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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 53306
   :PG.Title: Little Prudy's Captain Horace
   :PG.Released: 2016-10-17
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Sophie May
   :DC.Title: Little Prudy's Captain Horace
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1919
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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LITTLE PRUDY'S CAPTAIN HORACE
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      *LITTLE PRUDY SERIES*

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      LITTLE PRUDY'S
      CAPTAIN HORACE

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      BY
      SOPHIE MAY

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      THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO.
      CHICAGO — AKRON, OHIO — NEW YORK

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      1919

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   LITTLE PRUDY SERIES

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   LITTLE PRUDY
   LITTLE PRUDY'S STORY BOOK
   LITTLE PRUDY'S COUSIN GRACE
   LITTLE PRUDY'S CAPTAIN HORACE
   LITTLE PRUDY'S SISTER SUSIE
   LITTLE PRUDY'S DOTTY DIMPLE

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   Contents

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I.  `Making Candy`_
II.  `Camping Out`_
III.  `Taking a Journey`_
IV.  `At Grandpa Parlin's`_
V.  `Captain of a Company`_
VI.  `Susie and Prudy`_
VII.  `In the Woods`_
VIII.  `Captain Clifford`_
IX.  `The Blue Book`_
X.  `Trying to get Rich`_
XI.  `The Little Indian`_
XII.  `A Pleasant Surprise`_

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.. _`MAKING CANDY`:

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   CAPTAIN HORACE

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   CHAPTER I

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   MAKING CANDY

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Grace and Horace Clifford lived in Indiana,
and so were called "Hoosiers."

Their home, with its charming grounds, was
a little way out of town, and from the front
windows of the house you could look out on the
broad Ohio, a river which would be very beautiful
if its yellow waters were only once settled.
As far as the eye could see, the earth was one
vast plain, and, in order to touch it, the sky
seemed to stoop very low; whereas, in New
England, the gray-headed mountains appear to go
up part way to meet the sky.

One fine evening in May, brown-eyed Horace
and blue-eyed Grace stood on the balcony, leaning
against the iron railing, watching the stars,
and chatting together.

One thing is very sure: they never dreamed
that from this evening their sayings and
doings—particularly Horace's—were to be printed in
a book.  If anyone had whispered such a thing
how dumb Horace would have grown, his chin
snuggling down into a hollow place in his neck!
and how nervously Grace would have laughed!
walking about very fast, and saying,—

"O, it's too bad to put Horace and me in a
book!  I say it's too bad!  Tell them to wait
till my hair is curled, and I have my new pink
dress on!  And tell them to make Horace talk
better!  He plays so much with the Dutch boys.
O, Horace isn't fit to print!"

This is what she might have said if she had
thought of being "put in a book;" but as she
knew nothing at all about it, she only stood very
quietly leaning against the balcony-railing, and
looking up at the evening sky, merry with stars.

"What a shiny night, Horace!  What do the
stars look like?  Is it diamond rings?"

"I'll tell you, Gracie; it's cigars they look
like—just the ends of cigars when somebody is smoking."

At that moment the cluster called the "Seven
Sisters" was drowned in a soft, white cloud.

"Look," said Grace; "there are some little
twinkles gone to sleep, all tucked up in a
coverlet.  I don't see what makes you think of dirty
cigars!  They look to me like little specks of
gold harps ever so far off, so you can't hear the
music.  O, Horace, don't you want to be an
angel, and play on a beautiful harp?"

"I don't know," said her brother, knitting
his brows, and thinking a moment; "when I can't
live any longer, you know, then I'd like to go up
to heaven; but now, I'd a heap sooner be a
soldier!"

"O, Horace, you'd ought to rather be an
angel!  Besides, you're too little for a *soldier*!"

"But I grow.  Just look at my hands; they're
bigger than yours, this minute!"

"Why, Horace Clifford, what makes them so black?"

"O, *that's* no account!  I did it climbin' trees.
Barby tried to scour it off, but it sticks.  I don't
care—soldiers' hands ain't white, are they,
Pincher?"

The pretty dog at Horace's feet shook his ears,
meaning to say,—

"I should think not, little master; soldiers
have very dirty hands, if you say so."

"Come," said Grace, who was tired of gazing
at the far-off star-land; "let's go down and see
if Barbara hasn't made that candy: she said she'd
be ready in half an hour."

They went into the library, which opened upon
the balcony, through the passage, down the front
stairs, and into the kitchen, Pincher following
close at their heels.

It was a very tidy kitchen, whose white floor
was scoured every day with a scrubbing-brush.
Bright tin pans were shining upon the walls, and
in one corner stood a highly polished cooking-stove,
over which Barbara Kinckle, a rosy-cheeked
German girl, was stooping to watch a
kettle of boiling molasses.  Every now and then
she raised the spoon with which she was stirring
it, and let the half-made candy drip back into
the kettle in ropy streams.  It looked very
tempting, and gave out a delicious odor.  Perhaps it
was not strange that the children thought they
were kept waiting a long while.

"Look here, Grace," muttered Horace, loud
enough for Barbara to hear; "don't you think
she's just the slowest kind?"

"It'll sugar off," said Grace, calmly, as if she
had made up her mind for the worst; "don't
you know how it sugared off once when ma was
making it, and let the fire go 'most out'?"

"Now just hear them childers," said
good-natured Barbara; "where's the little boy and girl
that wasn't to speak to me one word, if I biled
'em some candies?"

"There, now, Barby, I wasn't speaking to
you," said Horace; "I mean I wasn't talking to
*her*, Grace.  Look here: I've heard you spell,
but you didn't ask me my Joggerphy."

"*Geography*, you mean, Horace."

"Well, Geography, then.  Here's the book:
we begin at the Mohammedan."

Horace could pronounce that long name very
well, though he had no idea what it meant.  He
knew there was a book called the Koran, and
would have told you Mr. Mohammed wrote it;
but so had Mr. Colburn written an Arithmetic,
and whether both these gentlemen were alive, or
both dead, was more than he could say.

"Hold up your head," said Grace, with dignity,
and looking as much as possible like tall
Miss Allen, her teacher.  "Please repeat your
verse."

The first sentence read, "They consider Moses
and Christ as true prophets, but Mohammed as
the greatest and last."

"I'll tell you," said Horace: "they think that
Christ and Moses was good enough prophets,
but Mohammed was a heap better."

"Why, Horace, it doesn't say any such thing in
the book!  it begins, '*They consider*.'"

"I don't care," said the boy, "Miss Jordan
tells us to get the sense of it.  Ma, mustn't I
get the sense of it?" he added, as Mrs. Clifford
entered the kitchen.

"But, mamma," broke in Grace, eagerly,
"our teacher wants us to commit the verses:
she says a great deal about committing the
verses."

"If you would give me time to answer," said
Mrs. Clifford, smiling, "I should say both your
teachers are quite right.  You should 'get the
sense of it,' as Horace says, and after that
commit the verses."

"But, ma, do you think Horace should say
'heap,' and 'no account,' and such words?"

"It would certainly please me," said Mrs. Clifford
"if he would try to speak more correctly.
My little boy knows how much I dislike some of
his expressions."

"There, Horace," cried Grace, triumphantly,
"I always said you talked just like the Dutch
boys; and it's very, very improper!"

But just then it became evident that the
molasses was boiled enough, for Barbara poured
it into a large buttered platter, and set it out of
doors to cool.  After this, the children could
do nothing but watch the candy till it was ready
to pull.

Then there was quite a bustle to find an apron
for Horace, and to make sure that his little stained
hands were "spandy clean," and "fluffed" all
over with flour, from his wrists to the tips of his
fingers.  Grace said she wished it wasn't so much
trouble to attend to boys; and, after all, Horace
only pulled a small piece of the candy, and
dropped half of that on the nice white floor.

Barbara did the most of the pulling.  She
was quite a sculptor when she had plastic candy
in her hands.  Some of it she cut into sticks, and
some she twisted into curious images, supposed
to be boys and girls, horses and sheep.

After Grace and Horace had eaten several of
the "boys and girls," to say nothing of "handled
baskets," and "gentlemen's slippers," Barbara
thought it high time they were "sound abed and
asleep."

So now, as they go upstairs, we will wish them
a good night and pleasant dreams.





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.. _`CAMPING OUT`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   CAMPING OUT

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"What is the matter with my little son?"
said Mr. Clifford, one morning at breakfast; for
Horace sat up very stiffly in his chair, and refused
both eggs and muffins, choosing instead a slice of
dry toast and a glass of water.

"Are you sick, Horace?" asked his mother, tenderly.

"No, ma'am," replied the boy, blushing; "but
I want to get to be a soldier!"

Mr. Clifford and his wife looked at each other
across the table, and smiled.

"O, papa," said Grace, "I shouldn't want to
be a soldier if I couldn't have anything nice to
eat.  Can't they get pies and canned peaches and
things?  Will they go without buckwheat cakes
and sirup in the winter?"

"Ah! my little daughter, men who love their
country are willing to make greater sacrifices
than merely nice food."

Horace put on one of his lofty looks, for he
somehow felt that his father was praising *him*.

"Pa," said Grace, "please tell me what's a
sacrifice, anyhow?"

"A sacrifice, my daughter, is the giving up of
a dear or pleasant thing for the sake of duty: that
is very nearly what it means.  For instance, if
your mamma consents to let me go to the war,
because she thinks I ought to go, she will make
what is called a sacrifice."

"Do not let us speak of it now, Henry," said
Mrs. Clifford, looking quite pale.

"O, my dear papa," cried Grace, bursting into
tears, "we couldn't live if you went to the war!"

Horace looked at the acorn on the lid of the
coffee-urn, but said nothing.  It cost his little
heart a pang even to think of parting from his
beloved father; but then wouldn't it be a glorious
thing to hear him called General Clifford?  And
if he should really go away, wasn't it likely that
the oldest boy, Horace, would take his place at
the head of the table?

Yes, they should miss papa terribly; but he
would only stay away till he "got a general;"
and for that little while it would be pleasant for
Horace to sit in the arm-chair and help the
others to the butter, the toast, and the meat.

"Horace," said Mr. Clifford, smiling, "it will
be some years before you can be a soldier: why
do you begin now to eat dry bread?"

"I want to get used to it, sir."

"That indeed!" said Mr. Clifford, with a
good-natured laugh, which made Horace wince a little.
"But the eating of dry bread is only a small part
of the soldier's tough times, my boy.  Soldiers
have to sleep on the hard ground, with knapsacks
for pillows; they have to march, through wet and
dry, with heavy muskets, which make their arms ache."

"Look here, Barby," said Horace, that evening;
"I want a knapsack, to learn to be a soldier
with.  If I have 'tough times' now, I'll get used
to it.  Can't you find me a carpet-bag, Barby?"

"Carpet-bag?  And what for a thing is that?"
said Barbara, rousing from a nap, and beginning
to click her knitting-needles.  "Here I was
asleep again.  Now, if I did keep working in the
kitchen, I could sit up just what time I wants to;
but when I sits down, I goes to sleep right off."

And Barbara went on knitting, putting the
yarn over the needle with her left hand, after the
German fashion.

"But the carpet-bag, Barby: there's a black
one 'some place,' in the trunk-closet or up-attic.
Now, Barby, you know I helped pick those quails
yesterday."

"Yes, yes, dear, when I gets my eyes open."

"I would sleep out doors, but ma says I'd
get cold; so I'll lie on the floor in the
bathing-room.  O, Barby, I'll sleep like a trooper!"

But Horace was a little mistaken.  A hard,
unyielding floor makes a poor bed; and when, at
the same time, one's neck is almost put out of
joint by a carpet-bag stuffed with newspaper, it
is not easy to go to sleep.

In a short time the little boy began to feel
tired of "camping out;" and I am sorry to say
that he employed some of the moonlight hours in
studying the workmanship of his mother's watch,
which had been left, by accident, hanging on a
nail in the bathing-room.

He felt very guilty all the while; and when,
at last, a *chirr-chirr* from the watch told that
mischief had been done, his heart gave a quick
throb of fright, and he stole off to his chamber,
undressed, and went to bed in the dark.

Next morning he did not awake as early as
usual, and, to his great dismay, came very near
being late to breakfast.

"Good-morning, little buzzard-lark," said his
sister, coming into his room just as he was
thrusting his arms into his jacket.

"Ho, Gracie! why didn't you wake me up?"

"I spoke to you seven times, Horace."

"Well, why didn't you pinch me, or shake me
awake, or something?"

"Why, Horace, then you'd have been cross,
and said, 'Gracie Clifford, let me alone!'  You
know you would, Horace."

The little boy stood by the looking-glass finishing
his toilet, and made no reply.

"Don't you mean to behave?" said he, talking
to his hair.  "There, now, you've parted in the
middle!  Do you s'pose I'm going to look like
a girl?  Part the way you ought to, and lie down
smooth!  We'll see which will beat!"

"Why, what in the world is this?" exclaimed
Grace, as something heavy dropped at her feet.

It was her mother's watch, which had fallen
out of Horace's pocket.

"Where did you get this watch?"

No answer.

"Why, Horace, it doesn't tick: have you been
playing with it?"

Still no answer.

"Now, that's just like you, Horace, to shut
your mouth right up tight, and not speak a word
when you're spoken to.  I never saw such a
boy!  I'm going downstairs, this very minute,
to tell my mother you've been hurting her
beautiful gold watch!"

"Stop!" cried the boy, suddenly finding his
voice; "I reckon I can fix it!  I was meaning
to tell ma!  I only wanted to see that little thing
inside that ticks.  I'll bet I'll fix it.  I didn't go
to hurt it, Grace!"

"O, yes, you feel like you could mend watches,
and fire guns, and be soldiers and generals," said
Grace, shaking her ringlets; "but I'm going right
down to tell ma!"

Horace's lips curled with scorn.

"That's right, Gracie; run and *tell*!"

"But, Horace, I ought to tell," said Grace,
meekly; "it's my duty!  Isn't there a little voice
at your heart, and don't it say, you've done
wicked?"

"There's a voice there," replied the boy,
pertly; "but it don't say what you think it does.
It says, 'If your pa finds out about the watch,
won't you catch it?'"

To do Horace justice, he did mean to tell his
mother.  He had been taught to speak the truth,
and the whole truth, cost what it might.  He
knew that his parents could forgive almost
anything sooner than a falsehood, or a cowardly
concealment.  Words cannot tell how Mr. Clifford
hated deceit.

"When a *lie* tempts you, Horace," said he,
"scorn it, if it looks ever so white!  Put your
foot on it, and crush it like a snake!"

Horace ate dry toast again this morning, but
no one seemed to notice it.  If he had dared
look up, he could have seen that his father and
mother wore sorrowful faces.

After breakfast, Mr. Clifford called him into
the library.  In the first place, he took to pieces
the mangled watch, and showed him how it had
been injured.

"Have you any right to meddle with things
which belong to other people, my son?" he said
soberly.

Horace's chin snuggled down into the hollow
place in his neck, and he made no reply.

"Answer me, Horace."

"No, sir."

"It will cost several dollars to pay for repairing
this watch: don't you think the little boy
who did the mischief should give part of the
money?"

Horace looked distressed; his face began to
twist itself out of shape.

"This very boy has a good many pieces of
silver which were given him to buy fire-crackers.
So you see, if he is truly sorry for his fault, he
knows the way to atone for it."

Horace's conscience told him, by a twinge,
that it would be no more than just for him to
pay what he could for mending the watch.

"Have you nothing to say to me, my child?"

For, instead of speaking, the boy was working
his features into as many shapes as if they had
been made of gutta percha.  This was a bad
habit of his, though when he was doing it, he
had no idea of "making up faces."

His father told him he would let him have
the whole day to decide whether he ought to give
up any of his money.  A tear trembled in each
of Horace's eyes, but, before they could fall, he
caught them on his thumb and forefinger.

"Now," continued Mr. Clifford, "I have something
to tell you.  I decided last night to enter
the army."

"O, pa," cried Horace, springing up, eagerly;
"mayn't I go, too?"

"You, my little son?"

"Yes, pa," replied Horace, clinging to his
father's knee.  "Boys go to wait on the generals
and things!  I can wait on you.  I can comb
your hair, and bring your slippers.  If I could
be a waiter, I'd go a flying."

"Poor child," laughed Mr. Clifford, stroking
Horace's head, "you're such a very little boy,
only eight years old!"

"I'm going on nine.  I'll be nine next New
Year's Gift-day," stammered Horace, the bright
flush dying out of his cheeks.  "O, pa, I don't
want you to go if I can't go too!"

Mr. Clifford's lips trembled.  He took the
little boy on his knee, and told him how the
country was in danger, and needed all its brave men.

"I should feel a great deal easier about leaving
my dear little family," said he, "if Horace
never disobeyed his mother; if he did not so
often fall into mischief; if he was always sure to
*remember*."

The boy's neck was twisted around till his
father could only see the back of his head.

"Look here, pa," said he, at last, throwing
out the words one at a time, as if every one
weighed a whole pound; "I'll give ma that
money; I'll do it to-day."

"That's right, my boy! that's honest!  You
have given me pleasure.  Remember, when you
injure the property of another, you should
always make amends for it as well as you can.
If you do not, you're unjust and dishonest."

I will not repeat all that Mr. Clifford said to
his little son.  Horace thought then he should
never forget his father's good advice, nor his
own promises.  We shall see whether he did or not.

He was a restless, often a very naughty boy;
but when you looked at his broad forehead and
truthful eyes, you felt that, back of all his faults,
there was nobleness in his boyish soul.  His
father often said, "He will either make something
or nothing," and his mother answered, "Yes,
there never will be any half-way place for Horace."

Now that Mr. Clifford had really enlisted,
everybody looked sad.  Grace was often in tears,
and said,—

"We can't any of us live, if pa goes to the war."

But when Horace could not help crying, he
always said it was because he "had the earache;"
and perhaps he thought it was.

Mrs. Clifford tried to be cheerful, for she
was a patriotic woman; but she could not trust
her voice to talk a great deal, or sing much to
the baby.

As for Barbara Kinckle, she scrubbed the
floors, and scoured the tins harder than ever,
looking all the while as if every one of her friends
was dead and buried.  The family were to break
up housekeeping and Barbara was very sorry.
Now she would have to go to her home a little way
back in the country, and work in the fields, as
many German girls do every summer.

"O, my heart is sore," said she, "every time
I thinks of it.  They will in the cars go off, and
whenever again I'll see the kliny (little) childers
I knows not."

It was a sad day when Mr. Clifford bade good-by
to his family.  His last words to Horace were
these: "Always obey your mother, my boy, and
remember that God sees all you do."

He was now "Captain Clifford," and went
away at the head of his company, looking like,
what he really was, a brave and noble gentleman.

Grace wondered if he ever thought of the
bright new buttons on his coat; and Horace
walked about among his school-fellows with quite
an air, very proud of being the son of a man
who either was now, or was going to be, the
greatest officer in Indiana!

If anybody else had shown as much self-esteem
as Horace did, the boys would have said he had
"the *big* head."  When Yankee children think
a playmate conceited, they call him "stuck up;"
but Hoosier children say he has "the *big* head."  No
one spoke in this way of Horace, however, for
there was something about him which made
everybody like him, in spite of his faults.

He loved his play-fellows, and they loved him,
and were sorry enough to have him go away;
though, perhaps, they did not shed so many
tears as Grace's little mates, who said, "they
never'd have any more good times: they didn't
mean to try."

Mrs. Clifford, too, left many warm friends,
and it is safe to say that on the morning the
family started for the East, there were a great
many people "crying their hearts out of their
eyes."  Still, I believe no one sorrowed more
sincerely than faithful Barbara Kinckle.





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.. _`TAKING A JOURNEY`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   TAKING A JOURNEY

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It was a great effort for Mrs. Clifford to take
a journey to Maine with three children; but she
needed the bracing air of New England, and so
did Grace and the baby.

To be sure they had the company of a gentleman
who was going to Boston; but he was a very
young man indeed, who thought a great deal
more of his new mustache than he did of trunks
and checks, and tickets.

Twenty times a day Mrs. Clifford wished her
husband could have gone with her before he
enlisted, for she hardly knew what to do with
restless little Horace.  As for sitting still, it was
more than the boy could do.  He would keep
jerking his inquisitive little head out of the
window, for he never remembered a caution five
minutes.  He delighted to run up and down the
narrow aisle and, putting his hands on the arms
of the seats, swing backward and forward with
all his might.  He became acquainted with
every lozenge-boy and every newspaper-boy on the
route, and seemed to be in a high state of
merriment from morning till night.

Grace, who was always proper and well-behaved,
was not a little mortified by Horace's
rough manners.

"He means no harm," Mrs. Clifford would
say, with a smile and a sigh; "but Mr. Lazelle, if
you will be so kind as to watch him a little, I will
be greatly obliged."

Mr. Lazelle would reply, "O, certainly,
madam; be quite easy about the child; he is not
out of my sight for a moment!"

So saying, perhaps he would go in search of
him, and find him under a seat playing with
Pincher, his clothes covered with dust, and his
cap lying between somebody's feet.

At such times Mr. Lazelle always said,—

"Upon my word, you're a pretty little fellow!"
and looked as if he would like to shake him, if
it were not for soiling his gloves.

Horace laughed when Mr. Lazelle called him
"a pretty little fellow," and thought it a fine
joke.  He laughed, too, when the young man
told him to "come out," for there was something
in the pettish tone of his voice which Horace
considered very amusing.

"I'll wait till he gets through scolding, and
goes to coaxing," thought the boy: "he's a smart
man! can't make such a little fellow mind!"

Mr. Lazelle was very much vexed with Horace,
and firmly resolved that he would never again
take charge of a lady traveling with children.
At one time he flew into a passion, and boxed
the boy's ears.  Horace felt very much like a
wounded wasp.  He knew Mr. Lazelle would not
have dared strike him before his mother, and
from that moment he despised him as a "sneak."

Whenever Mr. Lazelle was looking for him
in great haste, he was very likely to be missing;
and when that sorely tried young gentleman was
almost in despair, a saucy little head would
appear at the car-window, and a small voice would
shout,—

"Ho, Mr. Lazelle! why don't you come ahead?
I beat you *in*!"

"Horace," said Mrs. Clifford, wearily, "you
don't know how you tire me!  Here is this dear
baby that I have to hold in my arms; isn't it
enough that I should have the care of him,
without being all the while anxious about you?"

"Yes," chimed in Grace, pushing back her
beautiful curls, "you don't know how ma and
I fret about you.  You'll kill poor ma before
ever we can get you East!"

Horace hung his head for shame, and decided
that it didn't "pay" to punish Mr. Lazelle, if his
mother must suffer too.  He meant, for her sake,
to "turn over a new leaf," though he did not
say so.

On the afternoon of their second day's ride,
they reached the beautiful city of Cleveland.

Here they were to rest for a few hours.  Their
clothes were sadly tumbled, their collars
dust-color, and their faces and hair rough with
cinders.  A thorough washing and brushing and
some fresh ruffles and laces gave a much tidier
appearance to the whole party.

After Grace and Horace were ready, Mrs. Clifford
thought they might as well go downstairs
while she tried to rock little Katie to sleep.

"Be sure not to go away from the house," said
she.  "Grace, I depend upon you to take care of
Horace, for he may forget."

The children had been standing on the piazza
for some time, watching the people passing,
while Mr. Lazelle lounged near by, talking
politics with some gentlemen.  In a little while
Mrs. Clifford sent for Grace to go upstairs and amuse
the poor baby, who could not be rocked to sleep.

For a few moments after she had gone Horace
stood near the door, still gazing into the street,
when suddenly he heard a faint sound of
martial music: a brass band was turning the corner.
Soon they were in sight, men in handsome
uniform, drawing music from various instruments,
picking, blowing, or beating it out, as the case
might be.

It was glorious, Horace thought.  He could
not keep still.  He ran out, and threw up his cap
before he knew it almost, shouting with delight,—

"Ho, Mr. Lazelle! ain't that jolly?  Ho,
Mr. Lazelle! where *are* you, anyhow?"

Probably, if the boy had stopped to think, he
might have remembered that Mr. Lazelle was
in the parlor; but no, Horace was sure he must
have crossed the street to look at the band.

"I'm going, too," said he to himself.  "Of
course, where Mr. Lazelle goes, I can go, for he
has the care of me!"

With that he dashed headlong into the crowd,
looking here, there, and everywhere for Mr. Lazelle.

But, O, that music!  Did a little boy's boots
ever stand still when a drum was playing,
"March, march away"?  No doubt his father
was keeping step to just such sounds, on his
path to martial glory!  The fife and bugle
whistled with magical voices, and seemed to
say,—

"Follow, follow, follow on!"

And Horace followed; sometimes thinking he
was in search of Mr. Lazelle, sometimes forgetting
it altogether.  He knew he was doing very
wrong, but it seemed as if the music almost
drowned the voice of his conscience.

In this way they turned street after street,
till, suddenly, the band and the crowd entered a
large public building.  Then the music died out,
and with it the fire of eagerness in the little boy's
soul.

Where was Mr. Lazelle?  If he could see him
now, he would forgive the boxed ears.  How
could he ever find his way back to the hotel?
It had not as yet entered his head to ask anyone.

He darted off at great speed, but, as it
happened, in precisely the wrong direction.  The
houses grew smaller and farther apart, and
presently he came to a high, sandy cliff overlooking
the lake.  Now the shades of night began to fall,
and his stout heart almost failed him.  The
longing grew so strong to see mother, and Grace, and
baby, that the tears would start, in spite of himself.

At last, just as he was wondering which way
to turn next, somebody touched his shoulder,
and a rough voice said,—

"Hullo, my little man!  What you doin' in
this ward?  Come; don't you pull away from
me: I'm a city officer.  Got lost, hey?"

Horace shook with fright.  O dear, was it a
crime, then, to get lost?  He remembered all
the stories he had ever heard of lock-ups, and
state-prisons, and handcuffs.

"O, I didn't mean any harm, sir," cried he,
trying to steady his voice; "I reckon I ain't lost,
sir; or, if I am, I ain't lost *much*!"

"So, sor," laughed the policeman, good-naturedly;
"and what was your name, my little
man, before you got lost, and didn't get lost
*much*?"

"My name is Horace Clifford, sir," replied the
boy, wondering why a cruel policeman should
want to laugh.

"Well, well," said the man, not unkindly,
"I'm glad I've come across ye, for your mother's
in a terrible taking.  What set ye out to run off?
Come, now; don't be sulky.  Give us your hand,
and I guess, seein' it's you, we won't put you in
the lock-up this time."

Horace was very grateful to the officer for not
handcuffing him on the spot; still he felt as if
it was a great disgrace to be marched through
the city by a policeman.

Mrs. Clifford, Grace, and Mr. Lazelle met them
on the way.

"O, my dear, dear son," cried Mrs. Clifford,
as soon as she could speak; "do you know how
you've frightened us all?"

"I followed the band," stammered Horace.
"I was looking for Mr. Lazelle."

"You're a naughty, mean little boy," cried
Grace, when she had made sure he was not hurt
anywhere.  "It would have been good enough
for you if you'd drowned in the lake, and the
bears had ate you up!"

Still she kissed her naughty brother, and it
was to be noticed that her eyelids were very red
from crying.

"I'll never let go your hand again, Horace,"
said she, "till we get to grandma's.  You're just
as *slippery*!"

Mr. Lazelle looked as if it would be an immense
relief to him if Miss Grace would keep her
word; he thought he was undergoing a great trial
with Horace.

"It's a shame," said he to himself, "that a
perfect lady, like Mrs. Clifford, should have such
a son!  I'd enjoy whipping him—for her sake!
Why in the world don't she *train* him?"

Mr. Lazelle did not know of the faithful talk
Mrs. Clifford had with Horace that night, nor
how the boy's heart swelled with grief, and love,
and new resolutions.

This adventure caused a day's delay, for it
made the party too late for the boat.  Horace
was so sorry for his foolish conduct, that he spent
the next day in the most subdued manner, and
walked about the chamber on tiptoe, while Grace
tried to sooth little Katie.

But, in crossing the lake, he "forgot" again.
His mother allowed him to go up on the hurricane
deck with Mr. Lazelle, just for ten minutes; and
there he became acquainted with the pilot, who
was struck with his intelligence, and freely
answered all the questions he asked about the
engine, "the whistle," and the steering.

"O, pshaw!" said Horace; "I'll make a steam-boat
myself, and give it to Grace for a present!"

Full of this new plan, he left the pilot
without so much as a "thank you," running down
the steps, two at a time, unobserved by
Mr. Lazelle, who was playing the flute.  He wanted
to see how the "rigging" was made, and stopped
to ask leave of nobody.

Down another flight of stairs, out across
trunks, and bales, and ropes, he pushed his way
to get a good sight of the deck.  He paid no
heed to people or things, and nearly ran over an
Irish boy, who was drawing up water in buckets
for washing.  Somebody shouted, "He's trying
to kill hisself, I do believe!"

Somebody rushed forward to seize the daring
child by the collar of his jacket, but too late; he
had fallen headlong into the lake!

A scream went up from the deck that pierced
the air,—"Boy overboard!  Help! help! help!"

Mrs. Clifford heard, and knew, by instinct, that
it was Horace.  She had just sent Grace to call
him, not feeling safe to trust him longer with
Mr. Lazelle.  She rushed through the door of
the state-room, and followed the crowd to the
other side of the boat, crying,—

"O, can't somebody save him?"

There was no mistaking the mother's voice;
the crowd made way for her.

"Safe! safe and sound!" was the shout now.
"All right!"

The Irish lad, at Horace's first plunge, had
thrown him his bucket—it was a life-preserver;
that is, it would not sink—and the drowning boy
had been drawn up by means of a rope attached
to the bail.

"Ma," said Grace, when they were all safely in
the cars at Buffalo, and Horace as well as ever,
though a little pale, "I do believe there never was
anybody had such an awful journey!  *Do* you
suppose we'll ever get Horace home to grandma's?"





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.. _`AT GRANDPA PARLIN'S`:

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   CHAPTER IV


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   AT GRANDPA PARLIN'S

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It was over at last—the long, tedious journey,
which Horace spoiled for everybody, and which
nobody but Horace enjoyed.

When they drove up to the quiet old, homestead
at Willowbrook, and somebody had taken
the little baby, poor Mrs. Clifford threw herself
into her mother's arms, and sobbed like a child.
Everybody else cried, too; and good, deaf
Grandpa Parlin, with smiles and tears at the same
time, declared,—

"I don't know what the matter is; so I can't
tell whether to laugh or cry."

Then his daughter Margaret went up and said
in his best ear that they were just crying for joy,
and asked him if that wasn't a silly thing to do.

Grace embraced everybody twice over; but
Horace was a little shy, and would only give what
his aunties called "canary kisses."

"Margaret, I want you to give me that darling
baby this minute," said Mrs. Parlin, wiping her
eyes.  "Now you can bring the butter out of
the cellar; it's all there is to be done, except to
set the tea on the table."

Then Grandma Parlin had another cry over
little Katie: not such a strange thing, for she
could not help thinking of Harry, the baby with
sad eyes and pale face, who had been sick there
all the summer before, and was now an angel.
As little Prudy had said, "God took him up to
heaven, but the tired part of him is in the
garden."

Yes, under a weeping-willow.  Everybody
was thinking just now of tired little Harry, "the
sweetest flower that ever was planted in that
garden."

"Why, Maria," said Mrs. Parlin, as soon as
she could speak, "how did you ever travel so
far with this little, little baby?"

"I don't know, mother," replied Mrs. Clifford,
"I think I could never have got here without
Grace: she has been my little waiter, and Katie's
little nurse."

Grace blushed with delight at this well-deserved praise.

"And Horace is so large now, that he was
some help, too, I've no doubt," said his grandmother.

"I would have took the baby," cried Horace,
speaking up very quickly, before anyone else
had time to answer,—"I would have took the
baby, but she wouldn't let me."

Mrs. Clifford might have said that Horace
himself had been as much trouble as the baby;
but she was too kind to wound her little boy's
feelings.

It was certainly a very happy party who met
around the tea-table at Mr. Parlin's that evening.
It was already dusk, and the large globe lamp,
with its white porcelain shade, gave a cheery glow
to the pleasant dining-room.

First, there was cream-toast, made of the whitest
bread, and the sweetest cream.

"This makes me think of Mrs. Gray," said
Mrs. Clifford, smiling; "I hope she is living yet."

"She is," said Margaret, "but twelve years old."

Grace looked up in surprise.

"Why, that's only a little girl, Aunt Madge!"

"My dear, it's only a cow!"

"O, now I remember; the little blue one, with
brass knobs on her horns!"

"Let's see; do you remember Dr. Quack and
his wife?"

"O, yes'm! they were white ducks; and how
they did swim!  It was a year ago.  I suppose
Horace doesn't remember."

"Poh! yes, I do; they were *spin-footed*!"

"Why, Horace," said Grace, laughing; "you
mean *web-footed*!"

Horace bent his eyes on his plate, and did not
look up again for some time.

There was chicken-salad on the table.  Margaret
made that—putting in new butter, because
she knew Mrs. Clifford did not like oil.

There was delicious looking cake, "some that
had been touched with frost, and some that
hadn't," as grandpa said, when he passed the
basket.

But the crowning glory of the supper was a
dish of scarlet strawberries, which looked as if
they had been drinking dew-drops and sunshine
till they had caught all the richness and sweetness
of summer.

"O, ma!" whispered Grace, "I'm beginning
to feel so happy!  I only wish my father was
here."

After tea, grandpa took Horace and Grace on
each knee, large as they were, and sang some
delightful evening hymns with what was left of his
once fine voice.  He looked so peaceful and
happy that his daughters were reminded of the
Bible verse, "Children's children are the crown
of old men."

"I think now," said Mrs. Clifford, coming back
from putting the baby to sleep, "it's high time
my boy and girl were saying, 'Good-night, and
pleasant dreams.'"

"Aunt Madge is going upstairs with us; aren't
you, auntie?"

"Yes, Horace; your other auntie wouldn't do,
I suppose," said Louise.  "That makes me think
of the way this same Horace used to treat me
when he was two years old.  '*Her* can't put me
to bed,' he would say; 'her's too *little*.'"

"I remember," said Margaret, "how he
dreaded cold water.  When his mother called
him to be washed, and said, 'Ma doesn't want a
little dirty boy,' he would look up in her face, and
say,

"'Does mamma want 'ittle *cold* boy?'"

The happy children kissed everybody good-night,
and followed their Aunt Madge upstairs.
Now, there was a certain small room, whose one
window opened upon the piazza, and it was called
"the green chamber."  It contained a cunning
little bedstead, a wee bureau, a dressing-table,
and washing-stand, all pea-green.  It was a room
which seemed to have been made and furnished
on purpose for a child, and it had been promised
to Grace in every letter Aunt Madge had written
to her for a year.

Horace had thought but little about the room
till to-night, when his Aunt led Grace into it, and
he followed.  It seemed so fresh and sweet in
"the green chamber," and on the dressing-table
there was a vase of flowers.

Aunt Madge bade the children look out of the
window at a bird's nest, which was snuggled into
one corner of the piazza-roof, so high up that
nobody could reach it without a very tall ladder.

"Now," said Aunt Madge, "the very first thing
Grace hears in the morning will probably be bird-music."

Grace clapped her hands.

"And where am *I* going to sleep?" said
Horace, who had been listening, and looking on in
silence.  His aunt had forgotten that he was
sometimes jealous; but she could not help
knowing it now, for a very disagreeable expression
looked out at his eyes, and drew down the corners
of his mouth.

"Why, Horace dear, we have to put you in one
of the back chambers, just as we did when you
were here before; but you know it's a nice clean
room, with white curtains, and you can look out
of the window at the garden."

"But it's over the kitchen!"

"There, Horace," said Grace, "I'd be
ashamed!  You don't act like a little gentleman!
What would pa say?"

"Why couldn't I have the big front
chamber?" said the little boy, shuffling his feet,
and looking down at his shoes.

"Because," said Aunt Madge, smiling, "that
is for your mother and the baby."

"But if I could have this little cunning room,
I'd go a-flyin'.  Grace ain't company any more
than me."

Aunt Madge remembered Horace's hit-or-miss
way of using things, and thought of the elephant
that once walked into a china shop.

Grace laughed aloud.

"Why, Horace Clifford, you'd make the room
look like everything; you know you would!  O,
auntie, you ought to see how he musses up my
cabinet!  I have to hide the key; I do *so*!"

Horace took the room which was given him,
but he left his sister without his usual good-night
kiss, and when he repeated his prayer, I am afraid
he was thinking all the while about the green
chamber.

The next morning the children had intended
to go into the garden bright and early.  Grace
loved flowers, and when she was a mere baby, just
able to toddle into the meadow, she would clip
off the heads of buttercups and primroses,
hugging and kissing them like friends.

Horace, too, had some fancy for flowers,
especially flaring ones like sunflowers and
hollyhocks.  Dandelions were nice when the stems
would curl without bothering, and poppies were
worth while for little girls, he thought, because,
after they are gone to seed, you can make them
into pretty good teapots.

He wanted to go out in the garden now for
humming-birds, and to see if the dirt-colored toad
was still living in his "nest," in one of the flowerbeds.

But the first thing the children heard in the
morning was the pattering of rain on the roof.
No going out to-day.  Grace was too tired to care
much.  Horace felt cross; but remembering how
many messages his grandmother had sent to her
"good little grandson," and how often Aunt
Madge had written about "dear little Horace, the
nephew she was so proud of," he felt ashamed to
go downstairs scowling.  If his good-morning
smile was so thin that you could see a frown
through it, still it was better than no smile at all.

The breakfast was very nice, and Horace
would have enjoyed the hot griddle-cakes and
maple sirup, only his Aunt Louise, a handsome
young lady of sixteen, watched him more than
he thought was quite polite, saying every now
and then,—

"Isn't he the image of his father?  Just such a
nose, just such a mouth!  He eats fast, too; that
is characteristic!"

Horace did not know what "characteristic"
meant, but thought it must be something bad, for
with a child's quick eye he could see that his
pretty aunt was inclined to laugh at him.  In
fact, he had quite an odd way of talking, and his
whole appearance was amusing to Miss Louise,
who was a very lively young lady.

"Horace, you were telling me last night about
Mr. Lazelle: what did you say was the color of
his coat?"

"I said it was *blueberry* color," replied Horace,
who could see almost without looking up
that Aunt Louise was smiling at Aunt Madge.

"He is a *musicianer*, too, I think you said, and
his hair *crimps*.  Dear me, what a funny man!"

Horace was silent, and made up his mind that
he should be careful another time what he said
before Aunt Louise.

Soon after breakfast he and Pincher went
"up-attic" to see what they could find, while
Grace followed her grandmother and aunties
from parlor to kitchen, and from kitchen to
pantry.  She looked pale and tired, but was so
happy that she sang every now and then at the
top of her voice, forgetting that little Katie was
having a nap.

Pretty soon Horace came downstairs with an
old, rusty gun much taller than himself.
Mrs. Clifford was shocked at first, but smiled the next
moment, as she remembered what an innocent
thing it was, past its "prime" before she was of
Horace's age.

The little boy playfully pointed the gun
towards Grace, who screamed with fright, and
ran away as fast as she could.

"I don't care," cried she, coming back, a little
ashamed at being laughed at.  "How did *I* know
it wasn't loaded?  Do you think 'twould look
well for a little girl not to be afraid of a gun?"

This speech amused everybody, particularly
Horace, who was glad to have Grace say a foolish
thing once in a while.  It raised his self-esteem
somehow; and, more than that, he liked to
remember her little slips of the tongue, and tease
her about them.

It was not long before he had seen all there was
to be seen in the house, and wanted to "*do*
something."  As for reading, that was usually too
stupid for Horace.  Grace kindly offered to play
checkers with him; but she understood the game
so much better than he did that she won at every
trial.

This was more than he could bear with
patience; and, whenever he saw that she was gaining
upon him, he wanted to "turn it into a *give-game*."

"But that isn't fair, Horace."

"Well, ma, just you see how mean Grace is!
There, she wants me to jump that man yonder,
so she'll take two of mine, and go right in the
king-row!"

"But, Horace," said Grace, gently, "what do I
play for if I don't try to beat?"

"There, now," cried he, "chase my men up to
the king-row, so I can't crown 'em, do!"

"Just what I'm doing," replied Grace, coolly.

"Well, I should think you'd better take 'em all,
and be done with it!  Before I'd be so mean as to
set *traps*!"

"Look, Horace," said Grace; "you didn't jump
when you ought to, and I'm going to *huff* your
man.  See, I blow it, just this way; old
Mr. Knight calls it *huffing*."

"Huff away then! but you stole one of those
kings.  I'll bet you stole it off the board after I
jumped it."

"Now, Horace Clifford," cried Grace, with
tears in her eyes, "I never did such a thing as to
steal a king; and if you say so I won't play!"

"Horace," said Mrs. Clifford, who had been
trying for some time to speak, "what do you play
checkers for?"

"Ma'am?  Why, to beat, of course."

"Well, do you consider it work or play?"

"Work or play?  Why, it's a game, ma; so it's
play."

"But Grace was so obliging that she wished to
amuse you, my son.  *Does* it amuse you?
Doesn't it make you cross?  Do you know that
you have spoken a great many sharp words to
your kind sister?

"Shut the board right up, my child; and
remember from this time never to play checkers,
or any other game, when you feel yourself growing
fretful!  As you sometimes say, 'It doesn't pay.'"

Horace closed the board, looking ashamed.

"That's sound advice for everybody," said
Aunt Madge, stroking her little nephew's hair.
"If children always remembered it, they would
get along more pleasantly together—I know
they would."

Grace had been looking ill all the morning,
and her mother now saw symptoms of a chill.
With all her tender anxiety she had not known
how tired her little daughter was.  It was two or
three weeks before the child was rested; and
whenever she had a chill, which was every third
day for a while, she was delirious and kept crying
out,—

"O, do see to Horace, mamma!  Mr. Lazelle
will forget!  O, Horace, now *don't* let go my
hand!  I've got the bundles, mamma, and the
milk for the baby."

And sometimes Mrs. Clifford would call
Horace to come and take his sister's hand, just to
assure her that he was not lying cold and dead
in the waters of Lake Erie.  It was really touching
to see how heavily the cares of the journey
had weighed on the dear girl's youthful spirits.





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.. _`CAPTAIN OF A COMPANY`:

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   CHAPTER V


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   CAPTAIN OF A COMPANY

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At first Mrs. Clifford thought she did not care
about having the children go to school, as they
had been kept at their studies for nearly nine
months without a vacation, except Christmas
holidays.

But what was to be done with Horace?  Aunt
Louise, who was not passionately fond of
children, declared her trials were greater than she
could bear.  Grace was a little lady, she thought;
but as for Horace, and his dog Pincher, and the
"calico kitty," which he had picked up for a
pet!—Louise disliked dogs and despised kittens.
Sometimes, as she told Margaret, she felt as if
she should certainly fly; sometimes she was sure
she was going crazy; and then again it seemed as
if her head would burst into a thousand pieces.

None of these dreadful accidents happened, it
is true; but a great many other things did.
Hammers, nails, and augers were carried off, and
left to rust in the dew.  A cup of green paint,
which for months had stood quietly on an old
shelf in the storeroom, was now taken down and
stirred with a stick, and all the toys which
Horace whittled out were stained green, and set in
the sun to dry.  A pair of cheese-tongs, which
hung in the back room, a boot-jack, the washing-bench,
which was once red,—all became green in
a very short time: only the red of the bench had
a curious effect, peeping out from its light and
ragged coat of green.

The blue sled which belonged to Susie and
Prudy was brought down from the shed-chamber,
and looked at for some time.  It would present a
lovely appearance, Horace thought, if he only
dared cross it off with green.  But as the sled
belonged to his little cousins, and they were not
there to see for themselves how beautiful he could
make it look, why, he must wait till they came;
and then, very likely, the paint would be gone.

Of course, Horace soiled his clothes sadly:
"that was always just like him," his Aunt Louise
said.

This was not all: A little neighbor, Gilbert
Brown, came to the house at all hours, and
between the two boys there was a noise of driving
nails, firing pop-guns, shouting and running from
morning till night.

They built a "shanty" of the boards which
grandpa was saving to mend the fence, and in
this shanty they "kept store," trading in crooked
pins, home-made toys, twine and jack-knives.

"Master chaps, them children are," said
Abner, the good-natured hired man.

"Hard-working boys!  They are as destructive
as army worms," declared grandpa, frowning,
with a twinkle in his eye.

Horace had a cannon about a foot long, which
went on wheels, with a box behind it, and a
rammer lashed on at the side—not to mention an
American flag which floated over the whole.

With a stout string he drew his cannon up to the
large oilnut tree, and then with a real bayonet
fixed to a wooden gun, he would lie at full length
under the shade, calling himself a sharpshooter
guarding the cannon.  At these times woe to the
"calico kitty," or Grace, or anybody else who
happened to go near him! for he gave the order to
"charge," and the charge was made most vigorously.

Upon the whole, it was decided that everybody
would feel easier and happier if Horace should
go to school.  This plan did not please him at
all, and he went with sulky looks and a very bad
grace.

His mother sighed; for though her little boy
kept the letter of the law, which says, "Children,
obey your parents," he did not do it in the *spirit*
of the commandment, "*Honor* thy father and thy
mother."

In a thousand ways Mrs. Clifford was made
unhappy by Horace, who should have been a
comfort to her.  It was sad, indeed; for never
did a kind mother try harder to "train up a child"
in the right way.

It did not take Horace a great while to renew
his acquaintance with the schoolboys, who all
seemed to look upon him as a sort of curiosity.

"I never knew before," laughed little Dan
Hideout, "that my name was Dan-yell!"

"He calls a pail a bucket, and a dipper a
*tinkup*," said Gilbert Brown.

"Yes," chimed in Willy Snow, "and he asks
'Is school *took up*?' just as if it was
knitting-work that was on needles."

"How he rolls his r's!" said Peter Grant.
"You can't say hor-r-se the way he does!  I'll
bet *the ain't* a boy can do it unless it's a
Cahoo-jack."  Peter meant *Hoosier*.

"Well, I wouldn't be seen saying *hoss*,"
returned Horace, with some spirit; "that's *Yankee*."

"I guess the Yankees are as good as the
Cahoo-jacks: wasn't your mother a Yankee?"

"Yes," faltered Horace; "she was born up
north here in the Frigid Zone; but she isn't so
much relation to me as my father is, for her name
wasn't Clifford.  She wouldn't have been *any*
relation to me if she hadn't married my father!"

One or two of the larger boys laughed at this
speech, and Horace, who could never endure
ridicule, stole quietly away.

"Now, boys, you behave," said Edward Snow,
Willy's older brother; "he's a smart little fellow,
and it's mean to go to hurting his feelings.
Come back here, Spunky Clifford; let's have a
game of *hi spy*!"

Horace was "as silent as a stone."

"He don't like to be called Spunky Clifford,"
said Johnny Bell; "do you, Horace?"

"The reason I don't like it," replied the boy,
"is because it's not my name."

"Well, then," said Edward Snow, winking—to
the other boys, "won't you play with us,
*Master Horace*?"

"I'll not go back to be laughed at," replied
he, stoutly: "when I'm home I play with Hoosier
boys, and they're politer than Yankees."

"'Twas only those big boys," said Johnny
Bell: "now they've gone off.  Come, let's play
something."

"I should think you'd be willing for us to
laugh," added honest little Willy Snow; "we
can't help it, you talk so funny.  We don't mean
anything."

"Well," said Horace, quite restored to good
humor, and speaking with some dignity, "you
may laugh at me *one* kind of a way, but if you
mean *humph* when you laugh, I won't stand it."

"*Woon't* stand it!" echoed Peter Grant; "ain't
that Dutch?"

"Dutch?" replied Horace: "I'll show you what
*Dyche* is!  We have a *Dyche* teacher come in
our school every day, and he stamps his foot and
tears round!  'Sei ruhig,' he says: that means,
'hush your mouth and keep still.'"

"Is he a Jew, and does he stay in a synagogue?"

"No, he is a German *Luteran*, or a Dutch
*Deformed*, or something that way."

"What do you learn in?" said Johnny Bell.

"Why, in little German readers: what else
would they be?"

"Does it read like stories and verses?"

"I don't know.  He keeps hitting the books
with a little switch, and screamin' out as if the
house was afire."

"Come, say over some Dutch; woon't you, Horace?"

So the little boy repeated some German
poetry, while his schoolmates looked up at him in
wonder and admiration.  This was just what
Horace enjoyed; and he continued, with sparkling eyes,—

"I s'pose you can't any of you *count* in Dutch."

The boys confessed that they could not.

"It's just as easy," said Horace, telling over
the numbers up to twenty, as fast as he could
speak.

"You can't any of you *write* Dutch; can you?
You give me a slate now, and I'll write it all over
so you couldn't read a word of it."

"Ain't it very hard to make?" asked the boys
in tones of respectful astonishment.

"I reckon you'd think 'twas hard, it's so full of
little quirls, but *I* can write it as easy as
English."

This was quite true, for Horace made very hard
work of any kind of writing.

It was not two days before he was at the head
of that part of the school known as "the small
boys," both in study and play; yet everybody
liked him, for, as I have said before, the little
fellow had such a strong sense of justice, and such
kindness of heart, that he was always a favorite,
in spite of his faults.

The boys all said there was nothing "mean"
about Horace.  He would neither abuse a
smaller child, nor see one abused.  If he thought
a boy was doing wrong, he was not afraid to tell
him so, and you may be sure that he was all the
more respected for his moral courage.

Horace talked to his schoolmates a great deal
about his father, Captain Clifford, who was going
to be a general some day.

"When I was home," said he, "I studied pa's
book of *tictacs*, and I used to drill the boys."

There was a loud cry of "Why can't you drill
us?  Come, let's us have a company, and you be
cap'n!"

Horace gladly consented, and the next
Saturday afternoon a meeting was appointed at the
"Glen."  When the time came, the boys were
all as joyful as so many squirrels suddenly let out
of a cage.

"Now, look here, boys," said Horace, brushing
back his "shingled hair," and walking about the
grove with the air of a lord.  "First place, if I'm
going to be captain, you must mind; will you, *say*?"

Horace was not much of a public speaker; he
threw words together just as it happened; but
there was so much meaning in the twistings of his
face, the jerkings of his head, and the twirlings
of his thumbs, that if you were looking at him
you must know what he meant.

"Ay, ay!" piped the little boys in chorus.

"Then I'll muster you in," said Horace
grandly.  "Has everybody brought their guns?—I
mean *sticks*, you know!"

"Ay, ay!"

"I want to be corporal," said Peter Grant.

"I'll be major," cried Willy Snow.

"There, you've spoke," shouted the captain.
"I wish there was a tub or bar'l to stand you on
when you talk."

After some time an empty flour barrel was
brought, and placed upright under a tree, to
serve as a dunce-block.

"Now we'll begin new," said the captain.
"Those that want to be mustered, rise up their
hands; but don't you snap your fingers."

The caution came too late for some of the
boys; but Horace forgave the seeming disrespect,
knowing that no harm was intended.

"Now, boys, what are you fighting about?—Say,
For our country!"

"For our country!" shouted the soldiers, some
in chorus, and some in solo.

"And our flag," added Horace, as an afterthought.

"And our flag," repeated the boys, looking at
the little banner of stars and stripes, which was
fastened to the stump of a tree, and faintly
fluttered in the breeze.

"Long may it wave!" cried Horace, growing
enthusiastic, and pointing backward to the flag
with a sweep of his thumb.

"There ain't a 'Secesh' in this company; there
ain't a man but wants our battle to beat!  If
there is, we'll muster him out double-quick."

A few caps were flourished in the air, and
every mouth was set firmly together as if it would
shout scorn of secession if it dared speak.  It
was a loyal company; there was no doubt of that.
Indeed, the captain was so bitter against the
South that he had asked his Aunt Madge if it was
right to let *southern-wood* grow in the garden.

"Now," said Horace, "Forward!  March!
'Ploy column!—No, form a line first.  'Ten*tion*!"

A curved, uncertain line, not unlike the letter
S, gradually straightened itself, and the boys
looked down to their feet as if they expected to
see a chalk-mark on the grass.

"Now, when I say, 'Right!' you must look at
the buttons on my jacket—or on yours, I've
forgot which; on yours; I reckon.  Right!  Right
at 'em!  Right at the buttons!"

Obedient to orders, every boy's head drooped
in a moment.

"Stop!" said Horace, knitting his brows;
"that's enough!"  For there seemed to be
something wrong, he could not tell what.

"Now you may ''bout face;' that means whirl
round.  Now march! one, two, quick time,
double-quick!"

"They're stepping on my toes," cried
bare-footed Peter Grant.

"Hush right up, private, or I'll stand you on
the bar'l."

"I wish't you would," groaned little Peter; "it hurts."

"Well, then, I shan't," said the captain, decidedly,
"for 'twouldn't be any punishin'.—Can't
some of you whistle?"

Willy Snow struck up Yankee Doodle, which
soon charmed the wayward feet of the little
volunteers, and set them to marching in good time.

Afterward their captain gave instructions in
"groundin' arms," "stackin' arms," "firin'," and
"countin' a march," by which he meant
"countermarching."  He had really read a good many
pages in Infantry Tactics, and had treasured up
the military phrases with some care, though he
had but a confused idea of their meaning.

"Holler-square!" said he, when he could think
of nothing else to say.  Of course he meant a
"hollow square."

"Shall we holler all together?" cried a voice
from the midst of the ranks.

The owner of the voice would have been "stood
on the barrel," if Horace had been less busy
thinking.

"I've forgot how they holler, as true as you
live; but I reckon it's all together, and open your
mouths wide."

At this the young volunteers, nothing loath,
gave a long, deafening shout, which the woods
caught up and echoed.

Horace scratched his head.  He had seen his
father drill his men, but he could not remember
that he had ever heard them scream.

A pitched battle came off next, which would
have been a very peaceful one if all the boys had
not wanted to be Northerners.  But the feeling
was greatly changed when Horace joined the
Southern ranks, saying "he didn't care how much
he played Secesh when everybody knew he was a
good Union man, and his father was going to be
a general."  After this there was no trouble
about raising volunteers on the rebel side.

The whole affair ended very pleasantly, only
there was some slashing right and left with a few
bits of broken glass, which were used as swords;
and several mothers had wounds to dress that
night.

Mrs. Clifford heard no complaint from her little
son, although his fingers were quite ragged,
and must have been painful.  Horace was really
a brave boy, and always bore suffering like a hero.
More than that, he had the satisfaction of using
the drops of blood for red paint; and the first
thing after supper he made a wooden sword and
gun, and dashed them with red streaks.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SUSIE AND PRUDY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   SUSIE AND PRUDY

.. vspace:: 2

The Clifford children were very anxious to see
Susie and Prudy, and it seemed a long while to
wait; but the Portland schools had a vacation at
last, and then it was time to expect the little
cousins.

The whole family were impatient to see them
and their excellent mother.  Grandma lost her
spectacles very often that afternoon, and every
time she went to the window to look out, the ball
of her knitting-work followed her, as Grace said,
"like a little kitten."

There was great joy when the stage really
drove up to the door.  The cousins were rather
shy of each other at first, and Prudy hid her face,
all glowing with smiles and blushes, in her plump
little hands.  But the stiffness wore away, and
they were all as well acquainted as ever they had
been, in about ten minutes.

"Ain't that a bumpin' stage, though?" cried
Horace; "just like a baby-jumper."

"We came in it, you know, Susie," said Grace;
"didn't it shake like a corn-popper?"

"I want to go and see the piggy and ducks,"
said Prudy.

"Well," whispered Susie, "wait till after supper."

The Cliffords were delighted with their little
cousins.  When they had last seen Prudy, which
was the summer before, they had loved her
dearly.  Now she was past five, and "a good deal
cunninger than ever;" or so Horace thought.
He liked her pretty face, her gentle ways, and
said very often if he had such a little sister he'd
"go a-dyin'."

To be sure Susie was just his age, and could
run almost as fast as he could; still Horace did
not fancy her half as much as Prudy, who could
not run much without falling down, and who was
always sure to cry if she got hurt.

Grace and Susie were glad that Horace liked
Prudy so well, for when they were cutting out
dolls' dresses, or playing with company, it was
pleasant to have him take her out of the way.

Prudy's mouth was not much larger than a
button-hole, but she opened it as wide as she
could when she saw Horace whittle out such
wonderful toys.

He tried to be as much as possible like a man;
so he worked with his jacket off, whistling all the
while; and when he pounded, he drew in his
breath with a whizzing noise, such as he had
heard carpenters make.

All this was very droll to little Prudy, who had
no brothers, and supposed her "captain cousin"
must be a very remarkable boy, especially as he
told her that, if he hadn't left his tool-box out
West, he could have done "a heap better."  It
was quite funny to see her standing over him with
such a happy, wondering little face, sometimes
singing snatches of little songs, which were sure
to be wrong somewhere, such as,—

   |  "Little kinds of *deedness*,
   |    Little words of love,
   |  Make this *earthen needn't*,
   |    Like the heaven above."
   |

She thought, as Horace did, that her sled
would look very well "crossed off with green;"
but Susie would not consent.  So Horace made
a doll's sled out of shingles, with turned-up
runners, and a tongue of string.  This toy pleased
Prudy, and no one had a right to say it should not
be painted green.

But as Captain Horace was just preparing to
add this finishing touch, a lady arrived with little
twin-boys, four years old.  Aunt Madge came
into the shed to call Horace and Prudy.  "O,
auntie," said Horace, "I don't believe I care to
play with those little persons!"

His aunt smiled at hearing children called
"little persons," but told Horace it would not be
polite to neglect his young visitors; it would be
positively rude.  Horace did not wish to be
considered an ill-mannered boy, and at last consented
to have his hands and garments cleansed with
turpentine to erase the paint, and to go into the
nursery to see the "little persons."

It seemed to him and Prudy that the visit
lasted a great while, and that it was exceedingly
hard work to be polite.

When it was well over, Prudy said, "The next
lady that comes here, I hope she won't bring any
little *double boys*!  What do I love little boys
for, 'thout they're my cousins?"

After the sled was carefully dried Horace
printed on it the words "Lady Jane," in large
yellow letters.  His friend Gilbert found the paint
for this, and it was thought by both the boys that
the sled could not have been finer if "Lady Jane"
had been spread on with gold-leaf by a sign-painter.

"Now, Prudy," said Horace, "it isn't everybody
can make such a sled as that!  It's right
strong, too; as strong as—why, it's strong enough
to 'bear up an egg'!"

If Horace had done only such innocent things
as to "drill" the little boys, make sleds for
Prudy, and keep store with Gilbert, his mother
might have felt happy.

But Horace was growing careless.  His
father's parting words, "Always obey your
mother, my son, and remember that God sees
all you do," did not often ring in his ears now.
Mr. Clifford, though a kind parent, had always
been strict in discipline, and his little son had
stood in awe of him.  Now that he had gone
away, there seemed to be some danger that
Horace might fall into bad ways.  His mother had
many serious fears about him, for, with her feeble
health, and the care of little Katie, she could not
be as watchful of him as she wished to be.  She
remembered how Mr. Clifford had often said,
"He will either make something or nothing," and
she had answered, "Yes, there'll never be any
half-way place for Horace."  She sighed now as
she repeated her own words.

In his voyages of discovery Horace had found
some gunpowder.  "Mine!" said he to himself;
"didn't Aunt Madge say we could have everything
we found up-attic?"

He knew that he was doing wrong when he
tucked the powder slyly into his pocket.  He
knew he did wrong when he showed it to Gilbert,
saying,—

"Got any matches, Grasshopper?"

They dug holes in the ground for the powder,
and over the powder crossed some dry sticks.
When they touched it off they ran away as fast as
possible; but it was a wonder they were not both
blown up.  It was pleasant, no doubt, to hear
the popping of the powder; but they dared not
laugh too loud, lest someone in the house should
hear them, and come out to ask what they could
be playing that was so remarkably funny.

Mrs. Clifford little thought what a naughty
thing Horace had been doing when she called
him in one day, and said, with a smiling
face,—for she loved to make him happy,—"See, my
son, what I have bought for you!  It is a
present from your father, for in his last letter he
asked me to get it."

Horace fairly shouted with delight when he
saw the beautiful Zouave suit, gray, bordered
with red, and a cap to match.  If he had any
twinges of conscience about receiving this
present, nobody knew it.

Here is the letter of thanks which he wrote
to his father:—

.. vspace:: 2

"DEAR PAPA.

.. vspace:: 1

"I am sorry to say I have not seen you since
you went to the war.  Grandpa has two pigs.
I want a drum so much!

"We have lots of squirrels: they chip.  We
have orioles: they say, 'Here, here, *here* I be!'

"I want the drum because I am a *captain*!
We are going to train with paper caps.

"I get up the cows and have a good time.

"Good-by.  From your son,

.. vspace:: 1

"HORACE P. CLIFFORD.

.. vspace:: 1

"P.S. Ma bought me the soldier-clothes.
I thank you."

.. vspace:: 2

About this time Mrs. Clifford was trying to
put together a barrel of nice things to send to
her husband.  Grandma and Aunt Madge baked
a great many loaves of cake and hundreds of
cookies, and put in cans of fruit and boxes of
jelly wherever there was room.  Aunt Louise
made a nice little dressing-case of bronze kid,
lined with silk, and Grace made a pretty
pen-wiper and pin-ball.  Horace whittled out a
handsome steamboat, with *green* pipes, and the
figurehead of an old man's face carved in wood.
But Horace thought the face looked like Prudy's,
and named the steamboat "The Prudy."  He
also broke open his savings-bank, and begged
his mother to lay out all the money he had in
presents for the sick soldiers:

"Horace has a kind and loving heart," said
Margaret to Louise.  "To be sure, he won't keep
still long enough to let anybody kiss him, but he
really loves his parents dearly."

"Well, he's a terrible try-patience," said Louise.

"Wait a while!  He is wilful and naughty,
but he never tells wrong stories.  I think there's
hope of a boy who *scorns a lie*!  See if he
doesn't come out right, Louise.  Why, I expect
to be proud of our Horace one of these days!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE WOODS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE WOODS

.. vspace:: 2

"O, ma," said Horace, coming into the house
one morning glowing with excitement, "mayn't
I go in the woods with Peter Grant?  He knows
where there's heaps of boxberries."

"And who is Peter Grant, my son?"

"He is a little boy with a bad temper," said
Aunt Louise, frowning severely at Horace.—If
she had had her way, I don't know but every
little boy in town would have been tied to a
bed-post by a clothes-line.  As I have already said,
Aunt Louise was not remarkably fond of children,
and when they were naughty it was hard
for her to forgive them.

She disliked little Peter; but she never stopped
to think that he had a cross and ignorant mother,
who managed him so badly that he did not care
about trying to be good.  Mrs. Grant seldom
talked with him about God and the Saviour;
she never read to him from the Bible, nor told
him to say his prayers.

Mrs. Clifford answered Horace that she did not
wish him to go into the woods, and that was all
that she thought it necessary to say.

Horace, at the time, had no idea of disobeying
his mother; but not long afterwards he happened
to go into the kitchen, where his grandmother
was making beer.

"What do you make it of, grandma?" said he.

"Of molasses and warm water and yeast."

"But what gives the taste to it?"

"O, I put in spruce, or boxberry, or sarsaparilla."

"But see here, grandma: wouldn't you like to
have me go in the woods 'some place,' and dig
roots for you?"

"Yes, indeed, my dear," said she innocently;
"and if you should go, pray get some wintergreen,
by all means."

In Horace's heart gave a wicked throb of delight.
If someone wanted him to go *after* something,
of course he *ought* to go; for his mother had
often told him he must try to be useful.  Strolling
into the woods with Peter Grant, just for fun,
was very different from going in soberly to dig
up roots for grandma.

He thought of it all the way out to the gate.
To be sure, he might go and ask his mother again,
but "what was the use when he knew certain
sure she'd be willing?  Besides, wasn't the baby
crying, so he mustn't go in the room?"

These reasons sounded very well; but they
could be picked in pieces, and Horace knew it.
It was only when the baby was asleep that he
must keep out of the chamber; and, as for being
sure that his mother would let him go into the
woods, the truth was, he dared not ask her, for
he knew she would say, "No."

He found Peter Grant lounging near the
school-house, scribbling his name on the clean
white paint under one of the windows.

Peter's black eyes twinkled.

"Going, ain't you, cap'n! dog and all?  But
where's your basket?  Wait, and I'll fetch one."

"There," said he, coming back again, "I got
that out of the stable there at the tavern; Billy
Green is hostler: Billy knows me."

"Well, Peter, come ahead."

"I don't believe you know your way in these
'ere woods," returned Peter, with an air of
importance.  "I'll go fust.  It's a mighty long
stretch, 'most up to Canada; but I could find *my*
way in the dark.  I never got lost anywheres
yet!"

"Poh! nor I either," Horace was about to say;
but remembering his adventure in Cleveland, he
drowned the words in a long whistle.

They kept on up the steep hill for some
distance, and then struck off into the forest.  The
straight pine trees stood up solemn and stiff.
Instead of tender leaves, they bristled all over
with dark green "needles."  They had no blessings
of birds' nests in their branches; yet they
gave out a pleasant odor, which the boys said
was "nice."

"But they aren't so splendid, Peter, as our
trees out West—don't begin!  *They* grow so big
you can't chop 'em down.  I'll leave it to Pincher!"

"Chop 'em down?  I reckon it can't be
done!" replied Pincher—not in words, but by
a wag of his tail.

"Well, how *do* you get 'em down then, cap'n?"

"We cut a place right 'round 'em: that's
girdlin' the tree and then, ever so long after,
it dies and drops down itself."

"O, my stars!" cried Peter.  "I want to know!"

"No, you *don't* want to know, Peter, for I
just told you!  You may say 'I wonder,' if you
like: that's what we say out West."

"Wait," said Peter.  "I only said, 'I want to
know what other trees you have;' that's what I
meant, but you *shet* me right up."

"O, there's the butternut and the tree of
heaven and papaw, and 'simmon, and a 'right
smart sprinkle' of wood-trees."

"What's a 'simmon?"

"O, it looks like a little baked apple, all
wrinkled up; but it's right sweet.  Ugh!" added
Horace, making a wry face; "you better look out
when they're green: they pucker your mouth up
a good deal worse'n choke cherries."

"What's a papaw?"

"A papaw?  Well, it's a curious thing, not
much account.  The pigs eat it.  It tastes like
a custard, right soft and mellow.  Come, let's
go to work."

"Well, what's a tree of heaven?"

"O, Peter, for pity's sakes how do I know?
It's a tree of heaven, I suppose.  It has pink
hollyhocks growing on it.  What makes you ask
so many questions?"

Upon that the boys went to work picking boxberry
leaves, which grew at the roots of the pine
trees, among the soft moss and last year's cones.
Horace was very anxious to gather enough for
some beer; but it was strange how many it took
to fill such "*enormous* big baskets."

"Now," said Horace, "I move we look over
yonder for some wintergreen.  You said you
knew it by sight."

"Wintergreen? wintergreen?" echoed Peter;
"O, yes, I know it well enough.  It spangles
'round.  See, here's some; the girls make
wreaths of it."

It was *moneywort*; but Horace never doubted
that Peter was telling the truth, and supposed
his grandmother would be delighted to see such
quantities of wintergreen.

After some time spent in gathering this,
Horace happened to remember that he wanted
sarsaparilla.

"I reckon," thought he, "they'll be glad I
came, if I carry home so many things."

Peter knew they could find sarsaparilla, for
there was not a root of any sort which did not
grow "in the pines;" of that he was sure.  So
they struck still deeper into the woods, every
step taking them farther from home.  Pincher
followed, as happy as a dog can be; but, alas! never
dreaming that serious trouble was coming.

The boys dug up various roots with their jackknives;
but they both knew the taste of sarsaparilla
and could not be deceived.

"We hain't come to it yet," said Peter; "but
it's round here somewheres, I'll bet a dollar."

"I'm getting hungry," said Horace: "isn't it
about time for the dinner-bell to ring?"

"Pretty near," replied Peter, squinting his
eyes and looking at the sky as if there was a
noon-mark up there, and he was the boy to find it.
"That bell will ring in fifteen minutes: you see
if it don't."

But it did not, though it was high noon,
certainly.  Hours passed.  Horace remembered
they were to have had salt cod-fish and cream
gravy for dinner.  Aunt Madge had said so; also
a roly-poly with foaming sauce.  It must now
be long ago since the sugar and butter were
beaten together for that sauce.  He wondered
if there would be any pudding left.  He was
sure he should like it cold, and a glass of water
with ice in it.

O, how many times he could have gone to
the barrel which stood by the sink, and drunk
such deep draughts of water, when he didn't
care anything about it!  But now he was so
thirsty, and there was not so much as a
teaspoonful of water to be found!

"I motion we go home," said Horace, for at
least the tenth time.

"Well," replied Peter, sulkily, "ain't we
striking a bee-line?"

"We've got turned round," said Horace:
"Canada is over yonder, *I* know."

"Pshaw! no, it ain't, no such a thing."

But they were really going the wrong way.
The village bell had rung at noon, as usual,
but they were too far off to hear it.  It was
weary work winding in and out, in and out, among
the trees and stumps.  With torn clothes, bleeding
hands, and tired feet, the poor boys pushed on.

"Of course we're right," said Peter, in a
would-be brave tone: "don't you remember that
stump?"

"No, I don't, Peter Grant," replied Horace,
who was losing his patience: "I never was here
before.  Humph!  I thought you could find
your way with your eyes shut."

"Turn and go t'other way, then," said Peter,
adding a wicked word I cannot repeat.

"I will," replied Horace, coolly: "if I'd known
you used such swearing words I never'd have come!"

"Hollo, there!" shouted Peter, a few moments
after, "I'll keep with you, and risk it, cap'n."

"Come on, then," returned Horace, who was
glad of Peter's company just now, little as he
liked him.  "Where's our baskets?" said he,
stopping short.

"Sure enough," cried Peter; "but we can't
go back now."

They had not gone far when they were startled
by a cry from Pincher, a sharp cry of pain.  He
stood stock still, his brown eyes almost starting
from their sockets with agony and fear.  It
proved that he had stumbled upon a fox-trap
which was concealed under some dry twigs, and
his right fore-paw was caught fast.

Here was a dilemma.  The boys tried with
all their might to set poor Pincher free; but it
seemed as if they only made matters worse.

"What an old nuisance of a dog!" cried Peter;
"just as we'd got to goin' on the right road."

"Be still, Peter Grant!  Hush your mouth!
If you say a word against my dog you'll catch it.
Poor little Pincher!" said Horace, patting him
gently and laying his cheek down close to his face.

The suffering creature licked his hands, and
said with his eloquent eyes,——

"Dear little master, don't take it to heart!
You didn't know I'd get hurt!  You've always
been good to poor Pincher."

"I'd rather have given a dollar," said Horace;
"O, Pincher!  I wish 'twas my foot; I tell you
I do!"

They tried again, but the trap held the dog's
paw like a vice.

"I'll tell you what," said Peter; "we'll leave
the dog here, and go home and get somebody to come."

"You just behave, Peter Grant;" said Horace,
looking very angry.  "I shouldn't want to be
*your* dog!  Just you hold his foot still, and I'll
try again."

This time Horace examined the trap on all
sides, and, being what is called an ingenious boy,
did actually succeed at last in getting little
Pincher's foot out.

"Whew!  I didn't think you could," said
Peter, admiringly.

"*You* couldn't, Peter; you haven't sense enough."

The foot was terribly mangled, and Pincher
had to be carried home in arms.

"I should like to know, Peter, who set that
trap.  If my father was here, he'd have him in
the lock-up."

"Poh! it wasn't set for dogs," replied Peter in
an equally cross tone, for both the boys were
tired, hungry and out of sorts.  "Don't you
know nothin'?  That's a bear-trap!"

"A bear-trap!  Do you have bears up here?"

"O, yes, dear me, suz!  Hain't you seen none
since you've been in the State of Maine?  I've
ate 'em lots of times."

Peter had once eaten a piece of bear-steak,
or it might have been moose-meat, he was not
sure which; but at any rate it had been brought
down from Moosehead Lake.

"Bears 'round here?" thought Horace, in a fright.

He quickened his pace.  O, if he could only
be sure it was the right road!  Perhaps they were
walking straight into a den of bears.  He hugged
little Pincher close in his arms, soothing him
with pet names, for the poor dog continued to
moan.

"O, dear, dear!" cried Peter, "don't you feel awfully?"

"I don't stop to think of my feelings," replied
Horace, shortly.

"Well, I wish we hadn't come—I do."

"So do I, Peter.  I won't play 'hookey'
again; but I'm not a-goin' to cry."

"I'll never go anywheres with you any more
as long as I live, Horace Clifford!"

"Nobody wants you to, Pete Grant!"

Then they pushed on in dignified silence, till
Peter broke forth again with wailing sobs.

"I dread to get home!  O, dear, I'll have to
take it, I tell you.  I guess you'd cry if you
expected to be whipped."

Horace made no reply.  He did not care about
telling Peter that he too had a terrible dread of
reaching home, for there was something a great
deal worse than a whipping, and that was a
mother's sorrowful face.

"I shouldn't care if she'd whip me right hard,"
thought Horace; "but she'll talk to me about
God and the Bible and O, she'll look so white!"

"Peter, you go on ahead," said he aloud.

"What for?"

"O, I want to rest a minute with Pincher."

It was some moments before Peter would go,
and then he went grumbling.  As soon as he
was out of sight, Horace threw himself on his
knees and prayed in low tones,—

"O, God, I do want to be a good boy; and if
I ever get out of this woods I'll begin!  Keep
the bears off, please do, O God, and let us find
the way out, and forgive me.  Amen."

Horace had never uttered a more sincere
prayer in his life.  Like many older people, he
waited till he was in sore need before he called
upon God; but when he had once opened his
heart to Him, it was wonderful how much lighter
it felt.

He rose to his feet and struggled on, saying to
Pincher, "Poor fellow, poor fellow, don't cry:
we'll soon be home."

"Hollo there, cap'n!" shouted Peter, "we're
comin' to a clearin'."

"Just as I expected," thought Horace: "why
didn't I pray to God before?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CAPTAIN CLIFFORD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   CAPTAIN CLIFFORD

.. vspace:: 2

When Horace entered the yard, holding the
poor dog in his arms, he felt wretched indeed.
At that moment all the sulkiness and self-will
were crushed out of his little heart.  It seemed
to him that never, never had there lived upon
the earth another boy so wicked as himself.

He forgot the excuses he had been making
up about going into the woods because his
grandmother wanted him to: he scorned to add
falsehood to disobedience, and was more than
willing to take his full share of blame.

"If ma would whip me like everything,"
thought the boy, "I know I'd feel better."

It was a long, winding path from the gate.
The grounds looked very beautiful in the golden
light of the afternoon sun.  The pink clover-patch
nodded with a thousand heads, and
sprinkled the air with sweetness.

Everything was very quiet: no one was on
the piazza, no one at the windows.  The blinds
were all shut, and you could fancy that the house
had closed its many eyes and dropped asleep.
There was an awe about such perfect silence.
"Where could Grace be, and those two dancing
girls, Susie and Prudy?"

He stole along to the back door, and lifted
the latch.  His grandmother stopped with a
bowl of gruel in her hand, and said, "O Horace!"  That
was all; but she could say no more for tears.
She set down the bowl, and went up to him, trying
to speak; but the words trembled on her lips
unspoken.

"O, grandma!" said Horace, setting little
Pincher down on a chair, and clutching the skirt
of her dress, "I've been right bad: I'm sorry—I
tell you I am."

His grandmother had never heard him speak
in such humble tones before.

"O, Horace!" she sobbed again, this time
clasping him close to her heart, and kissing him
with a yearning fondness she had hardly ever
shown since he was a little toddling baby.  "My
darling, darling boy!"

Horace thought by her manner they must all
have been sadly frightened about him.

"I got lost in the woods, grandma; but it
didn't hurt me any, only Pincher got his foot
caught."

"Lost in the woods?" repeated she.  "Grace
thought you went home to dinner with Willy Snow."

So it seemed they had not worried about him
at all: then what was grandma crying about?

"Don't go upstairs, dear," said she, as he
brushed past her and laid his hand on the latch
of the chamber door.

"But I want to see ma."

"Wait a little," said Mrs. Parlin, with a fresh
burst of tears.

"Why, what *is* the matter, grandma; and
where's Grace, and Susie, and Prudy?"

"Grace is with your mother, and the other
children are at Aunt Martha's.  But if you've
been in the woods all day, Horace, you must be
very hungry."

"You've forgot Pincher, grandma."

The boy would not taste food till the dog's
foot had been bandaged, though all the while
his grandmother was doing up the wound, it
seemed to Horace that she must be thinking of
something else, or she would pity Pincher a great
deal more.

The cold dinner which she set out on the table
was very tempting, and he ate heartily; but after
every mouthful he kept asking, "What could
be the matter?  Was baby worse?  Had anybody
took sick?"

But his grandmother stood by the stove stirring
gruel, and would answer him nothing but,
"I'll let you know very soon."

She wanted the little boy to be rested and
refreshed by food before she told him a very
painful thing.  Then she took him upstairs with
her into her own chamber, which was quite shady
with grape-vines, and so still that you could only
hear the buzzing of two or three flies.

She had brought a hot bowl of gruel on a little
waiter.  She placed the waiter on the top of her
wash-stand, and seated herself on the bed, drawing
Horace down beside her.

"My dear little grandson," said she, stroking
his bright hair, "God has been very good to you
always, always.  He loves you better than you
can even think."

"Yes, grandma," answered Horace, bewildered.

"He is your dear father in heaven," she added,
slowly.  "He wants you to love him with all your
heart, for now—you have no other father!"

Horace sprang up from the bed, his eyes wild
with fear and surprise, yet having no idea what
she meant.

"Why, my father's captain in the army!  He's
down South!"

"But have you never thought, dear, that he
might be shot?"

"No, I never," cried Horace, running to the
window and back again in great excitement.
"Mr. Evans said they'd put him in colonel.  He
was coming home in six months.  He couldn't be shot."

"My dear little boy!"

"But O, grandma, is he killed?  Say quick!"

His grandmother took out of her pocket a
Boston Journal, and having put on her spectacles,
pointed with a trembling finger to the list of
"killed."  One of the first names was "Captain
Henry S. Clifford."

"O, Horace!" said Grace, opening the door
softly, "I just thought I heard you.  Ma wants
you to come to her."

Without speaking, Horace gave his hand to
his sister, and went with her while their
grandmother followed, carrying the bowl of gruel.

At the door of Mrs. Clifford's room they met
Aunt Louise coming out.  The sight of Horace
and Grace walking tearfully, hand in hand, was
very touching to her.

"You dear little fatherless children," she
whispered, throwing her arms around them
both, and dropping tears and kisses on their faces.

"O, I can't, I can't bear it," cried Grace; "my
own dear papa, that I love best of anyone in the
world!"

Horace ran to his mother, and throwing himself
on the bed beside her, buried his face in the
pillows.

"O, ma!  I reckon 'tisn't true.  It's another
Captain Clifford."

His mother lay so very white and still that
Horace drew away when he had touched her;
there was something awful in the coldness of
her face.  Her beautiful brown eyes shone bright
and tearless; but there were dark hollows under
them, deep enough to hold many tears, if the
time should ever come when she might shed them.

"O, little Horace," whispered she, "mother's
little Horace!"

"Darling mamma!" responded the boy, kissing
her pale lips and smoothing the hair away
from her cheeks with his small fingers, which
meant to move gently, but did not know how.
And then the young childish heart, with its little
load of grief, was pressed close to the larger one,
whose deep, deep sorrow only God could heal.

They are wrong who say that little children
cannot receive lasting impressions.  There are
some hours of joy or agony which they never
forget.  This was such an hour for Horace.
He could almost feel again on his forehead the
warm good-by kiss of his father; he could
almost hear again the words:—

"Always obey your mother, my son, and
remember that God sees all you do."

Ah, he had not obeyed, he had not remembered!

And that dear father would never kiss him,
never speak to him again!  He had not thought
before what a long word *Never* was.

O, it was dreadful to shut his eyes and fancy
him lying so cold and still on that bloody battlefield!
Would all this awful thing be true to-morrow
morning, when he waked up?

"O, mamma," sobbed the desolate child, "I
and Grace will take care of you!  Just forgive
me, ma, and I'll be the best kind of a boy.  I
will, I will!"

Grandma had already led Grace away into
the green chamber, where Aunt Madge sat with
the baby.  The poor little girl would not be
comforted.

"O, grandma," she cried, "if we could know
who it was that shot pa, our mayor would hang
him!  I do wish I could die, grandma.  I don't
want to keep living and living in this great world
without my father!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BLUE BOOK`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE BLUE BOOK

.. vspace:: 2

Days passed, but there was the same hush
upon the house.  Everybody moved about softly,
and spoke in low tones.  Horace was not told
that he must go to school, but he knew Aunt
Louise thought his shoes made a great deal of
noise, and just now he wanted to please even her.
More than that, it was very pleasant to see the
boys; and while he was playing games he forgot
his sorrow, and forgot his mother's sad face.
There was one thing, however, which he could
not do; he had not the heart to be captain and
drill his company, just now.

"Horace," said Grace, as they were sitting on
the piazza steps one morning, "I heard ma tell
grandma yesterday, you'd been a better boy this
week than you had been before since—since—pa
went away."

"Did she?" cried Horace, eagerly; "where was
she when she said it?  What did grandma say?
Did Aunt Madge hear her?"

"Yes, Aunt Madge heard her, and she said
she always knew Horace would be a good boy
if he would only think."

"Well, I *do* think," replied Horace, looking
very much pleased; "I think about all the time."

"But then, Horace, you know how you've
acted some days!"

"Well, I don't care.  Aunt Madge says 'tisn't
so easy for boys to be good."

Grace opened her round blue eyes in wonder.

"Why, Horace, I have to make my own bed,
and sweep and dust my room, and take care of
my drawers.  Only think of that; and Prudy
always 'round into things, you know!  Then I
have to sew, O, so much!  I reckon you wouldn't
find it very easy being a girl."

"Poh! don't I have to feed the chickens, and
bring in the eggs, and go for the cows?  And
when we lived home—"

Here Horace broke down; he could not think
of home without remembering his father.

Grace burst into tears.  The word "home"
had called up a beautiful picture of her father
and mother sitting on the sofa in the library,
Horace and Pincher lying on the floor, the door
open from the balcony, and the moon filling the
room with a soft light; her father had a smile on
his face, and was holding her hand.

Ah!  Grace, and Horace, and their mother
would see many such pictures of memory.

"Well, sister," said Horace, speaking quite
slowly, and looking down at the grass, "what
do I do that's bad?"

"Why, Horace, I shouldn't think you'd ask!
Blowing gunpowder, and running off into the
woods, and 'most killing Pincher, and going
trouting down to the 'crick' with your best clothes
on, and disobeying your ma, and—"

"Sayin' bad words," added Horace, "but I
stopped that this morning."

"What do you mean, Horace?"

"O, I said over all the bad things I could think
of; not the swearin' words, you know, but
'shucks,' and 'gallus,' and 'bully,' and 'by
hokey,' and 'by George;' and it's the last time."

"O, I'm so glad, Horace!" cried Grace,
clapping her hands and laughing; "and you won't
blow any more powder?"

Horace shook his head.

"Nor run off again?  Why, you'll be like Ally
Glover, and you know I'm trying to be like little Eva."

"I don't want to be like Ally Glover,"
replied Horace, making a wry face; "he's lame,
and besides, he's too dreadful good."

"Why, Horace," said his sister solemnly;
"anybody can't be too good; 'tisn't possible."

"Well, then, he's just like a girl—that's what!
I'm not going to be 'characteristic' any more, but
I don't want to be like a girl neither.  Look
here, Grace, it's school time.  Now don't you
'let on' to ma, or anybody, that I'm going to be
better."

Grace promised, but she wondered why Horace
should not wish his mother to know he was
trying to be good, when it would make her so
happy.

"He's afraid he'll give it up," thought she;
"but I won't let him."

She sat on the piazza steps a long while after
he had gone.  At last a bright idea flashed across
her mind, and of course she dropped her work
and clapped her hands, though she was quite alone.

"I'll make a merit-book like Miss All'n's, and
put down black marks for him when he's
naughty."

When Horace came home that night, he was
charmed with the plan, for he was really in
earnest.  His kind sister made the book very neatly,
and sewed it into a cover of glossy blue paper.
She thought they would try it four weeks; so
she had put in twenty-eight pages, each page
standing for one day.

"Now," said she, "when you say one bad word
I'll put down 'one B.W.' for short; but when
you say two bad words, 'twill be 'two B.W.,'
you know.  When you blow gunpowder, that'll
be 'B.G.'—no, 'B.G.P.,' for gunpowder is two
words."

"And when I run off, 'twill be 'R.O.'"

"Or 'R.A.,'" said Grace, "for 'ran away.'

"And 'T.' for 'troutin','" said Horace, who was
getting very much interested; "and—and—'P.A.L.'
for 'plaguing Aunt Louise,' and 'C.'
for 'characteristic,' and 'L.T.' for 'losing
things.'"

"O, dear, dear, Horace, the book won't begin
to hold it!  We mustn't put down those little
things."

"But, Grace, you know I shan't do 'em any more."

Grace shook her head and sighed.  "We
won't put down all those little things," repeated
she; "we'll have 'D.' for 'disobedience,' and
'B.W.,' and—O! one thing I forgot—'F.' for
'falsehood.'"

"Well, you won't get any F's out of me, by
hokey," said Horace, snapping his fingers.

"Why, there it is, 'one B.W.' so quick!" cried
Grace, holding up both hands and laughing.

Horace opened his mouth in surprise, and
then clapped his hands over it in dismay.  It
was not a very fortunate beginning.

"Look here, Grace," said he, making a wry
face; "I move that we call that no 'count, and
commence new to-morrow!"

So Grace waited till next day before she dated
the merit book.

All this while Pincher's foot was growing no
better.  Aunt Louise said you could almost see
the poor dog 'dwindle, peak, and pine.'

"But it's only his hurt," said Grace; "'tisn't
a sickness."

"I reckon," returned Horace sadly, "it isn't a
*wellness*, neither."

"Why not send for Mrs. Duffy?" suggested
Aunt Madge.  "If anyone can help the poor
creature, it is she."

Mrs. Duffy was the village washerwoman, and
a capital nurse.  It was an anxious moment for
little Horace when she unwrapped the crushed
paw, Pincher moaning all the while in a way
that went to the heart.

"Wull," said Mrs. Duffy, who spoke with a
brogue, "it's a bad-looking fut; but I've some
intment here that'll do no harrum, and it may
hulp the poor craycher."

She put the salve on some clean linen cloths,
and bound up the wound, bidding them all be
very careful that the dog "didn't stir his fut."

"O, but he don't want to stir!" said Horace.
"He just lies down by the stove all day."

Mrs. Duffy shook her head, and said, "He was
a pooty craycher; 'twas more the pities that he
ever went off in the wuds."

Horace hung his head.  O, if he could have
blotted out that day of disobedience!

"Wasn't it a real rebel, *heathen* man," cried
Prudy, "to put the trap where Pincher sticked
his foot in it?"

Pincher grew worse and worse.  He refused
his food, and lay in a basket with a cushion in
it, by the kitchen stove, where he might have
been a little in the way, though not even Aunt
Louise ever said so.

If Grace, or Susie, or Prudy went up to him,
he made no sign.  It was only when he saw his
little master that he would wag his tail for joy;
but even that effort seemed to tire him, and
he liked better to lick Horace's hand, and look
up at his face with eyes brimful of love and agony.

Horace would sit by the half hour coaxing him
to eat a bit of broiled steak or the wing of a
chicken; but though the poor dog would gladly
have pleased his young master, he could hardly
force himself to swallow a mouthful.

These were sad days.  Grace put down now
and then a "B.W." in the blue book; but as
for disobedience, Horace had just now no
temptation to that.  He could hardly think of
anything but his dog.

Pincher was about his age.  He could not
remember the time when he first knew him.  "O,
what jolly times they had had together!  How
often Pincher had trotted along to school, carrying
the satchel with the schoolbooks in his teeth.
Why, the boys all loved him, just loved him so."

"No, sir," said Horace, talking to himself, and
laying the dog's head gently on his knee: "there
wasn't one of them but just wished they had him.
But, poh!  I wouldn't have sold him for all the
cannons and firecrackers in the United States.
No, not for a real drum, either; would I,
Pincher?"

Horace really believed the dog understood
him, and many were the secrets he had poured
into his faithful ears.  Pincher would listen, and
wink, and wag his tail, but was sure to keep
everything to himself.

"I tell you what it is, Pincher," Horace burst
forth, "I'm not going to have you die!  My own
pa gave you to me, and you're the best dog that
ever lived in this world.  O, I didn't mean to
catch your foot in that trap!  Eat the chicken,
there's a good fellow, and we'll cure you all up."

But Pincher couldn't eat the chicken, and
couldn't be cured.  His eyes grew larger and
sadder, but there was the same patient look in
them always.  He fixed them on Horace to the
last, with a dying gaze which made the boy's
heart swell with bitter sorrow.

"He wanted to speak, he wanted to ask me a
question," said Horace, with sobs he did not try
to control.

O, it was sad to close those beautiful eyes
forever, those beseeching eyes, which could almost
speak.

Mrs. Clifford came and knelt on the stone
hearth beside the basket, and wept freely for the
first time since her husband's death.

"Dear little Pincher," said she, "you have
died a cruel death; but your dear little master
closed your eyes.  It was very hard, poor doggie,
but not so hard as the battlefield.  You shall
have a quiet grave, good Pincher; but where have
they buried our brave soldier?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TRYING TO GET RICH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   TRYING TO GET RICH

.. vspace:: 2

With his own hands, and the help of Grasshopper,
who did little but hold the nails and
look on, Horace made a box for Pincher, while
Abner dug his grave under a tree in the grove.

It was evening when they all followed Pincher
to his last resting-place.

"He was a sugar-plum of a dog," said Prudy,
"and I can't help crying."

"I don't want to help it," said Grace: "we
ought to cry."

"What makes me feel the worst," said sober
little Susie, "he won't go to heaven."

"Not forever'n ever amen?" gasped Prudy, in
a low voice.  "Wouldn't he if he had a nice
casket, and a plate on it neither?"

The sky and earth were very lovely that evening,
and it seemed as if everybody ought to be
heart-glad.  I doubt if Horace had ever thought
before what a beautiful world he lived in, and how
glorious a thing it is to be alive!  He could run
about and do what he pleased with himself; but
alas, poor Pincher!

The sun was setting, and the river looked
uncommonly full of little sparkles.  The soft sky
and the twinkling water seemed to be smiling at
each other, while a great way off you could see
the dim blue mountains rising up like clouds.
Such a lovely world!  Ah! poor Pincher.

It looked very much as if Horace were really
turning over a new leaf.  He was still quite
trying sometimes, leaving the milk-room door open
when puss was watching for the cream-pot, or
slamming the kitchen door with a bang when
everybody needed fresh air.  He still kept his
chamber in a state of confusion,—"muss," Grace
called it,—pulling the drawers out of the bureau,
and scattering the contents over the floor;
dropping his clothes anywhere it happened, and
carrying quantities of gravel upstairs in his shoes.

Aunt Louise still scolded about him; but even
she could not help seeing that on the whole he
was improving.  He "cared" more and "forgot"
less.  He could always learn easily, and now he
really tried to learn.  His lessons, instead of
going through his head "threading my grandmother's
needle," went in and stayed there.  The blue
book got a few marks, it is true, but not so many
as at first.

You may be sure there was not a good thing
said or done by Horace which did not give pleasure
to his mother.  She felt now as if she lived
only for her children; if God would bless her by
making them good, she had nothing more to
desire.  Grace had always been a womanly,
thoughtful little girl, but at this time she was a
greater comfort than ever; and Horace had grown
so tender and affectionate that it gratified her
very much.  He was not content now with
"canary kisses;" but threw his arms around her
neck very often, saying, with his lips close to her
cheek,—:

"Don't feel bad, ma; I'm going to take care of you."

For his mother's grief called forth his manliness.

She meant to be cheerful; but Horace knew
she did not look or seem like herself: he thought
he ought to try to make her happy.

Whenever he asked for money, as he too often
did, she told him that now his father was gone,
there was no one to earn anything, and it was
best to be rather prudent.  He wanted a drum;
but she thought he must wait a while for that.

They were far from being poor, and Mrs. Clifford
had no idea of deceiving her little son.  Yet
he *was* deceived, for he supposed that his mother's
pretty little porte-monnaie held all the bank-bills
and all the silver she had in the world.

"O, Grace!" said Horace, coming downstairs
with a very grave face, "I wish I was grown a
man: then I'd earn money like sixty."

Grace stopped her singing long enough to ask
what he meant to do, and then continued in a
high key,—

"Where, O where are the Hebrew children?"

"O, I'm going as a soldier," replied Horace:
"I thought everybody knew that!  The colonels
make a heap of money!"

"But, Horace, you might get shot—just think!"

"Then I'd dodge when they fired, for I don't
know what you and ma would do if *I* was killed."

"Well, please step out of the way, Horace;
don't you see I'm sweeping the piazza?"

"I can't tell," pursued he, taking a seat on
one of the stairs in the hall: "I can't tell
certain sure; but I may be a minister."

This was such a funny idea that Grace made a
dash with her broom, and sent the dirt flying the
wrong way.

"Why, Horace, you'll never be good enough
for a minister!"

"What'll you bet?" replied he, looking a little
mortified.

"You're getting to be a dear, good little boy,
Horace," said Grace, soothingly; "but I don't
*think* you'll ever be a minister."

"Perhaps I'd as soon be a shoemaker," continued
Horace, thoughtfully; "they get a great
deal for tappin' boots."

His sister made no reply.

"See here, now, Grace: perhaps you'd rather
I'd be a tin-peddler; then I'd always keep a horse,
and you could ride."

"Ride in a cart!" cried Grace, laughing.
"Can't you think of anything else?  Have you
forgotten papa?"

"O, now I know," exclaimed Horace, with
shining eyes: "it's a lawyer I'll be, just like father
was.  I'll have a 'sleepy partner,' the way Judge
Ingle has, and by and by I'll be a judge."

"I know that would please ma, Horace," replied
Grace, looking at her little brother with a
good deal of pride.

Who knew but he *might* yet be a judge?  She
liked to order him about, and have him yield
to her: still she had great faith in Horace.

"But, Grace, after all that I'll go to war and
turn out a general; now you see if I don't."

"That'll be a great while yet," said Grace, sighing.

"So it will," replied Horace, sadly; "and ma
needs the money now.  I wish I could earn
something right off while I'm a little boy."

It was not two days before he thought he had
found out how to get rich; in what way you shall see.





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.. _`THE LITTLE INDIAN`:

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   CHAPTER XI


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   THE LITTLE INDIAN

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Prudy came into the house one day in a great
fright, and said they'd "better hide the baby, for
there was a very wicked woman round."

"Her hair looks like a horse's tail," said she,
"and she's got a black man's hat on her head,
and a table-cloth over her."

Aunt Madge took Prudy in her lap, and told
her it was only an Indian woman, who had no idea
of harming anyone.

"What are Nindians?" asked the child.

Her aunt said they were sometimes called "red
men."  The country had once been filled by
them; but the English came, a great many years
ago, and shook off the red men just as a high
wind shakes the red leaves off a tree; and they
were scattered about, and only a few were left
alive.  Sometimes the Oldtown Indians came
round making baskets; but they were quiet and
peaceable people.

Horace and his friend "Grasshopper," as they
were strolling up the river, came upon a tent
made of canvas, and at the door of the tent sat
a little boy about their own age, with a bow and
arrow in his hand, in the act of firing.

Grasshopper, who was always a coward, ran
with all his might; but as Horace happened to
notice that the arrow was pointed at something
across the river, he was not alarmed, but stopped
to look at the odd little stranger, who turned
partly round and returned his gaze.  His eyes
were keen and black, with a good-natured expression,
something like the eyes of an intelligent dog.

"What's your name, boy?" said Horace.

"Me no understand."

"I asked what your *name* is," continued Horace,
who was sure the boy understood, in spite
of his blank looks.

"Me no hurt white folks; me bunkum Indian."

"Well, what's your name, then?  What do
they call you?"

No answer, but a shake of the head.

"I reckon they call you *John*, don't they?"

Here the boy's mother appeared at the door.

"His name no *John*!
Eshy-ishy-oshy-neeshy-George-Wampum-Shoony-Katoo! short
name, speak um quick!—Jaw-awn.  Great long
name!" drawled she, stretching it out as if it
were made of India rubber, and scowling with
an air of disgust.

"What does she mean by calling 'John' *long*?"
thought Horace.

The woman wore a calico dress, short enough
to reveal her brown, stockingless feet and gay moccasins.

Her hair was crow-black, and strayed over her
shoulders and into her eyes.  Horace concluded
she must have lost her back-comb.

While he was looking at her with curious eyes,
her daughter came to the door, feeling a little
cross at the stranger, whoever it might be; but
when she saw only an innocent little boy, she
smiled pleasantly, showing a row of white teeth.
Horace thought her rather handsome, for she
was very straight and slender, and her eyes shone
like glass beads.  Her hair he considered a great
deal blacker than black, and it was braided and
tied with gay ribbons.  She was dressed in a
bright, large-figured calico, and from her ears
were suspended the longest, yellowest, queerest
ear-rings.  Horace thought they were shaped
like boat-paddles, and would be pretty for Prudy
to use when she rowed her little red boat in the
bathing-tub.  If they only "scooped" a little
more they would answer for teaspoons.
"Plenty big as I should want for teaspoons," he
decided, after another gaze at them.

The young girl was used to being admired by
her own people, and was not at all displeased with
Horace for staring at her.

"Me think you nice white child," said she:
"you get me sticks, me make you basket, pretty
basket for put apples in."

"What kind of sticks do you mean?" said
Horace, forgetting that they pretended not to
understand English.  But it appeared that they
knew very well what he meant this time, and the
Indian boy offered to go with him to point out
the place where the wood was to be found.
Grasshopper, who had only hidden behind the
trees, now came out and joined the boys.

"Wampum," as he chose to be called, led them
back to Mr. Parlin's grounds, to the lower end
of the garden, where stood some tall silver
poplars, on which the Indians had looked with
longing eyes.

"Me shin them trees," said Wampum; "me
make you basket."

"Would you let him, Grasshopper?"

"Yes, indeed; your grandfather won't care."

"Perhaps he might; you don't know," said
Horace, who, after he had asked advice, was far
from feeling obliged to take it.  He ran in great
haste to the field where his grandfather was
hoeing potatoes, thinking, "If I ask, then I shan't
get marked in the blue book anyhow."

In this case Horace acted very properly.  He
had no right to cut the trees, or allow anyone else
to cut them, without leave.  To his great delight,
his grandfather said he did not care if they
clipped off a few branches where they would not
show much.

When Horace got back and reported the words
of his grandfather, Wampum did not even smile,
but shot a glance at him as keen as an arrow.

"Me no hurt trees," said he gravely; and he
did not: he only cut off a few limbs from each
one, leaving the trees as handsome as ever.

"Bully for you!" cried Horace, forgetting the
blue book.

"He's as spry as a squirrel," said Grasshopper,
in admiration; "how many boughs has he got?
One, two, three."

"Me say 'em quickest," cried little Wampum.
"Een, teen, teddery, peddery, bimp, satter,
latter, doe, dommy, dick."

"That's ten," put in Horace, who was keeping
'count.

"Een-dick," continued the little Indian, "teen-dick,
teddery-dick, peddery-dick, bumpin, een-bumpin,
teen-bumpin, teddery-bumpin, peddery-bumpin, jiggets."

"Hollo!" cried Grasshopper; "that's twenty;
jiggets is twenty;" and he rolled over on the
ground, laughing as if he had made a great
discovery.

Little by little they made Wampum tell how
he lived at home, what sort of boys he played
with, and what they had to eat.  The young
Indian assured them that at Oldtown "he lived in a
house good as white folks; he ate moose-meat,
ate sheep-meat, ate cow-meat."

"Cook out doors, I s'pose," said Grasshopper.

Wampum looked very severe.  "When me
lives in wigwam, me has fires in wigwam: when
me lives in tent, me puts fires on grass;—keep
off them things," he added, pointing at a
mosquito in the air; "keep smoke out tent," pointing
upward to show the motion of the smoke.

Horace felt so much pleased with his new
companion that he resolved to treat him to a
watermelon.  So, without saying a word to the
hoys, he ran into the house to ask his grandmother.

"What! a whole watermelon, Horace?"

"Yes, grandma, we three; me, and Grasshopper,
and Wampum."

Mrs. Parlin could not help smiling to see how
suddenly Horace had adopted a new friend.

"You may have a melon, but I think your
mother would not like to have you play much
with a strange boy."

"He's going to make me a splendid basket;
and besides, aren't Indians and negroes as good
as white folks?  'Specially *tame* Indians," said
Horace, not very respectfully, as he ran back,
shoeknife in hand, to cut the watermelon.

This was the beginning of a hasty friendship
between himself and Wampum.  For a few days
there was nothing so charming to Horace as the
wild life of this Indian family.  He was made
welcome at their tent, and often went in to see
them make baskets.

"I trust you," said Mrs. Clifford; "you will
not deceive me, Horace.  If you ever find that
little Wampum says bad words, tells falsehoods,
or steals, I shall not be willing for you to play
with him.  You are very young, and might be
greatly injured by a bad playmate."

The tent was rude enough.  In one corner
were skins laid one over another: these were the
beds which were spread out at night for the
family.  Instead of closets and presses, all the
wearing apparel was hung on a long rope, which was
stretched from stake to stake, in various
directions, like a clothesline.

It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving
so easily over the white strips, out of which
they wove baskets.  It was such pretty work!
It brought so much money.  Horace thought it
was just the business for him, and Wampum
promised to teach him.  In return for this favor,
Horace was to instruct the little Indian in spelling.

For one or two evenings he appointed meetings
in the summer-house, and really went without
his own slice of cake, that he might give it
to poor Wampum after a lesson in "baker."

He received the basket in due time, a beautiful
one—red, white, and blue.  Just as he was
carrying it home on his arm, he met Billy Green,
the hostler, who stopped him, and asked if he
remembered going into "the Pines" one day with
Peter Grant?  Horace had no reason to forget
it, surely.

"Seems to me you ran away with my horse-basket,"
said Billy; "but I never knew till yesterday
what had 'come of it."

"There, now," replied Horace, quite crestfallen;
"Peter Grant took that!  I forgot all about it."

What should be done?  It would never do to
ask his mother for the money, since, as he
believed, she had none to spare.  Billy was fond of
joking with little boys.

"Look here, my fine fellow," said he, "give us
that painted concern you've got on your arm, and
we'll call it square."

"No, no, Billy," cried Horace, drawing away;
"this is a present, and I couldn't.  But I'm
learning to weave baskets, and I'll make you
one—see if I don't!"

Billy laughed, and went away whistling.
He had no idea that Horace would ever think
of the matter again; but in truth the first
article the boy tried to make was a horse-basket.

"Me tell you somethin'," said little Wampum,
next morning, as he and Horace were crossing
the field together.  "Very much me want
um,—um,—um,"—putting his fingers up to his mouth
in a manner which signified that he meant
something to eat.

"Don't understand," said Horace: "say it in
English."

"Very much me want um," continued Wampum,
in a beseeching tone.  "No tell what you
call um.  E'enamost water, no *quite* water;
e'enamost punkin, no *quite* punkin."

"Poh! you mean watermelon," laughed Horace:
"should think you'd remember that as easy
as pumpkin."

"Very much me want um," repeated Wampum,
delighted at being understood, "me like um."

"Well," replied Horace, "they aren't mine."

"O, yes.  Ugh! you've got 'em.  Melon-water
good!  Me have melon-waters, me give
you moc-suns."

"I'll ask my grandpa, Wampum."

Hereupon the crafty little Indian shook his head.

"You ask ole man, me no give you moc-suns!
Me no want *een*—me want bimp—bumpin—jiggets."

Horace's stout little heart wavered for a
moment.  He fancied moccasins very much.  In
his mind's eye he saw a pair shining with all the
colors of the rainbow, and as Wampum had said
of the melons, "very much he wanted them."  How
handsome they'd be with his Zouave suit!

But the wavering did not last long.  He
remembered the blue book which his mother was
to see next week; for then the month would be out.

"It wouldn't be a 'D.,'" thought he, "for
nobody told me *not* to give the watermelons."

"No," said Conscience; "'twould be a black
S.; *that* stands for stealing!  What, a boy with a
dead father, a dead soldier-father, *steal*!  A boy
called Horace Clifford!  The boy whose father
had said, 'Remember God sees all you do'!"

"Wampum," said Horace, firmly, "you just
stop that kind of talk!  Moccasins are right
pretty; but I wouldn't steal, no, not if you gave
me a bushel of 'em."

After this Horace was disgusted with his little
friend, not remembering that there are a great
many excuses to be made for a half civilized child.
They had a serious quarrel, and Wampum's temper
proved to be very bad.  If the little savage
had not struck him, I hope Horace would have
dropped his society all the same; because after
Wampum proved to be a thief, it would have been
sheer disobedience on Horace's part to play with
him any longer.

Of course the plan of basket-making was given
up; but our little Horace did one thing which was
noble in a boy of his age: perhaps he remembered
what his father had said long ago in regard to
the injured watch; but, at any rate, he went to
Billy Green of his own accord, and offered him
the beautiful present which he had received from
the Indians.

"It's not a horse-basket, Billy: I didn't get to
make one," stammered he, in a choked voice;
"but you said you'd call it square."

"Whew!" cried Billy, very much astonished:
"now look here, bub; that's a little too bad!
The old thing you lugged off was about worn out,
anyhow.  Don't want any of your fancy baskets:
so just carry it back, my fine little shaver."

To say that Horace was very happy would not
half express the delight he felt as he ran home
with the beautiful basket on his arm, his "ownest
own," beyond the right of dispute.

The Indians disappeared quite suddenly; and
perhaps it was nothing surprising that, the very
next morning after they left, Grandpa Parlin
should find his beautiful melon-patch stripped
nearly bare, with nothing left on the vines but a
few miserable green little melons.





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.. _`A PLEASANT SURPRISE`:

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   CHAPTER XII


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   A PLEASANT SURPRISE

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"It's too bad," said Horace to his sister, "that
I didn't get to make baskets; I'd have grown rich
so soon.  What would you try to do next?"

"Pick berries," suggested Grace.

And that very afternoon they both went
blackberrying with Susie and Aunt Madge.  They had
a delightful time.  Horace could not help
missing Pincher very much: still, in spite of the
regret, it was a happier day than the one he and
Peter Grant had spent "in the Pines."  He was
beginning to find, as all children do, how hard
it is to get up "a good time" when you are pricked
by a guilty conscience, and how easy it is to be
happy when you are doing right.

They did not leave the woods till the sun began
to sink, and reached home quite tired, but as
merry as larks, with baskets nearly full of berries.

When Horace timidly told Aunt Madge that
he and Grace wanted to sell all they had gathered,
his aunt laughed, and said she would buy the
fruit if they wished, but wondered what they
wanted to do with the money: she supposed it was
for the soldiers.

"I want to give it to ma," replied Horace, in a
low voice; for he did not wish his Aunt Louise to
overhear.  "She hasn't more than three bills in
her pocket-book, and it's time for me to begin
to take care of her."

"Ah," said Aunt Madge, with one of her
bright smiles, "there is a secret drawer in her
writing-desk, dear, that has ever so much money
in it.  She isn't poor, my child, and she didn't
mean to make you think so, for your mother
wouldn't deceive you."

"Not poor?" cried Horace, his face brightening
suddenly; and he turned half a somersault,
stopping in the midst of it to ask how much a
drum would cost.

The month being now out, it was time to show
the blue book to Mrs. Clifford.  Horace looked it
over with some anxiety.  On each page were the
letters "D.," "B.W.," "B.G.P.," and "F.," on
separate lines, one above another.  But there
were no figures before the letters but the
"B.W.'s;" and even those figures had been growing
rather smaller, as you could see by looking carefully.

"Now, Grace," said her little brother, "you'll
tell ma that the bad words aren't swearin' words!
I never did say such, though some of the fellows
do, and those that go to Sabbath School too."

"Yes, I'll tell her," said Grace; "but she
knows well enough that you never talk anything
worse than lingo."

"I haven't disobeyed, nor blown powder, nor
told lies."

"No, indeed," said Grace, delighted.  "To be
sure, you've forgotten, and slammed doors, and
lots of things; but you know I didn't set that
down."

I wish all little girls felt as much interest in
their younger brothers as this sister felt in
Horace.  Grace had her faults, of which I might
have told you if I had been writing the book about
her; but she loved Horace dearly, kept his little
secrets whenever she promised to do so, and was
always glad to have him do right.

Mrs. Clifford was pleased with the idea of the
blue book, and kissed Horace and Grace, saying
they grew dearer to her every day of their lives.

One night, not long after this, Horace went to
the post-office for the mail.  This was nothing
new, for he had often gone before.  A crowd of
men were sitting in chairs and on the door-stone
and counter, listening to the news, which
someone was reading in a loud, clear voice.

Without speaking, the postmaster gave Horace
three letters and a newspaper.  After tucking
the letters into his raglan pocket, Horace rolled
the paper into a hollow tube, peeping through it
at the large tree standing opposite the post-office,
and at the patient horses hitched to the posts,
waiting for their masters to come out.

He listened for some time to the dreadful account
of a late battle, thinking of his dear father,
as he always did when he heard war news.  But
at last remembering that his grandfather would
be anxious to have the daily paper, he started for
home, though rather against his will.

"I never did see such a fuss as they make,"
thought he, "if anybody's more'n a minute going
to the office and back."

"Is this all?" said Aunt Madge, as Horace
gave a letter to grandma, one to Aunt Louise,
and the paper to his grandfather.

"Why, yes, ma'am, that's all," replied Horace,
faintly.  It did seem, to be sure, as if Mr. Pope
had given him three letters, but as he could not
find another in his pocket, he supposed he must
be mistaken, and said nothing about it.  He little
knew what a careless thing he had done, and soon
went to bed, forgetting post-offices and letters in
a strange dream of little Wampum, who had a
bridle on and was hitched to a post; and of the
Indian girl's ear-rings, which seemed to have
grown into a pair of shining gold muskets.

A few mornings after the mistake about the
letter, Mrs. Clifford sat mending Horace's raglan.
She emptied the pockets of twine, fish-hooks,
jack-knife, pebbles, coppers, and nails; but still
something rattled when she touched the jacket;
it seemed to be paper.  She thrust in her finger,
and there, between the outside and lining, was a
crumpled, worn letter, addressed to "Miss
Margaret Parlin."

"What does this mean?" thought Mrs. Clifford.
"Horace must have carried the letter all
summer."

But upon looking at it again, she saw that it
was mailed at Washington about two weeks
before—"a soldier's letter."  She carried it down
to Margaret, who was busy making cream-cakes.

"Let me see," said Aunt Louise, peeping over
Mrs. Clifford's shoulder, and laughing.  "No,
it's not Mr. Augustus Allen's writing; but how do
you know somebody hasn't written it to tell you
he is sick?"

Aunt Madge grew quite pale, dropped the egg-beater,
and carried the letter into the nursery to
read it by herself.  She opened it with trembling
fingers; but before she had read two lines her
fingers trembled worse than ever, her heart
throbbed fast, the room seemed to reel about.

There was no bad news in the letter, you may
be sure of that.  She sat reading it over and over
again, while the tears ran down her cheeks, and
the sunshine in her eyes dried them again.
Then she folded her hands together, and humbly
thanked God for his loving kindness.

When she was sure her sister Maria had gone
upstairs, she ran out to the kitchen, whispering,—

"O, mother!  O, Louise!" but broke down by
laughing.

"What does ail the child?" said Mrs. Parlin,
laughing too.

Margaret tried again to speak, but this time
burst into tears.

"There, it's of no use," she sobbed: "I'm so
happy that it's really dreadful.  I'm afraid
somebody may die of joy."

"I'm more afraid somebody'll die of curiosity,"
said Aunt Louise: "do speak quick."

"Well, Henry Clifford is alive," said
Margaret: "that's the blessed truth!  Now hush!
We must be careful how we tell Maria!"

Mrs. Parlin caught Margaret by the shoulder,
and gasped for breath.  Louise dropped into a
chair.

"What do you mean?  What have you
heard?" they both cried at once.

"He was taken off the field for dead; but life
was not quite gone.  He lay for weeks just
breathing, and that was all."

"But why did no one let us know it?" said
Louise.  "Of course Maria would have gone to
him at once."

"There was no one to write; and when Henry
came to himself there was no hope of him, except
by amputation of his left arm; and after that
operation he was very low again."

"O, why don't you give us the letter," said
Louise, "so we can see for ourselves?"

But she was too excited to read it; and while
she was trying to collect her ideas, Aunt Madge
had to hunt for grandma's spectacles; and then
the three looked over the surgeon's letter
together, sometimes all talking at once.

Captain Clifford would be in Maine as soon as
possible: so the letter said.  A young man was
to come with him to take care of him, and they
were to travel very slowly indeed; might be at
home in a fortnight.

"They may be here to-night," said Mrs. Parlin.

This letter had been written to prepare the
family for Captain Clifford's arrival.  It was
expected that Aunt Madge would break the news
to his wife.

"It's a pity that little flyaway of a Horace
didn't give you the letter in time," said Louise;
"and then we might have had some days to get
used to it."

"Wait a minute, dear," said Aunt Madge, as
Susie came in for a drink of water: "please run
up and ask Aunt Maria to come downstairs.
Now, mother," she added, "you are the one to tell
the story, if you please."

"We can all break it to her by degrees," said
Mrs. Parlin, twisting her checked apron nervously.

When Mrs. Clifford entered the kitchen, she
saw at once that something had happened.  Her
mother with a flushed face was opening and
shutting the stove door.  Margaret was polishing
a pie-plate, with tears in her eyes, and Louise had
seized a sieve, and appeared to be breaking eggs
into it.  Nobody wanted to speak first.

"What do you say to hearing a story?" faltered
Louise.

"O, you poor woman," exclaimed Margaret,
seizing Mrs. Clifford by both hands: "you look
so sorrowful, dear, as if nothing would ever make
you happy again.  Can you believe we have a
piece of good news for you?"

"For me?" Mrs. Clifford looked bewildered.

"Good news for you," said Louise, dropping
the sieve to the floor: "yes, indeed!  O, Maria,
we thought Henry was killed; but he isn't; it's a
mistake of the papers.  He's alive, and coming
home to-night."

All this as fast as she could speak.  No wonder
Mrs. Clifford was shocked!  First she stood
quiet and amazed, gazing at her sister with fixed
eyes: then she screamed, and would have fallen if
her mother and Margaret had not caught her in
their arms.

"O, I have killed her," cried Louise: "I didn't
mean to speak so quick!  Henry is *almost* dead,
Maria: he is *nearly* dead, I mean!  He's just
alive!"

"Louise, bring some water at once," said
Mrs. Parlin, sternly.

"O, mother," sobbed Louise, returning with
the water, "I didn't mean to be so hasty; but you
might have known I would: you should have sent
me out of the room."

This was very much the way Prudy talked
when she did wrong: she had a funny way of
blaming other people.

It is always unsafe to tell even joyful news too
suddenly; but Louise's thoughtlessness had not
done so much harm as they all feared.  Mrs. Clifford
recovered from the shock, and in an hour or
two was wonderfully calm, looking so perfectly
happy that it was delightful just to gaze at her face.

She wanted the pleasure of telling the children
the story with her own lips.  Grace was fairly
wild with joy, kissing everybody, and declaring it
was "too good for anything."  She was too
happy to keep still, while as for Horace, he was
too happy to talk.

"Then Uncle Henry wasn't gone to heaven,"
cried little Prudy.  "Hasn't he been to heaven
at all?"

"No, of course not," said Susie: "didn't you
hear 'em say he'd be here to-night?—Now you've
got on the nicest kind of a dress, and if you spot
it up 'twill be awful."

"I guess," pursued Prudy, "the man that
shooted found 'twas Uncle Henry, and so he
didn't want to kill him down dead."

How the family found time to do so many
things that day I do not know, especially as each
one was in somebody's way, and the children
under everybody's feet.  But before night the
pantry was full of nice things, the whole house
was as fresh as a rose, and the parlors were
adorned with autumn flowers and green garlands.

Not only the kerosene lamps, but all the old oil
lamps, were filled, and every candlestick, whether
brass, iron, or glass, was used to hold a sperm
candle; so that in the evening the house at every
window was all ablaze with light.  The front
door stood wide open, and the piazza and part of
the lawn were as bright as day.  The double gate
had been unlatched for hours, and everybody
waiting for the carriage to drive up.

The hard, uncomfortable stage, which Horace
had said was like a baby-jumper, would never do
for a sick man to ride in: so Billy Green had
driven to the cars in his easiest carriage, and
Aunt Madge had gone with him, for she was
afraid neither Billy nor the gentleman who was
with Captain Clifford would know how to wrap
the shawls about him carefully enough.

I could never describe the joyful meeting which
took place in those brilliantly lighted parlors.
It is very rarely that such wonderful happiness
falls to anyone's lot in this world.

While the smiles are yet bright on their faces,
while Grace is clinging to her father's neck, and
Horace hugs his new "real drum" in one arm,
embracing his dear papa with the other, let us
take leave of them and the whole family for the
present, with many kind good-bys.

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   THE END

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   *FICTION FOR BOYS*

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   LITTLE RHODY

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   *By* JEAN \K. BAIRD

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   *Illustrated by* \R. \G. Vosburgh

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At The Hall, a boys' school, there is a set of boys
known as the "Union of States," to which admittance
is gained by excelling in some particular the boys deem
worthy of their mettle.

Rush Petriken, a hunchback boy, comes to The Hall,
and rooms with Barnes, the despair of the entire school
because of his prowess in athletics.  Petriken idolizes
him, and when trouble comes to him, the poor crippled
lad gladly shoulders the blame, and is expelled.  But
shortly before the end of the term he returns and is
hailed as "little Rhody," the "capitalest State of all."

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   CLOTH, 12 mo, illustrated, - $1.50


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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   BIGELOW BOYS

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   *By* MRS. A. F. RANSOM

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   *Illustrated by* HENRY MILLER

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Four boys, all bubbling over with energy and love
of good times, and their mother, an authoress, make
this story of a street-car strike in one of our large
cities move with leaps and bounds.  For it is due to
the four boys that a crowded theatre car is saved from
being wrecked, and the instigators of the plot captured.

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Mrs. Ransom is widely known by her patriotic work
among the boys in the navy, and she now proves herself
a friend of the lads on land by writing more especially
for them.

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   CLOTH, 12 mo, illustrated, - $1.50

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   Books sent postpaid on receipt of price.

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   *The Saalfield Publishing Co.*
   AKRON, OHIO

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