The school which Winnie and her friends attended was in the habit of selecting certain authors, whose birthday anniversaries they commemorated. This year, however, the principal had concluded to celebrate Washington's birthday by patriotic songs, declamations, and so on. In consequence the pupils were all in a state of great excitement, pleasurable to boyish and girlish hearts.
Lessons were shortened, classes dismissed early, rehearsals conducted morning, noon and night. From one end of the building to the other, "spouting" was heard, gestures were being made in the most frantic manner, the strains of "The Star Spangled Banner," "America," and "The Red, White and Blue" rose upon the air; and, as the crowds of boys and girls passed to and from school, their conversation contained allusions to "The Father of our Country," or the fine way in which Harry or Tom or Frank gave that declamation, or the sweetness of Mabel Gray's voice, or why Mr. Bowen hadn't selected Clarence instead of Bob, etc., etc., etc., until all the air around the school-house must have been as heavily charged with patriotism as the air around Lexington on the morning of that memorable battle which, too, was talked of, for there had been much "brushing up" of United States history.
The memorable day of the 21st of February arrived (there being no school on the 22d), and found the rooms finely decorated with flags and swords and battle relics, portraits of George and Martha Washington, and flowers and living plants, while the blackboards were entirely filled with ornamental scrolls containing patriotic mottoes.
Two o'clock had been set for the beginning of the programme, but long before that time visitors had begun to arrive and were shown to seats by the two gentlemanly boy-ushers in quite an impressive manner.
Among the visitors, our friends the Burtons, not excepting Ralph, were represented. Ralph sat snuggled up to his mother, his big eyes having their most pleased and wondering look. Mrs. Alroy, too, was there, dressed quietly but tastefully, and looking a perfect lady; having indeed so thoroughbred an air that even Fannie's somewhat haughty mamma who sat next her, could scarcely equal her.
Gretta Berger took her place at the piano, and soon the inspiring strains of a patriotic medley were heard, while the boys and girls from the various rooms marched into the hall and took their places with such a fine idea of time and military precision of movement that to see them was not the least pleasure of the afternoon.
The next thing on the programme was a sketch of George Washington's life, by Ernestine Alroy, read by her in a sweet, dignified way, in a well-modulated voice, and an expression which showed a thorough appreciation of the fine character and life she was describing. One of the boys followed with a recitation of Drake's "American Flag." Next a small choir of girls and boys (the girls dressed in the national colors and the boys wearing flag badges) sang the "Star Spangled Banner." Then Winnie went upon the stage, and recited the following, which is given in full, as it is one of those fugitive things which seem to have no home. It is entitled:
The amusing little poem suited Winnie's childish face and figure, and her mother had read between the lines for her, so that the picture was plain to her mind. Winnie saw the pretty young mother playing the little joke on the children, and the affected wrath of the grandmother as she spanked each of the little ones—saw the picture so plainly herself that it was easy for her to make her good-natured audience see it, too, and her hearers laughed while they applauded.
Of course they had "The Red, White and Blue" sung by the whole school; and "America," which can never be old to any of us; and for further recitations. "Independence Bell," and "The Blue and the Gray"—for what patriotic celebration would be complete without these?
The finest declamation of the day, given by the pride of the class, so far as elocutionary ability was concerned, and with a drum accompaniment by a corps of boys well drilled for the occasion, was the following stirring
But the crowning performance of the day, in the opinion of all the girls and boys, was a little drama, written expressly for the occasion, entitled, "Revolutionary Days." The characters represented were an elderly lady, two young girls, two little children, a negro servant girl, an elderly gentleman, a Tory, and two young men, Continental soldiers.
While the platform was being cleared and prepared, the girls and boys who took part were having what they called "fine fun" in the dressing-room, getting their hair powdered, caps and wigs adjusted, and so on.
When the curtain rose, Miriam was discovered, dressed as an elderly lady of the eighteenth century, sitting in an old-fashioned chair beside a spinning-wheel, and singing a song of Revolutionary days. As she ceased singing, two little children, borrowed from the primary class in the "Colony," came in, begging their grandmother to tell them something about George Washington. She tells them that she is busy, but they persist, and then tell her that they know some verses about him, and each recites, alternately, a verse of four lines, descriptive of Washington's childhood and school days, and, as seems inevitable, winding up with the story of the hatchet.
As they finish, a negro servant girl rushes in, in which burnt-cork heroine it would be utterly impossible to discover the maiden of the pickles and of the ardent desire to enjoy herself while young, had she not been seen in the dressing-room "making up" for the occasion. She informs Mrs. Grey that the cat or something has pulled all the yarn off the reel, and of its consequent fearful state of entanglement. Mrs. Grey rouses herself from her reverie, and asks the children if they know anything about it. Each accusingly points to the other, whereupon their grandmother looks at them sternly, when they say they "can't tell a lie," that they did it with—
They are interrupted by Mrs. Grey, who tells Dinah to take them away and put them to bed without their supper. They begin to howl, and reproachfully tell their grandmother that she ought to say, "Come to my arms, my precious children;" whereupon an audacious small boy in the audience—a visitor, it is needless to say—shouts, "Chestnut!" and Mrs. Grey's face hardens into a look of positive inflexibility, as if this were the last straw, and the children, howling and struggling, are carried away by Dinah.
Quiet being thus restored, Mrs. Grey paces up and down, indulging in a long soliloquy. She speaks of the long years of war, and the hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. She regretfully recalls the bonnie little island, with its green fields and blooming gardens, which had been forsaken for these scenes of hardship. Then, however, she remembers the days of oppression there, and bursts into a thanksgiving that they had at last found a spot where they could worship God in peace according to the dictates of their own conscience. Then she thinks of the Declaration of Independence, and tries to remember the resolution of Richard Henry Lee. Seeing the girls come in, she says that they will remember.
The two girls, Winnie and Fannie, attired in short-waisted dresses, big poke bonnets, and immense outside pockets, are asked by Mrs. Grey to recall the resolution which has for the moment slipped from her recollection. One of them (Fannie), in answer, declaims the resolution, and as she comments, in rather excited tones, "Glorious, mother, isn't it?" Mr. Cranston, the Tory gentleman, enters. This was one of the boys of the class, resplendent in hempen wig, frilled shirt front, and the veritable "brass-buttoned coat, with long blue flaps," knee breeches, and silver-buckled slippers. He tauntingly informs them that they will find it "too glorious, when the rebellion is crushed, and they are all sentenced to be executed as rebels."
Whereupon he and the colonial young ladies enter into a heated argument, with taunts on one side about the minute-men of Massachusetts and the battles of Lexington and Concord, and retaliations from the Tory about the battle of Long Island and the miseries at Valley Forge. They retort with the news of the treaty of alliance with France, and he replies by reminding them of the loss of their ports in the north.
He is interrupted by the entrance of the children, who tell the group that every one in the village is shouting "Hurrah!" that the bell in the church is ringing, and that the big flag is waving over the roof. While the patriots are exclaiming that "there must be good news," two young men enter, carrying guns. All spring up in surprise, and the children dance and caper about, with shouts of "Uncle Mark! Uncle John!"
Mark and John inform Mrs. Grey and their sisters of the surrender of Cornwallis. The Tory makes his way out as quietly as possible, with a very evident desire to do so unobserved, saying, "Cornwallis surrendered! Then this is no place for me!" The curtain falls, as Mrs. Grey exclaims, with clasped hands and upraised eyes, "The morning has dawned at last!"
There was the usual applause, and soon visitors and children—the entertained and the entertainers—were on their homeward way, and the "exhibition" had become a part of the past.
CHAPTER VII.
THE YOUNG WARRIOR MAIDS.
After the entertainment, things went on in their accustomed routine. Winnie, Miriam, Gretta and Fannie became more intimate than ever, and really tried, in spite of many discouragements, to conquer their bad habits.
For a couple of weeks the little band of "Giant Killers" had had no meetings, but on the second week after the Washington celebration, the four girls received a pretty invitation from Winnifred's Aunt Kitty to take tea with her on the following Friday, and to consider themselves invited to hold their next meeting at her home, bidding them tell their mothers that the hostess would see that they arrived home safe not later than half-past nine. Also, inclosed under cover to Winnie, was an invitation for Ernestine Alroy, to be delivered only in case the other three girls were willing. Upon Winnie's showing this, Fannie was the first to propose that not only should the invitation be delivered, but that Ernestine should be invited to join their society.
The family of Winnie's grandmother was a small one, Mrs. Benton often saying, with a sigh, that her children had all left her except Kitty and Fred. Whereupon Kitty would take hold of her mother's hand and assure her, in a serio-comic manner, that this daughter she would have ever beside her, "to warn, to comfort, to command." Mrs. Benton was not wealthy, but she had a comfortable income of her own, and as Fred received a very good salary in one of the large railroad offices, they always had means for the comforts of life and many of its luxuries. They lived in a suite of rooms in one of the finest apartment houses of the city.
The "Arlington" was a very large building, and as the girls were not accustomed to such immense houses, they had arranged with Winnie that they should all go together at five o'clock. Accordingly that hour found them all standing in the vestibule together, to the manifest amusement of the janitor when he answered Winnie's ring. As Mrs. Benton's apartment was only one flight up, they did not take the elevator, but Winnie ran lightly up the stairs, the others following more slowly. She knocked at the door at the right of the hall, which was immediately opened by Miss Benton, to whom Winnie introduced the other girls, who more or less timidly put their hands into the outstretched one of this pleasant young lady, but found their timidity vanish almost as if by magic when they felt her warm, cordial clasp as she drew them into the parlor.
And a very pretty parlor it was, with a quaint individuality of its own—"just like Kitty Benton herself," as her friends were wont to say. There were no two chairs alike, but they all agreed in one respect—that of being exceedingly comfortable, from the high-backed willow to the low chair upholstered in old gold and scarlet tapestry.
On the walls were five or six oil paintings—a couple of marines, and the others bright, summer landscapes. There was one, which Miss Benton had herself painted, entirely different from the others. A cloudy sky, with dim, gray mountains in the distance. In the foreground a single grave under a willow, but lying in such vivid sunlight, which came from a break in the clouds, that it had almost a jubilant look for so sad a subject, as most people would have deemed it. On a low shelf stood a beautifully engraved Madonna, and on a table near was a portfolio of fine etchings. About the room were bits of bric-a-brac of various kinds, among them a piece of genuine old Wedgwood. On the upright piano stood a tall vase of Easter lilies.
Miss Benton, having helped her young visitors to divest themselves of their wraps, seated them close to the open fire, and then took down the etchings to show them. These, however, proved a little beyond them, so she took from the table a stereoscope and some views, every one of which had been collected by her mother or herself during their various trips, and about each one she told some incident, amusing or pathetic, so that an hour had passed away almost before the girls knew it.
Fred had been requested by his sister to take his supper downtown, as she felt that the girls would feel more at their ease without his presence. When the bright-faced maid announced supper, Miss Benton took Gretta by the hand, and said, as they all entered the dining-room, "'We are seven,' and, I presume, if Wordsworth were here, he would write a poem about us."
As the five friends took their places, they simultaneously burst into an exclamation of delight. At each of their places was a bunch of flowers, with a card on which was a pretty little painting in water-colors of a young girl, with fair hair streaming over her shoulders, in full armor, receiving from an angel a sword. Underneath were the words in old English text, in scarlet and gold, "He that overcometh shall inherit all things."
The cards were exactly alike, but the flowers were different. Miriam had a glorious red rose, with buds and leaves; Gretta, garden daisies and primroses; Fannie, scarlet geraniums, a calla lily and a wild jack-in-the-pulpit; Ernestine, lilies of the valley; Winnie, ferns and mignonette. Mrs. Benton lifted caressingly to her face a bunch of English violets, and their hostess pinned on her bodice a cluster of yellow rosebuds.
"Oh, Aunt Kitty, what a hunt you must have had among the florists and markets for all these flowers!" said Winnie.
"And how well you have suited us all!" cried Miriam.
"What is this, Miss Benton?" asked Fannie, holding up the jack-in-the-pulpit.
"That is a wild-flower," replied Miss Benton, giving the blossom its name, "which was sent me from Tennessee this week; it does not bloom quite so early here. If you will examine it and compare it with your calla, you will see many points of resemblance; indeed, they are of the same family, although the splendid Egyptian calla has all the advantages of climate, water and sun, which make it the handsome thing it is. But our little American Jack, all the same, lifts its head out of its green pulpit and preaches to us of the eternal kinship of all things. Put your geraniums in your button hole, and after tea I'll put your calla and its country cousin in water for you to keep fresh till you go home."
"How did you know I was fond of lilies of the valley, Miss Benton?" asked Ernestine. "It is my mother's favorite flower, too; she says they used to grow in great clumps in the yard of her home when she was a girl, and she never sees one without thinking of her childhood."
"Of course I couldn't know that, my dear; I only thought that you would like them. Although I had never met any of you I have heard Winnifred talk about you, and her little tongue sometimes gives me queer ideas," said Miss Benton, smiling at her niece with an air of good comradeship.
"Mother, let Winnie serve the chocolate, while I attend to this end of the table. You see, girls, we only have the maid bring in the dishes from the kitchen, for we like to wait on each other," she said, helping them to chicken croquettes, cold ham, and delicious muffins, as Winnie passed around the chocolate in dainty china cups.
How they all enjoyed that supper! They were just like girls in a book, Miriam said. Everything seemed so different from ordinary occasions. Even the orange jelly tasted so much better than at other times, because of the orange baskets in which it was served. They sat at the table a long time, for both Mrs. Benton and her daughter encouraged their visitors to talk; and while they were eating their candy and nuts, they played the game of rhymes and "yes and no."
Then Miss Kitty sent them into the parlor with her mother, excusing herself and Winnie for a few moments. When they entered the parlor, they found Mrs. Benton with her silk socks in her hands, knitting as rapidly as she was talking. She was giving them an account of the old turkey gobbler that used to chase her when she was a little girl, and they were all laughing heartily.
This anecdote led to Miriam's giving an account of a goat which one of her aunt's friends had presented to her little boy, and which was the terror of the neighborhood.
"My aunt and I," said Miriam, "were making an afternoon visit at Mrs. Kincaid's, and, as it was warm and pleasant, we were invited into the yard to look at the flowers. My aunt was very enthusiastically admiring a fine Yucca which, for a wonder, was in bloom, when the goat was seen peering through a gap in the fence which divided the front from the back yard.
"Mrs. Kincaid immediately took to her heels, and I was about to follow, when Aunt Jennie said, 'Miriam, I am surprised that you should be afraid of a goat. Even if he were to come near you, you would only have to seize him by the horns; it is the easiest thing in the world to conquer a goat.'
"By this time Mrs. Kincaid was safe in the house, tapping loudly on the window, from which she was viewing the scene, for us to come in, and 'dancing crazy' (as the girls say about things), because we were still outside.
"My aunt was walking in a leisurely and dignified manner toward the house, holding her head a little higher than usual, and I was following very meekly for me—for I hate to be thought a coward—when the goat gave a sudden bound, broke another picket in the fence, and went straight toward her with his head down, and his bob tail switching.
"Well, Aunt Jennie did turn and face him, and she really did take the vicious little beast by the horns. But was he conquered? You wouldn't have thought so, had you been there; he just raised himself on his hind legs and shook himself loose. Aunt Jennie suddenly dropped her dignity, and flew, rather than ran, toward the house, the goat after her, and she just escaped him by Mrs. Kincaid's pulling her inside the door and slamming it shut.
"As for me, I went through the hole in the fence to the back yard, rushed pell-mell into the kitchen door, without stopping to knock, and dropped into the nearest chair, where I sat and laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks, to the astonishment of the kitchen girl and the washerwoman, who were enjoying a cup of tea.
"I was wicked enough to laugh afterward, for Aunt Jennie did not lecture on courage or dignity for a month after that, and I notice now that when we pass a livery stable she keeps a quiet but effective lookout for 'the horned monarch of the livery stable,' as I once heard him called."
"Well, I'm afraid of goats myself," said Miss Kitty, "and I think there ought to be a law against their being allowed inside the city limits. What with the small boy who torments the goat, and the goat which cannot distinguish between his tormentor and any other member of the human race, every passer-by is certain of being made ridiculous, if nothing more serious occurs. But to change the subject, would you young giant-killers like to hear a story that I have written for you?"
Of course they were delighted, and, the softly-shaded lamp having been adjusted, and Mrs. Benton seated so that the light fell upon her knitting, Miss Benton took her seat at the other side of the table, and read the following allegory:
GIANT PROCRASTINATION.
Stretching off far as the eye can reach, lies a vast plain, intersected by many roads of various widths, from the narrowest foot-path to those wide enough for three or four vehicles to pass abreast. Pleasant roads they seem to be, too; wild-flowers of brilliant hues grow along their sides, birds of beautiful plumage twitter their varied notes, and pretty little squirrels and rabbits dart here and there. But when the saunterer along one of these by-paths plucks the blossoms, they fall to pieces in his hands, and, on near approach, the birds circle for a few moments about the head, and then fly away and are seen no more.
These by-ways continually lead into and cross one another, but all at last meet in one broad road, and this is the road of "By and By," which leads to the castle of "Never." This castle stands at the entrance to a dark and gloomy forest, through which no path has ever been cut, and which is so dense and wild that one draws back in fear, finding it impossible not to think of it as inhabited by beasts and serpents and insects as wild and poisonous as those which infest the South American forests or the jungles of India.
At the right and left of the castle rise huge cliffs unscaled by mortal foot during the lifetime of the present owner, and seldom attempted even during the ages gone by, when his ancestors, in a more or less direct line, held high orgies, while with demoniac laughter they tortured their victims.
The present owner and occupant of the castle is a giant, so skilled in the art of metamorphosis that he is constantly deceiving and deluding his victims, each of whom he approaches in a different manner. With some he wears an air of haughty though courteous dignity, and gives them fair and sweet promises of granting their every desire as soon as his plans are perfected and he is ready. With others, he puts on a smiling, joyous look, points out to them the birds and flowers along the roadside, and tells them that to-morrow all these pleasures shall be theirs. A different face and garb for every deluded follower, who ever ends in becoming his victim; for, just at the entrance to the castle, still covered by the seemingly fair flowers, is a frightful morass, out of which the wanderer is helped only by the giant himself, and taken by him thence into the castle, from which there is no escape.
The dreadful Castle of Never! And yet, how fair it looks to those who stand just outside its gates! Its battlemented towers, decorated with flags and banners floating gayly in the air, its many windows, catching and reflecting every ray of sunlight, its majestic proportions, make it seem a dwelling much to be desired. And either because it is enchanted, or from some strange property of the surrounding atmosphere, it often appears to be raised high in the air, so that at a very great distance it shows larger, if less distinct, than when viewed near by.
It is early morning. The sun himself has not yet risen, although his approach is heralded by lovely green and rose tints on the eastern horizon. The great Giant Procrastination lies stretched upon his huge bed, dreaming uneasily, for he groans and starts many times, but still sleeps on. The inside of the far-famed castle shows not so fair as the outside. There are many things lying about on tables and chairs, or tucked away under articles of larger furniture; some of them are pretty, some elegant, but all unfinished.
The morning wind, rising as if it, too, had lain asleep during the night, shrieks and whistles as if in wrath, or moans and sighs as though in mortal anguish. And hush! What other sound is that which rises above the roar of the wind and fills one's soul with terror? Alas! it is the shrieks of despair from the prisoners in the dungeon, and one hears, mingled with their groans, the dreadful words, "Too late! Too late!"
But who are these descending the heretofore unscaled cliff? And how comes it that thus unguided they have escaped the dangers of the forest, and that, now stealing upon their sleeping foe from the unguarded rear, they are not dashed into pieces as they make the steep and terrible descent? Ah! they have an invisible Guide, who goes before and smooths every difficulty; and their feet are shod with a divine determination which leads them securely over the most dangerous places.
And yet they move with caution. Clinging now to the bushes that grow along the cliff, now stepping carefully on some jutting crag, they come one by one. Now they have reached the bottom, and stop a moment to take breath and consult as to the next movement. For behold! five little maidens, scarcely in their teens, have come to give battle to one of the strongest enemies of mankind, and to attack him in his own stronghold. Brave as they are, however, and resolutely as they have nerved themselves to the task ahead of them, they cannot repress a shudder as they gaze upon the frowning mass before them. For, never dreaming of attack in the rear, the giant's ancestors had taken no pains to make that part of the castle beautiful or to endow it with the enchantment of illusion, so all is dark and strong and terrible.
Regaining courage, the five young warriors kneel upon the rocky path and ask their invisible Guide for succor and strength. They rise encouraged and hopeful, and each assists the other to readjust her armor. Wonderful armor! light to wear, but stronger than mailed steel.
They advance to the heavy door. It is all unguarded, and even stands partly open, so that all their strength is saved to them for the combat. One by one, and noiselessly, they climb the iron stairs, and, guided by his snores, they find themselves at last in the presence of their sleeping enemy.
If they can but strike now! One blow from either of their swords, and he would lie slain before them. But alas! they hesitate for one short moment, and in that brief space of time the wind bangs a heavy shutter against the iron casement, and, at its fearful clang, the giant awakes and rises to his feet. He stares about him for a moment, stupefied, but there is no mistaking the fact that he is in the presence of an enemy; for their armor, their uplifted swords, their resolute mien, all proclaim their errand to be one of war. Then, gazing upon their diminutive forms, he laughs a horrid, blood-curdling laugh, as he gloats over the prospect that he will soon have five more victims to languish in his dungeons.
He springs forward to seize the foremost of his youthful foes, but her fear has vanished. Raising her shield for protection, she strikes with her sword, and the giant receives a fearful gash in the hand outstretched to grasp her, and starts back, howling with pain. The five girls close around him at once, but so immense of stature is he, that they soon perceive it will be impossible for them to reach a vital part unless he can be thrown.
Fast and furious they rain the blows upon him, and not in vain. He has no armor on, his usual weapons are beyond his reach, and he knows instinctively that his usual powers of metamorphosis are useless. One blow, at last, inflicts a ghastly wound in his ankle; he clutches at the bed for support, but misses it, and falls, groaning heavily, at full length on the floor, where, taken at a disadvantage, a sword is thrust into his heart, and with horrid struggles he dies.
The maiden warriors embrace each other joyfully, and, kneeling together in that moment of victory, give all the praise and glory to that invisible Power which has enabled them, weak girls as they are, to conquer.
But their work is not yet done. Taking the keys from under the pillow of the dead monster, they pass down a winding staircase, until they find themselves so far beneath the surface of the earth, that not a ray of light shines over their pathway.
One of them lights a tiny lamp which she has brought with her, and they proceed. At length they reach the foot of the stairs and find themselves in a dark, narrow passage, with many windings and turnings. Along this they proceed carefully, until they stand before the massive doors of the dungeon. Trying one key after another, they find one that turns the lock, and the door swings open. What a sight meets their sorrowful gaze! Bones—human bones—lie scattered everywhere, and, as they become more accustomed to the darkness, they distinguish human forms still living, with haggard faces, and despair written on every feature.
"Your enemy is dead!" say the maidens. "We have come to set you free, and then we are going to burn the castle, for thus has our Guide commanded us."
As they all stand once more in the glad sunlight, they set fire to the mighty structure, and see the leaping, victorious flames devour it, even to the flags and banners which had so short a time before streamed gayly from its towers.
"Thank you, Aunt Kitty," said Winnifred, as Miss Benton laid down the manuscript. "I don't see how you ever thought of all that."
"Well, Winnie, we all know that the idea is taken from the book you have recently been reading, but where no pretense is made to originality, imitation is not deception."
"But do you really think, Miss Benton," said Ernestine, raising her eyes, "that we can so completely conquer our faults?"
"Alas, no! I'm afraid we never can completely conquer them, but by striving constantly we can strike many a blow, each one of which leaves the enemy weaker, and ourselves stronger. The great pity of it all is, that we can kill only our own giants, and destroy their strongholds for ourselves; we can never do it for others, dearly as we may love them."
"Well," said Fannie, in her decided manner, "I wish that Procrastination were the only giant to fight; but I have some enemies which are still harder for me to conquer;" and she blushed slightly, as she involuntarily glanced toward Ernestine.
"It is a great gain, however," said Mrs. Benton, pausing in her knitting, "when we have learned to do that which must be done, without unnecessary delay. Procrastination, it is quite true, is the least vicious and the least malicious of all the faults; but stronger, almost, than any other, and holding more people, young and old, under its control. If this be overcome, the struggle with the others grows easier. Indeed, it is surprising how many little misdeeds are the outcome of that one fault. Untidiness, fits of temper, disobedience, prevarication, and sometimes even downright untruth, might often be avoided if things were done in time."
"But it is hard always to remember," sighed Miriam. "Ernestine, how do you keep from forgetting?"
"Oh, I forget oftener than you know," said Ernestine, flushing under her delicate skin; "but I have had mamma to think of, and have tried to please her and make her happy; then, too, I had a nurse in Louisiana who taught me to remember that there is One 'who is a very present help in time of trouble.'"
"That is the best help of all, girls, and one that you can carry with you always. I find mottoes and texts a great help, too, when I want to succeed in any one particular thing. How would it do, at your next meeting, for each one to contribute a text from the Bible, and, if possible, a quotation from one of the poets, applicable to this same wheedling fault?" said Miss Benton.
"I should like that very much," replied Ernestine.
"So would I!" "And I!" "And I!" replied Miriam, Fannie and Winnie.
Gretta only was silent, but Miss Kitty judged it best to pass her silence by without remark.
At this moment, Mr. Fred Benton entered the parlor and was introduced to the girls, and very soon they were all escorted to their homes by their friend's uncle, who proved himself as good an entertainer of these little women as was his sister.
CHAPTER VIII.
STRUGGLES.
"Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home," carolled Winnie, as she descended the stairs the next morning, feeling happy and contented, and as if the world were a pleasant place in which to live and love and to succeed in being good. She felt at peace with everybody, and had such a sense of security that she imagined her giants all conquered, and saw in rosy hues a future of beautiful and pleasant right-doing.
What was her surprise when she entered the dining-room, expecting to find the usual tempting breakfast on the table, to see not the slightest signs of it, and to find the room unoccupied except by little Ralph, who was sitting in front of the empty grate in his night-clothes; and a very cross little boy Winnie soon found him to be, for he set up a howl the moment he saw her.
"'Innie, I 'ants to be d'essed, and it's ugly izout any fire, and I 'ants my b'eakast."
"Whatever is the matter?" said Winnie. But she received no answer except the whining refrain, "I 'ants my b'eakast," until she began to feel so irritated that she would have liked to shake the child.
This, however, she did not do, simply because she did not dare. But instead of attempting to soothe him, she went into the kitchen to find out from Norah the reason for this unusual state of affairs. Instead of Norah, she found her mother heating water and making mustard plasters, with an anxious look on her face.
"What is the matter, mamma?" asked Winnie; "and where are papa and Jack?"
"They had important business at the store and couldn't wait, but will take breakfast downtown. Norah was taken very sick in the night, but she said nothing about it, and came down as usual this morning to get breakfast, and I found her in a dead faint on the kitchen floor. Your father and I got her upstairs between us, and Jack went for the doctor. He says it is nothing serious, but that Norah will have to keep still for two or three days. Help me carry these things to Norah's room, and then you will have to come downstairs and get some breakfast for us."
Winnie took the pail of water which her mother handed to her, and started upstairs, feeling a strange sense of resentment against Norah, as if she were to blame for this unpleasant condition of affairs.
When they reached Norah's room, her mother said, "Put down the pail, Winnie, and make haste downstairs and see if you can't get things into some kind of order; it's getting very late."
Winnie put the water down so hurriedly that it splashed over the floor. Then she went out, but instead of hurrying, went down clinging to the balusters as if she could not and would not make any exertion.
When she opened the dining-room door Ralph said: "I sink Norah's mean to det sick; she dust did it a-purpose, so Ralph touldn't have any b'eakast."
"Why, Ralph," said Winnie, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Of course it's no fun for Norah to be sick." But as she spoke to Ralph, her conscience reproached her, for she knew in her heart that she had had the same feeling, if not the same thought. This startled her, as if she had suddenly had a mirror held up before her mind, and she spoke to the little boy more pleasantly, telling him to come into the kitchen with her and watch her make the coffee and cook some ham and eggs for breakfast.
But although aware that her conscience was speaking to her, Winnie had not in the least succeeded in overcoming her irritable feelings. She had made plans for such a pleasant day! She had intended to practice faithfully, and get through all her little duties early in the afternoon, so that she could take Ralph through market—something that she particularly liked to do; it was always so exciting to her to see the people jostling each other, to hear them haggling over the price of something, to see the strange types and characters, and to imagine the different motives which brought these different people together. Besides, she had been saving her money to surprise her mother with a pot of English violets from the flower market, which would be sure to be particularly lovely this afternoon, for the sun shone out brightly, giving promise of an unusually warm day for March.
"How could people do their duty, if they never knew what it was going to be?" she mused, as she measured out the coffee and put it into the filter. But as she went to turn the water over it, she remembered that her mother had emptied the hot water from the kettle into the pail.
"I should think mamma might have taken the water out of the tank for Norah!" she said, half aloud, although she knew very well that the water in the tank was scarcely warm, as she proceeded to fill the kettle.
She poked the fire viciously, feeling as if here she could give her impatience some vent.
The ham, fortunately, Norah had sliced the evening before, otherwise in her present state of irritation Winnie would certainly have cut her fingers.
Now, when Winnie chose, she could be a very nice little housekeeper; but this morning, as may well be imagined, everything went wrong, as she said, never thinking that perhaps her own impatience might be at fault. She burnt the ham, the eggs did not break open nicely, she cut her finger in slicing the bread, and altogether it took her so long to get breakfast that poor little Ralph, still running about in his night-clothes, was, as he expressed it, "starved 'mos' to death."
Mrs. Burton came down before Winnie had finished setting the table, and a glance at the little girl's flushed face was sufficient to tell the observant mother the true state of affairs. As usual in such cases, however, she said nothing, but called Ralph and took him upstairs to be dressed, telling Winnie that she would be down in ten minutes for breakfast.
When they came down, Mrs. Burton said:
"This morning we will not say our verses till after breakfast, as I am sure we are all of us too hungry to receive any benefit from them now;" and she proceeded to pour the coffee. Then Winnie saw that she had forgotten the cream and jumped up to get it.
"Your coffee is very nice, Winnie," said her mother.
"Oh, mamma, I didn't think anything would be nice! I had such a time! The fire wouldn't burn, and I burnt my fingers and afterward cut them, and everything was horrid generally."
"I had a defful time gene'lly, too," said Ralph. "I was so hung'y I toudn't wait, and 'Innie 'ouldn't div me a tracker, and said I'se a bodder. Is I a bodder, mamma?"
"Not when you're a good boy, my pet. Sister doesn't always think so, either; but you see, this morning she had so much to do."
"Did Norah det sick so 'Innie have to 'ork so hard? Poor 'Innie!" And the little fellow stroked Winnie's hand, while she scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry.
Altogether it was quite an unusual breakfast. Ralph ate three eggs, and more bread and butter than he had ever been known to eat before; and Winnie felt her own impatience dying away to some extent, as her hunger diminished, although she had not realized before that she was hungry.
After breakfast Mrs. Burton gave her text, and then called upon Winnie for hers. Up to that moment Winnie's text had entirely left her mind, and she recited it with a feeling of shame as she remembered the contrast between her morning conduct and the somewhat puffed-up feeling with which she had selected it: "He that ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city."
"Perhaps only the One above knows how hard it is for people to govern their own spirits. The temptation to yield to self is so strong that it sometimes seems as if there is nothing that will conquer it," commented Mrs. Burton.
"But mamma, everybody says, 'Do the duty that lies nearest thee.' How are we to do this, when we never know what is going to happen from one day to another? This morning I thought I was going to get my music lesson, and now how can I do that?"
"That is where we all make mistakes, Winnifred. We lay our plans, and are annoyed and vexed when something occurs to change them. We are like soldiers placed on the field of battle. Some of us would like an easy place; some would rather stay behind and guard the rear; others, in spite of danger, wish to press forward where 'glory waits them.' But we cannot choose either our own places or the attending circumstances. All we can do is to fall to 'with might and main.' God will take care of the ordinary duties, but there are some things which brook no delay. Do we not know how the Savior turned away from the chosen way to heal the sick or comfort the afflicted? But I think that my present duty is to cut my sermon short, for both you and I will have a great deal to do to-day. I will attend to things upstairs, and will be down to do the baking by the time you are through the work here."
So saying, Mrs. Burton rose from the table and left the room. Winnie still felt a sense of disappointment, but the little sermon, arising, as it did, from the text she herself had selected, had been good for her, and she went to work cheerfully and systematically, and the difficulties which an hour ago had seemed so great, all disappeared.
Ralph, too—who was so unlike most children of his age as not to be fond of doing anything that appeared in the least like work—seemed animated by the spirit of the occasion, and trotted back and forth between the kitchen and dining-room carrying a plate or a cup and saucer, and feeling that he was helping greatly.
As for Winnie, she had none of the feeling of some girls who are ashamed to be seen doing housework, for her mother had taught her, both by word and example, the folly and sinfulness of such a notion, and that it is the worker who degrades the work instead of the opposite; and as a very little girl, Winnie had learned Herbert's fine lines: