Little Margery

UF00026953_00001.pdf




The Baldwin Library

University
RmB vs
Florida



























Z ee

Se

EEE ELLIE:
SEL

LEE GLE
eames

Aa

———













LITTLE MARGERY.

BY MRS. M. E. MILLER.



AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY,

150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.













ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by the AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.



















First Day at School

A Day at Grandma’s

A Visit to Mollie Brown

CHAPTER IV.

Homesickneds and.Fall-2+<-2--iveces leech si est eee cele ee oe eee ee doce eee eee

CHAPTER V.

The Mended Arm

Young Correspondents

Two Kinds of Grandmothers

Grandma's House-Warming

“Home Again”

CHAPTER X.
The Sunday-School Teacher’s Visit

CHAPTER XI.
First Day in Sunday-School

28









WSS SS SS
LSS SSSSSSSS AWN
‘“ ANCA \
SCA
AIAQNS RQ w
RIAN
OO \
QA ARAN
ANUS
LRA
\\ oO
SOO
IMMA AMArxo
NAC WOT
CA

NY EN

AN :

SS

WN
\
\\

S

WSS
\
\

\
\\
AS

Ze
LE

RN
AY
A
AN
ANS
X

tiv

\ ‘

NY
A
AN \

AN
A

Zp
ZZ
ZZ
ZZ
Zo

LE

LE

Zp

Lz

Ze

gee

x
Se
eee

Zoe

ss
Lee

eee
BE























MARGERY READY







LITTLE MARGERY.

CHAPTER I.
FIRST pay AT SCHOOL.

CHUBBY, sweet-faced child came into our Millbrook
school-house one morning, as a visitor, conducted with
trembling eagerness to my desk by Ernest and Bessie

Clapp, who introduced her as their sister, and promised
that she would not disturb the school. She did, however, as
much as any other bluebird would have done, and just as inno-
cently ; so that I could only smile with the children, and long for
the time to come when I could count her among my little flock.

She wore a bright blue dress and cloak, which perhaps, as well
as her song, won her the name bluebird, that day. A dozen times
she forgot where she was, and broke out in little melodies, some-
times without words, so truly musical that I raised my finger to
check Bessie as she was about to interrupt her. After a few mo-
ments she would look up and forget her song in her surprise at
seeing so many children around her.

After the first class I called her to me and asked her name.

‘“Named after dwanmamma,” she answered quickly, and so
comically that the children laughed in spite of my uplifted finger.













LITTLE MARGERY.



‘‘ And what is grandmamma’s name?”
_‘ Margerwy Smiff.”

“Then you are little Margery Smith.”

‘“Yes, I is.”

‘Did you want to come to school to see what Bessie does here
every day ?”

“Yes, and to drow bid lite Bessie.” She was in foolish haste,
poor child.

“What will your mamma do to-day, without you?” I asked.

“ Wort, I dess; twy, may-be. I tissed her dood-by, for fear I
should n’t know her to-night.”

Her straightforward answer amused the children so much, that
I shortened the interview, asking if she had a little lesson to say,
like Bessie.

‘Oh, yes, here’s the newest one Aunt Tate did teach to me,
‘tause I tut off my turl.” Folding her dimpled hands she said:

“Dere was a little dirl
Who had a little turl
That hung down on her forrid.
When she was dood,
She was very dood indeed,
And when she was bad she was horrid.”

Her emphasis was funny to hear, her ‘attitude and expression
funny to see. I dismissed her with a picture that-made her blue

eyes twinkle. ‘
At recess no one wanted to play away from Margery, and I
was almost jealous, wanting to have the little pet to myself awhile.















FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL.
I asked her to tell me another story, which she did in her own
crooked little speech, and which I translated to the following:
«Two little eyes, loving, bright eyes,

Shining as bright and blue as the skies ;

Two little ears to hear all the news ;

Two little feet to wear the new shoes ;

Two little hands, busy all day ;

One little body to get in the way ;

One little mouth to give kisses so sweet ;

Mamma’s little lady, dainty and neat,

With five little fingers and five little toes,

And what she ’ll be good for—nobody knows.”

‘How did those yellow locks get bobbed off so unevenly, on
her forehead ?” some one asked.

‘Oh, she did that her own self,” answered Bessie. ‘‘ Last Sat-
urday Ernest was going to market in the big wagon ‘with father,
and Margery cried to go. ‘To teaze her, father said it was too cold
for girls. ‘Could I go if Iwas a boy ® she asked mother, and mother
said she supposed so. She was busy baking, and never thought
another thought about it, for a while. When she called Margery to
come and get her little cake out of the oven, only Margery’s voice
came, so smothered that we ran to find her, and there she was,
under mother’s bed, with the shears haggling her pretty hair. ‘To
make me a boy, so I tan do anywhere with papa,’ she said.”

In the afternoon spelling-class a tedious little fellow was drag-
gling along a line of words of three letters. Margery standing by
my side followed his lesson by the pictures accompanying cach
word. When he came to u—r—n urn, she said quickly, ‘I aint















10 LITTLE MARGERY.



Erne, I’m Margery; Enre’s my bruzzer.” Then I could hardly
keep order, and bethought me of the teacher who “turned out”
Mary’s lamb. Only I feared the effect of such a proceeding would
be different from the ancient story, and both teacher and scholars
would be sure to follow the lamb.

When school was out, I sincerely begged the little guest to come

again, and I guess she will, she had been so well entertained with

the routine of the schoolroom.

We asked Bessie the next day, what her sister did when she
went home.

‘Why, she really thought she had been gone a long time, and
grown big too. She went up the front stoop and rang the bell.
Erne and I were waiting at the gate to see what she would do.
She could just reach the knob on tip-toe, but she managed to pull
it. Mamma did not happen to come soon enough to suit her, so she
opened the door and walked into the parlor, where mamma found
her.”

“Then what?” I asked.

‘Oh, mamma hugged her and squeezed her, and Ernest and I ran
in, and Towzer too, and we danced about and laughed, and Towzer
barked, and mamma laughed till she ’most cried when we told her
how Margery told the mistress she was ‘named after grandmamma.’
Mother said we had all better come back to school to learn to be
orderly—we had such a riot. She and Towzer were the noisiest
ones in it though, till Margery looked tired, and mother ran with
her in her arms into the kitchen, for her bowl of bread and milk.”















A DAY AT GRANDMA’S.



CHAPTER II.

ph pay AT PRANDMA's,

'T least one day in every week Margery spent with
her grandmother. You and I would have called that

v amiable lady Mrs. Robinson, but Margery said she was

“Dwanma Margerwy Smiff Wobinzen.”

Halfway between Mr. Clapp’s cottage and the schoolhouse, Mrs.
Robinson lived, alone, for grandpa was ‘‘asleep in Jesus.” When
Margery was to spend the day with her, Bessie and Ernest brought
her there on their way to school, and stopped for her returning at
four o’clock ; sometimes staying to tea, and taking as much comfort
as they gave. I know grandma thought they took no more.

Judge by the report of one day’s doings, if these were not gala-
days for her as well as her pet.

A. few minutes before nine o’clock she knew Margery had come,
for she heard the children’s merry farewells with her in the porch,
when in walked the little chatterbox—eyes sparkling, cheeks glow-
ing, with ‘‘Dood-mornin” on the rosy lips turned upward for the
sure kiss of welcome.

‘“Dess I be dlad to det here. The wind blew me all over. Blowed
my pankerhanker way from my nose, way up in a twee.”

‘How did you get it again?” asked grandma, taking off the
blue cloak and hood.



















12 LITTLE MARGERY.



‘‘Oh, Erne, he sewatched up the twee, like my titty does, and
dot it. “Iwas down by Mr. Beech’s house. Dwanma, was it dere
you dot beech-nuts for me next winter ?”

‘No, you crooked tongue. I brought the beech-nuts from
uncle Phil’s farm /¢s¢ winter, you mean.”

‘Dess I do mean so, but I fordit such a many times a day.
Last shummer ve’s to have a darden, and pick woses dust venever
ve vant ’em.”

‘‘Next summer, dear; don’t forget to bring some to me when
you come. See, here is something sweet,” said grandma, taking a
box out of a closet.

‘Oh, doody, doody; maple shuder. Vhere did you dit it?”

“My cleverest niece brought it to me yesterday.” And grand-
ma cracked it into little bits and laid them on a picture plate, then
sat down to her sewing.

‘Grandma, vat’s dat sing ?”

‘What, Margery: my emery ?”

‘No, dat sing that brought you the shuder.”

Grandma had to think a minute. ‘‘ My niece, didI say? Why,
that is my sister’s child, our dear Jessie Lisk. When you play
with your dolls, Bessie is their aunt, and rubber Janey is her niece.”

Margery nibbled the sugar and reflected, bethought her of one
boy-doll in the rag-family, and asked, ‘‘ Vell, ven your nieces hap-
pen to be boys, what do you call ’em ?”

‘““My nephews, of course.” Here grandma lifted the child in
her lap to hug her again and again.


















A DAY AT GRANDMA’S.



“What are you sewing, dwanma ?”

‘I’m mending a dress.”

‘Vell, I has my shimble in my pottet, and I dess I'll help.”

Down she sat in a small, stout wooden chair that Mrs. Robinson
cherished, for having held Margery’s mother, and her brother over
the sea, and other brothers yet farther away. Margery always
“helped.” She must have a piece of the cloth in hand, and the
same kind of thread grandma used, then very close to her grand-
ma’s side she would sit as long as she could entertain one idea.

“*Spose I could sit a little nearer off, if I bodder you,” after
pricking grandma’s hand drawing up her long needleful of thread.

Soon she said her fingers were too sweet to sew with.

“‘Dess I'll do in the kisshen to vash my hands and see Bwidget.”

Dropping her patch properly into the work-basket, she sought °
her ally among ‘“‘ pies and things,” and there she helped and played
till Mrs. Robinson came out to order a custard to suit her little
guest’s taste. She found Margery standing with folded hands look-
ing on demurely, while Bridget basted a roast in the oven.

“T’se seeing to dinner, the vay mamma does. Bwidget’ll dit
it. I'll see to it. You tan do mend your dwess.” So she dis-
missed the dear lady of the house with a capable flourish of her fat
hand, and a competent look, that made Mrs. Robinson say to her-
self and Bridget, ‘‘ Ah, she’ll be a worker one of these days.”

Ah, me! if our grandmothers’ dreams of us were ever realized !

At dinner she said, ‘‘If you pese, don’t div me the easy meat.”

‘What do you mean?” asked the carver, laughing.













LITTLE MARGERY.



“Vell, I likes hard meat. The easy meat is so slippy.”
‘She uses the wrong opposite, you see. Some things are hard
to do, (and chew,) and some things easy, she knows. The word

soft don’t occur to her,”
gests it. Soft cheeks, soft hands, soft hair, soft blue merino, soft,

grandma, soliloquized, ‘‘and yet she sug-

impressible little heart and brain.”
“Did you know Erne brote his tart?” Margery asked seriously.
‘Where did the jelly go?”
‘“‘T mean the tart-waddon that he dwaws paysings in.”
‘Oh, his blue cart.”
‘Eis, ma’am, and farder toot it to the sop to det mended.”

“To the wagonshop you mean.” :

“T should say so.” Now and then even so small a person uses
a bit of slang, I am sorry to say.

“You should say so?” repeated grandma, looking at her over
her spectacles.

‘His, that’s vat I mean.”

‘Now, Margery Clapp, there is no use in your talking quite so
simple. You say shuder and shidders, now say shop.”

Her sensitive face flushed, and she stammered, ‘‘S-sop,” but
tried again and again, and finally mastered the “ shop.”

‘‘ But I can’t say shithers,” said she sharply, snipping her thread.

She was impressed with the idea of age in that house. Tired
of sewing she yawned and turned to the sleepy cat on the hearth-
rug, saying, ‘S’pect dis tat is most a hundred years old. Dess Ill
play visit, if you’ll let me dwess up, dwanma.”















A DAY AT GRANDMIA’S. 15



‘Yes, yes, dress up all you like.”
Privileged to open the wardrobe door, she said, ‘‘ Vell, [’ll dit
your bexust sawl.”

‘What audacity. My new breakfast shawl. Well, what else?”
was the encouraging question-

‘Dot any little umbwell ?”

“Umbrella? Yes, it hangs on a hook—there—over your
shoulder.”

“Ks, I dot it. Dot any dlubs ?”

Grandma handed a pair that lay in her basket waiting for
their thumbs to be sewed up.

‘Oh, oh!” laughed Margery, raising her gloved hands to her curly
locks, only then thinking of the crowning feature of a walking-suit !

‘‘ What sall I wear to do down stweet on my head ?”

Now grandma laughed so loudly that Bridget modestly opened
the dining-room to see the ‘‘carryings-on.” She was signalled to
stand still, for the child had gone into the closet. Thence she
emerged with a large fur hood on, all awry; and a black shawl in
her hand, saying, .

‘“Dess it’s such a told day I’ll put on this black woman’s sawl!”

Her costume completed, she said,

“Vell, now I’m a tummin’ to see ze folks. You Bwidget Wob-
inzen, how do you do?”

‘“Purty well; but I’m only a visitor, like yerself; I’m Bridget
Maloney.”

‘OQ ’shaw! Aint you grandma’s gale, and aint she Dwanma



,

|











16 LITTLE MARGERY.



Wobinzen? Vell, now I'll tell you; I’ve been down stweet to see
Molly Bwown. Her mamma ’s dot a meat baby ?”

Bridget put her hands on her hips and laughed; but grandma,
seeing pet did not think that quite pleasant, said blandly,

‘Indeed, Miss Clapp! What kind of a baby is that?”

“Vy, it ewies and ewies; and it isn’t wax nor wag! It seeps
in a ewadle, and Mrs. Bwown tell me to tum in and tate tare of it,
while Mollie and Bessie are in school.”

‘Yes, dear; you can help Mrs. Brown nicely, rocking the cra-
dle. But see, who comes in the gate ?”

The children were coming, and Margery met them demurely at

the door.’ They shook hands with her, well knowing that she was

for the time a ceremonious lady. Only a little longer, however,
Grandma’s things were put away by the tidy Bessie, and they all sat
down to eat maple-sugar, and rest. Then, a little more play,
before thé early tea that grandma always provided, knowing what
keen appetites children bring from school. At this tea-table, I am
sorry to say, Margery was a little peevish. Grandma saw that
Ernest did not relish his quince-jelly, so she kindly gave him some-
thing else, and passed his dish to Margery. She pouted and said,
“Who ’s been etien out of that?”

‘Fie, for shame, Margery!” said Erne, fearing grandma would
be annoyed.

The naughty sister answered quickly, ‘ Erne Tlapp, ‘peak when
you’m spoken to, and when you aint, not! That’s what your
farder says to you some days !”

















A DAY AT GRANDMA’S. 17

Poor Erne blushed under this extinguisher. Grandma kindly
changed their thoughts, saying,

‘“‘T know of a birthday that is coming pretty soon!”

‘Oh, we know too,” said Bessie, ‘“‘our M:

Tuesday !”

‘Fs, mudder says Ill be four years old,” said baby.

‘Even so many!” said grandma; ‘but I know of another
- birthday ; on the very next Tuesday.”

The children looked interested, and grandma said as she filled
the smallest cup with milk,

“Sixty years ago I was a four-year-old little Margery Smiff!”
She sighed; then cheering up with another cup of tea, she quizzed
the pet, ‘‘ Now if you have your erinday first, I suppose you ’ll be
older than grandma!”

‘“T should say so,” quoted that glib little tongue so quaintly
that the laugh following became an uproar as they rose from
the table.

When the good-by time came and the bonnets were on, grand-
ma bade them invite their mother to come with them to celebrate

her birthday ; adding, as she invariably did when she kissed Bessie,

‘Tell her you have been good children.”

Her hand lingered among Ernest’s curly locks: ‘ My little man,
I thank you for doing those errands so ee Saturday morn-
ing; that saved me a walk in the wind and rain,’

Erne was a gallant, respectful lad, and his grandmother’ s praise
was precious to him.















LITTLE MARGERY.



Margery’s kiss came last.

‘““Dess you ester tum to me on my birfday. Do, dwanma; and
I’ll ask Molly Bwown and her baby, and that Il be a party !”
Grandma answered with a hug, ‘‘ Well, as I owe you some

visits, I think I’llcome. Bessie, this is as entertaining a visitor as
ever crossed my door-sill.” Then, with a final kiss on pet’s lips,
‘Only four years old, but old enough for me!” As they went out
the gate, kissing their hands to her, she closed the door repeating,
‘Old enough for me!”















A VISIT TO MOLLY BROWN.



CHAPTER III.

pf Visit TO Motty PROWN.

ITTLE Margery Clapp now and then visits a favorite
neighbor, Molly Brown, unattended by mother or sister.
On these occasions her dignity increases; we feel it; see
it grow; it is ‘pure womanly.”

A new baby at Mrs. Brown’s makes Margery restless this

spring; teazing every day, with ‘‘ we-al weasons” for going in to
rock it, to show it her playthings, or divide her goodies with it.
To-day she went in there, ‘‘all dressed up;” with a wigless doll,
whose colorless cheeks, and eyes without brow or lash, mock at the
name, Beauty, bestowed upon it by Bessie in her babyhood. The
cradle, which answers as well for perambulator, is older still, hav-
ing rocked her mother’s dolls; but the lamb at dolly’s feet is so
white, that you would suspect it was carried on the Italian boy’s
head down the village street this morning.

Molly is a little older than Margery ; not always amiable; she
likes to have her own way so well, that sometimes her playmates
rebel, and then follow ‘‘mimic wars” sorry to see. Sometimes
Margery gets down to the very street-door, declaring she shall go
home, and never, never come hack. Molly pouts over the banister,
waiting to see if she will really go; usually each relents, before the





Little Margery. 3











20 LITTLE MARGERY.



knob turns ; they meet on the stairs, make up, give up the ‘‘ bone

of contention,” and begin again.

‘““O mamma,” cries Molly joyfully, seeing her visitor trudging
up the walk; ‘here comes Margery ; now we'll have the splendid-
est time !”

Mrs. Brown’s welcome was as hearty as she could make it, with
her arm full of blanket and baby.

‘See, baby! I bringed my lamby to see you!” were Margery’s
first words, thrusting the plaster-toy into, or rather upon, the
cushiony useless little hands. Baby stared, heedless of all civility.

‘When you dits big, you shall wock my Booty’s cwadle, dust
like I wock yours. May I tiss the tunnin’ ’ittle sing, Miss Brown?”

“To be sure, dear; and hold it, if you like, sitting in Molly’s
low chair.”

Molly brought the chair, and Margery was seated, speechless,
overcome with gratification. To hold the baby, all her own self; to
feel its warm, silky little head on her arm; to pat its soft hands ; to
gently kiss its velvet cheeks, was bliss enough to fill her heart.

Mrs. Brown quite understood why the little nurse said nothing,
but bustling Molly asked, ‘‘ Don’t you like to hold our baby? You
isn’t afraid of her, I should think !”

“Oo, 00,” crooned Margery, looking down into ‘baby’s eyes,
‘‘dess I do love to hold her! Tunnin’ baby!” Then relapsed into
voiceless admiration..

Molly watched and wondered. Mrs. Brown was _ touched
“nearly.” She tried to make talk for Margery.











A VISIT TO MOLLY BROWN. 21



“Tell her to be a good baby; not to cry; and not to spit milk
on her clean bib!”

Margery echoed, ‘‘ Be dood baby ; not to ewy ; not to ’pit milk

Soon baby became uneasy, and Margery looked grieved and a
little frightened, and gladly gave it back to its mother; then the

y?

play began.
“Now, we’ll play party and have out my little dishes!” pro-

posed Molly.

“Oh es, well pay party,” assented Margery.

“Well, you be the Mrs. Brown, ’cause your dolly is in the cra-
dle, and I’ll be the Mrs. Jones, and come to see you, ‘cause my
dolly has got a new cloak and hood!” .

‘Not the first visit ever made to show off new clothes!” thought
the mother patting baby to sleep.

“Vell, I’ll be mudder Bwown. Sure ‘nuff; my baby has n’t any
hair; dust like your baby ?”

‘Just like our baby!” repeated Molly with a sniff, betraying
her opinion, like Mrs. Malaprop’s, that ‘‘comparisons were odor-
ous.” ‘Guess our baby don’t have a cracked head, and just glass
beads for eyes!”

“Vell, I sink Booty’s eyes are we-al pitty, anyhow!” ventured
Margery.

‘For shame, Molly; run along now, and be Mrs. Jones,” inter-
posed her mother.

‘How do you do?” asked Margery as Mrs. Jones came in;
then fixing her eyes on the Christmas doll’s new cloak and hood,













22 LITTLE MARGERY.



‘‘Dess your doll has dot a booful hood. Tan’t my Booty wear it
when I pay Miss Shones ?”

‘‘Now, that isn’t the faste thing to say, when I come. I'll ask
you if your baby is sick, ’cause it looks so bad.”

Margery winced a little, as older mothers have done, for puny
children that are always eliciting health-questions.

‘She had the tyfork-fever! But say, Molly, tan’t I show the
hood to Bessie?”

“T don’t know; you musn’t ask that the foste thing, either ; you
must say, Take off your baby’s things, Mrs. Jones.”

‘Vell, Miss Shones, take off your baby’s sings. Now may I
put the cloak on Booty ?”

‘Youre a funny lady ; I sha’ n’t take off her things, if you try
‘em on the fust thing!” said Molly, holding the wrappings, which
were more precious than the doll just then, closely in her arms.

Margery, discouraged, leaned against the chair on which lay her
usual pets, unnoticed then, eclipsed to her longing eyes by the
greater beauty. Her ‘two chins” hung down; her hand turned
and twisted her pretty blue beads; all the ‘‘ splendid” went out of
her visit. Fortunately, just then Mrs. Brown covered up her
cradled baby, came towards them and adjusted matters. The toy
tea-set was brought out, without delay; the original Mrs. Brown

providing ‘‘sings” to eat, and milk to drink.
‘Will you pease pass the bissits and the apple-hauce ; I tan’t weach
em?” said Margery, behind the tea-pot that held a gill of hot water.
‘“The apple-hauce, mamma!” slyly laughed Molly.









A Ly 7 a
i

Y
\\

WN

\\

tie
Z
EG

\\

yy) ‘ : |
yy Ni 0 : os
ch
a

Z,
3
op
SLA

Wy,
ah i /)
\ ‘A Uy ji, ie

Gif,
ee
BZ

==

ZA
Ze
oe

LE —p
EZ

LEZ EE

Sc
eg

ZA

ZB

ZEEE
EZ
LEZ ELE

ep

ee
ZZ
ee
ZE
Ze

ge

eZ

LZ

Lx;

LEE

LEE

ZZ
te

3

LIZZ

Ze
BZ
Zi

Ez
eB



LE
LZ

LZ

LZ
Ber

ME
LZ
ZZ

GE

ZZ

SZ

ZL

ZZ
ZZ

pn,

Zp

DISCOURAGED, LEANED AGAINST THE CHAIR.”

“MARGERY











A VISIT TO MOLLY BROWN. 25



‘Dis is dust the way I payed tea-party with a little gale in

Kapipsie!” exclaimed Margery.

‘Where ?” asked Mrs. Brown.

‘‘In Kapipsie; I dot there on the team-tars, with my mudder
and Bessie.”

“JT think I know! You went to see uncle Phil, in Pokeepsie.”

‘Hs, ma’am; and there was a blat woman dot the dinners for
uncle Phil’s folks. She was dust blat all oder, and touldn’t
help it.”

‘But she was good and kind, and made you nice puddings,
your mother told me,” continued Mrs. Brown.

“Hs, ma’am; and one day I dot my hands all blat, and I ewied ;
I was so ’fraid they would stay blat like Melissy’s, and I tould n’t
help it. But my mudder said she tould help it with a osh-cloth;
and she oshed it off, and now I’m all so fwite adin.”

After the tiny dishes were washed and put away, Molly gra-
ciously lent the beautiful hood and cloak. The pale ‘‘ Booty”
looked duller and homelier than ever to Molly, but to the little
mother-heart she was most lovely.

‘‘Oh, oh, I wish dis hole in her skote was not teared !” said she,
looking wofully at a rent that certainly appeared more grievous in
contrast with the fine outer garment.

Molly said to her mother, ‘‘Hear the funny little thing say
skote, when she means skate !”

Now Molly had revised and improved her first lessons in Eng-
lish, till her speech was tolerably correct; but the sound of zr or ur











26 LITTLE MARGERY.

she could not master any better than Margery. Her canary chaped ;
she had faste hate her hand, then dant it, helping to get tea, when
Margery had sympathized, ‘‘Oh, I sorry you donte your hand the
foste thing!” So, now, Mrs. Brown laughed heartily ; and calling
them to her, she held a dimpled hand of each child at her knee,
and looking from one simple face to the other, she said. ‘‘ Both of
you say skirt!”

“Sket!” said Molly.

“Skut!” said Margery.

Skairt, skate, skote, they could say ; then they were all laughing
so loudly, that they awoke the live baby, and ‘‘ The foste thing, it
bedins to cwy for my lamby !” said Margery.

At five o’clock, sister Bessie came to take Margery home. It
was a trial to take off with her own hands the pretty cloak ; to
carry out ‘‘ Booty,” with neither hooa nor hair, only a cradle-top
over her head.

Margery kissed her hostesses good-by, lingering lovingly over
the baby, whose kisses in return were damp, and rather curdled

than sweet.

‘“T say, Bessie,” she called, trotting at Bessie’s heels, her arms
filled with her treasures, ‘‘I say, tan’t you make me a hood, for
Booty ; she did look so splendid when I dressed up her in Dolly .
Shones’ hood !”

‘Well ask mother for some blue, and she will help me make
it this very night, I guess, if you want it so much, you precious
jewel.”













A VISIT TO MOLLY BROWN.



Mrs. Clapp had come down to the gate to meet them, and said,
“T guess so!” pretty safe in assenting to anything Bessie said—then
she stooped to kiss Margery, and latched the gate, so making sure
that all her lambs were safe in the fold for that night.

Happy home-fold! where both the parents loved and confided
in and served the dear Saviour and trained all their little ones to

do the same.















LITTLE MARGERY.



. CHAPTER IV.
fioMESICKNESS AND FALL.

DXRANDMA ROBINSON was going home after a profita-
ble morning-visit with her daughter, Mrs. Clapp. She
had mended a basketful of stockings, and sundry garments
for the little folks; had said that she must go, and yet she

lingered.

‘‘T am sorry to leave you while your head is aching so badly;
suppose I take Chatterbox home with me and keep her all night.”

Chatterbox and Margery being one, anybody who knows how
intimate Margery is with her grandmother will not be surprised to
hear that she danced about, delighted, while her mother consented,
and grandma brought out the new ‘‘dockey” hat, clean apron and
etceteras, hastily, fearing the little lady might change her mind, as
she had never yet slept a night away from her mother.

She fairly danced along the street.

“*Spect I tan seep wiv you, dwanma? Did you know I tould
talk in my seep? ’Hs, I tan; Bessie tells me "bout it.”

Arrived at grandma’s, she went to the kitchen where Bridget

sat sewing, to announce her intention of staying all night.

Bridget admired the little ‘‘dockey” so extremely that Mar-
gery felt herself under obligations, and offered to help trim her
new dress.













HOMESICKNESS AND FALL.



“Tt’s dust pitty, Bwidget ; is it cackleow ?”

‘“What’s that you ’re sayin’, darlin’ ?”

“Ts it cack—is it calkilow?” asked Margery, tolerably sure
that she had used a word big enough for the ten-penny calico over-
skirt.

“Yes, I guess it bees; and how would you trim it, agen the
Fourth of July ?” .

“Vell, now; if dwanma will let me take her button-bag, I Il
sew buttons all awound it, and up it, and down it; you Il see; we-al
sweet; see, I dot my shimble! I carry it forth and forth, dwanma

says !”
“Back and forth, I guess,” said grandma, coming in to tell

Bridget it was tea-time.

‘Then, Bwidget, you ’ll pese wait till morning for that powder-
ewacker-twimmin’?” said pet, turning back to the sitting-room
where she asked to be ‘‘wocked dust four minutes.” Grandma

did not tell her she had seen Ernest and Bessie pass on their way

from school. She ingeniously turned those active thoughts away
from home with stories about little folks—some of them Margery
had heard before—in which the héro’s name was left for her to
guess.

‘‘Once upon a time I was going to Albany to buy some flowers.
T asked a little girl with black eyes to go with me. When we were
waiting for the boat, looking down into the water, she began to feel
afraid. ‘O dwanma! will I spoil my tid shoes getting into the
boat?’ ‘Oh, no; not a drop of water shall touch your toes.’ ‘But,

















dwanma, how will we get to Albany? Will you tell the boat we
want to go there? Does it have eyes? Does it see a road in the
river? And so she kept chattering till we were on the boat, and
she, indeed, standing in her kid shoes on‘a velvet sofa, looking out
upon the wharf and the people we left there, before she knew she
had walked safely over the water, and was in the blind boat.”

‘Vell, now, dwanma, I tan’t ever dess who that was, if it
was n’t Bessie !”

‘No, dear; it was your cousin, Margery Blair. And, by-the-
way, it’s a long time since I went to Aunt Jane’s—if you will stay
with me to-morrow, we will go up there to spend the day.”

“Hs, ’es, we will!” assented Margery, as they were called to
tea.

Pretty soon after tea, the big violet eyes began to grow smaller,
to droop and look mournful. The tired little body leaned heavily
against grandma’s breast; the limp little hands hung down; Mar-
gery had nothing to say to grandma’s stories, and grandma began
to feel unhappy and almost sick herself, knowing well that these
were symptoms of homesickness. Hearing a long sigh, she asked
cheerily, ‘‘ What’s the matter, little girl ?”

“T don’t feel as if I tould live till morning!” was the answer.

“Why, my pet?” exclaimed grandma, facing her about upon
her knee, and shaking her merrily ; but the curly head hung low ,;
she could not see the eyes, but she saw the rosy lips quivering.

‘‘T spose mudder wants to put me to bed now ; I spose they ’ve
had their shuppers. What will my farder say if I don’t bwing him















HOMESICKNESS AND FALL. 31



his slippers? And, oh, who’ll put Booty to bed?” And with this
last thought came tears.

“Why, why,” said grandma, ‘‘did we not bring Beauty to sleep
with you and me? Let us send for her.”

‘Hs, do,” said Margery relieved.

Mrs. Robinson despatched Bridget for the doll, and to inquire
about Mrs. Clapp’s headache.

Back again in the rocking-chair Margery said,

“You may wock me, but I sha’n’t be undessed till Booty
comes !”

‘Well, well,” assented grandma; and only the creak, creak of
the old chair broke the silence of the deepening twilight. At last,
Margery, feeling herself going, said,

“You may undess me, but I sha’n’t go to sleep till Booty
comes !”

“Very well, dear,” said grandma unbuttoning the little boots,
and getting the weary little body into its long white gown. There
was a heart-ache under the prayer said at grandma’s knee, and the
last speech in her arms was,

“T wish I tould see my mudder! Now, I sha’n’t wink my
eyes till Booty comes!” :

When assured that her whereabouts was entirely forgotten,
Mrs. Robinson laid the dear child in her bed, lighted her lamp and
sat down by her Bible-stand, wondering uneasily why ‘‘ Booty”
did not come. Bridget at last explained, that she waited for Mrs.
Clapp to finish a ‘‘hud” she was making for the doll. Grandma













382 LITTLE MARGERY.







admired the tasty blue hood, and rose to lay the dolly above pet's
pillow.

“T understand,” she murmured wisely to herself; ‘a peace-
offering from my dear child to the chatterbox she loves tenderly
to night !”

Early in the morning Margery awoke ; light-hearted before she
found her dolly; but then so very happy that grandma willingly
gave up trying to get another nap, and awoke thoroughly to enjoy
Margery’s satisfaction.

Mrs. Robinson, Margery, and the doll, started early for their
day’s visit. Mr. Blair lived at the farther end of the village street ;
at the top of a hill, shaded so agreeably, that the walk was pleasant
for these loving companions—the younger, expanding mind, reach-
ing upwards with continual wonderings and questionings; the
elder finding relaxation and refreshment in attending to those
aspiring wants, as truly as her lips found the sweetness of June in
the tiny strawberries pet picked by the roadside. Mr. Blair’s
whole energies were not consumed in trade, although ‘Blair &
Clapp” was the most thriving store in the place. But Mr. Blair
chose to live at the extreme end of the village, where his taste for
gardening found a few acres upon which to flourish, by an hour or
two of hard work before breakfast ; and after tea, for recreation, he
loved nothing better than cultivating his own vegetables and _pet-
ting his wife’s luxuriant flower-garden. His hobby was moderately
profitable stuff from his well-known garden, finding eager cus-
tomers in the market.













HOMESICKNESS AND FALL.



“There ’s some chillen behead of us!” exclaimed Margery.
‘Ohildren we know, I think,” said grandma; surely, when they
faced about, playing soldiers, and caught sight of our friends they

ran to meet them.

With Hugh’s good morning kiss, he said,

“T am glad you have come, for this is a holiday; teacher has
gone to a wedding.”

They were near the gate, then; and Hugh, seeing his mother
hastening to welcome grandma, caught his little cousin’s hand and
ran around the house to a verandah where his sisters, Margery and
Belle, were playing. Belle was a year older than the little guest,
whom they so warmly welcomed. Immediately Beauty’s hood was
shown and admired; then pet’s ‘‘dockey;” which sent Belle in
search of her own. Sister Margery pronounced the two little hats
near enough alike to be cousins.

By that time Mrs. Blair and grandma came around to the in-
viting coolness and rest offered by the wide open arms of the
Shaker chairs upon this favorite west verandah.

‘Belle, there goes Frank driving the sheep ; run after him; tell
him to bring more ice before he goes into the meadow.”

“Does that mean ice-cream, mamma?” asked Margery Blair,
thoughtfully untying grandma’s bonnet-strings.

‘‘May cousin go too?” asked Belle in the same breath.

Mamma smiled assent to both questions, while the fat hands
clasped quickly, and the little girls skipped away.

By the time they caught up to Frank, the farmer, driving two











LITTLE MARGERY.



sheep to the well-trough to drink, both boys joined him, Hugh
saying,

“T say, Frank, does my father mean to sell those lambs to that
horrid butcher ?”

“Sure, don’t be botherin’ your head about that these two
weeks.”

‘‘T hate butchers!” snarled Hugh.

‘But you like the meat they butch!” said Belle sharply,
making Frank laugh aloud.

“Well, see those pretty lambs—after we have washed them so
clean—I say it’s horrid if they have to go!” resumed Hugh.

Frank’s next words were not soothing.

“T confess I heard your father say, only last evenin’, ‘These
lambs in the door-yard are too big for playthings—how soon do
yees want lamb and peas? And that’s all. I know about them.”

While he was talking the little girls had been looking around;
in the grass at their feet, in the tree overhead, for a kitten whose
mewing they heard distinctly. Frank turned the rope twice,
thrice around the beam; ‘t Mew, mew,” came nearer to the little
girls’ pitying ears; when Frank exclaimed,

“Och, my darlins, see what I’m bringin’ up to daylight; your
wee black kitten !”

The little girls were trembling with anxiety ; Belle, who loved
the kitty, leaned eagerly forward while the bucket rose up to the
. curb.

“Steady, now; ah, for a small cat that’s quite a say voyage.”





1
\

ZZ

S = —
LEED







oN
NT Nes
At

iN





re

;
Caney
el





“FRANK TURNED THE ROPE TWICE, THRICE, AROUND THE BEAM.”












HOMESICKNESS AND FALL. 37



When kitty felt herself even with the green sward, she sprang
wildly off the bucket, and ran, crying ‘‘ Mew, mew,” through the
daisied grass; the little girls chasing swiftly ; while the boys were
left laughing. Hugh shouted after them, ‘‘ Who put her in?”

The fair little cousins losing sight of the kitten, ran back to the
house, where Mrs. Blair and her ten-year-old Margery were eager
to chat with their little visitor. In five minutes there was a con-
fusion about the name Margery, and grandma said,

“Tt is too bad to have given such a homely name to two girls
of this generation.”

‘No, no, mother,” answered Mrs. Blair; ‘“‘no one but yourself
fails to praise its softness, its positive melody—Margery,” she said
lovingly, stroking the wee one’s curly hair.

“Well, I wish I had two silver ladles!” said grandma, smiling
at the first namesake, who knew that grandma’s silver ladle had
been nominally hers these ten years. ‘‘ My two very own grand-
daughters!” she continued; then seeing Belle looking wistful, as
she stood beside her mother, she added, ‘‘ But Belle knows her
naine is even dearer to us, because—”

“Yes, grandma, I know!” the child said quickly, seeing the
dear thin lips quivering.

“*What’s in a name?’ eh, daughter? In the sound of this
Belle there is more melody than in the whole cathedral chime

for me. My other Belle sang like a bird the livelong day—are

we to have no singing this morning?” asked grandma cheerily

again.

















38 LITTLE MARGERY.



The sisters sang readily their favorite Sunday-school hymns,
little Margery’s sweet voice and crooked words accompanying.

While they were singing, the boys came up, and lay down on
the grass beside the steps. Hugh fanned himself with his hat, and
listened respectfully. But queer little Will blundered into the air
of ‘‘ Precious Jewels,” with ill-chosen words which shocked grand-
ma’s sense of propriety, yet she put her hand to her mouth to cover
the smile that came, and stayed in spite of her till the medley was
ended.

Noticing that grandma looked tired, Mrs. Blair urged her to lie
down; led her into her own room, and shook up the sofa pillow
temptingly.

“There, now, I will close the door; and do you shut your
eyes to the well, and all mischief; we will take care of your baby.
It is so warm now, they shall play indoors till after dinner.”

Then she sent the little folks up stairs, to allow grandma a quiet
nap, while she went into the kitchen. Soon after she heard a triple
scream; a heavy thud, thud upon the stairs, and running into the,
hall picked up a distressed child, that sobbed,

“T wasn’t used of such stairs !”

‘No, no; oh, I’m so sorry !” said Aunt Jane soothingly, turn-
ing pale, yet keeping very calm as she carried the child into the
parlor, because that was the farthest from grandma. She laid her
upon the sofa; lifted the little arm that was surely, surely broken, |
and placed it carefully by its side.

‘“‘Oh, it hotes me so!” said the pale-faced Margery; while the















HOMESICKNESS AND FALL. 39



elder one knelt over her caressingly, and Belle crouched at her feet
.erying bitterly.
Hugh ran to get Frank and a horse. Mrs. Blair hastily wrote
a line to her husband. Rising from her desk she met grandma
coming out of the bedroom with a sleepy yet startled air, saying,
‘Jane, did I dream, or did I hear the children crying?”
“T am afraid you heard them, mother; Margery has fallen

down stairs.”

‘“Which Margery ?” gasped poor grandma.

‘Little Margery Clapp,” said Aunt Jane, tears coming into her
eyes and voice; she pointed the way to the parlor, and went out to

give Frank his orders to ride swiftly.





Little Margery. 5









LITTLE MABGERY.



CHAPTER V.

JHE MENDED ARM.

(Z32RISH FRANK rode as fast as John Gilpin — could
4 ' barely stop his horse at the thriving store of Blair & Clapp.
ed Mr. Blair was at the door as the horse came up. Sus-
Ne pecting trouble, he stepped out and seized the note Frank
handed to him before dismounting.

He called out a bright lad from behind the counter, saying to
him, ‘‘ Take this horse and go for Dr. Parker. Tell him a child at
my house has broken an arm. Ride fast—if not at home, track
him!” and the boy was off.

Going into the store, Mr. Blair walked moderately toward the
desk, saying to his partner, j

‘“T have a line from my wife—bad business. Margery has
fallen down stairs. Walk out with me, we shall be just in time for
dinner.”

‘How is she hurt?” asked Mr. Clapp, putting up his ledger
deliberately.

‘Broken an arm. I have sent Ned for the doctor— better
walk out.”

‘‘Well,” said the kind uncle, ‘if I can be of any use, or give
any comfort; but if it is only a broken arm, it will be but a short
trial.”















rah MENDED ARM. 41



Mr. Blair saw that ‘‘ the situation” was not comprehended. At
a loss how to explain, he quickened his pace: Before they reached
the corner, Mr. Clapp’s hand was laid heavily on his arm.

“Blair, which Margery is this ?”

‘Why, you poor brother, it is yours. Did you not know her
grandmother had taken her out to our house to spend the day ?”

‘Ah, it was something I heard about at home, that crept
into my mind when I asked.” There spoke the father, quickening
his steps almost to a run.

‘Nonsense, Clapp; you'll tire out at this rate of speed, and be
good for nothing when you get the child in your arms. Besides,
you know it is only a broken arm.”

‘Your pardon, Blair,” asked the other, offering his hand.

Mr. Blair shook it heartily, saying, ‘‘ That was only the voice
of human nature; forgive me for twitting you.” He slipped his
hand in Mr. Clapp’s arm, and the two went up the hill rapidly,
without casting a glance or thought at the daisies and buttercups
that had set themselves to music in little Margery’s heart and
mouth a few hours before. —

Hugh and Will hung upon the gate. Both looked subdued, and
chose to wait there for the doctor. Mrs. Blair stood waiting at the
open door. In another minute Margery seemed oblivious of the
pricking ‘‘hote” in her arm, and with her ‘‘dood hand,” stroked
her father’s whiskers, as he bent over her, and said, in answer to
some of his questions, ‘‘ You see, farder, I wasn’t used of the
stairs.”

















LITTLE MARGERY.



‘‘No,” said grandma almost severely, ‘winding stairs are cruel
for children. I have always expected some one would tumble down
them—do n’t know but it is rather a relief to my mind to have the
dread over. This will be a warning to the others.”

I think not a word had been said about a doctor, before Mar- |
gery, for when he entered the room she was surprised, and inclined
to hold her arm as ‘personal property.”

He handled it carefully, yet the movement gave her pain. The
bone had punctured the skin slightly, and the doctor first laid a
patch of courtplaster there.

‘Ts it cost-plaster?” asked pet, as grandma considerately wiped
the tears from her pale cheek.

‘Yes, it costs—most things do,” was the dear old lady’s crisp

answer.

Next came the splints, which made the child open her eyes wide
with wonder. A little cry as the bone was slipped in place, and
when the long bandage was being wound round and round, she
dropped her head on her father’s shoulder, and did not look up
again till they passed the handkerchief about her neck, and she saw
the bound arm and straightened fingers slung neatly and snugly out
of the way.

Mr. Clapp waited after dinner till he could leave Margery
asleep. Fright, pain, and fatigue made her look really ill) A
parlor council decided that he should come for grandma and her .
little charge, with a carriage; that Margery should remain at
grandma’s house that night, at least, as her mother was no better—











THE MENDED ARM. 43

the accident would startle her, and the meeting would excite both
her and Margery too much for that day.

When our precious heroine awoke, the carriage was waiting at
the door. Aunt Jane had a tempting salver of refreshments for
pet’s first consideration. Then her father came in; cousin Margery
brought out the “dockey,” that did not now provoke a dimple ; and
the whole family followed them to the carriage to make the farewell
as merry as possible, for grandma was so nervous, confessing
she was ashamed of herself, and her child yet looked scared and
pale.

Mr. Clapp held the little one in his arms so tenderly, that the
jarring of the carriage did not trouble her. She did not grieve about
stopping at grandma’s house, but cried when her father was obliged
to go back to the store. Grandma was in despair. She wanted to
keep her quiet and cheerful, according to the doctor's orders.

She went into Bridget’s quarters, briefly explained her dilemma,
and asked her to come in and talk lively awhile, asking nothing
about the accident.

When Bridget entered, Margery said, ‘‘ Bwidget, dess I tan’t



twim that dwess for you now. Boke my arm, Bwidget—is you
sorry ?”

“Sure, darlin’, don’t be frettin’ about my overskairt; I’ve
put on a bit of a lady-like roofle, which will jist plase you to
see.”

“Well, Bridget, have you any house-news to tell us?) Anybody
called to-day ?” asked Mrs. Robinson.













LITTLE MARGERY.














She gave a little start of surprise, as the girl answered, ‘‘ Only
the praste! And what happened, d’ ye think, while I was tellin’
him yees was from home? Ah, I had jist brought up the bit of fish,
making ready to broil it for supper—’t was half an hour—jist before
yees came ridin’ in. Well, as I was closin’ the door on the praste,
I heerd a thump, and rushed into the kitchen beyont, and there
was the owld cat makin’ off wid the fish. I caught my dish-cloth
and bate her with it till she dropped the fish, and if ye ’ll belave
me, she was the cut-downest looking cat ye ever saw. She ll hate
the very name of Bridget Maloney after the day.”

Margery laughed at this story till she almost cried.

“Did you wash the windows?” asked the good _house-
keeper.

“Yes, ma’am, and thin—I thought ye wouldn’t mind, for I
locked iverything—I stepped down the street and bought a new
bonnet. Would you mind seein’ it, darlin’ ?”’

‘Oh, do dit it, Bwidget,” and the maid vanished.

The hat was trimmed with green bows and streamers. One
could see it did not charm the child; her praise was merely, ‘‘ It’s
pilty, Bwidget.”

‘Do I become green, ma’am?” asked the rosy maid, turning
shyly to her mistress, who answered,

‘Nearly, I think.”

After which the green streamers fluttered up the back stairs.
Margery lay upon the sofa, ill at ease, yet afraid to move.
Grandma brought a dear old round stand to the sofa, and on it was



























THE MENDED ARM. 45
placed small old-times china, making the dainty tea look like a |
child’s tea-party. Margery’s spirits rose; indeed, she sat up, |
without thinking of her clumsy arm; until Bridget, clearing their

leavings away, heedlessly asked how she felt; when she showed a
little dignity, answering,

‘“Comfor’ble, Bwidget. But oh, dwanma, when shall we do
home ?”

‘ By-and-by, my dear.”

“T want to do wight-away-off! ‘Less you bwing my mudder
after me. Sould sink she’d tum and det me, anyway!”

“Fie, Margery, fie! Your mother is not very well; while I
have nothing to do, but take care of you, and play party every day
till you get well.”

“Oh, I wish my mother was weller. I wish she would tum.
Dwanma, I want to do home to my own house!” and here came
tears, distressing each.

Tn a lull of the storm grandma proposed undressing. :

‘Oh, I s’pect I tan’t ever be undwessed till my arm dets
mended.”

‘Let me show you how I can do it without hurting a mite!”

Looking upon it as an experiment, Margery went through the
task cheerfully,and soon after slept serenely.

Then, leaving Bridget to watch, Mrs. Robinson went out, saying
to herself, ‘‘The hardest is yet to come. What shall I say to that
dear child’s mother !”

What did she say, and hear, was sweetly sad, and sadly sweet ;













46 LITTLE MARGERY.



but after it, grandma made ready to go back alone. She had
thought best not to take Bessie and Ernest; and was relieved
because they did not ask to go—only because she was fearful of
exciting Margery. But when Bessie had brought her bonnet-
and smoothed her water-proof down, again and again, till grandma
felt the lingering of her little hands, so needlessly, to be half-
caressing: and when Erne, with his big heart looking out of its
great windows—with his fun hushed down to sympathy and
sadness—looked up in her face so wistfully, grandma thought
aloud, ‘ll risk it! Children, do you want to go home with
me ?”

“You darlingest grandma!” exclaimed Bessie, grasping their
hats. Ernest lifted the basket filled with Margery’s clothes, and
the three went quietly out of the house, and missing keenly the
mother’s usual farewell.

Arrived at grandma’s, they tiptoed about, noiselessly ; and
spoke in the softest tones; till tired of such restraint they went
early to bed.

When Margery awoke, feverish and uneasy, she was surprised
to see Ernest, who had for some time been waiting for her to open
her eyes and take his good-morning kiss.

Bessie came in with grandma, trying to keep calm; but her
eyes glistened when she saw the sling.

Margery’s first words were pitiful :

‘© Bessie, did you know I dot a bwoken arm ?”

Then, catching a consenting look from grandma, Bessie sat on





























T TO GO HOME WITH ME?”

DO ‘YOU WAN

’

REN

D







LL RISK IT, CHIL

’

“T











THE MENDED ARM.



the side of the bed, and right down among her little sister's curls,
whispered,
“But you have got something else, Margery; newer, nicer,

what you've wanted the very most. Guess?”
‘Oh, I tan’t—tell me, Bessie.”

‘‘A baby, Margery: a live baby, down to our house !”’

















50 LITTLE MARGERY.



A ECA Bia GV ale.

Younc [oORRESPONDENTS.

JHE morning after the accident, Aunt*Jane came down















early to inquire how Margery had passed the night.

”

She was one of the ‘anxious mothers,” and brought her

family bottle of rhubarb-syrup, in case the little girl should
be out of sorts.

She was the bearer also of messages of love and sympathy from
her little folks; besides a roll of picture-papers and a letter from
Will; his first letter, which sister Margery had written after his

scrappy dictatior.

“Dear Marcrery: Here’s some candy. Belle sends you the peppermints, and I
send you the beauty gum-drops. Be good and take the bub syrup. It isn’t bad: I
like it: and Belle likes it. Don’t cry; be a good girl. Come and see us when your
arm gets mended, and tell us ’bout the syrup. When you get better, mamma will let
me come to see you. Frank will bring me early, when he takes things to market.
Maybe Saturday or Monday. No! Saturday’s longer than Monday—I ll come Satur-
day. But if I can’t come Saturday, I’ll come Monday.

“Belle sends the peppermints. I’ll come Saturday, or Monday, or Tuesday ; if I
can’t come Monday I’ll come Tuesday. Then we’ll play! I'll play a good long while
with you. Have enough playthings all together—or, if you don’t have enough, I’ll
help you scare ’em up, if you’re kind o’ weak! Belle sends you the peppermints, and I
send you the gum-drops! Hurry and get well with rhu-bub syrup; maybe the candy
will make your arm stick better! Don’t you s’pose girls’ arms break quicker es
boys? Say, I wish you would ask the doctor !

“Monday, or Saturday, or Friday, or Tuesday, I’ll come. I’m ’most sure, now,
I'll come Tuesday ; but maybe Friday. Frank will bring me and the berries and things















YOUNG CORRESPONDENTS. 51

cameo



down with the me-ules. Take anything grandma fixes for you



cat-ternip tea, or any-



thine, and we’re all very sorry you’re sick—broke your arm, I mean—and we’ll bring
oO? ’ D>

you something, maybe; ginger-snaps, or something. This is a love-letter, (Frank
writes love-letters !) ask grandma to read it to you, and I hope you wont have to stay in
g , pe J J
bed. I guess I’ve wrote enough. I guess you’d like some of my pictures—of the
8 : YP
me-ules that’s going to bring me down—and here’s you in bed! Good-by.
“WILL BLAIR.”

Three times Margery had the love-letter read to her, then put
it in her pocket.

“An excellent tonic!” said grandma, as Margery brightened,
and turned eagerly to her pictures, which Aunt Jane explained to
her for a happy hour.

But after Mrs. Blair had gone, Margery was of all little girls
the most miserable.

She had not recovered from the shock her baby nerves received
from her downfall. She could do but little with one hand; and
she felt so restless that her dear grandmother’s wits were taxed to
find pleasant ways to amuse her.

“Will says if he can’t come Monday he’ll come Saturday.
Which is the day they wash chillens, and which is the day they
wash clothes, dwanma ?”

‘Saturday, when the children are home from school, is bath-day
in every good home, I guess; so that quite clean, and in fresh
clothes, they are ready for Sunday. Then, on Monday, the soiled
clothes are washed. Now, can you remember which is which ?”

“As, IT euess so; but before bath-day comes wont I be home to

my own house, dwanma dear ?”













|
|



‘‘T can’t promise, Margery.”

“But I want to see my own mudder awful-so-bad ; and—and
Bessie.”

“And baby, you mean?” Grandma's eyes looked so keenly
into the little girl’s that they saw a secret there.

“Maybe no, dwanma; ’cause when I want to-be took, there ‘ll
be no one to take me!” sobbed Margery.

‘Fie, fie, Margery! The baby is so little it will lie in the era-
dle half the time this summer. Mother will want her little girlie as
much as ever, and father too! But think how tall you are grow-
ing; how your feet hang almost to the floor, when you sit on his
knee. Before baby is big enough to sit in father’s lap you will
play mother, sitting in your little chair, holding baby yourself!”

“Oh!” Margery heaved a lingering sigh—but did not seem en-
tirely comforted or hopeful. Grandma understood the sore and
lonely feelings disquieting the tender heart, which, for the first
time, made the child doubtful of her place and welcome in her
mother’s arms. Fearful of the least germ of jealousy, she went
on:

“Think how’ Hughie and every one in Aunt Jane’s house love
little Will! Why, Belle and Margery would tell you they could
hardly live without two brothers. And now you have two to
love—two to love you!”

No answer; the little breast heaved, and the eyes winked
fast.

“We will begin to love our little brother right away ; until he









YOUNG CORRESPONDENTS.

éets big enough to love and work for us, we must work for him.
First, while we wait here to get well, we will knit him some socks—
what color shall they be, Margery ?”

‘“Boo—beautiful boo-—like Booty’s hood!” casting a glance to
| the corner of the sofa where dolly sat staring.

‘Well, blue it shall be! Bridget shall go for the worsted di-
recily.

“Then, when he sits on the floor, next winter, Santa Claus will

bring him a rattle-box, and a rubber ball, and how do you think he
will learn to lend them to you and Ernest? By seeing you divide
| your playthings and goodies, as you always do, with each other,
| and will divide with him—he ‘ll know no other way. Next sum-



' mer he'll take hold of your hand and learn to walk. Then, there
| will be fun and mischief too! Up stairs and down; and down the
garden-walks his little feet will follow; plump into the flower-beds,
perhaps; and you will pick the ripest berries and sweetest roses
| for him! He will laugh when you come, and cry when you go-—
oh! [can’t tell half the pleasures in having a baby-brother,” con-
cluded grandmother.
“ Now I wont have to go way down to Molly Bwown’s to wock
a baby! Don’t seem like we dot one in our own house! Oh, I
want to see him so bad, dwanma !”
Mrs. Robinson began to despair of warding off this home-sick-

|
|
| ness, which would affect the child’s strength as well as her hap-
| piness.

“Ah, me!” she said to herself, ‘what can I ever do! The



















BA LITTLE MARGERY.



doctor said she must not get fretted or feverish; she can’t be ex-
nor eat. I have it!” she exclaimed,



pected to sleep all the time

‘as she caught an idea from Margery’s ‘asking,

‘Do you s’pose he’s dot any hair, dwanma ?”

“Let us write a letter and ask him.” fe

She placed a chair in front of grandpa’s old-fashioned secretary ;
and as she sat down, quicker than the old cat winked at them Mar-
gery sprang into her lap. The slanting-cover was let down to form
a writing-table. Within were many pigeon holes, holding precious
papers, and tokens of old times; boxes for writing-paper and en-
velopes, well stocked, for grandma is the best correspondent in the
family, uncle Phil declares.

Margery’s big eyes dilated, as the paper was selected, the pen-
cil taken from the rack and sharpened; she leaned forward eagerly
watching the letters grow—‘t Dear Baby.”

“ What’s his name, dwanma ?”

“Don't know; we'll ask him.”

“T thought you could n’t write a letter to anybody, ‘less you
knew what’s his name!”

“Ah, I'll risk beginning ‘Dear Baby.’ Now I will ask him if
he has any name, or if you and I shall carry one to him.”

‘“T think Molly ’s a pretty name, and Hrnest—and—and Fido!”
suggested the small composer.

‘What next shall we ask him?’ quoth the scribe.

“Tf he’s dot any hair—like Molly’s baby has n't!”

‘There, I’ve done it.”



















YOUNG CORRESPONDENTS.

OU
or

“ And any boo-wibbon son his seeves. Oh—and a wite, long,
long dwess !”

“Yes—and now what?”

‘Any holes on the top of his little bits o’ hands.”

‘No doubt he has dimples, Margery.”

“ And little tunnin’ toes—do you s’pose he has, dwanma—little
bits 0’ toes?”

‘Oh, yes, to put into our socks.”

‘What kind 0’ eyes, do you s’pose ?”

“T can’t imagine-—have n’t heard a lisp about his eyes.”

“Why, dwanma”-—Margery was alarmed—‘‘don’t you s’pect
he’s dot any, to see with, and ewy with?”

“Yes, yes; but big or little, black or blue, I meant ; we ’ll see.”

“They ‘ll be boo and big, I dess. And paysings, dwanma ; ask
if he has bwought any. If he hasn’t, maybe he can have Booty
daytimes; but I tould never do to sleep without her.”

“There, I’ve asked him.” The page was turned. ‘“O dwan-
ma! will he know us when he sees us coming in the gate %”

“Chance if he does! Likely he does not know two such im-
portant people live here.”

‘“Well—who ’Il tell him ?”

‘Ourselves to be sure; here, we’ll put it down in black and
white.”

“Tell him one day we ‘Il come—do n't know if it is Fursday or



Fiday—but one day we'll come, and bwing him something. Will

the socks be done, dwanma ?”















56 LITTLE MARGERY.

“To be sure; we can’t go till they are ready to go with us.”

“Well, then, socks, surely; and maybe candy. Tell him to be
a dood baby and not ewy till we come |”

“QO pshaw! babies can cry and be good too. It’s the nurses
and mammas that are naughty to let the little hands and feet get |
so cold, that they make the babies cry; or the little mouth get so
| dry, for want of a little cold water; or neglect a colic when a hot
flannel may cure it with one cry.”

“But, dwanma, he ‘ll be too little to get a colict. Why Bessie



gets it, but Erne is too little, the teacher telled him.”

‘Hear the child!” exclaimed grandma. ‘‘ What do you know
about Sunday-school collects ?”
“One day I shall know “bout ‘em! Mudder said I tould go to

|
|
Sunday-school with the chillen, one day.”

“So you shall, and be one of the dear lambs of Christ’s fold!”
Grandina squeezed her fondly.

“Hs, I know; there’s the window in the church, with the
pictures “bout the Good Shepherd with the tunnin’ little lamb in his
arms.” Grandma smiled to see how happily Margery’s thoughts |

| strayed away from her own trials; but they soon came back; so |

| far, at least, as to the letter which was waiting.

| “Oh, but my letter, dwanma! Tell him I want to see him |

| wight-away-off.” |

| ‘Now let me read it to you,” said grandma, wiping off her |
spectacles.





|
| Pet sat erect; grandma began:







g





YOUNG CORRESPONDENTS. 57

“Drar Basy: Have you any name beside Baby Clapp? Have you dot any hair,
like Molly’s baby hasn’t? Any boo-wibbons and a long wite dwess ? Any dimples on
top of your little bits o’ hands? And any toes—O Baby, any little bits o’ tunnin’
toes ?

‘Have you dot big boo eyes? And did you bwing any paysings? I ’spect you
tould have Booty if you didn’t—till bedtimes. I’m your little sister Margewy—up to
dwanma’s house—and we’re coming down to see you one day, pitty shoon; dwanma
and I. Don’t know if Fursday or Fiday. And we’ll bwing you socks, surely, and
candy maybe. Be a dood baby, and don’t ewy tillywe come. I want to see you
wight-away-off. “SISTER MARGERY.”



‘QO dwanma! when will it be?” asked Margery, impatient to
follow her promise, which grandma folded neatly, and slipped into
an envelope, as she raised her voice and called—*‘ Bridget !”
orandma bade

Miss Maloney’s head appearing in the dcorway, g¢
her go straight to Mrs. Clapp’s to carry that letter.

‘Before I put on the praties ?” Bridget interrupted.

‘Yes, yes: and wait for an answer.” ‘The letter went.

Grandma rocked Margery, now docile indeed, till she fell asleep;
then gently laid her in Beauty’s care, and stepped out to mind the
neglected potatoes, and prepare some chocolate. When Margery
awoke, all was ready.

‘Dust a lovely dinner, and dust a lovely letter, dwanma ;”

was
her comment over her last spoonful of pudding.
Here is the answer that came to her:

“Swerr Lrrrie Stsrer Marcery: I thank you for sending me so nice a letter. I
am so sleepy now-a-days, that I could hardly be perlite to grandma if she came. But
some ‘Fursday or Fiday’ when I get waked up so you can sce how big my eyes are,
father is going to bring you home. I have a dozen white dresses, and long. And some
pink toes, but no hair—I guess not even an eye-winker! Iam so sleepy—I’m gaping
now. Good-by. From your “BROTHER FREDDIE.”



Little Margery. qT



a =













58 LITTLE MARGERY.
‘His handwriting is remarkably like his father’s!” observed
grandma, after reading it the twentieth time aloud.

“Do you ’spect Fweddie did weally wite it his-own-self?”
asked pet.

“Well ask him, to-morrow, when we write again.”

















TWO KINDS OF GRANDMOTHERS. 59



CHAPTER VII.

Two Juxps OF RANDMOTHERS.









ANONT undressing time Mr. Clapp happened in. Observ-
wy ~

) ing the slow and tender care with which grandma took

as
vir off Margery’s dress, he said,





Ou ed
i oe “Why, grandma, you had better get something loose

sasier for her and you—one of the short-gowns and petticoats of
your youth.”

“Tye been thinking I must make a double-gown for her to
wear till this clumsiness is over.”

“A gouble-down—what’s that?” asked Margery, afraid the
thing proposed might be a new kind of splint.

“We'll call it a morning-gown, my dear,” said grandma.

‘Oh, like Aunt Jane’s all twailing wound—buttons way down?”

“Ta, yes! if your father will spare enough calico and buttons.”

The number of yards and buttons was agreed upon, before Mr.
Clapp left his good-night. The next morning the cash-boy, (who
was also the boy Cash, having been named Cassius, and nicknamed
Cash ten years before he grew ambitious to be a merchant,) came
with a bundle addressed to Miss Margery Clapp.

Three rainy days followed, in which Margery wrote letters, and

Mrs. Robinson turned dressmaker.



















60 LITTLE MARGERY.

Ernest was their postman; bringing a letter to Margery on his
way to school, and calling for the answer on his return.

One letter to her mother, you may read:

“My Dear Mupper: Hugh and Will have been to see me, and Aunt Jane did
send 2 heap of Christmas Weeklies, [did she miscall our Christian Weekly? not a bad
mistake, however,] so I tan play with the pictures. Bessie will bring her shidders to-
morrow, and make a bushel of paper dolls for us. There will be six or ten big horses
for Erne. Dwanma is making a booful long dess for me. ’Spect you'll like to see it
pitty well—all birdies, and butterflies, and morning-glowies all oder it. My headache
ached last night. We had stwawberwy short-cake for shupper. Bwidget said there was
a nice cake for a little girl ; and I telled her, wasn’t there a nice little girl for the short-
cake! Dood-by. When my new dess is done, sall I tum home to show the baby ?
Dood-by. « MARGERY.”

The third rainy day saw the pretty wrapper completed. Mar-
gery hung it over a chair, where she might see it as soon as
she opened her eyes the next morning.

Quite early she awoke, and was in haste to be dressed.

“What short nights you have in your house, dwanma!”

“T think you slept uncommonly well, my dearie,” explained
erandma, satisfied with the ample sleeve she slipped on so easily.

The length of the wrapper suited Margery exactly. She was
taking dainty paces up and down the sitting-room, with her face
twisted over her shoulder to see if there really was 1 trail of morn-
ing-elory vines behind her, when her father came in.

“Whew!” he exclaimed. ‘‘ What a proud lady! But where
has my little daughter gone?”

‘“Tlere she tums!” laughed Margery, jamping into his arms.









TWO KINDS OF GRANDMOTHERS. 61

‘Now, farder,” she said, apologizing for the trail, by facing him,
and pointing to the tiny collar, the belt and pockets, ‘This isn’t
for proud, this is for comfor’ble !”

‘Ha! ha!” he laughed. ‘Shut your eyes now, till I say
‘Coop !’”

Which Margery did; then ‘‘hunted” a tiny handkerchief with

a pink border, in one pocket; and a letter in the other—a letter



from her mother, which grandma made haste to read.
’ (e)

‘Dear Lirrne DaveuTer: Ernest and your father each brought me a letter last
night. First I read yours. Tell Bridget I think bread and milk is better than berry-
cake for a little girl’s tea. Ido want to see the new dress, when you can come in it
to love mother, and Freddie, and the whole lonesome houseful that are waiting for you.
The other letter was from your uncle Phil. Your cousins, Kate and Harry, are coming
in a day or two to make us a visit. I send you my love, and a dozen kisses—ask father
for them. “MOTHER.”

Then father gave them, with one or two fresh ones that had not
beep sent. Then talked with grandma about the promised guests,
who spent part of every summer’s vacation between grandma’s and
their two aunties’ homes.

“Tt is as plain as Margery’s butterflies, that they must come here
first,” said grandma, ‘‘and maybe go to Jane’s, before they go to
bother Sophie. Yes, yes: you may say she is pretty well; and
she may say they could come now; but I’m not going to risk a
racket around her nerves for a week to come. Margery will be
content to stay as long as they stay with me. [Il rack my brains
for ways of amusing them—why, I may even have a_house-

warming !”















62 LITTLE MARGERY.

“Tn this weather!” protested Mr. Clapp, laying down a palm-
leaf, and taking up his panama ready to go. ‘‘ Don’t exert your-
self. It would be wicked. The old house and your usual attention
are sufficient luxury for the youngsters.”

“Do you think so?” said the dear lady eagerly. ‘‘I am glad
to have them come. Before long they will have only the memory
of a grandmother, and I would like that to be sweet and ever-
lasting.”

“Do not doubt that it will be,” said Mr. Clapp with much feel-
ing, as he stooped to kiss her forehead. Then, after a frolicksome
farewell to Margery, he hurried away.

Tt was difficult for Margery to send a letter by the postman that
afternoon, for grandma had company—of her own sex and genera-
tion, yet as unlike her as the moon is unlike green cheese. One
was a cheerful, fat old lady. She wore a pretty white cap like
grandma’s, and carried a work-bag. This was Mrs. Trimble. She
was piecing a quilt; and her bag was full of bright calico patches,
which she allowed Margery to sort and count, and buy and sell, till
she was tired. She had a large red silk handkerchief, which hung
on the back of the chair in which she rocked gently to and fro;
until Margery ventured to ask the loan of it to use as a shawl for
her doll. “ Dust a little minute—you ‘ll see how careful Ill be !”
while grandma feebly exclaimed at her pet’s boldness, and the other
lady knit away more violently at her gray stocking, and looked
over her green spectacles sternly. That was Mrs. Flint. You

would never have forgotten her name after spending an afternoon



















TWO KINDS OF GRANDMOTHERS. 63

in her frigid society ; never, by any slip of the tongue, could have
confounded her with Mrs. Moss or Mrs. Summerbell, gentler friends
of grandma’s. She was tall and thin; sat very straight; wore a
solemn black cap; having weak eyes, she protected them with green
glasses, in sunshine or shade.

Margery came with her doll, shawled in the gay handkerchief,
to visit them. She felt abashed under the scrutiny of the green
eyes; but under Mrs. Trimble’s smiling courtesy, and grandma’s
approval, she gained courage.

“Should think there was a great many doors in this room for
two folks !”

‘How many, missy ?” asked Mrs. Trimble.

“Only dwanma and Bwidget; and seven doors for dust two
folks to do in and do out!”

“Yes, there seems a great many when one cleans the paint.
The house is fearfully convenient—doors everywhere,” said the
housekeeper.

‘Should think you’d tell me I tould stay to bexust and shup-
per’

‘Fiddlestick !” said Mrs. Flint. ‘‘ Where is the sense of put-
ting up with that silly baby-talk, Miss Robinson? Been here goin’
on two weeks? Laws—it would have nettled me clean out of
patience in less time than that—no sense!”

“Different families feel differentiy about that,” said grandma.

“Tt makes the young one appear so simple,” pursued Mrs.

Flint, after counting her stitches.















LITTLE MARGERY.


















‘Not very,” and grandma’s eyes looked lovingly down on her
pet.

“ And then, [ always argy with Abner’s wife, it’s no kindness
to let them larn a set of ‘words to be laughed at and unlarned by-
and-by.”

“Youre half right, I suspect,” admitted Mrs. Robinson. ‘ But
I make a distinction. Mrs. Trimble here talks baby-talk to chil-
dren naturally. J think her heart is softer than mine. I never do
that. But when in innocent unconsciousness of any difference be-
tween her speech and ours this little maid says farder and mudder,
dwanma and Bwidget, I hesitate to correct her as delicately as I
would hesitate to notice incorrect English in an older friend. I hope
she may never be unfeelingly laughed at. Some of her funny
words she already laughs about herself. She will naturally
lose such talk, when she is treated as something more than
a baby, and comes to have some of the care of the younger one.
I am in no hurry for her to change her simple tongue or
ways.” .

‘“T think just so. Time enough for her to learn straight hard
words and their harder meaning,” said Mrs. Trimble, hugging Mar-
gery as closely as she dared, considering the arm.

“Wish you tould live here for always,” said Margery, grateful
for her appreciation.

“Well, it’s likely a marcy that her nose is out of j’int!” groan-
ed Mrs. Flint.

Margery put her little hand up to her nose, and sobbed, “I

















TWO KINDS OF GRANDMOTHERS.
knowed my arm was bwoken, but you nebber said anysing bout
my nose, dwanma !”

‘No, no, my child; your nose is all right; the lady is mis-
taken.” Then turning to Mrs. Flint: ‘I should be sorry to have
her understand that miserable saying—to have her look upon the
coming of the baby as anything but a great happiness. Run, Mar-
gery, there are the children coming in the gate.”

“Tell mother, Bessie, that it is Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Trimble
from the Four Corners, who are here,” said grandma, as they chat-
ted a while in the kitchen.

‘“That’s the weason this is dust a stingy bit o’ letter,” pouted
Margery, giving her scrap to Ernest.

‘Never mind,” said Bessie, ‘‘ mother will be glad to get it, and
will know why there isn’t any more.”

Ernest had a word in anticipation of his cousin’s coming—then
they were off.

‘Hope you wont wear yourself out, taking care of those chil-
dren, Miss Robinson,” sighed Mrs. Flint when her hostess sat down
by her side. ‘Says I to Abner, when he got married, ‘I’ve
brought up one family, I don’t desire to be pestered with another.’
So Abner, he went.”

“Well,” said grandma thoughtfully, ‘‘ I choose to live alone ; not
to be rid of the care of my grandchildren; rather, that I may be-
long equally to all of them. They do not see me constantly, to get
tired of my slower ways; but often enough I hope to keep on loy-
ing me. Then I do what I can to help them and their mothers

















equally—sew or knit, or even patch as an old woman can. And



love them, all alike—unless it is Margery!” she ended—too honest
not to admit this exception; and yet unwillingly, as if she wronged
the others in thought—this darling grandmother, who held an influ-
ence over each of those young lives.

“T have n’t been to Abner’s in two months—-they have all been
sick. Abner sent word [ need n’t come-—the young ones were so
cross they ’d worry me to death!”

“Did you not worry more, staying away? When Jane’s chil-
dren were all ‘down’ with the measles in the spring, I nearly fret-
ted myself sick because I heard so little from them; till I shut up
the house—sent Bridget off for a rest—and went up there. If I
could not do much for the sick ones, I was on hand when Jane
wanted to counsel with me, and [ tried to keep up the odds and
ends of housekeeping. Why, Betsey Flint,” grandma was getting
excited, ‘I should die of grief to-morrow if I thought my children
could not rely upon me !”

“Tf T only had my grandchildren! But they have all gone be-
fore me,” sighed Mrs. Trimble.

Margery came in from the kitchen, saying, ‘‘ Dwanma, Bwidget
says the tea-kettle is baked, and would you please tun out a minute.”

‘“T think [ shall find it boiled!” said grandma, going to Bridget.

After their early tea, a neighbor called, with his market-wagon,
to take the visitors home. Grandma heaved a sigh of relief as
they drove away; yet she had sincerely urged Mrs. Trimble to

come as often as she could to enjoy her grandchildren.



|
|
|













TWO KINDS OF GRANDMOTHERS. 67










“Dwanma,” said Margery, in the ‘“blind-man’s holiday” which
invariably found those two resting in the old rocker—‘‘ Dwanma,
dear ;” and the little hand stroked the soft, thin cheek that was not
resting on her curls; ‘I’m dlad that Miss Fint isn’t you—-or you
isn’t that Miss Fint!”

“T guess I know what you mean, Margery; and I guess I’m
glad too!”















LITTLE MARGERY.



CHAPTER VIII.
GRANDMA'S Flouse-W ARMING.

JXRANDMA ROBINSON'S cottage held more than its usual
share of light hearts the next Saturday. Merry laughter
and snatches of songs, whistling and little screams of de-

cf light floated through the Venitian blinds, exacting a smile
of every passer-by.

There were Kate and Harry, the dear cousins from Po’keepsie.
There were the four hearty, pretty children from the house on the
hill, besides Bessie and Ernest. Of course, our Margery was there,
and Molly Brown had been invited to spend the afternoon, and
they were each as happy as the June day was long.

Grandma was in the kitchen. A warm morning for baking,
but she was serene even then and there. Her even temperament
seemed to modify the heats of that place. Her mental thermometer
marks no extremes, in midwinter or the perplexity of a midsummer
baking-day.

Little Margery slyly slipped in and out of the kitchen many

times ; being in grandma’s confidence, she knew how many party-

pies and little folks’ cakes were baking.
Will Blair invariably followed Margery, provoking Hugh to de-

clare that Will had as much curiosity as a girl.















GRANDMA’S HOUSE-WARMING. 69 ||






“Oh, he’s dust as firsty as he can be!” Margery exclaimed.
‘“He’s drinked six or ‘leven times!”
All romped awhile. But finding that kind of fun overheating,
they quieted down to story-telling. |
‘Let each one tell something we have seen, or done, or heard,”
proposed Kate ; ‘that will be better than Mother Goose, if it is not
so good as Grimm.”
“Then youll please begin, to show us dull fellows what you
mean,” said Hugh, lying down on the rug, and fanning himself with
‘his hat.
Kate’s arm was thrown lovingly around Margery Blair’s neck,
as she began: |
“Tl tell you about my first pair of gloves. My mother went |



to Boston, and cousin Rose came to keep house for us, while mother |
was away. She slept with me—oh, how I love her!” Kate’s arm |
gave a squeeze fierce enough for the Rose far away and the Mar- |
gery near. ‘“‘On a Saturday night there came a fat letter from
mother. In it was a pair of lovely green kid gloves, with gauntlet
cuffs, stitched with pink silk, oh, just de-autiful/ Of course, I felt |
like sitting up all night to admire them; but cousin Rose coaxed
me to bed, by promising they should stay under my pillow. Sun-
day morning I was awake by daylight, and very softly I slipped
my hand under the pillow and pulled out my gloves. It was so
early I could not see them, but I felt how soft they were, smooth-
ing them against my cheek. I should n’t wonder if I kissed ’em!
At last I put them on, slow and careful, yet with one tug at the




























70 LITTLE MARGERY.

buttons my hand slipped into Rose’s face. Then I scarcely breath-
ed fora minute. I knew Rose liked a long nap Sunday mornings.
The robins were singing loud enough to wake anybody. I was
trying to button the other glove, when she roused and said, just a
little bit cross, ‘What in the world opened your eyes so early ?
Not the sun, [ am sure.’ Then she turned over for more sleep.
But a notion of what I was doing made her turn back again and
fold down the counterpane. I was so ’shamed my hands lay still
in the green kid gloves.

“Oh, how Rose laughed and hugged me! You should see her
now, show how I petted the gloves in church that morning. How
I spread my fingers and smiled at the smooth palm; then, how I
shut my hand and went down the pretty stitching on the back of
one glove with the sharp forefinger of the other; O dear, I don’t
believe any other pair of gloves can ever look so pretty to me !”

“Ah, you girls are all proud, alike!” said Hugh teazingly.

“Proud, indeed !” laughed his sister. ‘‘ Did not Hughie Blair
ery because he had to wear aprons ?”

“Only because father didn’t wear aprons!” maintained Hugh.

{77



“But, I say, I’m getting awfully h
“Hot?” said Margery Blair; ‘‘stop teazing Bessie, and keep
quiet, if you care to keep cool.”
‘Missed it!” chuckled Hugh, ‘I’m cool as a water-melon !”
“ Awfully happy he is,” suggested Bessie; ‘‘I’m sure we all
ane,
“Yes, and no,” said Hugh.























GRANDMA’S HOUSE-WARMING. 71

“You are awfully Hugh,” said Ernest ; at which the rest laugh-
ed. heartily.

“ Awfully hungry, [ guess, Hughie,” said grandma.

“Right, grandma,” said the lad blushing; ‘TI didn’t mean to
complain, but the oven perfumery has tickled my appetite an hour
or more, and made me interrupt our story-telling. Beg pardon, girls.”

“Granted, if you tell the next story,” Kate said.

“Grandina,” asked Hugh, ‘‘have you heard about our Will’s
hunt after cousin Margery’s balance ?”

‘No, dear,” answered grandma, lifting her pet into her lap as
she dropped into her low rocker.

“Why, you see, he heard some one say that Margery might
have been leaning over the banister and lost her balance. So he
went into the hall, and hunted all around to find it; said he did n’t
know if it was a plaything or a candy, ha, ha, ha!” the joke seem-
ed as good as new to that joker.

“We'll hope she may not lose it again, Will,” grandma said
with a shudder.

Then Margery Blair laughed aloud, as she asked, ‘‘Grandma,
do you remember the first time mother trusted Hugh to come here
alone on an errand? She told him not to stay long, or she should
worry about him; and he said, so manly, ‘You need n’t, mamma ;
if anything hurts me, /’U/ telegraph,’ with about as much sense of
how he could reach a telegram, as of reaching a rainbow.”

‘“S’pose he thought he could jump up and pull the wire, like a
strap in a horse-car,” said Harry.











LITTLE MARGERY.





“Ah, but grandma,” Kate exclaimed, ‘I have not told you
what a brave thing Harry did one day last winter. He and I
were walking up a lonesome street, when a drove of cattle turned a
corner just before us, and came running down the hill. Some ran |
with their heads down, making furious plunges, as if bound to hook |
something; others tossed their heads high, and looked frightfully
wild. There was no stoop hear, so we ran back a little and dodged
into a gateway, Harry keeping bravely in front while the drove
went by. Oh, how fast my heart beat then !”

“Pooh!” said Harry, blushing a little under the gaze of all
those loving eyes. ‘‘ Would you think I could let a girl stand be-
tween me and a scare, for I guess it was no more.”

Then Ernest said modestly, ‘Grandma, you have heard about
Bessie carrying me over a muddy street, and running with me in
her arms to get me so far away from some bad boys, that I could
not hear them swear, when I was most as heavy and as high as she
was. Wasn't she a good sister, grandma ?”



“Yes, my boy; and see in these two stories are two kinds of
/ courage; Harry protected Kate from probable danger, while Bessie

was equally faithful and brave; nay, nay, it is worse to hurt the
| soul than the body.” |
‘Are not our little cousins to give a story?” Harry asked, |
after grandma’s words had been considered in silence a while.
Belle said said she could not tell anything better than,

|
|
|
|
|
| |
“Mistress McShottle |
Lived in a coal-scuttle,















ere
Page

UZ
Ze
Life

oF
SSO



“HARRY KEEPING BRAVELY IN FRONT.”









HOUSE-WARMING.

GRANDMA’S

Along with her dog and her eat;
What they did I can’t tell,
But I know very well

That none of the party were fat.”

‘ Now, little Margery.”
“Oh, I’m awful so warm, I dess I don’t ‘member any story.”

7

‘Something very short will do, dear,” grandma said, encoura-
ging her. “TI hear Bridget mashing the potatoes.”

‘“S’pose I tould tell
«“é¢ Trot, trot to Boston, to buy a penny bun,
When we got to Boston, wasn’t any done ;

Trotted back to Boston, to buy a johnny-cake,
Trotted right home again, wasn’t any baked.’

“Then

dwanma 2”

I s’pose they had to make pancakes, don’t you,

“Very likely,” answered grandma, as they were called to
a chicken dinner, in which there were wishbones, and drumsticks,
and hearts enough to satisfy the demands of each guest-—a dinner
which was complimented by grateful words and sharp appetites.

Margery’s dessert was spoiled; she had not the heart to pick
one raisin out of the rice, after catching Bridget’s signal to Mrs.
Robinson that the doctor had come.

Although he was very chatty and jovial in his visits to Margery,
she could not overcome a dread of his touching her. This time he
came to remove the splints and bandage from her arm. She was

afraid to move it; the shrivelled skin frightened her; she begged





Little Margery.









ios |







him to put the arm in the sling, at least, for fear it would break
again.

“And now I tan do home to my~—-own—-house, and see my—
own—dear mudder,” she said, as she watched the doctor's gig roll
away.

‘“'To leave me so lonely ?” sighed grandma.

Margery’s heart was touched. ‘‘ But you tould tum too. Such
a little bit o’ way, dwanma”—the curly head leaned over the win-
dow sill-—‘‘dust out the gate and down the stweet. Oh, and the



baby’s there; we must do, dwanma! See there—a little gale
maybe—O dwanma, it’s Molly Bwown !”

Surely, as the children drew nearer, there was no doubt that
her smiles, and dimples, and beautiful doll belonged to Molly
Bwown.

Ernest and Hugh had escorted Harry down to their father’s
store to play merchant, and Will went as clerk, after promising his
best behavior. Margery Blair having found a well-worn copy of
““Wide, Wide World,” she and Kate were reviewing it in the cool
parlor.

Belle Blair, Molly, and little Margery seemed sufficient com-
pany for each other; yet when grandma’s afternoon nap was over,
and she sat down to finish a pair of blue socks, the children were
delighted to have her so near. She was a precious ally ; she could
suggest plays and advise about dividing the “things” when, fore-
shadowing her future, each little girl chose a corner, to make a
self.



home for her very—own









GRANDMA’S HOUSE-WARMING. 17

‘Now let’s dress up with long trails,” proposed Molly.
“T don’t care for trails; I’d rather have a dolly,” said Belle,



while Molly and Margery each held her own; ‘who ever heard of
anybody's keeping house without even one dolly !”
“Why, dwanma don’t have any chillen,” said Margery.

a

“Surely, [ll be grandma, if



O grandma, isn’t there an old
cap ready for me?” Belle asked.

“Yes, yes; saved for you.” And grandma found it in her
closet ; rather yellow, with ruches limp and pipings flattened ; hay-
ing reached the exact age when, to each grand-daughter in turn,
her pretty caps were given for doll-millinery.

“Now, then,” said Belle, as she tied the strings under her
double-chin, and thanked grandma with a kiss; “I ll be grandma,
and wont want a trail; but oh! wont I have to be good; can’t be
spunky one little minute with this cap on my head !”

}randma smiled at this compliment, taking up her sock
again. -

“Now, dwanma dear, will you please lend Molly and me those
bestest long, dong aprons?” asked Margery.

Grandma found: the check-aprons, which were worn on their
backs, and the mincing little mothers paced back and forth, with
heads turned to see if the effect were stylish.

“Pretty peacocks,” said grandma involuntarily, looking down
at their striped stockings and shoes.

Visiting from one corner to another entertained them till

erandma consented that the play should end with a very little tea-













78 LITTLE MARGERY.

party, at which tarts, (which Margery called carts,) and tiny pats
of pot-cheese, (which Margery helped as top-cheese,) and the



smallest of cakes, were eaten daintily.
‘“Top-cheese ?” criticised Molly.

,

“Oh, now, Molly, don’t be unticular,” said her hostess.

Next they played school, having grandma for teacher. Her
first-class went through the alphabet creditably, if we do not
except Margery’s wilful naming of the letters after her own family.
E was for Ernest; B was only Bessie; F, father; G, grandma; M,
mother, and X she could pronounce no other way than wax, ending
with ‘‘wax, Y, Z,” which made the other girls laugh.

Next came the class in Mental Philosophy, the dear old lady
teaching them the Golden Rule and applying it to their needs and
plays, till she thought they realized the golden idea as opposed to
most things they met in life. Margery quaintly rendered it, ‘“‘ Do



to other folks as other folks don’t do to you!”

‘Now may school be out?” asked Molly.

“Don’t be such an impatient,” said Belle, ‘‘grandma always
hears us say the days of the week.”

“You may begin,” said the teacher. Safely through the
seven went Belle, when Margery said soitly,

“She fordot one, dwanma.”

“T think not, dearie ; which one did you not hear ?”

“ Yesterday, dwanma; she didn’t say anysing ‘bout yester-
day

‘Ah, my blossom, we do not count our yesterdays; after they

ABP ied _ ae









AE I PCN E ae ea Saenroe aaa

GRANDMA’S HOUSE-WARMING. 79

slip behind us we forget them. But one day we shall face them all
again, as plain as this bright Saturday that is with us now.”

“T know, grandma; we shall find them in heaven,” said Belle |
reverently.

“Yes, dear, the record of them; and let us sometimes think of |
what Margery has said. Let us count our days as of great impor- |
tance. Do not let one to-day fall back among them, saddened and
blackened with naughtiness. Each night let us ask our loving
Father to blot out every fault, before to-day’s leaf is turned over.”

The hush that followed grandma’s serious thoughts was broken
by the arrival of the boys, who called out the elder girls, and
which was the prettiest and which the wittiest in the games that



| followed, you would have been puzzled to tell.
| Tea at half-past five came all too soon, for that was the sign
that the happy day was done.

Bessie and Ernest were saying their ‘‘Good nights” when
Hugh arranged that they should all walk together as far as Mr.
Beach’s.

“Oh, I wish I tould do together!” whined Margery.
| “Tn the morning, dear; we will pack up your clothes to-night.”

“Tell mudder in the morning, then, Bessie; and tell baby in

| the morning, surely we sall come.”





| 2
|












80 LITTLE MARGERY.



CHAPTER IX.

“ ome AGAIN.”

R

34 DWANMA, wake up and see how it wains! How
can we ever do home to my—own—house,: this
morning? O dear; O dear!”

Such was Margery’s fretful salutation, surprising



grandma as she opened her eyes.

‘““Hey-day! It rains, does it, dear? Then let us be glad; for
you know the flowers were thirsty, because they have not had their
cups full of rain in a week. The raspberries were drying on their
stems, too. O dear, yes; we’re glad it rains.”

Margery looked doubtful.

“ But, dwanma, I wanted to do home, and last night you said
we would wight away after bexust; and now I want to do dust the
same, and bexust is most ready, only it wains.”

Frandma lifted her curtain, saying, ‘It rains sure enough; but
the clouds are breaking and we shall see blue sky pretty soon, I
think.”

‘* But wont the shide-walks be awful-so-wet, and little ewicks 0’
water in the dutters so I tan’t wear my button-shoes ?” cried the

child.
“Not if the sun shines.” Of which, however, there was yet















“HOME AGAIN.” 81



so slight a promise in the sky, that grandma changed the subject.

‘“T heard somebody counting in the night, from one, two, right up
to twenty. What were you dreaming about ?”

“There!” exclaimed Margery triumphantly, ‘did n’t I tell you
I tould talk in my sleep? S’pect I was playing school over again ;
but see, dwanma, the wain wains faster, wight down between my—
own—house and me. I most know the sun wont shine to-day.”

“At any rate, I hope we shall have no sprinkles z-doors, no
clouds scowling over my breakfast-table.”

Margery was feeling her disappointment sorely.

‘Margery, when you broke my vase the other day, and I was
grieving because my vase was so dear, and my child so careless,
what did you say to me ?”



| Somebody’s head drooped humbly. ‘‘I telled you, pese tould
n’t you talk “bout something else ?”

“Yes, you did; and it was quite sensible, for crying could not
mend it. Now can’t you take a little of your own advice ?”



Margery looked up brightly and said, ‘‘ Why I did—that day
IT talked ‘bout something ’sides the vase, wight away.”

Mrs. Robinson thought of the man who was willing to sacri-
fice his wife’s relations on the battle-field.

“ But try it this minute, little girl; stop fretting, and see how |



| happy you can be. Promise me, with a kiss.”
\ : - : :
| Margery promised, and by the time she was dressed in her

rose from her morning prayer, she could not help saying, ‘Maybe



| Sunday best, the weather seemed quite forgotten. But when she
|











82 LITTLE MARGERY.

next time I sall kneel by my mudder’s knee. I’m so dlad I tan
fold my two hands once more, dwanma.”

After breakfast grandma sat down to read her Bible. Pet
asked for a story that had a picture in it. It happened that the
first picture they found represented Daniel in the lions’ den.

The beseeching attitude, the upturned gaze of the trusting man,
the subdued fiereeness of the lions, fascinated the child. She
leaned heavily on the opposite page upon grandma’s knee, and
studied the figures long and earnestly. Grandma, the while com-
menting gently on the story, tried more than once to turn the leaf,
but the fat little hand held it fast and the blue eyes hardly winked.

‘Come, Margery, let us turn back to the baby in the bul-
rushes.”

“Dust wait, dwanma; I most know these big lions will snap up
this man in anudder minute !”

But soon a sunbeam diverted her gaze, darting in at the
window so bright, and oh, so welcome. By that time the bells
were ringing for Sunday-school. She watched the children and
teachers passing by; noticed the gray clouds disappearing in the
chase of the white fleeces across a deep blue sky ; humming to her-
self happily till grandma closed her book, and came to the window.

Stroking the curly head she said, ‘‘ Ah, here is sunshine warm
enough to dry off the pavements in an hour. I will dress myself
and make ready your basket for Bridget to carry home for you
this evening.”

‘““Pese don’t put the socks in the basset.”





















“HOME AGAIN.” 83

‘No, no; here go the socks,” said grandma, crowding them
into a very small pocket.

“Oh, oh, wont my baby be dlad

The tall clock in the corner was striking ten. ‘ You may

yy

stwike dust as many times as you like; you tan’t say bedtime to
me again,” laughed Margery, shaking her finger at the old dial.

Then she spied Bridget adjusting her ribbons before the glass
in the dining-room.

‘Going to church, Bwidget? That’s a good girl. Sit still,
and don’t whishper and ask if it’s time for church to be out. And
wont you be sorry when you don’t find me here for dinner °”

“And you’re ready to lave us the day?” asked the kind-
hearted maid.

“Yes; going to take care of my baby, Bwidget. Come and
see us, and maybe you tan hold him—his name is Fweddie. I’ve
had nice times in the kisshen, Bwidget; but dood-by, now.” She
puckered up her lips for a kiss.

“Can't you thank Bridget for waiting upon you ahways kindly
and patiently?” suggested grandma.

‘Sure and she said all that, ma’am, and more, when she said
we'd had nice times in the kitchen beyant. So we had, you dar-
lin’! Be afther coming back to us soon.”

“Some day, maybe, I ‘ll come and bwing my baby, like I used
to bwing Booty,” she said as her faithful friend went out.

Mrs. Robinson was folding the clothes and packing them in the
basket, Margery handling one article after another hurriedly.



















LITTLE MARGERY.



“‘T ouess there ’s many-er clothes than there was when the basset
came.”
“To be sure; here’s the new morning-gown.” Grandma was

folding it smoothly.

“The morning-glorwy-gown, you mean,” said Margery, helping

squeeze in the last pair of stockings.

The cover was pressed down and secured. The child, too ex-
cited to stand still, danced up and down beside grandma, as she
moved about getting ready. At last they started.

Service had begun in the churches, and the streets were very
quiet. Happy birds twittering about their nests in door-yard shrub-
bery, provoked canaries in the porches to their loudest songs. The
white cottages fairly dazzled grandma’s eyes, so brightly the sun
shone on them. The turbulent crossings of the hill streets had
quieted down into “‘ pitty cweeks o’ water.”

‘And see, dwanma, how the houses and stones and everysing
is washed clean for Sunday.”
eler

oO:

Arrived at her own gate, the little girl could say nothin
heart was so full. She clung to her grandmother’s hand till, un-
heard, they had mounted the stairs to ‘mother’s room.” Neither
had the mother any words fora moment. She caught Margery in
her arms and kissed her; held her off at arms’ length, then folded
her closer, feeling as if she could never lend her darling for so
many weeks again.

When baby awoke and was placed in Margery’s arms, she was
again too happy to talk, except with her eyes.













Z m re — oe =
SZ e : :

py

LLB

Ye



ejb:
gE

Ze

Ys, My Z

Ce
Y Yj ty ly





Ly
IOI



ND THE BABY.

TARGERY A

0









“HOME AGAIN.” 87



Mother, down on one knee, half-supported the precious bundle ;
for any one could see that at first this loving sister could not be
trusted to hold it alone. She must touch its dimples with her
finger, must stroke its smooth, bald head, and stoop to kiss it many
times.

They tried in vain to make her tell if the baby were at all like
the brother she had expected to find.

“Don’t seem as if he knows you, dwanma; but he looks at
me. O baby, isn’t you dlad I’ve come?”

“Of course he is glad,” said Mrs. Clapp, ‘but not so quick to
tell it as Bessie and Ernest will be. I hear them coming in from
church. Give me the baby and run to meet them.”

The greeting was a happy one. ‘ Where is your father?”
asked Mrs. Robinson, as the children came to bid her good-
morning.

‘He waited to speak with a strange minister that preached for
us this morning,” answered Bessie.

“© mother,” said Ernest, ‘‘may n’t we take Margery out to the
gate to meet him? He was not sure she was coming, but he said
he could not wait any longer; if she were not here he and I would |
go to bring her home.” |
| “Yes, yes; let her go.” It was natural to grandma to plead
for the children. ‘It is high time she ran about freely.”

“T see she is not quite so rosy as before she was housed,” her
mother said anxiously after giving consent. She went to the win-

dow to look down upon them saying,


















88 LITTLE MARGERY.









“Their father is coming up the street. Bessie and Ernie are
so excited they do not know how best to show off the child. Sce,



they are making a lady-chair of their crossed hands to carry her.



Careful, careful, my son,” she called nervously.



‘No danger, mother,” he answered; while Margery’s happy



chatter and Bessie’s laughter came up on the breeze, to the loving



mother watching the pretty tableau.
“Wasn't that a lovely arm-chair?”’ asked Margery, hugging





her father as he carried her up stairs.



‘One, two, three, four chillen, now,” she said, seeming to read



his thoughts as he looked from one to the other; for he was really



feeling an overflow of thankfulness, seeing how happy they were



to be reunited in their dear home.



“Margery counts all sorts of things since she learned to count



last week,” said grandma. ‘‘I took her across the street to make



a call one afternoon, when Mr. Doane and Ned happened to be at



home. ‘One, two, three ladies ; and one, two gemple’en,’ she said,





after sitting long enough to feel familiar. Mr. Doane said, ‘Ah,



you missed one lady.’ Margery looked around, and secing that I



could be the only one he meant, she added, ‘Why, no! this, is only



dwanma !’”
‘Then she can count Freddie’s fingers and toes,” said Bessie.





“Toes!” echoed Margery, with a little scream. ‘‘ Dwanma,



here’s the socks in my pottet, all this long day; course Fweddie



didn’t know you—he s’pected you would put his socks on when



you came!” she tugged away till the socks came out with a jerk.



































































































































































A
SAN
Sit













“HOME AGAIN.” 91



They were admired sufficiently to reward grandma, and to increase
Margery’s belief in the perfection of everything grandma said
or did.

Margery had no need to be jealous of baby. She was the
centre of regard—of courteous, loving attention, in the contented
family that gathered then around Mr. Clapp’s dinner-table.

In choosing tunes to sing around baby’s cradle that afternoon,
Bessie asked,

‘Father, can’t we sing ‘Home again,’ for Margery’s sake, be-
because we are so glad she has come back safe ?”

“She hasn’t been on any ‘foreign shore,’” said the truth-
loving Ernest.

“Weare barely sure of that,” answered their father. ‘Such a
fall as that which only crippled her for a time, has taken many a
little life. Our darling might have touched the other shore—”

‘The ‘shining shore,’ father ?”

“Yes, my boy; but under Providence the little accident did no
great harm; while it has made us all love Margery more tenderly.”

You would have felt sorry for grandma, could you have seen
her wistful, yearning look back upon the children (Margery calling
with a sob, ‘I dust wish you wouldn’t do!”) as she went out the
gate, returning to her quiet home.

Mr. Clapp went with her to make her going seem less lonely ;
but he knew better than to fancy he could fill in her heart or home
the place that little Margery had filled so long.

















92 LITTLE MARGERY.



CAT ASP Xe



JHE SUNDAY-SCHOOL J EACHER'S Yisir.




Le MONG: the sunny blessings which brightened the lives

Fef oye teacher, Miss Helen Ross.

= gor She was sure to be found at the head of her class every
Sunday, no matter through what kind of weather she walked
thither.

It was a pleasure to learn a lesson, knowing her smiling, grate-
ful words would be its sure reward-—her own love of the Bible
inspiring her to make its stories plain, its precepts beautiful.

Then she had always time for cheerful chat with her children ;
when the little troubles of the week were talked over, and her
advice, her praise, or her mild reproval were accepted as high
authority.

Afterward, sitting at the organ, her clear voice led theirs along

into the rich chorus of the hundred voices, which none could doubt

went higher than the arches overhead. Little echoes of those songs
and hymns were ringing about the children all the week long;
bursting from their lips while they were busy at work or play.

Yet, while Helen Ross made Sunday the bright “ First Day,” the
hopeful beginning of the week’s life, her care of her scholars was









&





THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER’S VISIT.
not limited to that day. Her heart followed them beyond the
school, and led her into their homes, a welcome visitor, where she
made sure of the loving sympathy of their mothers.

Bessie and Ernest Clapp proved such tractable and dear pupils,
that she longed to bring into her small fold the other darling of
their wise mother’s flock.

The week after Margery’s return from her grandmother’s, Miss
Ross called; the children were all at home, so the call lengthened
into a delightful visit.

Margery had been cutting paper, with small, blunt scissors ;
and soon after Miss Ross was seated, with her tatting in hand, the
little girl came to her with an odd-looking scrap, saying,

“Don’t you think this looks like a little bit o’ girl, sitting
down?” —

Helen found a resemblance to a possible profile, then went on
with her talk with Mrs. Clapp and the baby.

Presently Margery disturbed them hunting after that scrap of a
doll—it could not be found.

“Tf it had been old enough now, to have a name, you might
eall it back!” playfully suggested mother.

‘““T was dust a-going to call her Bessie !”

“ Anything named Bessie must ‘know enough to come in when
it rains,’ so I guess she ll come in sight soon,” Helen said, as
spatters from a passing cloud fell on the window-sill.

‘‘Q dear, she was sitting on the sewing-’chine dust a minute
’ oO oO

ago, and now she isn’t anywhere!”



















94 LITTLE MARGERY.

“Let me cut a fresh dolly for you!” said Bessie.

“Tt wouldn’t be such a smart little sing, as that one what’s
run away! She could wead and spell and wash dishes for her
mother !”

This was rather cutting, for sister Bessie disliked dish-
water.

‘By all means find her, if she was so helpful,” cried Mrs.
Clapp.

Margery pouted. ‘ Yes



she was ’most ‘leven years old, and
she tould tie up her shoes, and eat candy, and sweep stairs, and
woek her bruzzer’s ewadle !”

“Then we can’t afford to lose her,” said the mother, aiding in
the search. ‘‘ How big was it, Margery?” afraid she should not
recognize so much talent among those snips.

“As big as Bessie—’most ‘leven. And she was sitting on the
‘chine. S’pect she was doing to sew it some day.” Like the lost
treasures of some older people, its value increased with absence.
But here came a little joyful ery, ‘‘ You goodest boy, to find my
dolly!” and she flung her arms around Ernest, who had been the
fortunate finder.

After a while Mrs. Clapp proposed that Margery should clear
up her scraps.

With cunning surprise, little mischief answered, ‘‘ Why, what
ails Bessie? has she dot lazy while I lived to dwanma’s? She used
to be so nice and spry; she’s picked ’em up a hundred times!”

“But that isn’t fair any longer, you are so large; besides,











THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER’S VISIT. 95

Bessie has not been enjoying the fun of making all this con-
fusion.”

‘“ Well—she may sit wight down here, and ‘joy herself a little
while before she picks ’em up !”

Mother mildly effected a compromise, the willing sister helping,
till the pretty rose-colored carpet was tidily cleared.

Then Margery drew with a pencil after this odd fashion.

‘Shall I mgke a picture of a man, Miss Woss? Well: here’s
his hat’”—there was a triangle in one corner of the paper.
“ Here’s his boots”—two right angles in another corner. “ Here’s
his coat”—a parallelogram in another—eyes and nose, whiskers
and mustache scratched up and down the sheet; the child’s lively
imagination sceming to see them run together in proper shape, like
globules of quicksilver.

“Shall I make a skegar smoking in the middle of his whiskers?”

‘Not if he is to be my man,” said Helen laughing. ‘ Would
you like to go home with me to see my little sister ?”

“Yes,” answered Margery.

“Yes? yes what?” asked her mother.

“Yes I would like to go to see her sister !”

“Then say so, my dear; say, Yes, I thank you; or, Yes,
ma’am.”

Margery blushed. ‘‘ Yes, ma’am; yes, I thank you.”

Soon after she brought forward her playthings for exhibition —
first of all a headless horse. ‘‘Here’s my dear old Dobbin. He
used to be Ernie’s, but his head came off so he could n’t dwive him

Little Margery. 11













96 LITTLE MARGERY.

anywhere, so he’s mine. [ dust play he put his head under his
wing, to do to sleep, the way our birdie does;” and so, one after
another, her playthings were displayed.

Margery had a little hoard of candy, saved since yesterday ;
evidently this was the last time it could stand a division, yet she
showed her habit of giving a mite to each one in the room.

Ernest was telling Miss Helen a story, which saved his morsel



till the rest were eaten—Margery’s first of all. Then her roguish-
ness made her say demurely, ‘‘ Erne, good brothers always divide
if they has candy and their little bits 0’ sisters has n’t!” Which he
did manfully ; but she forced it into his laughing mouth saying, ‘I
dess I’m not a piggy!” and turned to add her pleading words to
Mrs. Clapp’s suggestion that Miss Helen should stay to tea, and get
father’s opinion about Margery’s joining the Sunday-school.

“Then sit down, and talk about it with your teacher; she may
not want you, unless you show her that you can sit still five
minutes at a time,” said Mrs. Clapp as she went down to bespeak a
clean table-cloth.

Margery clambered into her father’s chair, and crossing her
hands demurely, began to sing,

“Oh, then I’ll be an angel,
And with the angels stand ;”

‘Not quite yet, Margery!” interrupted Ernest.
She blushed, and explained, ‘‘ Well, we sing ‘bout Sunday-
school and sing ‘bout heaven, and I dot ‘em mixed up. [ll be

elad to go, anyhow.”













THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER’S VISIT. 97

“To go where, Margery?” asked Miss Ross, as Mrs. Clapp
came into the room again.

‘Why, both places. I s’pect heaven the bestest, but then may-
be I’d have to go alone; and Bessie and Erne will take me to
Sunday-school.”

“You will find the purest faith in her open heart, Miss Helen,”
Mrs. Clapp said. ‘Not even the schoolhouse from which the
children return daily, is a more certain place to her, than the
heaven to which ‘Grandma Clapp’ has gone.”

‘‘T wish all my little folks were as well taught at home,” Helen
sighed, thinking of some who had scarcely more prayerful influence
about them through the week, than if their homes had been
in heathen lands.

‘Our children receive Bible truths with such faith that it makes
life delightful, and takes away the horror of death. To them it is



only a sleep—a rest. The grave a little shivering thought of small
importance, while the waking up in heaven with Christ is their
joyful hope. My husband’s mother was very infirm. Ask Mar-
gery what she remembers about her.”

Margery had been chattering with the others, over the baby,
during this quiet talk; but turned, attentive, when Miss Helen
asked,

“Margery, dear; I did not know Grandma Clapp: tell me
about her.”

‘Oh, she was dust as old as she tould be! She had winkles all
up her face and down her face—oh, so winkled! And she tould n’t



















| 98 LITTLE MARGERY.
hear, ‘less you seweamed. And she was lame. She leaned on
a cane, and went so slow.”

“Deaf and lame—poor grandma!” sighed Miss Ross.

“Ves, but not now, you know,” said Margery. ‘‘ And she was
‘most blind, but now she sees!” This was said exultantly.

“How do you know, Margery ?”

“Why, hasn’t she gone to heaven? And ’course there isn’t
anybody there that’s winkled and sick or tired and lame. S’pect
| she sees beau'ful things now—angels and gold crowns, and Jesus.

You know ’tisn’t dark there



no, never!” Margery was a little
afraid to cross a dark hall.

‘“ And she hears, too, you say, Margery ?”

“Oh, yes; s’pose there touldn’t be so much music if some
angels was deaf and some was dumb. Why, little bits 0’ angels
| sing, and wear wite desses.”

She stopped, excited, to hear her mother quote the well-known



description, ‘‘ White robes are given to every one of them.”

And it isn’t dark, you know, mudder !”

“There shall be no night there; and they need no candle,
neither light of the sun.”

‘‘ And nobody is sorry there, ever.”

‘Neither sorrow nor crying ; neither shall there be any more pain.”

Margery rested a moment; the others were thinking. The tea-
bell broke the silence, and the father’s voice called cheerily from
below, ‘‘Why doesn’t anybody meet me to-night, I wonder!



Does n’t anybody want a father for supper ?”






The Baldwin Library

University
RmB vs
Florida





















Z ee

Se

EEE ELLIE:
SEL

LEE GLE
eames

Aa

———










LITTLE MARGERY.

BY MRS. M. E. MILLER.



AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY,

150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.










ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by the AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
















First Day at School

A Day at Grandma’s

A Visit to Mollie Brown

CHAPTER IV.

Homesickneds and.Fall-2+<-2--iveces leech si est eee cele ee oe eee ee doce eee eee

CHAPTER V.

The Mended Arm

Young Correspondents

Two Kinds of Grandmothers

Grandma's House-Warming

“Home Again”

CHAPTER X.
The Sunday-School Teacher’s Visit

CHAPTER XI.
First Day in Sunday-School

28






WSS SS SS
LSS SSSSSSSS AWN
‘“ ANCA \
SCA
AIAQNS RQ w
RIAN
OO \
QA ARAN
ANUS
LRA
\\ oO
SOO
IMMA AMArxo
NAC WOT
CA

NY EN

AN :

SS

WN
\
\\

S

WSS
\
\

\
\\
AS

Ze
LE

RN
AY
A
AN
ANS
X

tiv

\ ‘

NY
A
AN \

AN
A

Zp
ZZ
ZZ
ZZ
Zo

LE

LE

Zp

Lz

Ze

gee

x
Se
eee

Zoe

ss
Lee

eee
BE























MARGERY READY




LITTLE MARGERY.

CHAPTER I.
FIRST pay AT SCHOOL.

CHUBBY, sweet-faced child came into our Millbrook
school-house one morning, as a visitor, conducted with
trembling eagerness to my desk by Ernest and Bessie

Clapp, who introduced her as their sister, and promised
that she would not disturb the school. She did, however, as
much as any other bluebird would have done, and just as inno-
cently ; so that I could only smile with the children, and long for
the time to come when I could count her among my little flock.

She wore a bright blue dress and cloak, which perhaps, as well
as her song, won her the name bluebird, that day. A dozen times
she forgot where she was, and broke out in little melodies, some-
times without words, so truly musical that I raised my finger to
check Bessie as she was about to interrupt her. After a few mo-
ments she would look up and forget her song in her surprise at
seeing so many children around her.

After the first class I called her to me and asked her name.

‘“Named after dwanmamma,” she answered quickly, and so
comically that the children laughed in spite of my uplifted finger.










LITTLE MARGERY.



‘‘ And what is grandmamma’s name?”
_‘ Margerwy Smiff.”

“Then you are little Margery Smith.”

‘“Yes, I is.”

‘Did you want to come to school to see what Bessie does here
every day ?”

“Yes, and to drow bid lite Bessie.” She was in foolish haste,
poor child.

“What will your mamma do to-day, without you?” I asked.

“ Wort, I dess; twy, may-be. I tissed her dood-by, for fear I
should n’t know her to-night.”

Her straightforward answer amused the children so much, that
I shortened the interview, asking if she had a little lesson to say,
like Bessie.

‘Oh, yes, here’s the newest one Aunt Tate did teach to me,
‘tause I tut off my turl.” Folding her dimpled hands she said:

“Dere was a little dirl
Who had a little turl
That hung down on her forrid.
When she was dood,
She was very dood indeed,
And when she was bad she was horrid.”

Her emphasis was funny to hear, her ‘attitude and expression
funny to see. I dismissed her with a picture that-made her blue

eyes twinkle. ‘
At recess no one wanted to play away from Margery, and I
was almost jealous, wanting to have the little pet to myself awhile.












FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL.
I asked her to tell me another story, which she did in her own
crooked little speech, and which I translated to the following:
«Two little eyes, loving, bright eyes,

Shining as bright and blue as the skies ;

Two little ears to hear all the news ;

Two little feet to wear the new shoes ;

Two little hands, busy all day ;

One little body to get in the way ;

One little mouth to give kisses so sweet ;

Mamma’s little lady, dainty and neat,

With five little fingers and five little toes,

And what she ’ll be good for—nobody knows.”

‘How did those yellow locks get bobbed off so unevenly, on
her forehead ?” some one asked.

‘Oh, she did that her own self,” answered Bessie. ‘‘ Last Sat-
urday Ernest was going to market in the big wagon ‘with father,
and Margery cried to go. ‘To teaze her, father said it was too cold
for girls. ‘Could I go if Iwas a boy ® she asked mother, and mother
said she supposed so. She was busy baking, and never thought
another thought about it, for a while. When she called Margery to
come and get her little cake out of the oven, only Margery’s voice
came, so smothered that we ran to find her, and there she was,
under mother’s bed, with the shears haggling her pretty hair. ‘To
make me a boy, so I tan do anywhere with papa,’ she said.”

In the afternoon spelling-class a tedious little fellow was drag-
gling along a line of words of three letters. Margery standing by
my side followed his lesson by the pictures accompanying cach
word. When he came to u—r—n urn, she said quickly, ‘I aint












10 LITTLE MARGERY.



Erne, I’m Margery; Enre’s my bruzzer.” Then I could hardly
keep order, and bethought me of the teacher who “turned out”
Mary’s lamb. Only I feared the effect of such a proceeding would
be different from the ancient story, and both teacher and scholars
would be sure to follow the lamb.

When school was out, I sincerely begged the little guest to come

again, and I guess she will, she had been so well entertained with

the routine of the schoolroom.

We asked Bessie the next day, what her sister did when she
went home.

‘Why, she really thought she had been gone a long time, and
grown big too. She went up the front stoop and rang the bell.
Erne and I were waiting at the gate to see what she would do.
She could just reach the knob on tip-toe, but she managed to pull
it. Mamma did not happen to come soon enough to suit her, so she
opened the door and walked into the parlor, where mamma found
her.”

“Then what?” I asked.

‘Oh, mamma hugged her and squeezed her, and Ernest and I ran
in, and Towzer too, and we danced about and laughed, and Towzer
barked, and mamma laughed till she ’most cried when we told her
how Margery told the mistress she was ‘named after grandmamma.’
Mother said we had all better come back to school to learn to be
orderly—we had such a riot. She and Towzer were the noisiest
ones in it though, till Margery looked tired, and mother ran with
her in her arms into the kitchen, for her bowl of bread and milk.”












A DAY AT GRANDMA’S.



CHAPTER II.

ph pay AT PRANDMA's,

'T least one day in every week Margery spent with
her grandmother. You and I would have called that

v amiable lady Mrs. Robinson, but Margery said she was

“Dwanma Margerwy Smiff Wobinzen.”

Halfway between Mr. Clapp’s cottage and the schoolhouse, Mrs.
Robinson lived, alone, for grandpa was ‘‘asleep in Jesus.” When
Margery was to spend the day with her, Bessie and Ernest brought
her there on their way to school, and stopped for her returning at
four o’clock ; sometimes staying to tea, and taking as much comfort
as they gave. I know grandma thought they took no more.

Judge by the report of one day’s doings, if these were not gala-
days for her as well as her pet.

A. few minutes before nine o’clock she knew Margery had come,
for she heard the children’s merry farewells with her in the porch,
when in walked the little chatterbox—eyes sparkling, cheeks glow-
ing, with ‘‘Dood-mornin” on the rosy lips turned upward for the
sure kiss of welcome.

‘“Dess I be dlad to det here. The wind blew me all over. Blowed
my pankerhanker way from my nose, way up in a twee.”

‘How did you get it again?” asked grandma, taking off the
blue cloak and hood.
















12 LITTLE MARGERY.



‘‘Oh, Erne, he sewatched up the twee, like my titty does, and
dot it. “Iwas down by Mr. Beech’s house. Dwanma, was it dere
you dot beech-nuts for me next winter ?”

‘No, you crooked tongue. I brought the beech-nuts from
uncle Phil’s farm /¢s¢ winter, you mean.”

‘Dess I do mean so, but I fordit such a many times a day.
Last shummer ve’s to have a darden, and pick woses dust venever
ve vant ’em.”

‘‘Next summer, dear; don’t forget to bring some to me when
you come. See, here is something sweet,” said grandma, taking a
box out of a closet.

‘Oh, doody, doody; maple shuder. Vhere did you dit it?”

“My cleverest niece brought it to me yesterday.” And grand-
ma cracked it into little bits and laid them on a picture plate, then
sat down to her sewing.

‘Grandma, vat’s dat sing ?”

‘What, Margery: my emery ?”

‘No, dat sing that brought you the shuder.”

Grandma had to think a minute. ‘‘ My niece, didI say? Why,
that is my sister’s child, our dear Jessie Lisk. When you play
with your dolls, Bessie is their aunt, and rubber Janey is her niece.”

Margery nibbled the sugar and reflected, bethought her of one
boy-doll in the rag-family, and asked, ‘‘ Vell, ven your nieces hap-
pen to be boys, what do you call ’em ?”

‘““My nephews, of course.” Here grandma lifted the child in
her lap to hug her again and again.















A DAY AT GRANDMA’S.



“What are you sewing, dwanma ?”

‘I’m mending a dress.”

‘Vell, I has my shimble in my pottet, and I dess I'll help.”

Down she sat in a small, stout wooden chair that Mrs. Robinson
cherished, for having held Margery’s mother, and her brother over
the sea, and other brothers yet farther away. Margery always
“helped.” She must have a piece of the cloth in hand, and the
same kind of thread grandma used, then very close to her grand-
ma’s side she would sit as long as she could entertain one idea.

“*Spose I could sit a little nearer off, if I bodder you,” after
pricking grandma’s hand drawing up her long needleful of thread.

Soon she said her fingers were too sweet to sew with.

“‘Dess I'll do in the kisshen to vash my hands and see Bwidget.”

Dropping her patch properly into the work-basket, she sought °
her ally among ‘“‘ pies and things,” and there she helped and played
till Mrs. Robinson came out to order a custard to suit her little
guest’s taste. She found Margery standing with folded hands look-
ing on demurely, while Bridget basted a roast in the oven.

“T’se seeing to dinner, the vay mamma does. Bwidget’ll dit
it. I'll see to it. You tan do mend your dwess.” So she dis-
missed the dear lady of the house with a capable flourish of her fat
hand, and a competent look, that made Mrs. Robinson say to her-
self and Bridget, ‘‘ Ah, she’ll be a worker one of these days.”

Ah, me! if our grandmothers’ dreams of us were ever realized !

At dinner she said, ‘‘If you pese, don’t div me the easy meat.”

‘What do you mean?” asked the carver, laughing.










LITTLE MARGERY.



“Vell, I likes hard meat. The easy meat is so slippy.”
‘She uses the wrong opposite, you see. Some things are hard
to do, (and chew,) and some things easy, she knows. The word

soft don’t occur to her,”
gests it. Soft cheeks, soft hands, soft hair, soft blue merino, soft,

grandma, soliloquized, ‘‘and yet she sug-

impressible little heart and brain.”
“Did you know Erne brote his tart?” Margery asked seriously.
‘Where did the jelly go?”
‘“‘T mean the tart-waddon that he dwaws paysings in.”
‘Oh, his blue cart.”
‘Eis, ma’am, and farder toot it to the sop to det mended.”

“To the wagonshop you mean.” :

“T should say so.” Now and then even so small a person uses
a bit of slang, I am sorry to say.

“You should say so?” repeated grandma, looking at her over
her spectacles.

‘His, that’s vat I mean.”

‘Now, Margery Clapp, there is no use in your talking quite so
simple. You say shuder and shidders, now say shop.”

Her sensitive face flushed, and she stammered, ‘‘S-sop,” but
tried again and again, and finally mastered the “ shop.”

‘‘ But I can’t say shithers,” said she sharply, snipping her thread.

She was impressed with the idea of age in that house. Tired
of sewing she yawned and turned to the sleepy cat on the hearth-
rug, saying, ‘S’pect dis tat is most a hundred years old. Dess Ill
play visit, if you’ll let me dwess up, dwanma.”












A DAY AT GRANDMIA’S. 15



‘Yes, yes, dress up all you like.”
Privileged to open the wardrobe door, she said, ‘‘ Vell, [’ll dit
your bexust sawl.”

‘What audacity. My new breakfast shawl. Well, what else?”
was the encouraging question-

‘Dot any little umbwell ?”

“Umbrella? Yes, it hangs on a hook—there—over your
shoulder.”

“Ks, I dot it. Dot any dlubs ?”

Grandma handed a pair that lay in her basket waiting for
their thumbs to be sewed up.

‘Oh, oh!” laughed Margery, raising her gloved hands to her curly
locks, only then thinking of the crowning feature of a walking-suit !

‘‘ What sall I wear to do down stweet on my head ?”

Now grandma laughed so loudly that Bridget modestly opened
the dining-room to see the ‘‘carryings-on.” She was signalled to
stand still, for the child had gone into the closet. Thence she
emerged with a large fur hood on, all awry; and a black shawl in
her hand, saying, .

‘“Dess it’s such a told day I’ll put on this black woman’s sawl!”

Her costume completed, she said,

“Vell, now I’m a tummin’ to see ze folks. You Bwidget Wob-
inzen, how do you do?”

‘“Purty well; but I’m only a visitor, like yerself; I’m Bridget
Maloney.”

‘OQ ’shaw! Aint you grandma’s gale, and aint she Dwanma



,

|








16 LITTLE MARGERY.



Wobinzen? Vell, now I'll tell you; I’ve been down stweet to see
Molly Bwown. Her mamma ’s dot a meat baby ?”

Bridget put her hands on her hips and laughed; but grandma,
seeing pet did not think that quite pleasant, said blandly,

‘Indeed, Miss Clapp! What kind of a baby is that?”

“Vy, it ewies and ewies; and it isn’t wax nor wag! It seeps
in a ewadle, and Mrs. Bwown tell me to tum in and tate tare of it,
while Mollie and Bessie are in school.”

‘Yes, dear; you can help Mrs. Brown nicely, rocking the cra-
dle. But see, who comes in the gate ?”

The children were coming, and Margery met them demurely at

the door.’ They shook hands with her, well knowing that she was

for the time a ceremonious lady. Only a little longer, however,
Grandma’s things were put away by the tidy Bessie, and they all sat
down to eat maple-sugar, and rest. Then, a little more play,
before thé early tea that grandma always provided, knowing what
keen appetites children bring from school. At this tea-table, I am
sorry to say, Margery was a little peevish. Grandma saw that
Ernest did not relish his quince-jelly, so she kindly gave him some-
thing else, and passed his dish to Margery. She pouted and said,
“Who ’s been etien out of that?”

‘Fie, for shame, Margery!” said Erne, fearing grandma would
be annoyed.

The naughty sister answered quickly, ‘ Erne Tlapp, ‘peak when
you’m spoken to, and when you aint, not! That’s what your
farder says to you some days !”














A DAY AT GRANDMA’S. 17

Poor Erne blushed under this extinguisher. Grandma kindly
changed their thoughts, saying,

‘“‘T know of a birthday that is coming pretty soon!”

‘Oh, we know too,” said Bessie, ‘“‘our M:

Tuesday !”

‘Fs, mudder says Ill be four years old,” said baby.

‘Even so many!” said grandma; ‘but I know of another
- birthday ; on the very next Tuesday.”

The children looked interested, and grandma said as she filled
the smallest cup with milk,

“Sixty years ago I was a four-year-old little Margery Smiff!”
She sighed; then cheering up with another cup of tea, she quizzed
the pet, ‘‘ Now if you have your erinday first, I suppose you ’ll be
older than grandma!”

‘“T should say so,” quoted that glib little tongue so quaintly
that the laugh following became an uproar as they rose from
the table.

When the good-by time came and the bonnets were on, grand-
ma bade them invite their mother to come with them to celebrate

her birthday ; adding, as she invariably did when she kissed Bessie,

‘Tell her you have been good children.”

Her hand lingered among Ernest’s curly locks: ‘ My little man,
I thank you for doing those errands so ee Saturday morn-
ing; that saved me a walk in the wind and rain,’

Erne was a gallant, respectful lad, and his grandmother’ s praise
was precious to him.












LITTLE MARGERY.



Margery’s kiss came last.

‘““Dess you ester tum to me on my birfday. Do, dwanma; and
I’ll ask Molly Bwown and her baby, and that Il be a party !”
Grandma answered with a hug, ‘‘ Well, as I owe you some

visits, I think I’llcome. Bessie, this is as entertaining a visitor as
ever crossed my door-sill.” Then, with a final kiss on pet’s lips,
‘Only four years old, but old enough for me!” As they went out
the gate, kissing their hands to her, she closed the door repeating,
‘Old enough for me!”












A VISIT TO MOLLY BROWN.



CHAPTER III.

pf Visit TO Motty PROWN.

ITTLE Margery Clapp now and then visits a favorite
neighbor, Molly Brown, unattended by mother or sister.
On these occasions her dignity increases; we feel it; see
it grow; it is ‘pure womanly.”

A new baby at Mrs. Brown’s makes Margery restless this

spring; teazing every day, with ‘‘ we-al weasons” for going in to
rock it, to show it her playthings, or divide her goodies with it.
To-day she went in there, ‘‘all dressed up;” with a wigless doll,
whose colorless cheeks, and eyes without brow or lash, mock at the
name, Beauty, bestowed upon it by Bessie in her babyhood. The
cradle, which answers as well for perambulator, is older still, hav-
ing rocked her mother’s dolls; but the lamb at dolly’s feet is so
white, that you would suspect it was carried on the Italian boy’s
head down the village street this morning.

Molly is a little older than Margery ; not always amiable; she
likes to have her own way so well, that sometimes her playmates
rebel, and then follow ‘‘mimic wars” sorry to see. Sometimes
Margery gets down to the very street-door, declaring she shall go
home, and never, never come hack. Molly pouts over the banister,
waiting to see if she will really go; usually each relents, before the





Little Margery. 3








20 LITTLE MARGERY.



knob turns ; they meet on the stairs, make up, give up the ‘‘ bone

of contention,” and begin again.

‘““O mamma,” cries Molly joyfully, seeing her visitor trudging
up the walk; ‘here comes Margery ; now we'll have the splendid-
est time !”

Mrs. Brown’s welcome was as hearty as she could make it, with
her arm full of blanket and baby.

‘See, baby! I bringed my lamby to see you!” were Margery’s
first words, thrusting the plaster-toy into, or rather upon, the
cushiony useless little hands. Baby stared, heedless of all civility.

‘When you dits big, you shall wock my Booty’s cwadle, dust
like I wock yours. May I tiss the tunnin’ ’ittle sing, Miss Brown?”

“To be sure, dear; and hold it, if you like, sitting in Molly’s
low chair.”

Molly brought the chair, and Margery was seated, speechless,
overcome with gratification. To hold the baby, all her own self; to
feel its warm, silky little head on her arm; to pat its soft hands ; to
gently kiss its velvet cheeks, was bliss enough to fill her heart.

Mrs. Brown quite understood why the little nurse said nothing,
but bustling Molly asked, ‘‘ Don’t you like to hold our baby? You
isn’t afraid of her, I should think !”

“Oo, 00,” crooned Margery, looking down into ‘baby’s eyes,
‘‘dess I do love to hold her! Tunnin’ baby!” Then relapsed into
voiceless admiration..

Molly watched and wondered. Mrs. Brown was _ touched
“nearly.” She tried to make talk for Margery.








A VISIT TO MOLLY BROWN. 21



“Tell her to be a good baby; not to cry; and not to spit milk
on her clean bib!”

Margery echoed, ‘‘ Be dood baby ; not to ewy ; not to ’pit milk

Soon baby became uneasy, and Margery looked grieved and a
little frightened, and gladly gave it back to its mother; then the

y?

play began.
“Now, we’ll play party and have out my little dishes!” pro-

posed Molly.

“Oh es, well pay party,” assented Margery.

“Well, you be the Mrs. Brown, ’cause your dolly is in the cra-
dle, and I’ll be the Mrs. Jones, and come to see you, ‘cause my
dolly has got a new cloak and hood!” .

‘Not the first visit ever made to show off new clothes!” thought
the mother patting baby to sleep.

“Vell, I’ll be mudder Bwown. Sure ‘nuff; my baby has n’t any
hair; dust like your baby ?”

‘Just like our baby!” repeated Molly with a sniff, betraying
her opinion, like Mrs. Malaprop’s, that ‘‘comparisons were odor-
ous.” ‘Guess our baby don’t have a cracked head, and just glass
beads for eyes!”

“Vell, I sink Booty’s eyes are we-al pitty, anyhow!” ventured
Margery.

‘For shame, Molly; run along now, and be Mrs. Jones,” inter-
posed her mother.

‘How do you do?” asked Margery as Mrs. Jones came in;
then fixing her eyes on the Christmas doll’s new cloak and hood,










22 LITTLE MARGERY.



‘‘Dess your doll has dot a booful hood. Tan’t my Booty wear it
when I pay Miss Shones ?”

‘‘Now, that isn’t the faste thing to say, when I come. I'll ask
you if your baby is sick, ’cause it looks so bad.”

Margery winced a little, as older mothers have done, for puny
children that are always eliciting health-questions.

‘She had the tyfork-fever! But say, Molly, tan’t I show the
hood to Bessie?”

“T don’t know; you musn’t ask that the foste thing, either ; you
must say, Take off your baby’s things, Mrs. Jones.”

‘Vell, Miss Shones, take off your baby’s sings. Now may I
put the cloak on Booty ?”

‘Youre a funny lady ; I sha’ n’t take off her things, if you try
‘em on the fust thing!” said Molly, holding the wrappings, which
were more precious than the doll just then, closely in her arms.

Margery, discouraged, leaned against the chair on which lay her
usual pets, unnoticed then, eclipsed to her longing eyes by the
greater beauty. Her ‘two chins” hung down; her hand turned
and twisted her pretty blue beads; all the ‘‘ splendid” went out of
her visit. Fortunately, just then Mrs. Brown covered up her
cradled baby, came towards them and adjusted matters. The toy
tea-set was brought out, without delay; the original Mrs. Brown

providing ‘‘sings” to eat, and milk to drink.
‘Will you pease pass the bissits and the apple-hauce ; I tan’t weach
em?” said Margery, behind the tea-pot that held a gill of hot water.
‘“The apple-hauce, mamma!” slyly laughed Molly.






A Ly 7 a
i

Y
\\

WN

\\

tie
Z
EG

\\

yy) ‘ : |
yy Ni 0 : os
ch
a

Z,
3
op
SLA

Wy,
ah i /)
\ ‘A Uy ji, ie

Gif,
ee
BZ

==

ZA
Ze
oe

LE —p
EZ

LEZ EE

Sc
eg

ZA

ZB

ZEEE
EZ
LEZ ELE

ep

ee
ZZ
ee
ZE
Ze

ge

eZ

LZ

Lx;

LEE

LEE

ZZ
te

3

LIZZ

Ze
BZ
Zi

Ez
eB



LE
LZ

LZ

LZ
Ber

ME
LZ
ZZ

GE

ZZ

SZ

ZL

ZZ
ZZ

pn,

Zp

DISCOURAGED, LEANED AGAINST THE CHAIR.”

“MARGERY





A VISIT TO MOLLY BROWN. 25



‘Dis is dust the way I payed tea-party with a little gale in

Kapipsie!” exclaimed Margery.

‘Where ?” asked Mrs. Brown.

‘‘In Kapipsie; I dot there on the team-tars, with my mudder
and Bessie.”

“JT think I know! You went to see uncle Phil, in Pokeepsie.”

‘Hs, ma’am; and there was a blat woman dot the dinners for
uncle Phil’s folks. She was dust blat all oder, and touldn’t
help it.”

‘But she was good and kind, and made you nice puddings,
your mother told me,” continued Mrs. Brown.

“Hs, ma’am; and one day I dot my hands all blat, and I ewied ;
I was so ’fraid they would stay blat like Melissy’s, and I tould n’t
help it. But my mudder said she tould help it with a osh-cloth;
and she oshed it off, and now I’m all so fwite adin.”

After the tiny dishes were washed and put away, Molly gra-
ciously lent the beautiful hood and cloak. The pale ‘‘ Booty”
looked duller and homelier than ever to Molly, but to the little
mother-heart she was most lovely.

‘‘Oh, oh, I wish dis hole in her skote was not teared !” said she,
looking wofully at a rent that certainly appeared more grievous in
contrast with the fine outer garment.

Molly said to her mother, ‘‘Hear the funny little thing say
skote, when she means skate !”

Now Molly had revised and improved her first lessons in Eng-
lish, till her speech was tolerably correct; but the sound of zr or ur








26 LITTLE MARGERY.

she could not master any better than Margery. Her canary chaped ;
she had faste hate her hand, then dant it, helping to get tea, when
Margery had sympathized, ‘‘Oh, I sorry you donte your hand the
foste thing!” So, now, Mrs. Brown laughed heartily ; and calling
them to her, she held a dimpled hand of each child at her knee,
and looking from one simple face to the other, she said. ‘‘ Both of
you say skirt!”

“Sket!” said Molly.

“Skut!” said Margery.

Skairt, skate, skote, they could say ; then they were all laughing
so loudly, that they awoke the live baby, and ‘‘ The foste thing, it
bedins to cwy for my lamby !” said Margery.

At five o’clock, sister Bessie came to take Margery home. It
was a trial to take off with her own hands the pretty cloak ; to
carry out ‘‘ Booty,” with neither hooa nor hair, only a cradle-top
over her head.

Margery kissed her hostesses good-by, lingering lovingly over
the baby, whose kisses in return were damp, and rather curdled

than sweet.

‘“T say, Bessie,” she called, trotting at Bessie’s heels, her arms
filled with her treasures, ‘‘I say, tan’t you make me a hood, for
Booty ; she did look so splendid when I dressed up her in Dolly .
Shones’ hood !”

‘Well ask mother for some blue, and she will help me make
it this very night, I guess, if you want it so much, you precious
jewel.”










A VISIT TO MOLLY BROWN.



Mrs. Clapp had come down to the gate to meet them, and said,
“T guess so!” pretty safe in assenting to anything Bessie said—then
she stooped to kiss Margery, and latched the gate, so making sure
that all her lambs were safe in the fold for that night.

Happy home-fold! where both the parents loved and confided
in and served the dear Saviour and trained all their little ones to

do the same.












LITTLE MARGERY.



. CHAPTER IV.
fioMESICKNESS AND FALL.

DXRANDMA ROBINSON was going home after a profita-
ble morning-visit with her daughter, Mrs. Clapp. She
had mended a basketful of stockings, and sundry garments
for the little folks; had said that she must go, and yet she

lingered.

‘‘T am sorry to leave you while your head is aching so badly;
suppose I take Chatterbox home with me and keep her all night.”

Chatterbox and Margery being one, anybody who knows how
intimate Margery is with her grandmother will not be surprised to
hear that she danced about, delighted, while her mother consented,
and grandma brought out the new ‘‘dockey” hat, clean apron and
etceteras, hastily, fearing the little lady might change her mind, as
she had never yet slept a night away from her mother.

She fairly danced along the street.

“*Spect I tan seep wiv you, dwanma? Did you know I tould
talk in my seep? ’Hs, I tan; Bessie tells me "bout it.”

Arrived at grandma’s, she went to the kitchen where Bridget

sat sewing, to announce her intention of staying all night.

Bridget admired the little ‘‘dockey” so extremely that Mar-
gery felt herself under obligations, and offered to help trim her
new dress.










HOMESICKNESS AND FALL.



“Tt’s dust pitty, Bwidget ; is it cackleow ?”

‘“What’s that you ’re sayin’, darlin’ ?”

“Ts it cack—is it calkilow?” asked Margery, tolerably sure
that she had used a word big enough for the ten-penny calico over-
skirt.

“Yes, I guess it bees; and how would you trim it, agen the
Fourth of July ?” .

“Vell, now; if dwanma will let me take her button-bag, I Il
sew buttons all awound it, and up it, and down it; you Il see; we-al
sweet; see, I dot my shimble! I carry it forth and forth, dwanma

says !”
“Back and forth, I guess,” said grandma, coming in to tell

Bridget it was tea-time.

‘Then, Bwidget, you ’ll pese wait till morning for that powder-
ewacker-twimmin’?” said pet, turning back to the sitting-room
where she asked to be ‘‘wocked dust four minutes.” Grandma

did not tell her she had seen Ernest and Bessie pass on their way

from school. She ingeniously turned those active thoughts away
from home with stories about little folks—some of them Margery
had heard before—in which the héro’s name was left for her to
guess.

‘‘Once upon a time I was going to Albany to buy some flowers.
T asked a little girl with black eyes to go with me. When we were
waiting for the boat, looking down into the water, she began to feel
afraid. ‘O dwanma! will I spoil my tid shoes getting into the
boat?’ ‘Oh, no; not a drop of water shall touch your toes.’ ‘But,














dwanma, how will we get to Albany? Will you tell the boat we
want to go there? Does it have eyes? Does it see a road in the
river? And so she kept chattering till we were on the boat, and
she, indeed, standing in her kid shoes on‘a velvet sofa, looking out
upon the wharf and the people we left there, before she knew she
had walked safely over the water, and was in the blind boat.”

‘Vell, now, dwanma, I tan’t ever dess who that was, if it
was n’t Bessie !”

‘No, dear; it was your cousin, Margery Blair. And, by-the-
way, it’s a long time since I went to Aunt Jane’s—if you will stay
with me to-morrow, we will go up there to spend the day.”

“Hs, ’es, we will!” assented Margery, as they were called to
tea.

Pretty soon after tea, the big violet eyes began to grow smaller,
to droop and look mournful. The tired little body leaned heavily
against grandma’s breast; the limp little hands hung down; Mar-
gery had nothing to say to grandma’s stories, and grandma began
to feel unhappy and almost sick herself, knowing well that these
were symptoms of homesickness. Hearing a long sigh, she asked
cheerily, ‘‘ What’s the matter, little girl ?”

“T don’t feel as if I tould live till morning!” was the answer.

“Why, my pet?” exclaimed grandma, facing her about upon
her knee, and shaking her merrily ; but the curly head hung low ,;
she could not see the eyes, but she saw the rosy lips quivering.

‘‘T spose mudder wants to put me to bed now ; I spose they ’ve
had their shuppers. What will my farder say if I don’t bwing him












HOMESICKNESS AND FALL. 31



his slippers? And, oh, who’ll put Booty to bed?” And with this
last thought came tears.

“Why, why,” said grandma, ‘‘did we not bring Beauty to sleep
with you and me? Let us send for her.”

‘Hs, do,” said Margery relieved.

Mrs. Robinson despatched Bridget for the doll, and to inquire
about Mrs. Clapp’s headache.

Back again in the rocking-chair Margery said,

“You may wock me, but I sha’n’t be undessed till Booty
comes !”

‘Well, well,” assented grandma; and only the creak, creak of
the old chair broke the silence of the deepening twilight. At last,
Margery, feeling herself going, said,

“You may undess me, but I sha’n’t go to sleep till Booty
comes !”

“Very well, dear,” said grandma unbuttoning the little boots,
and getting the weary little body into its long white gown. There
was a heart-ache under the prayer said at grandma’s knee, and the
last speech in her arms was,

“T wish I tould see my mudder! Now, I sha’n’t wink my
eyes till Booty comes!” :

When assured that her whereabouts was entirely forgotten,
Mrs. Robinson laid the dear child in her bed, lighted her lamp and
sat down by her Bible-stand, wondering uneasily why ‘‘ Booty”
did not come. Bridget at last explained, that she waited for Mrs.
Clapp to finish a ‘‘hud” she was making for the doll. Grandma










382 LITTLE MARGERY.







admired the tasty blue hood, and rose to lay the dolly above pet's
pillow.

“T understand,” she murmured wisely to herself; ‘a peace-
offering from my dear child to the chatterbox she loves tenderly
to night !”

Early in the morning Margery awoke ; light-hearted before she
found her dolly; but then so very happy that grandma willingly
gave up trying to get another nap, and awoke thoroughly to enjoy
Margery’s satisfaction.

Mrs. Robinson, Margery, and the doll, started early for their
day’s visit. Mr. Blair lived at the farther end of the village street ;
at the top of a hill, shaded so agreeably, that the walk was pleasant
for these loving companions—the younger, expanding mind, reach-
ing upwards with continual wonderings and questionings; the
elder finding relaxation and refreshment in attending to those
aspiring wants, as truly as her lips found the sweetness of June in
the tiny strawberries pet picked by the roadside. Mr. Blair’s
whole energies were not consumed in trade, although ‘Blair &
Clapp” was the most thriving store in the place. But Mr. Blair
chose to live at the extreme end of the village, where his taste for
gardening found a few acres upon which to flourish, by an hour or
two of hard work before breakfast ; and after tea, for recreation, he
loved nothing better than cultivating his own vegetables and _pet-
ting his wife’s luxuriant flower-garden. His hobby was moderately
profitable stuff from his well-known garden, finding eager cus-
tomers in the market.










HOMESICKNESS AND FALL.



“There ’s some chillen behead of us!” exclaimed Margery.
‘Ohildren we know, I think,” said grandma; surely, when they
faced about, playing soldiers, and caught sight of our friends they

ran to meet them.

With Hugh’s good morning kiss, he said,

“T am glad you have come, for this is a holiday; teacher has
gone to a wedding.”

They were near the gate, then; and Hugh, seeing his mother
hastening to welcome grandma, caught his little cousin’s hand and
ran around the house to a verandah where his sisters, Margery and
Belle, were playing. Belle was a year older than the little guest,
whom they so warmly welcomed. Immediately Beauty’s hood was
shown and admired; then pet’s ‘‘dockey;” which sent Belle in
search of her own. Sister Margery pronounced the two little hats
near enough alike to be cousins.

By that time Mrs. Blair and grandma came around to the in-
viting coolness and rest offered by the wide open arms of the
Shaker chairs upon this favorite west verandah.

‘Belle, there goes Frank driving the sheep ; run after him; tell
him to bring more ice before he goes into the meadow.”

“Does that mean ice-cream, mamma?” asked Margery Blair,
thoughtfully untying grandma’s bonnet-strings.

‘‘May cousin go too?” asked Belle in the same breath.

Mamma smiled assent to both questions, while the fat hands
clasped quickly, and the little girls skipped away.

By the time they caught up to Frank, the farmer, driving two








LITTLE MARGERY.



sheep to the well-trough to drink, both boys joined him, Hugh
saying,

“T say, Frank, does my father mean to sell those lambs to that
horrid butcher ?”

“Sure, don’t be botherin’ your head about that these two
weeks.”

‘‘T hate butchers!” snarled Hugh.

‘But you like the meat they butch!” said Belle sharply,
making Frank laugh aloud.

“Well, see those pretty lambs—after we have washed them so
clean—I say it’s horrid if they have to go!” resumed Hugh.

Frank’s next words were not soothing.

“T confess I heard your father say, only last evenin’, ‘These
lambs in the door-yard are too big for playthings—how soon do
yees want lamb and peas? And that’s all. I know about them.”

While he was talking the little girls had been looking around;
in the grass at their feet, in the tree overhead, for a kitten whose
mewing they heard distinctly. Frank turned the rope twice,
thrice around the beam; ‘t Mew, mew,” came nearer to the little
girls’ pitying ears; when Frank exclaimed,

“Och, my darlins, see what I’m bringin’ up to daylight; your
wee black kitten !”

The little girls were trembling with anxiety ; Belle, who loved
the kitty, leaned eagerly forward while the bucket rose up to the
. curb.

“Steady, now; ah, for a small cat that’s quite a say voyage.”


1
\

ZZ

S = —
LEED







oN
NT Nes
At

iN





re

;
Caney
el





“FRANK TURNED THE ROPE TWICE, THRICE, AROUND THE BEAM.”






HOMESICKNESS AND FALL. 37



When kitty felt herself even with the green sward, she sprang
wildly off the bucket, and ran, crying ‘‘ Mew, mew,” through the
daisied grass; the little girls chasing swiftly ; while the boys were
left laughing. Hugh shouted after them, ‘‘ Who put her in?”

The fair little cousins losing sight of the kitten, ran back to the
house, where Mrs. Blair and her ten-year-old Margery were eager
to chat with their little visitor. In five minutes there was a con-
fusion about the name Margery, and grandma said,

“Tt is too bad to have given such a homely name to two girls
of this generation.”

‘No, no, mother,” answered Mrs. Blair; ‘“‘no one but yourself
fails to praise its softness, its positive melody—Margery,” she said
lovingly, stroking the wee one’s curly hair.

“Well, I wish I had two silver ladles!” said grandma, smiling
at the first namesake, who knew that grandma’s silver ladle had
been nominally hers these ten years. ‘‘ My two very own grand-
daughters!” she continued; then seeing Belle looking wistful, as
she stood beside her mother, she added, ‘‘ But Belle knows her
naine is even dearer to us, because—”

“Yes, grandma, I know!” the child said quickly, seeing the
dear thin lips quivering.

“*What’s in a name?’ eh, daughter? In the sound of this
Belle there is more melody than in the whole cathedral chime

for me. My other Belle sang like a bird the livelong day—are

we to have no singing this morning?” asked grandma cheerily

again.














38 LITTLE MARGERY.



The sisters sang readily their favorite Sunday-school hymns,
little Margery’s sweet voice and crooked words accompanying.

While they were singing, the boys came up, and lay down on
the grass beside the steps. Hugh fanned himself with his hat, and
listened respectfully. But queer little Will blundered into the air
of ‘‘ Precious Jewels,” with ill-chosen words which shocked grand-
ma’s sense of propriety, yet she put her hand to her mouth to cover
the smile that came, and stayed in spite of her till the medley was
ended.

Noticing that grandma looked tired, Mrs. Blair urged her to lie
down; led her into her own room, and shook up the sofa pillow
temptingly.

“There, now, I will close the door; and do you shut your
eyes to the well, and all mischief; we will take care of your baby.
It is so warm now, they shall play indoors till after dinner.”

Then she sent the little folks up stairs, to allow grandma a quiet
nap, while she went into the kitchen. Soon after she heard a triple
scream; a heavy thud, thud upon the stairs, and running into the,
hall picked up a distressed child, that sobbed,

“T wasn’t used of such stairs !”

‘No, no; oh, I’m so sorry !” said Aunt Jane soothingly, turn-
ing pale, yet keeping very calm as she carried the child into the
parlor, because that was the farthest from grandma. She laid her
upon the sofa; lifted the little arm that was surely, surely broken, |
and placed it carefully by its side.

‘“‘Oh, it hotes me so!” said the pale-faced Margery; while the












HOMESICKNESS AND FALL. 39



elder one knelt over her caressingly, and Belle crouched at her feet
.erying bitterly.
Hugh ran to get Frank and a horse. Mrs. Blair hastily wrote
a line to her husband. Rising from her desk she met grandma
coming out of the bedroom with a sleepy yet startled air, saying,
‘Jane, did I dream, or did I hear the children crying?”
“T am afraid you heard them, mother; Margery has fallen

down stairs.”

‘“Which Margery ?” gasped poor grandma.

‘Little Margery Clapp,” said Aunt Jane, tears coming into her
eyes and voice; she pointed the way to the parlor, and went out to

give Frank his orders to ride swiftly.





Little Margery. 5






LITTLE MABGERY.



CHAPTER V.

JHE MENDED ARM.

(Z32RISH FRANK rode as fast as John Gilpin — could
4 ' barely stop his horse at the thriving store of Blair & Clapp.
ed Mr. Blair was at the door as the horse came up. Sus-
Ne pecting trouble, he stepped out and seized the note Frank
handed to him before dismounting.

He called out a bright lad from behind the counter, saying to
him, ‘‘ Take this horse and go for Dr. Parker. Tell him a child at
my house has broken an arm. Ride fast—if not at home, track
him!” and the boy was off.

Going into the store, Mr. Blair walked moderately toward the
desk, saying to his partner, j

‘“T have a line from my wife—bad business. Margery has
fallen down stairs. Walk out with me, we shall be just in time for
dinner.”

‘How is she hurt?” asked Mr. Clapp, putting up his ledger
deliberately.

‘Broken an arm. I have sent Ned for the doctor— better
walk out.”

‘‘Well,” said the kind uncle, ‘if I can be of any use, or give
any comfort; but if it is only a broken arm, it will be but a short
trial.”












rah MENDED ARM. 41



Mr. Blair saw that ‘‘ the situation” was not comprehended. At
a loss how to explain, he quickened his pace: Before they reached
the corner, Mr. Clapp’s hand was laid heavily on his arm.

“Blair, which Margery is this ?”

‘Why, you poor brother, it is yours. Did you not know her
grandmother had taken her out to our house to spend the day ?”

‘Ah, it was something I heard about at home, that crept
into my mind when I asked.” There spoke the father, quickening
his steps almost to a run.

‘Nonsense, Clapp; you'll tire out at this rate of speed, and be
good for nothing when you get the child in your arms. Besides,
you know it is only a broken arm.”

‘Your pardon, Blair,” asked the other, offering his hand.

Mr. Blair shook it heartily, saying, ‘‘ That was only the voice
of human nature; forgive me for twitting you.” He slipped his
hand in Mr. Clapp’s arm, and the two went up the hill rapidly,
without casting a glance or thought at the daisies and buttercups
that had set themselves to music in little Margery’s heart and
mouth a few hours before. —

Hugh and Will hung upon the gate. Both looked subdued, and
chose to wait there for the doctor. Mrs. Blair stood waiting at the
open door. In another minute Margery seemed oblivious of the
pricking ‘‘hote” in her arm, and with her ‘‘dood hand,” stroked
her father’s whiskers, as he bent over her, and said, in answer to
some of his questions, ‘‘ You see, farder, I wasn’t used of the
stairs.”














LITTLE MARGERY.



‘‘No,” said grandma almost severely, ‘winding stairs are cruel
for children. I have always expected some one would tumble down
them—do n’t know but it is rather a relief to my mind to have the
dread over. This will be a warning to the others.”

I think not a word had been said about a doctor, before Mar- |
gery, for when he entered the room she was surprised, and inclined
to hold her arm as ‘personal property.”

He handled it carefully, yet the movement gave her pain. The
bone had punctured the skin slightly, and the doctor first laid a
patch of courtplaster there.

‘Ts it cost-plaster?” asked pet, as grandma considerately wiped
the tears from her pale cheek.

‘Yes, it costs—most things do,” was the dear old lady’s crisp

answer.

Next came the splints, which made the child open her eyes wide
with wonder. A little cry as the bone was slipped in place, and
when the long bandage was being wound round and round, she
dropped her head on her father’s shoulder, and did not look up
again till they passed the handkerchief about her neck, and she saw
the bound arm and straightened fingers slung neatly and snugly out
of the way.

Mr. Clapp waited after dinner till he could leave Margery
asleep. Fright, pain, and fatigue made her look really ill) A
parlor council decided that he should come for grandma and her .
little charge, with a carriage; that Margery should remain at
grandma’s house that night, at least, as her mother was no better—








THE MENDED ARM. 43

the accident would startle her, and the meeting would excite both
her and Margery too much for that day.

When our precious heroine awoke, the carriage was waiting at
the door. Aunt Jane had a tempting salver of refreshments for
pet’s first consideration. Then her father came in; cousin Margery
brought out the “dockey,” that did not now provoke a dimple ; and
the whole family followed them to the carriage to make the farewell
as merry as possible, for grandma was so nervous, confessing
she was ashamed of herself, and her child yet looked scared and
pale.

Mr. Clapp held the little one in his arms so tenderly, that the
jarring of the carriage did not trouble her. She did not grieve about
stopping at grandma’s house, but cried when her father was obliged
to go back to the store. Grandma was in despair. She wanted to
keep her quiet and cheerful, according to the doctor's orders.

She went into Bridget’s quarters, briefly explained her dilemma,
and asked her to come in and talk lively awhile, asking nothing
about the accident.

When Bridget entered, Margery said, ‘‘ Bwidget, dess I tan’t



twim that dwess for you now. Boke my arm, Bwidget—is you
sorry ?”

“Sure, darlin’, don’t be frettin’ about my overskairt; I’ve
put on a bit of a lady-like roofle, which will jist plase you to
see.”

“Well, Bridget, have you any house-news to tell us?) Anybody
called to-day ?” asked Mrs. Robinson.










LITTLE MARGERY.














She gave a little start of surprise, as the girl answered, ‘‘ Only
the praste! And what happened, d’ ye think, while I was tellin’
him yees was from home? Ah, I had jist brought up the bit of fish,
making ready to broil it for supper—’t was half an hour—jist before
yees came ridin’ in. Well, as I was closin’ the door on the praste,
I heerd a thump, and rushed into the kitchen beyont, and there
was the owld cat makin’ off wid the fish. I caught my dish-cloth
and bate her with it till she dropped the fish, and if ye ’ll belave
me, she was the cut-downest looking cat ye ever saw. She ll hate
the very name of Bridget Maloney after the day.”

Margery laughed at this story till she almost cried.

“Did you wash the windows?” asked the good _house-
keeper.

“Yes, ma’am, and thin—I thought ye wouldn’t mind, for I
locked iverything—I stepped down the street and bought a new
bonnet. Would you mind seein’ it, darlin’ ?”’

‘Oh, do dit it, Bwidget,” and the maid vanished.

The hat was trimmed with green bows and streamers. One
could see it did not charm the child; her praise was merely, ‘‘ It’s
pilty, Bwidget.”

‘Do I become green, ma’am?” asked the rosy maid, turning
shyly to her mistress, who answered,

‘Nearly, I think.”

After which the green streamers fluttered up the back stairs.
Margery lay upon the sofa, ill at ease, yet afraid to move.
Grandma brought a dear old round stand to the sofa, and on it was
























THE MENDED ARM. 45
placed small old-times china, making the dainty tea look like a |
child’s tea-party. Margery’s spirits rose; indeed, she sat up, |
without thinking of her clumsy arm; until Bridget, clearing their

leavings away, heedlessly asked how she felt; when she showed a
little dignity, answering,

‘“Comfor’ble, Bwidget. But oh, dwanma, when shall we do
home ?”

‘ By-and-by, my dear.”

“T want to do wight-away-off! ‘Less you bwing my mudder
after me. Sould sink she’d tum and det me, anyway!”

“Fie, Margery, fie! Your mother is not very well; while I
have nothing to do, but take care of you, and play party every day
till you get well.”

“Oh, I wish my mother was weller. I wish she would tum.
Dwanma, I want to do home to my own house!” and here came
tears, distressing each.

Tn a lull of the storm grandma proposed undressing. :

‘Oh, I s’pect I tan’t ever be undwessed till my arm dets
mended.”

‘Let me show you how I can do it without hurting a mite!”

Looking upon it as an experiment, Margery went through the
task cheerfully,and soon after slept serenely.

Then, leaving Bridget to watch, Mrs. Robinson went out, saying
to herself, ‘‘The hardest is yet to come. What shall I say to that
dear child’s mother !”

What did she say, and hear, was sweetly sad, and sadly sweet ;










46 LITTLE MARGERY.



but after it, grandma made ready to go back alone. She had
thought best not to take Bessie and Ernest; and was relieved
because they did not ask to go—only because she was fearful of
exciting Margery. But when Bessie had brought her bonnet-
and smoothed her water-proof down, again and again, till grandma
felt the lingering of her little hands, so needlessly, to be half-
caressing: and when Erne, with his big heart looking out of its
great windows—with his fun hushed down to sympathy and
sadness—looked up in her face so wistfully, grandma thought
aloud, ‘ll risk it! Children, do you want to go home with
me ?”

“You darlingest grandma!” exclaimed Bessie, grasping their
hats. Ernest lifted the basket filled with Margery’s clothes, and
the three went quietly out of the house, and missing keenly the
mother’s usual farewell.

Arrived at grandma’s, they tiptoed about, noiselessly ; and
spoke in the softest tones; till tired of such restraint they went
early to bed.

When Margery awoke, feverish and uneasy, she was surprised
to see Ernest, who had for some time been waiting for her to open
her eyes and take his good-morning kiss.

Bessie came in with grandma, trying to keep calm; but her
eyes glistened when she saw the sling.

Margery’s first words were pitiful :

‘© Bessie, did you know I dot a bwoken arm ?”

Then, catching a consenting look from grandma, Bessie sat on


























T TO GO HOME WITH ME?”

DO ‘YOU WAN

’

REN

D







LL RISK IT, CHIL

’

“T





THE MENDED ARM.



the side of the bed, and right down among her little sister's curls,
whispered,
“But you have got something else, Margery; newer, nicer,

what you've wanted the very most. Guess?”
‘Oh, I tan’t—tell me, Bessie.”

‘‘A baby, Margery: a live baby, down to our house !”’














50 LITTLE MARGERY.



A ECA Bia GV ale.

Younc [oORRESPONDENTS.

JHE morning after the accident, Aunt*Jane came down















early to inquire how Margery had passed the night.

”

She was one of the ‘anxious mothers,” and brought her

family bottle of rhubarb-syrup, in case the little girl should
be out of sorts.

She was the bearer also of messages of love and sympathy from
her little folks; besides a roll of picture-papers and a letter from
Will; his first letter, which sister Margery had written after his

scrappy dictatior.

“Dear Marcrery: Here’s some candy. Belle sends you the peppermints, and I
send you the beauty gum-drops. Be good and take the bub syrup. It isn’t bad: I
like it: and Belle likes it. Don’t cry; be a good girl. Come and see us when your
arm gets mended, and tell us ’bout the syrup. When you get better, mamma will let
me come to see you. Frank will bring me early, when he takes things to market.
Maybe Saturday or Monday. No! Saturday’s longer than Monday—I ll come Satur-
day. But if I can’t come Saturday, I’ll come Monday.

“Belle sends the peppermints. I’ll come Saturday, or Monday, or Tuesday ; if I
can’t come Monday I’ll come Tuesday. Then we’ll play! I'll play a good long while
with you. Have enough playthings all together—or, if you don’t have enough, I’ll
help you scare ’em up, if you’re kind o’ weak! Belle sends you the peppermints, and I
send you the gum-drops! Hurry and get well with rhu-bub syrup; maybe the candy
will make your arm stick better! Don’t you s’pose girls’ arms break quicker es
boys? Say, I wish you would ask the doctor !

“Monday, or Saturday, or Friday, or Tuesday, I’ll come. I’m ’most sure, now,
I'll come Tuesday ; but maybe Friday. Frank will bring me and the berries and things












YOUNG CORRESPONDENTS. 51

cameo



down with the me-ules. Take anything grandma fixes for you



cat-ternip tea, or any-



thine, and we’re all very sorry you’re sick—broke your arm, I mean—and we’ll bring
oO? ’ D>

you something, maybe; ginger-snaps, or something. This is a love-letter, (Frank
writes love-letters !) ask grandma to read it to you, and I hope you wont have to stay in
g , pe J J
bed. I guess I’ve wrote enough. I guess you’d like some of my pictures—of the
8 : YP
me-ules that’s going to bring me down—and here’s you in bed! Good-by.
“WILL BLAIR.”

Three times Margery had the love-letter read to her, then put
it in her pocket.

“An excellent tonic!” said grandma, as Margery brightened,
and turned eagerly to her pictures, which Aunt Jane explained to
her for a happy hour.

But after Mrs. Blair had gone, Margery was of all little girls
the most miserable.

She had not recovered from the shock her baby nerves received
from her downfall. She could do but little with one hand; and
she felt so restless that her dear grandmother’s wits were taxed to
find pleasant ways to amuse her.

“Will says if he can’t come Monday he’ll come Saturday.
Which is the day they wash chillens, and which is the day they
wash clothes, dwanma ?”

‘Saturday, when the children are home from school, is bath-day
in every good home, I guess; so that quite clean, and in fresh
clothes, they are ready for Sunday. Then, on Monday, the soiled
clothes are washed. Now, can you remember which is which ?”

“As, IT euess so; but before bath-day comes wont I be home to

my own house, dwanma dear ?”










|
|



‘‘T can’t promise, Margery.”

“But I want to see my own mudder awful-so-bad ; and—and
Bessie.”

“And baby, you mean?” Grandma's eyes looked so keenly
into the little girl’s that they saw a secret there.

“Maybe no, dwanma; ’cause when I want to-be took, there ‘ll
be no one to take me!” sobbed Margery.

‘Fie, fie, Margery! The baby is so little it will lie in the era-
dle half the time this summer. Mother will want her little girlie as
much as ever, and father too! But think how tall you are grow-
ing; how your feet hang almost to the floor, when you sit on his
knee. Before baby is big enough to sit in father’s lap you will
play mother, sitting in your little chair, holding baby yourself!”

“Oh!” Margery heaved a lingering sigh—but did not seem en-
tirely comforted or hopeful. Grandma understood the sore and
lonely feelings disquieting the tender heart, which, for the first
time, made the child doubtful of her place and welcome in her
mother’s arms. Fearful of the least germ of jealousy, she went
on:

“Think how’ Hughie and every one in Aunt Jane’s house love
little Will! Why, Belle and Margery would tell you they could
hardly live without two brothers. And now you have two to
love—two to love you!”

No answer; the little breast heaved, and the eyes winked
fast.

“We will begin to love our little brother right away ; until he






YOUNG CORRESPONDENTS.

éets big enough to love and work for us, we must work for him.
First, while we wait here to get well, we will knit him some socks—
what color shall they be, Margery ?”

‘“Boo—beautiful boo-—like Booty’s hood!” casting a glance to
| the corner of the sofa where dolly sat staring.

‘Well, blue it shall be! Bridget shall go for the worsted di-
recily.

“Then, when he sits on the floor, next winter, Santa Claus will

bring him a rattle-box, and a rubber ball, and how do you think he
will learn to lend them to you and Ernest? By seeing you divide
| your playthings and goodies, as you always do, with each other,
| and will divide with him—he ‘ll know no other way. Next sum-



' mer he'll take hold of your hand and learn to walk. Then, there
| will be fun and mischief too! Up stairs and down; and down the
garden-walks his little feet will follow; plump into the flower-beds,
perhaps; and you will pick the ripest berries and sweetest roses
| for him! He will laugh when you come, and cry when you go-—
oh! [can’t tell half the pleasures in having a baby-brother,” con-
cluded grandmother.
“ Now I wont have to go way down to Molly Bwown’s to wock
a baby! Don’t seem like we dot one in our own house! Oh, I
want to see him so bad, dwanma !”
Mrs. Robinson began to despair of warding off this home-sick-

|
|
| ness, which would affect the child’s strength as well as her hap-
| piness.

“Ah, me!” she said to herself, ‘what can I ever do! The
















BA LITTLE MARGERY.



doctor said she must not get fretted or feverish; she can’t be ex-
nor eat. I have it!” she exclaimed,



pected to sleep all the time

‘as she caught an idea from Margery’s ‘asking,

‘Do you s’pose he’s dot any hair, dwanma ?”

“Let us write a letter and ask him.” fe

She placed a chair in front of grandpa’s old-fashioned secretary ;
and as she sat down, quicker than the old cat winked at them Mar-
gery sprang into her lap. The slanting-cover was let down to form
a writing-table. Within were many pigeon holes, holding precious
papers, and tokens of old times; boxes for writing-paper and en-
velopes, well stocked, for grandma is the best correspondent in the
family, uncle Phil declares.

Margery’s big eyes dilated, as the paper was selected, the pen-
cil taken from the rack and sharpened; she leaned forward eagerly
watching the letters grow—‘t Dear Baby.”

“ What’s his name, dwanma ?”

“Don't know; we'll ask him.”

“T thought you could n’t write a letter to anybody, ‘less you
knew what’s his name!”

“Ah, I'll risk beginning ‘Dear Baby.’ Now I will ask him if
he has any name, or if you and I shall carry one to him.”

‘“T think Molly ’s a pretty name, and Hrnest—and—and Fido!”
suggested the small composer.

‘What next shall we ask him?’ quoth the scribe.

“Tf he’s dot any hair—like Molly’s baby has n't!”

‘There, I’ve done it.”
















YOUNG CORRESPONDENTS.

OU
or

“ And any boo-wibbon son his seeves. Oh—and a wite, long,
long dwess !”

“Yes—and now what?”

‘Any holes on the top of his little bits o’ hands.”

‘No doubt he has dimples, Margery.”

“ And little tunnin’ toes—do you s’pose he has, dwanma—little
bits 0’ toes?”

‘Oh, yes, to put into our socks.”

‘What kind 0’ eyes, do you s’pose ?”

“T can’t imagine-—have n’t heard a lisp about his eyes.”

“Why, dwanma”-—Margery was alarmed—‘‘don’t you s’pect
he’s dot any, to see with, and ewy with?”

“Yes, yes; but big or little, black or blue, I meant ; we ’ll see.”

“They ‘ll be boo and big, I dess. And paysings, dwanma ; ask
if he has bwought any. If he hasn’t, maybe he can have Booty
daytimes; but I tould never do to sleep without her.”

“There, I’ve asked him.” The page was turned. ‘“O dwan-
ma! will he know us when he sees us coming in the gate %”

“Chance if he does! Likely he does not know two such im-
portant people live here.”

‘“Well—who ’Il tell him ?”

‘Ourselves to be sure; here, we’ll put it down in black and
white.”

“Tell him one day we ‘Il come—do n't know if it is Fursday or



Fiday—but one day we'll come, and bwing him something. Will

the socks be done, dwanma ?”












56 LITTLE MARGERY.

“To be sure; we can’t go till they are ready to go with us.”

“Well, then, socks, surely; and maybe candy. Tell him to be
a dood baby and not ewy till we come |”

“QO pshaw! babies can cry and be good too. It’s the nurses
and mammas that are naughty to let the little hands and feet get |
so cold, that they make the babies cry; or the little mouth get so
| dry, for want of a little cold water; or neglect a colic when a hot
flannel may cure it with one cry.”

“But, dwanma, he ‘ll be too little to get a colict. Why Bessie



gets it, but Erne is too little, the teacher telled him.”

‘Hear the child!” exclaimed grandma. ‘‘ What do you know
about Sunday-school collects ?”
“One day I shall know “bout ‘em! Mudder said I tould go to

|
|
Sunday-school with the chillen, one day.”

“So you shall, and be one of the dear lambs of Christ’s fold!”
Grandina squeezed her fondly.

“Hs, I know; there’s the window in the church, with the
pictures “bout the Good Shepherd with the tunnin’ little lamb in his
arms.” Grandma smiled to see how happily Margery’s thoughts |

| strayed away from her own trials; but they soon came back; so |

| far, at least, as to the letter which was waiting.

| “Oh, but my letter, dwanma! Tell him I want to see him |

| wight-away-off.” |

| ‘Now let me read it to you,” said grandma, wiping off her |
spectacles.





|
| Pet sat erect; grandma began:




g





YOUNG CORRESPONDENTS. 57

“Drar Basy: Have you any name beside Baby Clapp? Have you dot any hair,
like Molly’s baby hasn’t? Any boo-wibbons and a long wite dwess ? Any dimples on
top of your little bits o’ hands? And any toes—O Baby, any little bits o’ tunnin’
toes ?

‘Have you dot big boo eyes? And did you bwing any paysings? I ’spect you
tould have Booty if you didn’t—till bedtimes. I’m your little sister Margewy—up to
dwanma’s house—and we’re coming down to see you one day, pitty shoon; dwanma
and I. Don’t know if Fursday or Fiday. And we’ll bwing you socks, surely, and
candy maybe. Be a dood baby, and don’t ewy tillywe come. I want to see you
wight-away-off. “SISTER MARGERY.”



‘QO dwanma! when will it be?” asked Margery, impatient to
follow her promise, which grandma folded neatly, and slipped into
an envelope, as she raised her voice and called—*‘ Bridget !”
orandma bade

Miss Maloney’s head appearing in the dcorway, g¢
her go straight to Mrs. Clapp’s to carry that letter.

‘Before I put on the praties ?” Bridget interrupted.

‘Yes, yes: and wait for an answer.” ‘The letter went.

Grandma rocked Margery, now docile indeed, till she fell asleep;
then gently laid her in Beauty’s care, and stepped out to mind the
neglected potatoes, and prepare some chocolate. When Margery
awoke, all was ready.

‘Dust a lovely dinner, and dust a lovely letter, dwanma ;”

was
her comment over her last spoonful of pudding.
Here is the answer that came to her:

“Swerr Lrrrie Stsrer Marcery: I thank you for sending me so nice a letter. I
am so sleepy now-a-days, that I could hardly be perlite to grandma if she came. But
some ‘Fursday or Fiday’ when I get waked up so you can sce how big my eyes are,
father is going to bring you home. I have a dozen white dresses, and long. And some
pink toes, but no hair—I guess not even an eye-winker! Iam so sleepy—I’m gaping
now. Good-by. From your “BROTHER FREDDIE.”



Little Margery. qT



a =










58 LITTLE MARGERY.
‘His handwriting is remarkably like his father’s!” observed
grandma, after reading it the twentieth time aloud.

“Do you ’spect Fweddie did weally wite it his-own-self?”
asked pet.

“Well ask him, to-morrow, when we write again.”














TWO KINDS OF GRANDMOTHERS. 59



CHAPTER VII.

Two Juxps OF RANDMOTHERS.









ANONT undressing time Mr. Clapp happened in. Observ-
wy ~

) ing the slow and tender care with which grandma took

as
vir off Margery’s dress, he said,





Ou ed
i oe “Why, grandma, you had better get something loose

sasier for her and you—one of the short-gowns and petticoats of
your youth.”

“Tye been thinking I must make a double-gown for her to
wear till this clumsiness is over.”

“A gouble-down—what’s that?” asked Margery, afraid the
thing proposed might be a new kind of splint.

“We'll call it a morning-gown, my dear,” said grandma.

‘Oh, like Aunt Jane’s all twailing wound—buttons way down?”

“Ta, yes! if your father will spare enough calico and buttons.”

The number of yards and buttons was agreed upon, before Mr.
Clapp left his good-night. The next morning the cash-boy, (who
was also the boy Cash, having been named Cassius, and nicknamed
Cash ten years before he grew ambitious to be a merchant,) came
with a bundle addressed to Miss Margery Clapp.

Three rainy days followed, in which Margery wrote letters, and

Mrs. Robinson turned dressmaker.
















60 LITTLE MARGERY.

Ernest was their postman; bringing a letter to Margery on his
way to school, and calling for the answer on his return.

One letter to her mother, you may read:

“My Dear Mupper: Hugh and Will have been to see me, and Aunt Jane did
send 2 heap of Christmas Weeklies, [did she miscall our Christian Weekly? not a bad
mistake, however,] so I tan play with the pictures. Bessie will bring her shidders to-
morrow, and make a bushel of paper dolls for us. There will be six or ten big horses
for Erne. Dwanma is making a booful long dess for me. ’Spect you'll like to see it
pitty well—all birdies, and butterflies, and morning-glowies all oder it. My headache
ached last night. We had stwawberwy short-cake for shupper. Bwidget said there was
a nice cake for a little girl ; and I telled her, wasn’t there a nice little girl for the short-
cake! Dood-by. When my new dess is done, sall I tum home to show the baby ?
Dood-by. « MARGERY.”

The third rainy day saw the pretty wrapper completed. Mar-
gery hung it over a chair, where she might see it as soon as
she opened her eyes the next morning.

Quite early she awoke, and was in haste to be dressed.

“What short nights you have in your house, dwanma!”

“T think you slept uncommonly well, my dearie,” explained
erandma, satisfied with the ample sleeve she slipped on so easily.

The length of the wrapper suited Margery exactly. She was
taking dainty paces up and down the sitting-room, with her face
twisted over her shoulder to see if there really was 1 trail of morn-
ing-elory vines behind her, when her father came in.

“Whew!” he exclaimed. ‘‘ What a proud lady! But where
has my little daughter gone?”

‘“Tlere she tums!” laughed Margery, jamping into his arms.






TWO KINDS OF GRANDMOTHERS. 61

‘Now, farder,” she said, apologizing for the trail, by facing him,
and pointing to the tiny collar, the belt and pockets, ‘This isn’t
for proud, this is for comfor’ble !”

‘Ha! ha!” he laughed. ‘Shut your eyes now, till I say
‘Coop !’”

Which Margery did; then ‘‘hunted” a tiny handkerchief with

a pink border, in one pocket; and a letter in the other—a letter



from her mother, which grandma made haste to read.
’ (e)

‘Dear Lirrne DaveuTer: Ernest and your father each brought me a letter last
night. First I read yours. Tell Bridget I think bread and milk is better than berry-
cake for a little girl’s tea. Ido want to see the new dress, when you can come in it
to love mother, and Freddie, and the whole lonesome houseful that are waiting for you.
The other letter was from your uncle Phil. Your cousins, Kate and Harry, are coming
in a day or two to make us a visit. I send you my love, and a dozen kisses—ask father
for them. “MOTHER.”

Then father gave them, with one or two fresh ones that had not
beep sent. Then talked with grandma about the promised guests,
who spent part of every summer’s vacation between grandma’s and
their two aunties’ homes.

“Tt is as plain as Margery’s butterflies, that they must come here
first,” said grandma, ‘‘and maybe go to Jane’s, before they go to
bother Sophie. Yes, yes: you may say she is pretty well; and
she may say they could come now; but I’m not going to risk a
racket around her nerves for a week to come. Margery will be
content to stay as long as they stay with me. [Il rack my brains
for ways of amusing them—why, I may even have a_house-

warming !”












62 LITTLE MARGERY.

“Tn this weather!” protested Mr. Clapp, laying down a palm-
leaf, and taking up his panama ready to go. ‘‘ Don’t exert your-
self. It would be wicked. The old house and your usual attention
are sufficient luxury for the youngsters.”

“Do you think so?” said the dear lady eagerly. ‘‘I am glad
to have them come. Before long they will have only the memory
of a grandmother, and I would like that to be sweet and ever-
lasting.”

“Do not doubt that it will be,” said Mr. Clapp with much feel-
ing, as he stooped to kiss her forehead. Then, after a frolicksome
farewell to Margery, he hurried away.

Tt was difficult for Margery to send a letter by the postman that
afternoon, for grandma had company—of her own sex and genera-
tion, yet as unlike her as the moon is unlike green cheese. One
was a cheerful, fat old lady. She wore a pretty white cap like
grandma’s, and carried a work-bag. This was Mrs. Trimble. She
was piecing a quilt; and her bag was full of bright calico patches,
which she allowed Margery to sort and count, and buy and sell, till
she was tired. She had a large red silk handkerchief, which hung
on the back of the chair in which she rocked gently to and fro;
until Margery ventured to ask the loan of it to use as a shawl for
her doll. “ Dust a little minute—you ‘ll see how careful Ill be !”
while grandma feebly exclaimed at her pet’s boldness, and the other
lady knit away more violently at her gray stocking, and looked
over her green spectacles sternly. That was Mrs. Flint. You

would never have forgotten her name after spending an afternoon
















TWO KINDS OF GRANDMOTHERS. 63

in her frigid society ; never, by any slip of the tongue, could have
confounded her with Mrs. Moss or Mrs. Summerbell, gentler friends
of grandma’s. She was tall and thin; sat very straight; wore a
solemn black cap; having weak eyes, she protected them with green
glasses, in sunshine or shade.

Margery came with her doll, shawled in the gay handkerchief,
to visit them. She felt abashed under the scrutiny of the green
eyes; but under Mrs. Trimble’s smiling courtesy, and grandma’s
approval, she gained courage.

“Should think there was a great many doors in this room for
two folks !”

‘How many, missy ?” asked Mrs. Trimble.

“Only dwanma and Bwidget; and seven doors for dust two
folks to do in and do out!”

“Yes, there seems a great many when one cleans the paint.
The house is fearfully convenient—doors everywhere,” said the
housekeeper.

‘Should think you’d tell me I tould stay to bexust and shup-
per’

‘Fiddlestick !” said Mrs. Flint. ‘‘ Where is the sense of put-
ting up with that silly baby-talk, Miss Robinson? Been here goin’
on two weeks? Laws—it would have nettled me clean out of
patience in less time than that—no sense!”

“Different families feel differentiy about that,” said grandma.

“Tt makes the young one appear so simple,” pursued Mrs.

Flint, after counting her stitches.












LITTLE MARGERY.


















‘Not very,” and grandma’s eyes looked lovingly down on her
pet.

“ And then, [ always argy with Abner’s wife, it’s no kindness
to let them larn a set of ‘words to be laughed at and unlarned by-
and-by.”

“Youre half right, I suspect,” admitted Mrs. Robinson. ‘ But
I make a distinction. Mrs. Trimble here talks baby-talk to chil-
dren naturally. J think her heart is softer than mine. I never do
that. But when in innocent unconsciousness of any difference be-
tween her speech and ours this little maid says farder and mudder,
dwanma and Bwidget, I hesitate to correct her as delicately as I
would hesitate to notice incorrect English in an older friend. I hope
she may never be unfeelingly laughed at. Some of her funny
words she already laughs about herself. She will naturally
lose such talk, when she is treated as something more than
a baby, and comes to have some of the care of the younger one.
I am in no hurry for her to change her simple tongue or
ways.” .

‘“T think just so. Time enough for her to learn straight hard
words and their harder meaning,” said Mrs. Trimble, hugging Mar-
gery as closely as she dared, considering the arm.

“Wish you tould live here for always,” said Margery, grateful
for her appreciation.

“Well, it’s likely a marcy that her nose is out of j’int!” groan-
ed Mrs. Flint.

Margery put her little hand up to her nose, and sobbed, “I














TWO KINDS OF GRANDMOTHERS.
knowed my arm was bwoken, but you nebber said anysing bout
my nose, dwanma !”

‘No, no, my child; your nose is all right; the lady is mis-
taken.” Then turning to Mrs. Flint: ‘I should be sorry to have
her understand that miserable saying—to have her look upon the
coming of the baby as anything but a great happiness. Run, Mar-
gery, there are the children coming in the gate.”

“Tell mother, Bessie, that it is Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Trimble
from the Four Corners, who are here,” said grandma, as they chat-
ted a while in the kitchen.

‘“That’s the weason this is dust a stingy bit o’ letter,” pouted
Margery, giving her scrap to Ernest.

‘Never mind,” said Bessie, ‘‘ mother will be glad to get it, and
will know why there isn’t any more.”

Ernest had a word in anticipation of his cousin’s coming—then
they were off.

‘Hope you wont wear yourself out, taking care of those chil-
dren, Miss Robinson,” sighed Mrs. Flint when her hostess sat down
by her side. ‘Says I to Abner, when he got married, ‘I’ve
brought up one family, I don’t desire to be pestered with another.’
So Abner, he went.”

“Well,” said grandma thoughtfully, ‘‘ I choose to live alone ; not
to be rid of the care of my grandchildren; rather, that I may be-
long equally to all of them. They do not see me constantly, to get
tired of my slower ways; but often enough I hope to keep on loy-
ing me. Then I do what I can to help them and their mothers














equally—sew or knit, or even patch as an old woman can. And



love them, all alike—unless it is Margery!” she ended—too honest
not to admit this exception; and yet unwillingly, as if she wronged
the others in thought—this darling grandmother, who held an influ-
ence over each of those young lives.

“T have n’t been to Abner’s in two months—-they have all been
sick. Abner sent word [ need n’t come-—the young ones were so
cross they ’d worry me to death!”

“Did you not worry more, staying away? When Jane’s chil-
dren were all ‘down’ with the measles in the spring, I nearly fret-
ted myself sick because I heard so little from them; till I shut up
the house—sent Bridget off for a rest—and went up there. If I
could not do much for the sick ones, I was on hand when Jane
wanted to counsel with me, and [ tried to keep up the odds and
ends of housekeeping. Why, Betsey Flint,” grandma was getting
excited, ‘I should die of grief to-morrow if I thought my children
could not rely upon me !”

“Tf T only had my grandchildren! But they have all gone be-
fore me,” sighed Mrs. Trimble.

Margery came in from the kitchen, saying, ‘‘ Dwanma, Bwidget
says the tea-kettle is baked, and would you please tun out a minute.”

‘“T think [ shall find it boiled!” said grandma, going to Bridget.

After their early tea, a neighbor called, with his market-wagon,
to take the visitors home. Grandma heaved a sigh of relief as
they drove away; yet she had sincerely urged Mrs. Trimble to

come as often as she could to enjoy her grandchildren.



|
|
|










TWO KINDS OF GRANDMOTHERS. 67










“Dwanma,” said Margery, in the ‘“blind-man’s holiday” which
invariably found those two resting in the old rocker—‘‘ Dwanma,
dear ;” and the little hand stroked the soft, thin cheek that was not
resting on her curls; ‘I’m dlad that Miss Fint isn’t you—-or you
isn’t that Miss Fint!”

“T guess I know what you mean, Margery; and I guess I’m
glad too!”












LITTLE MARGERY.



CHAPTER VIII.
GRANDMA'S Flouse-W ARMING.

JXRANDMA ROBINSON'S cottage held more than its usual
share of light hearts the next Saturday. Merry laughter
and snatches of songs, whistling and little screams of de-

cf light floated through the Venitian blinds, exacting a smile
of every passer-by.

There were Kate and Harry, the dear cousins from Po’keepsie.
There were the four hearty, pretty children from the house on the
hill, besides Bessie and Ernest. Of course, our Margery was there,
and Molly Brown had been invited to spend the afternoon, and
they were each as happy as the June day was long.

Grandma was in the kitchen. A warm morning for baking,
but she was serene even then and there. Her even temperament
seemed to modify the heats of that place. Her mental thermometer
marks no extremes, in midwinter or the perplexity of a midsummer
baking-day.

Little Margery slyly slipped in and out of the kitchen many

times ; being in grandma’s confidence, she knew how many party-

pies and little folks’ cakes were baking.
Will Blair invariably followed Margery, provoking Hugh to de-

clare that Will had as much curiosity as a girl.












GRANDMA’S HOUSE-WARMING. 69 ||






“Oh, he’s dust as firsty as he can be!” Margery exclaimed.
‘“He’s drinked six or ‘leven times!”
All romped awhile. But finding that kind of fun overheating,
they quieted down to story-telling. |
‘Let each one tell something we have seen, or done, or heard,”
proposed Kate ; ‘that will be better than Mother Goose, if it is not
so good as Grimm.”
“Then youll please begin, to show us dull fellows what you
mean,” said Hugh, lying down on the rug, and fanning himself with
‘his hat.
Kate’s arm was thrown lovingly around Margery Blair’s neck,
as she began: |
“Tl tell you about my first pair of gloves. My mother went |



to Boston, and cousin Rose came to keep house for us, while mother |
was away. She slept with me—oh, how I love her!” Kate’s arm |
gave a squeeze fierce enough for the Rose far away and the Mar- |
gery near. ‘“‘On a Saturday night there came a fat letter from
mother. In it was a pair of lovely green kid gloves, with gauntlet
cuffs, stitched with pink silk, oh, just de-autiful/ Of course, I felt |
like sitting up all night to admire them; but cousin Rose coaxed
me to bed, by promising they should stay under my pillow. Sun-
day morning I was awake by daylight, and very softly I slipped
my hand under the pillow and pulled out my gloves. It was so
early I could not see them, but I felt how soft they were, smooth-
ing them against my cheek. I should n’t wonder if I kissed ’em!
At last I put them on, slow and careful, yet with one tug at the

























70 LITTLE MARGERY.

buttons my hand slipped into Rose’s face. Then I scarcely breath-
ed fora minute. I knew Rose liked a long nap Sunday mornings.
The robins were singing loud enough to wake anybody. I was
trying to button the other glove, when she roused and said, just a
little bit cross, ‘What in the world opened your eyes so early ?
Not the sun, [ am sure.’ Then she turned over for more sleep.
But a notion of what I was doing made her turn back again and
fold down the counterpane. I was so ’shamed my hands lay still
in the green kid gloves.

“Oh, how Rose laughed and hugged me! You should see her
now, show how I petted the gloves in church that morning. How
I spread my fingers and smiled at the smooth palm; then, how I
shut my hand and went down the pretty stitching on the back of
one glove with the sharp forefinger of the other; O dear, I don’t
believe any other pair of gloves can ever look so pretty to me !”

“Ah, you girls are all proud, alike!” said Hugh teazingly.

“Proud, indeed !” laughed his sister. ‘‘ Did not Hughie Blair
ery because he had to wear aprons ?”

“Only because father didn’t wear aprons!” maintained Hugh.

{77



“But, I say, I’m getting awfully h
“Hot?” said Margery Blair; ‘‘stop teazing Bessie, and keep
quiet, if you care to keep cool.”
‘Missed it!” chuckled Hugh, ‘I’m cool as a water-melon !”
“ Awfully happy he is,” suggested Bessie; ‘‘I’m sure we all
ane,
“Yes, and no,” said Hugh.




















GRANDMA’S HOUSE-WARMING. 71

“You are awfully Hugh,” said Ernest ; at which the rest laugh-
ed. heartily.

“ Awfully hungry, [ guess, Hughie,” said grandma.

“Right, grandma,” said the lad blushing; ‘TI didn’t mean to
complain, but the oven perfumery has tickled my appetite an hour
or more, and made me interrupt our story-telling. Beg pardon, girls.”

“Granted, if you tell the next story,” Kate said.

“Grandina,” asked Hugh, ‘‘have you heard about our Will’s
hunt after cousin Margery’s balance ?”

‘No, dear,” answered grandma, lifting her pet into her lap as
she dropped into her low rocker.

“Why, you see, he heard some one say that Margery might
have been leaning over the banister and lost her balance. So he
went into the hall, and hunted all around to find it; said he did n’t
know if it was a plaything or a candy, ha, ha, ha!” the joke seem-
ed as good as new to that joker.

“We'll hope she may not lose it again, Will,” grandma said
with a shudder.

Then Margery Blair laughed aloud, as she asked, ‘‘Grandma,
do you remember the first time mother trusted Hugh to come here
alone on an errand? She told him not to stay long, or she should
worry about him; and he said, so manly, ‘You need n’t, mamma ;
if anything hurts me, /’U/ telegraph,’ with about as much sense of
how he could reach a telegram, as of reaching a rainbow.”

‘“S’pose he thought he could jump up and pull the wire, like a
strap in a horse-car,” said Harry.








LITTLE MARGERY.





“Ah, but grandma,” Kate exclaimed, ‘I have not told you
what a brave thing Harry did one day last winter. He and I
were walking up a lonesome street, when a drove of cattle turned a
corner just before us, and came running down the hill. Some ran |
with their heads down, making furious plunges, as if bound to hook |
something; others tossed their heads high, and looked frightfully
wild. There was no stoop hear, so we ran back a little and dodged
into a gateway, Harry keeping bravely in front while the drove
went by. Oh, how fast my heart beat then !”

“Pooh!” said Harry, blushing a little under the gaze of all
those loving eyes. ‘‘ Would you think I could let a girl stand be-
tween me and a scare, for I guess it was no more.”

Then Ernest said modestly, ‘Grandma, you have heard about
Bessie carrying me over a muddy street, and running with me in
her arms to get me so far away from some bad boys, that I could
not hear them swear, when I was most as heavy and as high as she
was. Wasn't she a good sister, grandma ?”



“Yes, my boy; and see in these two stories are two kinds of
/ courage; Harry protected Kate from probable danger, while Bessie

was equally faithful and brave; nay, nay, it is worse to hurt the
| soul than the body.” |
‘Are not our little cousins to give a story?” Harry asked, |
after grandma’s words had been considered in silence a while.
Belle said said she could not tell anything better than,

|
|
|
|
|
| |
“Mistress McShottle |
Lived in a coal-scuttle,












ere
Page

UZ
Ze
Life

oF
SSO



“HARRY KEEPING BRAVELY IN FRONT.”



HOUSE-WARMING.

GRANDMA’S

Along with her dog and her eat;
What they did I can’t tell,
But I know very well

That none of the party were fat.”

‘ Now, little Margery.”
“Oh, I’m awful so warm, I dess I don’t ‘member any story.”

7

‘Something very short will do, dear,” grandma said, encoura-
ging her. “TI hear Bridget mashing the potatoes.”

‘“S’pose I tould tell
«“é¢ Trot, trot to Boston, to buy a penny bun,
When we got to Boston, wasn’t any done ;

Trotted back to Boston, to buy a johnny-cake,
Trotted right home again, wasn’t any baked.’

“Then

dwanma 2”

I s’pose they had to make pancakes, don’t you,

“Very likely,” answered grandma, as they were called to
a chicken dinner, in which there were wishbones, and drumsticks,
and hearts enough to satisfy the demands of each guest-—a dinner
which was complimented by grateful words and sharp appetites.

Margery’s dessert was spoiled; she had not the heart to pick
one raisin out of the rice, after catching Bridget’s signal to Mrs.
Robinson that the doctor had come.

Although he was very chatty and jovial in his visits to Margery,
she could not overcome a dread of his touching her. This time he
came to remove the splints and bandage from her arm. She was

afraid to move it; the shrivelled skin frightened her; she begged





Little Margery.









ios |




him to put the arm in the sling, at least, for fear it would break
again.

“And now I tan do home to my~—-own—-house, and see my—
own—dear mudder,” she said, as she watched the doctor's gig roll
away.

‘“'To leave me so lonely ?” sighed grandma.

Margery’s heart was touched. ‘‘ But you tould tum too. Such
a little bit o’ way, dwanma”—the curly head leaned over the win-
dow sill-—‘‘dust out the gate and down the stweet. Oh, and the



baby’s there; we must do, dwanma! See there—a little gale
maybe—O dwanma, it’s Molly Bwown !”

Surely, as the children drew nearer, there was no doubt that
her smiles, and dimples, and beautiful doll belonged to Molly
Bwown.

Ernest and Hugh had escorted Harry down to their father’s
store to play merchant, and Will went as clerk, after promising his
best behavior. Margery Blair having found a well-worn copy of
““Wide, Wide World,” she and Kate were reviewing it in the cool
parlor.

Belle Blair, Molly, and little Margery seemed sufficient com-
pany for each other; yet when grandma’s afternoon nap was over,
and she sat down to finish a pair of blue socks, the children were
delighted to have her so near. She was a precious ally ; she could
suggest plays and advise about dividing the “things” when, fore-
shadowing her future, each little girl chose a corner, to make a
self.



home for her very—own






GRANDMA’S HOUSE-WARMING. 17

‘Now let’s dress up with long trails,” proposed Molly.
“T don’t care for trails; I’d rather have a dolly,” said Belle,



while Molly and Margery each held her own; ‘who ever heard of
anybody's keeping house without even one dolly !”
“Why, dwanma don’t have any chillen,” said Margery.

a

“Surely, [ll be grandma, if



O grandma, isn’t there an old
cap ready for me?” Belle asked.

“Yes, yes; saved for you.” And grandma found it in her
closet ; rather yellow, with ruches limp and pipings flattened ; hay-
ing reached the exact age when, to each grand-daughter in turn,
her pretty caps were given for doll-millinery.

“Now, then,” said Belle, as she tied the strings under her
double-chin, and thanked grandma with a kiss; “I ll be grandma,
and wont want a trail; but oh! wont I have to be good; can’t be
spunky one little minute with this cap on my head !”

}randma smiled at this compliment, taking up her sock
again. -

“Now, dwanma dear, will you please lend Molly and me those
bestest long, dong aprons?” asked Margery.

Grandma found: the check-aprons, which were worn on their
backs, and the mincing little mothers paced back and forth, with
heads turned to see if the effect were stylish.

“Pretty peacocks,” said grandma involuntarily, looking down
at their striped stockings and shoes.

Visiting from one corner to another entertained them till

erandma consented that the play should end with a very little tea-










78 LITTLE MARGERY.

party, at which tarts, (which Margery called carts,) and tiny pats
of pot-cheese, (which Margery helped as top-cheese,) and the



smallest of cakes, were eaten daintily.
‘“Top-cheese ?” criticised Molly.

,

“Oh, now, Molly, don’t be unticular,” said her hostess.

Next they played school, having grandma for teacher. Her
first-class went through the alphabet creditably, if we do not
except Margery’s wilful naming of the letters after her own family.
E was for Ernest; B was only Bessie; F, father; G, grandma; M,
mother, and X she could pronounce no other way than wax, ending
with ‘‘wax, Y, Z,” which made the other girls laugh.

Next came the class in Mental Philosophy, the dear old lady
teaching them the Golden Rule and applying it to their needs and
plays, till she thought they realized the golden idea as opposed to
most things they met in life. Margery quaintly rendered it, ‘“‘ Do



to other folks as other folks don’t do to you!”

‘Now may school be out?” asked Molly.

“Don’t be such an impatient,” said Belle, ‘‘grandma always
hears us say the days of the week.”

“You may begin,” said the teacher. Safely through the
seven went Belle, when Margery said soitly,

“She fordot one, dwanma.”

“T think not, dearie ; which one did you not hear ?”

“ Yesterday, dwanma; she didn’t say anysing ‘bout yester-
day

‘Ah, my blossom, we do not count our yesterdays; after they

ABP ied _ ae






AE I PCN E ae ea Saenroe aaa

GRANDMA’S HOUSE-WARMING. 79

slip behind us we forget them. But one day we shall face them all
again, as plain as this bright Saturday that is with us now.”

“T know, grandma; we shall find them in heaven,” said Belle |
reverently.

“Yes, dear, the record of them; and let us sometimes think of |
what Margery has said. Let us count our days as of great impor- |
tance. Do not let one to-day fall back among them, saddened and
blackened with naughtiness. Each night let us ask our loving
Father to blot out every fault, before to-day’s leaf is turned over.”

The hush that followed grandma’s serious thoughts was broken
by the arrival of the boys, who called out the elder girls, and
which was the prettiest and which the wittiest in the games that



| followed, you would have been puzzled to tell.
| Tea at half-past five came all too soon, for that was the sign
that the happy day was done.

Bessie and Ernest were saying their ‘‘Good nights” when
Hugh arranged that they should all walk together as far as Mr.
Beach’s.

“Oh, I wish I tould do together!” whined Margery.
| “Tn the morning, dear; we will pack up your clothes to-night.”

“Tell mudder in the morning, then, Bessie; and tell baby in

| the morning, surely we sall come.”





| 2
|









80 LITTLE MARGERY.



CHAPTER IX.

“ ome AGAIN.”

R

34 DWANMA, wake up and see how it wains! How
can we ever do home to my—own—house,: this
morning? O dear; O dear!”

Such was Margery’s fretful salutation, surprising



grandma as she opened her eyes.

‘““Hey-day! It rains, does it, dear? Then let us be glad; for
you know the flowers were thirsty, because they have not had their
cups full of rain in a week. The raspberries were drying on their
stems, too. O dear, yes; we’re glad it rains.”

Margery looked doubtful.

“ But, dwanma, I wanted to do home, and last night you said
we would wight away after bexust; and now I want to do dust the
same, and bexust is most ready, only it wains.”

Frandma lifted her curtain, saying, ‘It rains sure enough; but
the clouds are breaking and we shall see blue sky pretty soon, I
think.”

‘* But wont the shide-walks be awful-so-wet, and little ewicks 0’
water in the dutters so I tan’t wear my button-shoes ?” cried the

child.
“Not if the sun shines.” Of which, however, there was yet












“HOME AGAIN.” 81



so slight a promise in the sky, that grandma changed the subject.

‘“T heard somebody counting in the night, from one, two, right up
to twenty. What were you dreaming about ?”

“There!” exclaimed Margery triumphantly, ‘did n’t I tell you
I tould talk in my sleep? S’pect I was playing school over again ;
but see, dwanma, the wain wains faster, wight down between my—
own—house and me. I most know the sun wont shine to-day.”

“At any rate, I hope we shall have no sprinkles z-doors, no
clouds scowling over my breakfast-table.”

Margery was feeling her disappointment sorely.

‘Margery, when you broke my vase the other day, and I was
grieving because my vase was so dear, and my child so careless,
what did you say to me ?”



| Somebody’s head drooped humbly. ‘‘I telled you, pese tould
n’t you talk “bout something else ?”

“Yes, you did; and it was quite sensible, for crying could not
mend it. Now can’t you take a little of your own advice ?”



Margery looked up brightly and said, ‘‘ Why I did—that day
IT talked ‘bout something ’sides the vase, wight away.”

Mrs. Robinson thought of the man who was willing to sacri-
fice his wife’s relations on the battle-field.

“ But try it this minute, little girl; stop fretting, and see how |



| happy you can be. Promise me, with a kiss.”
\ : - : :
| Margery promised, and by the time she was dressed in her

rose from her morning prayer, she could not help saying, ‘Maybe



| Sunday best, the weather seemed quite forgotten. But when she
|








82 LITTLE MARGERY.

next time I sall kneel by my mudder’s knee. I’m so dlad I tan
fold my two hands once more, dwanma.”

After breakfast grandma sat down to read her Bible. Pet
asked for a story that had a picture in it. It happened that the
first picture they found represented Daniel in the lions’ den.

The beseeching attitude, the upturned gaze of the trusting man,
the subdued fiereeness of the lions, fascinated the child. She
leaned heavily on the opposite page upon grandma’s knee, and
studied the figures long and earnestly. Grandma, the while com-
menting gently on the story, tried more than once to turn the leaf,
but the fat little hand held it fast and the blue eyes hardly winked.

‘Come, Margery, let us turn back to the baby in the bul-
rushes.”

“Dust wait, dwanma; I most know these big lions will snap up
this man in anudder minute !”

But soon a sunbeam diverted her gaze, darting in at the
window so bright, and oh, so welcome. By that time the bells
were ringing for Sunday-school. She watched the children and
teachers passing by; noticed the gray clouds disappearing in the
chase of the white fleeces across a deep blue sky ; humming to her-
self happily till grandma closed her book, and came to the window.

Stroking the curly head she said, ‘‘ Ah, here is sunshine warm
enough to dry off the pavements in an hour. I will dress myself
and make ready your basket for Bridget to carry home for you
this evening.”

‘““Pese don’t put the socks in the basset.”


















“HOME AGAIN.” 83

‘No, no; here go the socks,” said grandma, crowding them
into a very small pocket.

“Oh, oh, wont my baby be dlad

The tall clock in the corner was striking ten. ‘ You may

yy

stwike dust as many times as you like; you tan’t say bedtime to
me again,” laughed Margery, shaking her finger at the old dial.

Then she spied Bridget adjusting her ribbons before the glass
in the dining-room.

‘Going to church, Bwidget? That’s a good girl. Sit still,
and don’t whishper and ask if it’s time for church to be out. And
wont you be sorry when you don’t find me here for dinner °”

“And you’re ready to lave us the day?” asked the kind-
hearted maid.

“Yes; going to take care of my baby, Bwidget. Come and
see us, and maybe you tan hold him—his name is Fweddie. I’ve
had nice times in the kisshen, Bwidget; but dood-by, now.” She
puckered up her lips for a kiss.

“Can't you thank Bridget for waiting upon you ahways kindly
and patiently?” suggested grandma.

‘Sure and she said all that, ma’am, and more, when she said
we'd had nice times in the kitchen beyant. So we had, you dar-
lin’! Be afther coming back to us soon.”

“Some day, maybe, I ‘ll come and bwing my baby, like I used
to bwing Booty,” she said as her faithful friend went out.

Mrs. Robinson was folding the clothes and packing them in the
basket, Margery handling one article after another hurriedly.
















LITTLE MARGERY.



“‘T ouess there ’s many-er clothes than there was when the basset
came.”
“To be sure; here’s the new morning-gown.” Grandma was

folding it smoothly.

“The morning-glorwy-gown, you mean,” said Margery, helping

squeeze in the last pair of stockings.

The cover was pressed down and secured. The child, too ex-
cited to stand still, danced up and down beside grandma, as she
moved about getting ready. At last they started.

Service had begun in the churches, and the streets were very
quiet. Happy birds twittering about their nests in door-yard shrub-
bery, provoked canaries in the porches to their loudest songs. The
white cottages fairly dazzled grandma’s eyes, so brightly the sun
shone on them. The turbulent crossings of the hill streets had
quieted down into “‘ pitty cweeks o’ water.”

‘And see, dwanma, how the houses and stones and everysing
is washed clean for Sunday.”
eler

oO:

Arrived at her own gate, the little girl could say nothin
heart was so full. She clung to her grandmother’s hand till, un-
heard, they had mounted the stairs to ‘mother’s room.” Neither
had the mother any words fora moment. She caught Margery in
her arms and kissed her; held her off at arms’ length, then folded
her closer, feeling as if she could never lend her darling for so
many weeks again.

When baby awoke and was placed in Margery’s arms, she was
again too happy to talk, except with her eyes.










Z m re — oe =
SZ e : :

py

LLB

Ye



ejb:
gE

Ze

Ys, My Z

Ce
Y Yj ty ly





Ly
IOI



ND THE BABY.

TARGERY A

0



“HOME AGAIN.” 87



Mother, down on one knee, half-supported the precious bundle ;
for any one could see that at first this loving sister could not be
trusted to hold it alone. She must touch its dimples with her
finger, must stroke its smooth, bald head, and stoop to kiss it many
times.

They tried in vain to make her tell if the baby were at all like
the brother she had expected to find.

“Don’t seem as if he knows you, dwanma; but he looks at
me. O baby, isn’t you dlad I’ve come?”

“Of course he is glad,” said Mrs. Clapp, ‘but not so quick to
tell it as Bessie and Ernest will be. I hear them coming in from
church. Give me the baby and run to meet them.”

The greeting was a happy one. ‘ Where is your father?”
asked Mrs. Robinson, as the children came to bid her good-
morning.

‘He waited to speak with a strange minister that preached for
us this morning,” answered Bessie.

“© mother,” said Ernest, ‘‘may n’t we take Margery out to the
gate to meet him? He was not sure she was coming, but he said
he could not wait any longer; if she were not here he and I would |
go to bring her home.” |
| “Yes, yes; let her go.” It was natural to grandma to plead
for the children. ‘It is high time she ran about freely.”

“T see she is not quite so rosy as before she was housed,” her
mother said anxiously after giving consent. She went to the win-

dow to look down upon them saying,















88 LITTLE MARGERY.









“Their father is coming up the street. Bessie and Ernie are
so excited they do not know how best to show off the child. Sce,



they are making a lady-chair of their crossed hands to carry her.



Careful, careful, my son,” she called nervously.



‘No danger, mother,” he answered; while Margery’s happy



chatter and Bessie’s laughter came up on the breeze, to the loving



mother watching the pretty tableau.
“Wasn't that a lovely arm-chair?”’ asked Margery, hugging





her father as he carried her up stairs.



‘One, two, three, four chillen, now,” she said, seeming to read



his thoughts as he looked from one to the other; for he was really



feeling an overflow of thankfulness, seeing how happy they were



to be reunited in their dear home.



“Margery counts all sorts of things since she learned to count



last week,” said grandma. ‘‘I took her across the street to make



a call one afternoon, when Mr. Doane and Ned happened to be at



home. ‘One, two, three ladies ; and one, two gemple’en,’ she said,





after sitting long enough to feel familiar. Mr. Doane said, ‘Ah,



you missed one lady.’ Margery looked around, and secing that I



could be the only one he meant, she added, ‘Why, no! this, is only



dwanma !’”
‘Then she can count Freddie’s fingers and toes,” said Bessie.





“Toes!” echoed Margery, with a little scream. ‘‘ Dwanma,



here’s the socks in my pottet, all this long day; course Fweddie



didn’t know you—he s’pected you would put his socks on when



you came!” she tugged away till the socks came out with a jerk.
































































































































































A
SAN
Sit







“HOME AGAIN.” 91



They were admired sufficiently to reward grandma, and to increase
Margery’s belief in the perfection of everything grandma said
or did.

Margery had no need to be jealous of baby. She was the
centre of regard—of courteous, loving attention, in the contented
family that gathered then around Mr. Clapp’s dinner-table.

In choosing tunes to sing around baby’s cradle that afternoon,
Bessie asked,

‘Father, can’t we sing ‘Home again,’ for Margery’s sake, be-
because we are so glad she has come back safe ?”

“She hasn’t been on any ‘foreign shore,’” said the truth-
loving Ernest.

“Weare barely sure of that,” answered their father. ‘Such a
fall as that which only crippled her for a time, has taken many a
little life. Our darling might have touched the other shore—”

‘The ‘shining shore,’ father ?”

“Yes, my boy; but under Providence the little accident did no
great harm; while it has made us all love Margery more tenderly.”

You would have felt sorry for grandma, could you have seen
her wistful, yearning look back upon the children (Margery calling
with a sob, ‘I dust wish you wouldn’t do!”) as she went out the
gate, returning to her quiet home.

Mr. Clapp went with her to make her going seem less lonely ;
but he knew better than to fancy he could fill in her heart or home
the place that little Margery had filled so long.














92 LITTLE MARGERY.



CAT ASP Xe



JHE SUNDAY-SCHOOL J EACHER'S Yisir.




Le MONG: the sunny blessings which brightened the lives

Fef oye teacher, Miss Helen Ross.

= gor She was sure to be found at the head of her class every
Sunday, no matter through what kind of weather she walked
thither.

It was a pleasure to learn a lesson, knowing her smiling, grate-
ful words would be its sure reward-—her own love of the Bible
inspiring her to make its stories plain, its precepts beautiful.

Then she had always time for cheerful chat with her children ;
when the little troubles of the week were talked over, and her
advice, her praise, or her mild reproval were accepted as high
authority.

Afterward, sitting at the organ, her clear voice led theirs along

into the rich chorus of the hundred voices, which none could doubt

went higher than the arches overhead. Little echoes of those songs
and hymns were ringing about the children all the week long;
bursting from their lips while they were busy at work or play.

Yet, while Helen Ross made Sunday the bright “ First Day,” the
hopeful beginning of the week’s life, her care of her scholars was






&





THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER’S VISIT.
not limited to that day. Her heart followed them beyond the
school, and led her into their homes, a welcome visitor, where she
made sure of the loving sympathy of their mothers.

Bessie and Ernest Clapp proved such tractable and dear pupils,
that she longed to bring into her small fold the other darling of
their wise mother’s flock.

The week after Margery’s return from her grandmother’s, Miss
Ross called; the children were all at home, so the call lengthened
into a delightful visit.

Margery had been cutting paper, with small, blunt scissors ;
and soon after Miss Ross was seated, with her tatting in hand, the
little girl came to her with an odd-looking scrap, saying,

“Don’t you think this looks like a little bit o’ girl, sitting
down?” —

Helen found a resemblance to a possible profile, then went on
with her talk with Mrs. Clapp and the baby.

Presently Margery disturbed them hunting after that scrap of a
doll—it could not be found.

“Tf it had been old enough now, to have a name, you might
eall it back!” playfully suggested mother.

‘““T was dust a-going to call her Bessie !”

“ Anything named Bessie must ‘know enough to come in when
it rains,’ so I guess she ll come in sight soon,” Helen said, as
spatters from a passing cloud fell on the window-sill.

‘‘Q dear, she was sitting on the sewing-’chine dust a minute
’ oO oO

ago, and now she isn’t anywhere!”
















94 LITTLE MARGERY.

“Let me cut a fresh dolly for you!” said Bessie.

“Tt wouldn’t be such a smart little sing, as that one what’s
run away! She could wead and spell and wash dishes for her
mother !”

This was rather cutting, for sister Bessie disliked dish-
water.

‘By all means find her, if she was so helpful,” cried Mrs.
Clapp.

Margery pouted. ‘ Yes



she was ’most ‘leven years old, and
she tould tie up her shoes, and eat candy, and sweep stairs, and
woek her bruzzer’s ewadle !”

“Then we can’t afford to lose her,” said the mother, aiding in
the search. ‘‘ How big was it, Margery?” afraid she should not
recognize so much talent among those snips.

“As big as Bessie—’most ‘leven. And she was sitting on the
‘chine. S’pect she was doing to sew it some day.” Like the lost
treasures of some older people, its value increased with absence.
But here came a little joyful ery, ‘‘ You goodest boy, to find my
dolly!” and she flung her arms around Ernest, who had been the
fortunate finder.

After a while Mrs. Clapp proposed that Margery should clear
up her scraps.

With cunning surprise, little mischief answered, ‘‘ Why, what
ails Bessie? has she dot lazy while I lived to dwanma’s? She used
to be so nice and spry; she’s picked ’em up a hundred times!”

“But that isn’t fair any longer, you are so large; besides,








THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER’S VISIT. 95

Bessie has not been enjoying the fun of making all this con-
fusion.”

‘“ Well—she may sit wight down here, and ‘joy herself a little
while before she picks ’em up !”

Mother mildly effected a compromise, the willing sister helping,
till the pretty rose-colored carpet was tidily cleared.

Then Margery drew with a pencil after this odd fashion.

‘Shall I mgke a picture of a man, Miss Woss? Well: here’s
his hat’”—there was a triangle in one corner of the paper.
“ Here’s his boots”—two right angles in another corner. “ Here’s
his coat”—a parallelogram in another—eyes and nose, whiskers
and mustache scratched up and down the sheet; the child’s lively
imagination sceming to see them run together in proper shape, like
globules of quicksilver.

“Shall I make a skegar smoking in the middle of his whiskers?”

‘Not if he is to be my man,” said Helen laughing. ‘ Would
you like to go home with me to see my little sister ?”

“Yes,” answered Margery.

“Yes? yes what?” asked her mother.

“Yes I would like to go to see her sister !”

“Then say so, my dear; say, Yes, I thank you; or, Yes,
ma’am.”

Margery blushed. ‘‘ Yes, ma’am; yes, I thank you.”

Soon after she brought forward her playthings for exhibition —
first of all a headless horse. ‘‘Here’s my dear old Dobbin. He
used to be Ernie’s, but his head came off so he could n’t dwive him

Little Margery. 11










96 LITTLE MARGERY.

anywhere, so he’s mine. [ dust play he put his head under his
wing, to do to sleep, the way our birdie does;” and so, one after
another, her playthings were displayed.

Margery had a little hoard of candy, saved since yesterday ;
evidently this was the last time it could stand a division, yet she
showed her habit of giving a mite to each one in the room.

Ernest was telling Miss Helen a story, which saved his morsel



till the rest were eaten—Margery’s first of all. Then her roguish-
ness made her say demurely, ‘‘ Erne, good brothers always divide
if they has candy and their little bits 0’ sisters has n’t!” Which he
did manfully ; but she forced it into his laughing mouth saying, ‘I
dess I’m not a piggy!” and turned to add her pleading words to
Mrs. Clapp’s suggestion that Miss Helen should stay to tea, and get
father’s opinion about Margery’s joining the Sunday-school.

“Then sit down, and talk about it with your teacher; she may
not want you, unless you show her that you can sit still five
minutes at a time,” said Mrs. Clapp as she went down to bespeak a
clean table-cloth.

Margery clambered into her father’s chair, and crossing her
hands demurely, began to sing,

“Oh, then I’ll be an angel,
And with the angels stand ;”

‘Not quite yet, Margery!” interrupted Ernest.
She blushed, and explained, ‘‘ Well, we sing ‘bout Sunday-
school and sing ‘bout heaven, and I dot ‘em mixed up. [ll be

elad to go, anyhow.”










THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER’S VISIT. 97

“To go where, Margery?” asked Miss Ross, as Mrs. Clapp
came into the room again.

‘Why, both places. I s’pect heaven the bestest, but then may-
be I’d have to go alone; and Bessie and Erne will take me to
Sunday-school.”

“You will find the purest faith in her open heart, Miss Helen,”
Mrs. Clapp said. ‘Not even the schoolhouse from which the
children return daily, is a more certain place to her, than the
heaven to which ‘Grandma Clapp’ has gone.”

‘‘T wish all my little folks were as well taught at home,” Helen
sighed, thinking of some who had scarcely more prayerful influence
about them through the week, than if their homes had been
in heathen lands.

‘Our children receive Bible truths with such faith that it makes
life delightful, and takes away the horror of death. To them it is



only a sleep—a rest. The grave a little shivering thought of small
importance, while the waking up in heaven with Christ is their
joyful hope. My husband’s mother was very infirm. Ask Mar-
gery what she remembers about her.”

Margery had been chattering with the others, over the baby,
during this quiet talk; but turned, attentive, when Miss Helen
asked,

“Margery, dear; I did not know Grandma Clapp: tell me
about her.”

‘Oh, she was dust as old as she tould be! She had winkles all
up her face and down her face—oh, so winkled! And she tould n’t
















| 98 LITTLE MARGERY.
hear, ‘less you seweamed. And she was lame. She leaned on
a cane, and went so slow.”

“Deaf and lame—poor grandma!” sighed Miss Ross.

“Ves, but not now, you know,” said Margery. ‘‘ And she was
‘most blind, but now she sees!” This was said exultantly.

“How do you know, Margery ?”

“Why, hasn’t she gone to heaven? And ’course there isn’t
anybody there that’s winkled and sick or tired and lame. S’pect
| she sees beau'ful things now—angels and gold crowns, and Jesus.

You know ’tisn’t dark there



no, never!” Margery was a little
afraid to cross a dark hall.

‘“ And she hears, too, you say, Margery ?”

“Oh, yes; s’pose there touldn’t be so much music if some
angels was deaf and some was dumb. Why, little bits 0’ angels
| sing, and wear wite desses.”

She stopped, excited, to hear her mother quote the well-known



description, ‘‘ White robes are given to every one of them.”

And it isn’t dark, you know, mudder !”

“There shall be no night there; and they need no candle,
neither light of the sun.”

‘‘ And nobody is sorry there, ever.”

‘Neither sorrow nor crying ; neither shall there be any more pain.”

Margery rested a moment; the others were thinking. The tea-
bell broke the silence, and the father’s voice called cheerily from
below, ‘‘Why doesn’t anybody meet me to-night, I wonder!



Does n’t anybody want a father for supper ?”












THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER’S VISIT. 99



Gayly the children bounded down the stairs, to explain their
absence from the gate, and their special interest in their teacher’s
visit.

After tea, Mr. Clapp gave his cordial consent, and Margery
capered about delighted to think she might “ weally and twuly” go
to Sunday-school.

“We will learn together how to get ready for heaven, Mar-
gery,” said Miss Ross with her good-by kiss,































LITTLE MARGERY.



CHAPTER XI.
PIRST pay IN SUNDAY-SCHOOL.

LS MILING: faces ereeted little Margery, when among the
earliest scholars Bessie and Ernest walked down the
aisle, leading her proudly by the hand.

Miss Ross was waiting with words of welcome, and a
hearty pressure of the hand for Ernest, who passed around to a new
class made up of lads of his own age.

Miss Ross’ class outnumbered any other, and held such assorted
sizes, that while she apologized for having one scholar so small, and
another so large, and one so dull as to need special teaching, the
pastor pointed proudly to the number; for well he knew how they

clung to her guiding hand. It was almost impossible to find one

of her girls willing to be promoted. Then they had a way of
bringing in their small sisters, cousins, or new scholars generally,
that required the firmness of the amiable superintendent to decide
who might stay, and who must leave Helen’s tender care.

Ernest had been permitted to stay, for Bessie’s sake, till he
began to suffer from the boys’ jests about it; and he felt a slight
pang of homesickness now, at leaving Margery in his old place.

Her class was seated nearest the organ; so that when Helen
played she seemed not to desert her fondling.












FIRST DAY IN SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 101





At the sound of the pretty gong on the desk, the school arose,
and the simple opening service began.

Margery’s eyes dilated. To prayer and song she listened
_ devoutly ; comprehending in a misty way that the children thought
| of her when the superintendent gave thanks for another little one
eager to learn more about Jesus. And again, when all sang the
sweet German air that floated heavenward the words of ‘The
Do you recall its simple lines ?

«When we are glad, he’s always near.
- ?

| gentle Saviour.”

To make our joys his own ;
He shares our happiness when here
And when we are alone.
«He knows our actions every day,
Sees all the good and bad,
And when we from his precepts stray, _
His holy heart is sad.
«While here on earth, he kindly blest
Each little one that came ;
| Oh, will he not receive the rest ?
He’s Jesus just the same !”

By-and-by the librarian brought around the class-books ; and
eagerly Margery watched her name entered upon the list.

‘And now I’m a Sunday-school girlie surely /” she said, glan-
cing from the teacher to Bessie.

She had a little morning hymn to recite.





“The morning bright
With rosy light
Hath waked me from my sleep.
| Father, I own,
Thy love alone



Thy little one doth keep.



‘All through the day,
I humbly pray,
Be thou my guard and guide ;
My sins forgive,
And let me live,
Blest Jesus, near thy side.”










102 LITTLE MARGHRY.

The Bible verse she had learned was, ‘Suffer little children to
come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of
heaven.” ‘‘That’s why I’ve come, you see,” she simply said.

Looking in her intelligent face, one could not but think she
already ‘read her title clear.”

You think I will never tire of telling about my Margery!
Verily, I think not, while her big eyes wake to look into mine—
while her transparent heart shows so freely its loving graces, its
temptations and failures.

She is naughty, often; but almost never deceives. If her mother
leaves home a while, Margery is the first to tell, if in any way she
offends in her absence. Sometimes these wrongs are in thought
alone; where her lively conscience stayed the tempted hand, the
wandering foot, or the quicker tongue. Often there are faults so
told that would never be found out otherwise.

Before bed-time that Sunday night, she had learned to sing two
verses of a hymn that pleased her fancy in the school:

“Lord, how delightful ’tis to see
A whole assembly worship thee ;

At once they sing, at once they pray,
They hear of heaven and learn the way.

“‘T have been there, and still would go ;
’T is like a little heaven below ;
Not all that earth and sin can say
Shall tempt me to forget this day.”






ABSh (Z\5S