew.

ANDREW. I have always tried to give you satisfaction?

MRS. L. Certainly. You have been very faithful.

ANDREW. You have fed me well, paid me well, and, what is far better, you
are good and kind to me, which I like more than money, because the one
you owe me, and the other you give me of your own free will.

MRS. L. Well, Andrew--

ANDREW. Well, Mrs. Langdon, I am going to leave you against my own
desire. You are an excellent mistress, and I don't want to leave you,
but it must be--

MRS. L. Andrew, I am surprised! Why do you wish to leave me? Have you
anything to complain of? Have I done you any injustice?

ANDREW. Oh no, ma'am! You are all kindness and goodness; neither proud,
scolding, nor brutal; _but everybody is not like you_.

MRS. L. Do the other servants impose upon you?

ANDREW. Oh dear, no, ma'am! they are good and honest.

MRS. L. What do you complain of, then?

ANDREW. Why, ma'am, since I have begun, I will go on. Every man who
respects himself, takes a pride in his work. If he is a gardener, he
likes to hear people say, "There is a capital garden! Those vegetable
beds are very nicely kept!" Well, it makes me mad to see your money and
my work all wasted and destroyed.

MRS. L. But how?

ANDREW. That's just it. I know how, and you don't.

MRS. L. Will you tell me?

ANDREW. Well, it's Master Ned.

MRS. L. Master Ned?

ANDREW. Yes, ma'am. He is a perfect little Satan; he keeps me running
after him, till I am out of breath, and perfectly hoarse with talking.

MRS. L. Why! What has he done?

ANDREW. The same he does every day: ten ground moles, fifteen chickens,
twenty pigs, would do less injury in a year than he does in one day. He
upsets the planks, tears up the walks, breaks the windows of the hot
beds, tramples on the flowers, breaks down the pear trees, plays the
mischief in the vegetable garden, and runs off with my tools. I can't
stop him; and when I say, "Master Ned, you must not hinder me so in my
work; if you want to turn double somersets, go and do it in your dear
mamma's parlor; go and plague Mr. Sherwood, or Patrick, or, still
better, torment Jane, and leave me to plant my cabbages." Do you know
how he answers? By cracking me over the shoulders with his switch, and
crying out, "Look out, old potato top, or I'll tumble you into the pond."
I might as well ask the river to run up hill. And look here, ma'am, see
this picture (_shows picture_) he drew of me, watering the garden in a
thunder storm, as if I ever did such a thing! or looked like that,
either!

MR. S. In a short time, no one will be able to live with him.

MRS. L. Dear me! It is nothing but his high spirits and love of
mischief! But I own you are not unreasonable, Andrew. I don't want my
son to tease you, much less ill-treat you. I will forbid him, before
you, from going in the garden.

ANDREW. Good! Only do that, and I will give him my finest flowers, and
my best fruits, if he will only keep away.

MRS. L. (_sighing_). I seem to have made twenty excuses for my son in
ten minutes; but you shall be satisfied.

[Illustration: The Caricature Edward drew of the Gardener.]

JANE. Mrs. Langdon, I must also speak to you about Master Ned.

MRS. L. Well.

JANE. This morning he opened the cage door and let your canary fly away,
and twisted poor Poll's neck because she said, "Bad boy!"

MRS. L. Oh! oh! my parrot's neck!

JANE. Yes, ma'am.

MR. S. Now, madam, this is not thoughtlessness: it is a case of actual
badness.

JANE. Yes, and he does something as bad every day.

ANDREW. Why, he is worse than Lucifer!

JANE. Every morning, ma'am, he overturns your toilet table, spills the
cologne water, upsets your work box, makes your finest letter paper into
boats, and puts the kitten to sleep in the crown of your best bonnet;
and then, when I beg him to behave, he calls me an old cat, and a
buzzard, and a red-headed crab.

MRS. L. Why have you not told me this before?

JANE. Why, ma'am, I have; but it has always ended by his being excused
and I scolded.

MRS. L. Stay here. You shall see if I excuse him! He might change his
clothes ten times, pull up a plant or two, pick a few flowers, or even
trouble you at your work. I don't see anything so very dreadful in all
that. But to twist my parrot's neck! Oh!--


SCENE V.--_Enter_ PATRICK.

MRS. L. Well, Patrick--

PATRICK (_rubbing his legs and making wry faces_). He is coming, ma'am--

MRS. L. What's the matter?

PATRICK. Master Ned has been breaking a stick over my legs.

MRS. L. (_very angry_). The child's a demon! I am outrageous! I am
furious!

MR. S. Control yourself, madam! do not fly so suddenly from extreme
indulgence to severity; do not correct a child when you are in a
passion.

MRS. L. You may be right, sir, but I shall punish him as he deserves.

ANDREW. Please don't beat him, ma'am. Here he comes.

SCENE VI.--_Enter_ EDWARD, _who runs up to his mother, and is about to
kiss her_.

EDWARD. Were you asking for me, mamma? dear, pretty mamma!

MRS. L. Stand back, sir! I don't kiss a bad boy!

EDWARD. A bad boy! Why, mamma, what have I done?

MRS. L. Do you dare to pretend that you do not know? Look at Andrew,
Patrick, and Jane!

EDWARD. I see them. Have they been complaining of me?

MRS. L. Yes, and I am astonished at what they tell me.

EDWARD. The mean things! Mamma, they--

MRS. L. Take care, sir! Don't add lying to your other crimes.

EDWARD (_looking angry_). But what do they say I have done? You scamp of
a turnip top, Andrew! is it you who are trying to rob me of my mother's
love? Such a good boy as I am, too!

ANDREW. You a good boy! about as much as the old gray donkey is a robin
redbreast. No! you are a nuisance, and ought to live up in the air in a
balloon by yourself. You have ruined my garden; and whenever I beg you
to stop, you answer me with your switch over my legs.

EDWARD. Oh, mamma, that is too cruel! I only wish to make you a
bouquet, when Andrew comes up, yelling like a tiger, "Don't touch those
violets! Let that pansy alone! Stop! you shan't take a rose!" Well, what
can I do? So I dug up a little plot, pulling out a few vegetables, so as
to raise some flowers for you myself. Then Andrew screams out, "What
have you done? You have pulled out all my onions!" Then I take another
place, and old Sourcrout bawls, "The beets are planted there." I declare
it's too bad! I wish to cultivate the earth, because Mr. Sherwood says
the most respectable men in the world are farmers; and Andrew, mad as
fury, comes and drives me away. Suppose I do spoil some of his stupid
cabbages; if I could present you with a flower raised by my own hand, it
would be worth all his cabbage heads, and his own too.

MRS. L. The darling! How he loves me! Andrew, you are a brute!

ANDREW. Thank you, ma'am. That's what I call justice.

MRS. L. My dear son was only seeking to gratify me, and you did very
wrong to hinder him. Dear child! he was willing to work like a farmer to
please me.

ANDREW. I'm dumb! If you wish it, he may scratch up the whole garden,
and empty it into the duck pond; he may break down fifty trees a day; he
may have a mass meeting of the dogs, pigs, chickens, ducks, turkeys, and
the old gray donkey, in the best flower beds; and end by inviting Farmer
Green's bull Sampson to dance a hornpipe through the glass into the
conservatory. Nothing now will astonish me.

MRS. L. That will do. My son, I forgive your capers in the garden, but I
have a more serious charge against you. How can you excuse yourself for
letting my canary fly away? and above all, why did you twist my poor
Poll's neck?

EDWARD. Well, mamma, you would have done the same. I did open the door
of the canary's cage. He was poking his poor little bill through the
bars, and I was so sorry for him! I thought he wanted to go to his
mother, who, perhaps, might be perched up in the tree opposite, and so I
gave him his liberty. Mr. Sherwood has often told me that kindness to
animals is one of the finest virtues.

MRS. L. Oh! was twisting my parrot's neck another proof of your
kindness? What had the poor bird done to you?

EDWARD. Nothing to me, mamma; but the wicked little squinting thing had
bitten Jane's finger, when she was kindly giving him some sugar; and she
cried, and seeing the tears rolling down her cheeks, I got very angry,
quite in a rage. I am very sorry, but I did not think that Jane would
have been the one to accuse _me_.

MRS. L. There, Jane! you are an ungrateful creature! You have tried to
poison my mind against my son!

JANE. But, Mrs. Langdon--

MRS. L. Be silent! Your affair is settled. But, Edward, when Patrick
came to call you, why did you break a stick over his legs?

EDWARD. It was very wrong in me, mamma; but I had just gathered some
splendid roses for you: they were on the ground, and the clumsy fellow
trampled upon them without seeing them. It put me in such a passion, I
did whack him once or twice. I beg his pardon, mamma.

MRS. L. He should ask yours, you dear boy! I order you all to apologize
to my son, or I shall discharge you. You first, Jane. My son would not
for twenty gardens, or poll parrots, do a mean thing or tell a lie; he
shall be respected and obeyed as I am; and those who don't like it can
leave.

ANDREW (_ironically_). I beg your pardon, Master Edward, for the good
switching you so kindly gave me; I beg your pardon for the damage you
did to the garden; you will oblige me by continuing to tumble everything
topsy-turvy, and break all the rest.

PATRICK. Forgive me, Master Edward, for all the pretty little capers you
cut up.

EDWARD. Oh, certainly. Mamma, they are good sort of people, after all;
and I hope you will excuse their coming to complain of me.

MRS. L. To oblige you, my dear son, I will. You see, all of you, how
amiable he is. And now remember, the very first complaint he makes of
_you_, I will discharge you. Leave the room.

ANDREW _to_ PATRICK (_going out_). Here's a pretty how-d'ye-do! He has
made his mother believe that black is white.


SCENE VII.

MRS. L. You see, my son, though I do not wish the servants to be
disrespectful to you, I require you to treat them with kindness. They
are human beings like you.

EDWARD (_contemptuously_). Like _me_! I should think not.

MR. S. Yes, sir! They are not rich, to be sure, or born of a high
family, nor is it likely that their heads will ever burst with the
knowledge a fine, thorough education gives; but they are capable of
every good and noble quality of the heart. Do you understand?

EDWARD. Yes, Mr. Sherwood.

MRS. L. Try to make everybody love you.

EDWARD. Dear mamma, I don't care for any love but yours.

MR. S. But you must care for the respect and friendship of others;
which, as Addison says, "improves happiness and abates misery, by
doubling our joys and dividing our griefs."

EDWARD (_sneeringly_). He talks like a book, don't he, mamma?

MRS. L. He does, indeed; and if you love me, you will profit by his
advice and lessons. Perhaps you owe more to him than to me. Love him,
and be grateful to him, for his constant endeavor to cultivate your
virtues and talents.

EDWARD. Love him--I cannot promise that.

MRS. L. Why not, my son?

EDWARD. Because I have given all my love to my dear mamma (_kissing
her_).

MRS. L. You darling! kiss me again! Ah, Mr. Sherwood! can you blame me
if I almost adore him?

                                                    [_Exit_ MRS. L.


SCENE VIII.

MR. SHERWOOD. You are ungrateful, to vex and grieve a mother who loves
you so dearly. If you loved her as much, you would obey her if she only
held up her little finger; but it seems to me a cat-o'nine-tails
flourished before you might have a very good effect.

EDWARD. I am sorry that--

MR. S. Did you take your writing lesson to-day?

EDWARD. No, sir. I don't like writing lessons. They are a perfect
plague. They give me the cramp in my thumb, and kinks in my fingers.

MR. S. Essence of switch on the fingers is good for taking out kinks.
Has your dancing master been here?

EDWARD. Oh yes! I love him dearly, he is so funny! He tells me comical
stories, and can imitate everybody in the house. Andrew's lumbering,
poking walk, Jane's prinking ways, and even you, with your long dismal
face, your eyes staring at a book like a cat looking at a fish, and your
solemn walk, oh, it would make you die a-laughing! His lessons always
seem too short.

MR. S. What is that sticking out of your pocket?

EDWARD (_pulling it out and looking at it_). Oh! ha, ha! It's a portrait
I drew of you, as you look when I don't know my lessons.

[Illustration]

MR. S. Give it to me. (_He takes the caricature and looks at it, but
shows no anger._) So you prefer to spend your time in an unamiable,
contemptible occupation like this, to acquiring useful lessons.

EDWARD (_looking a little ashamed_). Well, I like to be amused. It was
only a little fun. It was not meant for you to see.

MR. S. Will you give me an account of your reading to-day?

EDWARD. I--I--have not been reading, sir.

MR. S. Not reading? Why?

EDWARD. Because the book you gave me had so many long, stupid words,
that I couldn't understand what it was all about, so I just pitched it
out of the window.

MR. S. You call a book stupid which has such a thrilling account of the
bombardment of Vera Cruz, with a fine engraving showing you the great
General Scott and his brave soldiers? I wonder at you! You have a head,
and so has a drum; both empty.

[Illustration: Bombardment of Vera Cruz.]


SCENE IX.--_Enter_ MRS. LANGDON, MARY BROWN, _and_ MORRIS, _her son_.

MRS. L. See, my son, I bring you one of your best friends--your dear old
nurse Mary, and her son, who is almost your brother.

MARY (_running up to kiss him_). How do you do, dear, dear child! how
handsome you are! Here's your old play-fellow, Morris; don't you
remember him?

EDWARD. No!

MORRIS (_who has a nice little cream cheese wrapped up in a napkin_). I
remember you. You're my dear brother Edward. See--I have brought you
this cream cheese; my mother made it on purpose for you--take it--don't
you know me now?

EDWARD (_who recoils, and takes twenty-five cents out of his pocket_).
Here, take this, Morris.

MORRIS (_coloring indignantly_). I did not ask you for money; I don't
want it; I am not a beggar.

EDWARD. But I ought to pay you for the cheese.

MORRIS (_with emotion_). Do you think I brought it to you for money? I
would rather have thrown it out of the window.

MRS. L. Never mind, Morris, take the cheese home to your father; it will
do him good to eat it.

MORRIS (_taking it and giving it to his mother, and saying, in a
disappointed tone_), Well, take it, mother.

MARY (_looking lovingly at Edward_). How handsome he is! how he has
grown! My heart warms to him.

MRS. L. Well, Edward, your kind nurse must have some lunch--go and order
some.

EDWARD (_scornfully_). Isn't Patrick here?

MARY. No, my son. I asked him to give my old pony some water.

MRS. L. Go, my son, go; it will gratify me.

EDWARD. Oh! then I will fly. What shall I order?

MRS. L. The very best in the house.

MORRIS (_running after him_). Wait, Edward, I will go with you, and help
you give the order. I know what my mother likes.


SCENE X.

MRS. L. Well, dear nurse, how do you get on since you have moved into
your new cottage?

MARY. Oh! capitally, ma'am.

MRS. L. And your husband, big Peter--is he pleased and contented?

MARY. He is so, ma'am, as happy as a king! Daisy--that's our cow,
ma'am--has just given us a beautiful calf; we have fifty chickens,
twenty geese, and a good old pony who carries our vegetables to the
railroad station for the New York market. I thank God, and you who have
been so good to us.

MRS. L. Is big Peter industrious, and does he bring up Morris in the
right way?

MARY. Oh! thank God again for all his mercies. I am not proud; but my
boy is the best boy in the whole neighborhood, and so smart! he reads in
the biggest books; he does the most terrible long sums, almost like a
flash of lightning--his schoolmaster is astonished at his quickness; his
head is just as full as it can hold of learning, and his heart is just
as full of love for his father and mother. (_She falters, and the tears
rush into her eyes_).

MRS. L. (_very kindly_). I am delighted to hear this; he will always be
a comfort to you if he is so good now. But here he comes--he looks
distressed.


SCENE XI.--MRS. LANGDON, MARY, MR. SHERWOOD, _and_ MORRIS.

MORRIS (_crying and rubbing his eyes_). Oh, dear!

MARY. What's the matter, my son? Have you had a tumble?

MORRIS. No, mother; never mind.

MARY. But tell me, what has happened?

MORRIS (_trying to lead her away_). Come, mother, let us go away.

MRS. L. Where Is Edward?

MORRIS. In the garden, ma'am. Come, mother, come; I want to go home. I
don't like this place.

MRS. L. No doubt Edward is picking a basket of fruit for you.

MORRIS. I rather think not. Mother, I beg you to let us leave at once. I
have my reasons.

MR. S. And I can guess them. Edward has been beating you--has he not?

MRS. L. Impossible!!!

MORRIS. Very possible, indeed. In fact, quite certain.

MRS. L. Dear me! did he hurt you much?

MORRIS. It is not the pain. I could have beaten him twice as hard if I
wanted to. What hurts me most is what he said.

MRS. L. And, pray, what did he say?

MORRIS. Well, ma'am, when I wanted to hug old Beppo, he told me to take
my paws from the dog's neck; that I was a country bumpkin, and a big
clumsy booby, and no brother of his; and the sooner I skedaddled home
the better he should be pleased.

MARY. Oh! the unnatural, wicked boy! You are right, my son; we will go
home, where we are not despised. Good bye, Mrs. Langdon; Master Edward
is your son; but I no longer think of him as the child I fed at my
breast, and loved nearly as my own. He has struck his brother! Come, my
son, you are not his equal; therefore you cannot be his friend.

MRS. L. But listen one moment, Mary.

MARY. No, ma'am; we will not stay where we have been so humbled; we are
plain country folks, but we have hearts and feelings, and your son has
neither. God will never bless him. Such pride has no place in heaven.

MRS. L. You are right, Mary; but perhaps Morris offended him. You have
not heard both sides.

MORRIS. Yes, I offended him. I put my arms round his neck to hug him,
when he threw me off; and when I said that that was not the way to treat
a brother, he struck me!--more than once, too!--and said those mean,
cruel things.

MARY. Oh, the little villain!

MR. S. Are your eyes still blinded, Mrs. Langdon? Can you still find
excuses? Will you praise his good heart when he dares to ill-treat and
strike his nurse's son?

MRS. L. (_weeping_). No, I cannot excuse him; his ingratitude and wicked
conduct have nearly broken my heart. What shall I do?

MR. S. I have just thought of a plan, madam. It is a desperate remedy;
but I know of nothing else in the wide world that will cure him.

MRS. L. Tell me--what is it?

MR. S. (_aside_). Nurse, send away your son for a few moments; he must
not know what I am about to say.

MARY. I understand, sir. Morris, go to the stable, and see if old
Whitenose has eaten all he wants.

MORRIS (_jumping up with animation_). I am to put him to the wagon, am I
not? and then we are to go home. Oh, I am so very glad.

                                                    [_Exit._


SCENE XII.

MRS. L. We are alone now, Mr. Sherwood. Ah, if you knew how much I loved
my son, and how unhappy I am!

MARY. I love him, too, in spite of his bad heart.

MRS. L. Well, what are you going to propose? To have him beaten black
and blue? I am ready for anything.

MR. S. Don't be alarmed, madam. It is his heart that is to be put to the
trial; reverses and adversity often soften the heart; when one has
suffered, he knows better how to pity the deprivations and sufferings of
others. Your son has never been contradicted; he may be unkind and cruel
sometimes from thoughtlessness and ignorance. Now, let us put his heart
to a severe trial. Let us pretend that he is Mary's son, and Morris is
really your son. Push the experiment so far as to send him to live with
her, until he is thoroughly humbled, and his faults disappear.

MARY (_starting up_). Oh, no! no! Your trial may all be very fine, but I
will not lend myself to it. No, sir. We are not rich, but we have always
been honest, and I will not have anybody suppose for a moment that I
could have committed such a dishonorable, such an unnatural act. Say
that Morris is not my son? If I should join in such a trick, my husband
would hate and despise me, and rightly too.

MR. S. But, nurse, you forget. It is only supposing.

MARY. Suppose as much as you please, sir; even the suspicion of such a
plot would blacken my name forever. Oh! would any woman deny her own
child?

MRS. L. Listen to me, Mary. I love Edward as much as you do Morris. Do
you think I would abandon my child or disgrace you? Far from despising
you, I shall take care to let everybody know the sacrifice you are
making for my son's sake; and every one will praise you for helping me,
and believe that love for Edward has alone induced you to consent to
this plan. If he should grow up to be a man with such selfish, cruel
ways, it will break my heart. I should be in my grave before many years,
killed by the misconduct of my only child. I have but one objection to
what we are about to do. We shall practise a deception.

MARY (_weeping_). Oh, ma'am, and my son, my poor little Morris, he too
must be deceived; he cannot be in the secret.

MRS. L. I will try to make him happy. I will treat him like my own
child. Remember it is only for a week or two, perhaps only for a day or
two.

MARY. Oh yes, ma'am, I know you will be kind; but suppose in that week,
your fine house, your gay clothes, your grand dinners and suppers should
turn his head, and ruin his loving heart for his parents. If he should
return to us, despising our humble life,--oh! I can't bear it! My child
would be worse than lost to me!

MRS. L. Fear nothing, Mary. Morris is an excellent boy, and not so
easily spoiled. I promise you, that I will so arrange matters, that he
shall be only too glad to come back to you, and be Morris again.

MARY (_coming to Mrs. L. and taking her hand_). Are you sure? will you
solemnly promise this?

MRS. L. (_raising her hand_). I solemnly promise.

MARY (_still weeping_). Well, then, try your trick; but, oh! do not let
it last too long.

MRS. L. (_rings the bell; the servant appears_). Call Master Edward and
Morris here.

                  _Enter_ EDWARD _and_ MORRIS.

EDWARD. Dear mamma, do you want me?

MRS. L. I told you to order some luncheon for your nurse, and your
brother.

EDWARD. Well, I thought when they were ready, they could go into the
kitchen.

MRS. L. (_covering her face_). Oh! Edward--

EDWARD. What is the matter, dear mamma?

MRS. L. (_aside_). Oh! how shall I say it! (_Aloud._) Do not give me
that sweet title any more.

EDWARD. What? Mamma, what do you mean?

MRS. L. Edward, I am about to tell you something that will pierce your
heart; turn your dear face away from me. You--_you are not my child_.

EDWARD (_turning deadly pale_). Not your child?

MR. S. No, sir; and perhaps what seems to be so great a misfortune now
coming upon you, may prove a blessing in disguise.

EDWARD (_clasping his hands convulsively together_). Not your child?

MR. S. Yes; through love and ambition for their own son, Mary and her
husband were weak enough to change you for the son of Mr. Langdon; to
change the name and dress of the two infants, was all that was
necessary.

MRS. L. And now, Mary, repenting of this, has made me a confession.
Morris is my son and you are hers.

EDWARD. You are _not_ my mother?

MRS. L. No, Edward; but take heart. I shall still love you and take
care of you. Come, Morris; come, my real son, do not cry; come to me.

MORRIS (_rushing into Mary's arms_). Oh, no! no! Mr. Edward has been
your son for so long; keep him, keep him. I cannot leave my mother, I
must go home with her (_bursting into tears_).

MARY. But, Morris, he is my son.

MORRIS. Oh no, dear mother, he will never love you as I do! do not drive
me from you! do not turn your face away! kiss me, mother, and tell me
you will take me away with you. Oh, I see! I must believe it (_wringing
his hands with grief_).

MRS. L. Morris, you are ungrateful! Do you not see what a splendid
change this is for you?

MORRIS. Please excuse me, ma'am; I honor and respect you; but my mother,
who nursed me, and has taken care of me all these years, I _love_ her.
Edward is much handsomer, and far more genteel than I. Oh! keep him and
let me go with my mother!--(_clasps his hands and kneels, while large
tears roll down his cheeks_).

MRS. L. I order you to come with me. I _will_ have it!

MR. S. Remember, she is your mother.

MORRIS (_weeping bitterly_). Oh, how miserable I am!

                                                    [_They go out._

EDWARD (_who now thinks himself_ MORRIS, _remains_).

MARY. Well, Morris; that's your name now, you know--what's the matter?
are you sorry to have me for a mother? I shall have to sleep with one
eye open, to keep you out of mischief; but if you are good and work
hard, though I can't give you such fine clothes, I will love you as much
as Mrs. Langdon did.

EDWARD (_his lips quivering_). Oh! she is no longer my mother!

MARY. Well, am I not as good? I don't live in such a fine house, crammed
full of gimcracks; but I've got a dictionary that you can study in, and
big Peter, your father, shall hang a great switch over the mantelpiece,
to remind you that he won't stand any nonsense, or idleness, from you.
Dear me! how glad he will be to see you! Come, run with a hop, skip, and
jump, to the stable, and harness up old Whitenose: it's high time we
were off.

EDWARD (_sighing_). Yes, mother.

MARY. But first bid Mr. Sherwood good-by, and the rest. Thank them all
for their kindness to you; wait here a moment, till I come back.

                                                    [_Exit._

MR. S. Well, Edward, or Morris I should say, you see that nothing is
sure in this world: and I cannot but think that this reverse will do you
good. You treated every one except your mother--as you supposed Mrs.
Langdon was--with harshness, insult, and insolence: perhaps now you will
learn, in the very strongest manner, the exact meaning and intention of
the Golden Rule.

EDWARD. Oh, how unhappy I am! The very servants are more fortunate! They
at least can live with Mrs. Langdon.

MR. S. You despised and insulted your own mother; you struck your
brother; suppose he in return should--

EDWARD (_weeping_). Oh stop, I beg, Mr. Sherwood!

MR. S. You weep because you are only the son of Mary and big Peter, a
poor country farmer.

EDWARD. Oh no, sir! if they are my father and mother, I will try to
respect them, but to leave Mrs. Langdon--to be no longer her son--that
is what is driving me to despair. Oh, I shall die! I shall die!

MR. S. Do not be so distressed. Mrs. Langdon will still be very kind to
you. She will love you still.

EDWARD. If she will only think of me sometimes. Will you speak, sir, of
me to her, after I am gone? Will you tell her that my greatest grief, is
leaving her; that I shall never, never, never forget her? Will you do
this, dear Mr. Sherwood?

MR. S. (_with agitation_). Yes, my dear boy, I will.

EDWARD. And will you forgive me for having profited so little by your
lessons; and being so often disrespectful? Please forgive me, sir.

MR. S. Willingly, my child. This is a great change of fortune. An hour
ago, you were rich and well born, now you are the son of a poor farmer.
Try to do your part well in this altered sphere; be gentle and good, and
God will not desert you. Good-by.

                                                    [_Exit._

   _Enter_ JANE, _with a coarse cap and jacket_, PATRICK _following_.

JANE (_ironically_). How do you do, Mr. Morris?

PATRICK. (_ditto_). Your humble servant, Mr. Morris.

JANE. Will Mr. Morris allow me to show him his new dress?

PATRICK. Will Mr. Morris give me leave to help him on with his jacket?

JANE. Dear me! it fits him to a hair! and the cap too! My! I'm a
thinking you won't be so proud after this; you can't treat _me_ any more
as a servant.

PATRICK. Nor me! You won't beat a double tattoo about my shins again in
a hurry!

JANE. I shan't be snubbed all day long, and told that my nose is as red
as my hair, and my eyes as green as my understanding. What a comfort!

PATRICK (_cutting a caper in the air, and singing_). Hi fol-de-rol! how
happy we shall all be! tide-o riddle rol-de-da!

JANE. What are you crying for, Master Morris?

EDWARD. Oh, how you treat me!

JANE. Why! Is not that the way to read the proverb? "As you have done to
others, they shall do to you."

PATRICK. You don't seem to see it. We are only giving tit for tat.

EDWARD. You are right, I deserve it all! Jane, Patrick, forgive me! I
beg your pardon.

JANE (_looking very sorry_). Poor child! poor little fellow!

PATRICK. After all, he has not a bad heart!

EDWARD. Please forget all the injuries I have done to you, and try not
to hate me when I am gone. Will you, dear Jane? will you Patrick?

JANE (_bursting out crying_). Oh! oh! what a pity, what a pity!

PATRICK. It is dreadful!

JANE. He will have to plough and hoe in the ground!

PATRICK. And kill pigs, and drive the cow!

JANE. Why couldn't that stupid Mary hold her tongue after keeping the
secret thirteen years, and settle down for life with that clumsy Edward.
I hate the sight of him! I don't believe, but what it is all a trick she
is trying to play off.

PATRICK. I'll bet my head, it is!

EDWARD. Don't insult my mother. She is poor, but honest. I cannot hear
you accusing her.

          _Enter_ ANDREW _with a basket, shovel, and rake._

ANDREW (_whistles_). Wheugh! Is it true then, that Master Edward is not
Mrs. Langdon's son?

JANE. Yes, indeed! Just look at the poor boy; we are so sorry for him!
and though he has teazed us a great deal, we feel for him with all our
hearts.

ANDREW. Just so with me. He has put me in a rage no end of times, and
when I was scolded before you all, this morning, I was as mad as a wasp
with the toothache. But since I have heard of his great misfortune, I am
sure, I would not bear him malice for the world; so I have come to make
friends with him, before he goes away.

EDWARD. Dear Andrew! (_He weeps again._)

ANDREW. Here! I have brought you a basket and some tools; they will be
useful to you in your new situation; and here is my silver watch, it
goes splendidly! but you must not wear it every day, you must save it
for Sundays. I give it to you, that you may remember me, and say, "My
friend Andrew gave me this watch, because he loved me."

EDWARD. How kind you are to me, who have deserved it so little! Pray
forgive me, and forget my bad conduct.

ANDREW. I forgive you with all my heart! and now that you are in
trouble, I remember nothing. I will come to see you next Sunday evening,
and bring you some nice little present. Keep up a stout heart, and a
stiff upper lip; you are not used to work, and at first it will come
very hard; ploughing is not quite so easy as playing cat's cradle, and
backgammon in the parlor. You will have no dancing, unless a mad bull
gallops after you, when, no doubt, you will practise double quickstep to
perfection. All the gay pleasures you have now, will be lost to you; but
there is one happiness, worth all the rest, which you can keep if you
please; and _that is a clear conscience_. Serve God, love your parents,
and work faithfully, and you will be sure to possess this great
blessing, and consequently be happy.

EDWARD. Thank you, Andrew, for such good advice; but will you all love
me when I am gone?

ALL THREE AT ONCE. Yes, indeed! Always!

EDWARD. Will you then promise, sometimes to speak kindly of me to Mrs.
Langdon?

ANDREW. We promise.

JANE (_crying bitterly_). Oh! oh! this is too much. I can't bear it.
Good-by, dear Master Morris.

EDWARD. Won't you kiss me, Jane?

JANE. Oh, yes, with all my heart. (_Kisses him._)

PATRICK. Please shake hands with me, Master Morris.

ANDREW. And me too.

EDWARD. Good-by, good-by; all my dear friends!

                      _Enter the real_ MORRIS.

EDWARD (_who has turned away and don't see him_). And this is the dress
I am always to wear. I am Morris, son of Mary and big Peter! Oh, I can
bear that; but to leave Mrs. Langdon--to be no longer her son--to have
no right to her love--oh! oh! I shall die!

MORRIS. Good morning, brother.

EDWARD (_without turning round_). Good morning, Master Edward.

MORRIS. You seem angry with me; but you are wrong. If I have injured
you, it is not my fault. _I_ did not do it of my own will; and yet I
have come to beg your pardon.

EDWARD. It is not your fault.

MORRIS. But--don't you love me?

EDWARD. Why do you ask, sir?

MORRIS. I call you "_brother_," and you call me "_sir_."

EDWARD (_with effort_). Well, if you wish it, I will call you _brother_.

MORRIS. And love me like one?

EDWARD. Yes.

MORRIS. Well, now, I'm going to try you. Here, do you see these things?
I found them in your pockets. This gold watch, this pocket book full of
money, this yellow pin, with a little ball in the middle of it, which
looks like glass--I really thought it was glass, and the pin copper, but
they say it is a diamond set in gold, and worth more than all the rest.
Then I asked Mrs. Langdon if she had given me all these grand things to
do just as I pleased with. She said, "Certainly"--and I have come as
fast as ever I could with them to you!--take them!

EDWARD. Thank you. I'd rather you kept them.

MORRIS. Do you refuse your brother?

EDWARD. What could I do with such finery--they do not suit my humble
station?

MORRIS. But it is not for yourself that I give them.

EDWARD. I don't understand you.

MORRIS. They are for your poor mother; for your father who works so
hard, and is so patient and good. To scrape together money enough to pay
his rent troubles him dreadfully; and so the very first time the
landlord comes, give him all these gimcracks, on condition that he
leaves him alone for the rest of the year.

EDWARD. Yes, I will do this; give them to me.

MORRIS. Here they are. Will you promise me one thing more?

EDWARD. What is it?

MORRIS. It is that you will love your father and mother dearly.

EDWARD. Yes, Morris; I will try.

MORRIS. And tell them every day that I shall never forget them; and when
I am a man, and you are too, you shall all come and live with me, and
you and I will have everything together, just like two brothers--will
you?

EDWARD. Yes, brother--(_Morris clasps him in his arms, and says_)--"Oh,
how happy you have made me!"

          _Enter_ MRS. LANGDON, MR. SHERWOOD, _and_ MARY.

MRS. L. Ah! that is a pleasant sight. I am delighted to see you such
good friends. I wish you to love each other always.

MORRIS. I promise you we will, ma'am--I mean, mother. We are friends and
brothers from this day.

MRS. L. (_to_ EDWARD). All is ready for your departure, Morris. I would
like to have kept you for some days; but Mary says she must take you
with her. Be a good boy; respect and love your father and mother, and
help them in their work all you can. Remember me; and, be sure, I shall
never forget you.

EDWARD(_throwing himself at her feet, and weeping convulsively_).
Mamma--madam, grant me one favor, I implore. Oh! my heart is breaking.

MRS. L. (_with emotion_). What is it?

EDWARD. I cannot leave you. Keep me here, for pity's sake! I will be
your servant. I will wait on your son. I will obey him. I will obey
every one in the house. Let me stay!--oh! let me stay!

MORRIS (_kneeling by him_). Oh! since you are my mother, be his mother,
too! do not send him away. See! we ask it on our knees! You will have
two sons, and he shall be the best.

MRS. L. (_aside to_ MR. SHERWOOD). This is killing me. I cannot bear
it! I must speak! (_She covers her face, sobbing_).

                 _Enter_ ANDREW, JANE, _and_ PATRICK.

ANDREW. Mrs. Langdon, we come to make you an offer, which we beg you to
agree to, or else we shall all three feel obliged to quit your service.

MRS. L. Well--what is it, Andrew?

ANDREW. Well, ma'am, it is that you will keep this poor little fellow,
Morris, with you, and give us leave to treat him the same as Master
Edward; and as we do not want any one to lose by this, we offer to have
a third of our wages taken off, which you will please give to Mary and
big Peter every month, to make up to them for the loss of their son's
services.

EDWARD. Oh, my kind, generous friends! never will I forget this proof of
your love!

MRS. L. But only this morning you all three made terrible complaints
about him.

ANDREW. But we don't bear malice, and he is so unhappy! We have
forgotten all he did to annoy us. Please, ma'am, to keep him.

EDWARD. No, Andrew; you have taught me what is _my_ duty. I belong to my
father and mother, and I am ashamed that in my misery I forgot it. The
poorer they are, the less I ought to leave them. Good-by, all my
friends: love and protect Mrs. Langdon and my brother, and forget my
many faults if you can. Good-by, Edward. Come, mother, let us go.

MRS. L. (_weeping_). Mr. Sherwood!

MR. S. Yes, it is enough. Embrace your son! he has proved himself worthy
of you!

MRS. L. (_throwing her arms around him_). _My son, my darling!_

EDWARD (_amazed_). You, my mother! You!!

MRS. L. Yes, my son. This was only a plot to try you. Your heart has
proved good and noble! and I am the happiest of mothers.

MORRIS (_rushing to Mary's arms_). And I--am I your son still?

MARY (_kissing him_). Yes, my boy; my own boy!

MORRIS. Oh, be joyful! how happy I am!

EDWARD. But, Morris, don't you want to stay with me?

MORRIS. No! no! I have been too much afraid already that I should never
see my dear father again. What a good hug I mean to give him!

EDWARD (_giving_ MORRIS _the watch, &c._) Here, take all these
things--now I give them to you.

MORRIS. Oh no, you must keep them.

EDWARD. But what about that cross old landlord?

MORRIS (_laughing_). You are right. Give them to me.

MARY. Is it for the rent? Why, big Peter will dance a jig on the kitchen
table for joy.

MR. SHERWOOD. Good mothers, love your children with all your hearts, but
do not spoil them. Remember, it is education and pious training which
develop in their hearts the seeds of good or evil; and you, Edward, do
not forget the lesson you have received, of "DOING UNTO OTHERS AS YOU
WOULD THAT OTHERS SHOULD DO UNTO YOU."




THE LITTLE PLAY MITTENS.


THE play was finished amidst a tremendous clapping of hands, and the
curtain fell.

Then the company began to talk just as fast as they could. They were
astonished at seeing the play so well acted, and laughed over and over
again when they recalled the comical little gardener and waiter, who
wore such funny dresses, and knew their parts so perfectly, and acted
with such serious faces. Minnie came in, too, for her share of
praise,--indeed, every one was excellent; and when the children made
their appearance a few minutes afterward--still dressed as they were in
the play--they were received with more clapping of hands, and this time
with plenty of kisses too.

After that, some ice cream and cake were handed round; and then the
company went home perfectly delighted, resolving in their own minds to
get up something themselves in behalf of the soldiers. So certain is it,
that one good action will prompt another.

The Little Mother hastily counted over the nice warm mittens with their
thumbs and fingers sticking out in every direction, while the children
looked on with breathless interest.

"Fifty-seven pairs," said the Little Mother.

"Fifty-seven pairs!" echoed the children, with a shout that made the
windows rattle. "Oh, goody! goody! goody! how glad we are!" and they
danced round the pile which lay on the floor in perfect ecstasies.

"How glad brother George will be!" said Willie.

"Oh, if he could only have been here to-night," said Clara, and her
loving eyes filled with tears.

The Little Mother's lip trembled. She knew that her soldier boy, sooner
or later, must know what a battle was; and a prayer rose in her heart
that a Protecting Power would guard him from harm, and return him safe
to her loving arms.

The children kissed her softly, and tenderly, and went quietly off to
bed, almost forgetting that Santa Claus was to come that very night, and
fill their stockings. But _he_ did not forget; for when the bright
morning sun of the clear, cold Christmas day, peeped in at the nursery
windows, he certainly must have thought that Santa Claus had considered
these children as pinks and patterns of perfection; for there were no
less than three new dolls; a grocery store for them to shop at; two
elegant workboxes with "Anna" engraved on the lid of one, and "Clara" on
the other; a beautiful writing desk, filled with nice pens, ink, and
paper, for Johnny; a mahogany tool chest, completely filled, for Harry;
an entire set of Cousin Alice's excellent and interesting books, for
Bennie and Willie; a most charming little book, called "Our Little
Girls," for Lillie; and two others by the same author, who is a
minister's daughter, as good as she is lovely, for Minnie. These were
called "A Little Leaven," and "Two Little Heaps;" and, let me tell you,
Minnie considers them the best books that ever were written; while
little Fanny's favorite was, and is, the "R. R. B's." It is the history
of a dear little Robin Redbreast and his family; and Fanny says it is a
"darling book."

The dear absent soldier brother was not forgotten. On the table were
two packages directed to him. One of these contained a dozen fine
hem-stitched pocket handkerchiefs, with the initials of his name
beautifully worked in a corner of each. This had been done by Anna, who
was very skilful in such dainty arts. The other package consisted of a
complete set of Dickens's works, in strong, plain, but very neat
bindings.

"Oh," cried Harry. "George will stand on his head for joy, when he gets
these; he will be so tickled! The very books he was longing to own!"

"How _can_ he stand on his head?" asked Bennie.

"This way," answered Harry, and going up to the side of the room, he
suddenly lifted his feet in the air, resting them against the wall, and
stared at Bennie with his face upside down, and the top of his head on
the carpet.

The children laughed heartily, and as a matter of course, all the little
brothers began to practise standing on their heads, till they nearly got
fits of apoplexy, with the blood rushing the wrong way.

After they had returned from church that morning, every one of them
wrote to George a company letter, wishing him a merry Christmas, telling
him all the wonderful news about the little play; and informing him of
the quantity of mittens which were coming. They had now finished
eighteen pairs, to add to their fifty-seven, which their friends had
given them. These seventy-five pairs, were to be sent away the next
morning; but George's presents were to be carefully kept until his happy
return home; for he could not put all those precious books in his
knapsack; and as he might move from one place to another very often, the
less he had to carry in marching, the better.

The smaller children felt an almost reverential affection for their
soldier brother, who had gone away to fight for his country. They
regarded his letters as perfect wonders, with Camp Ellsworth printed on
the outside of them, and such superb capital D's and G's inside. The
little ones did not know _how_ he could make such splendid letters,
sitting in a tent, with the paper on his knee, ready to drop it at a
moment's warning, and flash fire and shot out of his gun, at the enemy.
They were quite sure he would be a General in a very short time, and
Johnny had serious thoughts of writing to the good President Lincoln,
and asking him to make George one without waiting any longer. Indeed, he
_did_ write: but his mother thought it best not to send it: though I was
sure the President would have liked it very much; for he is such a
great-hearted, good man, such a pure patriot; and I happen to know that
he loves children dearly. Here is Johnny's letter. It is a simple, funny
little epistle, full of trust and faith.

          "PRESIDENT LINCOLN:

          "_My Dear Friend_,--Do you know my big brother
          George? He is such a good boy! He never teazes us,
          or the cat, or anybody. Mary O'Reilly (that's our
          kitten) always rubs her coat against his legs when
          he comes home; so you see that is a sign that he
          is never cruel to animals. He once tried to teach
          a crab at Long Branch to dance the polka, but he
          didn't hurt it; no, indeed!

          "Please, my dear friend, to make him a General,
          with a long sword, saddle, bridle, and a whack fol
          de rol; though I don't know what that is--I heard
          a soldier singing it--and I will come and hug and
          kiss you as hard as a rock.

          "Clara and Anna say, they will hug and kiss you
          too, if you will make George a General; only you
          must promise not to scratch their faces with your
          beard, as papa sometimes does--just for fun, you
          know. Besides which, my dear friend, they will
          give you a mitten apiece. How would you like that?
          They make lots for the soldiers, out of skeins of
          long yarn; mamma says you are a famous fellow for
          spinning splendid yarns yourself. Ours is dark
          blue; but mamma says, yours are all the colors of
          the rainbow, and a great deal of black besides;
          and everybody is delighted with them, and all the
          soldiers love you, and I am your

                                 "affectionate friend,
                                                 "JOHNNY."

I should not be in the least surprised, if the good President should
answer this letter after he sees it here; and send his answer to Mr.
Appleton for Johnny. If he does, I will tell you all about it, as sure
as my name is Aunt Fanny. Meanwhile, you must know that the fifty-seven
"little play mittens," as the children called them, and the eighteen
pairs, which they had made this time, and which they called their "two
story mittens," have gone to the brave soldiers. Do tell me, my little
darlings, how many have been sent altogether; now that we have come to
the


          END OF THE FOURTH BOOK.




_D. Appleton & Company's Juvenile Works._



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LIBRARY OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE. 4 thick vols., with engravings. In a
case.


LOUIS'S SCHOOL DAYS. By E. J. MAY. Illustrated, 16mo.


LOUISE; or, THE BEAUTY OF INTEGRITY, AND OTHER TALES. 16mo, cloth.


McINTOSH'S NEW JUVENILE LIBRARY. 7 beautiful vols. with illustrations.
In a case.


McINTOSH'S META GRAY; or, WHAT MAKES HOME HAPPY. 16mo, cloth.


McINTOSH'S (Maria J.) A YEAR WITH MAGGIE AND EMMA. A true story. 18mo,
illustrated, cloth.


MARTHA'S HOOKS AND EYES. 18mo, frontispiece, cloth.


MARY LEE. By KATE LIVERMORE. 18mo, illus., cloth.


MARRYAT'S SETTLERS IN CANADA. 2 vols. in one, colored.

SCENES IN AFRICA. 2 vols. in one, colored.

MASTERMAN READY. 3 vols. in one, colored.


MORTIMER'S COLLEGE LIFE. With neat illustrations, 16mo, cloth.


MYSTERIOUS STORY BOOK; or, THE GOOD STEP-MOTHER. Illustrated, 16mo, gilt
edges.


NIGHTCAP SERIES. By AUNT FANNY. 6 vols., 18mo, uniform neatly
illustrated. In extra cloth.

          1. NIGHTCAPS.
          2. NEW NIGHTCAPS.
          3. BABY NIGHTCAPS.
          4. LITTLE NIGHTCAPS.
          5. BIG NIGHTCAPS.
          6. FAIRY NIGHTCAPS.

FAIRY NIGHTCAPS. Illustrated with colored engravings. Extra cloth, gilt
edges.


NEW FAIRY STORIES FOR MY GRANDCHILDREN, By GEORGE KEIT. Translated by S.
W. LANDER. 18mo, illustrated, cloth.


PARLEY'S PRESENT FOR ALL SEASONS. By S. G. GOODRICH (Peter Parley).
Illustrated with 16 fine engravings. 12mo, elegantly bound in a new
style.


PHILIP RANDOLPH. A Tale of Virginia. By MARY GERTRUDE 18mo.


PICTURE SERIES OF STORY BOOKS FOR CHILDREN. 10 vols., uniform square
12mo., in a case. With 654 engravings and the text printed in large
clear type. Extra cloth, gilt edges.

    1. THE CHILDREN'S BIBLE PICTURE BOOK. Illustrated with
            80 engravings.

    2. THE CHILDREN'S PICTURE BOOK OF ENGLISH HISTORY. Illustrated
            with 50 engravings.

    3. THE CHILDREN'S PICTURE BOOK OF GOOD AND GREAT MEN. Illustrated
            with 50 engravings.

    4. A PICTURE BOOK OF MERRY TALES. Illustrated with 47 plates.

    5. THE HOME TREASURY OF OLD STORY BOOKS. Illustrated with 50
            engravings.

    6. THE CHILDREN'S PICTURE BOOK OF COUNTRY SCENES. Illustrated
            with 55 engravings.

    7. THE CHILDREN'S PICTURE FABLE BOOK. Illustrated with 60
            engravings.

    8. A TREASURY OF PLEASURE BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. Illustrated
            with 140 engravings.

    9. THE CHILDREN'S PICTURE BOOKS OF BIRDS. Illustrated with 61
            engravings.

    10. THE CHILDREN'S PICTURE BOOK OF QUADRUPEDS. Illustrated with
            61 engravings.


PET BIRDS, AND OTHER STORIES. By COUSIN ALICE. 1 vol., illustrated.


PLEASURE AND PROFIT; or, LESSONS ON THE LORD'S PRAYER. By MRS. RICHARDS.
1 vol., illustrated.


PRINCE CHARLIE, THE YOUNG CHEVALIER. By MEREDITH JOHNES. 18mo,
illustrated, cloth.


PUSS IN BOOTS. Finely illustrated by OTTO SPECKTER. Square 18mo.


ROBINSON CRUSOE. Pictorial edition. 300 plates. 8vo.


ROSE AND LILLIE STANHOPE; or, THE POWER OF CONSCIENCE. By MARIA J.
MCINTOSH. 1 vol.


SEDGEMOOR; or HOME LESSONS. By MRS. MANNERS. 16mo, illustrated, cloth.


SEVEN CHAMPIONS OF CHRISTENDOM. Re-written by W. H. G. KINGSTON.
Illustrated by FRANKLIN. 12mo, extra cloth.


STORIES OF AN OLD MAID. By MADAM DE GIRARDIN, 16mo, illustrated, cloth.


SUNSHINE IN GREYSTONE. By the author of "Louis's School Days." 16mo,
illustrated.


UNCLE JOHN'S FIRST BOOK. Illustrated with numerous pretty engravings.
Square 16mo, neat cloth.


UNCLE JOHN'S SECOND BOOK. Illustrated with numerous pretty engravings.
Square 18mo, in neat cloth.


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. A Tale. By OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 1 vol., 12mo, with
numerous illustrations.


THE LITTLE BUILDER; or, How a Child may Make a Cardboard Village,
without using any adhesive material. A new and excellent toy book for
children. The various buildings are beautifully colored, and supplied
ready for cutting out.


THE LITTLE ENGINEER; or, How a Child may make a Cardboard Railway
Station, with Engine, Tender, Carriages, Station, Bridges, Signal Posts,
Passengers, Porters, &c. Folio. Colored. By the Designer of the "Little
Builder."

*** The success of this very beautiful and interesting toy book is
likely to exceed even that of the "Little Builder," and the effect
produced, when carefully put together, is charming in the extreme.


THE WANDERERS BY SEA AND LAND, WITH OTHER TALES. By PETER PARLEY.
Illustrated with exquisite designs. 1 vol., 12mo.


THE WEEK'S DELIGHT; or, GAMES AND STORIES FOR THE PARLOR AND FIRESIDE. 1
neat volume, 16mo. Engravings.


WILLIAM TELL, THE PATRIOT OF SWITZERLAND; to which is added, Andreas
Hofer, the "Tell" of the Tyrol. Cloth.


WINTER (A) WREATH OF SUMMER FLOWERS. By S. G. GOODRICH. Illustrated with
splendid colored plates by French artists. 1 superb volume, 8vo, extra
cloth, gilt edges.


YOUNG AMERICANS PICTURE GALLERY. Containing 500 beautiful engravings.
4to, fancy boards. The same, colored.


YOUNG STUDENT (The); or, RALPH AND VICTOR. By MADAME GUIZOT. 1 volume of
500 pages, with illustrations.


YOUTH'S BOOK OF NATURE. New edition. 1 vol square 16mo, cloth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 12, first word of chapter smallcapped to match rest of text.

Page 34, "enugh" changed to "enough" (and sure enough)

Page 38, "perfecty" changed to "perfectly" (so perfectly happy)

Page 65, "itelf" changed to "itself" (fastened itself)

Page 80, in the cast list Mr. was smallcapped to match the rest of the
cast and usage.

Booklists, the booklist starts with page three in this edition.

Page 4, "glit" changed to "gilt" (Extra cloth, gilt edges)

Page 6, the asterism was represented by three asterisks.