A Cruise in the Acorn

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The Baldwin Library













A CRUISE IN THE ACORN









Gooon Heaven BEFRIEND
that little boat,
And guide her on her way!
A boat, they say,
has canvas wings
But cannot fly away!
Though like a merry
singing bird,
She sits upon the spray!
Still east by south,
the little boat
With tawny sail, keeps beating:
Now out of sight
between two waves,
Now oer the horizon fleeting!



















A CRUISE

€HE BooRN

BY

ALICE JERROLD

(MRS. ADOLPHE SMITH)



WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS, IN GOLD AND COLORS

“« Acorns which the winds have scattered
Future navies may provide!”





London:

MARCUS WARD & CO., 67 & 68, CHANDOS STREET, STRAND
And ROYAL ULSTER WORKS, BELFAST

x : 1875 HK iy













TO MY YOUNG BROTHER,

Sidnev Jerroly,
I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE BOOK,

IN LOVING REMEMBRANCE OF HIS BOYHOOD,

WHICH HAS BRIGHTENED THE LIVES OF ALL AROUND HIM.

Alice Jerroly.























CONTENTS.

I.—Tue DEPARTURE é : : : . . 7
IL—Sunny’s “GREEN FRIEND” : y 3 30
III.—Row.y To THE RESCUE : i : : SC)
IV.—Harpy’s DREAM . 4 ; , ; : 94
V.—HOopeEs AND FEARS , : : : : . Tor

VI.—Tue Mystery SoLveD s : : : : 124
Se RT Se ee

CHROMOGRAPHS.

Harpy AnD Sunny Ser Sal (p. 18) 4 . Frontispiece.



“Wuat 1s THE MATTER, SUNNY ?” i ‘ : : 38
Tue Five Biue Eccs i A , é i 2 Or
THE SERENADER : : ; 4 4 : 91
DELIVERING THE LETTER he i Ri 4 ae pen

THE Spirit OF SPRING (p. 140) .






















A CRUISE IN THE ACORN.

CHAP. I.—THE DEPARTURE. ~







GSUNNY’S real name was Lillie,
but her father and mother had
called her Sunny when she was
quite a baby, because of her
bright yellow hair, and laughing
= eyes, and merry little ways; and
; as she grew bigger, she was
still so good-humoured and gay
* that her baby-name clung. to her.
\\ “There goes my little Sunny!”
= her father would say to himself,
with a smile, as from his arm-chair
by the library table he heard the pat--
~ ter of small feet on the staircase, and the
cheery singing of a childish voice. ‘‘ Sunny!”

her mother would call, as the little figure tripped by
her morning room—‘“ Sunny, won’t you come and





8 A Cruise in the Acorn.



see if you can find a kiss for me?” The servants of
the house, from the old housekeeper to the stable-
boy, who ran errands for his mistress occasionally,
all petted and really loved the child. Miss Sunny was
a popular personage in the kitchen and farm-yard. As
for her brother, the first thing he said, regularly every
afternoon as he came in from his school, was, ‘‘ Where's
Sunny ?”

This brother had a nickname, as well as his sister.
He had been called Laurence until he was about six
years old, when an incident occurred that procured for
him the name by which he was now always known—
- that of Hardy. He would be very angry with me if I
did not tell you how he acquired his nickname, so I|
had better relate the story directly, had I not ?

His father took him out for a drive one day, in a
deserted part of the surrounding country. He was
alone with his father, who drove the basket ‘chaise in
which they were himself. At about two miles’ distance
from home, a heavy storm of rain overtook them; not
a few casual drops, but a determined, splashing rain,
that startled the pony by its force, for the pony fell to
kicking vigorously, and smashed the basket-work of
which the frail vehicle was composed into such condi-
tion, that Hardy and his father were obliged to get
out of it and walk homeward, leading the pony by the |
reins. This was not easy work, for the pony was
decidedly skittish, and plunged about him, throwing
his head back and snorting, whisking his tail, jerking
his legs in uncomfortable ways, and every now and
then making a furious rush at some inoffensive paling.
Hardy was a brave little boy on that occasion. His
father was in great distress at the possibility of the







Lhe Departure. 9



child being tired or catching cold, and was very
anxious to carry him in his arms, where he might
be sheltered under his greatcoat. But his boy would
not hear of this, and walked stoutly on in spite of the
rain, and at last even carried his father’s whip for him.
Of course, it would have been out of the question for
either to have ridden the pony, who was quite enough
trouble without being further irritated. From that day
Laurence was called Hardy: his father had been so
pleased with his conduct that he used to say very often
—He’s a hardy boy; or, He'll make a hardy man; or,
He’s hardy enough; aren’t you, my boy? until everyone
became used to say much of the same thing, and his
present name was given by common consent.

At the time when you first make their acquaintance
_ Hardy was twelve years old and Sunny was only just
nine; but though there was that difference in their
ages, and though, as Hardy would sometimes com-
plain, ‘‘Sunny was a girl,” the brother and sister got
on admirably, and were so attached to each other, that
Sunny had more of Hardy’s play-time than his school-
fellows.

‘““Where’s Sunny?” Hardy asked, as usual, as he
came back one splendid summer day in the very begin-
ning of June.

- Sunny had been looking out for him, and before
the servant could answer, was flying downstairs to meet
him.

“T’ve something wonderful to tell you,” said Hardy ;
‘you'll be so surprised.”

“What is it?” asked Sunny, eagerly, running after
him as he went towards the play-room.

“Don’t you be in such a hurry,” said Hardy,








10 A Crutse in the Acorn.



unable, boylike, to resist a little teasing; “Tl tell you
presently.”

And Sunny waited patiently, only showing her
feelings by her expressive eyebrows, while Hardy put
his school-books away.

Now, Sunny, what do you think it is?” he said,
when he had finished.

‘Oh, I don’t know,” said the little girl—* do tell me.”

“Well, it’s this. You know old Rowly, who's got
that queer little hut under the trees by the river. I
was talking to him to-day, and, Sunny, he’s got a
boat—a very little one, but quite big enough for you
and me—and I want papa to buy it for us; Rowly says
he'll sell it very cheap. You know, I could take you
for a trip on the river; it would be such fun; and you .
wouldn't be frightened, would you, Sunny ?”

“Oh, no—not if you went,” answered Sunny, caper-
ing about with delight at the idea. ‘Oh, what a nice
boy you are to think of all that! I’m sure papa will
buy it for us. And when can we have our first try at it,
Hardy >?” Le

“Oh, you're just like girls, you ask such a lot of
questions,” observed Hardy. ‘Well, we can’t do any-
thing, I suppose, before my holidays begin.”

Sunny’s face fell, then suddenly brightened again.
“But we can ask papa, Hardy, to buy it for us before
that, can’t we 2”

“Oh, yes, the sooner the better,” replied Hardy;
“or else, if we are slow, some of the other boys will get
hold of it.”

And so it happened that after tea that evening, when
Sunny was perched in her usual place on papa’s knee,
she looked round to see if Hardy was listening, and










The Departure. II



then said in a low voice to her father—‘“ I’ve got such
a secret to tell you, papa!”

“Am I not to hear it, Sunny?” asked her mamma,
coming from the window with her embroidery.

“Yes, you may hear it, mamma, but you mustn’t
breathe a word to anyone, or the boys will get it before
us, Hardy says.”

“Will get what?” cried papa. ‘I shall be quite
frightened directly, Sunny, if you don't reveal the
secret.”

“Hardy is going to ask you something, papa, and
we do so hope you will say yes, and buy it for us, for
we shall be able to have such fun; and Hardy says he
will take great care of me, and he’s sure old Rowly will

sell it very cheap.”

In her breathless excitement Sunny forgot to say
what the object of her demand was; and her father was
just laughing at her, and protesting that it was a great
mystery, when Hardy broke into the room, and in a
few blunt words revealed the important truth.

' “Now I understand,” said papa. ‘So Sunny
wants a boat, does she? Well, I daresay I shall con-
trive to satisfy her, and you also, Hardy; but before
I. make any promises, I must go round to old Rowly
myself and look at his boat, and see that it’s quite safe,
or else we might have a few®ccidents—the boat turning
over, Sunny floating in the water, and Hardy exerting
all his strength to swim and save her, and a few little
trifles of that kind; eh, mamma?”

Mamma said nothing, but looked very anxious and
frightened, and papa dismissed the matter with a laugh,
saying—

“T won't forget to call in on old Rowly, and I dare-







12 A Cruise in the Acorn.



say something will be done to please you both, children. -
Now, mamma, it’s time for you to give us some music,
is it not? and Sunny can meditate over her- boat while
I smoke, and Hardy: 4

‘Oh, I’m going back to my lessons,” said Hardy ;
and, suiting the action to the word, he left the room.

Sunny’s enjoyment of the music was at first very
much spoilt by thoughts of the possible defects in old
Rowly’s bargain, and of the disappointment Hardy and
she would feel if papa did not think it worth buying.
Gradually, however, Sunny’s head drooped towards
papa’s shoulder, her recollections of the afternoon’s
surprise became very vague, and were mixed up with
the sounds of the piano, until at last she forgot every-
thing in a sound sleep.

The next morning the children’s father went to old
Rowly’s hut, and talked to him about the boat; asked
if Rowly was sure it was thoroughly sound, if Sunny
and Hardy could be trusted in it, if the oars would be
easy to manage, and many other questions. Old Rowly
gave Satisfactory answers to all, and it was agreed that
the children should have the boat.

You can imagine the delight of Sunny and Hardy
when they heard the news. They were so anxious to
have their first expedition in it that they could think
of nothing else, and Hardy’s mind was so occupied,
that he wrote the words “boat” and “rowing” several



times in his exercises at that time instead of the
correct words; and once, when his master asked him,
during school-time, the name of England’s greatest
poet, Hardy answered, ‘Old Rowly!” much to the
amusement of the whole school.

Old Rowly seemed to be very slow about the fitting







The Departure.



up of the boat to the children’s minds, and Hardy
began to fear that his holidays would begin before it
was ready. However, on the morning of the first day
of this much-anticipated holiday-time, old Rowly sent
round to say that the boat was quite complete, and
that he hoped the young gentleman would come and
have a look at it. Iam inclined to think, for my part,
that the children’s father gave directions to old Rowly
not to finish his work too soon, otherwise Hardy would
spend all his spare time over his new toy rather than
with his lessons. I saw his father smiling quietly
once or twice while Hardy was deploring the slow
progress of the boat towards completion.

As you may imagine, Hardy was not long in com-
plying with old Rowly’s suggestion.

“Come along, Sunny!” he cried, seizing his sister
by the hand; “run upstairs and put your hat on, and
welll be off for a nice long row. Do try and be quick,
Sunny—girls are always so slow.”

Sunny was scampering upstairs as fast as her little
feet would carry her, when she knocked against her
father, who was coming down.

“What is the matter, Sunny dear?” asked her
father, almost frightened at her excessive excitement.

“Oh, nothing, papa,” she answered, “only the
boat’s ready, and Hardy and I are going to see it and
have such a row! Won't you come too, papa?”

‘Of course, I shall come!” papa said, with a laugh.
“Why, I must see that you are not drowned, both of
you! Run up and get your hat, and we'll go and have
a look at this wonderful boat.” ;

Papa and Sunny and Hardy were soon on their
way to old Rowly’s hut. Hardy walked along gravely







14 A Cruise in the Acorn.

ea



beside his father, as if he were not at all inclined to
run; but Sunny could not control her impatience, and
ran in front of them, and then back again, and then in
front once more, just like a frisky little dog.

At last they reached old Rowly’s hut. They found
the old man quite as interested about it as they were;
he grew quite eloquent as he described the many
graces and merits of the boat. They followed him to |
the river bank where this treasure was moored.

‘Oh, papa, papa, how delightful!” cried Sunny,
jumping up and down and clapping her hands, as her
eyes fell on the pretty little “craft,” as sailors say,
dancing on the water.

“Don’t be so silly, Sunny,” whispered Hardy, who
was nevertheless gratified at his sister’s pleasure. ‘It’s
a capital boat, though, and we will have such a row in
it; won't we, papa?”

‘Oh, yes,” returned papa, ““we must see how it
goes. Why, Sunny, how quiet you are. A penny for —
your thoughts! Do you think they are worth it; eh?”

“I was wondering what we could name the boat,
papa,” Sunny replied. The question was a serious one
to her, and she looked quite grave over it.

“Well, can’t you think of one,” laughed her father.

“Call it Melson!” cried Hardy; ‘he was a sailor,
so that will do capitally.”

“Call it Sunbeam,” suggested papa, “in imitation
of Sunny!”

“Or Victory,” added Hardy, “or The Nile, or
Trafalgar.”

‘‘Hardy’s mind is evidently running on Nelson
to-day,” said papa, laughingly. ‘‘ For my own part, I
think the boat rather small for such heroic names.










The Departure: 15



Come now, Sunny, you must have thought of some-
thing pretty.”

“T was going to say, call it Acorn, because it’s
brown outside and green inside, like an acorn,” said
Sunny, very timidly, fearing that her simple idea
would be.too much like that of a girl to please papa
and Hardy. But they were pleased with it.

“That will do—won’t it, papa?” cried Hardy.
Papa liked it too; so the boat was christened Zhe
Acorn.

They did not go for a long trip that day, for Hardy
found rowing, especially with his father and Sunny in
the boat, harder work than he had expected. He was
not at all sorry to leave off, and found that his arms
ached dreadfully, and his hands were blistered.

“It won’t always be such hard work for you, my
boy,” said his father, “because I shall not be with you,
and Sunny will learn to manage one oar by-and-by, I’ve
no doubt. I shall come with you the first few times

‘to take care of you, and see that you know what you are
~ about; and when I am quite convinced, I shall leave

Sunny in your charge.”

Hardy soon became a practised oarsman, and his
father had no scruple in allowing him to have the care of
Sunny, who, of course, would far sooner have doubted
the power of her own feet to carry her body, than Hardy’s
perfect reliability and strength. The children had some
very pleasant excursions during those early holidays,
and seemed to enjoy the possession of the 4corvu more
and more every day.

One mofning, as papa was reading his letters at
breakfast-time, he came upon one from a friend, asking
him to spend a week or ten days at his sea-side house.



16 A Cruise in the Acorn.



‘What do you think, mamma?” said papa. “Shall
we go?”

‘““Am I invited also?” said mamma. “ Yes, I should
like to go very much. But then, the children—how
shall we leave them ?”

“Oh, the children will be right enough,” said their
father; “only they must be very careful about the
boat.”

The children promised that they would take every
possible care, and mamma was re-assured.

The next day Sunny and Hardy were left alone, for
mamma and papa went to see their friend, with whom
they were to stay a week. It was a very hot day, and
Hardy found the exertion of rowing more tiring than
usual when they went on their daily expedition.

“IT wish we could find some way of getting the boat
along without rowing,” said Hardy, as he rested on his
oars.

“Couldn't we make a sail?” suggested Sunny,
timidly.

‘Bravo, Sunny!” cried Hardy, with a shout, and a
bound that threatened to overturn the Acorn; “we'll
have a sail! Then we shall have no trouble, you
know; we can just settle ourselves comfortably in the
boat, and float along; and we shall go sc fast, too.
That's a capital idea for a girl.”

Hardy was so excited about it that he gained fresh
energy for rowing, and they went back towards home
and old Rowly’s hut at a wonderful rate, considering the
young oarsman’s previous fatigue.

Leaving Sunny to tie up the boat, Hardy rushed
into old Rowly’s hut, shouting—‘ Rowly! Rowly! I
say, Rowly, we've got such a splendid idea! You



The Departure. 17



know it’s awfully hot rowing this weather; Sunny can’t
help a bit, so I have to do it all; and to-day I was
nearly tired out, when Sunny thought of a sail! Can’t
you make us a sail, Rowly? Papa will pay you for it
when he comes back. Could you make one quick, do

-|.-you think ?”

The old man hesitated. ‘Well, it seems to me,
Master Hardy, that I ought to wait and ask your papa,”
he said, slowly. ‘‘ Not but what I’ve got a little sail that
used to belong to my boy’s pleasure-boat, before he went
out to America; it’s a neat little sail enough ; and it isn’t
because I want to be paid down, Master Hardy; don’t
you think that. But I do think I ought to wait till your
_ papa comes back—I do, really.”

‘Oh, that’s all nonsense, Rowly,” rejoined Hardy,
eagerly. ‘You. know I can manage the boat as well as
possible, and papa wasn’t a bit afraid to leave us, though
he knew we were going out rowing every day; and if
you've got a sail that will do, why, I'll answer for it
that papa won't be angry; besides, I shall tell him when
I write to him. Come now, Rowly, do let us have it;
there’s a dear old fellow; won’t you?”

: Old Rowly shook his head, and muttered to himself,
and, after much deliberation, told Hardy he'd fix the
Acorn up for them, somehow, by next morning.

Accordingly, after undergoing a fever of anticipation,
the children ran down to the place where the boat was
moored, the next morning, and found that old Rowly had
been as good as his implied word; for the corm was
embellished with a sail that was not as white as the
children had expected to see it, but was still, Sunny
declared, oh, ever so pretty!

For the first few days all went on well. There was










18 A Cruise in the Acorn.



a very slight breeze, and the corn sailed lazily along
in a quiet, easy manner that was delightful to its young
proprietors. One day they resolved to have a species
of picnic. They asked the housekeeper to give them
some bread and butter, some cold meat, and some cakes
and fruit, and to put all these eatables into a basket.
The housekeeper was in a good temper, and humoured
them, slipping a few extra nice things into little corners,
and observing that, if they ate all she had provided, they
wouldn’t starve, like the Babes in the Wood, yet awhile.

The children were in ecstasies, and ran and jumped
about while the basket was being packed, anticipating a
delightful day. Presently it was all ready, and they
started off, laughing heartily at the housekeeper’s parting
injunction not to get drowned.

It was a beautiful day, and there was more breeze
than there had been hitherto for their sailing excursions.
The corn danced merrily on the surface of the clear
water, and Sunny and Hardy lay back in their seats
discussing all sorts of adventures, possible and impos-
sible, and enjoying their treat excessively. I think they
must have gone almost to sleep for a little time. The
fresh air, combined with heat, often makes one sleepy,
you know; and these children had slept less than usual
the previous night, I suspect, because of their excitement
with regard to the picnic. (See Frontispiece.)

“Why, Sunny!” exclaimed Hardy, suddenly, ‘look
how wide the river is here!”

Sunny looked, and saw that on either side of them
the banks appeared some way off. ‘‘ Why, it’s the sea!”
she said, in an awestruck voice.

‘How can you be so silly?” said Hardy. ‘“ Why, if
it’s the sea, where are the waves ?”



The Departure. 19



This was an unanswerable argument to Sunny’s mind,
for she glanced apologetically at Hardy, and said that she
had forgotten the waves.

“T should think it’s time to have something to eat;
don’t you think so?” suggested Hardy. “I know I feel
very hungry.”

“So do I,” answered Sunny. ‘‘ What time is it ?”

Hardy looked at his watch (his last birth-day present)
and pronounced the time to be past one o’clock.

“Shall we have it in here, or shall we go out some-
where ?” asked Hardy.

“Oh, it would be much nicer to get out and sit on
the grass,” said Sunny, staring about her for a suitable
place. ‘‘There—look, Hardy! we're coming to a little
island, such a pretty place! We can get out there and
have our dinner. Do you see it ?” '

“Ves, I see it,” said Hardy, tugging at the rudder-
ropes; “but it’s a fine long way off, and look how wide
the river is just there.”

“Perhaps we had better not go so far, then,” replied
Sunny.

“Oh, that’s just like you girls: you suggest a thing,
and then directly afterwards you say, ‘We had better
not do it,’” said Hardy, disdainfully. ‘We may just
as well go there as anywhere else.”

So on they went, the .dcorn skimming along
quickly in the fresh wind. After much agitated
manoeuvring on the part of Hardy, the little boat was
induced to ‘‘draw up,” as Sunny expressed it, alongside
the island, which they found to be by no means so small
as they had at first thought. They did not stop to
look about them much, however, on landing. They
fastened the corn, by means of the rope, to an old








20 A Cruise in the Acorn.







stump that protruded conveniently from the bank, and
then, seizing the basket of provisions, ran off to sit
down under the shade of the trees and enjoy their
meal. There was no lack of food; and after they had
eaten such an amount as only children of that age, out
for a treat, cam eat, they had avery fair quantity to put
back into the basket for a future onslaught. And then,
what do you think they did? Why, they imitated
many of their elders, and, having eaten their dinner,
fell fast asleep.

Hardy woke up first. “Here, Sunny, Sunny!” he
cried. “I say, don’t you go to. sleep like that! You'll
be catching cold, or something of the sort. Let’s go
and have a look at this island.”

Poor little Sunny roused herself, and for a moment
could hardly realise where she was, until Hardy
repeated his wish to have a look at the island, when
she started to her feet, exclaiming—‘‘Oh yes! come
along—let’s have a walk round it!” She took up the
basket to carry with her, but Hardy said she had better
leave it at the foot of a tree among the grass. ‘We're
sure to remember it when we come back to get the
Acorn, you know.”

So Sunny put the basket down as she was bid, and
the pair started on their exploring trip.

There were plenty of curious thirigs to see on the
island: there were, first of all, the solid masses of wild
flowers of all shades of colour, which had such a strange
effect growing under the branches of the forest of trees;
then there were the risings and sinkings of the ground,
the varied carpets of moss, and the vast growth of
feathery ferns waving gently in the wind that reached
them from the distant river. For the river seemed a







The Departure. | 21



long way off to the children as they stood in the thick
of the underwood, looking at all around them with the
keen interest of youth. Then there were the buzzing
long-legged flies to watch; the shining coloured beetles
to chase and catch, if possible; the birds to tempt by
stray crumbs of bread and biscuits that were found in
odd corners of pockets. Frogs and toads played im-
portant parts in the afternoon’s enjoyment, for every
now and then a damp, marshy spot was discovered,
from which the croak of a frog was distinctly heard.
Thereupon Sunny would institute a careful search, and
would at last triumphantly point out to Hardy the
frog’s retreat. Hardy liked the toads better, he said,
and treated frogs with great contempt; observing that
they were like girls—they were always jumping about
- and squeaking.

Sunny was engaged in a keen investigation of one
particular spot, rummaging in the damp grass with her
quick little fingers, when she was aroused by hearing
Hardy, who had been energetically throwing stones at
nothing, for some moments, call—

“JT say, Sunny, it’s getting rather late; don’t you
think we had better find the corn and go back ?”

Sunny knew that such prudence on his part meant
something more than prudence, and answered by a
question—

‘Are you tired, Hardy >?”

“Well, you know,” said he, ‘it’s rather slow, after
a time; and then you go staring into holes, and poking
about in the grass, instead of having a good game.
Besides, it’s getting late.”

Sunny started to her feet and volunteered to join
in a “good game;” but Hardy was not to be moved.

























22 A Cruise in the Acorn.

‘“Why, what time is it?” his sister asked.

‘Well, it’s five o'clock,” said Hardy, looking again
at his watch; “and, you know, it will take us some
time to get home.”

“Very well,” agreed Sunny. “Then we must go
back and fetch our basket first. But, Hardy,” she
added, looking round her, half-puzzled, ‘which is the
way?”

‘If that isn’t just like you, Sunny! Why, we must
turn back, of course!”

So they turned back, and Sunny skipped along
beside her brother, wondering, but never dreaming of
questioning his judgment. Hardy seemed uneasy in
his mind, and walked forward, looking almost anxiously
about him. Suddenly he stopped abruptly, saying—

“Sunny, we've lost our way. Whereabouts do you
think the Acorn is?”

“T am sure I can’t tell,” she answered; “but it’s
not much matter, because, you know, we can walk all
round the bank until we find it.”

‘““So we can,” said Hardy, re-assured somewhat ;
and they trotted along briskly, laughing and talking
as they went. However, they walked some distance
along the bank and did not find the Acorn. At last,
Hardy suggested that Sunny should sit down by the
water's edge, while he ran as fast as he could all round
the island. ‘Then there’s the basket to find as well,”
grumbled Hardy.

‘Oh, but that is close by where we tied the boat,”.
said Sunny. ‘Don’t you remember we sat down
directly we had landed. When we find the ‘corn, I
can find the basket directly.”

“You stay here, then,” said Hardy, “while I run



The Departure. 23

round. When once I’ve found it, we can soon get to it
together; and the island isn’t so very big after all; I
shan’t be long.”

But the island was big, and he was a very long
time, and Sunny was getting half-frightened about
him. She did not dare to move from her place, but sat
like a little sentinel just where Hardy had left her,
feeling so strange all alone in the wonderful stillness.
She began to understand, she thought, what Robinson
Crusoe must have felt on his desert island; and she
almost forgot Hardy in her interest in comparing her-
self to Crusoe. As she was looking far away into the
river, with meditative eyes, she heard Hardy’s footsteps
behind her, and jumped up, half-frightened, half-laugh-
ing, exclaiming—‘‘Oh, Hardy, I thought it was Man
Friday !”

“Bother Man Friday,” was Hardy’s unsympathetic
reply, uttered in so serious a manner that Sunny was
startled. ‘Do you know that I’ve been all round this
island and can’t find the corn /”

“Can’t find the .4corn/” repeated Sunny, in amaze-
ment. ‘Why, where’s it gone?”

“Well, that’s just what I want to know,” answered
Hardy, moodily, throwing himself down on the grass,
and cutting at the tufts of weed and wild-flower with
a switch he had procured from a neighbouring bush.

“But it must be there somewhere,” said Sunny;
“you must have missed it. Perhaps it has got among
the weeds, and you only saw the green, and didn’t think
‘ the boat was just beside, and ran on.”

“Well, if you like to go and look among the
weeds,” said Hardy, “you must go alone, I’m so
tired. I suppose you're not afraid, are you ?”





24 A Cruise in the Acorn.



Sunny would not have dared’ to confess that she had
been a little bit afraid before he came back, still less
that she was afraid now; because she knew that, tired
as he was, he would have walked with her. So she
summoned up all her courage, and saying, No, she
didn’t mind at all—she started off, invigorating herself
every time she felt the least timid by remembering
how tired poor Hardy was. You see, Sunny was
a brave little girl; was she not?

She walked on and on, making sure at every step
that she had not passed the corn, and peering
anxiously into every corner and crevice of the river
bank. At last, as she stopped at one rather broad
opening and looked about her, she thought—‘t Why,
this is where we moored the boat!” Very carefully,
and with beating heart, she examined the bank. Yes,
she was certain they had landed there. She remem-
bered that thick clump of weeds, by the water, which
‘Hardy had told her not to touch, because she would
make her hands all green and slimy. Yet, where was
the stump of tree to which they had tied the boat?
She knelt down, and gazed with all her might, and
discovered a big hole in the earth, just where she was
certain the stump had been. Yes, the hole looked
quite freshly made, and little stray twigs and ends of
root were clinging about, as if the stump had been
recently torn away, root and all. It was evident that
the constant drag of the boat had exhausted the
resistance of the worn-out, decayed branch, which had
finally given way. The corn had drifted down the
river—far, far away from its young owners—and was
travelling rapidly towards the open sea.

Sunny was too excited to be much alarmed as yet.’







The Departure. 25





“Hardy! Hardy!” she screamed, running back in
his direction. ‘“ Hardy! come directly, Hardy!”

As she ran, she saw him running to meet her.

“Well, what’s up?” he panted, as they met. “How
you do frighten a fellow! I thought you'd fallen into
the river.”

“Oh, no,” laughed Sunny; “but, Hardy, the
Acorn's gone! I’ve found the place where we tied it
up, and stump and all are gone!”

“You must have made a mistake,” said Hardy. “It
can’t have gone, you know. Why, the stump was firm
enough. Are you sure it’s the place?—have you found
the basket ?”

‘No, I quite forgot the basket,” Sunny confessed.

“There, you see!” rejoined her brother. ‘ That’s
_ the thing to decide if it’s the place. Of course’; if the
basket is where you left it—I mean, just the same
distance and on the same side of the bank—I shall think
youre right about the stump.”

When they reached the spot Sunny had indicated,
Hardy looked grave: he, too, remembered the general
appearance of the place, and the peculiarities of the
distant aspect.

Without a word as to his recollections, he turned
to Sunny, saying—“ Now, where do you say you put
the basket ?”

_ Sunny pointed out a group of trees close by, and
said she thought she knew the very tree, and ran to-
wards a particular one. Hardy watched her intently,
and saw her turn to come back to him with the basket
in her hand !

“I say, this is no joke,” said Hardy, as Sunny
came quietly to his side. ‘I don’t know what we're









26 A Cruise in the Acorn.



todo. This is the place where we tied the boat; the
basket decides it. You're right about the stump, too,
Sunny; and there’s a little bit of painted wood off the
side of the boat stuck in the weeds; do you see?”

Sunny aid see—it was just a thin slip of the familiar
light-brown painted wood—and the remembrance that
that was all now left to them of their much-prized
Acorn affected her so much, that she burst into tears.

“Come, don’t cry, Sunny,” said Hardy, kindly;
“we shall get home somehow, I suppose, though I
don’t exactly see how.” :

Sunny soon dried her tears; and the two children
walked restlessly about, straining their eyes across the
river in search of a boat; watching the far-off banks,
as well as they could, in the hope of seeing some human
creature to whom they could make signs of distress.
But the far-off banks looked as desolate as those of
the island: they could see nothing but dark masses of
tree and bush.

I know what you are about to say—Couldn’t Hardy
swim? Yes, he could swim very well for a boy of
his age; but swimming in a swimming-bath, with
numbers of school-fellows sharing the sport, and several
masters overlooking, in order to ensure the boys’ safety,
was a very different thing to striking out alone in a
strange place, and for a distance which he might not
be able to accomplish. Of,course, it was out of the
question that he should attempt to swim all the way
down the river until he reached old Rowly’s hut: very
few strong men would have been able to accomplish
such a feat as that. He hesitated for some time
whether he should make a try for one of the opposite
banks. There did not seem, however, much to be







The Departure. 27



gained by that, for even if his strength lasted until
he reached the shore (which he doubted, and so do I),
he could not be much wiser, for he had no idea where-
abouts they were, and might lose himself hopelessly,
alone at night in a strange and desolate place. The
most important argument, however, was that he could
not leave Sunny. The poor child felt secure as long
as he was with her; but I expect she would have died
of fright if he had left her. She was brave enough as
yet, though, and talked quite gaily to Hardy about
their adventure. It was getting dark very fast—that is
to say, as dark as it was likely to be, for the nights
had been very clear and light of late. Luckily, too, it
was summer-time and unusually hot, so they were not
likely, being strong, healthy children, to run any serious
risk in sleeping out of doors.

“We have got something for supper, haven’t we ?”
said Sunny, with a laugh, as they were discussing all
the points of the adventure.

“Yes, by-the-bye,” cried Hardy, “so we have. I
propose we have something now. Get the basket,
Sunny, and we'll sit down here and eat part of our
provisions this moment.”

' They sat down, poor children! and had a very good
meal, in spite of the mishap.

‘How shall we ever get back, do you think,
Hardy?” asked his sister, presently, after an interval
of silence.

“Oh, it will be all right to-morrow,” said Hardy.
“Old Rowly will find we haven’t come back, and he'll
get hold of a boat, and will row after us till he finds
us. You know, he saw us start, and knows which way.
we came; and if he follows the river straight along, he







































28 A Crutse in the Acorn.





can’t miss us. We must keep a sharp look-out that
he doesn’t pass right beyond us, that’s all. They will
be nicely frightened at home ; won’t they!”

“Tm so glad papa and mamma are away,” mur-
mured Sunny.

“Yes, and so am I,” said the boy. In a few
moments he added—‘I say, Sunny, I’m so sleepy and
tired ; are you?”

“I’m very tired,” was her answer; “I don’t think
I’m very sleepy.” Then the idea that struck her
seemed irresistible, for she burst intoa hearty laugh, say-
ing—‘‘Oh, Hardy, how are we to go to sleep? we have
nothing to cover us, and how uncomfortable it will be
on the ground. This is an adventure ; isn’t it?”

Hardy assured her she would be very comfortable,
on the contrary. He showed her how the boys at
school managed when they lay down on the ground.
They made a little hole for their thigh and another for
their elbow, and then their bones didn’t ache. Sunny
thought this an excellent idea, and was quite anxious
to try it.

While Hardy was scooping out some holes, as he
had seen his school-fellows do, Sunny suddenly said—

“Hardy, don’t you think we ought to try and
arrange some sort of sign to attract old Rowly in the
morning ?”

“Ves,” said Hardy, stopping in his work, “so we
ought. What can we do? Oh, I'll tell you! we can tie
my handkerchief on to a tall stick. That's sure to
surprise him; won't it! That's a capital notion.
Wait till I’ve finished these holes, and I'll see
about it.”

The plan succeeded admirably, and Hardy’s pocket-



yer

The Departure. 29
handkerchief floated most gracefully over the waters;
and they were both delighted at their clever device.

Hardy then took one arm out of his coat-sleeve—
I am dignifying it by calling it a coat, remember—and
stretched himself on the ground, calling to Sunny to
come and lie down beside him. Having shown her
how to arrange herself comfortably, he made her put
her little arm through his empty sleeve, then he put
his arm round her “heck, somehow, and she declared
herself as ‘‘ easy as could be.”

They did not speak for a few moments; and
suddenly, Hardy felt Sunny’s head shaking con-
vulsively.

“You are not crying, Sunny?” he asked; but she
didn’t answer. ‘Come, don’t cry,” he resumed. “Tt
will be all right to-morrow when old Rowly sees our
fae, eh?”

Sunny laughed then, and Hardy heard her whis-
per—‘‘ Good-night, Hardy,” and he felt a soft kiss on
his cheek.

‘“‘Good-night, dear Sunny,” he replied.

Sooner than you may think, the children were
sleeping the innocent sleep of childhood.











CHAP. II.—SUNNY’S ‘‘GREEN FRIEND.”

ae did not sleep very long: she was aroused by
Y hearing a “ Croak, croak, croak!” just by her head.
She listened intently—yes, it was certainly the croak of
a frog—and to her young imagination it seemed as if
the frog was in trouble. She wanted to get up and
look, but she was afraid of waking Hardy, and he
would be so angry, especially if it were about a frog,
because he didn’t like frogs. ‘‘Croak, croak, croak!
Croak, croak, croak!” She felt she must get up and see
what was the matter with it; so, very softly and
tenderly she disengaged Hardy’s arm from her neck,
and folding his jacket over him, she began to look about
for the frog. It was a difficult matter to find it, as you
can fancy; for although the night was not dark, still a
frog in the grass at any time is almost as bad as a
needle in a bottle of hay. However, by feeling about
with her hands very carefully, Sunny at last discovered
it; and taking it up in the palm of her hand, she tried to
see what was the matter, for she was certain something |
was wrong with it. She could feel the throbbing of its
body as she held it; but she was sufficiently wise to
know that meant nothing. It felt quite dry and hot,
too, and that she was sure was zof right.



Sunny's “Green Friend.” 31



“Why, poor thing!” she said to herself; “it wants to
be put in some cool, damp place, of course; and that’s
why it has been croaking like that. I wonder where I
can take it; it’s so dark to go wandering about here.
I wonder if Hardy would be very angry if I woke him.”
She’ looked at Hardy's recumbent figure hesitatingly,
and at that very moment, as if Hardy knew what she
meditated, he gave a half-grunt—something between a
grunt and a snore—and Sunny felt she would not dare
wake him. Besides, he was so tired, poor Hardy!

So she turned away, with the frog in her hand, and
walked a few yards towards the river. Then she
thought she had better not put it in the river—it
wanted a marshy, weedy, damp place, but not pure,
running water. Wondering which way to go, she
looked all round her, and was astonished to find that
her fears about the dark were fast disappearing. Why,
it didn't seem so dark after all! thought she. There was
quite a bright sort of green light far away under the
trees. If only she could wake Hardy, they might both
go and see what was the best place for the frog. Half-
unconsciously she went towards the particular spot where
the curious green light was brightest. The trees, too, all
looked very pretty, she thought ; some of the branches
were like silver, while others were like green stones—
like the green stone in mamma’s ring.

_ Oh, how I wish mamma could see this island!” said
Sunny to herself; ‘how she would like all the pretty
flowers, and birds, and trees, and ” Here she
stopped abruptly, for she saw something moving in the
grass—something of a bright green, that looked like an
immense frog. Half-frightened, she stooped to see, and
then burst out laughing—‘ Why, it’s quite a party of





32 A Cruise in the Acorn.



frogs! What a number of them! Oh, if only Hardy
would wake up, I am sure he would like it !”

The frog in her hand began to move its legs about,
and presently it leapt from her fingers on to the ground,
and then prepared to follow its fellow-frogs, who were
moving very slowly forward. Slowly as they moved,
however, they went in perfect order, dragging their little
bodies on for regular periods by their forelegs, and then
all leaping together. Every frog seemed able to
measure the distance of its jump, and to make some
kind of calculation, for none of them came to the
ground a second behind or before time, or the quarter
of an inch out of place.

Sunny stood looking in astonishment.

“What funny frogs!” she exclaimed. ‘‘ Where can
they be going? I shall follow them and see. Hardy
would be interested even in frogs, I’m sure, if he could
see them. However, it’s of no use waking him, so I
shall see where they are going. After all, it will be
great fun telling him to-morrow.”

She walked on behind the little army of frogs, an
soon found that they did not move so slowly, for some-
times she could hardly keep up with them. The green
light under the trees grew brighter and brighter, and
now and then the leaves seemed almost on fire, so
brilliantly green were they, with a sort of white or silver
mist like smoke arising round them. Presently, she
came upon a clear space of grass where the frogs
stopped. She could see them quite well, for it was like
daylight when one looks through a piece of green glass.
I wonder she was not frightened at such a strange sight;
but she wasn’t, and stood beside a tree, laughing
heartily at the frogs’ movements, and stopping her ears



Sunny's “ Green Friend.” 33



when they all croaked together. In a few seconds—you
will hardly believe it, but I refer you to Sunny—they
began to dance; yes, todance! Then there was such
an uproar of croaking, such a confusion of leaping; it
was the funniest thing imaginable to see them capering
about on their hind legs, their heads thrown back, and
their bodies panting and throbbing as if they had no
breath.

‘Now, I certainly wz wake Hardy,” thought
Sunny; “if he’s cross at first, he won't be afterwards.
I shall run back and fetch him quick.” So, with a part-
ing glance at the frogs, who were evidently not going to
give up their festivities yet awhile, she ran off to fetch
Hardy.

fe eeericd to her that she went a long way; she
didn’t think she had walked so far; she never remem-
bered to have seen, either, all those stumps of trees with
their intertwined roots bursting out of the ground.
Surely she hadn’t lost herself. Oh, no! it was all right!
Not far off she saw their flag—Hardy’s handkerchief—
floating about. She ran up to it. There was the place,
right enough ; there were the tree, and the basket, and
the holes in the earth that Hardy had scooped out;
but—where was Hardy !

She looked under ever so many trees, thinking that
perhaps Hardy had moved, or that she had made a
mistake ; but he was not to be seen anywhere.

“He'll come back here to look after me, though, I’m
sure,” said Sunny, hardly knowing whether to cry or
not, and forgetting all about the frogs. ‘Oh, I wish I
had never got up and left him. I suppose he woke, and
when he found I was not there he went to look for me.
I shall wait here, at all events, till he comes back.”





34 A Cruise in the Acorn.





She sat still a very long time, looking keenly about
her in every direction, but Hardy never came.

Sunny was in great distress, as you may imagine, as
the time passed on, and still no Hardy appeared.

‘“Where can he have gone?” thought she. ‘‘He
can’t have gone home, because there’s no boat; besides,
he would never have left me all alone like this. No, I
suppose he has been walking about the island looking
for me, and he'll be here presently.”

She waited again for another very long space of time,
and she was certain that she herself could have gone
round the island twice in the interval. At last she made
up her mind that she would go and look for him. She
was a brave little girl, as you know, and she did not
cry or get frightened at being alone in this strange
place—as many of her young friends would have done—
but trotted cheerfully on, peeping into every nook and
corner for truant Hardy. Suddenly, a bright idea
struck her.

‘Why, he’s found the frogs, of course, and is
watching them dancing, and I daresay he’s forgotten all
about me.”

She skipped on gaily in the direction of the frogs’
party, as far as she could judge of the direction. She
could still see a green light shining under the trees, but
the light was more equally spread and less vivid in
certain places ; and, of course, this made it more difficult
for her to find the precise spot on which the festivities
had been celebrated. She went from one side to the other,
from tree to tree, from grass mound to grass mound,
but could not discover any trace of the frogs’ ball.
Sunny was fairly puzzled now, for she could not find

Hardy, and could not even find the frogs. “I don't



Sunny s “Green Friend.” 35

like this island,’ she said to herself, as she roamed
about, straining her eyes to see if Hardy were not to be
perceived far away in the distance—‘‘I don’t like this
island, after all. It seemed so pretty and cheerful, and
so small, at first, as if one could run about all over
it ever so often; and since we've been here we've
done nothing but lose our things, and now we've lost
each other. Oh, how I wish the morning would come,
so that old Rowly might arrive, with the boat, to take us
away! though I couldn't go without Hardy—I forgot
that—and I can’t find Hardy anywhere.” Here poor
Sunny sank on toa knoll of grass, and was just begin-
ning to soothe her sorrow by a few tears, when a little
voice close beside her seemed to say—

“Don’t cry, Sunny!”

She turned round in much astonishment. There
was no one to be seen! Not a sound stirred the air.
Not an indication of any living thing on the island, save
herself, was perceptible. Too unhappy to be frightened,
she thought it was her fancy that had conjured up the
voice, and resumed her downcast attitude on the grass
knoll, clasping her hands over her face, and resting her
elbows on her knees.

‘Don’t cry, Sunny!” she heard again.

“‘ How silly Iam,” she whispered to herself. ‘‘ How
Hardy would scold me if he thought I was so babyish.”
Then the remembrance of Hardy, conjured up by these
reflections, overcame her entirely, and she burst into a
passion of tears—real tears of sorrow this time.

“Don’t cry, Sunny; don’t cry, little Sunny!”

Sunny raised her head and looked about her, her
eyes shaded by tears and her lips still quivering; but
she could see nothing.







36 A Cruise in the Acorn.



‘What can it be?” thought she. “I certainly heard
the words as plainly as possible. How can any one
know my name? Perhaps it’s Hardy disguising his
voice and trying to frighten me; that would be just like
him. I'll walk about and see if I can find him.”

Quite invigorated by this idea, Sunny started to her
feet and pattered away as cheerfully as could be. Once
she saw at a little distance from her a figure of about
Hardy’s size moving quickly in the shade of the trees.
She was so pleased, and began to run, in order to reach
her tiresome brother, who “must be delighted to have
this opportunity of teasing me,” thought she. She ran
a long way; she groped about among trees and bushes ;
she stumbled over stones, and no Hardy came forward
to reward her trouble by success. At last she found
herself once more at the river side, and, after sitting
down on a block of stone to rest her active little frame,
_ she perceived that the dawn of day was at hand. There
were faint, strange hues in the distant sky that were
reflected in the calm waters of the river; and the trees,
and flowers, and grass around her seemed to have
gained brighter tints from the first glimmer of light.
Everything looked so fresh, so happy, so gay, that
Sunny’s spirits rose immediately, and she felt convinced
that all would come right presently: Hardy would pop
upon her suddenly, old Rowly would appear with his
funny ricketty boat, and they would go off home to make
a good breakfast, and be well scolded and petted at the
same time by the kind housekeeper.

‘Do you like this place, little Sunny ?”

The child started, for it was the voice that she had
heard in the midst of the trees, and had taken to be
Hardy’s voice. She turned to see if it really were





PUIG eh CURT W LAY



eee eT YN SO Seer meee Pe ey







*” ' a | he





|

For NONE SHALL exalt thee as |!
Ah, none whom thy spells may control
Shall deck thee in hues from the sky,
And breathe in thy statue his soul_

None build from the slories of song
The brighter existence above_
The realm which to poets belong _



The throne they bestow where they love.

Let earth its chill colours regain,
The moonlight depart from thy sea;
Explore through creation in vain
The fairy-land vanish’d with me.
AULWER















Sunny's “ Green Friend.” 39



Hardy who was trying to frighten her, and then she
started still more violently, for she saw beside her a
curious little figure dressed in a peculiar dark bottle-
green, wearing a very odd-shaped hat, such as Sunny
had never before seen. The oddest thing about him,
however, was that he had wings—glimmering, trans-
parent wings—such as Sunny had seen in pantomines
once or twice on those rare occasions when her father
- and mother had taken her to London. There was no
possibility of mistaking this queer person for Hardy;
anyone less like her brother, Sunny did not remember
to have seen. His face was very dark, almost like a red
Indian, thought Sunny; his eyes were large, and black,
and glittering; and altogether he was so strange-looking
a little fellow that most children would have been much
- more frightened at him than Sunny was. His voice
was the pleasantest thing about him, for. it was low and
soft; and he spoke with a measured, foreign intonation,
totally different to Hardy’s loud treble.

‘What is the matter, Sunny?” he asked again.
‘“Why don’t you answer me? Perhaps I can help you
if you are in trouble. But if you don’t tell me why you
are crying, how can I do anything for you?”

“Oh, I wish I could find Hardy!” sobbed Sunny,
now fairly frightened at the strange person’s persistence ;
“it’s very unkind of him to leave me all alone like this.
I suppose he’s hiding somewhere, or perhaps he is
looking for me, and is angry because he thinks I’m
playing with him. I hope he won't catch cold, that’s
all: he was so hot this afternoon, and papa always
says that it’s very bad to get cold afterwards. And
Hardy has such bad coughs too, and I thought I heard -
him coughing to-night just before we went to sleep; and







40 A Cruise in the Acorn.



then—and then—if he has another cough he might die,
and I should never see him any more! Oh, what shall
I do! what shall I do!”

Sunny’s eyes were so dimmed with tears that she
never noticed how strange her green friend, as she
always called him, looked while she was deploring
Hardy; but, overcome with grief, not unmixed with
fear, if the truth be told, the poor child threw herself on
the ground, as if the kindly earth were the best resting-
place in her trouble. And I will not undertake to say
that Sunny’s instinct was wrong.

Her green friend did not allow her to meditate on
the comfort afforded by the damp ground, however.

‘Come, my child, get up directly,” he said, ‘“‘or you
will be ill, and then you won't be able to find Hardy,
you know.”

Sunny started to her feet obediently, and wiped her
eyes. She glanced timidly at the curious figure beside
her, and at last ventured upon asking—

‘How did you know my name, sir, and Hardy's
name too ?”

He laughed, answering, “Oh, that I shall not tell
you. I know everybody’s name; yours is written on
your forehead, here, among your curls.” Sunny looked
so frightened at this astounding answer to a very
commonplace question, that he laughed again, and
said—" I’m sure you want to ask me something more;
don't you ?”

“Yes, please,” Sunny replied; “I want to ask you
your name, if you will tell me.”

‘““My name is Imp!”

‘“What is that for?” said Sunny. ‘ What a funny.
name! isn’t it?” and, for the first time since she had



Sunny's “Green Friend.” 4I



discovered Hardy’s disappearance, she burst into a
merry laugh.

‘““And now, I suppose you want to know why I am
~ named Imp?”

“Why, yes, of course I do,” said Sunny, still
laughing.

“Because my parents saw that I was always in
mischief,” replied Imp, very gravely, yet with a curious
twinkle in his eye.

“What a strange name!” murmured Sunny, who
had by this time completely recovered her usual fear-
lessness. ‘“‘ What does it mean, really ?”

“T have already told you,” he said. ‘It means that’
I was always in mischief. Have you never heard of an
‘imp of mischief, Sunny? Don’t you know what mis-
chief means ?”

“Oh yes!” she answered. ‘Hardy is an imp too,
then, for he is always getting into mischief, old Rowly
says ; and papa says so too, sometimes.”

After this, a very long silence ensued. Sunny ran
about picking flowers here and there, glancing furtively
at Imp, looking on every side for her brother, and
wondering, also, when the real daylight was coming.

Suddenly her strange companion said—

“Sunny, you like me well enough to obey me; don’t

ou?”

The child looked up in his dark face uneasily, and
could find nothing more satisfactory to say than that she
didn’t know; at which Imp laughed.

‘What do you want me to do?” she added.

“T want you,” said Imp—and, as he spoke, the
whole place seemed growing darker, and involuntarily
Sunny clung to the hand he stretched to her—‘“I want












42 A Cruise in the Acorn.

you to come with me now and live in my palace, and be
my little daughter. I will be so kind to you, Sunny
dear, if you will.”

‘But I can’t, and I won’t!” cried Sunny. ‘ You are
not my papa; you know you are not; and what would
my own dear papa say to me if ever he knewit? I don't
like you at all; and directly I get home I'll tell papa all
you said, and he'll be very angry with you for frighten-
ing me, and will have you shut up. Why don’t you try
and find Hardy if you want to go home and don’t like
to leave me alone?” Sunny was beyond crying now;
she was so indignant with Imp for having proposed that .
she should leave her pretty home, and, above every-
thing, her father and mother and Hardy, and to be zs
litttle daughter, that she never thought of such things as
tears. Her face became crimson with anger as she
meditated on the grievous insult offered her. At last,
finding that Imp made no attempt to answer, she turned
to see if he might not have disappeared, and to her
horror she perceived that the darkness had become
intense. She could not distinguish the outline of the
trees; she could not prevent herself knocking her arms
and outstretched hands against their solid trunks; she
put her little feet into pool after pool of dank, reedy
water; she trod on huge stones that cut her, and on
nettles that stung her and pricked her; at one moment
she felt an icy wind that made her shiver with cold; at
another, it seemed to her that she had never yet known
the true meaning of the word heat. Poor Sunny! How
many children would have been as brave as she was, I
wonder ?

“Well, Sunny dear, how do you like this island
now ?” asked Imp, who was still close beside her.









Sunny s “Green Friend.” 43

“T don't like it at all, I tell you,” answered Sunny,
vehemently, ‘ever since I lost Hardy. I shouldn't

- mind a bit if he were here, for he would take care of me,

and I’m sure 4e wouldn't be frightened at anything you
did. He doesn’t mind the dark, or the cold, or the heat,
or the water, or the rain, or the frogs”—here Sunny’s
sense of truth induced her to make a reservation—‘ that
is to say, he doesn’t quite like frogs, of course, but he’s
very fond of toads; and,” she continued, rather incon-
sistently, I must own, “I know he wouldn’t be frightened
at anything you said. Besides, he is so much bigger than

~ you are, that, if he didn’t like you, and if you were unkind

to me, I’m sure he would fight you if I asked him.”

“T am very much obliged to you, Sunny, for your
kind intentions,” said Imp, chuckling as he thought of
the tricks he would play when once the children were
fairly in his clutches; “but, you know, I’m afraid your
brother isn’t very valiant if he would only fight me
because he is so much bigger than I am.”

“How dare you say such things about Hardy!”
Sunny almost shrieked in her excitement and renewed
indignation; and, being very much exhausted, she sud-
denly fell into a violent fit of crying.

“My dear child, / didn’t say anything about your
brother,” said Imp; “you said yourself that he was so
much bigger than I, that ,

Here he was interrupted, for he felt Sunny’s little
hands clutching his arm, and he heard her murmuring,
as if at her last gasp—

“Do, please, take me home. I will be so good if
you do. Ill do everything you ask me, and I'll be so
obedient. I’m sure my papa will give you all the money
he’s got if you'll only take me back.”









44 A Cruise in the Acorn.



A new idea struck Imp at this juncture, and he said
in his very softest voice—

‘“Come, Sunny dear, you mustn’t cry any more, or
you won't be able to see your papa when you get home.
Come, look up; there’s a good girl; and tell me you've
forgiven me for teasing you.”

Sunny raised her head and opened her eyes. She
could hardly believe her senses. She rubbed her eyes
again and again; she pinched her arms until there were
great violet marks on them; she stared about her so
wildly, that Imp thought for a moment she was really -
mad; and, finally, she turned to him with a brilliant
smile on her pale face, as if to ask him what it all
meant.

She may well have been astonished !

The sun had risen in all its magnificence, bedewing,
it seemed to her, every blade of grass in its golden
splendour. The leaves of the trees were radiant; the
distant streams of water were flowing like molten gold;
the ground at her feet appeared one vast sheet of gold;
in short, far away, far as eye could see, there was nothing
but the same golden hue shed by the glorious morning
sun.
“There, you see!” said Imp, smilingly; ‘I am not
so very bad as you thought, am I ?”

“T didn’t know you were only joking,” answered
poor Sunny. ‘How should I? And then, when it was
so dark, I thought perhaps you were a fairy, or a demon,
or an elf, or something, and wanted to turn me into a
stone, you know, or a frog—like the fairies do in my
books. I am so glad that the day-time has come at last.
I’m very much obliged to you for taking care of me all
night.” There was a peculiarity in Imp’s smile just then





Sunny's “ Green Friend.” 45







that induced her to add, with an uneasy glance at his
curious face, ‘‘ You are not angry, I hope, are you, because
I said I couldn’t be your little daughter? You know, I
was papa’s little daughter, oh, ever so long ago! and he’s
always so kind to me and so fond of me; but I'll be
very grateful and obedient to you, if you'll take care of
me until I can get home again.” |
She gulped down her tears bravely, and determined
to do her best, so that Imp might not be angry once

more, and refuse to help her to her own dear home.
Imp took her passive hand, and led her swiftly on
. in the sunlight. She did not know how or why it was,
but she did not feel at all tired; she did not stumble,
her feet did not ache, and yet she had been walking about
the island the whole night through. It seemed to her
as if she were hardly touching the ground, so lightly did
she step. What did it mean? said she to herself.
Presently, she stooped to pick a gleaming flower
-that lay across the narrow path they were following, and,
as she did so, she noticed for the first time that her feet
were encased in white shoes! Hardly believing her
eyesight, she glanced at her frock, which was also white

as the driven snow!
‘Don't you like your new dress ?” asked Imp, seeing
her look of utter amazement. ae
‘Oh yes, I like it,” she said, slowly; ‘ but who gave
it.me? where did it come from? I am sure I hadn't got
this one on when we came out in the boat, because
Hardy doesn’t like white frocks; he always says they
look babyish. I don’t think I could have had such a
frock either; I don’t remember mamma buying it.
Why!” she cried, as she looked down at her new
splendour—‘“ why, it’s not a// white, after all, is it >”









46 A Crutse in the Acorn.



“What is the matter with it, then?” said Imp, who
seemed very much amused at Sunny’s excitement. “ It’s
only got a green border to it. I think it looks very
pretty indeed; don’t you?”

“Yes,” answered Sunny, “it’s very pretty indeed,
Imp; but whose frock is it ?”

‘Now, how should / know?” said Imp. ‘“ You have
had that same frock on ever since I first saw you. I
didn’t give it to you, did 1?”

Sunny considered this reply for a few seconds, and
ou asked suddenly, with the instinctive logic of a
child—

‘But why did you, then, call it my new frock 2”

Imp was not to be beaten, however; he answered
promptly, with a curious chuckle, that did not sound to
Sunny at all like a genuine laugh—

“Well, I guessed it was a new frock, because if it
had not been new you would have remembered it, and
you would also have remembered the green border on it.”

Sunny did not feel at all satisfied, but she wisely
abstained from asking further questions on the subject,
yet awhile, at all events.

The novelty and marvellous beauty of everything
around soon led her to forget Imp’s failings, and she
found herself prattling away to him presently, as freely
as if she had been talking to Hardy. She told him all
_ about her papa and mamma, and old Rowly, and the
housekeeper ; in fact, she related to her green friend so
many things, that at last she could not remember what
she had told him and what she had not. However, he
didn’t seem to hear Sunny’s chatter; or if he did, he
never noticed when she stopped.

They were walking, or rather flying, along at a



Sunny's “Green Friend.” 47



remarkable rate now; and although Sunny fancied she
‘never went so fast in her life before, she did not feel
a bit tired. Imp held her hand, and led her, or rather
dragged her, so swiftly, that she wondered he was not
tired even if she were not. The sunlight, too, seemed
rowing so strong that it hurt her, poor child! and had
her long eyelashes not shaded her eyes, I am afraid Imp
might have been answerable for much pain.

As Imp’s pace was rapidly becoming beyond Sunny’s
powers, as his hold upon her slender wrist was now more
like the iron grip of one of the ancient instruments of
torture of which she had read, and as the fierce sunlight
was, or seemed to be, really burning her unprotected
head, she thought the moment had come for remonstrance.
Gathering her courage together, she said at last—

‘Please, Imp, would you mind walking only a very
little bit slower? I am not tired, you know, but the sun
is so hot, and it hurts my head.”

‘““Why does the sun hurt your head, Sunny dear >?”
said Imp.

“T don’t know,” answered Sunny; “I suppose
because I haven’t got my hat on.”

“Why, yes, you have!” said Imp.

Sunny, in utter surprise, put her hand to her head,
and found that there was, in truth, something there,
but she could not tell exactly what.

“ How funny that is!” said Sunny, laughing heartily.
“How could it have got there? It’s fixed on so tightly,
too.”

She tried to pull it off; but the more she tried, the
firmer it became.

‘“T should think you had better leave your hat
alone,” said Imp, still holding her hand, and leading her





48 A Crutse in the Acorn.



on. ‘What is the use of pulling at it like that? You
will never get it off unless I choose.”

“T don’t want to take it off,’ answered Sunny,
meekly, ‘only it seems so funny, doesn’t it?” and here
she could not help another burst of laughter.

Presently, seeing, as she glanced at Imp, that he was
smiling, she ventured to say—

“Would you mind telling me, please, Imp, what sort
of hat it is on my head ?”

Imp did not answer, and Sunny waited for a few
seconds, not daring to address him yet, nor even to look
at hirn. At last she said again—poor child!—as Imp’s
pace increased moment by moment—

‘“‘Oh, please, don’t walk so fast, Imp; it hurts me
so; indeed it does. Do let me rest a bit, and then I'll
run as fast as you like. And why do you hold my wrist
so tight ? why do you want to hurt me? I haven't done
anything to you, have I?”

Imp never answered, but dragged her on by the
wrist, until Sunny thought’she must be going mad, or
dreaming, or dying. ,

At last, Imp stopped suddenly.

Sunny was so startled, that she opened her eyes wide
to look at him; and as she did so, he said, with the
unearthly, curious chuckle she had noticed before—

‘“Do you remember what I asked you a little time
ago, Sunny? Do you remember that I wanted to take
you to my palace to be my little daughter, Sunny? Do
you remember; eh?” Imp’s voice was insinuatingly
soft for the moment, and his eyes looked quite kind and
gentle, thought Sunny; still, she was faithful to her
‘own dear papa,” and answered—

“Yes, I remember; but you said afterwards you





Sunny's “Green Friend.” 49

were only teasing me. Oh, I wish Hardy would
come |”

‘““Answer me once for all, Sunny,” cried Imp,
‘‘Answer me immediately. You shall have everything
you can possibly desire, Sunny dear; you shall have the
finest of fine dresses, you shall have servants to wait
upon you, magnificent flowers to perfume the air you
breathe, jewels of rare value to adorn you; the daintiest
dishes, the costliest viands, the most delicate fruits shall
be yours, dear Sunny, if you will only say yes—if you will
promise to obey me, and to be my little daughter, and
forget all your past life. You would soon grow to like
me as well as you now like your own papa; don’t you
think you would ?” )

Imp looked very unlikeable, certainly, at that moment.
His eyes had an excessively unpaternal gleam in them;
and as for giving poor Sunny all the advantages which
he had just promised, his manner, to my mind, would
have indicated nothing better than a “cup of cold
poison” if she refused to obey him—or, at best, slow
starvation |

Sunny was about to answer him, when he put his
dark, wicked face close to hers, saying with a smile—

“Won't you be my little Sunny ?”

This frightened her so terribly that she ran away
from him as fast as her feet would carry her, without
looking back at him, without glancing to the right or to
the left or even in front of her, to see where she was
going—only running away from him, the brilliant sun-
light in her face and on her head—shrieking at the top
of her childish voice—

“Hardy! Hardy! Hardy!”










CHAP. III.—ROWLY TO THE RESCUE.

i i SAY, Sunny! Sunny! here, wake up! what zs the

{ matter with you, Sunny? Why don’t you wake up
and be quiet!” Sunny started to her feet, and stared
about her so wildly, that Hardy was alarmed for a
moment.

‘“Why don’t you sit down and be sensible, Sunny?”
he said, crossly, “ instead of looking as if you were going
mad, and frightening a fellow out of his senses almost.
What’s the matter with you? You've been crying and
screaming and plunging about in the most awful
manner.”

Sunny couldn’t tell him, however, yet a while; for
directly she saw Hardy’s familiar face, she threw her
arms round his neck, and hugged and kissed him until
the fear of his displeasure restrained her. Then she
settled herself comfortably against the trunk of the tree,
and indulged in a capacious flood of tears.

At first Hardy whistled; then he threw stones into
the water, until he nearly overbalanced himself; then he
looked at his watch, glancing furtively every now and
then at Sunny to see if she had finished crying; and
finally, he cried out to her, as if she were about five
miles from him—





Rowly to the Rescue. 51

‘‘Come now, Sunny, stop that—do; and tell a fellow
what’s the matter with you. What’s the use of crying,
I should like to know ?”

But Sunny couldn’t answer him yet; that was very
evident; so he shrugged his shoulders, and fell to
whistling again. Presently he heard Sunny calling him,
in a smothered voice, broken by convulsive sobs—

“‘ Hardy | won’t you—come and sit beside me—and—
I'll try to tell you what’s the reason—why I’ve been—
crying.”

“Of course, Pll come,” grumbled Hardy; “but if
you're Now, I tell you what it is, Sunny; if you
don’t stop it, you know I shall be off somewhere or
other. I never saw anything like you. You go to sleep
right enough, and then directly you’re asleep, you begin
plunging and kicking about, and screaming and shouting
and yelling in my ears, and hugging me as hard.as you
can; and then when you ao wake, you nearly choke me
first of all, and then you sit down and cry as if you were
about two months old. Sunny, indeed! you're fine and
sunny, you are. I’m sure, if papa and mamma could see
you now, they would call you Rainy instead of Sunny.”

I expect Hardy felt exhausted after he had elaborated
this wonderful joke, or perhaps he was really as tired as
he appeared to be; anyway, he threw himself at full
length on the bank, and, having collected a whole pocket-
ful of stones, proceeded to despatch them one after the
other, as fast as he could, into the river; after which
mental refreshment he once more resorted to whistling.

Children’s tears seldom last long, however; and
Sunny was only crying from the delight of finding
Hardy. She hardly knew how she had come upon him.
Still there he was, unmistakable, in his way, and that





52 A Crutse in the Acorn.



was quite enough satisfaction for -his sister. So after a
few moment’s crying, Sunny dried her eyes and called to
him again.

Hardy turned his head towards her, and, seeing she
was no longer in tears, said—

‘If you've finished, why don’t you come over here;
eh, Sunny? and then, when you're going to begin that
game again, you can go back to the tree. I hate to see
girls crying, all the time.”

“I am very sorry, Hardy,” said Sunny, forgetting her
own trouble in her penitence at having vexed Hardy;
‘IT didn’t meant to prevent you sleeping, but—but I was
so pleased to see you this morning that I couldn’t help
it, you know; so don’t be cross; will you, Hardy?”

Hardy muttered that she had seen him every morning
for more than nine years, and he didn’t see why she
should cry on this particular occasion. However, of
course, she could do as she chose; girls usually did.

Sunny went up to him and sat down beside him, and
I don’t think any very bitter words passed between
them; for Hardy was excessively fond of his sister,
although, boylike, he did his best to disguise the fact.

Sunny was just wondering how she should tell Hardy
about Imp, when Hardy said—

‘“‘T say, Sunny, without nonsense, though, how shall
we get home ?”

“Get home!” repeated Sunny after him. ‘Oh yes,
I know; I had forgotten.”

“ Forgotten what ?” said Hardy—“ forgotten that you
had got a home, or that you had got to get back to it, or
that you left it, or what ?”

“I had forgotten, though,” laughed Sunny, ‘‘ whether
you believe it or not; I had forgotten all about the





Rowly to the Rescue. 53



Acorn, and the island, and the sail, and our coming
here, and our losing it, and everything.”

“Well, it’s all very well laughing,” said Hardy,
laughing too, in spite of himself; “but to tell you the
truth, I don’t know how we shall get home, unless
Rowly brings a boat to fetch us. I wonder whether he
will think of it. And I’m awfully hungry, and of course
you are too; aren't you?” he added, ruefully.

‘““No, I am not very hungry,” Sunny replied—which
was true, poor child!—‘‘ but you must be. I wonder
where the housekeeper’s basket is. Shall I try and find
it for you? We left something in it, didn’t we?”

‘“Why, of course we did,” shouted Hardy, jumping
up and clapping his hands. “TI forgot all.about that;
wasn’t it stupid of me? Never mind, we'll have a rare
good breakfast, won't we? and after that we'll find
some way of getting home. I daresay you too won’t be
sorry to have something to eat; now will you, Sunny?
You look awfully tired, and if you go on looking like ~
that, I expect they will blame me for not taking better
care of you. However, I suppose you can’t help it.
Anyway, I wish you'd find the basket—will you, Sunny? |
—while I see if I can get some water fit to drink.”

It was a severe trial to Sunny to turn her eyes towards
that fearful forest where she had met Imp, even in the
broad light of a summer sun; still, she felt ashamed of
her fears, and went bravely towards the tree, found the
basket, and brought it back to the river-bank. As she
stopped to see what might be left inside it, she heard
Hardy shouting to her—‘‘ Sunny, Sunny! do you know
what I’ve found ?”

‘What is it? do tell me. Not the 4corn, Hardy?”

‘Not exactly,” he answered, with a laugh; “ but isn’t









54 A Cruise in the Acorn.





this pretty ? look !”—and he held out to her what seemed
a tiny blue egg—“ and if we could only find the nest, you
know, we might take it home, mightn’t we? Wouldn't
long strings of them be pretty to hang on the wall, you
know, like they do festoons of flowers! I wonder if
they are nice to eat!”

“What! raw eggs, Hardy!” cried Sunny, with an
expression of such horror on her face, that her brother
burst out laughing, and exclaimed—

“Well, yox wouldn't do for a desert island, if you
can’t eat raw eggs. If they’re good when they’re cooked,
why shouldn't they be good when they’re raw; eh,
Sunny ?”

‘““Yes, by-the-bye, I had forgotten that,” said Sunny,
thoughtfully.

“You always do forget,” remarked Hardy, as he
opened the basket, and took out the contents, on which
they were not likely to starve—just yet, at all events.

“Well, Hardy,” his sister said, “1 didn’t forget the
basket, now, did I, when you were hungry ?”

‘““No more you did, though,” said Hardy. J forgot
that myself, didn’t I? Never mind, Sunny, let’s begin
breakfast, shall we? and directly we're finished, we'll
find some birds’ nests, and take them home with us.
Why! there’s quite a jolly breakfast here, isn’t there ?”

“What did you say?” asked Sunny; “I couldn't
understand.”

Hardy shook his head vehemently, and got very red
in the face, but he could not do more; his mouth—a
tolerably capacious one—being crammed with bread and
meat; and when Sunny perceived his predicament, she
forbore questioning him further. Once her spirit of fun
led her to ask him if she should thump him on the



Rowly to the Rescue. 55



back, as she had seen nurses do to children sometimes,
in order to prevent their choking; but this innocent
suggestion met with such a decided repulse, in the form
of a violent fit of coughing, brought on by what is
known as “food going down the wrong way,” that
Sunny was quite frightened, and did not venture on
another observation for some time.

They managed to eat very fair breakfasts, however ;
for which, in their hearts, they duly thanked the thought-
fulness of the old housekeeper. And well they might;
for doubtless, if they had not had such wholesome food,
and so much of it, the previous day and on this particular
morning, they would not have been so well able to sup-
port the hardships, slight as they may seem, of their
adventure.

When Hardy had eaten as much as he could possibly
eat, and when Sunny, too, had eaten much more than
she would have been able to eat had she been at home,
Hardy suggested that they should wait for a few
moments before opening the bird-nesting expedition,
on which he had been so anxious.

“What time is it, 1 wonder?” said Sunny, suddenly.
“ Haven't you got your watch, Hardy?”

“Yes, of course, I have. But I never wound it up
last night, and I expect it’s stopped by this time.” He
took it from his waistcoat pocket, however, and put it
to his ear, and stared at it, and put it to his ear again;
and, after keeping Sunny on tenterhooks for some five
minutes, he informed her that it was seven o'clock, or
“thereabouts.”

“What! seven o'clock in the morning!” exclaimed
Sunny.

‘Does it look like seven o'clock in the evening >?”





56 A Crutse in the Acorn.



asked Hardy, derisively. ‘Upon my word, Sunny, I
never did see any one like you. Don’t you think it’s
light enough, or do you think the sun has made a
mistake and got out of bed the wrong time; eh? Come,
now, what do you think >?”

‘“How can you be so silly,” said Sunny, laughing
good-humouredly at Hardy’s banter. ‘I was surprised,
though, to find it was so late; but I knew the sun didn’t
get up in the evening, of course. When are we going
to get those blue eggs, Hardy? I should like to make |
a necklace of them for mamma; wouldn’t you, Hardy?
or you might make a kind of watch-chain for papa;
couldn’t you? Don’t you think you might? don’t you
think he'd like it 2”

While Hardy was doing his best to rise from his
reclining position, after his heavy breakfast of bread and
meat and seed-cake and cherries, Sunny startled him by
exclaiming—

‘“Who’s to look out for old Rowly, if we doth go

bird-nesting, Hardy ?”
“But Rowly won’t come yet, you know,” Hardy
answered. ‘Why, just think what a long time it took
us to get as far as this, didn’t it. Then poor old Rowly
can’t row very fast, and. his boat is awfully heavy.
Don’t you remember papa saying it was wonderful that
he managed to get it along at all?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Sunny; “but still, you
know, I’m sure if Rowly knew we were here, he would
get up early, and it would be dreadful if he happened
to pass the island while we were finding the eggs.

‘What can we do, then?” Hardy enquired. ‘‘ How
can we manage to let him know we are here? Where's
our flag?”





Rowly to the Rescue. 57



Before Sunny had time to incur Hardy's displeasure
once more, by her forgetfulness of the * flag” and its
whereabouts, that young gentleman’s keen eyes had
discovered it, and his quick fingers had uprooted the
stick to which it was fixed, and he was waving it about
delightedly, while Sunny had hardly realised what it all
meant.

“‘T wonder if old: Rowly will come, though,” hazarded

Sunny.
‘Well, I should hope so,” replied the brother ; “ be-
cause if he doesn’t, I don’t see how we shall ever get
home, unless I swim, like what’s-his-name, across the
Hellespont, you know.” The illustration was not sin-
gularly appropriate, nor was it explicit; but Hardy
himself knew what he meant, I suppose.

Sunny was too intently occupied in devising some
scheme that would take them back, to notice Hardy’s
incoherence. ‘I wish I could swim,” she murmured.
‘TY wonder if I could, supposing you tried to teach me;
do you think I ever could ?”

“Of course you could, if you made up your mind
not to be afraid,” rejoined Hardy; “but you girls are
always afraid of everything.” With which summary
dismissal of the matter Hardy turned on his heel, with
the evident intention of going alone on his voyage of
discovery in quest of “‘ blue eggs.’

‘“‘ Aren’t you coming, then,” he said, presently.

“Oh yes, I want to come, dreadfully,” Sunny
answered. ‘I wonder if Rowly eal call us, or whistle, -
or halloo, or something, as he passes by!”

“Of course he will. What a worry you are, Sunny.
You'd better go to sleep again, I should think, until
Rowly does come; then when you wake, you can hug

H



58 A Crutse in the Acorn.



him instead of me. I don’t know how he'd like your
screaming and plunging in the boat, though. I should
think the whole concern would sink, Rowly and all.”

The mere suggestion of Hardy leaving her recalled
to Sunny’s mind the terrible behaviour and threats of
Imp, which she had not yet related; and she ran after
Hardy, crying, ‘‘ Don’t go away; I’m coming with you,
Hardy ; only I can’t run so fast as you can. Won't you
wait for me?”

“All right, then. Only I wish you would come
directly, if you are coming at all.” Hardy held out his
_ hand to help her along, and Sunny again forgot Imp in
chattering and laughing with her brother, who, if more
practical, was certainly much more pleasant than her
green friend.

Now Hardy was by no means so inconsiderate and
careless as he may have seemed; he had noticed his little
sister's pale face and heavy eyes, while she was still
sleeping uneasily in the early morning; and, fearing
that she had been dreaming all kinds of horrible things,
by her evident reluctance to confess how “stupid” she
had been, he was wise enough to ask no questions until
they were both safe at home. Such kindly wisdom is
rare, I must own, among children, and especially among
boys of Hardy’s years; but it exists. I have a young
brother, whose handsome face is dearer to me than could
be that of a sister—because of his womanly tenderness,
and more than manly wisdom—at an age when very
many schoolboys have no thought beyond their marbles
and catapults, and the various actively-unpleasant recre-
ations they patronise.

Hardy, however, was not given to demonstrative
affection, like the good boys in story-books, as you










Rowly to the Rescue. : 59
know. Much as he loved Sunny, I am sure he never
told her anything more satisfactory than that he supposed
she wasn’t worse than other fellows’ sisters; and that
when she grew up, she would, most likely, be as vain
and silly as the rest of them. His papa and mamma
laughed occasionally at his uncomplimentary, not to say
vague allusions; but when they saw how carefully he
looked after Sunny, how anxious he was about the
slightest ailment the child might have, how cross he
was on his return from school when he found she was
not at home, they knew that Sunny had the best friend
a little girl can have—a loving brother.

All this time Hardy was busy searching for eggs;
he had found some half-dozen, which he had given to
Sunny, who was considering how they could be packed
for transport without breakages. At last he cried—

“T say, Sunny, do come and look. Here are five
blue eggs, all in one nest. Just come and see how
pretty they look.”

‘But where are you, Hardy? I can’t see you a bit.”

Hardy put his head out of a mass of green leaves,
a few feet above Sunny’s golden head, and laughed
heartily at Sunny’s discomfiture.

“Oh, Hardy?” said Sunny, disconsolately, “ how can
I see them if they’re up in the tree? I can’t climb up
there, can I? Do you think I could, if you helped me,
Hardy ?”

“ Here! come along!” cried Hardy. (“I wouldn’t
be a girl for something—not to be able to Swim, or play
cricket, or climb trees, or anything. You ought to be
able to climb up here, at all events, as easily as possible;
and if you give me your hand, I’ll pull you up; shall I?
only be quick.”





































60 A Crutse in the Acorn.



Here ensued most extraordinary exertions on the
part of both children, during which Hardy’s face got
crimson (like a lobster, as Sunny afterwards observed in
an incautious moment), and there were ominous cracks
in his clothing, of which, doubtless, the old housekeeper
knew something afterwards; there was a shower of
buttons of all kinds and sizes—some with brass rims, as
it were, some with suspicious shreds of white clinging
about them, some of a shining substance, that reminded
one of shirt. buttons. I don’t pretend to relate how
Hardy arranged himself when he was once more on
terra firma, or how he kept ¢Hem on (I say no more
than that), or how he managed to excuse himself sub-
sequently to the housekeeper; all I can vouch for is,
that he left a perfect plantation of buttons beneath the
tree they climbed. However, he contrived to get Sunny
as far as his point of elevation, after which he found a
notch in the solid trunk of the hospitable tree, and
placing Sunny’s two little feet upon it, bade her keep
still for a moment.

Poor Hardy! He looked so hot and tired; his
jacket was covered with some mossy growth, varied with
dust and stains of various kinds—some of them, I
suspect, closely connected with the cherries of the morn-
ing meal. He didn’t care much about his -personal
appearance, fortunately, as yet, and appeared totally
regardless of the awful aspect he must present.

Sunny didn’t look much better, to tell the truth, than
he did. Her frock was.a mass of holes, and her arms
and hands were almost as red as Hardy's face had been.
She was not a bit more disturbed about it than her
brother, however; and their chief interest seemed with
regard to the five blue eggs.



Sue WARPED the moss to
a form her nest
| And modelled it within
with wool and clay,
And by-and-by like heath-bells.
gilt with dew
There lay her shining eggs
as bright as flowers;
Pink spotted over, shells
of green and blue!
~ And there | witnessed in
the summer hours,
A brood of natures minstrels
chirp and fly_
Glad as the sunshine and
the laughing sky.
CLARE,











Bp P,P ?

ee

















Rowly to the Rescue. 63

‘Where are they ?” she whispered, presently, looking
about her as if the’ eggs knew their designs, and might
fly away.

Hardy seemed equally impressed, for he answered
as softly as he could—glancing cautiously around—that
they were in the nest, of course.

‘‘Mayn’t I see them, please ?” said Sunny.

“Yes, of course you shall,” whispered Hardy; “only
you must wait a minute, you know, until I find a nice
place for you to look through. Oh, Sunny! there’s like
a frame, isn’t it, in that branch? Wait a minute; you're
always in such a hurry.” He put his head cautiously
through the ‘‘ frame” in the branches, to see if his sister
would be able to see also. Finding that she would, he
beckoned to her; she thrust her pretty golden head
forward, gently putting the leaves aside, and following
the direction of Hardy’s eyes, saw the blue eggs lying in
the nest.

You have no idea of the sweet picture made by the
children’s fair faces, framed in delicate tints and shades
of green. f

After Sunny was fully satisfied that they were really
eggs, and that Hardy was not joking, she stretched out
her hand, intending to take one.

“Don’t you touch them yet, Sunny,” said Hardy;
“you know we can’t stop up in this tree all day, can we?
and I had better get you safely down, and then bring
the eggs, or else they might get broken.”

Sunny acceded to this very sensible proposition, |
and her brother helped her down to the ground, and
told her to be quiet while he secured the eggs. I can’t
exactly say why both children were so particular as to
the quiet necessary for this collecting of eggs; had the



64 A Cruise in the Acorn.



parent birds been in the neighbourhood of the tree, they
might have considerably disturbed the serenity of the
atmosphere.

Just as Hardy was wondering how he should carry
these treasures without breaking them—whether he
should put them in his mouth, as boys do, when the
eggs are small, or the mouths are large; or merely hold
them in one hand, letting himself swing to the earth by
grasping the end of a branch with the disengaged hand
—Sunny called suddenly to him—

‘Hardy! Hardy! come down quick! I do believe
there’s old Rowly.”

‘‘Oh, nonsense!” was the answer; “ you're always
startling one for nothing. Where’s old Rowly? I can't
see him anywhere, and I don’t believe you can either ;
only, I suppose, you thought you had been quiet long
enough.” Hardy grumbled and muttered to himself as
he swung himself to the ground, and looked very much
out of temper when Sunny asked him if he’d broken
the eggs.

“No,” he replied, crossly; “but it isa’t your fault if
I haven’t. I never heard anyone shout like you do,
Sunny, and always when there’s nothing to shout for.
If you saw old Rowly, I suppose he’s somewhere about
now.

At any other time Sunny would have excused herself
for having been so abrupt, but just at this moment she
was too excited, and merely exclaiming, “I’m sure I
saw him! I’m sure I saw him!” was about to start off
running, when she was suddenly reminded of Imb ‘by
the sight of a frog. Now the remembrance of Imp
recalled the horrors of the previous night, when she had
been in such despair at losing Hardy; so she thought





Rowly to the Rescue. 65



to herself that she had better “make it up” with him,
or he would be “going away again, or something.”
Sunny hardly realised yet that Imp was not lurking
behind some distant tree, waiting for twilight, in order
to tease her anew.

‘“Where did you think you saw Rowly?” asked
Hardy, laying great stress upon the word ¢iink. ‘Was
he flying, or swimming, or riding, or driving, or what ?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Sunny; “but just as you
were coming down, I thought I saw something like a
boat on the river there—over there—and it looked
exactly like old Rowly’s boat ; and that’s why I called so
loud, you know.”

“Yes, it’s all very well calling to me when I’m up
the tree,” said Hardy; ‘‘but why didn’t you call to old

~|. Rowly? that would have been of some use. I say,

Sunny!” he shouted at the top of his voice, and running
as hard as he could at the same time—“ there he is, boat
and all! Here, Rowly! Rowly! Here we are! Don’t
you see?”

I don’t know what would have happened to Hardy, if
Rowly had not seen him at that very moment, and nodded
to him as vigorously as he could. The boy was really
in a condition of heat and excitement that would have
been dangerous had it lasted; for running at full speed
(while shouting with all the force of one’s lungs) is never
agreeable, but is positively most dangerous, in the sun
of even an English summer. And yet, hot and ex-
hausted with running as Hardy was, directly he found
that Rowly saw him, and was coming slowly to their —
rescue, he set up a triumphant dance, compared to
which the celebrated war-dance of the Ojibbeways was
tame and inexpressive. He threw his straw hat in the





66 A Cruise in the Acorn.

air; he threw the five blue eggs in the air, one after the
other, as conjurors do, only with this difference, that,
as a rule, conjurors catch their balls, while Hardy was
reckless as to the fate of the eggs, and saw them fall and
break without compunction; he executed a marvellous
step, that must have been unlike anything ever seen
before or since; he dragged Sunny with him in his wild
career once or twice, but she looked quite frightened,
and broke away from him; and at last he threw himself
at his full length on the ground, and confessed that he
was ‘‘rather tired.” .

Old Rowly had seen him, and was evidently medi-
tating relief; still, to the children’s impatience, it seemed
as if he would never be able to reach the bank. But he
did reach it, though, in due time; and after a great
amount of persuasion, he consented to “have a look at
the place” at some future period.

“What nonsense!” said Hardy, who had by this
time recovered somewhat his usual equable disposition.
‘“Do come now, Rowly; we shall never come here
again, I’m sure; and if we did, it wouldn’t be the same
thing; would it, Sunny 2?”

‘Well, you see, Master Hardy,” the old fellow said,
speculatively, rubbing his chin as he spoke, “it’s taken
me some time to come up here; you see it’s a good way
from my shed; and I’m rather tired.”

Hardy seemed puzzled at this explanation, and
answered—

‘“Well—but—all the more reason for resting, then,
Rowly.”

“The truth is, Master Hardy, I should like to get
back and have a bit of sleep,” said Rowly, who looked,
in truth, exceedingly sleepy.





Rowly to the Rescue. 67



“What a nuisance you are!” began Hardy; when
suddenly an idea dawned upon him, and upon Sunny
also, at the same time, for both the children exclaimed—

“Oh, Rowly! haven’t you been to bed all night ?”

“You see, Miss Sunny, about the going to bed part
of it, I certainly have been to bed, but I couldn’t sleep
much, you know; could 1? Miss Sunny, too, looks very
tired; and the old lady—the old house-lady, I can’t
bring her name to mind—but she said if I found you
out, I’d better bring you both back directly.”

“Oh, Rowly, Rowly! was it Mrs. Trust who came
to you?” whispered Sunny, her eyes wide open with
excitement.

“Why, of course it was, Sunny!” said Hardy, im-
patiently, anxious to hear Rowly’s story, and very angry
with his sister for preventing the recital by her “silly
questions.” ‘ What’s the use of bothering Rowly! Who
could it be but Mrs. Trust!”

“Now, if you'll both of you get into yon boat, and
come along back,” said old Rowly, “I'll tell you all
about it; but ” Here he stopped, for he had been
looking all round more and more surprisingly, and
relieved himself by ejaculating—‘‘ Well, I’m blessed if
ever I heard of such a thing! Why—why—where’s the
Acorn?”

“We've lost it,” grunted Hardy.

“Lost it! Lost the boat! Lost the coru/ new
sail and all! Dear, dear, dear, Master Hardy! how did
you do that ?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Hardy; ‘ask Sunny,
she'll tell you; only if we've got to go back, she may
just as well tell you afterwards, I should think.”

“Come along, then,” said Rowly, good-humouredly,





68 A Cruise in the Acorn.

‘and you can tell me yourself, Master Hardy, when you
aren't quite so cross.”

Sunny glanced timidly at Hardy, fearing that Rowly’s
daring speech would provoke an outburst from that
young gentleman; but Hardy only laughed, and pro-
tested that he was not a bit cross, not a bit; and in
proof of this, directly they were comfortably seated in
Rowly’s boat, and old Rowly himself was lazily directing
it homewards, Hardy related all their misadventures and
hardships, beginning with the loss of the Acorn. He
gave a wonderful description of Sunny awaking from her
troubled sleep, and professed to be much alarmed when
he found that she had fallen asleep again, poor child!
her head on his stalwart shoulder, saying she would turn
the boat over when she woke. But she did not seem
at all inclined to wake, and after a few moments’ joking,
Hardy put his arm round her, and she slept soundly
until they reached the river bank by Rowly’s hut.

In the meantime, however, Hardy having related all
his grievances, insisted on hearing how Rowly had
discovered them, and how he had known of their dis-
appearance: upon which old Rowly told, bit by bit, how
anxious he had been about them—how Mrs. Trust, the
old housekeeper, had come to him somewheres near
eight or nine o’clock in the evening, crying, and looking,
awfully disturbed in her mind; and he had tried to
comfort her, poor thing! by telling her the children
would be sure to be back presently—that no news was
good news—that he was certain no harm could come to
them, etc., etc.; and how, finally, he ‘had, seeing her
distress, promised her to follow the direction in which
he had seen the cov start.

‘‘So I goes to bed much earlier than usual,” con-







Rowly to the Rescue. 69



tinued old Rowly; ‘but as I told you, I couldn't sleep
a wink, so I just gets up again, and started off after you ;
and I found you, you see. So that’s how it happens I’m
so tired, as well as Miss Sunny; I was anxious, too, and
that always tires an old man like me. Howsomever, I’m
afraid poor Mrs. Trust has got a fever by this time.”

‘What time was it, then,” asked Hardy, “when you
left home ?”

“Well, you see, Master Hardy, I don't exactly
know,” he replied meditatively; “it might have been
eleven, and it might have been twelve, but it couldn’t
have been far from one of them. Then I had made up
my mind that I wouldn’t go back until I had found you,
somehow. Why, what would your papa have said to
me, if he’d come back with his good lady, and you and
missy there hadn’t been on the spot like to welcome him ?
Well, well, there’s no use in talking; is there, Master
Hardy? but I’m mighty pleased your folks was not at
home, all the same.”

“So am I, of course, Rowly,” said Hardy, speaking
quite softly, for fear of waking Sunny; ‘‘ and when they
do come back, I shall get them to do I don’t know what -
for you.”

Presently both Hardy and Rovwly heard a great cry
from the bank, and as Hardy turned to see what had
happened, he perceived Mrs. Trust (the old housekeeper,
you know, who had almost offended them only the day
before by foretelling disasters) waving her hands and
her handkerchief, and evidently half beside herself with
excitement. Rowly had no sooner brought his boat to
the usual moorings, than Sunny woke up, and, recog-
nising the familiar faces, as well as the familiar spot,
exclaimed joyfully—



70 A Cruise in the Acorn.





‘“Tsn’t it wonderful, Hardy? why, here we are at
home again! How did Rowly know we were there?
Did you write and tell him, Hardy? Why, there’s Mrs.
Trust, too! Isn't it funny,-Hardy?” Without waiting
for answers to these not very lucid questions, the child
sprang from the boat to the bank, and threw her arms
round Mrs. Trust’s neck, kissing and hugging her, until
she heard Hardy laughing and saying, “ You're in for
it, Mrs. Trust. That’s just the way she went on this
morning when she woke. She'll take to kicking and
screaming and fighting you, if you don’t mind.”

Hardy’s jocularity reminded Sunny of her friend
Imp, and she said to Mrs. Trust, in a solemn voice—

“TI had such a funny thing happen, do you know.
Hardy’s been laughing at me ever since, because he was
fast asleep when it all happened, so he didn’t want to
hear, and i

“Come now, stop it, Sunny,” said her irreverent
brother; “if you’re not hungry, I am, and so is old
Rowly. You've been bothering about that silly dream
of yours for ever so long. If I were you, I should be
ashamed to dream such nonsense.”

Sunny’s amazement at the word “dream ” led her to
cry—

‘““Do you think it was a dream, Hardy, then?, You
didn’t say so before.”

Hardy’s look of contempt was more expressive than
any amount of words; indeed, it was so irresistible,
that the three persons who saw it could not help
laughing.

But at this juncture old Rowly declared that he
couldn’t waste all his day, and that they'd better go
home and tell their dreams, or go to bed, or have their





Rowly to the Rescue. 71



dinners, or do something sensible. Hereupon he turned
into his shed, and pretended to be very busy about his
tools and implements, and finally shut the door with a
bang. Hardy always declares that he slunk out of a
back door, and made the best of his way to a festive
establishment in the neighbourhood, called the Swaz,
where old Rowly was in the habit of putting into
practice a well-known parody, which runs thus :—

“Man wants but little here below,
But wants that little strong!” *



I cannot vouch for the truth of Hardy’s assertion; I can
only testify to the fact that old Rowly left them very
abruptly, and, late in the same evening, was heard
singing on his way home.

You may be assured that the children went to bed
early that night, and slept well; in fact, they slept so
well, that Mrs. Trust was once or twice almost alarmed.
However, they made up for the anxiety she had suffered,
when they did come down, by their chatter and laughter
and gratitude and adventures, and also by their appetites.

She was very much grieved about the 4covu—that
is to say, she said she was; but, as Hardy observed at
the time, her sorrow was expressed in very brisk tones,
and in very cheerful language.

After breakfast, Sunny refreshed herself by telling
about Imp to Hardy, who was very scornful at first, but
gradually became intensely interested in the develop-
ment of the dream, much to Sunny’s delight.

* The original lines, it may be as well to mention, are as follow, and occur in
Goldsmith’s “ Turn, gentle hermit of the dale” :—

“Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.”











A Cruise in the Acorn.



72



When she had finished, and was expecting some
sympathy from him for her sufferings, even if they were
but in dreams, Hardy whistled what his schoolfellows
called ‘‘one of his own compositions ”—that is, a long
rambling tune, having little resemblance to anything
human—walked about the room, opened and shut the
windows, contriving at the same time to tear the delicate
muslin curtains; and, finally, nearly frightening Sunny
out of her wits by ejaculating—

“Tt’s nightmare !”

‘What's nightmare? What do you mean, Hardy?
You frighten me as much as I frightened you, I’m
surest. |
“Well, I wouldn’t be so silly as that,” said Hardy.
“Don’t you know what nightmare is? Can't you
guess ?”

“Ts it anything to do with horses?” ventured Sunny.

‘““Hlorses!” said Hardy; ‘‘it’s my turn to ask you
what you mean. However,” he added, superbly, “I
suppose you’ve read something about a mare—about —
Dick Turpin’s black mare—and you think a nightmare
is the same sort of thing. Shall I tell you what it
means; eh, Sunny?”

‘Oh! do, please,” murmured Sunny.

‘Well, it means that you have eaten too much for
tea and supper,” said her tormentor.

Sunny looked very much mystified, as well she
might, and shook her head despairingly.

‘How provoking you are!” said she, presently,
unable to keep her curiosity in check; ‘do tell me what
- nightmare means.”

_ “It means as I told you,” laughed Hardy; “that you
had eaten too much, and so you had a bad dream.”










Rowly to the Rescue. 73



“Ts that really true?” asked Sunny, evidently very
doubtful as to her brother’s veracity when he was in a
teasing humour.

“Of course it is. What did you suppose was the
reason of your dream about Imp ?”

“ But I didn’t eat very much, I’m sure, Hardy. You
ate much more than I did; didn’t you? yet you didn’t
have a nightmare.”

“ How do you know that I didn’t; come, now,” said
Hardy, suddenly.

“Did you, Hardy! did you!” Sunny almost screamed
in her excitement. ‘ Do tell me your nightmare; won't

ou?”
— “Of course I will,” Hardy answered, ‘when I know
what it is myself.”








[Ha Cone
ENO |
DLE



CHAP. IV.—HARDY’S DREAM.

f° may be imagined, Hardy did not allow Sunny
much time in. which to indulge in any reveries
with regard to her strange dream, even had she been
disposed to do so. He teased her most unmercifully
from morning till night; he called her Imp; he was
never tired of laughing about the frogs’ ball ; and was con-
stantly bringing her enormous envelopes, which he said
were invitations to magnificent parties held on the
island by Sunny’s choicest frogs. But although Sunny
begged and implored him to tell her what his nightmare
had been about, he only laughed at her the more, and
said he should never tell her, so she need not bother
him. She did “bother” him continuously, however,
and Hardy had no peace until he promised most
solemnly that he would tell her “‘some time or other.”
This was vague enough, it is true, but Sunny was
obliged to be content therewith. Both the children
wrote to their papa and mamma, and described their
mishaps ; and their letters caused the utmost amusement,
when the first burst of surprise was over, among their
parents’ friends. Both epistles were singularly character-
istic, as children’s letters usually are; they were so long,
- however, that I cannot attempt to reproduce them.







Flardy’s Dream. 75



Mrs. Trust wrote also to assure mamma that the child-
ren had not caught cold or spoilt their clothes; and
papa wrote a very kind letter to old Rowly, thanking
him for his thoughtfulness and care for the dear
children, and promising to substantiate his gratitude on
his return. So old Rowly was delighted, and brought
the letter to the house for Hardy to read to him. I
believe he afterwards had it framed and hung up in his
boat-shed, if the truth were told.

1 expect the children would have forgotten all about
the island, and Imp, and their dreams, had not they
been daily, and almost hourly, reminded of these facts
by the loss of the corm. For the first few days they
were so busy talking about their adventure—relating
incident after incident to the unfortunate housekeeper,
who soon knew their stories quite as well as they did—
that the disappearance of their much-prized corn was
a trifle in comparison. There was also a lingering hope
in their young minds that by some extraordinary device
or chance their boat would be restored to them; they
could not believe that they should never see the pretty
“craft” again—that they had enjoyed their last cruise in
her! Hope told them the flattering tale that she always
tells to those who will listen. I expect the Acorn
played a very prominent part in Sunny’s dreams about
that time, had she chosen to confess the fact; but she
only betrayed her anxiety by frequent glances at the
river when she went out walking with Hardy or Mrs.
Trust, and by pathetic appeals to old Rowly, every now
and then, respecting the fate of the boat. Old Rowly
‘would shake his head despondingly; look down the
stream, as if the corm might be expected to turn the
corner at any moment; and mumble, half to Sunny and





76 A Cruise in the Acorn.



half to himself—‘‘ Well, you see, Miss Sunny, it’s just
like this, you see—she may come, and she mayn't: I
can’t say, for sure, which she'll do. It’s all along of that
sail. Master Hardy would have it, you know; and I
told him how it would be. But there! it’s no use talk-
ing to him; young folks is so obstinate ;” and he would
add to this encouraging speech, as he hobbled away—
“downright pig-headed, I call ’em !”

But all Rowly’s grumbling would not, could not,
and did not bring back the lost Acorn, as Hardy
philosophically observed when Sunny repeated to
their father these and similar remarks on the part of
the old man.

One morning, as the last days of Hardy’s holiday
were at hand, that young gentleman came bounding
into the so-called nursery, and executing caper after caper
in the very centre of the floor, much to Sunny’s amuse-
ment and amazement, cried— '

“Now, Sunny! come, look alive and flourish your
handkerchief. What do you think has happened ?
Come, now, be quick.”

Poor Sunny could only gasp—“ Acorn ?”

‘No, no, no!” shouted Hardy, laughing and shout-
ing at the same time. ‘Come, guess quick, or I shall
have to tell you!” |

Sunny looked excessively frightened now, for Hardy’s
excitement had reached, what seemed to her, a dangerous
pitch. She was standing by the window watching his
antics, with the fascination that would have attracted her
to the bear-pit in the Zoological Gardens, when suddenly
she heard her father call from the staircase—

“Hardy! Hardy! Hardy! have you lost your senses,
or are you making this noise for a wager?”





Flardy’s Dream. 77



Hardy stopped very abruptly indeed, for a moment,
and then answered—

‘Oh, it’s nothing, papa; I was only giving your
message to Sunny. . I'll be quiet now.”

Sunny stared at him in yet greater astonishment.
She would have doubted the evidence of her own senses
almost, but that she heard her father laughing as he
passed along the corridor to his dressing-room.

“What zs the matter ?” she asked timidly, presently.
“What is papa’s message to me ?”

“Oh, nothing! what a nuisance you are!” was
Hardy’s inexplicable answer, accompanied with a further
burst of laughter. Then, seeing his sister’s dismay, he
rushed out of the room just as violently as he had
come in.

For about ten consecutive moments he was quiet,
leaving Sunny to resume the reading of her story-book
in comparative peace. But the respite was not of long
duration. Very few boys can be quiet for any great
length of time, unless they are devising some specially
diabolical scheme; and Hardy was by no means an
exception to this pleasing rule. He began his second
attack on Sunny’s curiosity by opening and shutting
the nursery door at intervals, poking his head through
the aperture, nodding and winking at Sunny, and then
indulging in apparently unrestrainable mirth in the
corridor. Presently he varied this intelligent amuse-
ment by jerking out stray sentences at Sunny, who
would not pay any attention to him at first, but was
soon induced, by the originality of his proceedings, to
listen to these disjointed remarks, each of which was
emphasised by a bang of the door, and a withdrawal of
Hardy’s head. I cannot attempt to repeat all the







78 A Cruise in the Acorn.



witticisms in which this young gentleman indulged;
the final epigrams, however, to which he treated his
sister, will amuse young readers who have brothers
equally jocular. Having, as I have told you already,
begun operations by opening and shutting doors with
unnecessary violence, and adding to the soothing
character of this proceeding by shouting—‘ Oh yes, I
daresay!” ‘Dont you wish you may get it?” “Hal
ha! you don’t know what it is!” ‘‘ And you don't care,
do you, now?” “All right, I won’t tell you then ;” he
finished up by the following series—‘ Somebody's
coming.” ‘Who do you think it is?” ‘What will
you give me if I tell you?” “Ah, I know all about it,
you see!” ‘What will you say if it’s nothing?” “Girls
never can guess anything.”

“Oh, Hardy!” said Sunny, half-laughing and _half-
crying ; “ what a troublesome :

“T say, Hardy!” cried his father again, from his
dressing-room ; “how many times must I speak to you |
You will alarm the whole neighbourhood if you shout
in that manner. I expect your mother is already in
hysterics. What does he mean by it, Sunny? What
have you been doing? Have you been teasing him?”

Sunny had raised her eyes from her book long ago,
as may be imagined; and she would have done so now
in any case; for her father himself opened the nursery
door, by way of emphasising his reproof.

“Where is Hardy?” he asked.

“T don’t know what is the matter with him, papa
dear,” said Sunny. ‘“ He has been going on dreadfully, |
and he looks so hot and red, and he doesn’t seem to
know a bit what he’s saying. I thought just now,
papa”—here Sunny lowered her voice confidentially





Flardy’s Dream. 79



—‘‘that he might have caught it from Mrs. Trust's
nephew’s dog, don’t you remeber, who always bites
people in the summer-time, and then they die, because
they can’t drink any water, or even look at any one—so
Mrs. Trust said ; and he bit Mrs. Trust once, and she had
to have it burnt out with some acid from the chemist’s,
that hurt very much. I hope Hardy has not been bitten
by the same dog—do you think he has, papa ?—because
Mrs. Trust said she went on just like that.” Here poor
little Sunny was interrupted by fresh shouts of laughter
from Hardy, mingled with cries of—

“Oh, I say, stop it, Sunny—do, there’s a good girl—
or you'll kill me. Why, you see, even papa can’t help
laughing at you!”

Sunny herself, however, seemed on the point of
crying, when she noticed the intense amusement de-
picted on her father’s kind face; and I think there
would have been a few tears for Hardy to wipe from her
bright eyes, had not papa bid Hardy moderate his
transports, in very decided language indeed.

As you already know, Hardy was very fond of his
sister; and directly he saw she was really frightened, as
many wiser people than Sunny would have been, he
promised lis father that he would be quite quiet; and
he furthermore ran on to the stairs in order to whisper—

““T say, papa; you won't say a word, will you, until
he comes ?”

Papa promised. If I had been in Hardy’s place,
however, I should have wondered what that twinkle in
papa’s eyes meant. But Hardy was too excited to
notice any such detail now; and also, boys are never
quick observers of expression or character. He went
back to the nursery, and, with the view of entertaining





80 A Crutse in the Acorn.

Sunny, offered of his own free will to tell her his
nightmare.

Sunny was so enchanted at this suggestion, that she
could hardly keep her impatience within ordinary limits.

“Will you, Hardy ?” she cried, the colour rushing to |
her cheeks, and the light to her eyes. ‘When will you
tell me—to-day?”

“Yes, if you like,” answered Hardy, in an indifferent
manner, as if he had been used to similar attentions and
honours through the whole of a very long career.
“Shall I begin now or after dinner ?”

As a rule, the children dined at one o'clock, when
their father and mother had lunch; but during Hardy’s
holidays they all dined together at five o’clock, so that
Sunny’s strength of mind was sorely tried by this simple
enquiry of Hardy’s. After due consideration of the
question, she said—

“Can't you tell me after lunch, Hardy? I would
much sooner hear it this afternoon.”

Hardy gave his assent to this plan, and the children
were tolerably quiet for the next half-hour—that is, until
the lunch-bell rang. I think mamma may very well
have been excused, if she thought papa and both the
children were very queer in their behaviour ; all the three
of them were laughing, and each at something different.
Mamma looked distracted once or twice, for she could
not see the force of the allusions that amused them so
much. For instance, when she asked Hardy to get her
some special dainty from the cupboard, that young
gentleman was seized with such a violent fit of laughing
and choking combined, that Sunny had to fetch the
dainty, while his mother untied his scarf and patted his
back








Flardy’s Dream. 81

“What zs the matter with those children?” asked
mamma, when lunch was over, and Hardy and Sunny
were on their way to the summer-house at the farthest
corner of the garden, in order to fully enjoy the horrors
of the nightmare. ‘They have been looking at each
other, and at you, too, all lunch-time; and have been
laughing, and winking, and nodding, and choking, as if
they were the greatest wits conceivable. And you were
nearly as bad,” she added, with a perplexed smile.

Papa smiled, saying—‘‘Oh, children have always
some jokes and surprises on hand. Hardy is so full of
fun, that it would be impossible to keep him quiet; and
laughter won't hurt either of them.”

In the meantime, Hardy and Sunny had ensconced
themselves very comfortably indeed in the summer-
house. Hardy had secured a varied collection of fruits
and sweetmeats, and biscuits and crackers (at which last
Sunny was looking in dismay, wondering how she
should contrive to pull one end of these explosive
instruments, and stop her ears at the same time), and
some very weak ginger-wine and water, ‘‘for a treat,”
as Mrs. Trust had said, in giving this cheering concoction
to her young master.

“Tam so sleepy, Sunny!” began Hardy, by way of
displaying to the full his capacity for teasing.

“Oh, Hardy! What! sleepy zow /”

His sister looked so reproachfully at him, that he
burst into a laugh, and said, pretending to stifle a —
yawn—

‘Never mind, I daresay I shall manage to keep
awake until I’ve told the dream.”

Sunny did not venture any further remark, but
waited patiently till he should please to begin his story.







82 A Crutse in the Acorn.

The poor child waited what seemed a very long time.
Not a word did her young tormentor utter. At last
she whispered his name in the lowest possible tone,
thinking he might perhaps have fallen asleep.

“You've woke up, then, have you?” growled Hardy.

“Woke up!” repeated Sunny. ‘Why, I haven’t
been to sleep; I have been waiting for you to say you
were ready to tell me your dream. You know you
promised to tell me of your own accord, Hardy; now
didn’t you ?” 2

‘Well, so I will,” replied Hardy; “but what’s the
use of my beginning if you are fast asleep.”

Sunny knew better than to repeat her assurance of
not having slept; and when Hardy had gaped and
sighed, and caught at a few flies, with pretended in-
difference, he stretched himself at full length on the
summer-house bench, and leisurely pulling the honey-
suckle creeper that covered it to pieces, began—

“Well, here goes, Sunny! Once upon a time there
was an old fairy, whose name was Powly—I mean
Rowly ; it’s all the same, you know.”

“Oh, Hardy!” interposed Sunny; ‘ how can you say
such things. Old Rowly a fairy!”

The incongruity of the idea appeared to strike the
narrator as well as his sister, for he conceded that he
had made a mistake perhaps; ‘“ but anyhow,” he resumed,
“the old fairy has nothing to do with my nightmare, so
it doesn’t much matter who she was; does it 2”

“Then why did you begin about old Rowly,” said ~
Sunny, “if he wasn’t a fairy, and the fairy doesn’t
matter ?”

“ Now I tell you what it is, Sunny,” said Hardy,
solemnly, raising himself on his elbows; “ if you’re going





























’
Flardy's Dream. 83



to interrupt me every minute, by talking about fairies
‘and imps and things, I shan’t tell you any more about
my dream. ‘So now you know.”

Sunny did not seem much impressed at this majestic
statement, for she answered, somewhat irrelevantly—

“No, I won’t interrupt—but where did you dream
your nightmare, Hardy? Was it on the island ?”

“Of course it was.”

“But I mean, Hardy, did you dream about the
island while you were on the island >?”

‘Why don’t you wait and see, Sunny ?” remarked
her brother, “instead of asking such a lot of questions.”

Thus reproved, Sunny again promised to be quiet,
and succeeded in keeping her promise for a few moments,
while Hardy resumed—

“T’ve forgotten all about my dream, I expect, because
you will bother a fellow so. What a nuisance you are,
with your dreams and nightmares, and imps’ and frogs’
balls. Why don’t you tell it yourself?”

“What! tell your dream!” cried Sunny.

“There you go again, interrupting me when I’m
trying to recollect. Well, as I was saying, just after
you had gone to sleep that night 4

“Which night, Hardy ?”

“Why, that night on the island, of course; how can
you be so stupid! Let me see, where was I?—oh yes,
I know. Well, just as you were snoring as loud as you
could, until I thought you would wake all the frogs on
the island, I thought I would see if I could snore too,
just for the fun of the thing, you know. So I tried, and
I must have succeeded, for I don’t remember anything
sensible after that, until I was awoke the next morning
by your kicking and crying. I suppose I must have













84 A Crutse in the Acorn.



gone to sleep, somehow, for I dreamt such a queer thing.
Don’t you remember that book I had, Sunny, that you
didn’t like, because there was a lot about shooting bears
and tigers and elephants in it? Don’t you remember
my telling you, just before the holidays began, that one
of the fellows in the book got nicely caught going
serenading some school-girl, or some nonsense like that ?
Well, when I heard you snoring in that frightful
manner, I couldn’t help thinking about all the animals
I'd read of in that book, and, as I said just now, I was
wondering what you would think if you could have heard
yourself, when I fell asleep too. And then, of course, I
dreamt about the animals. I dreamt that you and I
were walking in the Zoological Gardens in London, you
know, and that we had lost our way. There was no one
to be seen anywhere a j

‘Not even any animals!” said Sunny. “How funny!”

“Well, it wasn’t funny at all, then, I can tell you—at
least you didn’t think so in my dream. You were
staring all over the place, and crying like a baby, and
saying you were awfully hungry, and what should you
do. Just as I was trying to stop your crying, you said
you saw someone running along in the distance, like one
of the keepers. So I ran after him to ask the way
home. He told me he didn’t know what to do, because
the elephant had fainted, and there was no one to help
him.”

“But elephants don’t faint, Hardy, do they?”
observed his sister. eas

“T’m sure I don’t know,” continued Hardy; “why
shouldn't they faint just as well as any one else. I
wouldn't mind betting anything you like that the half
of them only pretend to faint, because they want to









FHlardy’s Dream. 85



be petted and carried out of ball-rooms, looking very
romantic, with their hair down, and all that humbug.”

Sunny was too interested to notice the total want of
coherence in Hardy’s description of romantic young
ladies and fainting elephants; and if she had been more
observant, she would doubtless have been afraid to
interrupt the flow of. his eloquence so soon again.

‘““So I told the keeper that the elephant in the book
I had read often was ill, and used to be bandaged up
with glycerine and cotton-wool, and supported in an
enormous kind of hammock, with his four paws hanging
out. What are you staring at, Sunny? It’s perfectly
true; why, I read it in a book only the other day.
Then when I turned round to look after you, you had
got quite friendly with another elephant, and were as
cross as possible, because I wanted you to look at a
tiger and a bear, and all the other animals. However, I
made you come all the same, and you didn’t like it, and
kept saying you wanted to go home, because you were
sure mamma would be angry if we stayed out any
longer. So you went home safe enough. And I was
looking about at the animals, and snakes, and things,
till it was long past dark. Then I met papa in the
gardens, and he said you had not come home, and I
mustn’t come home till I had found you, because it was
all my fault, for I was very careless and unfeeling ; and
then papa finished up by saying that neither mamma nor
he wanted to see me again, unless I brought you back.
That was a pleasant pickle, wasn’t it? So off I walked,
to see if I could get hold of you; and I can tell you this,
that I didn’t feel particularly pleased with your proceed-
ings. You had led mea nice way already; and when I
found I couldn't go home without you, I just wished








86 A Crutse in the Acorn.



there were no such nuisances as girls, and sisters, and
all that.”

‘Poor Hardy!” said Sunny; “what did you do?
Did you cry!”

“Cry!” echoed Hardy, with a world of scorn in his
voice; “what would have been the use of crying, I
should like to know? Do you think boys are always
crying, like girls ?” 3

Sunny did not answer—as she might have done, had
she been malicious—that she had, even in her short life,
seen boys cry for far less reason than girls usually do;
but she was not malicious, and she allowed Hardy to
continue his nightmare narrative in unbroken serenity.

‘No, I didn’t do anything of the sort. I just walked
about and looked at the animals, until I was awfully
tired, and then 2

“But I thought you said it was quite dark, Hardy?”

“Yes, of course it was dark for summer-time, but
one can often see nearly as well in the dark as in the
light; I mean that—that—I say, Sunny, I shan’t tell
you any more if you're going to bother me like this,
instead of letting a fellow alone.”

Sunny looked very penitent, and Hardy resumed—

“After all that walking about, I got awfully hungry
and thirsty and sleepy, and I hadn’t got any money; so
I thought that I wasn’t going to starve yet awhile, and
I made up my mind to forget all about papaand mamma,
and you too, for the matter of that, and never to see any
of you any more.”

“Oh, Hardy, how could you!” said Sunny, reproach-
fully.

Well it was only in a dream of course, or else, I
suppose, I shouldn’t have thought of it; and if I had, I







FHlardy’s Dream. 87



snouldn’t have liked to leave you—that is, if I was
never coming back again.”

After which vague indications of fraternal affection,
Hardy, boy-like, resumed his story, with additional
pungency of tone and glance.

‘But even then, you see, I didn’t know what to do,
for I couldn't eat the grass, and I couldn’t catch the
birds and eat them alive, feathers and all; and I didn’t
know where the frogs were, or I should have eaten them
quick enough, I can tell you, just to spite you for
having got me into this pickle. Suddenly I heard the
lion roaring—at least I dreamt I heard him; it was you
snoring, I suppose; and, as you can fancy, that didn’t
sound very comforting in the dark, and all alone. So I
tell you just what I did: I ran as hard as ever I could
until I got out; I am sure I don’t know how I got
through the turnpikes, or whatever you call them;
however, I did manage it somehow.”

“How did you get something to eat and drink,
Hardy,” asked little Sunny, “if you had no money ?”

“Well, that’s just what I was going to tell you.
When I was outside in the park, I sat down on a seat
and emptied all my pockets, to see if I had made a
mistake; I thought I might perhaps have a penny left
from my last week’s money. I couldn't find any, though,
and was just preparing for another search, when I heard
a drum beating, and a flute, and a bagpipe, and all sorts
of fine things; and I saw some lights twinkling in the
distance. So I thought I would go and see what it was
about. Presently I got out of the park, and I wasn’t
sorry, I can tell you; I expect if you had been there all
alone, with the lions roaring like wild, you’d have been
frightened to death—now, wouldn’t you? come! Let












88 A Cruise in the Acorn.

me see—where—what was I saying >—oh yes—all right.
I don’t know any more—I mean I don’t remember any
more, because I woke just at that moment, you know.”

Sunny was too shrewd, however, to be taken in so
quickly; she did not answer, except by the deprecating
expression in her eyes, and Hardy soon made up for his
aggravation by continuing in this wise—

“Twas only teasing you, Sunny; I do remember a
little more. When I got out of the park, you know, I
heard the drums, and all the rest, going it louder than
ever; and then I saw a lot of people running, and of
course I ran too; and then at the end of a road I sawa
great big tent, like they had for the circus down here—
don’t you remember, Sunny ?—and there was a man at
the door of it playing a drum, and calling all the people
in. I forgot 1 hadn’t got any money, and I ran to the
door, thinking to myself, ‘Well, as papa says I’m not to
go home without Sunny, I shall go in here and see
what's up.’ Of course, when I got to the entrance, the
man who was playing the drum asked me for my money,
and at first I thought he wouldn’t let me in; but he did,
and told me he should call on papa the very next
morning for the money.

‘“When I got into the place, I found that it was just
like that circus where we went with Mrs. Trust, only it
was much prettier, of course, because it was right up in
London. And then there was a clown, and an old fellow
with a crutch, tumbling about, and a white monkey—I
mean a white elephant ”’—here Hardy glanced at his
sister mischievously, but she was too interested to be
suspicious—“ and a yellow tiger, and a red, white, and
blue parrot, and a green lion”—here Hardy paused, and
looked about him with the gravest face in the world, as





Flardy’s Dream. 89



if he were doing his utmost to remember—“ at least—
let me see—was it green, or was it red, I wonder ?”

“T should think it was more likely to have been red;
wasn’t it, Hardy?” suggested Sunny.

“Well, then, if the lion was red, it was the unicorn
that was green. I am certain that one or the other was
green; it doesn’t much matter which, as it was only a
dream; does it? so I'll go on. All these animals
performed tricks, you know, Sunny—jumping through
hoops, and over bars, and doing all kinds of extra-
ordinary things. I am sure you would have been awfully
interested if you had seen all they did. When the people
got tired of them, then they acted a piece i

“Who did, Hardy? not the animals!” cried Sunny.

“Why, of course not—I meant the boys and girls,
or something belonging to the circus. They acted a
piece, where there was a boy named Lancelot—and a
nice milksop he must have been too—who wanted to
make a girl named Flora fall in love with him, or some
such nonsense. So he borrowed a suit of very romantic-
looking clothes from somebody, and went and sang a
song underneath this Flora’s window, just like the
fellow in the book I was telling you about.”

“Did they do all that in the circus, Hardy?”
exclaimed Sunny. ‘Oh, I wish it wasn’t a dream, I ©
should so like to see it acted! What did he do after-
wards ?”

“What did who do after when?” asked Hardy,
disdainfully.

“Why, Lancelot, after he had sung the song, you
know! Did the girl named Flora see him from her
window ?”

“How should I know?” said Hardy, impatiently.





M





90 A Cruise in the Acorn.

I was telling you my dream, not the boy’s, or Lancelot’s”
—no words could describe the contempt with which
Hardy pronounced this fine name—‘ and if you don’t
want to hear any more, you may as well say so, and I'll
go to sleep in real good earnest.”

Here he gaped, and closed his eyes, and grunted
ominously.

“Of course, I want to hear some more,” said Sunny.
“Do go on, Hardy.” ;

‘““As you may guess, then, Sunny, I didn’t much
care for that sort of fun for long, and I was just
wondering how I should get some money to buy some-
thing to eat, when I thought I heard your voice crying
or laughing, or perhaps both. I looked all round the
circus, and couldn’t see anyone a bit like you. It was
just then that this Lancelot was singing his serenade, or
whatever he called it. It all looked capital, I can tell
you. The trees, and the house and windows, looked just
like life; and the boy with his banjo (he said it was a
lute, but it was nothing of the kind, and so I would
have told him in another minute) didn’t look bad either,
at a distance. Well, all the time he was singing, I
fancied I heard your voice somewhere i

‘What was he singing, Hardy ?” asked Sunny.

“Oh, I don’t know; something about ‘My lady
weeps,’ and ‘her lover sleeps,’ and ‘western steeps,’ and
‘golden peeps,’ and ‘silver deeps,’ and ‘azure creeps,’
and any quantity more in the same style. Suddenly he
played an extra twang on his banjo, because he was
‘supposed to see her at the window. I looked up at the
window too, and there was a girl standing there with a
white frock on, and black hair; and as I looked at her,
I saw that it was you, only your hair had turned black







Grars of the summer night!
Far in yon azure deeps,

Hide, hide your golden light!
She sleeps! My lady sleeps!

© MOON of the summer night!
Far down yon western steeps,
Sink, sink in silver light !
She sleeps! My lady sleeps!

WIND of the summer night!
Where yonder woodbine creeps,
Fold, fold thy pinions light!
She sleeps! My lady sleeps!

DREAMS of the summer night!
Tell her, her lover keeps
Watch! while in slumbers light

She sleeps! My lady sleeps!

LONGFELLOW



SS SS SS SS SSS SSS











Flardy’s Dream. 93



somehow or other. So I screamed out to you as loud
as ever I could to come home directly, because papa and
mamma wanted you, and wouldn’t let me in till I’d
found you. Then all the people in the circus were in an
awful rage with me for interrupting the performance;
and the manager said he’d have me locked up if I didn’t
keep quiet. Well, I didn’t mind a bit what he said, and
kept on shouting to you to come away, and you didn't
take any notice at all, beyond laughing at me the whole
time.”

“Oh, Hardy!” Sunny interposed; “I am sure I
couldn't have been laughing at you; you must have
made a mistake.”

‘Well, I suppose I know best about my own dream,”
was Hardy’s answer; to which Sunny replied by a wise
silence. ‘I tell you that you looked at me ever so
many times, and shrieked with laughter, and said you
wouldn’t come home. Then the manager said I must
be turned out of the circus; and the more I called to
you, the more you laughed. At last the manager took
hold of my jacket collar and dragged me out of my
seat, and was just beginning to pommel me with
his fists and boots, when I woke up and found you
kicking and hugging me as hard as you could; don't
you remember ?”

“Is that all?” asked Sunny, her eyes wide open with
wonder—as well they may have been—at the strangeness
of the dream, and at Hardy’s supreme indifference to its
peculiarities.

‘All! yes, I should think so; and quite enough, too.
I’m so hot and sleepy; aren't you, Sunny ?”

“How funny of you never to tell me before!”
murmured Sunny, totally disregarding Hardy’s remarks.










94 A Crutse in the Acorn.



“Why, if I had had a dream like that, I should have
told you the very minute, shouldn’t I ?”

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you would have done,
if you had had a dream like that,” said Hardy.

There was something significant in his tone of voice,
which made Sunny raise her eyes to his face. He was
laughing, it is true; but then he was always laughing,
so that did not impress her much.

‘Are you sure that you have not forgotten anything,
Hardy ?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know; I don’t suppose I have,” was
the careless answer; ‘but it’s such a long time ago,
you know. Anyhow, I am sure it’s quite as good a
dream as yours, and ever so much more sensible; now,
isn’t it?”

Sunny was, however, evidently disappointed. She
had expected something far more improbable and
romantic and fairylike, than Hardy's very realistic form
of dream—the strict authenticity of which, between
ourselves, I strongly question—also, it was by no means
long enough to suit her; and there was something very
unsatisfactory in Hardy’s manner, and apparent enjoy-
ment of her disappointment.

That young gentleman amused himself for a few |
moments in staring about him, whistling, eating, and _
drinking what little remained of Mrs. Trust’s ginger-
wine and water. At last, happening to catch sight of
his sister’s face, he exclaimed—

“T tell you what it is, Sunny; if you’re always going
to be sulky and gloomy, because I can’t dream just what
you like, I shall never tell you any more nightmares, or
do anything nice at all. And I shan’t ask papa to buy
any more 4corus, and I shan’t take you any more sails





Flardy’s Dream. 95



or cruises in her, if you are going on like that! So you
had better cheer up, I can assure you.”

‘But I can’t make it out, Hardy,” murmured Sunny;
“it seems so funny that you never told me while we
were on the island, instead of waiting such a long
time. And—and—then you were laughing so much
this morning in the nursery, that Are you sure
you veal/y dreamt it, Hardy ?”

Hardy did not answer; and when Sunny looked at
him to see what he was doing, she was surprised to find
that he was fast asleep, or at all events pretended to be
so. For my part, I don’t think he was even sleepy.

Sunny stood looking at him, meditatively, wondering
what she should do—if she dared wake him by the
primitive method of pulling his hair. As she pondered
on the various pleasing forms of effecting a very un-
gracious task, she kept her eyes fixed pensively, almost
abstractedly, on her brother’s ruddy face. Suddenly, to
her fright, her indescribable surprise, she saw one of
Hardy’s big brown eyes open furtively, and close again !
She gazed in mute horror, and presently the same eye
performed exactly the same trick!

‘What does it mean?” thought little Sunny. “I
must be dreaming; I am sure he couldn’t open one eye
in his sleep like that. What a funny thing!”

Just then, Hardy again performed this not very
marvellous feat ; and catching the expression of mingled
horror, and amazement, and curiosity, and amusement
depicted on Sunny’s face, burst into such a loud laugh,
that Sunny, after half-a-moment’s stare, ran out of the
arbour, or summer-house, as fast as she could go, flying
along the walks and lawns as if she were no heavier
than a butterfly.





96 A Cruise in the Acorn.

This did not suit Hardy at all, for he had a plan in
his mind, carefully concocted by himself, and confided to
his father, which absolutely required Sunny’s absence
from the house. So he called her back to the summer-
house, offering all manner of bribes, in the way of sweet-
meats, and fruits, and picture-books, and paint-boxes,
and baskets, and beads, and other equally seductive
gifts; but she only surveyed him doubtfully from the
doorway leading to Mrs. Trust’s department, and never
answered a word. I expect she was really frightened—-
as well she may have been—at Hardy’s extraordinary
dream, and extraordinary behaviour; and she felt half-
afraid to return within the glance of that one eye! So,
after gravely considering the matter for a few minutes,
she evidently made up her mind that Mrs. Trust was
much more reliable than Hardy, and accordingly re-
treated into that estimable lady’s parlour. Now, Hardy
did not approve of this arrangement from any point of
view. It might seriously interfere with his elaborately
conceived plan, and spoil all the fun. And he was
rapidly getting very cross indeed, as he pondered on the
best way of inducing Sunny to leave the dangerous
quarters of the kind old housekeeper.

Sunny, however, was far too amiable to keep away
from him when she knew that he wanted her; so in a
few minutes she came back to the summer-house, and
said she was very sorry if he was offended with her, but
that he had frightened her when he opened and shut his
eye in such a strange manner.

To which apology the only reply Hardy vouchsafed
was—

“ Bother !”

‘What do you say, Hardy?” his sister said.



Flardy’s Dream. 97



caic, other! .

She looked puzzled, and finally ventured to say,
timidly—

‘But, ‘bother’ what ?”

I suppose Hardy was thoroughly determined to make
himself explicit this time, for he answered immediately—

“ Everything and everybody !”

“Well, that’s what I call a fair field and no favour,
my boy!” said their father’s voice from the door of the
summer-house.

Hardy started to his feet, his face crimson with
vexation; while Sunny forgot her disappointment at the
matter of Hardy’s dream in the triumph of having heard
it, and ran to clasp her father’s hand, crying—

“Oh, papa dear! he’s told me at last. And it is
such a pretty one—all about the lions and elephants.
Then there is a circus, and a serenade; and he thought
he was looking for me everywhere, and couldn’t find me,
and you wouldn’t let him come home without me; and
when he got into the circus, he found it was me at the
window, and he called me ever so often to come, but I
wouldn’t. I had black hair, too; and yet I looked just
the same, he says.”

‘How did it all end, then, Sunny?” papa asked,
with a very broad smile on his face.

“Well, you know, papa dear, Hardy kept calling me
all the time, and of course, as I wouldn't come, the
people didn’t like it, because he made such an noise; so
the manager came round to him, and took hold of him
by his coat, and actually turned him out! Just fancy
that !”

“Why, to tell the truth, Sunny,” said her father,
laughing as he spoke, ‘Iam not at all surprised at that.




BS SS SSN
LRU \


The Baldwin Library







A CRUISE IN THE ACORN






Gooon Heaven BEFRIEND
that little boat,
And guide her on her way!
A boat, they say,
has canvas wings
But cannot fly away!
Though like a merry
singing bird,
She sits upon the spray!
Still east by south,
the little boat
With tawny sail, keeps beating:
Now out of sight
between two waves,
Now oer the horizon fleeting!
















A CRUISE

€HE BooRN

BY

ALICE JERROLD

(MRS. ADOLPHE SMITH)



WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS, IN GOLD AND COLORS

“« Acorns which the winds have scattered
Future navies may provide!”





London:

MARCUS WARD & CO., 67 & 68, CHANDOS STREET, STRAND
And ROYAL ULSTER WORKS, BELFAST

x : 1875 HK iy







TO MY YOUNG BROTHER,

Sidnev Jerroly,
I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE BOOK,

IN LOVING REMEMBRANCE OF HIS BOYHOOD,

WHICH HAS BRIGHTENED THE LIVES OF ALL AROUND HIM.

Alice Jerroly.




















CONTENTS.

I.—Tue DEPARTURE é : : : . . 7
IL—Sunny’s “GREEN FRIEND” : y 3 30
III.—Row.y To THE RESCUE : i : : SC)
IV.—Harpy’s DREAM . 4 ; , ; : 94
V.—HOopeEs AND FEARS , : : : : . Tor

VI.—Tue Mystery SoLveD s : : : : 124
Se RT Se ee

CHROMOGRAPHS.

Harpy AnD Sunny Ser Sal (p. 18) 4 . Frontispiece.



“Wuat 1s THE MATTER, SUNNY ?” i ‘ : : 38
Tue Five Biue Eccs i A , é i 2 Or
THE SERENADER : : ; 4 4 : 91
DELIVERING THE LETTER he i Ri 4 ae pen

THE Spirit OF SPRING (p. 140) .



















A CRUISE IN THE ACORN.

CHAP. I.—THE DEPARTURE. ~







GSUNNY’S real name was Lillie,
but her father and mother had
called her Sunny when she was
quite a baby, because of her
bright yellow hair, and laughing
= eyes, and merry little ways; and
; as she grew bigger, she was
still so good-humoured and gay
* that her baby-name clung. to her.
\\ “There goes my little Sunny!”
= her father would say to himself,
with a smile, as from his arm-chair
by the library table he heard the pat--
~ ter of small feet on the staircase, and the
cheery singing of a childish voice. ‘‘ Sunny!”

her mother would call, as the little figure tripped by
her morning room—‘“ Sunny, won’t you come and


8 A Cruise in the Acorn.



see if you can find a kiss for me?” The servants of
the house, from the old housekeeper to the stable-
boy, who ran errands for his mistress occasionally,
all petted and really loved the child. Miss Sunny was
a popular personage in the kitchen and farm-yard. As
for her brother, the first thing he said, regularly every
afternoon as he came in from his school, was, ‘‘ Where's
Sunny ?”

This brother had a nickname, as well as his sister.
He had been called Laurence until he was about six
years old, when an incident occurred that procured for
him the name by which he was now always known—
- that of Hardy. He would be very angry with me if I
did not tell you how he acquired his nickname, so I|
had better relate the story directly, had I not ?

His father took him out for a drive one day, in a
deserted part of the surrounding country. He was
alone with his father, who drove the basket ‘chaise in
which they were himself. At about two miles’ distance
from home, a heavy storm of rain overtook them; not
a few casual drops, but a determined, splashing rain,
that startled the pony by its force, for the pony fell to
kicking vigorously, and smashed the basket-work of
which the frail vehicle was composed into such condi-
tion, that Hardy and his father were obliged to get
out of it and walk homeward, leading the pony by the |
reins. This was not easy work, for the pony was
decidedly skittish, and plunged about him, throwing
his head back and snorting, whisking his tail, jerking
his legs in uncomfortable ways, and every now and
then making a furious rush at some inoffensive paling.
Hardy was a brave little boy on that occasion. His
father was in great distress at the possibility of the




Lhe Departure. 9



child being tired or catching cold, and was very
anxious to carry him in his arms, where he might
be sheltered under his greatcoat. But his boy would
not hear of this, and walked stoutly on in spite of the
rain, and at last even carried his father’s whip for him.
Of course, it would have been out of the question for
either to have ridden the pony, who was quite enough
trouble without being further irritated. From that day
Laurence was called Hardy: his father had been so
pleased with his conduct that he used to say very often
—He’s a hardy boy; or, He'll make a hardy man; or,
He’s hardy enough; aren’t you, my boy? until everyone
became used to say much of the same thing, and his
present name was given by common consent.

At the time when you first make their acquaintance
_ Hardy was twelve years old and Sunny was only just
nine; but though there was that difference in their
ages, and though, as Hardy would sometimes com-
plain, ‘‘Sunny was a girl,” the brother and sister got
on admirably, and were so attached to each other, that
Sunny had more of Hardy’s play-time than his school-
fellows.

‘““Where’s Sunny?” Hardy asked, as usual, as he
came back one splendid summer day in the very begin-
ning of June.

- Sunny had been looking out for him, and before
the servant could answer, was flying downstairs to meet
him.

“T’ve something wonderful to tell you,” said Hardy ;
‘you'll be so surprised.”

“What is it?” asked Sunny, eagerly, running after
him as he went towards the play-room.

“Don’t you be in such a hurry,” said Hardy,





10 A Crutse in the Acorn.



unable, boylike, to resist a little teasing; “Tl tell you
presently.”

And Sunny waited patiently, only showing her
feelings by her expressive eyebrows, while Hardy put
his school-books away.

Now, Sunny, what do you think it is?” he said,
when he had finished.

‘Oh, I don’t know,” said the little girl—* do tell me.”

“Well, it’s this. You know old Rowly, who's got
that queer little hut under the trees by the river. I
was talking to him to-day, and, Sunny, he’s got a
boat—a very little one, but quite big enough for you
and me—and I want papa to buy it for us; Rowly says
he'll sell it very cheap. You know, I could take you
for a trip on the river; it would be such fun; and you .
wouldn't be frightened, would you, Sunny ?”

“Oh, no—not if you went,” answered Sunny, caper-
ing about with delight at the idea. ‘Oh, what a nice
boy you are to think of all that! I’m sure papa will
buy it for us. And when can we have our first try at it,
Hardy >?” Le

“Oh, you're just like girls, you ask such a lot of
questions,” observed Hardy. ‘Well, we can’t do any-
thing, I suppose, before my holidays begin.”

Sunny’s face fell, then suddenly brightened again.
“But we can ask papa, Hardy, to buy it for us before
that, can’t we 2”

“Oh, yes, the sooner the better,” replied Hardy;
“or else, if we are slow, some of the other boys will get
hold of it.”

And so it happened that after tea that evening, when
Sunny was perched in her usual place on papa’s knee,
she looked round to see if Hardy was listening, and







The Departure. II



then said in a low voice to her father—‘“ I’ve got such
a secret to tell you, papa!”

“Am I not to hear it, Sunny?” asked her mamma,
coming from the window with her embroidery.

“Yes, you may hear it, mamma, but you mustn’t
breathe a word to anyone, or the boys will get it before
us, Hardy says.”

“Will get what?” cried papa. ‘I shall be quite
frightened directly, Sunny, if you don't reveal the
secret.”

“Hardy is going to ask you something, papa, and
we do so hope you will say yes, and buy it for us, for
we shall be able to have such fun; and Hardy says he
will take great care of me, and he’s sure old Rowly will

sell it very cheap.”

In her breathless excitement Sunny forgot to say
what the object of her demand was; and her father was
just laughing at her, and protesting that it was a great
mystery, when Hardy broke into the room, and in a
few blunt words revealed the important truth.

' “Now I understand,” said papa. ‘So Sunny
wants a boat, does she? Well, I daresay I shall con-
trive to satisfy her, and you also, Hardy; but before
I. make any promises, I must go round to old Rowly
myself and look at his boat, and see that it’s quite safe,
or else we might have a few®ccidents—the boat turning
over, Sunny floating in the water, and Hardy exerting
all his strength to swim and save her, and a few little
trifles of that kind; eh, mamma?”

Mamma said nothing, but looked very anxious and
frightened, and papa dismissed the matter with a laugh,
saying—

“T won't forget to call in on old Rowly, and I dare-




12 A Cruise in the Acorn.



say something will be done to please you both, children. -
Now, mamma, it’s time for you to give us some music,
is it not? and Sunny can meditate over her- boat while
I smoke, and Hardy: 4

‘Oh, I’m going back to my lessons,” said Hardy ;
and, suiting the action to the word, he left the room.

Sunny’s enjoyment of the music was at first very
much spoilt by thoughts of the possible defects in old
Rowly’s bargain, and of the disappointment Hardy and
she would feel if papa did not think it worth buying.
Gradually, however, Sunny’s head drooped towards
papa’s shoulder, her recollections of the afternoon’s
surprise became very vague, and were mixed up with
the sounds of the piano, until at last she forgot every-
thing in a sound sleep.

The next morning the children’s father went to old
Rowly’s hut, and talked to him about the boat; asked
if Rowly was sure it was thoroughly sound, if Sunny
and Hardy could be trusted in it, if the oars would be
easy to manage, and many other questions. Old Rowly
gave Satisfactory answers to all, and it was agreed that
the children should have the boat.

You can imagine the delight of Sunny and Hardy
when they heard the news. They were so anxious to
have their first expedition in it that they could think
of nothing else, and Hardy’s mind was so occupied,
that he wrote the words “boat” and “rowing” several



times in his exercises at that time instead of the
correct words; and once, when his master asked him,
during school-time, the name of England’s greatest
poet, Hardy answered, ‘Old Rowly!” much to the
amusement of the whole school.

Old Rowly seemed to be very slow about the fitting




The Departure.



up of the boat to the children’s minds, and Hardy
began to fear that his holidays would begin before it
was ready. However, on the morning of the first day
of this much-anticipated holiday-time, old Rowly sent
round to say that the boat was quite complete, and
that he hoped the young gentleman would come and
have a look at it. Iam inclined to think, for my part,
that the children’s father gave directions to old Rowly
not to finish his work too soon, otherwise Hardy would
spend all his spare time over his new toy rather than
with his lessons. I saw his father smiling quietly
once or twice while Hardy was deploring the slow
progress of the boat towards completion.

As you may imagine, Hardy was not long in com-
plying with old Rowly’s suggestion.

“Come along, Sunny!” he cried, seizing his sister
by the hand; “run upstairs and put your hat on, and
welll be off for a nice long row. Do try and be quick,
Sunny—girls are always so slow.”

Sunny was scampering upstairs as fast as her little
feet would carry her, when she knocked against her
father, who was coming down.

“What is the matter, Sunny dear?” asked her
father, almost frightened at her excessive excitement.

“Oh, nothing, papa,” she answered, “only the
boat’s ready, and Hardy and I are going to see it and
have such a row! Won't you come too, papa?”

‘Of course, I shall come!” papa said, with a laugh.
“Why, I must see that you are not drowned, both of
you! Run up and get your hat, and we'll go and have
a look at this wonderful boat.” ;

Papa and Sunny and Hardy were soon on their
way to old Rowly’s hut. Hardy walked along gravely




14 A Cruise in the Acorn.

ea



beside his father, as if he were not at all inclined to
run; but Sunny could not control her impatience, and
ran in front of them, and then back again, and then in
front once more, just like a frisky little dog.

At last they reached old Rowly’s hut. They found
the old man quite as interested about it as they were;
he grew quite eloquent as he described the many
graces and merits of the boat. They followed him to |
the river bank where this treasure was moored.

‘Oh, papa, papa, how delightful!” cried Sunny,
jumping up and down and clapping her hands, as her
eyes fell on the pretty little “craft,” as sailors say,
dancing on the water.

“Don’t be so silly, Sunny,” whispered Hardy, who
was nevertheless gratified at his sister’s pleasure. ‘It’s
a capital boat, though, and we will have such a row in
it; won't we, papa?”

‘Oh, yes,” returned papa, ““we must see how it
goes. Why, Sunny, how quiet you are. A penny for —
your thoughts! Do you think they are worth it; eh?”

“I was wondering what we could name the boat,
papa,” Sunny replied. The question was a serious one
to her, and she looked quite grave over it.

“Well, can’t you think of one,” laughed her father.

“Call it Melson!” cried Hardy; ‘he was a sailor,
so that will do capitally.”

“Call it Sunbeam,” suggested papa, “in imitation
of Sunny!”

“Or Victory,” added Hardy, “or The Nile, or
Trafalgar.”

‘‘Hardy’s mind is evidently running on Nelson
to-day,” said papa, laughingly. ‘‘ For my own part, I
think the boat rather small for such heroic names.







The Departure: 15



Come now, Sunny, you must have thought of some-
thing pretty.”

“T was going to say, call it Acorn, because it’s
brown outside and green inside, like an acorn,” said
Sunny, very timidly, fearing that her simple idea
would be.too much like that of a girl to please papa
and Hardy. But they were pleased with it.

“That will do—won’t it, papa?” cried Hardy.
Papa liked it too; so the boat was christened Zhe
Acorn.

They did not go for a long trip that day, for Hardy
found rowing, especially with his father and Sunny in
the boat, harder work than he had expected. He was
not at all sorry to leave off, and found that his arms
ached dreadfully, and his hands were blistered.

“It won’t always be such hard work for you, my
boy,” said his father, “because I shall not be with you,
and Sunny will learn to manage one oar by-and-by, I’ve
no doubt. I shall come with you the first few times

‘to take care of you, and see that you know what you are
~ about; and when I am quite convinced, I shall leave

Sunny in your charge.”

Hardy soon became a practised oarsman, and his
father had no scruple in allowing him to have the care of
Sunny, who, of course, would far sooner have doubted
the power of her own feet to carry her body, than Hardy’s
perfect reliability and strength. The children had some
very pleasant excursions during those early holidays,
and seemed to enjoy the possession of the 4corvu more
and more every day.

One mofning, as papa was reading his letters at
breakfast-time, he came upon one from a friend, asking
him to spend a week or ten days at his sea-side house.
16 A Cruise in the Acorn.



‘What do you think, mamma?” said papa. “Shall
we go?”

‘““Am I invited also?” said mamma. “ Yes, I should
like to go very much. But then, the children—how
shall we leave them ?”

“Oh, the children will be right enough,” said their
father; “only they must be very careful about the
boat.”

The children promised that they would take every
possible care, and mamma was re-assured.

The next day Sunny and Hardy were left alone, for
mamma and papa went to see their friend, with whom
they were to stay a week. It was a very hot day, and
Hardy found the exertion of rowing more tiring than
usual when they went on their daily expedition.

“IT wish we could find some way of getting the boat
along without rowing,” said Hardy, as he rested on his
oars.

“Couldn't we make a sail?” suggested Sunny,
timidly.

‘Bravo, Sunny!” cried Hardy, with a shout, and a
bound that threatened to overturn the Acorn; “we'll
have a sail! Then we shall have no trouble, you
know; we can just settle ourselves comfortably in the
boat, and float along; and we shall go sc fast, too.
That's a capital idea for a girl.”

Hardy was so excited about it that he gained fresh
energy for rowing, and they went back towards home
and old Rowly’s hut at a wonderful rate, considering the
young oarsman’s previous fatigue.

Leaving Sunny to tie up the boat, Hardy rushed
into old Rowly’s hut, shouting—‘ Rowly! Rowly! I
say, Rowly, we've got such a splendid idea! You
The Departure. 17



know it’s awfully hot rowing this weather; Sunny can’t
help a bit, so I have to do it all; and to-day I was
nearly tired out, when Sunny thought of a sail! Can’t
you make us a sail, Rowly? Papa will pay you for it
when he comes back. Could you make one quick, do

-|.-you think ?”

The old man hesitated. ‘Well, it seems to me,
Master Hardy, that I ought to wait and ask your papa,”
he said, slowly. ‘‘ Not but what I’ve got a little sail that
used to belong to my boy’s pleasure-boat, before he went
out to America; it’s a neat little sail enough ; and it isn’t
because I want to be paid down, Master Hardy; don’t
you think that. But I do think I ought to wait till your
_ papa comes back—I do, really.”

‘Oh, that’s all nonsense, Rowly,” rejoined Hardy,
eagerly. ‘You. know I can manage the boat as well as
possible, and papa wasn’t a bit afraid to leave us, though
he knew we were going out rowing every day; and if
you've got a sail that will do, why, I'll answer for it
that papa won't be angry; besides, I shall tell him when
I write to him. Come now, Rowly, do let us have it;
there’s a dear old fellow; won’t you?”

: Old Rowly shook his head, and muttered to himself,
and, after much deliberation, told Hardy he'd fix the
Acorn up for them, somehow, by next morning.

Accordingly, after undergoing a fever of anticipation,
the children ran down to the place where the boat was
moored, the next morning, and found that old Rowly had
been as good as his implied word; for the corm was
embellished with a sail that was not as white as the
children had expected to see it, but was still, Sunny
declared, oh, ever so pretty!

For the first few days all went on well. There was







18 A Cruise in the Acorn.



a very slight breeze, and the corn sailed lazily along
in a quiet, easy manner that was delightful to its young
proprietors. One day they resolved to have a species
of picnic. They asked the housekeeper to give them
some bread and butter, some cold meat, and some cakes
and fruit, and to put all these eatables into a basket.
The housekeeper was in a good temper, and humoured
them, slipping a few extra nice things into little corners,
and observing that, if they ate all she had provided, they
wouldn’t starve, like the Babes in the Wood, yet awhile.

The children were in ecstasies, and ran and jumped
about while the basket was being packed, anticipating a
delightful day. Presently it was all ready, and they
started off, laughing heartily at the housekeeper’s parting
injunction not to get drowned.

It was a beautiful day, and there was more breeze
than there had been hitherto for their sailing excursions.
The corn danced merrily on the surface of the clear
water, and Sunny and Hardy lay back in their seats
discussing all sorts of adventures, possible and impos-
sible, and enjoying their treat excessively. I think they
must have gone almost to sleep for a little time. The
fresh air, combined with heat, often makes one sleepy,
you know; and these children had slept less than usual
the previous night, I suspect, because of their excitement
with regard to the picnic. (See Frontispiece.)

“Why, Sunny!” exclaimed Hardy, suddenly, ‘look
how wide the river is here!”

Sunny looked, and saw that on either side of them
the banks appeared some way off. ‘‘ Why, it’s the sea!”
she said, in an awestruck voice.

‘How can you be so silly?” said Hardy. ‘“ Why, if
it’s the sea, where are the waves ?”
The Departure. 19



This was an unanswerable argument to Sunny’s mind,
for she glanced apologetically at Hardy, and said that she
had forgotten the waves.

“T should think it’s time to have something to eat;
don’t you think so?” suggested Hardy. “I know I feel
very hungry.”

“So do I,” answered Sunny. ‘‘ What time is it ?”

Hardy looked at his watch (his last birth-day present)
and pronounced the time to be past one o’clock.

“Shall we have it in here, or shall we go out some-
where ?” asked Hardy.

“Oh, it would be much nicer to get out and sit on
the grass,” said Sunny, staring about her for a suitable
place. ‘‘There—look, Hardy! we're coming to a little
island, such a pretty place! We can get out there and
have our dinner. Do you see it ?” '

“Ves, I see it,” said Hardy, tugging at the rudder-
ropes; “but it’s a fine long way off, and look how wide
the river is just there.”

“Perhaps we had better not go so far, then,” replied
Sunny.

“Oh, that’s just like you girls: you suggest a thing,
and then directly afterwards you say, ‘We had better
not do it,’” said Hardy, disdainfully. ‘We may just
as well go there as anywhere else.”

So on they went, the .dcorn skimming along
quickly in the fresh wind. After much agitated
manoeuvring on the part of Hardy, the little boat was
induced to ‘‘draw up,” as Sunny expressed it, alongside
the island, which they found to be by no means so small
as they had at first thought. They did not stop to
look about them much, however, on landing. They
fastened the corn, by means of the rope, to an old





20 A Cruise in the Acorn.







stump that protruded conveniently from the bank, and
then, seizing the basket of provisions, ran off to sit
down under the shade of the trees and enjoy their
meal. There was no lack of food; and after they had
eaten such an amount as only children of that age, out
for a treat, cam eat, they had avery fair quantity to put
back into the basket for a future onslaught. And then,
what do you think they did? Why, they imitated
many of their elders, and, having eaten their dinner,
fell fast asleep.

Hardy woke up first. “Here, Sunny, Sunny!” he
cried. “I say, don’t you go to. sleep like that! You'll
be catching cold, or something of the sort. Let’s go
and have a look at this island.”

Poor little Sunny roused herself, and for a moment
could hardly realise where she was, until Hardy
repeated his wish to have a look at the island, when
she started to her feet, exclaiming—‘‘Oh yes! come
along—let’s have a walk round it!” She took up the
basket to carry with her, but Hardy said she had better
leave it at the foot of a tree among the grass. ‘We're
sure to remember it when we come back to get the
Acorn, you know.”

So Sunny put the basket down as she was bid, and
the pair started on their exploring trip.

There were plenty of curious thirigs to see on the
island: there were, first of all, the solid masses of wild
flowers of all shades of colour, which had such a strange
effect growing under the branches of the forest of trees;
then there were the risings and sinkings of the ground,
the varied carpets of moss, and the vast growth of
feathery ferns waving gently in the wind that reached
them from the distant river. For the river seemed a




The Departure. | 21



long way off to the children as they stood in the thick
of the underwood, looking at all around them with the
keen interest of youth. Then there were the buzzing
long-legged flies to watch; the shining coloured beetles
to chase and catch, if possible; the birds to tempt by
stray crumbs of bread and biscuits that were found in
odd corners of pockets. Frogs and toads played im-
portant parts in the afternoon’s enjoyment, for every
now and then a damp, marshy spot was discovered,
from which the croak of a frog was distinctly heard.
Thereupon Sunny would institute a careful search, and
would at last triumphantly point out to Hardy the
frog’s retreat. Hardy liked the toads better, he said,
and treated frogs with great contempt; observing that
they were like girls—they were always jumping about
- and squeaking.

Sunny was engaged in a keen investigation of one
particular spot, rummaging in the damp grass with her
quick little fingers, when she was aroused by hearing
Hardy, who had been energetically throwing stones at
nothing, for some moments, call—

“JT say, Sunny, it’s getting rather late; don’t you
think we had better find the corn and go back ?”

Sunny knew that such prudence on his part meant
something more than prudence, and answered by a
question—

‘Are you tired, Hardy >?”

“Well, you know,” said he, ‘it’s rather slow, after
a time; and then you go staring into holes, and poking
about in the grass, instead of having a good game.
Besides, it’s getting late.”

Sunny started to her feet and volunteered to join
in a “good game;” but Hardy was not to be moved.






















22 A Cruise in the Acorn.

‘“Why, what time is it?” his sister asked.

‘Well, it’s five o'clock,” said Hardy, looking again
at his watch; “and, you know, it will take us some
time to get home.”

“Very well,” agreed Sunny. “Then we must go
back and fetch our basket first. But, Hardy,” she
added, looking round her, half-puzzled, ‘which is the
way?”

‘If that isn’t just like you, Sunny! Why, we must
turn back, of course!”

So they turned back, and Sunny skipped along
beside her brother, wondering, but never dreaming of
questioning his judgment. Hardy seemed uneasy in
his mind, and walked forward, looking almost anxiously
about him. Suddenly he stopped abruptly, saying—

“Sunny, we've lost our way. Whereabouts do you
think the Acorn is?”

“T am sure I can’t tell,” she answered; “but it’s
not much matter, because, you know, we can walk all
round the bank until we find it.”

‘““So we can,” said Hardy, re-assured somewhat ;
and they trotted along briskly, laughing and talking
as they went. However, they walked some distance
along the bank and did not find the Acorn. At last,
Hardy suggested that Sunny should sit down by the
water's edge, while he ran as fast as he could all round
the island. ‘Then there’s the basket to find as well,”
grumbled Hardy.

‘Oh, but that is close by where we tied the boat,”.
said Sunny. ‘Don’t you remember we sat down
directly we had landed. When we find the ‘corn, I
can find the basket directly.”

“You stay here, then,” said Hardy, “while I run
The Departure. 23

round. When once I’ve found it, we can soon get to it
together; and the island isn’t so very big after all; I
shan’t be long.”

But the island was big, and he was a very long
time, and Sunny was getting half-frightened about
him. She did not dare to move from her place, but sat
like a little sentinel just where Hardy had left her,
feeling so strange all alone in the wonderful stillness.
She began to understand, she thought, what Robinson
Crusoe must have felt on his desert island; and she
almost forgot Hardy in her interest in comparing her-
self to Crusoe. As she was looking far away into the
river, with meditative eyes, she heard Hardy’s footsteps
behind her, and jumped up, half-frightened, half-laugh-
ing, exclaiming—‘‘Oh, Hardy, I thought it was Man
Friday !”

“Bother Man Friday,” was Hardy’s unsympathetic
reply, uttered in so serious a manner that Sunny was
startled. ‘Do you know that I’ve been all round this
island and can’t find the corn /”

“Can’t find the .4corn/” repeated Sunny, in amaze-
ment. ‘Why, where’s it gone?”

“Well, that’s just what I want to know,” answered
Hardy, moodily, throwing himself down on the grass,
and cutting at the tufts of weed and wild-flower with
a switch he had procured from a neighbouring bush.

“But it must be there somewhere,” said Sunny;
“you must have missed it. Perhaps it has got among
the weeds, and you only saw the green, and didn’t think
‘ the boat was just beside, and ran on.”

“Well, if you like to go and look among the
weeds,” said Hardy, “you must go alone, I’m so
tired. I suppose you're not afraid, are you ?”


24 A Cruise in the Acorn.



Sunny would not have dared’ to confess that she had
been a little bit afraid before he came back, still less
that she was afraid now; because she knew that, tired
as he was, he would have walked with her. So she
summoned up all her courage, and saying, No, she
didn’t mind at all—she started off, invigorating herself
every time she felt the least timid by remembering
how tired poor Hardy was. You see, Sunny was
a brave little girl; was she not?

She walked on and on, making sure at every step
that she had not passed the corn, and peering
anxiously into every corner and crevice of the river
bank. At last, as she stopped at one rather broad
opening and looked about her, she thought—‘t Why,
this is where we moored the boat!” Very carefully,
and with beating heart, she examined the bank. Yes,
she was certain they had landed there. She remem-
bered that thick clump of weeds, by the water, which
‘Hardy had told her not to touch, because she would
make her hands all green and slimy. Yet, where was
the stump of tree to which they had tied the boat?
She knelt down, and gazed with all her might, and
discovered a big hole in the earth, just where she was
certain the stump had been. Yes, the hole looked
quite freshly made, and little stray twigs and ends of
root were clinging about, as if the stump had been
recently torn away, root and all. It was evident that
the constant drag of the boat had exhausted the
resistance of the worn-out, decayed branch, which had
finally given way. The corn had drifted down the
river—far, far away from its young owners—and was
travelling rapidly towards the open sea.

Sunny was too excited to be much alarmed as yet.’




The Departure. 25





“Hardy! Hardy!” she screamed, running back in
his direction. ‘“ Hardy! come directly, Hardy!”

As she ran, she saw him running to meet her.

“Well, what’s up?” he panted, as they met. “How
you do frighten a fellow! I thought you'd fallen into
the river.”

“Oh, no,” laughed Sunny; “but, Hardy, the
Acorn's gone! I’ve found the place where we tied it
up, and stump and all are gone!”

“You must have made a mistake,” said Hardy. “It
can’t have gone, you know. Why, the stump was firm
enough. Are you sure it’s the place?—have you found
the basket ?”

‘No, I quite forgot the basket,” Sunny confessed.

“There, you see!” rejoined her brother. ‘ That’s
_ the thing to decide if it’s the place. Of course’; if the
basket is where you left it—I mean, just the same
distance and on the same side of the bank—I shall think
youre right about the stump.”

When they reached the spot Sunny had indicated,
Hardy looked grave: he, too, remembered the general
appearance of the place, and the peculiarities of the
distant aspect.

Without a word as to his recollections, he turned
to Sunny, saying—“ Now, where do you say you put
the basket ?”

_ Sunny pointed out a group of trees close by, and
said she thought she knew the very tree, and ran to-
wards a particular one. Hardy watched her intently,
and saw her turn to come back to him with the basket
in her hand !

“I say, this is no joke,” said Hardy, as Sunny
came quietly to his side. ‘I don’t know what we're






26 A Cruise in the Acorn.



todo. This is the place where we tied the boat; the
basket decides it. You're right about the stump, too,
Sunny; and there’s a little bit of painted wood off the
side of the boat stuck in the weeds; do you see?”

Sunny aid see—it was just a thin slip of the familiar
light-brown painted wood—and the remembrance that
that was all now left to them of their much-prized
Acorn affected her so much, that she burst into tears.

“Come, don’t cry, Sunny,” said Hardy, kindly;
“we shall get home somehow, I suppose, though I
don’t exactly see how.” :

Sunny soon dried her tears; and the two children
walked restlessly about, straining their eyes across the
river in search of a boat; watching the far-off banks,
as well as they could, in the hope of seeing some human
creature to whom they could make signs of distress.
But the far-off banks looked as desolate as those of
the island: they could see nothing but dark masses of
tree and bush.

I know what you are about to say—Couldn’t Hardy
swim? Yes, he could swim very well for a boy of
his age; but swimming in a swimming-bath, with
numbers of school-fellows sharing the sport, and several
masters overlooking, in order to ensure the boys’ safety,
was a very different thing to striking out alone in a
strange place, and for a distance which he might not
be able to accomplish. Of,course, it was out of the
question that he should attempt to swim all the way
down the river until he reached old Rowly’s hut: very
few strong men would have been able to accomplish
such a feat as that. He hesitated for some time
whether he should make a try for one of the opposite
banks. There did not seem, however, much to be




The Departure. 27



gained by that, for even if his strength lasted until
he reached the shore (which he doubted, and so do I),
he could not be much wiser, for he had no idea where-
abouts they were, and might lose himself hopelessly,
alone at night in a strange and desolate place. The
most important argument, however, was that he could
not leave Sunny. The poor child felt secure as long
as he was with her; but I expect she would have died
of fright if he had left her. She was brave enough as
yet, though, and talked quite gaily to Hardy about
their adventure. It was getting dark very fast—that is
to say, as dark as it was likely to be, for the nights
had been very clear and light of late. Luckily, too, it
was summer-time and unusually hot, so they were not
likely, being strong, healthy children, to run any serious
risk in sleeping out of doors.

“We have got something for supper, haven’t we ?”
said Sunny, with a laugh, as they were discussing all
the points of the adventure.

“Yes, by-the-bye,” cried Hardy, “so we have. I
propose we have something now. Get the basket,
Sunny, and we'll sit down here and eat part of our
provisions this moment.”

' They sat down, poor children! and had a very good
meal, in spite of the mishap.

‘How shall we ever get back, do you think,
Hardy?” asked his sister, presently, after an interval
of silence.

“Oh, it will be all right to-morrow,” said Hardy.
“Old Rowly will find we haven’t come back, and he'll
get hold of a boat, and will row after us till he finds
us. You know, he saw us start, and knows which way.
we came; and if he follows the river straight along, he




































28 A Crutse in the Acorn.





can’t miss us. We must keep a sharp look-out that
he doesn’t pass right beyond us, that’s all. They will
be nicely frightened at home ; won’t they!”

“Tm so glad papa and mamma are away,” mur-
mured Sunny.

“Yes, and so am I,” said the boy. In a few
moments he added—‘I say, Sunny, I’m so sleepy and
tired ; are you?”

“I’m very tired,” was her answer; “I don’t think
I’m very sleepy.” Then the idea that struck her
seemed irresistible, for she burst intoa hearty laugh, say-
ing—‘‘Oh, Hardy, how are we to go to sleep? we have
nothing to cover us, and how uncomfortable it will be
on the ground. This is an adventure ; isn’t it?”

Hardy assured her she would be very comfortable,
on the contrary. He showed her how the boys at
school managed when they lay down on the ground.
They made a little hole for their thigh and another for
their elbow, and then their bones didn’t ache. Sunny
thought this an excellent idea, and was quite anxious
to try it.

While Hardy was scooping out some holes, as he
had seen his school-fellows do, Sunny suddenly said—

“Hardy, don’t you think we ought to try and
arrange some sort of sign to attract old Rowly in the
morning ?”

“Ves,” said Hardy, stopping in his work, “so we
ought. What can we do? Oh, I'll tell you! we can tie
my handkerchief on to a tall stick. That's sure to
surprise him; won't it! That's a capital notion.
Wait till I’ve finished these holes, and I'll see
about it.”

The plan succeeded admirably, and Hardy’s pocket-
yer

The Departure. 29
handkerchief floated most gracefully over the waters;
and they were both delighted at their clever device.

Hardy then took one arm out of his coat-sleeve—
I am dignifying it by calling it a coat, remember—and
stretched himself on the ground, calling to Sunny to
come and lie down beside him. Having shown her
how to arrange herself comfortably, he made her put
her little arm through his empty sleeve, then he put
his arm round her “heck, somehow, and she declared
herself as ‘‘ easy as could be.”

They did not speak for a few moments; and
suddenly, Hardy felt Sunny’s head shaking con-
vulsively.

“You are not crying, Sunny?” he asked; but she
didn’t answer. ‘Come, don’t cry,” he resumed. “Tt
will be all right to-morrow when old Rowly sees our
fae, eh?”

Sunny laughed then, and Hardy heard her whis-
per—‘‘ Good-night, Hardy,” and he felt a soft kiss on
his cheek.

‘“‘Good-night, dear Sunny,” he replied.

Sooner than you may think, the children were
sleeping the innocent sleep of childhood.








CHAP. II.—SUNNY’S ‘‘GREEN FRIEND.”

ae did not sleep very long: she was aroused by
Y hearing a “ Croak, croak, croak!” just by her head.
She listened intently—yes, it was certainly the croak of
a frog—and to her young imagination it seemed as if
the frog was in trouble. She wanted to get up and
look, but she was afraid of waking Hardy, and he
would be so angry, especially if it were about a frog,
because he didn’t like frogs. ‘‘Croak, croak, croak!
Croak, croak, croak!” She felt she must get up and see
what was the matter with it; so, very softly and
tenderly she disengaged Hardy’s arm from her neck,
and folding his jacket over him, she began to look about
for the frog. It was a difficult matter to find it, as you
can fancy; for although the night was not dark, still a
frog in the grass at any time is almost as bad as a
needle in a bottle of hay. However, by feeling about
with her hands very carefully, Sunny at last discovered
it; and taking it up in the palm of her hand, she tried to
see what was the matter, for she was certain something |
was wrong with it. She could feel the throbbing of its
body as she held it; but she was sufficiently wise to
know that meant nothing. It felt quite dry and hot,
too, and that she was sure was zof right.
Sunny's “Green Friend.” 31



“Why, poor thing!” she said to herself; “it wants to
be put in some cool, damp place, of course; and that’s
why it has been croaking like that. I wonder where I
can take it; it’s so dark to go wandering about here.
I wonder if Hardy would be very angry if I woke him.”
She’ looked at Hardy's recumbent figure hesitatingly,
and at that very moment, as if Hardy knew what she
meditated, he gave a half-grunt—something between a
grunt and a snore—and Sunny felt she would not dare
wake him. Besides, he was so tired, poor Hardy!

So she turned away, with the frog in her hand, and
walked a few yards towards the river. Then she
thought she had better not put it in the river—it
wanted a marshy, weedy, damp place, but not pure,
running water. Wondering which way to go, she
looked all round her, and was astonished to find that
her fears about the dark were fast disappearing. Why,
it didn't seem so dark after all! thought she. There was
quite a bright sort of green light far away under the
trees. If only she could wake Hardy, they might both
go and see what was the best place for the frog. Half-
unconsciously she went towards the particular spot where
the curious green light was brightest. The trees, too, all
looked very pretty, she thought ; some of the branches
were like silver, while others were like green stones—
like the green stone in mamma’s ring.

_ Oh, how I wish mamma could see this island!” said
Sunny to herself; ‘how she would like all the pretty
flowers, and birds, and trees, and ” Here she
stopped abruptly, for she saw something moving in the
grass—something of a bright green, that looked like an
immense frog. Half-frightened, she stooped to see, and
then burst out laughing—‘ Why, it’s quite a party of


32 A Cruise in the Acorn.



frogs! What a number of them! Oh, if only Hardy
would wake up, I am sure he would like it !”

The frog in her hand began to move its legs about,
and presently it leapt from her fingers on to the ground,
and then prepared to follow its fellow-frogs, who were
moving very slowly forward. Slowly as they moved,
however, they went in perfect order, dragging their little
bodies on for regular periods by their forelegs, and then
all leaping together. Every frog seemed able to
measure the distance of its jump, and to make some
kind of calculation, for none of them came to the
ground a second behind or before time, or the quarter
of an inch out of place.

Sunny stood looking in astonishment.

“What funny frogs!” she exclaimed. ‘‘ Where can
they be going? I shall follow them and see. Hardy
would be interested even in frogs, I’m sure, if he could
see them. However, it’s of no use waking him, so I
shall see where they are going. After all, it will be
great fun telling him to-morrow.”

She walked on behind the little army of frogs, an
soon found that they did not move so slowly, for some-
times she could hardly keep up with them. The green
light under the trees grew brighter and brighter, and
now and then the leaves seemed almost on fire, so
brilliantly green were they, with a sort of white or silver
mist like smoke arising round them. Presently, she
came upon a clear space of grass where the frogs
stopped. She could see them quite well, for it was like
daylight when one looks through a piece of green glass.
I wonder she was not frightened at such a strange sight;
but she wasn’t, and stood beside a tree, laughing
heartily at the frogs’ movements, and stopping her ears
Sunny's “ Green Friend.” 33



when they all croaked together. In a few seconds—you
will hardly believe it, but I refer you to Sunny—they
began to dance; yes, todance! Then there was such
an uproar of croaking, such a confusion of leaping; it
was the funniest thing imaginable to see them capering
about on their hind legs, their heads thrown back, and
their bodies panting and throbbing as if they had no
breath.

‘Now, I certainly wz wake Hardy,” thought
Sunny; “if he’s cross at first, he won't be afterwards.
I shall run back and fetch him quick.” So, with a part-
ing glance at the frogs, who were evidently not going to
give up their festivities yet awhile, she ran off to fetch
Hardy.

fe eeericd to her that she went a long way; she
didn’t think she had walked so far; she never remem-
bered to have seen, either, all those stumps of trees with
their intertwined roots bursting out of the ground.
Surely she hadn’t lost herself. Oh, no! it was all right!
Not far off she saw their flag—Hardy’s handkerchief—
floating about. She ran up to it. There was the place,
right enough ; there were the tree, and the basket, and
the holes in the earth that Hardy had scooped out;
but—where was Hardy !

She looked under ever so many trees, thinking that
perhaps Hardy had moved, or that she had made a
mistake ; but he was not to be seen anywhere.

“He'll come back here to look after me, though, I’m
sure,” said Sunny, hardly knowing whether to cry or
not, and forgetting all about the frogs. ‘Oh, I wish I
had never got up and left him. I suppose he woke, and
when he found I was not there he went to look for me.
I shall wait here, at all events, till he comes back.”


34 A Cruise in the Acorn.





She sat still a very long time, looking keenly about
her in every direction, but Hardy never came.

Sunny was in great distress, as you may imagine, as
the time passed on, and still no Hardy appeared.

‘“Where can he have gone?” thought she. ‘‘He
can’t have gone home, because there’s no boat; besides,
he would never have left me all alone like this. No, I
suppose he has been walking about the island looking
for me, and he'll be here presently.”

She waited again for another very long space of time,
and she was certain that she herself could have gone
round the island twice in the interval. At last she made
up her mind that she would go and look for him. She
was a brave little girl, as you know, and she did not
cry or get frightened at being alone in this strange
place—as many of her young friends would have done—
but trotted cheerfully on, peeping into every nook and
corner for truant Hardy. Suddenly, a bright idea
struck her.

‘Why, he’s found the frogs, of course, and is
watching them dancing, and I daresay he’s forgotten all
about me.”

She skipped on gaily in the direction of the frogs’
party, as far as she could judge of the direction. She
could still see a green light shining under the trees, but
the light was more equally spread and less vivid in
certain places ; and, of course, this made it more difficult
for her to find the precise spot on which the festivities
had been celebrated. She went from one side to the other,
from tree to tree, from grass mound to grass mound,
but could not discover any trace of the frogs’ ball.
Sunny was fairly puzzled now, for she could not find

Hardy, and could not even find the frogs. “I don't
Sunny s “Green Friend.” 35

like this island,’ she said to herself, as she roamed
about, straining her eyes to see if Hardy were not to be
perceived far away in the distance—‘‘I don’t like this
island, after all. It seemed so pretty and cheerful, and
so small, at first, as if one could run about all over
it ever so often; and since we've been here we've
done nothing but lose our things, and now we've lost
each other. Oh, how I wish the morning would come,
so that old Rowly might arrive, with the boat, to take us
away! though I couldn't go without Hardy—I forgot
that—and I can’t find Hardy anywhere.” Here poor
Sunny sank on toa knoll of grass, and was just begin-
ning to soothe her sorrow by a few tears, when a little
voice close beside her seemed to say—

“Don’t cry, Sunny!”

She turned round in much astonishment. There
was no one to be seen! Not a sound stirred the air.
Not an indication of any living thing on the island, save
herself, was perceptible. Too unhappy to be frightened,
she thought it was her fancy that had conjured up the
voice, and resumed her downcast attitude on the grass
knoll, clasping her hands over her face, and resting her
elbows on her knees.

‘Don’t cry, Sunny!” she heard again.

“‘ How silly Iam,” she whispered to herself. ‘‘ How
Hardy would scold me if he thought I was so babyish.”
Then the remembrance of Hardy, conjured up by these
reflections, overcame her entirely, and she burst into a
passion of tears—real tears of sorrow this time.

“Don’t cry, Sunny; don’t cry, little Sunny!”

Sunny raised her head and looked about her, her
eyes shaded by tears and her lips still quivering; but
she could see nothing.




36 A Cruise in the Acorn.



‘What can it be?” thought she. “I certainly heard
the words as plainly as possible. How can any one
know my name? Perhaps it’s Hardy disguising his
voice and trying to frighten me; that would be just like
him. I'll walk about and see if I can find him.”

Quite invigorated by this idea, Sunny started to her
feet and pattered away as cheerfully as could be. Once
she saw at a little distance from her a figure of about
Hardy’s size moving quickly in the shade of the trees.
She was so pleased, and began to run, in order to reach
her tiresome brother, who “must be delighted to have
this opportunity of teasing me,” thought she. She ran
a long way; she groped about among trees and bushes ;
she stumbled over stones, and no Hardy came forward
to reward her trouble by success. At last she found
herself once more at the river side, and, after sitting
down on a block of stone to rest her active little frame,
_ she perceived that the dawn of day was at hand. There
were faint, strange hues in the distant sky that were
reflected in the calm waters of the river; and the trees,
and flowers, and grass around her seemed to have
gained brighter tints from the first glimmer of light.
Everything looked so fresh, so happy, so gay, that
Sunny’s spirits rose immediately, and she felt convinced
that all would come right presently: Hardy would pop
upon her suddenly, old Rowly would appear with his
funny ricketty boat, and they would go off home to make
a good breakfast, and be well scolded and petted at the
same time by the kind housekeeper.

‘Do you like this place, little Sunny ?”

The child started, for it was the voice that she had
heard in the midst of the trees, and had taken to be
Hardy’s voice. She turned to see if it really were


PUIG eh CURT W LAY



eee eT YN SO Seer meee Pe ey







*” ' a | he


|

For NONE SHALL exalt thee as |!
Ah, none whom thy spells may control
Shall deck thee in hues from the sky,
And breathe in thy statue his soul_

None build from the slories of song
The brighter existence above_
The realm which to poets belong _



The throne they bestow where they love.

Let earth its chill colours regain,
The moonlight depart from thy sea;
Explore through creation in vain
The fairy-land vanish’d with me.
AULWER












Sunny's “ Green Friend.” 39



Hardy who was trying to frighten her, and then she
started still more violently, for she saw beside her a
curious little figure dressed in a peculiar dark bottle-
green, wearing a very odd-shaped hat, such as Sunny
had never before seen. The oddest thing about him,
however, was that he had wings—glimmering, trans-
parent wings—such as Sunny had seen in pantomines
once or twice on those rare occasions when her father
- and mother had taken her to London. There was no
possibility of mistaking this queer person for Hardy;
anyone less like her brother, Sunny did not remember
to have seen. His face was very dark, almost like a red
Indian, thought Sunny; his eyes were large, and black,
and glittering; and altogether he was so strange-looking
a little fellow that most children would have been much
- more frightened at him than Sunny was. His voice
was the pleasantest thing about him, for. it was low and
soft; and he spoke with a measured, foreign intonation,
totally different to Hardy’s loud treble.

‘What is the matter, Sunny?” he asked again.
‘“Why don’t you answer me? Perhaps I can help you
if you are in trouble. But if you don’t tell me why you
are crying, how can I do anything for you?”

“Oh, I wish I could find Hardy!” sobbed Sunny,
now fairly frightened at the strange person’s persistence ;
“it’s very unkind of him to leave me all alone like this.
I suppose he’s hiding somewhere, or perhaps he is
looking for me, and is angry because he thinks I’m
playing with him. I hope he won't catch cold, that’s
all: he was so hot this afternoon, and papa always
says that it’s very bad to get cold afterwards. And
Hardy has such bad coughs too, and I thought I heard -
him coughing to-night just before we went to sleep; and




40 A Cruise in the Acorn.



then—and then—if he has another cough he might die,
and I should never see him any more! Oh, what shall
I do! what shall I do!”

Sunny’s eyes were so dimmed with tears that she
never noticed how strange her green friend, as she
always called him, looked while she was deploring
Hardy; but, overcome with grief, not unmixed with
fear, if the truth be told, the poor child threw herself on
the ground, as if the kindly earth were the best resting-
place in her trouble. And I will not undertake to say
that Sunny’s instinct was wrong.

Her green friend did not allow her to meditate on
the comfort afforded by the damp ground, however.

‘Come, my child, get up directly,” he said, ‘“‘or you
will be ill, and then you won't be able to find Hardy,
you know.”

Sunny started to her feet obediently, and wiped her
eyes. She glanced timidly at the curious figure beside
her, and at last ventured upon asking—

‘How did you know my name, sir, and Hardy's
name too ?”

He laughed, answering, “Oh, that I shall not tell
you. I know everybody’s name; yours is written on
your forehead, here, among your curls.” Sunny looked
so frightened at this astounding answer to a very
commonplace question, that he laughed again, and
said—" I’m sure you want to ask me something more;
don't you ?”

“Yes, please,” Sunny replied; “I want to ask you
your name, if you will tell me.”

‘““My name is Imp!”

‘“What is that for?” said Sunny. ‘ What a funny.
name! isn’t it?” and, for the first time since she had
Sunny's “Green Friend.” 4I



discovered Hardy’s disappearance, she burst into a
merry laugh.

‘““And now, I suppose you want to know why I am
~ named Imp?”

“Why, yes, of course I do,” said Sunny, still
laughing.

“Because my parents saw that I was always in
mischief,” replied Imp, very gravely, yet with a curious
twinkle in his eye.

“What a strange name!” murmured Sunny, who
had by this time completely recovered her usual fear-
lessness. ‘“‘ What does it mean, really ?”

“T have already told you,” he said. ‘It means that’
I was always in mischief. Have you never heard of an
‘imp of mischief, Sunny? Don’t you know what mis-
chief means ?”

“Oh yes!” she answered. ‘Hardy is an imp too,
then, for he is always getting into mischief, old Rowly
says ; and papa says so too, sometimes.”

After this, a very long silence ensued. Sunny ran
about picking flowers here and there, glancing furtively
at Imp, looking on every side for her brother, and
wondering, also, when the real daylight was coming.

Suddenly her strange companion said—

“Sunny, you like me well enough to obey me; don’t

ou?”

The child looked up in his dark face uneasily, and
could find nothing more satisfactory to say than that she
didn’t know; at which Imp laughed.

‘What do you want me to do?” she added.

“T want you,” said Imp—and, as he spoke, the
whole place seemed growing darker, and involuntarily
Sunny clung to the hand he stretched to her—‘“I want









42 A Cruise in the Acorn.

you to come with me now and live in my palace, and be
my little daughter. I will be so kind to you, Sunny
dear, if you will.”

‘But I can’t, and I won’t!” cried Sunny. ‘ You are
not my papa; you know you are not; and what would
my own dear papa say to me if ever he knewit? I don't
like you at all; and directly I get home I'll tell papa all
you said, and he'll be very angry with you for frighten-
ing me, and will have you shut up. Why don’t you try
and find Hardy if you want to go home and don’t like
to leave me alone?” Sunny was beyond crying now;
she was so indignant with Imp for having proposed that .
she should leave her pretty home, and, above every-
thing, her father and mother and Hardy, and to be zs
litttle daughter, that she never thought of such things as
tears. Her face became crimson with anger as she
meditated on the grievous insult offered her. At last,
finding that Imp made no attempt to answer, she turned
to see if he might not have disappeared, and to her
horror she perceived that the darkness had become
intense. She could not distinguish the outline of the
trees; she could not prevent herself knocking her arms
and outstretched hands against their solid trunks; she
put her little feet into pool after pool of dank, reedy
water; she trod on huge stones that cut her, and on
nettles that stung her and pricked her; at one moment
she felt an icy wind that made her shiver with cold; at
another, it seemed to her that she had never yet known
the true meaning of the word heat. Poor Sunny! How
many children would have been as brave as she was, I
wonder ?

“Well, Sunny dear, how do you like this island
now ?” asked Imp, who was still close beside her.






Sunny s “Green Friend.” 43

“T don't like it at all, I tell you,” answered Sunny,
vehemently, ‘ever since I lost Hardy. I shouldn't

- mind a bit if he were here, for he would take care of me,

and I’m sure 4e wouldn't be frightened at anything you
did. He doesn’t mind the dark, or the cold, or the heat,
or the water, or the rain, or the frogs”—here Sunny’s
sense of truth induced her to make a reservation—‘ that
is to say, he doesn’t quite like frogs, of course, but he’s
very fond of toads; and,” she continued, rather incon-
sistently, I must own, “I know he wouldn’t be frightened
at anything you said. Besides, he is so much bigger than

~ you are, that, if he didn’t like you, and if you were unkind

to me, I’m sure he would fight you if I asked him.”

“T am very much obliged to you, Sunny, for your
kind intentions,” said Imp, chuckling as he thought of
the tricks he would play when once the children were
fairly in his clutches; “but, you know, I’m afraid your
brother isn’t very valiant if he would only fight me
because he is so much bigger than I am.”

“How dare you say such things about Hardy!”
Sunny almost shrieked in her excitement and renewed
indignation; and, being very much exhausted, she sud-
denly fell into a violent fit of crying.

“My dear child, / didn’t say anything about your
brother,” said Imp; “you said yourself that he was so
much bigger than I, that ,

Here he was interrupted, for he felt Sunny’s little
hands clutching his arm, and he heard her murmuring,
as if at her last gasp—

“Do, please, take me home. I will be so good if
you do. Ill do everything you ask me, and I'll be so
obedient. I’m sure my papa will give you all the money
he’s got if you'll only take me back.”






44 A Cruise in the Acorn.



A new idea struck Imp at this juncture, and he said
in his very softest voice—

‘“Come, Sunny dear, you mustn’t cry any more, or
you won't be able to see your papa when you get home.
Come, look up; there’s a good girl; and tell me you've
forgiven me for teasing you.”

Sunny raised her head and opened her eyes. She
could hardly believe her senses. She rubbed her eyes
again and again; she pinched her arms until there were
great violet marks on them; she stared about her so
wildly, that Imp thought for a moment she was really -
mad; and, finally, she turned to him with a brilliant
smile on her pale face, as if to ask him what it all
meant.

She may well have been astonished !

The sun had risen in all its magnificence, bedewing,
it seemed to her, every blade of grass in its golden
splendour. The leaves of the trees were radiant; the
distant streams of water were flowing like molten gold;
the ground at her feet appeared one vast sheet of gold;
in short, far away, far as eye could see, there was nothing
but the same golden hue shed by the glorious morning
sun.
“There, you see!” said Imp, smilingly; ‘I am not
so very bad as you thought, am I ?”

“T didn’t know you were only joking,” answered
poor Sunny. ‘How should I? And then, when it was
so dark, I thought perhaps you were a fairy, or a demon,
or an elf, or something, and wanted to turn me into a
stone, you know, or a frog—like the fairies do in my
books. I am so glad that the day-time has come at last.
I’m very much obliged to you for taking care of me all
night.” There was a peculiarity in Imp’s smile just then


Sunny's “ Green Friend.” 45







that induced her to add, with an uneasy glance at his
curious face, ‘‘ You are not angry, I hope, are you, because
I said I couldn’t be your little daughter? You know, I
was papa’s little daughter, oh, ever so long ago! and he’s
always so kind to me and so fond of me; but I'll be
very grateful and obedient to you, if you'll take care of
me until I can get home again.” |
She gulped down her tears bravely, and determined
to do her best, so that Imp might not be angry once

more, and refuse to help her to her own dear home.
Imp took her passive hand, and led her swiftly on
. in the sunlight. She did not know how or why it was,
but she did not feel at all tired; she did not stumble,
her feet did not ache, and yet she had been walking about
the island the whole night through. It seemed to her
as if she were hardly touching the ground, so lightly did
she step. What did it mean? said she to herself.
Presently, she stooped to pick a gleaming flower
-that lay across the narrow path they were following, and,
as she did so, she noticed for the first time that her feet
were encased in white shoes! Hardly believing her
eyesight, she glanced at her frock, which was also white

as the driven snow!
‘Don't you like your new dress ?” asked Imp, seeing
her look of utter amazement. ae
‘Oh yes, I like it,” she said, slowly; ‘ but who gave
it.me? where did it come from? I am sure I hadn't got
this one on when we came out in the boat, because
Hardy doesn’t like white frocks; he always says they
look babyish. I don’t think I could have had such a
frock either; I don’t remember mamma buying it.
Why!” she cried, as she looked down at her new
splendour—‘“ why, it’s not a// white, after all, is it >”






46 A Crutse in the Acorn.



“What is the matter with it, then?” said Imp, who
seemed very much amused at Sunny’s excitement. “ It’s
only got a green border to it. I think it looks very
pretty indeed; don’t you?”

“Yes,” answered Sunny, “it’s very pretty indeed,
Imp; but whose frock is it ?”

‘Now, how should / know?” said Imp. ‘“ You have
had that same frock on ever since I first saw you. I
didn’t give it to you, did 1?”

Sunny considered this reply for a few seconds, and
ou asked suddenly, with the instinctive logic of a
child—

‘But why did you, then, call it my new frock 2”

Imp was not to be beaten, however; he answered
promptly, with a curious chuckle, that did not sound to
Sunny at all like a genuine laugh—

“Well, I guessed it was a new frock, because if it
had not been new you would have remembered it, and
you would also have remembered the green border on it.”

Sunny did not feel at all satisfied, but she wisely
abstained from asking further questions on the subject,
yet awhile, at all events.

The novelty and marvellous beauty of everything
around soon led her to forget Imp’s failings, and she
found herself prattling away to him presently, as freely
as if she had been talking to Hardy. She told him all
_ about her papa and mamma, and old Rowly, and the
housekeeper ; in fact, she related to her green friend so
many things, that at last she could not remember what
she had told him and what she had not. However, he
didn’t seem to hear Sunny’s chatter; or if he did, he
never noticed when she stopped.

They were walking, or rather flying, along at a
Sunny's “Green Friend.” 47



remarkable rate now; and although Sunny fancied she
‘never went so fast in her life before, she did not feel
a bit tired. Imp held her hand, and led her, or rather
dragged her, so swiftly, that she wondered he was not
tired even if she were not. The sunlight, too, seemed
rowing so strong that it hurt her, poor child! and had
her long eyelashes not shaded her eyes, I am afraid Imp
might have been answerable for much pain.

As Imp’s pace was rapidly becoming beyond Sunny’s
powers, as his hold upon her slender wrist was now more
like the iron grip of one of the ancient instruments of
torture of which she had read, and as the fierce sunlight
was, or seemed to be, really burning her unprotected
head, she thought the moment had come for remonstrance.
Gathering her courage together, she said at last—

‘Please, Imp, would you mind walking only a very
little bit slower? I am not tired, you know, but the sun
is so hot, and it hurts my head.”

‘““Why does the sun hurt your head, Sunny dear >?”
said Imp.

“T don’t know,” answered Sunny; “I suppose
because I haven’t got my hat on.”

“Why, yes, you have!” said Imp.

Sunny, in utter surprise, put her hand to her head,
and found that there was, in truth, something there,
but she could not tell exactly what.

“ How funny that is!” said Sunny, laughing heartily.
“How could it have got there? It’s fixed on so tightly,
too.”

She tried to pull it off; but the more she tried, the
firmer it became.

‘“T should think you had better leave your hat
alone,” said Imp, still holding her hand, and leading her


48 A Crutse in the Acorn.



on. ‘What is the use of pulling at it like that? You
will never get it off unless I choose.”

“T don’t want to take it off,’ answered Sunny,
meekly, ‘only it seems so funny, doesn’t it?” and here
she could not help another burst of laughter.

Presently, seeing, as she glanced at Imp, that he was
smiling, she ventured to say—

“Would you mind telling me, please, Imp, what sort
of hat it is on my head ?”

Imp did not answer, and Sunny waited for a few
seconds, not daring to address him yet, nor even to look
at hirn. At last she said again—poor child!—as Imp’s
pace increased moment by moment—

‘“‘Oh, please, don’t walk so fast, Imp; it hurts me
so; indeed it does. Do let me rest a bit, and then I'll
run as fast as you like. And why do you hold my wrist
so tight ? why do you want to hurt me? I haven't done
anything to you, have I?”

Imp never answered, but dragged her on by the
wrist, until Sunny thought’she must be going mad, or
dreaming, or dying. ,

At last, Imp stopped suddenly.

Sunny was so startled, that she opened her eyes wide
to look at him; and as she did so, he said, with the
unearthly, curious chuckle she had noticed before—

‘“Do you remember what I asked you a little time
ago, Sunny? Do you remember that I wanted to take
you to my palace to be my little daughter, Sunny? Do
you remember; eh?” Imp’s voice was insinuatingly
soft for the moment, and his eyes looked quite kind and
gentle, thought Sunny; still, she was faithful to her
‘own dear papa,” and answered—

“Yes, I remember; but you said afterwards you


Sunny's “Green Friend.” 49

were only teasing me. Oh, I wish Hardy would
come |”

‘““Answer me once for all, Sunny,” cried Imp,
‘‘Answer me immediately. You shall have everything
you can possibly desire, Sunny dear; you shall have the
finest of fine dresses, you shall have servants to wait
upon you, magnificent flowers to perfume the air you
breathe, jewels of rare value to adorn you; the daintiest
dishes, the costliest viands, the most delicate fruits shall
be yours, dear Sunny, if you will only say yes—if you will
promise to obey me, and to be my little daughter, and
forget all your past life. You would soon grow to like
me as well as you now like your own papa; don’t you
think you would ?” )

Imp looked very unlikeable, certainly, at that moment.
His eyes had an excessively unpaternal gleam in them;
and as for giving poor Sunny all the advantages which
he had just promised, his manner, to my mind, would
have indicated nothing better than a “cup of cold
poison” if she refused to obey him—or, at best, slow
starvation |

Sunny was about to answer him, when he put his
dark, wicked face close to hers, saying with a smile—

“Won't you be my little Sunny ?”

This frightened her so terribly that she ran away
from him as fast as her feet would carry her, without
looking back at him, without glancing to the right or to
the left or even in front of her, to see where she was
going—only running away from him, the brilliant sun-
light in her face and on her head—shrieking at the top
of her childish voice—

“Hardy! Hardy! Hardy!”







CHAP. III.—ROWLY TO THE RESCUE.

i i SAY, Sunny! Sunny! here, wake up! what zs the

{ matter with you, Sunny? Why don’t you wake up
and be quiet!” Sunny started to her feet, and stared
about her so wildly, that Hardy was alarmed for a
moment.

‘“Why don’t you sit down and be sensible, Sunny?”
he said, crossly, “ instead of looking as if you were going
mad, and frightening a fellow out of his senses almost.
What’s the matter with you? You've been crying and
screaming and plunging about in the most awful
manner.”

Sunny couldn’t tell him, however, yet a while; for
directly she saw Hardy’s familiar face, she threw her
arms round his neck, and hugged and kissed him until
the fear of his displeasure restrained her. Then she
settled herself comfortably against the trunk of the tree,
and indulged in a capacious flood of tears.

At first Hardy whistled; then he threw stones into
the water, until he nearly overbalanced himself; then he
looked at his watch, glancing furtively every now and
then at Sunny to see if she had finished crying; and
finally, he cried out to her, as if she were about five
miles from him—


Rowly to the Rescue. 51

‘‘Come now, Sunny, stop that—do; and tell a fellow
what’s the matter with you. What’s the use of crying,
I should like to know ?”

But Sunny couldn’t answer him yet; that was very
evident; so he shrugged his shoulders, and fell to
whistling again. Presently he heard Sunny calling him,
in a smothered voice, broken by convulsive sobs—

“‘ Hardy | won’t you—come and sit beside me—and—
I'll try to tell you what’s the reason—why I’ve been—
crying.”

“Of course, Pll come,” grumbled Hardy; “but if
you're Now, I tell you what it is, Sunny; if you
don’t stop it, you know I shall be off somewhere or
other. I never saw anything like you. You go to sleep
right enough, and then directly you’re asleep, you begin
plunging and kicking about, and screaming and shouting
and yelling in my ears, and hugging me as hard.as you
can; and then when you ao wake, you nearly choke me
first of all, and then you sit down and cry as if you were
about two months old. Sunny, indeed! you're fine and
sunny, you are. I’m sure, if papa and mamma could see
you now, they would call you Rainy instead of Sunny.”

I expect Hardy felt exhausted after he had elaborated
this wonderful joke, or perhaps he was really as tired as
he appeared to be; anyway, he threw himself at full
length on the bank, and, having collected a whole pocket-
ful of stones, proceeded to despatch them one after the
other, as fast as he could, into the river; after which
mental refreshment he once more resorted to whistling.

Children’s tears seldom last long, however; and
Sunny was only crying from the delight of finding
Hardy. She hardly knew how she had come upon him.
Still there he was, unmistakable, in his way, and that


52 A Crutse in the Acorn.



was quite enough satisfaction for -his sister. So after a
few moment’s crying, Sunny dried her eyes and called to
him again.

Hardy turned his head towards her, and, seeing she
was no longer in tears, said—

‘If you've finished, why don’t you come over here;
eh, Sunny? and then, when you're going to begin that
game again, you can go back to the tree. I hate to see
girls crying, all the time.”

“I am very sorry, Hardy,” said Sunny, forgetting her
own trouble in her penitence at having vexed Hardy;
‘IT didn’t meant to prevent you sleeping, but—but I was
so pleased to see you this morning that I couldn’t help
it, you know; so don’t be cross; will you, Hardy?”

Hardy muttered that she had seen him every morning
for more than nine years, and he didn’t see why she
should cry on this particular occasion. However, of
course, she could do as she chose; girls usually did.

Sunny went up to him and sat down beside him, and
I don’t think any very bitter words passed between
them; for Hardy was excessively fond of his sister,
although, boylike, he did his best to disguise the fact.

Sunny was just wondering how she should tell Hardy
about Imp, when Hardy said—

‘“‘T say, Sunny, without nonsense, though, how shall
we get home ?”

“Get home!” repeated Sunny after him. ‘Oh yes,
I know; I had forgotten.”

“ Forgotten what ?” said Hardy—“ forgotten that you
had got a home, or that you had got to get back to it, or
that you left it, or what ?”

“I had forgotten, though,” laughed Sunny, ‘‘ whether
you believe it or not; I had forgotten all about the


Rowly to the Rescue. 53



Acorn, and the island, and the sail, and our coming
here, and our losing it, and everything.”

“Well, it’s all very well laughing,” said Hardy,
laughing too, in spite of himself; “but to tell you the
truth, I don’t know how we shall get home, unless
Rowly brings a boat to fetch us. I wonder whether he
will think of it. And I’m awfully hungry, and of course
you are too; aren't you?” he added, ruefully.

‘““No, I am not very hungry,” Sunny replied—which
was true, poor child!—‘‘ but you must be. I wonder
where the housekeeper’s basket is. Shall I try and find
it for you? We left something in it, didn’t we?”

‘“Why, of course we did,” shouted Hardy, jumping
up and clapping his hands. “TI forgot all.about that;
wasn’t it stupid of me? Never mind, we'll have a rare
good breakfast, won't we? and after that we'll find
some way of getting home. I daresay you too won’t be
sorry to have something to eat; now will you, Sunny?
You look awfully tired, and if you go on looking like ~
that, I expect they will blame me for not taking better
care of you. However, I suppose you can’t help it.
Anyway, I wish you'd find the basket—will you, Sunny? |
—while I see if I can get some water fit to drink.”

It was a severe trial to Sunny to turn her eyes towards
that fearful forest where she had met Imp, even in the
broad light of a summer sun; still, she felt ashamed of
her fears, and went bravely towards the tree, found the
basket, and brought it back to the river-bank. As she
stopped to see what might be left inside it, she heard
Hardy shouting to her—‘‘ Sunny, Sunny! do you know
what I’ve found ?”

‘What is it? do tell me. Not the 4corn, Hardy?”

‘Not exactly,” he answered, with a laugh; “ but isn’t






54 A Cruise in the Acorn.





this pretty ? look !”—and he held out to her what seemed
a tiny blue egg—“ and if we could only find the nest, you
know, we might take it home, mightn’t we? Wouldn't
long strings of them be pretty to hang on the wall, you
know, like they do festoons of flowers! I wonder if
they are nice to eat!”

“What! raw eggs, Hardy!” cried Sunny, with an
expression of such horror on her face, that her brother
burst out laughing, and exclaimed—

“Well, yox wouldn't do for a desert island, if you
can’t eat raw eggs. If they’re good when they’re cooked,
why shouldn't they be good when they’re raw; eh,
Sunny ?”

‘““Yes, by-the-bye, I had forgotten that,” said Sunny,
thoughtfully.

“You always do forget,” remarked Hardy, as he
opened the basket, and took out the contents, on which
they were not likely to starve—just yet, at all events.

“Well, Hardy,” his sister said, “1 didn’t forget the
basket, now, did I, when you were hungry ?”

‘““No more you did, though,” said Hardy. J forgot
that myself, didn’t I? Never mind, Sunny, let’s begin
breakfast, shall we? and directly we're finished, we'll
find some birds’ nests, and take them home with us.
Why! there’s quite a jolly breakfast here, isn’t there ?”

“What did you say?” asked Sunny; “I couldn't
understand.”

Hardy shook his head vehemently, and got very red
in the face, but he could not do more; his mouth—a
tolerably capacious one—being crammed with bread and
meat; and when Sunny perceived his predicament, she
forbore questioning him further. Once her spirit of fun
led her to ask him if she should thump him on the
Rowly to the Rescue. 55



back, as she had seen nurses do to children sometimes,
in order to prevent their choking; but this innocent
suggestion met with such a decided repulse, in the form
of a violent fit of coughing, brought on by what is
known as “food going down the wrong way,” that
Sunny was quite frightened, and did not venture on
another observation for some time.

They managed to eat very fair breakfasts, however ;
for which, in their hearts, they duly thanked the thought-
fulness of the old housekeeper. And well they might;
for doubtless, if they had not had such wholesome food,
and so much of it, the previous day and on this particular
morning, they would not have been so well able to sup-
port the hardships, slight as they may seem, of their
adventure.

When Hardy had eaten as much as he could possibly
eat, and when Sunny, too, had eaten much more than
she would have been able to eat had she been at home,
Hardy suggested that they should wait for a few
moments before opening the bird-nesting expedition,
on which he had been so anxious.

“What time is it, 1 wonder?” said Sunny, suddenly.
“ Haven't you got your watch, Hardy?”

“Yes, of course, I have. But I never wound it up
last night, and I expect it’s stopped by this time.” He
took it from his waistcoat pocket, however, and put it
to his ear, and stared at it, and put it to his ear again;
and, after keeping Sunny on tenterhooks for some five
minutes, he informed her that it was seven o'clock, or
“thereabouts.”

“What! seven o'clock in the morning!” exclaimed
Sunny.

‘Does it look like seven o'clock in the evening >?”


56 A Crutse in the Acorn.



asked Hardy, derisively. ‘Upon my word, Sunny, I
never did see any one like you. Don’t you think it’s
light enough, or do you think the sun has made a
mistake and got out of bed the wrong time; eh? Come,
now, what do you think >?”

‘“How can you be so silly,” said Sunny, laughing
good-humouredly at Hardy’s banter. ‘I was surprised,
though, to find it was so late; but I knew the sun didn’t
get up in the evening, of course. When are we going
to get those blue eggs, Hardy? I should like to make |
a necklace of them for mamma; wouldn’t you, Hardy?
or you might make a kind of watch-chain for papa;
couldn’t you? Don’t you think you might? don’t you
think he'd like it 2”

While Hardy was doing his best to rise from his
reclining position, after his heavy breakfast of bread and
meat and seed-cake and cherries, Sunny startled him by
exclaiming—

‘“Who’s to look out for old Rowly, if we doth go

bird-nesting, Hardy ?”
“But Rowly won’t come yet, you know,” Hardy
answered. ‘Why, just think what a long time it took
us to get as far as this, didn’t it. Then poor old Rowly
can’t row very fast, and. his boat is awfully heavy.
Don’t you remember papa saying it was wonderful that
he managed to get it along at all?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Sunny; “but still, you
know, I’m sure if Rowly knew we were here, he would
get up early, and it would be dreadful if he happened
to pass the island while we were finding the eggs.

‘What can we do, then?” Hardy enquired. ‘‘ How
can we manage to let him know we are here? Where's
our flag?”


Rowly to the Rescue. 57



Before Sunny had time to incur Hardy's displeasure
once more, by her forgetfulness of the * flag” and its
whereabouts, that young gentleman’s keen eyes had
discovered it, and his quick fingers had uprooted the
stick to which it was fixed, and he was waving it about
delightedly, while Sunny had hardly realised what it all
meant.

“‘T wonder if old: Rowly will come, though,” hazarded

Sunny.
‘Well, I should hope so,” replied the brother ; “ be-
cause if he doesn’t, I don’t see how we shall ever get
home, unless I swim, like what’s-his-name, across the
Hellespont, you know.” The illustration was not sin-
gularly appropriate, nor was it explicit; but Hardy
himself knew what he meant, I suppose.

Sunny was too intently occupied in devising some
scheme that would take them back, to notice Hardy’s
incoherence. ‘I wish I could swim,” she murmured.
‘TY wonder if I could, supposing you tried to teach me;
do you think I ever could ?”

“Of course you could, if you made up your mind
not to be afraid,” rejoined Hardy; “but you girls are
always afraid of everything.” With which summary
dismissal of the matter Hardy turned on his heel, with
the evident intention of going alone on his voyage of
discovery in quest of “‘ blue eggs.’

‘“‘ Aren’t you coming, then,” he said, presently.

“Oh yes, I want to come, dreadfully,” Sunny
answered. ‘I wonder if Rowly eal call us, or whistle, -
or halloo, or something, as he passes by!”

“Of course he will. What a worry you are, Sunny.
You'd better go to sleep again, I should think, until
Rowly does come; then when you wake, you can hug

H
58 A Crutse in the Acorn.



him instead of me. I don’t know how he'd like your
screaming and plunging in the boat, though. I should
think the whole concern would sink, Rowly and all.”

The mere suggestion of Hardy leaving her recalled
to Sunny’s mind the terrible behaviour and threats of
Imp, which she had not yet related; and she ran after
Hardy, crying, ‘‘ Don’t go away; I’m coming with you,
Hardy ; only I can’t run so fast as you can. Won't you
wait for me?”

“All right, then. Only I wish you would come
directly, if you are coming at all.” Hardy held out his
_ hand to help her along, and Sunny again forgot Imp in
chattering and laughing with her brother, who, if more
practical, was certainly much more pleasant than her
green friend.

Now Hardy was by no means so inconsiderate and
careless as he may have seemed; he had noticed his little
sister's pale face and heavy eyes, while she was still
sleeping uneasily in the early morning; and, fearing
that she had been dreaming all kinds of horrible things,
by her evident reluctance to confess how “stupid” she
had been, he was wise enough to ask no questions until
they were both safe at home. Such kindly wisdom is
rare, I must own, among children, and especially among
boys of Hardy’s years; but it exists. I have a young
brother, whose handsome face is dearer to me than could
be that of a sister—because of his womanly tenderness,
and more than manly wisdom—at an age when very
many schoolboys have no thought beyond their marbles
and catapults, and the various actively-unpleasant recre-
ations they patronise.

Hardy, however, was not given to demonstrative
affection, like the good boys in story-books, as you







Rowly to the Rescue. : 59
know. Much as he loved Sunny, I am sure he never
told her anything more satisfactory than that he supposed
she wasn’t worse than other fellows’ sisters; and that
when she grew up, she would, most likely, be as vain
and silly as the rest of them. His papa and mamma
laughed occasionally at his uncomplimentary, not to say
vague allusions; but when they saw how carefully he
looked after Sunny, how anxious he was about the
slightest ailment the child might have, how cross he
was on his return from school when he found she was
not at home, they knew that Sunny had the best friend
a little girl can have—a loving brother.

All this time Hardy was busy searching for eggs;
he had found some half-dozen, which he had given to
Sunny, who was considering how they could be packed
for transport without breakages. At last he cried—

“T say, Sunny, do come and look. Here are five
blue eggs, all in one nest. Just come and see how
pretty they look.”

‘But where are you, Hardy? I can’t see you a bit.”

Hardy put his head out of a mass of green leaves,
a few feet above Sunny’s golden head, and laughed
heartily at Sunny’s discomfiture.

“Oh, Hardy?” said Sunny, disconsolately, “ how can
I see them if they’re up in the tree? I can’t climb up
there, can I? Do you think I could, if you helped me,
Hardy ?”

“ Here! come along!” cried Hardy. (“I wouldn’t
be a girl for something—not to be able to Swim, or play
cricket, or climb trees, or anything. You ought to be
able to climb up here, at all events, as easily as possible;
and if you give me your hand, I’ll pull you up; shall I?
only be quick.”


































60 A Crutse in the Acorn.



Here ensued most extraordinary exertions on the
part of both children, during which Hardy’s face got
crimson (like a lobster, as Sunny afterwards observed in
an incautious moment), and there were ominous cracks
in his clothing, of which, doubtless, the old housekeeper
knew something afterwards; there was a shower of
buttons of all kinds and sizes—some with brass rims, as
it were, some with suspicious shreds of white clinging
about them, some of a shining substance, that reminded
one of shirt. buttons. I don’t pretend to relate how
Hardy arranged himself when he was once more on
terra firma, or how he kept ¢Hem on (I say no more
than that), or how he managed to excuse himself sub-
sequently to the housekeeper; all I can vouch for is,
that he left a perfect plantation of buttons beneath the
tree they climbed. However, he contrived to get Sunny
as far as his point of elevation, after which he found a
notch in the solid trunk of the hospitable tree, and
placing Sunny’s two little feet upon it, bade her keep
still for a moment.

Poor Hardy! He looked so hot and tired; his
jacket was covered with some mossy growth, varied with
dust and stains of various kinds—some of them, I
suspect, closely connected with the cherries of the morn-
ing meal. He didn’t care much about his -personal
appearance, fortunately, as yet, and appeared totally
regardless of the awful aspect he must present.

Sunny didn’t look much better, to tell the truth, than
he did. Her frock was.a mass of holes, and her arms
and hands were almost as red as Hardy's face had been.
She was not a bit more disturbed about it than her
brother, however; and their chief interest seemed with
regard to the five blue eggs.
Sue WARPED the moss to
a form her nest
| And modelled it within
with wool and clay,
And by-and-by like heath-bells.
gilt with dew
There lay her shining eggs
as bright as flowers;
Pink spotted over, shells
of green and blue!
~ And there | witnessed in
the summer hours,
A brood of natures minstrels
chirp and fly_
Glad as the sunshine and
the laughing sky.
CLARE,











Bp P,P ?

ee











Rowly to the Rescue. 63

‘Where are they ?” she whispered, presently, looking
about her as if the’ eggs knew their designs, and might
fly away.

Hardy seemed equally impressed, for he answered
as softly as he could—glancing cautiously around—that
they were in the nest, of course.

‘‘Mayn’t I see them, please ?” said Sunny.

“Yes, of course you shall,” whispered Hardy; “only
you must wait a minute, you know, until I find a nice
place for you to look through. Oh, Sunny! there’s like
a frame, isn’t it, in that branch? Wait a minute; you're
always in such a hurry.” He put his head cautiously
through the ‘‘ frame” in the branches, to see if his sister
would be able to see also. Finding that she would, he
beckoned to her; she thrust her pretty golden head
forward, gently putting the leaves aside, and following
the direction of Hardy’s eyes, saw the blue eggs lying in
the nest.

You have no idea of the sweet picture made by the
children’s fair faces, framed in delicate tints and shades
of green. f

After Sunny was fully satisfied that they were really
eggs, and that Hardy was not joking, she stretched out
her hand, intending to take one.

“Don’t you touch them yet, Sunny,” said Hardy;
“you know we can’t stop up in this tree all day, can we?
and I had better get you safely down, and then bring
the eggs, or else they might get broken.”

Sunny acceded to this very sensible proposition, |
and her brother helped her down to the ground, and
told her to be quiet while he secured the eggs. I can’t
exactly say why both children were so particular as to
the quiet necessary for this collecting of eggs; had the
64 A Cruise in the Acorn.



parent birds been in the neighbourhood of the tree, they
might have considerably disturbed the serenity of the
atmosphere.

Just as Hardy was wondering how he should carry
these treasures without breaking them—whether he
should put them in his mouth, as boys do, when the
eggs are small, or the mouths are large; or merely hold
them in one hand, letting himself swing to the earth by
grasping the end of a branch with the disengaged hand
—Sunny called suddenly to him—

‘Hardy! Hardy! come down quick! I do believe
there’s old Rowly.”

‘‘Oh, nonsense!” was the answer; “ you're always
startling one for nothing. Where’s old Rowly? I can't
see him anywhere, and I don’t believe you can either ;
only, I suppose, you thought you had been quiet long
enough.” Hardy grumbled and muttered to himself as
he swung himself to the ground, and looked very much
out of temper when Sunny asked him if he’d broken
the eggs.

“No,” he replied, crossly; “but it isa’t your fault if
I haven’t. I never heard anyone shout like you do,
Sunny, and always when there’s nothing to shout for.
If you saw old Rowly, I suppose he’s somewhere about
now.

At any other time Sunny would have excused herself
for having been so abrupt, but just at this moment she
was too excited, and merely exclaiming, “I’m sure I
saw him! I’m sure I saw him!” was about to start off
running, when she was suddenly reminded of Imb ‘by
the sight of a frog. Now the remembrance of Imp
recalled the horrors of the previous night, when she had
been in such despair at losing Hardy; so she thought


Rowly to the Rescue. 65



to herself that she had better “make it up” with him,
or he would be “going away again, or something.”
Sunny hardly realised yet that Imp was not lurking
behind some distant tree, waiting for twilight, in order
to tease her anew.

‘“Where did you think you saw Rowly?” asked
Hardy, laying great stress upon the word ¢iink. ‘Was
he flying, or swimming, or riding, or driving, or what ?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Sunny; “but just as you
were coming down, I thought I saw something like a
boat on the river there—over there—and it looked
exactly like old Rowly’s boat ; and that’s why I called so
loud, you know.”

“Yes, it’s all very well calling to me when I’m up
the tree,” said Hardy; ‘‘but why didn’t you call to old

~|. Rowly? that would have been of some use. I say,

Sunny!” he shouted at the top of his voice, and running
as hard as he could at the same time—“ there he is, boat
and all! Here, Rowly! Rowly! Here we are! Don’t
you see?”

I don’t know what would have happened to Hardy, if
Rowly had not seen him at that very moment, and nodded
to him as vigorously as he could. The boy was really
in a condition of heat and excitement that would have
been dangerous had it lasted; for running at full speed
(while shouting with all the force of one’s lungs) is never
agreeable, but is positively most dangerous, in the sun
of even an English summer. And yet, hot and ex-
hausted with running as Hardy was, directly he found
that Rowly saw him, and was coming slowly to their —
rescue, he set up a triumphant dance, compared to
which the celebrated war-dance of the Ojibbeways was
tame and inexpressive. He threw his straw hat in the


66 A Cruise in the Acorn.

air; he threw the five blue eggs in the air, one after the
other, as conjurors do, only with this difference, that,
as a rule, conjurors catch their balls, while Hardy was
reckless as to the fate of the eggs, and saw them fall and
break without compunction; he executed a marvellous
step, that must have been unlike anything ever seen
before or since; he dragged Sunny with him in his wild
career once or twice, but she looked quite frightened,
and broke away from him; and at last he threw himself
at his full length on the ground, and confessed that he
was ‘‘rather tired.” .

Old Rowly had seen him, and was evidently medi-
tating relief; still, to the children’s impatience, it seemed
as if he would never be able to reach the bank. But he
did reach it, though, in due time; and after a great
amount of persuasion, he consented to “have a look at
the place” at some future period.

“What nonsense!” said Hardy, who had by this
time recovered somewhat his usual equable disposition.
‘“Do come now, Rowly; we shall never come here
again, I’m sure; and if we did, it wouldn’t be the same
thing; would it, Sunny 2?”

‘Well, you see, Master Hardy,” the old fellow said,
speculatively, rubbing his chin as he spoke, “it’s taken
me some time to come up here; you see it’s a good way
from my shed; and I’m rather tired.”

Hardy seemed puzzled at this explanation, and
answered—

‘“Well—but—all the more reason for resting, then,
Rowly.”

“The truth is, Master Hardy, I should like to get
back and have a bit of sleep,” said Rowly, who looked,
in truth, exceedingly sleepy.


Rowly to the Rescue. 67



“What a nuisance you are!” began Hardy; when
suddenly an idea dawned upon him, and upon Sunny
also, at the same time, for both the children exclaimed—

“Oh, Rowly! haven’t you been to bed all night ?”

“You see, Miss Sunny, about the going to bed part
of it, I certainly have been to bed, but I couldn’t sleep
much, you know; could 1? Miss Sunny, too, looks very
tired; and the old lady—the old house-lady, I can’t
bring her name to mind—but she said if I found you
out, I’d better bring you both back directly.”

“Oh, Rowly, Rowly! was it Mrs. Trust who came
to you?” whispered Sunny, her eyes wide open with
excitement.

“Why, of course it was, Sunny!” said Hardy, im-
patiently, anxious to hear Rowly’s story, and very angry
with his sister for preventing the recital by her “silly
questions.” ‘ What’s the use of bothering Rowly! Who
could it be but Mrs. Trust!”

“Now, if you'll both of you get into yon boat, and
come along back,” said old Rowly, “I'll tell you all
about it; but ” Here he stopped, for he had been
looking all round more and more surprisingly, and
relieved himself by ejaculating—‘‘ Well, I’m blessed if
ever I heard of such a thing! Why—why—where’s the
Acorn?”

“We've lost it,” grunted Hardy.

“Lost it! Lost the boat! Lost the coru/ new
sail and all! Dear, dear, dear, Master Hardy! how did
you do that ?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Hardy; ‘ask Sunny,
she'll tell you; only if we've got to go back, she may
just as well tell you afterwards, I should think.”

“Come along, then,” said Rowly, good-humouredly,


68 A Cruise in the Acorn.

‘and you can tell me yourself, Master Hardy, when you
aren't quite so cross.”

Sunny glanced timidly at Hardy, fearing that Rowly’s
daring speech would provoke an outburst from that
young gentleman; but Hardy only laughed, and pro-
tested that he was not a bit cross, not a bit; and in
proof of this, directly they were comfortably seated in
Rowly’s boat, and old Rowly himself was lazily directing
it homewards, Hardy related all their misadventures and
hardships, beginning with the loss of the Acorn. He
gave a wonderful description of Sunny awaking from her
troubled sleep, and professed to be much alarmed when
he found that she had fallen asleep again, poor child!
her head on his stalwart shoulder, saying she would turn
the boat over when she woke. But she did not seem
at all inclined to wake, and after a few moments’ joking,
Hardy put his arm round her, and she slept soundly
until they reached the river bank by Rowly’s hut.

In the meantime, however, Hardy having related all
his grievances, insisted on hearing how Rowly had
discovered them, and how he had known of their dis-
appearance: upon which old Rowly told, bit by bit, how
anxious he had been about them—how Mrs. Trust, the
old housekeeper, had come to him somewheres near
eight or nine o’clock in the evening, crying, and looking,
awfully disturbed in her mind; and he had tried to
comfort her, poor thing! by telling her the children
would be sure to be back presently—that no news was
good news—that he was certain no harm could come to
them, etc., etc.; and how, finally, he ‘had, seeing her
distress, promised her to follow the direction in which
he had seen the cov start.

‘‘So I goes to bed much earlier than usual,” con-




Rowly to the Rescue. 69



tinued old Rowly; ‘but as I told you, I couldn't sleep
a wink, so I just gets up again, and started off after you ;
and I found you, you see. So that’s how it happens I’m
so tired, as well as Miss Sunny; I was anxious, too, and
that always tires an old man like me. Howsomever, I’m
afraid poor Mrs. Trust has got a fever by this time.”

‘What time was it, then,” asked Hardy, “when you
left home ?”

“Well, you see, Master Hardy, I don't exactly
know,” he replied meditatively; “it might have been
eleven, and it might have been twelve, but it couldn’t
have been far from one of them. Then I had made up
my mind that I wouldn’t go back until I had found you,
somehow. Why, what would your papa have said to
me, if he’d come back with his good lady, and you and
missy there hadn’t been on the spot like to welcome him ?
Well, well, there’s no use in talking; is there, Master
Hardy? but I’m mighty pleased your folks was not at
home, all the same.”

“So am I, of course, Rowly,” said Hardy, speaking
quite softly, for fear of waking Sunny; ‘‘ and when they
do come back, I shall get them to do I don’t know what -
for you.”

Presently both Hardy and Rovwly heard a great cry
from the bank, and as Hardy turned to see what had
happened, he perceived Mrs. Trust (the old housekeeper,
you know, who had almost offended them only the day
before by foretelling disasters) waving her hands and
her handkerchief, and evidently half beside herself with
excitement. Rowly had no sooner brought his boat to
the usual moorings, than Sunny woke up, and, recog-
nising the familiar faces, as well as the familiar spot,
exclaimed joyfully—
70 A Cruise in the Acorn.





‘“Tsn’t it wonderful, Hardy? why, here we are at
home again! How did Rowly know we were there?
Did you write and tell him, Hardy? Why, there’s Mrs.
Trust, too! Isn't it funny,-Hardy?” Without waiting
for answers to these not very lucid questions, the child
sprang from the boat to the bank, and threw her arms
round Mrs. Trust’s neck, kissing and hugging her, until
she heard Hardy laughing and saying, “ You're in for
it, Mrs. Trust. That’s just the way she went on this
morning when she woke. She'll take to kicking and
screaming and fighting you, if you don’t mind.”

Hardy’s jocularity reminded Sunny of her friend
Imp, and she said to Mrs. Trust, in a solemn voice—

“TI had such a funny thing happen, do you know.
Hardy’s been laughing at me ever since, because he was
fast asleep when it all happened, so he didn’t want to
hear, and i

“Come now, stop it, Sunny,” said her irreverent
brother; “if you’re not hungry, I am, and so is old
Rowly. You've been bothering about that silly dream
of yours for ever so long. If I were you, I should be
ashamed to dream such nonsense.”

Sunny’s amazement at the word “dream ” led her to
cry—

‘““Do you think it was a dream, Hardy, then?, You
didn’t say so before.”

Hardy’s look of contempt was more expressive than
any amount of words; indeed, it was so irresistible,
that the three persons who saw it could not help
laughing.

But at this juncture old Rowly declared that he
couldn’t waste all his day, and that they'd better go
home and tell their dreams, or go to bed, or have their


Rowly to the Rescue. 71



dinners, or do something sensible. Hereupon he turned
into his shed, and pretended to be very busy about his
tools and implements, and finally shut the door with a
bang. Hardy always declares that he slunk out of a
back door, and made the best of his way to a festive
establishment in the neighbourhood, called the Swaz,
where old Rowly was in the habit of putting into
practice a well-known parody, which runs thus :—

“Man wants but little here below,
But wants that little strong!” *



I cannot vouch for the truth of Hardy’s assertion; I can
only testify to the fact that old Rowly left them very
abruptly, and, late in the same evening, was heard
singing on his way home.

You may be assured that the children went to bed
early that night, and slept well; in fact, they slept so
well, that Mrs. Trust was once or twice almost alarmed.
However, they made up for the anxiety she had suffered,
when they did come down, by their chatter and laughter
and gratitude and adventures, and also by their appetites.

She was very much grieved about the 4covu—that
is to say, she said she was; but, as Hardy observed at
the time, her sorrow was expressed in very brisk tones,
and in very cheerful language.

After breakfast, Sunny refreshed herself by telling
about Imp to Hardy, who was very scornful at first, but
gradually became intensely interested in the develop-
ment of the dream, much to Sunny’s delight.

* The original lines, it may be as well to mention, are as follow, and occur in
Goldsmith’s “ Turn, gentle hermit of the dale” :—

“Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.”








A Cruise in the Acorn.



72



When she had finished, and was expecting some
sympathy from him for her sufferings, even if they were
but in dreams, Hardy whistled what his schoolfellows
called ‘‘one of his own compositions ”—that is, a long
rambling tune, having little resemblance to anything
human—walked about the room, opened and shut the
windows, contriving at the same time to tear the delicate
muslin curtains; and, finally, nearly frightening Sunny
out of her wits by ejaculating—

“Tt’s nightmare !”

‘What's nightmare? What do you mean, Hardy?
You frighten me as much as I frightened you, I’m
surest. |
“Well, I wouldn’t be so silly as that,” said Hardy.
“Don’t you know what nightmare is? Can't you
guess ?”

“Ts it anything to do with horses?” ventured Sunny.

‘““Hlorses!” said Hardy; ‘‘it’s my turn to ask you
what you mean. However,” he added, superbly, “I
suppose you’ve read something about a mare—about —
Dick Turpin’s black mare—and you think a nightmare
is the same sort of thing. Shall I tell you what it
means; eh, Sunny?”

‘Oh! do, please,” murmured Sunny.

‘Well, it means that you have eaten too much for
tea and supper,” said her tormentor.

Sunny looked very much mystified, as well she
might, and shook her head despairingly.

‘How provoking you are!” said she, presently,
unable to keep her curiosity in check; ‘do tell me what
- nightmare means.”

_ “It means as I told you,” laughed Hardy; “that you
had eaten too much, and so you had a bad dream.”







Rowly to the Rescue. 73



“Ts that really true?” asked Sunny, evidently very
doubtful as to her brother’s veracity when he was in a
teasing humour.

“Of course it is. What did you suppose was the
reason of your dream about Imp ?”

“ But I didn’t eat very much, I’m sure, Hardy. You
ate much more than I did; didn’t you? yet you didn’t
have a nightmare.”

“ How do you know that I didn’t; come, now,” said
Hardy, suddenly.

“Did you, Hardy! did you!” Sunny almost screamed
in her excitement. ‘ Do tell me your nightmare; won't

ou?”
— “Of course I will,” Hardy answered, ‘when I know
what it is myself.”





[Ha Cone
ENO |
DLE



CHAP. IV.—HARDY’S DREAM.

f° may be imagined, Hardy did not allow Sunny
much time in. which to indulge in any reveries
with regard to her strange dream, even had she been
disposed to do so. He teased her most unmercifully
from morning till night; he called her Imp; he was
never tired of laughing about the frogs’ ball ; and was con-
stantly bringing her enormous envelopes, which he said
were invitations to magnificent parties held on the
island by Sunny’s choicest frogs. But although Sunny
begged and implored him to tell her what his nightmare
had been about, he only laughed at her the more, and
said he should never tell her, so she need not bother
him. She did “bother” him continuously, however,
and Hardy had no peace until he promised most
solemnly that he would tell her “‘some time or other.”
This was vague enough, it is true, but Sunny was
obliged to be content therewith. Both the children
wrote to their papa and mamma, and described their
mishaps ; and their letters caused the utmost amusement,
when the first burst of surprise was over, among their
parents’ friends. Both epistles were singularly character-
istic, as children’s letters usually are; they were so long,
- however, that I cannot attempt to reproduce them.




Flardy’s Dream. 75



Mrs. Trust wrote also to assure mamma that the child-
ren had not caught cold or spoilt their clothes; and
papa wrote a very kind letter to old Rowly, thanking
him for his thoughtfulness and care for the dear
children, and promising to substantiate his gratitude on
his return. So old Rowly was delighted, and brought
the letter to the house for Hardy to read to him. I
believe he afterwards had it framed and hung up in his
boat-shed, if the truth were told.

1 expect the children would have forgotten all about
the island, and Imp, and their dreams, had not they
been daily, and almost hourly, reminded of these facts
by the loss of the corm. For the first few days they
were so busy talking about their adventure—relating
incident after incident to the unfortunate housekeeper,
who soon knew their stories quite as well as they did—
that the disappearance of their much-prized corn was
a trifle in comparison. There was also a lingering hope
in their young minds that by some extraordinary device
or chance their boat would be restored to them; they
could not believe that they should never see the pretty
“craft” again—that they had enjoyed their last cruise in
her! Hope told them the flattering tale that she always
tells to those who will listen. I expect the Acorn
played a very prominent part in Sunny’s dreams about
that time, had she chosen to confess the fact; but she
only betrayed her anxiety by frequent glances at the
river when she went out walking with Hardy or Mrs.
Trust, and by pathetic appeals to old Rowly, every now
and then, respecting the fate of the boat. Old Rowly
‘would shake his head despondingly; look down the
stream, as if the corm might be expected to turn the
corner at any moment; and mumble, half to Sunny and


76 A Cruise in the Acorn.



half to himself—‘‘ Well, you see, Miss Sunny, it’s just
like this, you see—she may come, and she mayn't: I
can’t say, for sure, which she'll do. It’s all along of that
sail. Master Hardy would have it, you know; and I
told him how it would be. But there! it’s no use talk-
ing to him; young folks is so obstinate ;” and he would
add to this encouraging speech, as he hobbled away—
“downright pig-headed, I call ’em !”

But all Rowly’s grumbling would not, could not,
and did not bring back the lost Acorn, as Hardy
philosophically observed when Sunny repeated to
their father these and similar remarks on the part of
the old man.

One morning, as the last days of Hardy’s holiday
were at hand, that young gentleman came bounding
into the so-called nursery, and executing caper after caper
in the very centre of the floor, much to Sunny’s amuse-
ment and amazement, cried— '

“Now, Sunny! come, look alive and flourish your
handkerchief. What do you think has happened ?
Come, now, be quick.”

Poor Sunny could only gasp—“ Acorn ?”

‘No, no, no!” shouted Hardy, laughing and shout-
ing at the same time. ‘Come, guess quick, or I shall
have to tell you!” |

Sunny looked excessively frightened now, for Hardy’s
excitement had reached, what seemed to her, a dangerous
pitch. She was standing by the window watching his
antics, with the fascination that would have attracted her
to the bear-pit in the Zoological Gardens, when suddenly
she heard her father call from the staircase—

“Hardy! Hardy! Hardy! have you lost your senses,
or are you making this noise for a wager?”


Flardy’s Dream. 77



Hardy stopped very abruptly indeed, for a moment,
and then answered—

‘Oh, it’s nothing, papa; I was only giving your
message to Sunny. . I'll be quiet now.”

Sunny stared at him in yet greater astonishment.
She would have doubted the evidence of her own senses
almost, but that she heard her father laughing as he
passed along the corridor to his dressing-room.

“What zs the matter ?” she asked timidly, presently.
“What is papa’s message to me ?”

“Oh, nothing! what a nuisance you are!” was
Hardy’s inexplicable answer, accompanied with a further
burst of laughter. Then, seeing his sister’s dismay, he
rushed out of the room just as violently as he had
come in.

For about ten consecutive moments he was quiet,
leaving Sunny to resume the reading of her story-book
in comparative peace. But the respite was not of long
duration. Very few boys can be quiet for any great
length of time, unless they are devising some specially
diabolical scheme; and Hardy was by no means an
exception to this pleasing rule. He began his second
attack on Sunny’s curiosity by opening and shutting
the nursery door at intervals, poking his head through
the aperture, nodding and winking at Sunny, and then
indulging in apparently unrestrainable mirth in the
corridor. Presently he varied this intelligent amuse-
ment by jerking out stray sentences at Sunny, who
would not pay any attention to him at first, but was
soon induced, by the originality of his proceedings, to
listen to these disjointed remarks, each of which was
emphasised by a bang of the door, and a withdrawal of
Hardy’s head. I cannot attempt to repeat all the




78 A Cruise in the Acorn.



witticisms in which this young gentleman indulged;
the final epigrams, however, to which he treated his
sister, will amuse young readers who have brothers
equally jocular. Having, as I have told you already,
begun operations by opening and shutting doors with
unnecessary violence, and adding to the soothing
character of this proceeding by shouting—‘ Oh yes, I
daresay!” ‘Dont you wish you may get it?” “Hal
ha! you don’t know what it is!” ‘‘ And you don't care,
do you, now?” “All right, I won’t tell you then ;” he
finished up by the following series—‘ Somebody's
coming.” ‘Who do you think it is?” ‘What will
you give me if I tell you?” “Ah, I know all about it,
you see!” ‘What will you say if it’s nothing?” “Girls
never can guess anything.”

“Oh, Hardy!” said Sunny, half-laughing and _half-
crying ; “ what a troublesome :

“T say, Hardy!” cried his father again, from his
dressing-room ; “how many times must I speak to you |
You will alarm the whole neighbourhood if you shout
in that manner. I expect your mother is already in
hysterics. What does he mean by it, Sunny? What
have you been doing? Have you been teasing him?”

Sunny had raised her eyes from her book long ago,
as may be imagined; and she would have done so now
in any case; for her father himself opened the nursery
door, by way of emphasising his reproof.

“Where is Hardy?” he asked.

“T don’t know what is the matter with him, papa
dear,” said Sunny. ‘“ He has been going on dreadfully, |
and he looks so hot and red, and he doesn’t seem to
know a bit what he’s saying. I thought just now,
papa”—here Sunny lowered her voice confidentially


Flardy’s Dream. 79



—‘‘that he might have caught it from Mrs. Trust's
nephew’s dog, don’t you remeber, who always bites
people in the summer-time, and then they die, because
they can’t drink any water, or even look at any one—so
Mrs. Trust said ; and he bit Mrs. Trust once, and she had
to have it burnt out with some acid from the chemist’s,
that hurt very much. I hope Hardy has not been bitten
by the same dog—do you think he has, papa ?—because
Mrs. Trust said she went on just like that.” Here poor
little Sunny was interrupted by fresh shouts of laughter
from Hardy, mingled with cries of—

“Oh, I say, stop it, Sunny—do, there’s a good girl—
or you'll kill me. Why, you see, even papa can’t help
laughing at you!”

Sunny herself, however, seemed on the point of
crying, when she noticed the intense amusement de-
picted on her father’s kind face; and I think there
would have been a few tears for Hardy to wipe from her
bright eyes, had not papa bid Hardy moderate his
transports, in very decided language indeed.

As you already know, Hardy was very fond of his
sister; and directly he saw she was really frightened, as
many wiser people than Sunny would have been, he
promised lis father that he would be quite quiet; and
he furthermore ran on to the stairs in order to whisper—

““T say, papa; you won't say a word, will you, until
he comes ?”

Papa promised. If I had been in Hardy’s place,
however, I should have wondered what that twinkle in
papa’s eyes meant. But Hardy was too excited to
notice any such detail now; and also, boys are never
quick observers of expression or character. He went
back to the nursery, and, with the view of entertaining


80 A Crutse in the Acorn.

Sunny, offered of his own free will to tell her his
nightmare.

Sunny was so enchanted at this suggestion, that she
could hardly keep her impatience within ordinary limits.

“Will you, Hardy ?” she cried, the colour rushing to |
her cheeks, and the light to her eyes. ‘When will you
tell me—to-day?”

“Yes, if you like,” answered Hardy, in an indifferent
manner, as if he had been used to similar attentions and
honours through the whole of a very long career.
“Shall I begin now or after dinner ?”

As a rule, the children dined at one o'clock, when
their father and mother had lunch; but during Hardy’s
holidays they all dined together at five o’clock, so that
Sunny’s strength of mind was sorely tried by this simple
enquiry of Hardy’s. After due consideration of the
question, she said—

“Can't you tell me after lunch, Hardy? I would
much sooner hear it this afternoon.”

Hardy gave his assent to this plan, and the children
were tolerably quiet for the next half-hour—that is, until
the lunch-bell rang. I think mamma may very well
have been excused, if she thought papa and both the
children were very queer in their behaviour ; all the three
of them were laughing, and each at something different.
Mamma looked distracted once or twice, for she could
not see the force of the allusions that amused them so
much. For instance, when she asked Hardy to get her
some special dainty from the cupboard, that young
gentleman was seized with such a violent fit of laughing
and choking combined, that Sunny had to fetch the
dainty, while his mother untied his scarf and patted his
back





Flardy’s Dream. 81

“What zs the matter with those children?” asked
mamma, when lunch was over, and Hardy and Sunny
were on their way to the summer-house at the farthest
corner of the garden, in order to fully enjoy the horrors
of the nightmare. ‘They have been looking at each
other, and at you, too, all lunch-time; and have been
laughing, and winking, and nodding, and choking, as if
they were the greatest wits conceivable. And you were
nearly as bad,” she added, with a perplexed smile.

Papa smiled, saying—‘‘Oh, children have always
some jokes and surprises on hand. Hardy is so full of
fun, that it would be impossible to keep him quiet; and
laughter won't hurt either of them.”

In the meantime, Hardy and Sunny had ensconced
themselves very comfortably indeed in the summer-
house. Hardy had secured a varied collection of fruits
and sweetmeats, and biscuits and crackers (at which last
Sunny was looking in dismay, wondering how she
should contrive to pull one end of these explosive
instruments, and stop her ears at the same time), and
some very weak ginger-wine and water, ‘‘for a treat,”
as Mrs. Trust had said, in giving this cheering concoction
to her young master.

“Tam so sleepy, Sunny!” began Hardy, by way of
displaying to the full his capacity for teasing.

“Oh, Hardy! What! sleepy zow /”

His sister looked so reproachfully at him, that he
burst into a laugh, and said, pretending to stifle a —
yawn—

‘Never mind, I daresay I shall manage to keep
awake until I’ve told the dream.”

Sunny did not venture any further remark, but
waited patiently till he should please to begin his story.




82 A Crutse in the Acorn.

The poor child waited what seemed a very long time.
Not a word did her young tormentor utter. At last
she whispered his name in the lowest possible tone,
thinking he might perhaps have fallen asleep.

“You've woke up, then, have you?” growled Hardy.

“Woke up!” repeated Sunny. ‘Why, I haven’t
been to sleep; I have been waiting for you to say you
were ready to tell me your dream. You know you
promised to tell me of your own accord, Hardy; now
didn’t you ?” 2

‘Well, so I will,” replied Hardy; “but what’s the
use of my beginning if you are fast asleep.”

Sunny knew better than to repeat her assurance of
not having slept; and when Hardy had gaped and
sighed, and caught at a few flies, with pretended in-
difference, he stretched himself at full length on the
summer-house bench, and leisurely pulling the honey-
suckle creeper that covered it to pieces, began—

“Well, here goes, Sunny! Once upon a time there
was an old fairy, whose name was Powly—I mean
Rowly ; it’s all the same, you know.”

“Oh, Hardy!” interposed Sunny; ‘ how can you say
such things. Old Rowly a fairy!”

The incongruity of the idea appeared to strike the
narrator as well as his sister, for he conceded that he
had made a mistake perhaps; ‘“ but anyhow,” he resumed,
“the old fairy has nothing to do with my nightmare, so
it doesn’t much matter who she was; does it 2”

“Then why did you begin about old Rowly,” said ~
Sunny, “if he wasn’t a fairy, and the fairy doesn’t
matter ?”

“ Now I tell you what it is, Sunny,” said Hardy,
solemnly, raising himself on his elbows; “ if you’re going


























’
Flardy's Dream. 83



to interrupt me every minute, by talking about fairies
‘and imps and things, I shan’t tell you any more about
my dream. ‘So now you know.”

Sunny did not seem much impressed at this majestic
statement, for she answered, somewhat irrelevantly—

“No, I won’t interrupt—but where did you dream
your nightmare, Hardy? Was it on the island ?”

“Of course it was.”

“But I mean, Hardy, did you dream about the
island while you were on the island >?”

‘Why don’t you wait and see, Sunny ?” remarked
her brother, “instead of asking such a lot of questions.”

Thus reproved, Sunny again promised to be quiet,
and succeeded in keeping her promise for a few moments,
while Hardy resumed—

“T’ve forgotten all about my dream, I expect, because
you will bother a fellow so. What a nuisance you are,
with your dreams and nightmares, and imps’ and frogs’
balls. Why don’t you tell it yourself?”

“What! tell your dream!” cried Sunny.

“There you go again, interrupting me when I’m
trying to recollect. Well, as I was saying, just after
you had gone to sleep that night 4

“Which night, Hardy ?”

“Why, that night on the island, of course; how can
you be so stupid! Let me see, where was I?—oh yes,
I know. Well, just as you were snoring as loud as you
could, until I thought you would wake all the frogs on
the island, I thought I would see if I could snore too,
just for the fun of the thing, you know. So I tried, and
I must have succeeded, for I don’t remember anything
sensible after that, until I was awoke the next morning
by your kicking and crying. I suppose I must have










84 A Crutse in the Acorn.



gone to sleep, somehow, for I dreamt such a queer thing.
Don’t you remember that book I had, Sunny, that you
didn’t like, because there was a lot about shooting bears
and tigers and elephants in it? Don’t you remember
my telling you, just before the holidays began, that one
of the fellows in the book got nicely caught going
serenading some school-girl, or some nonsense like that ?
Well, when I heard you snoring in that frightful
manner, I couldn’t help thinking about all the animals
I'd read of in that book, and, as I said just now, I was
wondering what you would think if you could have heard
yourself, when I fell asleep too. And then, of course, I
dreamt about the animals. I dreamt that you and I
were walking in the Zoological Gardens in London, you
know, and that we had lost our way. There was no one
to be seen anywhere a j

‘Not even any animals!” said Sunny. “How funny!”

“Well, it wasn’t funny at all, then, I can tell you—at
least you didn’t think so in my dream. You were
staring all over the place, and crying like a baby, and
saying you were awfully hungry, and what should you
do. Just as I was trying to stop your crying, you said
you saw someone running along in the distance, like one
of the keepers. So I ran after him to ask the way
home. He told me he didn’t know what to do, because
the elephant had fainted, and there was no one to help
him.”

“But elephants don’t faint, Hardy, do they?”
observed his sister. eas

“T’m sure I don’t know,” continued Hardy; “why
shouldn't they faint just as well as any one else. I
wouldn't mind betting anything you like that the half
of them only pretend to faint, because they want to






FHlardy’s Dream. 85



be petted and carried out of ball-rooms, looking very
romantic, with their hair down, and all that humbug.”

Sunny was too interested to notice the total want of
coherence in Hardy’s description of romantic young
ladies and fainting elephants; and if she had been more
observant, she would doubtless have been afraid to
interrupt the flow of. his eloquence so soon again.

‘““So I told the keeper that the elephant in the book
I had read often was ill, and used to be bandaged up
with glycerine and cotton-wool, and supported in an
enormous kind of hammock, with his four paws hanging
out. What are you staring at, Sunny? It’s perfectly
true; why, I read it in a book only the other day.
Then when I turned round to look after you, you had
got quite friendly with another elephant, and were as
cross as possible, because I wanted you to look at a
tiger and a bear, and all the other animals. However, I
made you come all the same, and you didn’t like it, and
kept saying you wanted to go home, because you were
sure mamma would be angry if we stayed out any
longer. So you went home safe enough. And I was
looking about at the animals, and snakes, and things,
till it was long past dark. Then I met papa in the
gardens, and he said you had not come home, and I
mustn’t come home till I had found you, because it was
all my fault, for I was very careless and unfeeling ; and
then papa finished up by saying that neither mamma nor
he wanted to see me again, unless I brought you back.
That was a pleasant pickle, wasn’t it? So off I walked,
to see if I could get hold of you; and I can tell you this,
that I didn’t feel particularly pleased with your proceed-
ings. You had led mea nice way already; and when I
found I couldn't go home without you, I just wished





86 A Crutse in the Acorn.



there were no such nuisances as girls, and sisters, and
all that.”

‘Poor Hardy!” said Sunny; “what did you do?
Did you cry!”

“Cry!” echoed Hardy, with a world of scorn in his
voice; “what would have been the use of crying, I
should like to know? Do you think boys are always
crying, like girls ?” 3

Sunny did not answer—as she might have done, had
she been malicious—that she had, even in her short life,
seen boys cry for far less reason than girls usually do;
but she was not malicious, and she allowed Hardy to
continue his nightmare narrative in unbroken serenity.

‘No, I didn’t do anything of the sort. I just walked
about and looked at the animals, until I was awfully
tired, and then 2

“But I thought you said it was quite dark, Hardy?”

“Yes, of course it was dark for summer-time, but
one can often see nearly as well in the dark as in the
light; I mean that—that—I say, Sunny, I shan’t tell
you any more if you're going to bother me like this,
instead of letting a fellow alone.”

Sunny looked very penitent, and Hardy resumed—

“After all that walking about, I got awfully hungry
and thirsty and sleepy, and I hadn’t got any money; so
I thought that I wasn’t going to starve yet awhile, and
I made up my mind to forget all about papaand mamma,
and you too, for the matter of that, and never to see any
of you any more.”

“Oh, Hardy, how could you!” said Sunny, reproach-
fully.

Well it was only in a dream of course, or else, I
suppose, I shouldn’t have thought of it; and if I had, I




FHlardy’s Dream. 87



snouldn’t have liked to leave you—that is, if I was
never coming back again.”

After which vague indications of fraternal affection,
Hardy, boy-like, resumed his story, with additional
pungency of tone and glance.

‘But even then, you see, I didn’t know what to do,
for I couldn't eat the grass, and I couldn’t catch the
birds and eat them alive, feathers and all; and I didn’t
know where the frogs were, or I should have eaten them
quick enough, I can tell you, just to spite you for
having got me into this pickle. Suddenly I heard the
lion roaring—at least I dreamt I heard him; it was you
snoring, I suppose; and, as you can fancy, that didn’t
sound very comforting in the dark, and all alone. So I
tell you just what I did: I ran as hard as ever I could
until I got out; I am sure I don’t know how I got
through the turnpikes, or whatever you call them;
however, I did manage it somehow.”

“How did you get something to eat and drink,
Hardy,” asked little Sunny, “if you had no money ?”

“Well, that’s just what I was going to tell you.
When I was outside in the park, I sat down on a seat
and emptied all my pockets, to see if I had made a
mistake; I thought I might perhaps have a penny left
from my last week’s money. I couldn't find any, though,
and was just preparing for another search, when I heard
a drum beating, and a flute, and a bagpipe, and all sorts
of fine things; and I saw some lights twinkling in the
distance. So I thought I would go and see what it was
about. Presently I got out of the park, and I wasn’t
sorry, I can tell you; I expect if you had been there all
alone, with the lions roaring like wild, you’d have been
frightened to death—now, wouldn’t you? come! Let









88 A Cruise in the Acorn.

me see—where—what was I saying >—oh yes—all right.
I don’t know any more—I mean I don’t remember any
more, because I woke just at that moment, you know.”

Sunny was too shrewd, however, to be taken in so
quickly; she did not answer, except by the deprecating
expression in her eyes, and Hardy soon made up for his
aggravation by continuing in this wise—

“Twas only teasing you, Sunny; I do remember a
little more. When I got out of the park, you know, I
heard the drums, and all the rest, going it louder than
ever; and then I saw a lot of people running, and of
course I ran too; and then at the end of a road I sawa
great big tent, like they had for the circus down here—
don’t you remember, Sunny ?—and there was a man at
the door of it playing a drum, and calling all the people
in. I forgot 1 hadn’t got any money, and I ran to the
door, thinking to myself, ‘Well, as papa says I’m not to
go home without Sunny, I shall go in here and see
what's up.’ Of course, when I got to the entrance, the
man who was playing the drum asked me for my money,
and at first I thought he wouldn’t let me in; but he did,
and told me he should call on papa the very next
morning for the money.

‘“When I got into the place, I found that it was just
like that circus where we went with Mrs. Trust, only it
was much prettier, of course, because it was right up in
London. And then there was a clown, and an old fellow
with a crutch, tumbling about, and a white monkey—I
mean a white elephant ”’—here Hardy glanced at his
sister mischievously, but she was too interested to be
suspicious—“ and a yellow tiger, and a red, white, and
blue parrot, and a green lion”—here Hardy paused, and
looked about him with the gravest face in the world, as


Flardy’s Dream. 89



if he were doing his utmost to remember—“ at least—
let me see—was it green, or was it red, I wonder ?”

“T should think it was more likely to have been red;
wasn’t it, Hardy?” suggested Sunny.

“Well, then, if the lion was red, it was the unicorn
that was green. I am certain that one or the other was
green; it doesn’t much matter which, as it was only a
dream; does it? so I'll go on. All these animals
performed tricks, you know, Sunny—jumping through
hoops, and over bars, and doing all kinds of extra-
ordinary things. I am sure you would have been awfully
interested if you had seen all they did. When the people
got tired of them, then they acted a piece i

“Who did, Hardy? not the animals!” cried Sunny.

“Why, of course not—I meant the boys and girls,
or something belonging to the circus. They acted a
piece, where there was a boy named Lancelot—and a
nice milksop he must have been too—who wanted to
make a girl named Flora fall in love with him, or some
such nonsense. So he borrowed a suit of very romantic-
looking clothes from somebody, and went and sang a
song underneath this Flora’s window, just like the
fellow in the book I was telling you about.”

“Did they do all that in the circus, Hardy?”
exclaimed Sunny. ‘Oh, I wish it wasn’t a dream, I ©
should so like to see it acted! What did he do after-
wards ?”

“What did who do after when?” asked Hardy,
disdainfully.

“Why, Lancelot, after he had sung the song, you
know! Did the girl named Flora see him from her
window ?”

“How should I know?” said Hardy, impatiently.





M


90 A Cruise in the Acorn.

I was telling you my dream, not the boy’s, or Lancelot’s”
—no words could describe the contempt with which
Hardy pronounced this fine name—‘ and if you don’t
want to hear any more, you may as well say so, and I'll
go to sleep in real good earnest.”

Here he gaped, and closed his eyes, and grunted
ominously.

“Of course, I want to hear some more,” said Sunny.
“Do go on, Hardy.” ;

‘““As you may guess, then, Sunny, I didn’t much
care for that sort of fun for long, and I was just
wondering how I should get some money to buy some-
thing to eat, when I thought I heard your voice crying
or laughing, or perhaps both. I looked all round the
circus, and couldn’t see anyone a bit like you. It was
just then that this Lancelot was singing his serenade, or
whatever he called it. It all looked capital, I can tell
you. The trees, and the house and windows, looked just
like life; and the boy with his banjo (he said it was a
lute, but it was nothing of the kind, and so I would
have told him in another minute) didn’t look bad either,
at a distance. Well, all the time he was singing, I
fancied I heard your voice somewhere i

‘What was he singing, Hardy ?” asked Sunny.

“Oh, I don’t know; something about ‘My lady
weeps,’ and ‘her lover sleeps,’ and ‘western steeps,’ and
‘golden peeps,’ and ‘silver deeps,’ and ‘azure creeps,’
and any quantity more in the same style. Suddenly he
played an extra twang on his banjo, because he was
‘supposed to see her at the window. I looked up at the
window too, and there was a girl standing there with a
white frock on, and black hair; and as I looked at her,
I saw that it was you, only your hair had turned black




Grars of the summer night!
Far in yon azure deeps,

Hide, hide your golden light!
She sleeps! My lady sleeps!

© MOON of the summer night!
Far down yon western steeps,
Sink, sink in silver light !
She sleeps! My lady sleeps!

WIND of the summer night!
Where yonder woodbine creeps,
Fold, fold thy pinions light!
She sleeps! My lady sleeps!

DREAMS of the summer night!
Tell her, her lover keeps
Watch! while in slumbers light

She sleeps! My lady sleeps!

LONGFELLOW



SS SS SS SS SSS SSS





Flardy’s Dream. 93



somehow or other. So I screamed out to you as loud
as ever I could to come home directly, because papa and
mamma wanted you, and wouldn’t let me in till I’d
found you. Then all the people in the circus were in an
awful rage with me for interrupting the performance;
and the manager said he’d have me locked up if I didn’t
keep quiet. Well, I didn’t mind a bit what he said, and
kept on shouting to you to come away, and you didn't
take any notice at all, beyond laughing at me the whole
time.”

“Oh, Hardy!” Sunny interposed; “I am sure I
couldn't have been laughing at you; you must have
made a mistake.”

‘Well, I suppose I know best about my own dream,”
was Hardy’s answer; to which Sunny replied by a wise
silence. ‘I tell you that you looked at me ever so
many times, and shrieked with laughter, and said you
wouldn’t come home. Then the manager said I must
be turned out of the circus; and the more I called to
you, the more you laughed. At last the manager took
hold of my jacket collar and dragged me out of my
seat, and was just beginning to pommel me with
his fists and boots, when I woke up and found you
kicking and hugging me as hard as you could; don't
you remember ?”

“Is that all?” asked Sunny, her eyes wide open with
wonder—as well they may have been—at the strangeness
of the dream, and at Hardy’s supreme indifference to its
peculiarities.

‘All! yes, I should think so; and quite enough, too.
I’m so hot and sleepy; aren't you, Sunny ?”

“How funny of you never to tell me before!”
murmured Sunny, totally disregarding Hardy’s remarks.







94 A Crutse in the Acorn.



“Why, if I had had a dream like that, I should have
told you the very minute, shouldn’t I ?”

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you would have done,
if you had had a dream like that,” said Hardy.

There was something significant in his tone of voice,
which made Sunny raise her eyes to his face. He was
laughing, it is true; but then he was always laughing,
so that did not impress her much.

‘Are you sure that you have not forgotten anything,
Hardy ?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know; I don’t suppose I have,” was
the careless answer; ‘but it’s such a long time ago,
you know. Anyhow, I am sure it’s quite as good a
dream as yours, and ever so much more sensible; now,
isn’t it?”

Sunny was, however, evidently disappointed. She
had expected something far more improbable and
romantic and fairylike, than Hardy's very realistic form
of dream—the strict authenticity of which, between
ourselves, I strongly question—also, it was by no means
long enough to suit her; and there was something very
unsatisfactory in Hardy’s manner, and apparent enjoy-
ment of her disappointment.

That young gentleman amused himself for a few |
moments in staring about him, whistling, eating, and _
drinking what little remained of Mrs. Trust’s ginger-
wine and water. At last, happening to catch sight of
his sister’s face, he exclaimed—

“T tell you what it is, Sunny; if you’re always going
to be sulky and gloomy, because I can’t dream just what
you like, I shall never tell you any more nightmares, or
do anything nice at all. And I shan’t ask papa to buy
any more 4corus, and I shan’t take you any more sails


Flardy’s Dream. 95



or cruises in her, if you are going on like that! So you
had better cheer up, I can assure you.”

‘But I can’t make it out, Hardy,” murmured Sunny;
“it seems so funny that you never told me while we
were on the island, instead of waiting such a long
time. And—and—then you were laughing so much
this morning in the nursery, that Are you sure
you veal/y dreamt it, Hardy ?”

Hardy did not answer; and when Sunny looked at
him to see what he was doing, she was surprised to find
that he was fast asleep, or at all events pretended to be
so. For my part, I don’t think he was even sleepy.

Sunny stood looking at him, meditatively, wondering
what she should do—if she dared wake him by the
primitive method of pulling his hair. As she pondered
on the various pleasing forms of effecting a very un-
gracious task, she kept her eyes fixed pensively, almost
abstractedly, on her brother’s ruddy face. Suddenly, to
her fright, her indescribable surprise, she saw one of
Hardy’s big brown eyes open furtively, and close again !
She gazed in mute horror, and presently the same eye
performed exactly the same trick!

‘What does it mean?” thought little Sunny. “I
must be dreaming; I am sure he couldn’t open one eye
in his sleep like that. What a funny thing!”

Just then, Hardy again performed this not very
marvellous feat ; and catching the expression of mingled
horror, and amazement, and curiosity, and amusement
depicted on Sunny’s face, burst into such a loud laugh,
that Sunny, after half-a-moment’s stare, ran out of the
arbour, or summer-house, as fast as she could go, flying
along the walks and lawns as if she were no heavier
than a butterfly.


96 A Cruise in the Acorn.

This did not suit Hardy at all, for he had a plan in
his mind, carefully concocted by himself, and confided to
his father, which absolutely required Sunny’s absence
from the house. So he called her back to the summer-
house, offering all manner of bribes, in the way of sweet-
meats, and fruits, and picture-books, and paint-boxes,
and baskets, and beads, and other equally seductive
gifts; but she only surveyed him doubtfully from the
doorway leading to Mrs. Trust’s department, and never
answered a word. I expect she was really frightened—-
as well she may have been—at Hardy’s extraordinary
dream, and extraordinary behaviour; and she felt half-
afraid to return within the glance of that one eye! So,
after gravely considering the matter for a few minutes,
she evidently made up her mind that Mrs. Trust was
much more reliable than Hardy, and accordingly re-
treated into that estimable lady’s parlour. Now, Hardy
did not approve of this arrangement from any point of
view. It might seriously interfere with his elaborately
conceived plan, and spoil all the fun. And he was
rapidly getting very cross indeed, as he pondered on the
best way of inducing Sunny to leave the dangerous
quarters of the kind old housekeeper.

Sunny, however, was far too amiable to keep away
from him when she knew that he wanted her; so in a
few minutes she came back to the summer-house, and
said she was very sorry if he was offended with her, but
that he had frightened her when he opened and shut his
eye in such a strange manner.

To which apology the only reply Hardy vouchsafed
was—

“ Bother !”

‘What do you say, Hardy?” his sister said.
Flardy’s Dream. 97



caic, other! .

She looked puzzled, and finally ventured to say,
timidly—

‘But, ‘bother’ what ?”

I suppose Hardy was thoroughly determined to make
himself explicit this time, for he answered immediately—

“ Everything and everybody !”

“Well, that’s what I call a fair field and no favour,
my boy!” said their father’s voice from the door of the
summer-house.

Hardy started to his feet, his face crimson with
vexation; while Sunny forgot her disappointment at the
matter of Hardy’s dream in the triumph of having heard
it, and ran to clasp her father’s hand, crying—

“Oh, papa dear! he’s told me at last. And it is
such a pretty one—all about the lions and elephants.
Then there is a circus, and a serenade; and he thought
he was looking for me everywhere, and couldn’t find me,
and you wouldn’t let him come home without me; and
when he got into the circus, he found it was me at the
window, and he called me ever so often to come, but I
wouldn’t. I had black hair, too; and yet I looked just
the same, he says.”

‘How did it all end, then, Sunny?” papa asked,
with a very broad smile on his face.

“Well, you know, papa dear, Hardy kept calling me
all the time, and of course, as I wouldn't come, the
people didn’t like it, because he made such an noise; so
the manager came round to him, and took hold of him
by his coat, and actually turned him out! Just fancy
that !”

“Why, to tell the truth, Sunny,” said her father,
laughing as he spoke, ‘Iam not at all surprised at that.


98 A Crutse in the Acorn.



My only wonder is that he allowed either of you to stay
there so long. However, perhaps Hardy can explain
that little point.”

He turned towards Hardy for enlightenment.

But Hardy was not at all in good humour, evidently;
he was sitting on the bench, his face still very red, his
hands in his pockets, and his feet dangling to the ground.
He looked up for a moment when his father spoke, and
looked down again very quickly, for fear of being
tempted to laugh.

“Oh, it’s some of Sunny’s nonsense,” he growled,
presently. ‘“She’s always bothering me to tell her
dreams and things, so I told her one, and I thought I’d
tell her a good one this time, and then perhaps she’d be
quict. Instead of that, she runs all round the garden,
like somebody out of their mind, and then goes and
tells Mrs. Trust, and tells you, and mamma too, I
suppose, as if she didn’t know-that I was only joking
the whole time. I hate them all with their crying, and
telling, and being frightened.”

“It is tiresome,” said papa, with a smile; “still,
what can you do, Hardy? If you will make promises,
you must keep them, mustn’t you? So I don’t see what
you have to growl at. What was Sunny’s part of the
transaction, then >?”

“What transaction, papa?”

“Why, you said a moment ago, Hardy, my boy, that
it was all Sunny’s nonsense, and that she knew you
_ were joking. Do either of you know what you mean,
I wonder! Come now, Hardy, do you know what
you've been talking about for the last hour or so?”

Here Hardy’s love of fun overcame his bad humour,
and he began a recital of the afternoon’s amusements,


Hardy's Dream. 99



which, by dint of Sunny’s interruptions and his bois-
terous mirth, became so unintelligible, not to say noisy
into the bargain, that their father rushed from the
summer-house holding his hands to his ears in despair,
and calling to them to come in-doors and prepare their
minds and lungs, as well as their hands and faces, for
dinner. Hardy scampered up to his room as fast as he
could, singing and leaping and laughing on his way.

Little Sunny, however, followed very quietly. Hardy
had let fall one or two sentences which had very much
mystified her. He had said, first of all, that she was
always bothering him, so he thought he would tell her
a good one that time to keep her quiet; and he had
afterwards declared that she knew he had been joking
the whole time! What could he have meant? Perhaps
he had never dreamt anything at all about the elephants,
and the circus, and the serenade! Perhaps it was all
taken from the book he had told her about ; and perhaps
that was why he had been laughing so in the morning,
‘ because he had meant to play her a trick about the
dream. Perhaps he had never dreamt at all while he
was on the island, and only meant to tease her!

Poor little Sunny did not like the idea, as you may
imagine. She had been antipicating the narration of
her brother’s nightmare ever since their return from that
fatal cruise, which was some weeks ago now; and it was
very hard to find that he had only been planning a trick
of some sort in order to aggravate her.

“He says he hates girls, because they are artful, and
tell-tales, and cry-babies,” thought Sunny. ‘I am sure
I don’t see why I shouldn’t hate boys, for they are
always teasing, and pulling one’s hair, and pinching one’s
arm, and taking one’s books, and hiding one’s pencil,


100 A Crutse in the Acorn.



and painting with one’s paints; but I don’t hate Hardy
all the same, and I’m sure he oughtn’t to hate me,
because I can’t tease him half as much as he teases me.
And then he’s ever so much bigger than Iam. However,
perhaps he really did dream that dream after all; papa
didn’t seem to think he mightn’t have when I told him
about it.” With which comforting reflections Sunny’s
spirits rose again, and she bounded into the nursery,
utterly forgetting that her version of Hardy’s dream, as
rendered a few moments before to her father, was
perhaps not quite so concise and lucid as it might have
been.

After dinner, she confided all her doubts and the
reasons thereof to mamma’s sympathetic ear, begging her
at the same time not to scold Hardy for teasing her,
because she didn’t mind it a bit; but didn’t mamma
think it was a very funny dream, if Hardy did really
dream it? Mamma laughed a great deal over it, and
said Hardy was a very silly boy, and Sunny was a silly
little girl to pay any attention to him; and she finally
promised not to scold Hardy.

Sunny made many an onslaught at Hardy’s sense of
justice and veracity, in order to induce him to reveal the
origin of the dream; but I don’t believe she extracted
much information from him.

So the question remained involved in mystery in
Sunny’s mind, until it was forgotten.




CHAP. V.—HOPES AND FEARS.

i DON'T know how Hardy would have behaved had
4, he known the treachery his father was meditating ;
but I am certain that poor Sunny would have led a
quieter life, at all events, on the day following the
nightmare episode. Hardy had really most alarming
symptoms; and once or twice his mother seemed to
think there was room for doubt as to his ever returning
to his “ right mind.”

“He’s right enough, my dear,” said papa, when
mamma consulted him, with an anxious face, that showed
she was not joking.

“Do you really think so?” said mamma, uneasily.

‘Why, of course I do,” rejoined papa. ‘He's bent
upon playing Sunny a trick—that’s all that’s the matter
with him—and as Sunny doesn’t seem to mind how
much he teases her, but, on the contrary, rather enjoys it
than otherwise, I don’t see why we should mind either.”

“Oh no, I wouldn't prevent their amusement for
worlds, you know, dear,” said mamma; “and if I were
quite sure that Hardy would not excite himself into a
brain fever, with his dreams and nightmares and
nonsense, I should enjoy their fun as much as they do
themselves. I must say, though, that I don’t see why


102 A Cruise in the Acorn.

Hardy should have the anticipation of the tricks all to
himself.”

With which very just observation, mamma went up
to the nursery to study Hardy’s mental condition from
another point of view. Neither of the children were
there, however; so mamma returned to her sitting-room,
looking in at the library, as she passed, to tell papa that
she was very glad indeed that they had gone out, for as
there had been such a wind all night, the air was very
much fresher, and would cool Hardy’s head.

Papa smiled and nodded, and resumed his letter-
writing, quite satisfied in his own mind as to Hardy’s
clearheadedness.

In the meantime, Sunny and Hardy—being near the
time of their separation, the limit of Hardy's holidays,
when that much aggrieved young student was required
to work at English history, grammar, arithmetic, and a
few elementary phrases of French, for six hours a-day at
the very utmost, including the not overwhelming time
he devoted to learning his lessons—were bent on enjoy-
ing themselves as much as they could while the fine
weather lasted. But as their minds still hovered round
the corn, they rarely started on any excursion without
giving Rowly a call, in order to make sure that he had
heard or seen nothing of the “ pretty little craft.” Now
old Rowly was by no means amiable on all occasions.
When the children first acquired the habit of running
into his boat-shed and asking after the 4corn, he did
not much mind their pertinacity, and would answer
them with a cheerfulness of manner that raised many
false hopes in their young imaginations. Of late,
however, he had grown tired of the repeated questions
about the 4corn, and would generally give both the




Flopes and Fears. 103



children, and especially Hardy, what is known as “a
piece of his mind.”

‘“What is the use of coming here every day like,
Master Hardy,” he would begin, plaintively; ‘‘ how can
I find the Acorn? Do you think it’s going to drop
down from heaven? or do you think that I can make
another boat in the dead of night for you to lose with
your new-fangled sails and such like? or do you think
that I can afford to waste my time searching after it?
And where would be the use of it, I should like to know,
after you’d gone back to school? I tell you what it is,
if I’d have known the nuisance that there corn would
be to everybody, I wouldn’t have sold it to you—no, not
for thousands of pounds, that I wouldn’t; not that you
would have lost it, but for that sail. But there, you
would have it, and you nearly drownded and starved your
sister, that you did; and I wish you wouldn't come here,
hindering my work, Master Hardy; and I don’t care who
hears me say so.”

It may be imagined how intensely Hardy delighted
in this style of reproof; and sometimes he would worry
the old man to such a pitch of anger, that nothing but
the remembrance of Hardy’s father, and his position,
influence, &c., kept him from administering as sound a
thrashing as Hardy was likely to have in all his lifetime.
It is but fair to add that Sunny played a very pretty
second to Hardy’s lead in this matter, as in all others,
joining in his love of play with considerable vigour.

I expect that it was principally the prospect of
“worriting” the old man that induced the children to
go to his boat-shed on this particular afternoon, when
Hardy’s mamma was hoping that the fresh air would
cool his head. The wind was certainly quite brisk, and


104, A Cruise in the Acorn.

made the children twice as energetic as they would
otherwise have been. However, they had quite forgotten
that the meanest mortal may occasionally carry the war
into the enemy’s camp.

Hardy pushed the shed-door open, and putting his
merry face in the aperture, cried—

“Got the Acorn yet, Rowly ?”

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Master Hardy!” answered the
old man, turning towards the door. ‘Come in, both of
you, and don’t keep the wind a blowing and whistling _
through the place, as if you were doing it on purpose.
I never seen such children in my life, that I didn’t; and -
Miss Sunny’s nearly as bad as you are. Well, now,
what do you want this afternoon ?”

‘Oh, we only called to know if you had found the
Acorn yet, or if you were thinking of building another
one in time for my next holidays,” said Hardy.

‘““That’s all we wanted, Rowly,” observed Sunny.

“Oh, it was, was it!” said the old man. ‘ Well, it’s
"a pity you didn’t come an hour ago. There was such
a handsome lady here, and a young one into the bargain ;
and maybe she could have told you something about the
Acorn. 1 know Master Hardy likes the ladies; and so
I told her.”

Here it must be confessed that old Rowly showed
a sagacity for which few people would have given him
credit; for though everyone knows that schoolboys of
twelve, or thereabout, are by no means inclined to
sentiment, or incipient flirtation, still, Rowly was
universally considered so slow of perception, that even
Hardy’s most strongly developed distaste “for girls’
society would not have been supposed to have penetrated
his comprehension yet.


Hopes and Fears. 105



Rowly looked very sly indeed as he ventured on this
mild sarcasm, and chuckled ominously for a few seconds;
while Hardy muttered all manner of kind things about
Rowly, and Sunny, and the lady, and the Acorn.

Sunny, however, entirely overturned Hardy’s equa-
nimity by rushing up to Rowly’s seat, which was a cross
between a carpenter’s bench and a footstool, and ex-
claiming—

“Never mind Hardy, Rowly; he’s very fond of
ladies, really, you know, only he doesn’t like to say so.
Papa says he won’t mind saying so, even to their faces,
when he’s a few years older; but do tell me about the
Acoru, Rowly. Does the lady know anything about it?
Has she found it anywhere ?”

Old Rowly couldn’t answer for the moment. He
laughed, what seemed to Hardy an unconscionable time,
at his father’s humour, and then he had a violent fit of
coughing; finally, after about ten minutes of this
pleasing kind of interlude, he had sufficiently recovered
himself to think of answering.

“What did you say, Miss Sunny?” he began—“ oh,
I remember, to be sure; about the 4corn. I didn’t say
the lady had found the cor, did I?

‘No, of course you didn’t,” replied Hardy ; “but you
said that perhaps the lady”—here Hardy’s expression of
scorn was beyond all power of description—“ could tell
us something about the corn. But it doesn’t much
matter whether she can or not, because we can’t go and
worry a stranger about the boat; and my holidays are
over directly, and I shan’t have time to row Sunny, and
I am sure she can’t row herself; so it doesn’t much
matter, anyway.”

“Why, Hardy! what nonsense!” cried Sunny; ‘not








106 A Crutse in the Acorn.

matter about the 4corn/ Why, I am sure I can row
myself a little bit; and, besides, there’s the sail, and
you'll be able to use it every Wednesday and Saturday,
all the afternoon, you know, and after school, too, on
other days.”

‘‘Oh, very well,” replied Hardy, “as you seem to
know all about everything so much better than I do,
perhaps you'll do my lessons and exercises for me while
I’m rowing.” ‘With which courtly speech he opened the
door of the shed, and was about to slam it violently
after him, when he was stopped by old Rowly, who
called out—

‘“T say, don’t you go away, Master Hardy. I do
really think, you know, that you might hear something
of the 4corn if you wanted to; but if you keep going
on like that, and flying into them tempers, I don't see
how I can ever have time to tell you about it all.”

Hardy came very slowly back into the shed, looking
with suspicious eyes, first at old Rowly, then at Sunny,
then at Rowly again; however, Rowly seemed serious
enough now, and Sunny, of course, was so wild with
excitement, that anything like common sense, as Hardy
afterwards related, was not to be contemplated from her.

‘Oh, Hardy, do, @o stop!” she cried. ‘‘ Fancy if we
only get the 4corn back, how delightful it will be! won't
it? Then Rowly will paint it up again for us—won't
you, Rowly?—and we'll take away that nasty sail—
because if it hadn’t been for the sail, you know, Hardy,
as Rowly says, it would never have sailed away all by
itself—would it, now?—and we'll have some nice pretty
oars, and you'll teach me to row all by myself; ‘won't
you, Hardy ?”

“T tell you what it is, Sunny,” said Hardy, “ you'll




Flopes and Fears. 107



go out of your mind if you go on like that—won’t she,
Rowly?—and you'll wake up one fine morning and fancy
yourself an acorn, and talk about baby-oaks, and that
sort of thing.”

‘“‘Baby-oaks!” repeated Sunny, inamazement. ‘‘What
do you mean, Hardy? What does he mean, Rowly? I
never heard of baby-oaks !”

“Well, Miss Sunny,” answered old Rowly, with a
good-humoured laugh, ‘‘ you can soon guess what it
means, can’t you? The acorns, you see, that grow up
to be big trees, big oak-trees, ain’t they like baby-oaks ?”

“Oh, bother the baby-oaks!” said Hardy, impatiently.
“What a nuisance you are, Sunny, asking such a lot of
questions every minute! I never saw anyone like you.
I wish you would let old Rowly tell about the 4corz.”

“Don’t you be in such a hurry, Master Hardy,” the
old man said. ‘I don’t know whether it’s your 4corn
or not, and I don’t know where she can have been
sailing to all this long time; but the lady as I was
speaking on just now told me she might have some-
thing to tell you, she thought, only she must speak to
you herself.”

“To me!” cried Hardy.

Yes, to you, Master Hardy; because she said as you
was a boy, you would know more about the way of
finding it out, and you would be stronger and more
active.”

Hardy seemed more and more puzzled, and could not
really understand whether Rowly were joking or not.
Sunny stood close by the old man, listening to his every
word, as if he were an oracle.

“But I say, Rowly,” said Hardy, “without any
nonsense, you know, are you sure that you're not


108 A Cruise in the Acorn.



playing a trick? Because what’s the use of making a
fellow angry for nothing, and disappointing us too. If
you've only been joking, I’m quite sure Sunny will
never forgive you—will you, Sunny? Not but what,”
he added, moodily, ‘I can’t see how she ever knew that
we had the Acorn, or that we lost it; but I daresay
she’s not got the right one, after all; boats are nearly all
alike, aren’t they, Rowly ?”

“Well, I don’t know about that, Master Hardy;
still, I shouldn’t be surprised if the corn was safe
again. You know the wind would blow it back again
fast enough, if it turned direct contrariwise to what it
was; wouldn't it? That’s why I expected it back at
first, because the wind was pretty fair the day you lost
it, you know, and I always thought to myself—Well,
howsomedever it may be, when the wind turns right
round again, the 4corn will come back, sure enough.
Then afterwards, when it did come back, and you
worrited me so, I almost forgot all about it, that I did.”

“But, Rowly,” exclaimed Hardy, whose excitement
now knew no bounds, ‘how was it that it didn’t come
back ever so long ago, instead of waiting till now?
Why, you know, it’s four weeks, I’m sure, since we lost
it—isn’t it, Sunny?”

‘Well, that’s what I can’t quite explain, you see,”
continued old Rowly, meditatively, and totally heedless
of Hardy’s question addressed to his sister. ‘‘ However,
I think you ought to go and see this lady, Master Hardy,
just to satisfy yourself that it is your 4coru or not, as
the case may be. If I was you, I would go directly—
that I would—especially,” said the old man, his eyes
twinkling wlth fun, ‘‘as you’re so fond of ladies, Master
Hardy.”







flopes and Fears. 109

‘What a nuisance you are!” cried Hardy, who was
becoming rapidly very angry. ‘I wish you'd tell us, if
you have anything to tell; and if you haven’t, why can’t
you let us go for a walk, instead of humbugging about
in this way. Come along, Sunny; he doesn’t mean
anything. He hasn’t seen any lady, and he hasn't heard
a single syllable about the corn.

“Do tell us, Rowly,” begged Sunny, half-crying with
disappointment; ‘what lady was it who came ?—do tell
us, and we'll never ‘ worrit’ you any more—never, never,
never—will we, Hardy ?”

I can't say what were Hardy’s sentiments at that
moment, because he did not vouchsafe any reply; but
he certainly looked as if he would have “ worrited” old
Rowly’s very life out of him, had it been possible.

However, I suppose old Rowly thought the children
had been kept in suspense long enough, so he stroked
his chin for a second or two; and looking about him, as
if wondering how he could make his escape if both
Sunny and Hardy lost their senses on hearing what he
had to tell, he was beginning to relieve their anxiety,
when Sunny considerably helped him by observing—

“Tf you won't tell us, then, Rowly, a// about it, you
might just as well let us know who the lady was, and
how she knew. Won't you tell us even that much?
Do, Rowly; there’s a dear old Rowly!”

“Why, it was all a chance, as you may say,” said
Rowly. ‘As I told Master Hardy just now, I had often
thought the -4coru ought to have come back when the
wind turned; and I’m sure it would have, too, but for that
sail. Howsomedever, as I was saying, that’s neither here
nor there, for the craft didn’t come back as it ought to,
and that’s all I know about it. So when I heard the





LIO A Crutse in the Acorn.





wind last night, and felt it as well this morning, I
didn’t trouble myself much about no 4cornus, but I went
on with my work pretty much as usual.

‘Presently there comes a tap at the door; I thought
it was you, Master Hardy, for sure, and was just
beginning to answer you pretty sharp, I can tell you,
when someone takes French leave, and pushes it open
of their own accord. And who do you think it was but
a lady who lives in the big house over there !”—jerking
his head vaguely towards the door of his shed—‘ and
who gets me to do her little odd jobs now and then; anda
very handsome lady she is too. I was pretty surprised to
see her, as you may guess; however, I thought maybe
she wanted something arranged in her garden, for you
know she has got a big lake in her grounds, and she
has all manner of boats and things floating about in it.
Well, she came in to me, and she says that her gardener
has found something, and she wouldn’t tell me nohow
what it was like, but she said she would give it up to
the owner; and that’s about all she would say, beyond it
was a little boat C

Here the commotion Rowly had anticipated ensued.
The children executed all manner of wild steps, laughing,
and shouting, and jumping, and dancing round the old
man, till he was fairly bewildered.

‘“‘Now, look here, both of you,” he said at last, out
of breath himself with the excitement of watching them;
‘if you don’t stop them antics, I shall have to lock you
up, that I shall; I’m quite frightened of seeing such
goings-on for nothing at all, as you may say. Why, it’s
only a little boat after all— Acorn or no Acorn, and
ever so many people have lost whole big ships worth
pounds and pounds of money, and haven't gone mad like




Flopes and Fears. lI



that, as I ever heard tell on. After all, how do either of
you know that it’s your boat? I never said it was, or it
wasn’t; now did I? And because I say a lady's
gardener has found a boat in the stream, you both of
you set up a howling and dancing, for all the world like
them pictures of Ojibbeway Indians, or whatever they
call themselves, eating each other as fast as they can.
But there, children always was nuisances, and always
will be, suppose. They are never contented unless they
are worriting about. I’m very glad I ain’t got any to
make me deaf and dumb and blind with their goings-on!”

I think Rowly would have grumbled and muttered
at everything for the rest of the day, if the children had
allowed him. But Sunny put her pretty fair head close
to his, and kissing his weather-beaten wrinkled cheek,
with the indescribable grace and innocence of youth, said
—‘ There now, Rowly; now we are friends, are we not ?
and you mustn't be cross with us any more; will you ?
Why, Rowly, you ought to be as delighted as we are, if
the 4corn has really”—here she broke off at the mere
remembrance that such bliss was possible, and clapping
her hands with delight, she cried—

“Oh, Rowly! Hardy! fancy having the 4corn back
again! won't it be glorious! only, I’m afraid it’s too
good to be true!”

‘But how are we to get it back ?” said Hardy.

“Well, that’s not very difficult,” answered Rowly.
“This lady has, as I told you just now, a big lake in her ©
garden; and she has, at the same time, a kind of stream
running right through, with a bridge over it, and all
manner of fine things; so perhaps the corn floated
into the stream, and that’s where the gardener found it!
I don’t know, I’m sure, what he did ; anyhow, the boat’s


112 A Crutse tn the Acorn.





there, sure enough, all battered about. And if I was
you, Master Hardy, I should go and see the lady herself,
and ask her all the questions you want to know; or if
you don’t, perhaps the wind will turn again and take the
Acorn back to where you left it—wheresomever that
might be.”

‘But didn’t you tell her whose boat it was, Rowly?”
asked Hardy.

“ How, how should I know whose boat it was? She
said she had heard that two children had lost a pleasure-
boat—nice pleasure I call it, to make an old man like
me, and an old woman like Mrs. Trust, bother our lives
out about you, all the evening, and all night, and I
daresay for ever so long after, if the truth was told, with
your islands, and sails, and dreams, and acorns, instead
of learning your lessons, and doing your sums, like good
children.”

He paused in his recriminations for a few moments,
then continued—

“The lady said she told her gardener that he mustn’t
let the boat go, until she knew for certain whose it was.
I told her its name was 4corn, if it was the boat I was -
a-thinking of; and she said she hadn’t examined it very
carefully, and shouldn’t have give it a second thought,
but that she remembered to have heard say how two
children had lost their pleasure-boat. . Howsomedever,
says she, if they come and look at the boat, they can see
if it’s their own, and they can just get into it, comfortable
like, and row it away. Them’s her very words, so now
you know.”

‘““When may I go, Rowly, I wonder?” said Hardy.
‘May I go now, do you think, directly; or shall I wait
an hour or two?”
Flopes and Fears. 113



“Lord bless your heart, Master Hardy! You
mustn't go now; why, she’s gone out to spend the
afternoon, and have her dinner, with some friend who
lives close by, she said; so she wouldn't be able to see
you, and show you the boat, until—well—to-morrow
afternoon ; but if I was you, I wouldn’t go there, I don’t
think, until the morning after to-morrow; because, don’t
you see””—here Rowly rubbed his chin again.

‘No, I don’t see at all,” cried Hardy, impetuously.
‘Why, you said just now that if you were me you'd
go directly, and then a minute after you say I oughtn’t
to go till the day after to-morrow. The fact is, Rowly,
I don’t believe a word of it all—there; you have made it
up so as to aggravate me and Sunny, because we have
been aggravating you; and I shan’t go near the lady;
and if Sunny chooses to stay here any longer to be
humbugged by you, she may; but all I’ve got to say is,
that I’m going home or somewhere, and you don’t catch
me here again yet awhile, I can tell you.”

With which dignified speech Hardy deliberately
walked out of the shed, slamming the little wooden door
with such violence that the whole tenement shook.

As Sunny heard his retreating footsteps, she glanced
at Rowly, and something in the old man’s face tempted
her to say—

“You weren’t joking, were you, Rowly? You didn’t
do it on purpose to tease Hardy, did you?”

Rowly waited a long time before he answered—

“JT don’t say as I did do it for that, Miss Sunny;
but I don’t see neither why I shouldn’t tease you and
him, just as much as you teases me. Why, I have:
never had a quiet morning to myself ever since I first
heard talk of that there 4coru,; now, have I? I don't


114 Al Cruise in the Acorn.

say as it’s your fault; but still you haven't tried to keep
him very quiet; now, have you, miss? and there you
see what it is! Directly I want to have my little joke
myself, then he flies off into one of them awful tempers
of his, and there’s no more saying anything to him.”

Rowly seemed very far gone in one of his tempers,
however, Sunny might have retorted, had she wished or
thought of it; but I am afraid that Sunny was too ©
disappointed at the turn of affairs to think of anything ©
but the fast-fading vision of the corn.

‘You don’t mean to say, Rowly,” said the poor child,
giving various signs of coming tears, ‘that you've been
telling stories all this time! Haven’t you seen any lady,

then ? and is there no news at all of the corn ?”
Here Rowly broke out into a loud tone of voice,
exclaiming—

“IT never said nothing of the kind, Miss Sunny. I
never said that I had never seen the lady, or the corn,
or nothing of the kind—leastwise, not that I remember
—and if I did, I couldn’t have meant it, for I have!”

Sunny stared at this astounding speech, as well she
may have done, and stood looking doubtfully at its
originator.

Suddenly Hardy opened the door and cried to her—

“Come along, Sunny. What are you doing ?”

“If I was you, Master Hardy,” muttered Rowly, “I
think I’d write a pretty letter to the lady, and ask when
you could have an occasion of seeing her, or something
nice like that. She told me to say she wanted to see
you particular, because she had heard that you was so
fond o o

The remainder of this aggravating speech was lost in
the confusion of a violent gust of wind, which shook






Hopes and Fears. 115



the shed almost to its foundations. Old Rowly turned
round to see what was the cause of this interruption in
the flow of his eloquence, and found his door wide open
and swinging, and Hardy and Sunny walking away at a
rapid rate, hand-in-hand.

‘What children they are, to be sure!” ejaculated the
old man, watching them as they disappeared gradually,
without once turning to look back. I think he felt a
little compunction at having been unkind to them, when
he saw that they were really disappointed.

“Here, Master Hardy!” he cried; ‘‘if you come back,
I'll tell you where to get the 4coru/ Come along back
—bring him back, Miss Sunny, and [ll tell you all

about it, both on you!”
The children did not hear, I suppose, for they did
not turn round, and in another moment were out of
sight.

Rowly went grumbling back alone into his shed,
muttering—

‘What a worrit them children are! I’m sure I didn’t
want to grieve em or tease em. Well, there, I can’t
help it; they must do as they like; and that’s the end
of it.”

He was evidently uneasy in his mind, though, for he
looked several times that afternoon at his door, in an
expectant manner, as if he should be relieved to hear
Hardy’s fresh voice outside, joking as if nothing had
occurred. Poor old Rowly! Cantankerous as he was,
you see, he had a particularly soft corner in his rough
heart, and especially for the children, to whom he rarely
vouchsafed a civil word.

In the meantime, Hardy and Sunny were too
dispirited to continue their projected excursion into the


116 A Cruise im the Acorn.



woods, and unconsciously turned on their way home
immediately after leaving Rowly.

_ Neither of them spoke for some time after their abrupt
departure from old Rowly’s hospitable roof. At length
Sunny, having first glanced up at Hardy, in order to form
some idea of his state of mind and temper—the last not
least in her thoughts—ventured to say in a mild voice—

“ Hardy, don’t you think Rowly meant something by
what he said this afternoon ?”

“T’m sure I don’t know, and I don’t care,” was
Hardy’s expressive reply. —

“But I mean, Hardy, don’t you think he couldn't
have invented all about the—the lady, you know—
because why shouldn’t he have told it all before, if he
really did make it up?” urged Sunny.

‘Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Hardy, hitting
with his cane at the twigs and branches and leaves of the
trees that were bending towards them on every side, in
the wind. ‘I’m not his keeper, and I shall never go
near him any more. He’s awfully disagreeable; and
then he will keep joking such silly nonsense. What do
I care about the lady who found the corn, or the
gardener, or whoever it was? I don’t believe a word of
any of it, Sunny; and I tell you this much, that if old
Rowly catches me down there again, I’m a—a—a-——”

However, he didn’t seem to know exactly what he
might be under such alarming circumstances ; so he con-
tented himself with picking a handful of yew-berries,
instead of finishing his sentence.

“Hardy!” ventured Sunny again, presently.

“Come, I say, do stop it, Sunny,” replied that
indignant young gentleman. Why don’t you leave a
fellow alone? What do you want now?”


Flopes and Fears. Tey



“Well, I was going to say,” answered Sunny,
thoroughly crestfallen by this time, “that you might
ask papa what he thought of it all; and perhaps he'll
find out what Rowly means.”

‘“‘T cannot conscientiously say what Hardy was about
to answer. I expect he was pleased with his sister’s
suggestion, though; for his face brightened, his step
seemed suddenly more brisk and lively, and he had
opened his lips to reply, when a glimpse of her papa in
the distance set Sunny running as fast as she could go,
without waiting for an intimation of Hardy’s opinion.
It may be surmised that by the time Hardy's more sober
pace had brought him to them, Sunny had told the story
of their wrongs and grievances; and directly Hardy noted
the expression on his father’s kind face, he saw that
there was room for hope in the matter of the corn.

‘““What do you think, papa?” asked Hardy, all his
energy and enthusiasm returning, now that there was
some chance of success. ‘‘Do you think I had better
go and see if it is really the -4corn, or shall I write to
the lady, or what ?”

Papa considered the matter at length, as they all
three walked back towards home; at last he gave out his
opinion that it would be best for Hardy to write her a
very polite letter, telling her frankly just what had
occurred—how he had lost the Acorn, how he had been
in the habit of teasing old Rowly, and how finally old
Rowly had rather turned the tables against him; and how
he (Hardy) did not know what to make of the affair, and
had finally resolved to venture upon writing to her. Papa
seemed to think no possible harm could be achieved by
such a course; and the children regained their spirits in
an incredibly short time


118 A Cruse in the Acorn.



‘What is the lady’s name?” asked papa, presently.

The children looked at each other, and burst into
laughter simultanedusiy.

“Can't you remember it?” said papa, extremely
puzzled at their behaviour.

“We don’t know it!” they cried ; at which ingenuous
confession papa laughed too, very heartily indeed

‘Do you know where she lives?” he inquired.

“No, papa!” answered Sunny, in much discomfiture.

“ But, my dear children, you must be growing idiotic,
I’m afraid. How can you possibly write to a lady when
you don’t know her name or where she lives—whether she
be young or old? Doesn’t Rowly know who she is ?”

“I don’t believe Rowly knows anything at all about
her, or that she has a garden, or a lake, or anything!”
said Hardy, desperately.

“That's rather a strong expression of opinion, my
boy,” laughed his father. “ Now, I'll tell you what I'll
do. You children must run home, and make yourselves
neat, not to say clean, for dinner, while I have a word
with Rowly, and find out what all this means. Will
that arrangement suit you °”

The children were delighted ; and though there was,
perhaps, a lingering regret in their hearts when they saw
their father start off to acquire the much-desired infor-
mation alone, they trotted through the garden, into the.
house, and upstairs with comparative contentment.

On their father’s return, it was decided that Hardy
should write a very “pretty” letter to the lady, whose
whereabouts had been discovered, telling her all his
troubles, and asking when he might call upon her.

‘‘Anyone who has had intercourse with children will
readily understand poor Hardy’s state of mind. He
Flopes and Fears. 119





couldn’t eat his dinner—that is to say, he could only
gobble about half of the quantity he usually managed to
stow away ; he peppered his vegetables to such an extent,
tliat, had he been apoplectic, he would certainly have been
in very much danger from the violent fit of sneezing
that took possession of him; he put a dessert-spoon-
ful of salt over his pudding, and sugared Sunny’s help
of meat!

However, dinner was got over at last, in spite of
these mishaps, and the letter was written.

It was an original one; and I have no doubt the lady
kept it as a specimen. If she did not, she ought to have
done so. When it had been read by papa, and duly
approved, it was decided that Mrs. Trust should leave it
at the lodge-gates of this lady’s grounds.

“Don’t you know her name, then, papa?” asked
Sunny, innocently.

‘No, child,” papa answered; at which mamma
laughed, observing—

“There, Sunny, you see he’s no wiser than we are;
is he?”

“T say, papa,” asked Hardy, ‘“‘mayn’t I ask her to
answer the very minute she gets it? Because, you
know, she may leave it for any length of time—mayn't
she, mamma ?—and then we shall be just as well off as
we were before; and that’s all. Don't you think I
might write only that, mamma?”

“Well, I don’t know,” mamma reflected. ‘‘ You see
it doesn’t However, your papa had better decide
for you.”

Papa did decide, and said that the lady would be sure
to answer immediately of her own accord; and that, as
Hardy was writing to her without ever having seen her,






4 eee

120 A Cruise in the Acorn.



and without even knowing her name, he could not be so
rude as to dictate to her the date of her reply. Hardy
looked quite grave as his father spoke; but whether
because of his father’s serious tone, or because .of his
impatience of having to wait this lady's pleasure, I
cannot say. At all events, the letter was sent, and the
matter of answering was left to be settled by the
‘“‘unerring finger of fate!”

The children forgot everything in their eagerness and
impatience. Directly Mrs. Trust returned from her
mission, she was cross-examined in so strict and cir-
cumstantial a manner, that the worthy old lady finally
lost her temper, and vowed that she wouldn't answer
another question, that she wouldn’t; that one would
think they was a parcel of pettifogging lawyers; and she
would never have another word to say to them if they
didn’t hold their tongues and be quiet for once in a while.

“But, Mrs. Trust,” pleaded Sunny; “ do tell us, did
the lady live at the place papa said ?”

‘Of course she does, my dear,” answered the house-
keeper, pacified, perhaps, by Sunny’s winning manner ;
‘‘where should she live but in her own house ?”

“Then did you see the grounds, and the lake, and
the bridge, and the gardener ?”

“Bless you, no, child!” exclaimed. Mrs. Trust. ‘I
didn’t see no gardener, nor no bridge; I seen a corner of
a pond, like, in the middle of the grounds, and some fine
trees further on, and a lady with white hair ‘was sitting
on a cushioned kind of garden-seat—such a nice-looking
old lady—and a young gentleman, he seemed like, with
white hair too”—here Sunny stared in mute amaze-
ment—‘ went and gave her Master Hardy’s letter.”

“Oh, Mrs. Trust!” Sunny almost screamed. ‘What!
i
7
|
|

Se eee

5 THE long-ranged windows
of a noble hall
Flung back the flamy
splendour.
Wave above, wave below,
Orange, green,and gold,
Russet and crimson,
Like an embroidered zone,
ancestral woods,
Close round onall sides.
Those again begirt
In wavy undulations
of all hues
To the horizon's verge
by the deep forest:
Till the cooing of the wood-
pigeon
!s heard alone
And the going in the tree-tops,
Like the sound of the sea
And thetinkling of many streamlets.











|
Hopes and Fears. 123





a boy with white hair! I never heard of anything like
it! Did you, Hardy?”

‘No, nor anyone else!” said Hardy, contemptuously.
“Why, it was a footman, of course, with powdered hair,
like the Lord Mayor’s, or Lord Chamberlain’s, or some-
body’s. However, I don’t believe that Mrs. Trust saw
anything of the kind. She’s only been making up a
pack of stories to tease you, Sunny.”

“Well, don’t you neither of you ask no more
questions,” said Mrs. Trust, with a very meaning smile
on her face, ‘‘and then you won't hear no more stories.”

With which aphorism she left them to indignant
meditation and comment on her story.

‘“Some of it must have been true, though, Hardy,”
said Sunny; ‘because, you know, she mentioned just
the same things that old Rowly mentioned ; didn’t she ?”

“Well, because you asked her the questions,” said
Hardy. Then lowering his voice, he added, confidentially,
“Do you know, Sunny, I don’t believe one single word
about the 4coru, and I don’t believe it has come back,
or that we shall ever see it again!”







CHAP. VI.—THE MYSTERY SOLVED.



ee disappointment of the children was not unmixed
with vague anticipations of coming pleasures. They
were greatly puzzled by Mrs. Trust’s story, and yet they
could not positively make up their minds that it was a
fiction.

“It’s very funny!” said Sunny, over and over again,
as they went back towards the nursery, after hearing
Mrs. Trust’s experience.

‘““What is the use of repeating that every minute,
Sunny?” said Hardy, impatiently. ‘It’s so stupid to
keep saying the same thing; besides, I don’t think it’s
funny at all to be humbugged like that by old Rowly
and Mrs. Trust. How could she have seen a lady with
white hair, and a gentleman with white hair, and all
that in a minute or two? Anyway, I don’t believe a
word of any of it.”

Hardy ran upstairs quickly, whistling in the most
light-hearted manner, as if the corm were a gross
mistake altogether, and they were very foolish to have,
attached so much importance to it. Sunny followed him
far less buoyantly ; and the children were very quiet for
the next half-hour, meditating on their hopes which had
sprung into life only to be dispelled. Hardy had com-
pletely forgotten the practical joke he had arranged for





















wo . Nae Mystery Solved. 125

Sunny, and which he had disclosed to his father; and
Sunny never knew what had been in store for her.

‘“T wonder when we shall have a letter from the
lady ?” remarked Sunny, abstractedly, after a short
contemplation of the garden and grounds, as seen from
the nursery window.

“Why, I daresay, if there were any answer at all,”
said Hardy, with a promptitude that showed he had been
thinking of the same thing, ‘it would come to-morrow
morning—why, she might even send an answer round
to-night, Sunny! mightn’t she ?”

‘Of course,” replied Sunny ; “ especially if she’s got
a footman ; and you said only footmen had white hair.
I wish she would send an answer; wouldn’t it be
delightful ? Then you would go round and thank her,
Hardy; wouldn't you? and perhaps she’d come for a
cruise with us !”

“Ves, perhaps she would,” said Hardy, disdainfully ;
‘perhaps she would buy us another 4corn while she
was about it, and build a fairy palace for you and Imp
on the island, to say nothing of making us a present
of a silver sail, and golden oars, and a few trifles like
that.”

“Children !”

They listened. They were sure it was their father’s
voice calling to them.

“Why, it’s papa!” said Sunny. ‘What can be the
matter, Hardy? Perhaps she’s answered—perhaps she’s
sent the 4coru round !”

“TI don’t see how she could do that, unless she
rowed the 4corm along the lanes,” responded Hardy,
preparing very methodically to trot downstairs with the
solemnity befitting his years.




126 A Cruise in the Acorn.



“Sunny and Hardy!” cried their father, from the
hall below ; ‘come down, both of you; you are wanted !”
Not another word was needed. The children flew
downstairs, and when they reached there, were thoroughly
exhausted, not so much from fatigue as from excitement.
“Well, child,” said papa, putting his arm round
Sunny; ‘‘ what do you think I have to tell you now, eh >?”
_ ‘Oh, papa,” gasped Sunny, “has it really been found?
has she sent a letter to say it’s all true? and is it there,
and is she sure it’s ours, do you think ? But it’s very
easy to tell, because the name was painted on the sail, or
something ; wasn’t it, Hardy?”

“You shall see,” said papa, mysteriously; and he
took them both into the drawing-room, where they had
heard mammna talking to someone.

‘Has the lady herself come?” whispered Sunny,
squeezing her father’s hand, and not venturing to look
round the room.

‘Don’t be so silly, Sunny,” said Hardy. “Papa,
isn't she foolish ? why, it’s only Rego; and I am sure
no one pays any attention to Rego—-do they, old
fellow ?”

Then ensued a friendly scuffle between the two
school-fellows, who had not seen each other for some
time. Sunny knew the name perfectly, for Hardy had
told her innumerable anecdotes about Rego’s pranks, and
his love of fun; and the nickname, Rego, had always
impressed her ; so directly Hardy spoke, she raised her
eyes, and seemed inclined to join in the amicable saluta-
tions going on between the boys. As she looked at the
visitor, she saw that he had a letter in his hand; anda
sudden inspiration seizing her, she perceived that his
hair was of that curious colourless hue which is only






The Mystery Solved. 127
seen on young heads, and which grows later on to a
brilliant golden. She shrieked with delight, and clap-
ping her hands frantically, cried, “‘Oh, Hardy! papa! has
he come from the lady who's found the 4corn ? I’m sure
he has. Don’t you see, Hardy, that if Mrs. Trust had
seen him giving your letter to his mother, she might
very well have thought that his hair was white—mightn't
she? Papa, mamma, don’t you think so? I am sure
that’s it; don’t you think so, Hardy ?”

Hardy was meditating profoundly just at that
moment, struck by the force of his sister’s remarks, I
suppose; papa and mamma were laughing at the general
confusion; and as for Rego, he seemed aghast at the odd
state of things, and at the wild dance Sunny was carry-
ing on round the room.

“Come, I say, Sunny, stop that,” cried Hardy, at
length. ‘Rego thinks you’re out of your mind; don't
you, Rego?” said he, turning to his schoolmate.

Upon which Rego favoured Hardy with a vigorous
push, and intimated that his sister (Hardy’s) was quite
right, that he had brought a letter from his mother about
a rowing-boat or something.

Hereupon such an uproar, such an indescribable con-
fusion arose, that papa had to interfere.

“My dear children!” he began, again and again;
“you really must—I cannot have this alarming noise.
You know the police will be in here in a few minutes, if
you don’t mind; they will, indeed. People will be
frightened ; they won't know what you mean by it.”
Papa could not help laughing himself, however, with
unusual heartiness; and I have no doubt that Rego,
who did not quite understand the peculiarity of the
position, and the excitement that had prevailed with


128 A Cruise in the Acorn.



regard to the 4cornu, was rather puzzled by their vehe-
ment behaviour.

When a little order had been restored, and the letter
addressed to Hardy had been read, it was found that
Sunny’s conjectures were based on solid fact. Sunny
discovered that Rego’s mother had very grey hair, and
that Rego himself had given her the letter with all
manner of gestures and capers; and, furthermore, that
his mother had been sitting in the garden, listening to
the “echoing of the wood-pigeon,” and surveying the
“ancestral woods.” So Mrs. Trust’s astounding picture,
which had provoked so much wrath from both Hardy
and Sunny, was in the main correct. This meant much
to Sunny’s ingenuous mind, for if Mrs. Trust had not
been teasing them, there was no particular reason why old
Rowly should not have been justified in his assertions ;
and, of course, that meant the restoration of the Acorn,
and with the corn, untold visions of delight. The
garden at the back of Sunny’s castle in the air had in it
a boundless lake, a sea, on which were sailing innumer-
able 4corus, in all the splendour of children’s dreams.
The uproarious phase of Sunny’s joy was over, and she
now looked thoughtfully out into the garden, planning
countless excursions to the island. —-

After much very rough cordiality between the boys,
Rego took his departure, leaving his mother’s letter with
Hardy, and telling him that now he must come up next
day and look at the boat. Hardy did not seem so eager
as Sunny thought he would have been; in fact, he was
undoubtedly crestfallen in some way or another, for at
first he had been quite as enthusiastic as Sunny, and
suddenly he seemed to have become more serious.

‘But, papa dear,” said Sunny, ensconcing herself com-


The Mystery Solved. 129

fortably on her father’s knee; “does she say how the
Acorn got back again ?”

“Why, Sunny,” interposed mamma; “how could she .
possibly know how it came back ?”

“Oh, I forgot that,” said Sunny, good-humouredly.
“No; but I mean how did she know that it was the
Acorn? and how did it come back to—to—how did it
get into her garden ?”

She looked round the room for Hardy or Rego, but
they were having a parting struggle in the garden.

‘““Why, the matter is simple enough, Sunny dear,”
said her father; ‘I suppose, when the weight of the
Acorn broke it away from its moorings on that mad ex-
pedition of yours, it floated away with the tide or wind.
Then, of course, you will say that directly the wind and
tide turned, the 4coru should have come straight back ;
and undoubtedly it would have floated to you just as
easily as it floated away, but that it must have got caught
in some weeds, which sufficed to restrain it until the
wind was strong enough to disentangle it. Don’t you
remember how keen the wind was last night—how it
groaned and moaned in the night? I should think the
Acorn came down the stream pretty quickly this morn-
ing. Then, naturally, when it reached the bridge in the
garden of which old Rowly spoke, it attracted their at-
tention. I suppose Hardy's friend Rego knew the boat,
and thought he would mystify you both. And I think
he succeeded ; didn’t he, Sunny ?”

Sunny could not answer yet awhile, however. She
was so absorbed in pondering her father’s words, that
more than five minutes elapsed before she replied.

“Ves, he did indeed, papa. And now, I’m afraid
Hardy’s trying to mystify me, because he looked so very



R
130 A Cruise in the Acorn.



serious when Rego asked him to go there to-morrow,
and he was so anxious to get the Acorn before. What
do you think it is, papa?”

‘““How can you be such a worry, Sunny,” here inter-
posed Hardy’s unmistakable voice. ‘‘Why don’t you
leave papa alone, instead of asking him all those senseless
questions. You see if I don’t tell Rego what a baby you
are; and then, if you don’t mind, he won't let you have
your 4corn. For my part,” Hardy went on, muttering,
“I don’t believe even now that it’s the 4corn. That
Rego is such an awful fellow for playing tricks; and I
shouldn’t wonder a bit if it was all his nonsense!” With
which consolatory reflection for poor little Sunny, Hardy
disappeared, bestowing three very brief kisses on his
father and mother and sister, and leaving the latter to
wonder over this new feature, until she forgot all her
troubles in sleep.

I think, however, that I can let you into a part, at all
events, of the secret. Everyone who knows the pecu-
liarities of schoolboys will remember, that if there is one
person more abhorred and despised than another, it is the
school-fellow’s sister. All boys pass through this pre-
liminary stage—with some it lasts longer than with
others—and as Hardy was a fierce hater of “girls,” it
was not likely that even his friend’s sister would alter
his prejudice as yet. Now, Rego (his real name, by-
the-bye, was King, but he had been re-christened by the
wit of the school in some flight of fancy), I was about to
tell you, had a sister, and a very pretty one into the
bargain ; and to this sister the hopes and aspirations of
half the school tended, with the exception of Hardy, who
really meant it when he declared that he hated girls,
generally speaking. Poor Hardy! many trials were in




A THERE is health in thy
balmy air
And peace in that brow j
Pan of beaming bright, :
And joy in that eye
of sunny light,
And golden hope in that
flowing hair:
Oh! that such influence
eer should fail

Fora moment,Spirit of Spring, z
Spirit of health,

peace, joy,and hope_
Spirit of Spring!











The Mystery Solved. 133

store for him, I am afraid, if he really did hate them as
much when he grew older. Rego was much attached to
Hardy, and had given him scores of invitations to pass
the Wednesday or Saturday afternoons at home with
him; which invitations Hardy had studiously declined,
declaring that he didn’t want to be bothered, and that he
would much sooner have some fun with Sunny. And
Sunny, of course, had never heard a word about Rego’s
pretty sister; and even at this critical moment, Hardy
did not mention his reason for objecting to go to his
friend’s house, and never threw out the faintest sugges-
tion that Sunny should go with him—which idea Sunny
had entertained, but dared not express.

Therefore, Hardy was in great tribulation when the
sun woke him on the following morning—the morning
of the fatal day that was to introduce him to Rego’s
sister ; while Sunny was in ecstasies at the prospect be-
fore her of seeing her cornu once more.

‘““Oh, Hardy!” she cried, capering about the nursery
early in the morning, before the breakfast-bell had rung ;
‘isn’t it delightful; isn’t it splendid !”

‘“Isn’t what splendid?” said Hardy, who had dressed
very slowly that morning, and was drumming his fingers
lazily on the window-ledge.

“Why, I don’t know—everything!” answered Sunny.
‘“T wonder if the corm is in good condition; do
you think it will be? Do you think we shall be able to
have a cruise in her directly, Hardy; or shall we have to
wait until old Rowly’s done it up for us, eh? Because
if we do, you know, he’s always such a long time, isn’t
he, and all the fine weather might go.”

“TI daresay all the fine weather will go before we have
got the corn back,” said Hardy.




134 A Cruise in the Acorn.



‘Why, Hardy, how tiresome you are!” Sunny re-
monstrated ; “you know quite well that it must be the
Acorn; didn’t Rego as good as say so?”

‘No; he didn’t as good as say anything of the sort,”
said Hardy, moodily ; ‘‘he only said a rowing-boat had
come into their stream, and he didn’t say a word about
sails or names or anything; and even if he had, I should
not have thought much about it, for he’s always up to
all sorts of games and jokes.”

At this moment, the breakfast-bell rang, and Sunny
was not required to furnish any argument for Hardy’s
depressing theories.

‘“Why, my dear children,” cried papa, after the usual
morning salutations had been exchanged, ‘“ what do these
grave faces mean? I thought you would be both of you
rampant this morning, anticipating all sorts of delightful
excursions. What is the meaning of it all? has Sunny
dreamt of another Imp, and Hardy of another Flora?”

“Oh no, papa,” began Sunny; ‘“ but Hardy says he’s
sure Rego’s playing us a trick ; and——”

‘“And Sunny will keep talking about that wretched
Acorn!” retorted Hardy. ‘Bother the 4corn/ I shail
go round to old Rowly this morning and ask him to burn
it, on the sly!”

‘But you have not got it yet!” said papa, gravely.

At which they all laughed; and with the laugh the
cloud disappeared.

It had been arranged with Rego that Hardy should
go to his home in the morning ; so, soon after breakfast,
in spite of the awful doom hanging over him, he could
not resist the temptation of agitating about the 4coru—
wondering whether the sail would be torn, or the paint
scraped off; and then, finishing every sentence by ob-




The Mystery Solved. 135



serving—‘‘ However, I don’t believe it is the Acorn at
all; but if it zs it, I expect it will be awfully damaged!”

“ Hardy !” said little Sunny, when they were alone in
the nursery—" Hardy!”

‘Well, what’s up now?” answered Hardy.

Sunny came up to him, and made her simple propo-
sition, with a very timid glance at his face.

‘ Hardy, ’ she ventured, “‘ mayn’t I go with you—only
just as far as old Rowly’s, you know,” she hastened to
add, deprecatingly. ‘I shall be so anxious about the
Acorn, and I'll promise not to say a word to old Rowly
if you don’t like ; and, besides, I am sure you will tease
me about the corn, won't you, when you come back ;
and I shan’t know for ever so long whether it’s our boat
or not. You are not angry, are you, Hardy ?”

‘““How stupid you are, Sunny; what is there to be
angry about?” rejoined Hardy. “Of course you can
come; only, I say, be quick, that’s all. You girls are
always such a long time putting your ‘things’ on, as
you call them.”

As you can imagine, they walked pretty briskly down
to old Rowly’s on this identical morning—the ground
seemed to fly from beneath their feet, as Sunny after-
wards said.

“Are you coming into old Rowly’s now, Hardy?”
his sister asked.

‘“Oh no—what’s the use?” was the answer. ‘“‘ You
can go in to him, while I run on to Rego’s, and fetch the
4 corn—or rather, hear about it.”

Rowly was standing at the door of his shed, how-
ever ; so Hardy could not escape from his jocularity.

‘What! haven’t you got time to say good morning
_| toa poor old chap like me?” he began, as Hardy walked


136 A Cruise in the Acorn.



on alone towards Rego’s ancestral domains. ‘“ How-
somedever, she'll tell you that I spoke up for you, that I
did. The old lady said that you must be very shy and
cubbish; and I said no, you wasn’t; only few young
gentlemen liked young ladies at first, you know.”

These remarks stung poor Hardy to the quick ; how-
ever, he managed to control his resentment for the
moment, easing himself by a firm resolve to “give it to
Rowly, hot and strong, afterwards.” .

‘What a tease you are, Rowly!” said Sunny, turning
slowly into the old man’s hut after watching Hardy dis-
appear in the distance. _

“Oh, he don’t mind it, Miss Sunny!” laughed old
Rowly; ‘and if he do, it'll do him all the more
good, i'm sure. Have you heard any news of the
Acorn yet, Miss Sunny? or don’t you believe nothing
that I tell you °”

Hereupon, Sunny gave a full account tc Rowly of
the whole proceedings—of Rego’s visit, of the letter, in
fact, of the whole series of interesting adventures. And
yet, in spite of all this, the time seemed very long to her,
poor child! She could not help listening for Hardy’s
footsteps, and trying to judge by it of the success of the
undertaking. She could hardly bear Rowly’s jokes about
Hardy and the ladies, and the pretty lady who had found
the /corm, and she fancied she had been sitting inside
Rowly’s hut for at least three or four hours, when she
was aroused by a shout of “Sunny! Sunny! what do
you think of this? Sunny, look!”

‘Why, who’s that calling you, Miss Sunny?” said
Rowly; but Sunny had already flown out of the shed,
and was looking about her with a dismayed countenance,
for there was not a creature to be seen.




The Mystery Solved. 137

“Sunny, where are you? why don’t you look?” cried
Hardy; for it was he, undoubtedly.

She felt quite bewildered, and turned mechanically |
towards the narrow pathway leading to the river bank,
half wondering whether she were still dreaming, or what
' was the matter with her. Suddenly raising her eyes,
however she saw both Hardy and Rego; and, would
you believe it, they were both seated in the Acorn /.

The sail was gone; the boat looked much smaller
and more battered than she had imagined; still, there it
was, the 4corn, in which they had had their first cruise
—in which they had had their first small experience.

Children rarely take pleasure in the way which we
who are older take it; and Sunny’s delight was so great,
that I am afraid she would have had brain: fever had
she been a few years more advanced. As it was, she
rushed into Rowly’s shed, shrieking for the old man to
come and share her astonishment and pleasure.

‘Come along, Rowly!” she cried, seizing his hand,
and dragging him literally into the open air, and down
the pathway—“ come and see the 4coru again! You see
Hardy’s found it—hasn’t he? I told you he would.
Isn’t 1t wonderful! Why, you’re not half pleased
enough |”

“Well, Miss Sunny” gasped Rowly, ‘‘ I knew it was
found, because, if you remember, I was the first to tell
you on it yesterday, only you wouldn’t believe it, neither
on you; and Master Hardy got into his tantrums, and
there was no managing him at all, howsomedever.”

But Sunny had flown down the pathway, and Rowly,
finding that he was wasting his eloquence on the desert
air, contented himself with muttering, as he struggled
after her— .

s


138 A Cruise in the Acorn.



‘What a worrit children are, to be sure!”

“T say, Sunny!” shouted Hardy, when he saw his
sister approaching ; “isn’t this magnificent! Isn’t it
fine! Fancy the old corm coming back again! And
wasn’t it curious, its floating into Rego’s garden, too!”

“How about the lady that you was so anxious to
see, Master Hardy?” asked Rowly, with a dash of malice
in his expression, as he came up to the party.

‘Oh, do stop that nonsense, Rowly,” said Hardy,
with such an angry ring in his voice, that Rowly seemed
to think a cessation of hostilities was advisable for a
time at least ; while Rego burst into a roar of laughter.

I don’t fancy Sunny realised the allusions that were
being made, or understood the jokes that were going
forward. She was completely engrossed in the contem-
plation of the regained corm; and, in her estimation,
the little craft in which Hardy and she had enjoyed that
memorable cruise was, despite its shattered condition,
quite as interesting and valuable as the historical barge
of Cleopatra.

When, at lunch-time that day, papa and mamma and
Sunny and Hardy were discussing the mighty question
of the corn from every possible point of view, Sunny
said—

“Don’t you think, papa dear, we might ask Rego to
' go for a cruise with us one day? It would be so nice—
wouldn’t it ;. and he could help Hardy to row, and then
Hardy wouldn't be so tired.”

Here Hardy’s feelings overcame his prudence, and
he burst out—

‘Oh, nonsense, Sunny ; because, then, if Rego comes,
you know, his sister will be wanting. to come too,
bothering.”





The Mystery Solved. 139



“His what, Hardy!” cried Sunny, aghast ; while her
father and mother looked at each other and laughed.

‘“Rego’s sister, I said; didn't I ?” '

“ Rego’'s sister!” echoed Sunny, as if she could hardly
understand.

“Why, yes, of course, Rego’s sister,” answered Hardy;
“why shouldn’t Rego have a sister as well as anyone
else ?”

“Have you seen her?” asked Sunny, evidently too
much mystified now to be surprised at anything.

“Yes: I saw her to-day, when I went after the
A corn,” said Hardy.

‘What is she like, Hardy? Is she pretty and plea-
sant? How old is she?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hardy replied, crossly; “I think
Rego said she was seventeen or eighteen.”

“As old as that!” sighed Sunny, to whose young
imagination the age of eighteen—when childhood had
merged into young ladyhood—was the limit of all fun
and enjoyment? ‘Oh, then she won't care to come out
with us; will she, Hardy? Has she got light hair like
Rego’s, and blue eyes, Hardy ?”

‘‘Oh, yes; I suppose so,” answered Hardy, who was
bubbling with impatience. ‘Have you finished askin
questions, Sunny; because if you haven’t, you had better
put them down on a piece of paper, and put numbers to
them, and I’ll write down the answers for you to-night,
like an exercise.”

After this reproof, Sunny did not venture to ask any
more questions yet awhile. It became known, however,
gradually, that the reputation Rego’s sister had acquired
on the strength of her beauty was fully endorsed by our
friend Hardy. Having on the memorable day thanked |
140 A. Crutse in the Acorn.



Rego’s mother, that lady sent him to introduce himself
to her daughter. He dared not refuse this mild request,
and so it happened that directly he stepped on to the
wide stone terrace in front of the house, he saw Rego’s
sister, looking, as he confessed to Sunny one day, “ just
like a picture, you know, Sunny—with a blue dress, and
her hair all down, and blue eyes, and all that.” Her
name, he said, was Primula, or Primavera, or something
like that—he couldn’t remember; but Rego said it meant
‘spirit of spring.” This ideal sister had been very kind
to. Hardy, and had taken great interest in the finding of
the 4corn. She had been reading, Hardy said, and had
shewn him a passage in the book which she had declared
ought to be painted on the sail of the corn.

“What was the passage, Hardy?” Sunny asked.

Hardy answered, quite thoughtfully for him—

‘Oh, it was. only two lines of poetry, Sunny—

“**Acorns which the winds have scattered
Future navies may provide.’ ”

“What does it mean then, really?” said Sunny.

‘Well, then, it means that the acorns growing into
oaks are made, perhaps afterwards, into ships,” answered
Hardy.

‘‘ And I’ve been thinking, Sunny,” he added, presently,
‘that if I were ever to be a great sailor, you know, our
corn might provide future navies in a different way.”

Sunny’s only reply was a kiss.

CTEGORKYOD DD

Marcus Ward & Co., Printers, Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.


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'2012-05-27T23:07:31-04:00'
describe
'10244' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIJ' 'sip-files00133thm.jpg'
13fca540113051ce6e2a2e079fd9fbd2
b079b358b4ea5371c3889fe2d3fb1a305a65da96
'2012-05-27T23:03:55-04:00'
describe
'137014' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIK' 'sip-files00146.jpg'
1bbed2a4afd58e1261c39343a115df1e
63967b0bc209349c11634a1a405eb54b1c8d0040
'2012-05-27T23:04:07-04:00'
describe
'342' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIL' 'sip-files00001.pro'
e98b79ba6d7460886593ab15db36cecd
5b8851b4652974aa1de42b2a1a4e44cb04d05b44
'2012-05-27T23:03:39-04:00'
describe
'46914' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIM' 'sip-files00089.pro'
5922315696d108a53cc607066db57645
17b6022031d07e50068c51ccb950ce541fb41c59
'2012-05-27T23:05:13-04:00'
describe
'647' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIN' 'sip-files00077.txt'
022ae0a43490d8f45067cbee6bc6395a
b1b75656f0f81b1be3e6f31659a73a92ac8fb1bd
'2012-05-27T23:08:39-04:00'
describe
'1862' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIO' 'sip-files00089.txt'
d59cf4c234ccebd396e3ad7f063502e3
265b084c357cd97be871477e811c2f9763c8e758
'2012-05-27T23:07:07-04:00'
describe
'43533' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIP' 'sip-files00018.QC.jpg'
085ce10c50181cb56f15efec53f893ac
79b8a3b8095a6660dde5330dd7b7b60c5e7a497d
'2012-05-27T23:10:00-04:00'
describe
'4239996' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIQ' 'sip-files00004.tif'
ac24985ff7af3072ee2ecd414b5d925b
7d86e59f2b5be7e333426eace7c445df2c32bada
'2012-05-27T23:08:02-04:00'
describe
'9710' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIR' 'sip-files00122thm.jpg'
0e303e8fabcd8782b1b3b0615316b441
e3c7dacf7cc2cbb5e854c6343433ba87a0f7f744
'2012-05-27T23:04:18-04:00'
describe
'135865' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIS' 'sip-files00090.jpg'
da51c67d6264259f91fea544a54fba03
fc0d9eabbdad52cc345e133b1b66b6f43135822a
'2012-05-27T23:09:01-04:00'
describe
'515693' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIT' 'sip-files00062.jp2'
71cdd4ef84727e397723c7de66a79837
3be4238ad0df6ccc30b1b5cbfdfe5538c74b9f0a
'2012-05-27T23:09:38-04:00'
describe
'11228' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIU' 'sip-files00095thm.jpg'
fa8ba40d93ea3763371af4e3d863dbbf
986807e7ca8d06b2f37b4c2fe0103fb10ec5f577
'2012-05-27T23:06:06-04:00'
describe
'33242' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIV' 'sip-files00034.pro'
f059c5f2f8d4d8efcb8901c2830a3004
415a46cfe1d9335abbb6a732e1b80f4b75b883b5
'2012-05-27T23:05:37-04:00'
describe
'4179744' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIW' 'sip-files00093.tif'
28cd4f4bebbaa177d31a5393b8290f65
d7c1aa2cd2b546d9bd5c8eb75aefcb5bf39134c0
'2012-05-27T23:08:45-04:00'
describe
'10591' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIX' 'sip-files00068thm.jpg'
5c45b08e29554cd38fcc49b30377c9a0
a36cd399f621e8e7baa50478c2e17480e866eafc
'2012-05-27T23:03:37-04:00'
describe
'44268' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIY' 'sip-files00088.pro'
0fa9f2b2d1451eecfd1bc191b08d28cb
3797337addd1b8f868d335bfc5e567ce40c764f4
'2012-05-27T23:03:51-04:00'
describe
'12675368' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOIZ' 'sip-files00042.tif'
b0ad664cffdb4b11bfbb2ee81564e349
6418fa38928634144083ffd6920a52116c789c4c
'2012-05-27T23:03:53-04:00'
describe
'4146024' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJA' 'sip-files00091.tif'
bbc837a6fcd9cef81fbc7f1b7b40a34e
e6d50ad55186033e10a5303421f79effb0d76c7f
'2012-05-27T23:09:12-04:00'
describe
'4261596' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJB' 'sip-files00147.tif'
225d373e0f1485065484370bc36f9560
28eb2fcbd87c97423d6314af8cab8cbfb09a49e9
'2012-05-27T23:06:49-04:00'
describe
'42824' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJC' 'sip-files00130.QC.jpg'
5673a040bb77b70d5c19767f317202b2
d091de0e3a71f8f44ad115d7cd53559ea2c440f3
'2012-05-27T23:07:16-04:00'
describe
'40952' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJD' 'sip-files00097.QC.jpg'
ad6bccc8ad8b48fd7dcf9ae276aeef6b
c308b42fdb94813a2bba9a3e882eeec6a30e9455
'2012-05-27T23:04:53-04:00'
describe
'3959080' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJE' 'sip-files00039.tif'
38494b8f3aef21273544be52234f7e0e
621ffbb957e9069fda395c9b1bf4df20792eeecd
'2012-05-27T23:08:27-04:00'
describe
'4426856' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJF' 'sip-files00118.tif'
39184c6cb6514046e6457917a7a9800c
b4e8b66d2b3abd597ed920c0ccaae7d0476eca26
'2012-05-27T23:06:11-04:00'
describe
'534112' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJG' 'sip-files00148.jp2'
012aa7283e38f36329fcebe9ca3dcc4a
a3c0a9c5e9725dd0fb06f42bee1d36ae0db2c72a
'2012-05-27T23:03:19-04:00'
describe
'23800' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJH' 'sip-files00152.QC.jpg'
cf3fb8e66c1604b8be5f67fefa392467
7ff3e0b5bc8c49d10fd10ea4cc448cbcd589b544
'2012-05-27T23:03:25-04:00'
describe
'4208528' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJI' 'sip-files00109.tif'
4087e38d675b7bb732155eb69b51070a
a6a81925fa552b95513924477da777bc7e6674c2
'2012-05-27T23:08:01-04:00'
describe
'4275420' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJJ' 'sip-files00140.tif'
285db54753fc7aab4022b68cfd989d13
aee46c14ab5387853c555fa4b03e0001a27b3e05
'2012-05-27T23:10:48-04:00'
describe
'41889' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJK' 'sip-files00116.pro'
4827b65265023cbae24a508c9eebd385
b6c8abb0cc80a0c1de75929ed1162a38a4c99ddf
'2012-05-27T23:10:46-04:00'
describe
'133266' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJL' 'sip-files00060.jpg'
56c54fca902a32c43c641d789528a1ca
8aed578316685434971abbd6c94b3aa797f5d190
'2012-05-27T23:04:22-04:00'
describe
'1698' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJM' 'sip-files00025.txt'
66e6f6db7be33fe7102adb187e5b41b2
36940af6c56590f2c9a23659169e3b7ab8142879
'2012-05-27T23:07:54-04:00'
describe
'44281' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJN' 'sip-files00019.QC.jpg'
b0d814a52c4fefa9b9360d3f588f4a75
b0204534908bf53fd9231096ff8baa57369cf29b
'2012-05-27T23:06:35-04:00'
describe
'510553' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJO' 'sip-files00119.jp2'
25e2cd9d2509a0169b0a489ff2d84e05
7c015013875075ac0a0757fd1333ad6521f3687c
'2012-05-27T23:07:25-04:00'
describe
'136504' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJP' 'sip-files00071.jpg'
ba02e27cb8d8d4396a1d62c27fd944c4
c1130c3ce7ffe436b4b071e9e5ddcf576254e1c2
'2012-05-27T23:03:29-04:00'
describe
'10137' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJQ' 'sip-files00142thm.jpg'
4c957ef710fbd086e5ffc1315f126a8a
b5a99fbffcec9b78f3c310eb8bbe3369ec2354f6
'2012-05-27T23:07:47-04:00'
describe
'167802' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJR' 'sip-files00095.jpg'
ca80c584fb3ca0c669472f241e6fcb9a
30f4edd12dbe31c1affc368687406cca99a4d07a
'2012-05-27T23:06:51-04:00'
describe
'4158652' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJS' 'sip-files00103.tif'
36550ae1174827a8f44a7ad9e30b72c9
d641459d40ad2da535e4d117bbc256813e2998db
'2012-05-27T23:05:18-04:00'
describe
'4337472' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJT' 'sip-files00088.tif'
6dae560b7d2fea75ec432899feb7073a
cd2627bc15a4ecab170b8d27a0307a7024c1026f
'2012-05-27T23:09:42-04:00'
describe
'161229' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJU' 'sip-files00028.jpg'
72da1f3fc37d4d93248a3e5a59c40766
37f9a3ca3f65bb84b30fc3b51a7aa070a025e06f
'2012-05-27T23:07:42-04:00'
describe
'1917' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJV' 'sip-files00004thm.jpg'
bec087c6478f3694a83427cdb78b77b5
545c3a9693784c83b973396ee71d1311039a4b00
'2012-05-27T23:09:19-04:00'
describe
'2963' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJW' 'sip-files00147.txt'
250de0120808c21e4b446b14fa785789
1a7774f37cf320bea6122031322404a23bea2c66
'2012-05-27T23:07:12-04:00'
describe
'42465' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJX' 'sip-files00108.pro'
13ef7bff4f02f7cedc50f254e9d41993
ca288332533682950d269b731bb1acd2cd946f3e
'2012-05-27T23:10:02-04:00'
describe
'45365' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJY' 'sip-files00012.pro'
4dbf9191ca57f7fdb49d00d65fc4b123
782673ed0bf3807ff87a152b0745bb6f67cf7303
'2012-05-27T23:04:16-04:00'
describe
'31067' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOJZ' 'sip-files00005.jpg'
b77a1dcfc6d8d4e6900e29e6b420f02a
e4ff99f77acc6f55f084336761b098c656101aa9
'2012-05-27T23:09:58-04:00'
describe
'46564' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKA' 'sip-files00040.pro'
92c7e52dc837627e569c931e461f45cd
5be19fb026df641d4067c4a11c4d165797c54b29
'2012-05-27T23:05:48-04:00'
describe
'40807' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKB' 'sip-files00111.pro'
0b14875dba99aee2343d2e48f7f4bb07
cc3a1bb7249e6d39fc1f1e9b5240d823a7920c3f
'2012-05-27T23:03:44-04:00'
describe
'484234' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKC' 'sip-files00023.jp2'
f2c717f74fb3280e592534ba5aadd244
267f67b76b7140db1d12836736892db6bd719134
'2012-05-27T23:04:48-04:00'
describe
'40391' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKD' 'sip-files00148.QC.jpg'
b6f21eaee1e7874d48aec240250d4725
9e429de092e19458120678a94658bf9ded5c33e4
'2012-05-27T23:04:13-04:00'
describe
'10653' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKE' 'sip-files00110thm.jpg'
863207eca6c9b9180a81c109b87e2292
0d38eea789e189303e70ca417657f789d7923844
'2012-05-27T23:08:47-04:00'
describe
'9928' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKF' 'sip-files00074thm.jpg'
db2317dbd6dde41c90579a6ccb3d00e0
040d9f758fc2b13ca20af5afc4a3bd8593ee5233
'2012-05-27T23:03:22-04:00'
describe
'40779' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKG' 'sip-files00122.QC.jpg'
5d0b4904606ebe3fba8693e0a44b83a7
aadea4fc5e31261ae92c300d1709b80bf364ed94
'2012-05-27T23:11:05-04:00'
describe
'507368' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKH' 'sip-files00038.jp2'
c1ff8ab656641c0ddfd618c169dedf4a
68ec841930005ece79e851df67f9377ac0034626
'2012-05-27T23:11:03-04:00'
describe
'22983' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKI' 'sip-files00096.jpg'
44f9f5941a802edbcb76591f15991d3a
26d17333ec93e3bff90a67f9321147933adc61c5
'2012-05-27T23:03:45-04:00'
describe
'46957' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKJ' 'sip-files00134.pro'
4abe71d8e4b4ddab9bd1a4a22673bc24
1701b7f1260ecd7de7e2d51d628b150701a1c730
'2012-05-27T23:08:42-04:00'
describe
'19022' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKK' 'sip-files00008.jpg'
7320a1f44f14390733f69275049b53b5
8d3476548c6ca90c82b460f08dad0bba62ddc6b7
'2012-05-27T23:10:53-04:00'
describe
'143559' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKL' 'sip-files00076.jpg'
e177b09843445f1e2bc8b1cf902053ab
d90e89ac468f582cd8caf71b35f046622da4ed48
'2012-05-27T23:08:00-04:00'
describe
'9917' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKM' 'sip-files00086thm.jpg'
a53a6dd94a863e696e24b3c274905def
0aeb73fca8d63bb06ce30368d5fb4f62e37bdb5c
'2012-05-27T23:06:32-04:00'
describe
'534969' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKN' 'sip-files00014.jp2'
940b5f4dc7388c4f539bfcab5ac192fc
f147e874c81af79fcd40d7d48b93ec7243f61855
'2012-05-27T23:07:21-04:00'
describe
'10161' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKO' 'sip-files00130thm.jpg'
13c719f07ad8861ffa6a7b0e3353ea86
6eea62d0d9786baeae886d8618bf3c3787e2d087
'2012-05-27T23:07:26-04:00'
describe
'540397' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKP' 'sip-files00074.jp2'
a722082a20a63ee30b27e867844eca08
ce654a1dba308b7c01775fe56c977ade12e88ae9
describe
'1505' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKQ' 'sip-files00008thm.jpg'
d9b5e6e72babdd95ade088276fb057d8
fd3fc653fc3f22d72ca0f4eae7b727e2367f9b02
describe
'10605' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKR' 'sip-files00018thm.jpg'
659296a380caef8dee7476d5265850bb
07603ba42463a263d6782c4d711471e7a720baef
'2012-05-27T23:05:33-04:00'
describe
'504937' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKS' 'sip-files00045.jp2'
ded8220801b670ee2f7660fcd8fe15c9
798279860a4580dcdb7c4b6b36c5492e73b27ee2
'2012-05-27T23:10:06-04:00'
describe
'1902428' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKT' 'sip-files00153.tif'
91ac777ef106f0ee0ff6a976f645ebf8
87da404e0e64104b756ccb6d33227103d38dd22a
'2012-05-27T23:08:14-04:00'
describe
'42069' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKU' 'sip-files00058.pro'
2501157496b976fda1aeee7a6e46a48a
b5f9b72de161ae654d47cf572c22d7832b944fbc
'2012-05-27T23:04:12-04:00'
describe
'516633' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKV' 'sip-files00081.jp2'
ae6460b123735f8e89f355aff5ab40e7
d0149d2e4f83a0ee1f47691ae8a261679b3827b6
'2012-05-27T23:06:47-04:00'
describe
'140717' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKW' 'sip-files00097.jpg'
cf7ff2e699b10ae47438350f5185c935
6faa412c88f0fa6f16aacce0a45858c07117b375
'2012-05-27T23:07:32-04:00'
describe
'141941' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKX' 'sip-files00034.jpg'
fa0ba9d808f4f46242412cc699d29af3
8cfc7994c5cf5ca006ee03a569773769054b144f
'2012-05-27T23:04:28-04:00'
describe
'44986' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKY' 'sip-files00002.jpg'
4e7083635ccc026367438ab6a5ebd974
f16921b7ea781b5670c2d97324dd29d97da71c27
'2012-05-27T23:10:05-04:00'
describe
'10365' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOKZ' 'sip-files00076thm.jpg'
74e383cdfe2524bc9c57ba1670871ba1
ebc23d19541166233ded8dc8d62beb33fd95b3f1
'2012-05-27T23:10:49-04:00'
describe
'508135' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLA' 'sip-files00013.jp2'
cfbd2b01fd8ac530a6786ae0511cd4b8
8bcacf344e3c7718256f6c3be4e11f6a1e902e9d
'2012-05-27T23:03:42-04:00'
describe
'1669' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLB' 'sip-files00097.txt'
e6a2fded7e2ce614d3de05bee742078a
c703871543cd8828a60e32cc48fdf50d6251a77f
'2012-05-27T23:10:11-04:00'
describe
'9686' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLC' 'sip-files00121thm.jpg'
f60a08d0df4967d5c5e47731bc391a5b
9757b04ab0447ca7b47907dcec9ec2e7f1343f6d
'2012-05-27T23:10:04-04:00'
describe
'521037' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLD' 'sip-files00089.jp2'
fe09c2578b86563315b1b6a999ba3808
e86cae1a9dcb09355e76ace47ed65220dfa78e36
'2012-05-27T23:06:36-04:00'
describe
'155591' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLE' 'sip-files00027.jpg'
b95e6a980dbb7e1febca45e5629dc6de
482fe33e8b2e63cc96e27ecd3fe2ac8546c20c80
describe
'4337648' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLF' 'sip-files00064.tif'
2861d841a9f4809ea3ba986635a9cce2
15f4019c7412b3932172af58f820879df420548e
'2012-05-27T23:05:17-04:00'
describe
'10028' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLG' 'sip-files00098thm.jpg'
e90d3f2ec0aac17025ccccec90eae8b6
d696b2372b224057c1c6bbbe38c4a398fdbf4a64
'2012-05-27T23:05:27-04:00'
describe
'36935' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLH' 'sip-files00011.QC.jpg'
c4848bf85dbe086e6c7c90115249c004
8a0c053e0642b5ab40086f0ab25c9428ce706ed9
'2012-05-27T23:05:51-04:00'
describe
'40089' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLI' 'sip-files00034.QC.jpg'
080d31e63e695b96470049c7d29d842b
2b5c5c3d45f2dd4b3d0db66171247c02f234e232
'2012-05-27T23:09:06-04:00'
describe
'44709' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLJ' 'sip-files00028.pro'
b89bec8670dd1e46e0075d473da8fbb3
3c15578f5429ca3b55c50fe69a714141efdba62c
'2012-05-27T23:04:46-04:00'
describe
'1816' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLK' 'sip-files00132.txt'
ad33b450cdc8dc1d4a84ecb118a3da66
6b3dc486180974bb59ebc61099d445c829d5cf13
'2012-05-27T23:04:58-04:00'
describe
'278' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLL' 'sip-files00126.pro'
17abd4864e8890c297cb9eb71357df8c
afa71d9c006860b6a6bfd5bc24039ff9e6a5aeda
'2012-05-27T23:08:31-04:00'
describe
'4080108' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLM' 'sip-files00026.tif'
7b26ec1a9b396d6bb1a2de7a7d58fe43
cbbdb2d6f20e026f5a5cae45b19e73008acd9d06
describe
'1631' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLN' 'sip-files00018.txt'
925d531a00805b14bbca46ab0483ae39
4d5b0dbf00ee22a93c0c2717f243a357e08f1821
'2012-05-27T23:04:19-04:00'
describe
'144439' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLO' 'sip-files00143.jpg'
defd6b45d348b17a04166c113cb4c5bd
dc8f53118a2d3a343b06b679e3ef9a23092af5f2
'2012-05-27T23:04:40-04:00'
describe
'42647' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLP' 'sip-files00075.pro'
9c64e702cf9ed8d33af6edeacaefd23f
5e374fc5592e3ebd7842482f3a74a499a50e4d71
'2012-05-27T23:09:03-04:00'
describe
'4345372' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLQ' 'sip-files00005.tif'
0c4f5b63023430dc7fcb9e7d099e9647
a92b0674972e512c0ee60336e866c9e70631fe07
'2012-05-27T23:06:23-04:00'
describe
'143638' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLR' 'sip-files00062.jpg'
87f35291b3d9c0fe8d5addb05050266b
d01f4ec0635f3958717d2fda6ec83f84c25f51e6
'2012-05-27T23:06:15-04:00'
describe
'1671' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLS' 'sip-files00142.txt'
b2f91df28d13799ac4b9cbf6ec3a90c6
1742883ec044d4479cc1ac1864096980766921d3
'2012-05-27T23:08:38-04:00'
describe
'116981' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLT' 'sip-files00105.jpg'
a0b51b0a62d5931c0947c6b6ebdf4890
0158c4b0c76ef3009f012b373da61545bc1b9e59
'2012-05-27T23:08:56-04:00'
describe
'549480' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLU' 'sip-files00128.jp2'
74e4de26554e51641c48db183625ba71
70f3071335f0887f9da02174ad070f4e598a4e9d
'2012-05-27T23:03:21-04:00'
describe
'4090304' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLV' 'sip-files00020.tif'
534664ff8aacf5e49e352fc10c8cebd9
8d07d2d944045235d87d5ba522270d48cce60c55
'2012-05-27T23:09:02-04:00'
describe
'42878' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLW' 'sip-files00143.QC.jpg'
921613ec882a26104dd56ef91e6f9389
2e069cf1609c1548c2cde7340123914a54ccb21d
'2012-05-27T23:09:04-04:00'
describe
'43715' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLX' 'sip-files00118.pro'
11c7476e762d1e46d1755fa3d34b66ff
213464cd4997e7fe6a3d63c188a163c8eeff8b4b
'2012-05-27T23:05:41-04:00'
describe
'514096' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLY' 'sip-files00068.jp2'
14fba93613c9771346a900a31e2ea072
8f56c8fd7599cf068c5d6550248cdf4d8a9f15bf
'2012-05-27T23:04:09-04:00'
describe
'4843' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOLZ' 'sip-files00009.pro'
01c5b2933b6813977f5577bd86f203a5
827550351877baf40554eff4a9339125a7795d66
'2012-05-27T23:03:33-04:00'
describe
'527466' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMA' 'sip-files00042.jp2'
30b38434c94058541d6afba0c270374c
5ebfa5e3d1ddde27df39b1e98c1eb1a7a2610388
describe
'530470' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMB' 'sip-files00130.jp2'
f13fe96aa1065ce1f4cfe51d0ee1c02f
b2f1def23f560567531a5ae470819623967b043d
'2012-05-27T23:07:27-04:00'
describe
'40571' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMC' 'sip-files00116.QC.jpg'
c6167af9f5a4306c6da3a9d8a954aea7
7534c51569b574e5eb43a9a4e799b4713d5cdd31
'2012-05-27T23:09:55-04:00'
describe
'524039' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMD' 'sip-files00121.jp2'
22c738c63212305a06320d0f3c436ab6
fb727861595695a8f8c31ed6458afef30ae8adbd
'2012-05-27T23:08:20-04:00'
describe
'496572' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOME' 'sip-files00051.jp2'
50bd5ab117205397b075438f39e542a9
97f02b797d42d02d2ec933129cf995e7bbafd519
'2012-05-27T23:06:58-04:00'
describe
'10567' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMF' 'sip-files00038thm.jpg'
4c713fa1ceb2b6d21431597cdb366afd
998f2366f5c903b305b96020456c7476d55095c6
'2012-05-27T23:06:48-04:00'
describe
'1678' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMG' 'sip-files00051.txt'
cdf94a8b262f42e01f91830f1161ce03
5fbe3c4753d2a3a4baa9bfea7e549d084ec33414
'2012-05-27T23:03:43-04:00'
describe
'3988436' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMH' 'sip-files00028.tif'
b5cc3ba44ccbe94cf730b75d32b29701
4eb01dc943d827dc8478fa9d2bec4e5ea6bd6e5d
describe
'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMI' 'sip-files00064.jp2'
385a5345e67b72fc4d0de8af2c9a2bce
1e344085bc96d8f3baa2eac72c0973641808556a
'2012-05-27T23:03:40-04:00'
describe
'148682' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMJ' 'sip-files00030.jpg'
67dce61073e143e11e3cd16d3a50aa8b
3b1a8e53dd74a81e9d1e096930235dcb082fb544
'2012-05-27T23:07:58-04:00'
describe
'1836' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMK' 'sip-files00040.txt'
d75c1d0f9c6ac4c49be806660a623207
55fe0f6f84fa7e0d816688dc2593be06ffcd4579
'2012-05-27T23:08:58-04:00'
describe
'39500' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOML' 'sip-files00102.QC.jpg'
0077fec7698800c66e4d638eae871b03
2dad222ec948302402054753bfd58143db1446b0
describe
'516409' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMM' 'sip-files00143.jp2'
78d24cc6533edbd9da82925713872d80
010e3b764a485524e121090bea3ab9cc6684e8eb
'2012-05-27T23:04:34-04:00'
describe
'4191124' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMN' 'sip-files00056.tif'
d082712d7fa9c582021ea7810e0d3e6a
32b9986cc3826dfa076576e5e6ae70835e66c99c
'2012-05-27T23:04:08-04:00'
describe
'14189944' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMO' 'sip-files00002.tif'
418faa0405c0929ae680c5a78bd1bf52
a73ad5cddf0aa15c1ae793fdb45322f659a59598
'2012-05-27T23:05:53-04:00'
describe
'551547' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMP' 'sip-files00102.jp2'
035446d4fa3f3588c14c42487c5a92ce
bfc3f94a857fcfdf5896ad93249fe64bea54019a
'2012-05-27T23:10:55-04:00'
describe
'3481' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMQ' 'sip-files00146.txt'
c7f8ef4e9b717199dbb3031d84a59703
1bf054b6e0580ce1cc8d3c1e3570dabdd1aef9ef
'2012-05-27T23:04:51-04:00'
describe
'4145904' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMR' 'sip-files00143.tif'
85d474472404a7cb1c0b97eac622bddc
718b2ce926283bfa01764f35a913aba8459a0b1e
'2012-05-27T23:06:41-04:00'
describe
'163199' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMS' 'sip-files00055.jpg'
df58a4560960c34e2d674085486347b6
09c07f9f7c219126dc88d2b41b8e709d54386bbe
'2012-05-27T23:09:18-04:00'
describe
'4442040' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMT' 'sip-files00008.tif'
d947fd21076b07525d3738d0cb9c973f
154e1daa40123b2bec439ed2ef4e88b85ce7eebf
'2012-05-27T23:09:45-04:00'
describe
'154852' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMU' 'sip-files00021.jpg'
f2e46b09cb66870e210db159d242fd7d
5e443ce81548ed2ddda3f58d6c519b6834636925
'2012-05-27T23:05:57-04:00'
describe
'129265' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMV' 'sip-files00078.jpg'
47eea95db3c6e00cf5b196e1c43d6507
8c8ae6877bdab70671ad0c0c6745dcb29bd730e7
'2012-05-27T23:05:43-04:00'
describe
'10253' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMW' 'sip-files00064thm.jpg'
0377f74a36c1f821b8143f41dcee221f
c930bc13dd29aa4172d0a89a97187bd91223cd02
'2012-05-27T23:06:33-04:00'
describe
'4154036' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMX' 'sip-files00046.tif'
c0bd13d5c4750fc1b2d964a51067b909
4faea23319745cc56938fc024aedfac3262f6382
'2012-05-27T23:04:15-04:00'
describe
'1765' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMY' 'sip-files00121.txt'
16913a2e8f880739b26caa6236579b8a
e93b1b29379c365a73af838b6b1fa7957c759d2b
'2012-05-27T23:05:50-04:00'
describe
'513303' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOMZ' 'sip-files00133.jp2'
59a36730c99781d60750face1a1dd9da
4a43c61e46ffb7b3e203a8e6185c6bfb9638462d
'2012-05-27T23:08:48-04:00'
describe
'156678' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABONA' 'sip-files00039.jpg'
6d8f21eda7909831979075e64459e57f
ec35f49664e0370065d76240838fea859bfeeb05
'2012-05-27T23:04:11-04:00'
describe
'4179692' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABONB' 'sip-files00138.tif'
7ad1bf498074c3d526a3a430be5865b8
acebc28c6cb654ea1354d7f4424ad44b68904d95
'2012-05-27T23:09:41-04:00'
describe
'9388' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABONC' 'sip-files00099thm.jpg'
78008b0a52c47b99a612132644c57ce9
ab122807daa9c128856ef80dec4ed7453004dabc
'2012-05-27T23:03:59-04:00'
describe
'149878' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABOND' 'sip-files00015.jpg'
6052e4d77ab09ee7404e7543a4f0b45e
6bb97bd71fa8ce8c7d85cfdaac7747153c42c688
'2012-05-27T23:04:36-04:00'
describe
'229763' 'info:fdaE20100409_AAAAJOfileF20100409_AABONE' 'sip-filesUF00028180_00001.xml'
4d4c1201cb939efcee1ed800d28d9e1c
5ec56e928d58984e5ee0be0dffdc5aa1865332c0
describe
TargetNamespace.1: Expecting namespace 'http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/ufdc2/', but the target namespace of the schema document is 'http://digital.uflib.ufl.edu/metadata/ufdc2/'.
'2013-12-10T08:47:19-05:00' 'mixed'
xml resolution
http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/ufdc2/ufdc2.xsd
BROKEN_LINK http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/ufdc2/ufdc2.xsd
WARNING CODE 'Daitss::Anomaly' The element type "div" must be terminated by the matching end-tag "