“GRANDPAPA,” said Sam, as the two walked home together, “isn’t it too bad about Billy?”
“It certainly is,” replied Grandpapa.
“Something must be done about it,” said Sam; then he walked silently for a while, thinking very hard. At last he said,—
“Grandpapa, God made me. Did the same man make you?”
“Yes,” replied Grandpapa, “I suppose he did.”
“Don’t you know for certain?” asked Sam, for Grandpapa’s eyes were smiling hard.
“Oh, yes,” replied Grandpapa, “of course I do.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking it over,” said Sam, “and I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to pray to God every night to make Billy see.”
“It will be a very good plan,” replied Grandpapa.
“You see I always pray for what I want most at Christmas time,” said Sam.
“And it comes, doesn’t it?” asked Grandpapa.
“Yes,” replied Sam, “it always comes. I prayed real hard for a pony last Christmas, and I got one, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said Grandpapa, his eyes still smiling as he watched the earnest face of his grandson.
“I asked for a black pony with a star on his forehead, and it came just exactly right. So, you see,” continued Sam, “that if I ask God every night to make Billy see, He will be sure to do it.”
“I hope so,” said Grandpapa.
“Why, it wouldn’t be half so hard as it was to hustle around to find just the kind of pony I asked for.”
“So I should think,” replied Grandpapa. “Black ponies with white stars on their foreheads are not so easy to find.”
“No,” said Sam, thoughtfully, “I know it. How long will it be before Christmas comes, Grandpapa?”
“Only a very short time,—about two weeks.”
“Well, I shall just tell God that He needn’t bother about that dog-cart,” said Sam, with his determined nod. “I shall tell Him that I would rather He would make Billy see.”
“That is a good idea, Sam,” said Grandpapa. “I know you would enjoy having poor Billy see as you do, much more than you would to have your dog-cart.”
“Yes,” replied Sam with a little sigh, for he had been looking forward for a long time to the pleasure of driving his pony in a dog-cart. “I can ride him just as well as not.”
By this time they had reached home, and Sam hurried up the steps, he was so eager to tell Grandmamma about Billy. Sam’s papa and mamma were travelling in Europe, with his little sister Anne, and he was staying with his grandparents. He was so fond of them that he was not at all lonely.
“I miss Anne very much, and I should like to see Papa and Mamma,” he had remarked to his nurse Mary one day; “but grandpapas and grandmammas let you do a great many more things than papas and mammas do.”
“Oh, you mustn’t say that,” Mary had replied.
“Mary,” Sam had said very earnestly, “how would you like to be spanked with a hair-brush?”
Mary had made no reply to this argument; and Sam, in response to her silence, had said with the positive air of one who has had experience,—
“Well, then!”
On this day Sam found his grandmamma seated in her sunny sewing-room, and he was in such a hurry to tell her all about Billy that he gave her a very confused idea of the matter. The fire and Jack and the little blind boy became so mixed up in his story that it was some time before she understood the case.
Now Sam’s grandmamma was just exactly as nice for a grandmamma as his grandpapa was for a grandpapa, and Sam loved one just as well as the other. “The only difference is that Grandmamma was never a little boy like me, same as Grandpapa was,” Sam used to say.
“We must see what can be done for the poor child,” said Grandmamma when Sam had finished his story.
Then Sam told his plan about asking God to make Billy see, and Grandmamma thought it an excellent plan, only that perhaps it couldn’t be brought about by Christmas, because the time was very near.
“But don’t you see, Grandmamma,” said Sam, “that if God doesn’t have to hunt around for the dog-cart, it will be a great deal easier to make Billy see?”
So, when Sam went to bed that night, he said his simple prayer in this way,—
“Oh, dear God, you needn’t bother about that dog-cart, if you will only make poor Billy see as I do; and please take care of Papa and Mamma, and don’t let the ship tip over; and take care of Grandpapa and Grandmamma too, and make Sam a good boy.”
“You haven’t prayed for your little sister,” said Grandmamma, as Sam’s prayer came to a sudden end.
“Oh, Anne sleeps with Nora, she’s all right,” replied Sam, confidently.
The next day Sam said to his grandpapa,—
“Can’t I go to the park to-day to feed the birds and squirrels?”
“I think you can,” replied Grandpapa, “and how should you like to take Billy too?”
“Why, he can’t see, you know, so it wouldn’t be any fun for him,” said Sam.
“But you can see,” said Grandpapa, “and you can lend him your eyes.”
Sam looked so puzzled at this that his grandpapa explained: “You can tell him what you see, and he can imagine how everything looks. He will see the picture with his mind instead of with his eyes. That is imagination.”
“It is a very strange thing,” said Sam, thoughtfully.
“You see that blind people think so much about what they cannot see, that they make a great many pictures in their minds. If they were not able to do that, they would be very lonely.”
Then Sam hurried down to ask Cook to give him some bread for the birds, and to fill a basket with nuts for the squirrels. He also took some canary and hemp seeds in a little package. By the time this was done, the sleigh had driven up to the door, and Sam and his grandpapa started on their expedition, Sam throwing kisses to his grandmamma at the window so long as the house was in sight. Then they turned the corner and soon reached the engine-house.
Billy’s pale face grew quite rosy when he was told of the sleigh-ride he was to have, and in a moment his warm coat and cap were on and he was led to the sleigh by Sam, who took great care of him for fear he should make a misstep. The Fire-Dog followed closely at his heels, and watched him put into the big sleigh and securely tucked in with the warm fur robe.
“Can’t Jack go too?” asked Sam, as he saw the wistful expression in the faithful dog’s eyes.
“Certainly, if he will,” replied Grandpapa.
Jack, however, was not the dog to neglect his duties, and in spite of Sam’s and Billy’s alluring calls, he gently but firmly wagged his tail, to express his regret at being obliged to refuse their invitation. As they drove off, he looked mournfully after them so long as the sleigh was in sight, then he gave a sigh of disappointment and lay down in front of the engine-house, where he could enjoy the passing, and occasionally pass the time of day with some dog friend, or make the acquaintance of some stranger passing through the city, for Jack was a social dog. Here, too, he was within hearing of the gong.
Meanwhile the sleigh continued on its way to the park, the faces of the two little boys beaming with pleasure,—Billy’s at the unusual treat of a sleigh-ride, and Sam’s from watching the happiness of the little blind boy.
Sam was so eager to point out to Billy everything of interest to him, that he was kept busy describing the objects of interest they passed. The grandpapa’s face reflected the happiness in the two boys’ faces, and his pleasant smile grew very tender as he saw the delight of the blind boy in the scenes his poor blind eyes could not see.
When, as they passed a group of merry, shouting boys building a snow fort which Sam reported faithfully to his little friend, and Billy, quite excited at Sam’s description had wistfully asked, “Are they all seeing children, Sam?” Sam, greatly distressed at the question, had replied, “There is one fellow that looks kind of blind,—he’s having an awfully good time, though;” then Grandpapa’s smile grew more tender still, and he told the two boys about the schools where those who could not see were taught to do whatever those who could see did.
“Can they play the way the seeing children do?” asked Billy, eagerly.
“Yes,” replied Grandpapa, “and we will send you to one of them.”
Billy was silent, and seemed to be thinking about something.
“Should you not like to go, Billy?” asked Sam’s grandpapa. “The children are very happy there.”
“I would rather find my mother,” replied Billy, with a quiver of the lips.
“We will find her, never fear,” replied kind-hearted Mr. Ledwell, who could never bear to see anybody unhappy; and he began a story so interesting that Billy was soon listening intently and had forgotten for the time about the dear mother whom he wanted so much to see. By the time the story was ended, the houses were farther and farther apart, then snow-covered fields were passed, and Sam was kept busy in describing the frozen ponds where boys and girls were skating and playing, and the hillsides down which they were coasting. Then woods with real forest trees appeared, and Sam explained that they were now in the park. Here and there a gray squirrel’s bright eyes peeped down upon the sleigh, and Sam reported just how they whisked their bushy tails and ran from bough to bough, occasionally stopping to take a peep.
As they went farther into the park, a colony of sparrows would now and then fly up from a clump of bushes, and hurry away as if the sleigh contained a party of ferocious hunters, instead of two kind little boys bringing them food. They took care to keep the sleigh in sight, for Sam and his basket were old friends, and they knew the feast in store for them. So they followed at a distance, for sparrows like to consider themselves martyrs, and to act as if they were a persecuted set. This is not to be wondered at, when we remember the way they have been treated. Their nests have been torn down, they have been driven from one place to another, and they have been made to feel that they are not wanted anywhere.
Suddenly there arose on the still, frosty air discordant cries, and Sam exclaimed,—
“There come the blue jays, Billy! Oh, you don’t know how handsome they are, with their tufts standing straight up on their heads, and their beautiful blue and white bodies and wings!”
“Are they as big as the pigeons?” asked Billy, for he had held the little black and white lame pigeon in his arms and knew just what size they were.
“Not quite so large as a pigeon,” replied Sam, “but fully as large as a robin. They are awfully quarrelsome fellows, though; just hear how hard they are scolding now.”
“Will they come and eat the crumbs?” asked Billy.
“Yes, and get the biggest share of them too,” replied Sam.
“We had better stop here,” said Mr. Ledwell, as they came to an open, sunny spot.
So the sleigh stopped, and Sam and his grandpapa got out and helped Billy out, who looked as happy and eager as Sam did. He did not look about him, though, as Sam did, and see that the sparrows had stationed themselves on neighboring trees, all ready to begin their feast so soon as the crumbs were scattered. Neither did he see the bright flashes of blue as the jays alighted on the trees near by, nor the tame and nimble squirrels who came closer than the birds, hopping over the snow to Sam’s very feet. All these things Sam explained, however, and Billy understood.
Billy, too, threw the crumbs, and held nuts in his hand for the squirrels, laughing with delight as he felt the trusting little creatures eat from his fingers.
All at once arose a blithe song of “Chickadee-dee-dee-dee;” and a flock of little chickadees came flying up, quite out of breath with their hurry.
“Chickadee-dee-dee-dee,” they all cried together, as they bustled about to pick up what crumbs they could; and their song said as plainly as words could have done,—
“Are we too late? I do hope you have left some for us.”
They were so sweet-tempered about it, not even losing temper when the greedy sparrows darted in and seized crumbs from under their very beaks, that it was impossible not to love them.
“Such dear little black caps as they have!” said Sam. “Here, you great greedy jay, you let that little fellow’s crumbs alone!”
A blue jay had snatched a crumb away from one of the little chickadees, but the chickadee only replied blithely, “Chickadee-dee-dee-dee!” which in bird language meant: “No matter! Plenty more to be had! A little thing like that does not matter.”
This both the little boys understood the chickadee to say, for those who love animals learn to understand much of their language.
Then arose a hoarse cry of “Caw! caw! caw!” and several coal-black crows flew down at a distance. They did not come boldly into the midst of the group of feeding birds, because they preferred always to conduct their business with great secrecy. One would occasionally walk on the outskirts of the party with an air of great indifference, pretending not to see what was going on; then suddenly he would dart in their midst and seize upon a particularly large crumb, and, hurrying off with it, stand with his back to the others, eating it in the slyest manner, as if he expected at any moment to have it taken away from him.
There was one bird that even Sam’s bright eyes did not see. He had a timid look, as if he could not make friends so easily as the social chickadees. He crept along a large tree that grew near the spot where the birds and squirrels were feeding, and creeping in the same cautious manner on the under side of a large bough that stretched out toward the spot, hung head downward, watching intently what went on beneath him. None of the birds took the slightest notice of him, but his quick eyes glanced at them all, and finally rested on the face of the blind boy, who patiently listened to the explanations of the kind friend who loaned him the use of his eyes.
This shy little bird who watched the two boys so narrowly, was the nuthatch. As soon as the sleigh had driven away, the nuthatch came down from the tree, creeping along the trunk, head downward, and seized upon the fine kernel of a nut a squirrel was eating.
The chickadees were loudly singing the praises of the visitors who had brought them such a delicious treat. Even the blue jays, who were usually very chary of their praise, had a pleasant word for their friend Sam, who so often brought them food.
“There was a strange boy with him,” cawed an old crow. “Who knows anything about him?”
“He was not a seeing child,” chirped the nuthatch. “He could not see the blue sky, nor the trees, nor any of us. Who can he be?”
“We know all about him,” twittered the sparrows. “It is the blind boy who lives in the engine-house. Fire-Jack saved his life; we see him very often.”
Then an incessant twittering arose from the sparrows, who were in such a hurry to tell all they knew that they all talked at once.
CHAPTER FOURTH
AFTER the two boys had driven off to the park to feed the birds, Jack, as we have seen, watched the sleigh so long as it was in sight. Then he lay down in a sunny spot in front of the engine-house door, where he would be warm and at the same time see the passing. Dogs, of course, interested him most, and this was such a thoroughfare that he saw a good many of them.
The dogs that interested him the most were those from out of town who were passing through the city, following a carriage or team. It was very pleasant to meet an old acquaintance in that way, and exchange a few words with him, for Jack was such a business dog that he allowed himself few pleasures, and did not have the opportunity of roaming about the city that dogs enjoy so much. Out-of-town dogs were very interesting because they didn’t take on any airs, and often told him things about their country homes that he liked to hear.
The most irritating of all dogs are the dogs that are in carriages. They take on a very superior air that all dogs who are not driving dislike particularly. In fact, as they pass, they often make insulting remarks to the less fortunate dogs who go on foot. Also dogs who are driving are very jealous of others who are enjoying the same privilege, and often talk most impertinently to one another.
Several dogs in carriages passed while Jack lay in the door of the engine-house, and they either looked straight ahead and turned up their noses, pretending not to see him, or else they made some insolent remark. Jack paid no attention whatever to them, knowing that nothing would irritate them so much as to find that their impertinence had no effect upon him.
A large, amiable farm-dog following a charcoal wagon particularly interested the Fire-Dog. He stopped a few minutes in order to tell the little news he had, which was that the hens were on a strike and had refused to lay any more until they were furnished with warmer quarters.
“That accounts for the high price of eggs,” said Jack; “I thought something was wrong. Well, I hope they will get what they want. Give them the compliments of Jack the Fire-Dog, and tell them to stick.”
“There is one other piece of news,” said the farm-dog. “One of my neighbors is missing. He is a little yellow dog with a black pug nose, and answers to the name of Toby. Followed his team into the city with a load of wood one day last week and hasn’t been seen since. If you come across him, let us know, will you? The city is awfully confusing to country dogs.”
“I will be on the lookout for him,” said Jack. “‘Yellow dog with a black pug nose, answers to the name of Toby.’ Say,” continued Jack, as the other was starting to run after his team, “what shall I do with him if I happen to find him, which isn’t at all likely?”
“Keep him till I come by next week, or send him home if he knows the way;” and the farm-dog ran after his team, that was now nearly out of sight.
For a while nothing of especial interest happened to divert the Fire-Dog. He took several naps, keeping one eye open to see what was going on about him. Suddenly he started and opened both eyes. A group of children were coming toward him, one of them leading a dog by a string. Something about the children attracted Jack’s attention. They were not very warmly clothed for the season of the year, but they seemed happy and good-natured. They were evidently very fond of their dog, for they stopped often to pat him and speak to him.
“Where have I seen those children?” asked Jack of himself. “I am sure I have seen them before;” and he tried hard to recall their faces.
“I have it!” he exclaimed at last. “It was the night of the fire when we found the blind kid, and they are the children who looked after him.”
He looked at the dog the children were leading. “‘Yellow dog with a black pug nose, answers to the name of Toby.’ Well, who would have thought I should hear from him so soon? Hallo, Toby! is that you?”
“Yes,” replied Toby; “but who are you, and how do you happen to know my name?”
Jack quickly arose and stepped up to the little yellow dog. The children good-naturedly waited for them to exchange the time of day, during which time Jack managed to explain to Toby his interview with the large farm-dog. “I did not expect to hear from you so soon,” said Jack, “but now that I have, we must make our plans in a hurry. I suppose you want to go back to your old home?”
“Of course I do. After having a whole town to roam about in, it isn’t very pleasant to be tied up in an old shed.”
“Why didn’t you run away?” asked Jack.
“I wasn’t sure of my way. It is terribly confusing to a country dog to find his way about in a city. Besides, these children are very good to me, and I was afraid of falling into worse hands.”
“You know how to slip your collar, I suppose?” asked Jack.
“Sometimes I can, but this strap is pretty tight,” replied Toby.
“I see that your education has been neglected, so I will give you a few instructions given me by an old bull-dog, Boxer by name, who could slip any collar that was ever invented.”
“I should be very glad to hear them,” replied little Toby.
“Well, first you back out just as far as your rope will allow you to go. Then you gradually work your head from side to side, with your chin well up in the air, kind of wriggling your head free. If your collar is tight, that doesn’t always work; so next you lie flat on your back, keeping your nose as high up as you can get it. You can kind of ease it up with your fore feet, too. You do just as I’ve told you and you’ll find yourself free in time. I stump any one to make a collar that these rules won’t work on.”
“I’ll do my best,” said little Toby.
“The bull-dog I told you of, did a thing once that I wouldn’t have believed if I hadn’t known it to be a fact. He had slipped so many collars that they had a sort of harness made for him with a strap that went back of his fore legs. Well, one morning they found that he had slipped that. It beats the Dutch how he managed to do it, but he did it all right. It took him all night to do it, and in the morning they found him all used up, and lying as if he were dead. He was quite an old dog then, and not so strong as he used to be, but you know bull-dogs never give up anything they undertake.”
“Did he get well?” asked Toby, much interested.
“I’ll tell you. As I said before, he lay like a dead dog, and it was warm and sunny out of doors, so they carried him out and laid him in the sun. After a while he seemed to take an interest in things about him,—wagged his tail when they spoke to him and all that. Bull-dogs are awfully affectionate, you know. Then they began to have a little hope for him, when who should come along but another dog he knew? There had been some bad blood between the two, and what do you think? No sooner does my old friend catch sight of the other than up he jumps and runs after him. Of course he was too feeble to do anything in the fighting line, but his intentions were good.”
“Wasn’t the excitement too much for him?” asked Toby, anxiously.
“Not a bit of it. It did him good,—limbered him up and set him right on his legs. Bull-dogs are tough.”
“I should like to know him,” said Toby, modestly. “He must be a remarkable dog.”
“He certainly is,” replied the Fire-Dog. “I should like to introduce you, but the fact is, we are not on speaking terms now. He means well, Boxer does, but he’s kind of jealous-minded. You see it gives me quite a position to run with the engine, and Boxer, he feels equal to the business, and it kind of riles him to see me setting off to a fire. I suppose he thinks I feel smart of myself and am taking on airs. It is just as you have been brought up. Now, if Boxer had been brought up in the Fire Department, his natural pluck would have taken him through the worst fire that ever was. The more he got singed, the farther he would venture in.”
“Do you ever meet now?” asked Toby.
“Yes, quite often; he lives near by. We don’t look at one another, though, as we pass, except perhaps out of the corners of our eyes. Boxer, he always shivers and his eyes kind of bulge, and he walks on tiptoe. You know that bull-dogs are awfully sensitive, and they always shiver when they are excited, but it isn’t the shiver of a cowardly dog. You had better look out for a bull-dog when you see him shiver, for he isn’t in the state of mind to take much from another dog when he’s in that condition. He laps his chops too, then.”
The children had been waiting all this time, the boy who held Toby by a string occasionally giving him a gentle pull as a reminder that it was time to go. They patted Jack, while they peered curiously in through the open door at the engine that stood ready for use at a moment’s notice. They thought it was time to start for home, as they had quite a distance to go. So Toby took leave of his new friend, casting longing glances behind him as he was pulled along.
“He appears to be a well-meaning sort of fellow,” said Jack to himself, “but he doesn’t look to me smart enough to apply the rules I have given him. A dog of character like Boxer would have brought it about by himself. However; it’s as well that we are not all made alike.”
Jack’s attention was before long diverted from the subject of his new acquaintance by the return of his charge Billy, who greeted him so affectionately that warm-hearted Jack forgot everything else and escorted his charge into the engine-house to see that he got safely up the steep stairs.
Meanwhile Mr. Ledwell and Sam drove down town to do a few errands. One of them was to leave an order at a bake-shop, and as the sleigh stopped before the door, they noticed a group of children, one of them holding by a string a little yellow dog with a black pug nose. They were gazing eagerly in at the tempting display of cakes in the large windows, and Sam noticed that the little dog seemed to eye them just as longingly as the children did.
Now Sam’s grandpapa was just the kind of man that any child or animal would appeal to if he were in trouble, and as he stepped out of the sleigh and walked by the group of children, he looked at them in his usual pleasant manner.
“Mister,” said a voice very timidly, “will you please to give me a cent to buy something to eat?”
The voice came from a little girl, the youngest of the children.
“Why, Maysie, you mustn’t ask for money; that’s begging,” said the boy who was holding the dog.
“What do you want to eat, little girl?” asked Mr. Ledwell’s kind voice.
“Cake,” replied Maysie, emboldened by the pleasant eyes that seemed to be always smiling.
“Well, look in at that window,” said Mr. Ledwell, “and tell me what kind of cake you think you would like to eat.”
Maysie’s mind was evidently already made up, for she at once pointed to a plate of rich pastry cakes with preserve filling.
“That kind,” replied Maysie, promptly.
“Could you eat a whole one, do you think?” asked Mr. Ledwell.
“Yes,” replied Maysie, eagerly.
“Could you eat two, do you think?” asked Mr. Ledwell.
“Yes,” replied Maysie, promptly.
“Do you think you could eat three of them?” asked Mr. Ledwell.
“Yes,” replied Maysie.
“Well, do you think you could eat four?”
“I’d try,” replied Maysie, confidently.
“Wait here a minute,” said Mr. Ledwell, “and I will see what I can do.”
The children crowded around the window, and eagerly watched the young woman behind the counter fill a large paper bag with cakes from every plate in the window, the largest share being taken from the plate of pastry cakes that had been Maysie’s choice.
Mr. Ledwell glanced at the faces peering in at the window, following eagerly every motion of the young woman with the paper bag. The little yellow dog was no less interested than the children, and had been held up in the boy’s arms, that he might obtain a better view. From this group Mr. Ledwell’s eyes fell on his little grandson, who was standing up in the sleigh to see what was going on, and whose bright face was aglow with pleasure at the prospect of the treat in store for the group at the window.
“It would be hard to say whether they or Sam are the happiest,” said Mr. Ledwell to the young woman behind the counter, as he took the paper bag and left the store.
“Or the generous man who takes the trouble to give so much pleasure to others,” added the young woman to herself, as she glanced at his kind face.
“Here, little girl,” said Mr. Ledwell, handing the paper bag to Maysie. “Now what will you do with all these good things?”
“We’ll divide them between ourselves,” replied Maysie, promptly.
“And the dog,” said the boy. “He must have his share, because he’s seen them same as we have.”
“Yes, Johnny, of course the dog,” assented Maysie.
“And Mother,” said the older sister.
“Of course, Mother,” agreed Maysie. “Come on!” and off started Maysie, firmly grasping her bag of cakes.
“Why, Maysie, you forgot to thank the gentleman,” said the elder sister.
“Her face has thanked me already,” said Mr. Ledwell.
Maysie, however, thus reminded of her manners, turned and said,—
“Oh, thank you, sir, so much.”
Instantly Maysie was off, followed by her brother and sister.
“Grandpapa,” said Sam, as Mr. Ledwell took his seat in the sleigh, “I think you are the very best grandpapa in town.”
“I am glad you do, Sam,” said Grandpapa.
“Now, if God will only make Billy see, we shall be all right,” said Sam, with his decided nod. “I shall pray to Him every night and ask Him to, and He is so good and kind that I’m pretty sure He will do it.”
CHAPTER FIFTH
MAYSIE, firmly grasping her bag of cakes, rushed through the crowded sidewalks and street-crossings, darting in among the carriages and teams with the skill that only a child brought up in a large city possesses. Sometimes she passed under the very nose of a horse, and it seemed as if she must certainly be run over, but she always came out safe and sound. Her brother and sister, with Toby, followed wherever she went, but found it difficult to keep up with her. She was always some distance ahead of them, and paid no attention to their calls to stop for them to catch up with her.
“Stop, can’t you?” called out Johnny, who was leading Toby, and who always picked him up and carried him across the most crowded streets. “Stop and divy up! They ain’t all yours.”
“I’m going to, Johnny,” replied Maysie, still continuing her rapid gait. “Just a few blocks more, and then I’ll stop.”
So away they all went once more, little Toby as eager as the children for the share that had been promised him. They had gradually left behind them the pleasant part of the city where the bake-shop was situated, and had reached a part where the streets and sidewalks were narrower and the houses smaller and closer together. When they came to a place where building was going on, Maysie came to a stop, and seating herself on a low pile of boards, announced her intention of dividing the contents of the paper bag. Johnny seated himself by her side, placing Toby in his lap, and Hannah, the elder sister, took a seat near by.
They were not a quarrelsome family, and seemed to feel perfectly confident that Maysie would do the right thing by them and divide fairly. They edged as closely to the paper bag as they could get, and took long sniffs of the delicious odors wafted toward them.
“The dog has got to have his share, too,” said Johnny, as Maysie had helped them all around and had not included Toby.
“Each of us can give him a piece of ours,” replied Maysie, breaking off a generous piece of hers and handing it to the little dog.
“No,” said Johnny, firmly, “you agreed to go divies with him, and he heard it, and you’ve got to do it;” and Johnny hugged Toby closely to him, while the little dog looked gratefully into his face and wagged his tail in response.
“Well, then,” said Maysie, “he can have his share;” and she placed one of the largest cakes before Toby, who ate it in such large mouthfuls that it had disappeared and he had lapped up all the crumbs before the children were half through with theirs.
“He eats so fast,” said Maysie, “that he can’t get the good of it.”
Toby tried to explain in the animal language that she was mistaken,—that dogs had proved by experience that they got more taste from their food by swallowing it whole than they did by eating it slowly, and that every sensible dog ate in that way. “A few lap-dogs and such as that may nibble at their food,” explained Toby, “but you can’t go by them.”
This explanation was lost upon the children, however, because they couldn’t understand the animal language Toby spoke in. They thought he was asking for another cake.
“You must wait until we are ready for the second help,” said Johnny, at the same time offering him a piece of his own cake.
Toby tried to make them understand that this was not what he said, but it was of no use, they didn’t know what his whining meant.
“I shouldn’t wonder if he were cold,” suggested Hannah, whereupon good-hearted Johnny unbuttoned his coat and wrapped it around the little dog as well as he could.
“How can I be so mean as to leave these kind children, when they share everything with me?” said Toby to himself. “I do miss those fields to roam about in, though!” and he sighed as he thought of his country home.
At last the cakes were eaten, and one of each kind left to be taken home to Mother. These were carefully wrapped up, and the party started for home.
It was a poor place, their home, but they had never known a better one, and they were such happy, contented children that they really enjoyed more than some children who have beautiful homes and clothes, and everything that money can buy; for, after all, it is not money and beautiful things that bring happiness. Often those who have the least of these are the most contented and happy, if they are blessed with sweet tempers and cheerful natures.
In the rear of the tenement-house where the children lived, was a shed. It was a dark, cheerless affair, but in it the children had made a bed of some straw that a stable-man near by had given them, and here they had kept Toby. It was not very warm, but it was better than no shelter; and then Toby had been brought up in the country, and he was not quite so sensitive to the cold as dogs who are kept in city houses are.
“It seems awfully cold here,” said Johnny, as he looked about the bleak shed. The door had long since disappeared, and the raw winter air entered through the large opening.
“He looks kind of shivery,” said Hannah. “Perhaps, if we tell Mother about him, she will let us keep him in the house.”
“I don’t believe she will,” said Johnny, “because whenever I have asked her to let us keep a dog, she said we couldn’t afford it, they ate so much.”
“Let’s try,” said Hannah. “It is going to be awfully cold to-night. Maysie can tell her, because she lets her do so many more things than she does the rest of us.”
This was true. Little Maysie, the baby of the family, had been indulged and petted more than the rest, because she had not been so rugged as they were. When they all had the measles and whooping-cough, Maysie it was who had them the hardest. Maysie, too, had been very ill with pneumonia. Thus they had gotten into the habit of letting her have her way whenever any important question was at hand. So it was not strange that Maysie, in spite of a happy and generous nature, had taken advantage of the situation and become a little wilful. It is quite natural it should be so, when she so often heard Mother say, “Oh, give it to Maysie, she has been so sick, you know;” or, “Let Maysie do it, because she isn’t so strong as you are.”
So, when Hannah proposed that Maysie should be the one to tell Mother that they had been keeping a dog for the last week, and ask her to let them take it into the house to live, Maysie answered confidently,—
“All right, I’ll ask her.”
“That will settle my business,” said Toby to himself, as the children trooped up the dark and narrow stairways of the tenement-house. “No chance for me now to slip my collar. So here I shall have to stay, and good-bye to the fields I love so much.”
The children went up to the very top tenement of the house, and stopped a moment before opening the door.
“Give her the cakes before you tell her about the dog, Maysie,” said Johnny in a loud whisper.
“Of course I shall,” replied Maysie, shrewdly. “Don’t I know she will be more likely to give in after she sees the beautiful cakes?”
They found the table set for the simple supper, and their mother busily sewing. The father of the family worked in a machine-shop, and in busy seasons the work went on by night as well as by day; so the children saw little of their father, who, when he worked nights, was obliged to sleep part of the day.
The mother looked up as the children entered the room. Care and hard work had left their impress on her face, for it was thin and worn, but it brightened as her eyes fell on the faces of the happy children.
“I was afraid that something had happened to you,” said the mother. “What kept you so long?”
“We couldn’t find the house at first,” said Hannah; “and when we did find it, they made us wait until the lady looked at the work to see if it suited. She says she shall have some more for you in a few days.”
“And we stopped to look in at the windows of a fine shop where they sell all kinds of lovely cakes, and a beautiful, kind gentleman asked me would I like some, and I said I would, and he went inside and bought me a great bag full of the most beautiful ones you ever saw, and we brought one of each kind home to you, Mother dear,” said Maysie, putting the package of cakes in her mother’s lap.
“I hope you didn’t ask him for any?” said Mother.
“N—o,” replied Maysie, somewhat embarrassed. “I didn’t ask him for cakes, did I?” she asked, turning to her brother and sister.
“You didn’t ask him out and out, but you asked him for a cent, and he asked what did you want it for, and you said, ‘Cake,’” replied Hannah.
“Why, Maysie,” said Mother, reproachfully, “that is real begging! The gentleman thought you were a little beggar girl.”
“I can’t help it,” said Maysie, beginning to cry. “The cakes did look so nice, and I wanted to see if they would taste as nice as they looked. He needn’t have given me so many. I only asked for just one cent.”
“Well, don’t ever do it again, dear,” said Mother; for Maysie was making herself very miserable over the affair, and she couldn’t bear to see Maysie unhappy. “I guess that there’s no harm in doing it this once. I don’t wonder you wanted to get a taste of the nice cakes. It’s kind of tantalizing to see them before your very eyes and never to know how they taste.”
“I will never ask any one to give me a cent again,” said Maysie between her sobs; but Maysie was never unhappy long at a time, so she soon regained her cheerfulness, and came to the conclusion that she had not done such a very bad thing after all.
All this time Johnny had been standing behind the stove, keeping Toby out of sight. This was hard to do, for Toby was a restless little fellow, and Johnny knew that if he should move about much, his feet would make such a noise on the bare floor that he would be discovered before Maysie would have time to plead for him. Johnny at last succeeded in catching Maysie’s eye, and gave her to understand that it was high time to broach the subject; and Maysie, who never allowed the grass to grow under her feet, began at once.
“Mother dear,” she said, going up to her mother and giving her an affectionate hug and kiss, “we saw a poor little dog who didn’t have any home, and he was so cold and hungry! Can’t we just take him in? He won’t be any trouble at all.”
“No,” replied Mother, firmly, “we haven’t any room for dogs. They eat a lot, and are a great bother. No, you can’t.”
“But he is so little he will hardly eat anything, and we can each of us save him a little mite from our share every day, and then you see it won’t cost anything. Do say ‘yes,’ Mother dear;” and Maysie grew more affectionate than ever.
“No,” said Mother, firmly, “you mustn’t think of it. Father would never allow it. He doesn’t like to have dogs around.”
“We will keep him out of Father’s way,” pleaded Maysie. “He would be ever so much company for me when I am sick and have to stay in, and the others away at school. It’s awfully lonesome for me then.”
Mother thought of the many days when little Maysie was laid up with the colds that always lasted so long and made her so pale and weak, and she began to give way. It was true that a little playmate at those times would amuse the poor child, and after all it could not cost much to keep a little dog. The greatest obstacle in the way was Father. What would he say?
The children, eagerly watching their mother’s face, saw these signs of weakening, and were sure that they had gained their cause. Toby, too, with his true dog’s instinct, saw it even sooner than the children did, and before Johnny knew what he was about, gave a sudden jerk to the cord that held him. It slipped through Johnny’s fingers, and Toby, finding himself free, quickly ran up to the mother’s side, and sitting up on his hind legs, begged with all his might to be allowed to stay.
“Mercy on us,” exclaimed the astonished mother. “You don’t mean to say that you have brought him here already?”
Toby looked so small and thin, and his eyes had such a pleading expression, that the mother’s soft heart was touched. “You poor little fellow,” she said, picking him up and stroking him gently, “I think we can spare enough to keep you from starving.”
“We have kept him tied up in the shed a whole week,” said Johnny, boldly, “and it hasn’t cost a bit more. I wouldn’t mind being a little hungry myself, to save something for him.”
“I don’t think it will be necessary to go so far as that,” replied Mother. “What troubles me most is to keep him from annoying Father. You know he isn’t fond of dogs, and he mustn’t be troubled when he works so hard.”
“He is a real quiet dog,” said Johnny. “I don’t believe he will disturb him a mite.”
So Toby’s fate was settled, and he had a good supper and a share of the cakes besides, for Mother could not be prevailed upon to eat them all herself, and divided them with the others, Toby included.
Then came the important question of sleeping quarters. The cold shed was not to be thought of, and it ended by the indulgent mother consenting to his sleeping at the foot of Johnny’s bed. This was good news for Toby, who was always lonesome when he had to sleep all by himself. So the dog’s heart was no less happy than the children’s, and they all went cheerfully to bed so soon as it was decided what was to be done with Toby.
Johnny’s room was small and dark, not larger than a good-sized closet, but it seemed as luxurious as a palace to little Toby after the dark, cold shed. He was put to bed at Johnny’s feet after an affectionate leave-taking by the two girls. For a while he lay very still, but as soon as Johnny was asleep, he crept toward the head of the bed, and at last settled himself so closely to the sleeping boy that he could lick the hand that lay outside the bed-clothes.
“You are so kind to me,” said Toby to himself, “that I don’t believe I should have the heart to run away, even if I could. I should like to get a glimpse of the beautiful fields, though.”
So saying, the grateful little dog closed his eyes, and in a few moments he, too, was fast asleep, and dreaming that he was racing over his beloved fields, with Johnny close at his heels.