“Once a man was out hunting; and, as he was climbing a steep hill, he met a little cub. He thought maybe it had no father and mother, and he would like to carry it home. But, when he took it up in his arms, the cub cried out and made such a noise that its mother heard it from the top of the hill, and came tumbling down, heels over head, to see what was the matter.
“The man dropped the cub in a moment, and ran and hid behind a tree; for he had left his gun in the valley, and dared not meet the bear without it. He lay very still while the bear hunted everywhere to see what it was that had been troubling her cub. He was so afraid she would find him! But she could not smell him, for the wind was the wrong way; and she could not see him, for the tree hid him completely.
“At last she gave it up, and thought the cub had been crying out for fun, and just to tease her.
“But oh, she was so angry! And what do you think she did to teach her child better manners? She caught up that little cub, and whipped it as hard as she could with her paw! The poor thing cried just like a baby, and the man could not help laughing as he lay there behind the tree. He pitied the little creature, for it did not deserve the whipping; but it certainly was very funny.
“When the bear had punished it as long as she thought proper, she growled as if to say, ‘Don’t you ever let me know of your doing this again;’ and then she and her baby trotted off to their den, and the man hurried home as fast as he could.”
Mr. Littlefield said this was a true story, for the hunter had told it to him with his own lips.
The rest of the visit was lovely. The carriage was mended next morning, and in the afternoon the children were to start for home. Hop-clover had one of the late chickens in a little box of cotton-wool, and a cup of dough with which to feed it on the way. She thought she could keep the chicken in the back-room at home, and, when the nights grew colder, it should sleep with her in her own bed.
They had just eaten dinner, and John had not gone out as yet to harness the horse.
“Lucinda,” said Mrs. Littlefield as they all went into the parlor, “hast thou had a good visit here? Come and put thy arms round my neck, and tell me.”
“Oh, I’ve had a beautiful time!” said little Hop-clover with a sigh of joy; and then she sighed again, to think she was going away to her miserable home, and never, never, should be so happy again.
Mrs. Littlefield looked at her husband; and he came across the room, smiling, and put his arms around her and Hop-clover as they stood together.
“My wife and I haven’t any little girl,” said he. “How would thee like to come and live with us, Lucinda?”
Now think of that! Hop-clover could not speak for surprise and joy. Besides, she couldn’t believe they meant what they said: it was too good to be true.
“If thee would really like it, Lucinda, thee don’t know how glad we should be.”
“Oh, I’d rather live here than go to heaven!” cried little Hop-clover as soon as she could get her breath.
It pleased the dear old people very much to see her so glad; and they both kissed her at the same moment, while Pollio and Posy looked on in surprise.
“But, Liddy,” said Mr. Littlefield to his wife, “we can’t think of taking her unless her father is willing. I will go to see him when I get to Rosewood.”
“Oh! he isn’t my truly father: he don’t care where I go,” said Hop-clover eagerly.
Mr. Littlefield thought, as she did, that he wasn’t likely to care. If he had not thought so, he would not have spoken to Hop-clover about this until after he had seen him.
“Well, if he says we can have thee, then thee can pack thy clothes, and come back with me to-morrow.”
It was droll to talk about packing Hop-clover’s “clothes.” Those she wore just now were very good, but all the others were fit for nothing but the rag-bag.
“Well, then, I sha’n’t need my chicken; and you may have it,” said she to Pollio, feeling like a crown-princess giving away a casket of jewels. I suppose you have no idea how very, very rich Hop-clover thought herself all in a minute.
“Well, Napoleon, thee can keep the chicken as a memento of this visit; and, next time thee comes, thee shall have something better,” said Mrs. Littlefield, smiling, as Pollio danced about with the box.
The ride home was as pleasant as a fairy-story; only Pollio couldn’t help looking at the thill that had been mended, and thinking,—
“Mr. Littlefield was a jolly good man to forgive me. Catch me meddling with any of his things again!”
Hop-clover and little Posy chatted together in a low voice on the back-seat.
“God did take care of you, didn’t he?” said Posy.
“Oh! I always knew He would,” replied Hop-clover with a joyous smile; “but I didn’t s’pect he’d do any thing so nice as this, you know!”
There wasn’t the least trouble about her father’s giving her up. He said “Yes,” without taking his pipe out of his mouth; and then Mr. Littlefield left Hop-clover at the little brown house to “pack up her things,” while he drove to Judge Pitcher’s with the twins.
“O mamma! she’s going to live with ’em,—live with ’em always!” cried Posy, as they rushed into the house.
And before Mrs. Pitcher could ask who “she” was, and where she was going to live, Pollio was swinging the peeping chicken before her eyes, with a shout,—
“See what I’ve got for a tormento, mamma!”
“I’m afraid Eliza will think it’s a tormento if you keep it under the kitchen-stove,” laughed aunt Ann.
It was not the fault of the twins if the family did not hear what had happened to Hop-clover. Posy ran to tell Jane, Jane told Eliza, and Eliza told Ike. Then Nunky came home from sketching in the glen; and Pollio met him with the glad news before he had turned the street-corner.
There was a great time of rejoicing. Mrs. Pitcher set out the best china for supper, and everybody drank Friend Littlefield’s health in a cup of broma. After that, all the windows were lighted in both parlors, and the judge wheeled up the best chair for the Quaker, while Nunky played “The Shepherd’s Pipe upon the Mountain.”
A gay fire burned in the grate, for the evening was chill: the pictures on the walls seemed to smile, and so did the flowers in the vases, and the flowers in the carpet. Posy thought the room smiled all over, as she sat on her papa’s knee, and listened to the music, and thought of Hop-clover.
“I think it’s nice for little girls to live in a home,” said she to herself, pressing her cheek against her papa’s whiskers.
I could begin to-morrow morning, and tell you ever so much more about her and Pollio,—how new things happened to them day after day, and year after year: but the printer thinks my book is long enough already; so I must stop this very evening, before the fire burns low in the grate. If you really care to hear more about Pollio and Posy, perhaps, by and by, I will write another book; but now we will drop a courtsey, make a bow, and say,—
“Good-night, little Pitchers.”
SPECIMEN OF CUT TO “FLAXIE FRIZZLE SERIES.”
“Another of those sweet, natural child-stories in which the heroine does and says just such things as actual, live, flesh children do, is the one before us. And what is still better, each incident points a moral. The illustrations are a great addition to the delight of the youthful reader. It is just such beautiful books as this which bring to our minds, in severe contrast, the youth’s literature of our early days—the good little boy who died young and the bad little boy who went fishing on Sunday and died in prison, etc., etc., to the end of the threadbare, improbable chapter.”—Rural New Yorker.
“Kittyleen—one of the Flaxie Frizzle series—is a genuinely helpful as well as delightfully entertaining story. The nine-year-old Flaxie is worried, beloved, and disciplined by a bewitching three-year-old tormenter, whose accomplished mother allows her to prey upon the neighbors. ‘Everybody felt the care of Mrs. Garland’s children. There were six of them, and their mother was always painting china. She did it beautifully, with graceful vines trailing over it, and golden butterflies ready to alight on sprays of lovely flowers. Sometimes the neighbors thought it would be a fine thing if she would keep her little ones at home rather more; but, if she had done that, she could not have painted china.’”—Chicago Tribune.
“No more charming stories for the little ones were ever written than those comprised in the three series which have for several years past been from time to time added to juvenile literature by Sophie May. They have received the unqualified praise of many of the most practical scholars of New England for their charming simplicity and purity of sentiment. The delightful story shows the gradual improvement of dear little Flaxie’s character under the various disciplines of child-life and the sweet influence of a good and happy home. The illustrations are charming pictures.”—Home Journal.