« 1 r « ' ^ v«»*fi. 

**r;9«» «• I 4 4 . «•»,»»' !• 

• VVl^#*** 1 . . 


•9 . «| r 4 


' < «.. r V«4 


<P « « I ?« b« • 

«Jf b b . • «• 
44V« ^f>.f 




■ 4' 4 ^ P* * p 


» ^•k'l ^*4 I > 1 1 4i 

:.•''?? '•TJi.'trj : ' •;»»»' 

' ti > < • c 111 vL' 


' I ^ *; 

. *•' ■ ■•■•»» pi 


. * » I J i>«r I 


yjMP • J 'I * rp« I,. 

• j p f I Pii • 


■ PI* pkit >p I ' pf 

■ •r ' jlpljljj *i J‘ ‘ '•"’■r ' ^ 

Ik raf P«rkii - 

^V 

«4 I 




irr.^v 

yiv/ 

vj/ 

"'7 





l€'ii <*« ts . I • • • « 

^ .J5; eli ill] 

’^**••■•■ 1 * l« ft 

ft* ii I • . i* a n 


• t • ft « Vft^ 




MEADE 
GenCoi 1 






I xt • 


• •.* ■■4POil« > 

p • > ■ m f , htt ^^ ■ 

* * • p p I • b/p a • ft • 

• . • p • , • V- a • • * 

• • • ’ • ’ 1 'A»4 


• • P-P. • %9 ^ 1 , b.p I fc • T 

••pv«aft’a«i iri# 

• • •• • • , 0 t 4 *tm 

• • * ►,< 


• p •# • ^ . • » ♦ « 


a • « 1 ft « 









, ; jJJi'l • ; 'I*T^ ft • •» 4 ’. . , p « >,. , * • 

p:- ■ - 

i"’-*** ': * i - ...U 

Jlirr- -' : ': rt: :’;:;:r *'“■*?;;:•■•'••! - 

I .l,t'S ! . I t 'J', '.it ■ - PjP* ■■»••<• i - p 1 • •• < j » . I ... ; » . 

!* t. '’*!***' T**’" ' •■; '-•*♦••' 

i^.Zi .'Z ; ; ' .».*r.,.. .. n »:,... i I'ii i . 1 ’ ; , . i .. 

'iW*. • ulltm .'i V \ i ‘ ^ ‘ •' •' ' ' 

ftibbb !«•.» » • •>Ppa.«>>4. f • « 

•• • »• ^4. »-.• -ftftbt ,4 , «•«■• 

• j- > •**»►. 

r.. , ... , .,., 4 . ’. 

' ’ -.i.’ :'.*. • ■ ’ . , 


V* . . I t 


■ < 1 ri . . . . 


’ ft a • ft 


ft t a 

'V'**;*; 

rji .« • >aft-arftv««fta»ftp«,« 4 *« m 4 

■ t ' 4 t l M 4 ft • f t r t h % i ••»'<•••. . a-ftl.t! 

% • . t J.' p*f* 

ji #*..•• AltT • N ) , «<a*ft*«tpia4PaVa'.frib 


k ft j » p« a* • • -• 


iht'* ? *1 -■ '!' • ■•-■ - ‘ J 

-• 'tPx - .t . : ,'la . .. i . - , . , . * !, • * I . X' JJ 

.p.« .. • - . . ?l 


‘ 't^pt. 




t ' I i« p • • 


■ pp • 


^^••''^»'jp«‘p_.i.t. 

• •r---P' itpi'p‘..«**' •..».p»*I-- 

• ft •4ft.ft|»*a» a. *»•••« ■• 

5 'i^" **' • • ••J»*^ifta ft.*!* 
•ftft ' \ 

3 . t. m\ p ,4 .• .m 

•ft.*d««ftft«i« p, • Pi ^4 ft.* * «•>•. ra ft pi 


•" fft ^ » ’f ' 1 * • q k R . a t ft k « ft i 

•• -• -ft ftp R .ft 4 4 9 T • « • • • p a *1 


kRfcai 

•W4 ■ ••ft»^P4a.4a*airftal 

•^ ^r^aRRaa avV.pftai _ 

9 .aaaiaft»*.p, ^ 


••p p 4 mi.,m . I ’ .a ». ,.fe 


•-<•»• »»•••'» '• pft 

Vrd}bftftaiaft'\4'>bal ft tX 
ft ftftftH. «fti4b«**%*ft I 
t w^t^m ^ . n RR**lft 


ftft 1 ft«-ft»'*«<* • ^p* 

ft a* ftT ft^aft ftb I «*• aftR • 


R.*p.«aP4«ppp •«i«bij tip 

•bfeftqfta pa# P P«.\iftll-. 

aa 4 .a«ft i a 4 ft ft * 

ftbft, >...p^a<.la>«Pk kppR 
« aa ft a ft . .. » . • . «.^ 4 l ft . a .- - 


> a ft *• •• 


^ « ftppfta 4* a « 


I • t> 




• '.•PIP , ».« p. - r'i i, *, •'i. - ; ..ii li'.*. •. . ,, , ; ^v. ' • - •'■ ' '..'‘V. . :" • -,'.‘.W." ::.iz'’::: . ;‘v i,' ' • : ; ; •■ ' ■ • • - -i*— -i. •***., “i'. •, ; ;; 

'•*'■' •.•■""■■. *: •: i-;"; , -'j; I-.' • 1 ‘ ::•- : ;r. — ; 

’*f ’ill • - •• PI. 'Pip<p*«ipp««4«4.«.. ...... .... .,' ■■;;* ' r*"' " ‘ptt.'ItSttlii?*' ■.—. 


t a • a < a a I* a • .« 



• p« ■ • • »a*»aa 


' ^ ' ’ ' • ■ftb'a'^h.li* 


•9 *»»•• Rrft 


-.aa.^fpp.a.* *, a. .a*... t*. * '•••' -4 -* »*b»..»*pP»P.«a»fa«k4ft. ' 

• aa • a a pssaaaft .i* •• ^ '« " *? ••P»*-| p»a«a..«.ab. 

aft- a . 7.7 . r ’ U a. - > «.a t I I. . * .. *7a *.7. , a.ft»l.!l-!|'^^|J 'J ,J}^7’’‘'* * 

a T » t R «#• • H • 'Ql aia^ •.fta«.i.p. >. •ip'aft*«-/<r*b* 'a p/a' 7r» vaa a | 

::::. * lSss.;i&k • >•.*• . •'•"■j** '.*;*'- 


*«•••»« ft .a a • 


Rft«.‘*. ftfttp.pi »»»;»,.. r'*>R 
'*a»ii*i'* • s'l-s i ••>•• p.ift. 

•«•»■• •ftbft*. is 



a -I ft . • ^ . 

?«%«•: #iRa|iapai«ft>f| pp.»p* 

• ft I b • a 1 > fti • • • 


I s»a P«4iaft«4,a. ftft'ftftftftia.. 

*%.P«tR.ft» ft i «• 

ftft • ft « 

% •% »*»*• »|iftRaaii vftA 9 a 
» • as ft 

Fft R'ft •»«» « i^R ft ft Tft ^R a 


. ». • a aa*«| b a ft» 

• •it Aft A » .• I R»« pT* p • a - . I a 


r/««a tkr ••a 

» ft ft b « • r ' .; s f . 


»94 a f . z ..4 


• « Rft t ft t«« «Rl *afts<a»p 

■ -»*p .■:; 5u»;--.; .;;; 


r f ft »• • 4 - 4 


ftft i . . i. 

pft - - 4. - la fta 

f ftvft • ^ % j. •«!.»« 

••* ’ al! : 1*1 


• ft .. •. . pp 4 

»Raft.a..*«.,».^ pi*B 

: • rit} 




V Xar4lra|ft»»,9^«,l 


fta a ^ *T| \ • : a 


* '•*•« 4 *•» • 

*•• iftft 1 p 4 

4 ft . ' . • at aatftR* • p . . ^ a 

«•« .-iafftf»Tftif«4ft|v*48 

ft ftft I T 1» I ft fF t'tm 4 


e, : . t " tRt R PS ( I •« jrRft 

•a ft»ft«i*«avR4Va'»fta*a 
ftP^baftaaftR^Aifpa* a 
I p a a 
• ♦ • • 


ftB I * RVA I 
f R» ai., 


i.v**p*p RaftBxarftaiftfti 
>• - ft Rift*«ftBT4affP« 

I p . ft I i.t 4* ,, , 1 ^ p. 


ft Vft »»P # 
Bft.aift. • •'•*r«4«»». 

itbtaRbfaiab.a 

ftB .44ftb»«4*Apa 


a .44ftb»«4*Apa •i|4»Pa 
a *l«4»<ft.«a.a4K-«- 
fta • aR« ft.. • . . 

tlRRpi.ha a* 4i»ai»- 
ft.ft.p l.•-•.t a.ip 
b aai '•Br9ftRR*ftp^4 a« 


*ft> ft 4l|*pap\*rpVR 
ft* r*ft* ««it.ft.T»r 
- ft pi j i|Rft *■ 1 jbft r • 

Rftft 4 #■•**»•#• Pfti«RR 



p’'P'»- ' •• .p..p.»--.- ^ , ; . ; : : r ... . . - . T ’ ' ' »<■* .i-.r-'p.' .-•♦p.'*.. n ...4.«4,«i-.*.l»p. 

i.'.'ii.xpii.p.pp 1- '..•«4 ft-r'^ 4ip>' • . . • .p > ; =r*p**p . • . , p ... .. X p.s - ... . ;t' ■ t ‘i; . .*p. . 

r r;, ;;v.. .-^ . v • =, ;; ... ; ^ ^ • -V. r -..-.-•rvuiiijij;;:::?:;:.:!:*.: ! 

•* rlbR* 4**ft* p.. *.. -a*.p. * ,7*7 * .b.-p*.*.*,. ft •«. a 4 tA*R 1 B 

I aftft'ft'a •>#•# .ft**, a ♦♦ i# 0 9*9 ■ **9 • I 9 Pa* *4-* 1 •••»••! *.*«•’. 4 Rft4ba«*ii t.’«^*<*-«P Pft. .4 w.*’ - •• •♦,.• 9-R p/.t<ft« p . * •» j.„ «.»paP*«9 «-.•••«%. 

bi'r**b*- ■•«4**«Rp*rft «4|(bifttt •iRAa'pra a AA t«ptRPi*.«4a> ’• ft Ri^»i.«*?>7i*p* ■ Hw* t '«> p .*p •.ft^alra **7 7 •*•• ••- ».••«. a *...**• .4«.i. , ,.*.i.. rb*bi* »'•«•) ««• «»!»••• 

.ikaa^k*r.i iT»«R« *14* 44 . iiftarat.P a-44a..*pi «.»*•>>* a Ri •aft-:i^sf4r4iPP4i*.a**.afta «••• /.ft* , t*,i - --.»l.aft...\.7I!l ••••*••«. >ir*‘ftrp. ••R.PaRi Jprr.i4np^* .“4*.f.4 

I PBR#,***aP11** *»*•»•# ft .•la.bpspftsa ..*. «.*.*,. .,* >* .'|..».4laRa4i**'*— . 4 .. ft. ».* 7 *. *^ * 77 *. *'*t-»»A» b- *l*’ t«'p a *ll*. •>•}{ I I* AVR Xp f C I »?Si . 4 * ^ 

ftafiAafti'a i.«**p**«'ftpa*«pr ft**» *Pa*.Aa# •• 9 0 09 f . ’. a4/VPR.bAa*^»iV'*aft*a'9** 9 ft4v, ftpftRftpt »?•«••» 1 »lft.a- .♦.* ^ .ft,*’**;*-,. 7*77 7 --*- ;*♦*,/•* < *-'Wft* ft 

. .ftft*. ft.**. *..»*•«. ,**•♦. aft*.. a *♦* aft* ■*>9pft»ft. . .-•raft.*|pAp.. .a ♦ ...,._|p..+„.. * *, •ft..** -- a**.9*ft*P;4p..a.,- . , ** . # ft - ft-ft* • « ft- . ’ i****^ P a ■ 1 p a - "P 9 ^ P P pP R -t A Aft4«R(. < ft * {<•' ft 

• ,afta.ift«.arftPPP*-ft-ft«ft.«*-.a*^ft44 ••• ft*p*« P>»**a«b*4 b* >*fta>t; *Pft*«R-4R44irp*i ••**•• 4 •.‘i*: -*#♦•»»** *4*. I*# •!» •*.*. • •-** ft., _ ***•••.#.*,♦-.. apftftft^aa%fc*ai*a-iftv*,*, 


a*iA** ft.^.a./.^.ft . . a. ^8...- * a .* *. |ft^p;.*« fti .*4|. ,ft» ...a. ., •*# 4 •.. 4 • m ^ s **. *7,.* \ p\* .* aftft^X !*77, Rr**!'*.* *7 * ^'♦SARftTftRABaR^^ a R..4 b . ft .ftp^ 1 


• 4 








Class T’Z.7 

Rnnk . 1.57 1 

Gopight]^? 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 








NITA 

THE STORY OF AN IRISH SETTER 

CONTAINING ALSO 

UNCLE JIM’S BURGLAR 


MEHITABLE’S CHICKEN 


Works of 

Marshall Saunders 


Beautiful Joe^s Paradise 


. $1.50 

The Story of the Gravelys 

. 1.50 

^Tilda Jane 

• 

. 1.50 

Rose a Charlitte * 

# 

. 1.50 

Deficient Saints . • 

# 

. 1.50 

Her Siilor ♦ • 

# 

. 1.25 

For His Country • 


. .50 

Nita: The Story of an 

Irish Setter .50 


L. C PAGE AND COMPANY 
New England Building, Boston, Mass. 










“ THE PUPPY DISCOVERED THAT CATS WERE NOT DOGS 

{See page 4 ) 




Cosg Corner Series 


NITA 

THE STORY OF AN IRISH SETTER 

CONTAINING ALSO 

UNCL5 JIM’S BURGLAR 

AND 

MEHITABLE’S CHICKEN 


By 

Marshall Saunders 


Author of 

“ Beautiful Joe,” “ Beautiful Joe’s Paradise,” 
“ ’Tilda Jane,” “ For His Country,” etc. 


Illustrated by 

Etheldred B. Barry 



Boston ^ ^ ^ ^ 

L, C. Page & Company 
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 1^04 



LIBRMRY of^ONGRIESS 
Two Codes Received 

JUL 30 1904 





? 





/■ 




Copyright, igo2, tgo4 
By Perry Mason Company 

Copyright, igo4 
By L. C. Page & Company 

(incorporated) 

All rights reserved 


Published July, 1904 


dolonfal 

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. 
Boston, Mass., U.S. A- 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Nita, the Story of an Irish Setter . . i 

Uncle Jim’s Burglar 23 

Mehitable’s Chicken 51 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


^ 

PAGE 

“ The puppy discovered that cats were 

NOT DOGS {See page 4) . . Frontispiece 

“ Every staircase was a mountain to the 

TINY Nita” 5 

“ She drew back and looked at him ” . 7 

“ The veterinary was taking a late break- 
fast ” 18 

“ ‘ He invariably read a story to me be- 
fore I went to bed ’ ” . . . .29 

“ ‘ Those marks weren’t there two days 

ago’” 35 

“Jim pranced about the kitchen” . . 41 

“‘Prudy just loves grandpa’” . . -55 

“‘She is a chicken — I brought her up 

myself’” 58 

“ The little maid went down on her knees ” 70 





NITA 

OF AN IRISH SETTER 


THE STORY 


M 


NITA 

THE STORY OF AN IRISH SETTER 


Up to six months she was the happiest dog 
that ever lived. She belonged to a little girl — 
a gentle, sensitive creature, and they were a 
congenial pair. No one ever knew, no one 
ever guessed, not even the child’s mother (until 
it was almost too late), what exquisite delight 
there was in this mutual companionship. 

The child was delicate and could not go to 
school. Day by day she drove or walked with 
a hired attendant, and time that otherwise 
would have hung heavy on the child’s hands 
was occupied in the most entrancing manner 
in teaching this other creature, younger, weaker 
than herself, the meaning of things in the great 
world about them. 

How the child laughed the day when the 


3 


4 


NITA 


puppy discovered that cats were not dogs. It 
was so funny to see gentle, inquiring Nita trot 
up to that stern Miss Pussy whom they met out 
walking, to attempt to salute her, to be received 
by such a box on the ear that she went stag- 
gering back into the armis of her little mistress. 
The little mistress was convulsed with mer- 
riment. If Nita had been hurt, it would have 
been a different matter ; but she was not hurt, 
she was only ridiculously and utterly surprised. 

Then she had to be taught to run up and 
down stairs. Every staircase was a mountain 
to the tiny Nita. Only after distressed squeals 
of protest could she be induced to set her paws 
on one. But the child was so reasonable, so 
considerate, the dog so willing to learn, that 
little by little difficulties were surmounted, 
knowledge was gained, and the pup bade fair 
to become a most prosperous dog. 

Then a calamity overtook the pair. The 
child was to be taken East to consult physicians. 
In an agony she pled to have the dog taken too. 
The parents could have afforded the expense 
but they saw no necessity for it. The child with 
her limited experience could not give the slight- 
est idea of what the separation would mean to 


NITA 


5 


her. The parents never dreamed that an at- 
tachment so strong could spring up between a 
human being and one of the lower order of 
animals. Therefore there was a misunder- 



standing. The nurse did hint that possibly the 
child would pine to a degree that would affect 
her health, but the parents, immersed in prep- 
arations for departure, scarcely heard the sug- 
gestion. The child went, and the dog re- 
mained. 


6 


NIT A 


Possibly there was not in all the State of 
California a more bewildered animal than the 
unfortunate Nita. She had been given away. 
It had never occurred to her that she would 
ever change owners. Her life, if she ever 
looked forward to it, was to be spent with her 
gentle little mistress. She was totally unpre- 
pared for changes, for new associations. 

She looked around the place where she had 
been thrust — a cold, stone-paved yard at the 
back of a square, brick mansion. Her little 
mistress had always kept her in the sun. She 
would miss it here. 

There was a stable near by in which two 
glossy horses were being groomed. Nita, 
with her quiet, secure air of trusting affec- 
tion, walked in to examine them. A man gave 
her a cut with a whip. He wanted no dogs 
in his stable. 

Nita did not run away. She hurried to him 
crying pitifully. She had never been struck 
before except by accident. He would stroke 
her silky back, and comfort her as her little 
mistress used to do. 

He kicked her this time, and then there was 
an illumination. She understood. An addi- 


NITA 


7 


tion had been made to the education of the 
pup. She drew back and looked at him. In 



this new world were creatures that were hostile 
to her. She found a damp kennel in a corner 
of the paved yard and slunk into it. Her 


8 


NITA 


pretty assurance of manner was gone. She 
was a cowed animal, and she looked out as 
from a small cage into this terrible larger cage 
of the yard. 

Night came. No one fed her, for she had 
been forgotten. The magnificent glowing Cal- 
ifornia sun had gone down, the strange night 
chill was in the air. The dog lay in her damp 
cavern and shivered. Sometimes she gazed 
up at the stars. Those same stars were shin- 
ing on her little mistress, only Nita did not 
know it. All was strange and confused in her 
doggish world, but while she slept at troubled 
intervals, the whole matter was clear and dis- 
tinct to the worried mind of the anguished child 
lying awake in her luxurious sleeping-berth 
on the overland express. 

Every night for six months the youthful 
Mary had put that little fat round roll to bed. 
Every night she had had a sweet, protective 
instinct aroused in her, as she looked down on 
that small brown creature, curled confidingly 
up on the white rug beside her bed. And to- 
night — where was Nita — was she warm and 
comfortable, had she had her dinner — was she 
crying for her little mistress ? 


NITA 


9 


If Nita whined pitifully when the garden 
gate was between them,, what must she be doing 
now ? And in a misery beyond her years, a 
misery that she should not have known, the 
child turned her face to the pillow and groaned. 

Things looked brighter for Nita the next 
morning. Her new mistress, a smart, fashion- 
ably dressed lady, accompanied by a bevy of 
visitors, came hurrying out to see her. 

“ What do you think of my new purchase ? ’’ 
she cried gaily, — “a dog I bought from the 
Denvilles who were going East. She’s a 
thoroughbred — an Irish setter with a pedigree 
as long as that whip. Let’s take her for a walk. 
I wonder if she’s had her breakfast. Cook, 
bring us some bones. Come along, what’s 
your name. Oh, yes, Nita they call her.” 

Nita did not enjoy her walk. She had been 
used to broad fields, and country roads. These 
crowded streets confused and worried her. 
However, she patiently followed her new mis- 
tress, and at intervals lifted pathetic eyes to 
her face. The lady had not touched her, had 
not stroked her, nor called her good dog,” and 
presently she forgot her altogether. With her 


lO 


NITA 


young friends she disappeared into one shop 
doorway, and went out another. 

Nita sat waiting on the curbstone till two 
or three hours had passed, when the surly 
coachman appeared with a strap in his hand 
which he tied around her neck and then beat 
her for not following her mistress. 

Successive days passed gloomily enough for 
Nita. A week elapsed before she had another 
walk. Then the coachman was ordered to take 
her out, but the unhappy dog would rather 
have stayed at home. She usually lay all day 
long on the cold stones. Sometimes the cook 
threw her bones, sometimes she forgot. There 
never was milk, never any bread nor chopped 
vegetables such as the dainty creature liked. 
And there was never a bath, until one day the 
coachman was ordered to turn the hose on her, 
when the frightened animal could have laid 
down and died. The hair that used to be as 
fine and smooth as silk, became matted and 
dark. No one combed her, no one brushed her. 
Vermin tortured her, until sleep was impos- 
sible. 

One day the veterinary had to be sent for. 

I don’t know what’s the matter with this 


NITA 


animal/’ said the lady, fretfully. “ I’m sure 
she cost enough money. She never runs about 
and plays, just lies and mopes all day. I 
wanted a handsome dog for my yard, but I 
wish Fd never got her. What’s the matter with 
her anyway? ” 

The veterinary looked Nita all over, pounded 
her, poked her and felt her, but with kindly 
fingers. Then he looked up at the lady. Has 
she a good appetite? ” 

Fm sure I don’t know. My cook feeds 
her.” 

Does she have regular exercise ? ” 

“ The man gives her a walk once in awhile.” 

‘‘ The people that owned her went away, 
didn’t they? ” 

“ Yes — but dogs haven’t any feeling.” 

'' Not a bit, ma’am,” said the veterinary, 
cheerfully, no more than them horses there,” 
and he pointed to the two beautiful animals 
whose heads were being checked up to the 
torture point. 

‘‘ A horse is higher in creation’s scale than 
a dog,” said the lady, hastily. 

Yes, they’re higher as a rule,” said the 
veterinary, thoughtfully. 


L. of C. 


12 


NITA 


“ Do animals feel ? ” said the lady, with some 
uneasiness. 

‘‘ Not a bit, ma’am, no more than tables or 
chairs.” 

“ Just what I’ve always said,” she rejoined, 
triumphantly, ‘‘ some people are so silly about 
animals.” 

Yes, ma’am,” said the veterinary, submis- 
sively, but he winked at Nita as he bent over 
her. 

May I ask what you keep this dog for ? ” 
he inquired, after a time, and raising his head. 

‘‘ Watch-dog principally, then I like the look 
of a dog about the place.” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

‘‘ Well, what’s the matter with her? ” asked 
the lady, impatiently. 

The man looked preternaturally solemn. “ I 
can’t very well explain to you, ma’am. It’s 
internal. If you let me take her away. I’ll 
try to cure her. It may take some time, but 
you’ll not miss her with that high wall around 
the place, and a coachman in the stable and 
house servants to guard you.” 

No, I’ll not miss her,” the lady said, 
hastily. ‘‘ Take her, only cure her. If you 


NITA 


13 


will bring her back sound and well, Til give you 
a handsome fee.” 

The veterinary smiled, and slipped the catch 
on the chain, for the dog was now fastened to 
her kennel. “ Come,” he ?aid, and held out 
his hand. 

The sad-faced dog looked at him, then, 
rising to her feet, she staggered out of the 
yard after him. 

She gave not one backward glance at her 
mistress, and the lady, after staring at her, 
returned to the house with a puzzled “ I won- 
der if animals do feel?” 

Outside the iron gates the veterinary had a 
shabby, old wagon. “ Too weak to jump up. 
I’ll help you,” and he assisted her in. 

She sat with the strange look in her eyes 
until after they were well out of sight of the 
house. The man smiled down at her, and said, 

‘ You beauty.” 

Then she dropped her head on his knee. 

“ Belonged to Banker Denville’s little kid, 
did you ? ” said the man, thoughtfully. “ She 
was a little angel if ever there was one — 
a smile and a shy look for every one. Pity 
you fell into the hands of that painted doll. 


14 


NITA 


Do animals feel? Ha, ha! I’ll do what I 
can for you, though — awful disease, madam 
— broken heart. You don’t know anything 
about it, never had such an article. If the 
folks in the big houses guessed how much the 
folks in the little houses know about ’em, they’d 
be scared. Here’s our destination, dog; step 
out. I guess you can jump now. Walk right 
in. Dash it, see the creature look first at the 
house, then at the yard — a good clean dog 
is good enough for any house. I’ll give you a 
bath presently.” 

Nita licked his hands solemnly and grate- 
fully, first one then the other, while the man 
stood smiling down at her. 

That night she lay by his bedside, her soft 
muzzle on his heavy boots thrown on the floor. 

While Nita slept late the next morning, a 
consultation was taking place in a certain fash- 
ionable hotel in New York. A child stood by 
the window listlessly looking out into the street. 
Utter weariness and depression marked every 
line of her figure. In the background stood her 
mother, a doctor, and a nurse. The mother’s 
face was flushed and nervous, and she was 
uttering broken sentences. “ It is driving me 


NIT A 


15 

wild. I never saw such terrible apathy. They 
do not seem to realize — these other doctors. 
Her body is being cured, and they say the 
mind will soon prove sympathetic. I have 
called you in — not because I have no confi- 
dence in them, but for your well-known skill 
in mental diseases. Is it disease, or is it sullen- 
ness, or what is it? I am puzzled.” 

The pale-faced young man smiled faintly. ' 
“ Perhaps it is a case of homesickness.” 

“ When she has her parents with her ? ” said 
the lady, reproachfully. 

Has she brothers and sisters ? ” 

No.” 

‘‘ Any favourite child she played with ? ” 

“ No — children were too rough for her 
on account of her weak back.” 

Did you bring her favourite toys ? ” 

All of them.” 

“ Has she any pets? ” 

‘‘ She had a dog.” 

Was she fond of it? ” 

She played with it a good deal.” 

“ With your permission, I will speak to her 
about it.” 

‘‘ Certainly — anything you please.” 


i6 


NITA 


The pale-faced young specialist sauntered to 
the window, and, almost as listless as the child, 
gazed out into the street. 

He had approached quietly, yet his every 
movement was made with the design of pro- 
voking curiosity. However, the little girl did 
not look at him, until he made a subdued ex- 
clamation, “ What a fine dog! ” 

A faint glow of colour appeared in the child’s 
face, and she cast a sidelong glance, first at 
him, then down at the street. 

“Isn’t he clever?” soliloquized the young 
doctor. “ Follows close at his master’s heels, 
and carries a paper in his mouth.” 

“ My dog could do that,” murmured the 
child, sadly and proudly. 

“ But your dog couldn’t walk as straight 
as that, could he? ” said the young man. 

The child did not speak. 

“ Madam,” said the young man, looking over 
his shoulder, “ I am fond of dogs ; may I ask 
you to tell me something of this dog of which 
your daughter speaks ? ” 

“ My little girl’s dog,” said the lady, coming 
forward and answering him with affected 


NITA 1 7 

cheerfulness, “ we left it in San Francisco with 
a lady.” 

The child turned suddenly, her apathy gone, 
every nerve alert, her face a vivid crimson. 
“ What lady, mamma? ” 

Mrs. Tressilling, darling.” 

“ You didn’t give my Nita away, mamma? ” 

“I — I sold her,” murmured the unfortu- 
nate mother. “I — I didn’t think you’d care. 
I thought you would have forgotten by the 
time we returned from Europe.” 

“ You sold my Nita,” said the child, in a 
terrible voice, “ my darling Nita, and I shall 
never see her again, no, never, not even 
when we come from Europe. Oh, mamma, 
mamma ! ” 

She dropped like a stone to the floor, and 
sat rocking herself backward and forward in 
an agony, her head buried in her hands. 

“ How long since she has cried like that? ” 
said the doctor, in an undertone to the nurse. 

Not since we left home, sir,” she said, in 
a whisper. “ You’re right about the dog. I 
told Mrs. Denville, but she did not believe me. 
Now she’ll do something.” 

The mother was comforting her child. 


i8 


NITA 


“ Darling, don’t cry. Just stop a minute. I’ll 
telegraph Mrs. Tressilling. You shall have 
your dog back. We’ll have her sent right to 
you here. Do stop — you’ll hurt your back.” 

“Will you do it right away, mamma?” 
wailed the child. “ Right away ? Oh, I can't 
wait, I want my Nita, my Nita, my Nita!” 
and she rocked and sobbed until the overworked 
young doctor, accustomed as he was to scenes 
of the most pitiful nature, thrust his long slim 
fingers in search of his dainty handkerchief to 
wipe his suddenly beclouded glasses. 

Mrs. Denville and the nurse were crying 
openly, but the former, dashing away her tears, 
hurried to her desk to write a telegram. 

Away in San Francisco that morning the 
veterinary was taking a late breakfast in his 
kitchen, his coat off, his collar and tie on the 
back of one chair, and his feet on another, 
Nita beside him, quietly happy and gratefully 
partaking of scraps from his plate. 

Yet as she ate, at every noise the drooping 
ears would be slightly raised. “ I’m blest if 
she’s not listening for that young one,” solilo- 
quized the veterinary. “ Talk about faithful- 
ness — there’s one animal that never forgets. 


NIT A 


19 


and it’s name’s dog. Hello, what’s that? 
Some one’s coming for sure.” 

A carriage had rolled up to the door. 
“ Please don’t disturb yourself,” said a flurried 



voice, ‘‘ only listen. The lady whose little girl 
owned the dog has telegraphed me. The child 
is dying of grief over the parting from the 
dog. Of course, under the circumstances, I 
must give it up. I am to send some responsible 
person to New York with it. Now, will you 


20 


NITA 


go? What is your price? — Why, how well 
that dog looks! You must have magic medi- 
cine. How soon can you start?” 

“ By to-night’s overland, madam.” 

“ And your price ? ” 

“ Let me see. Five days to New York, five 
days home, substitute to hire — expenses paid 
both ways and $500 to boot.” 

“ It’s a good deal to pay for a dog,” said the 
lady, sharply. 

“ Well, madam, it is if you send me special. 
We might find some one going second-class 
to New York to-night who’d take the animal 
for considerable less than that.” 

She looked at him doubtfully. “ I don’t 
know anything about travelling with ani- 
mals.” 

“ It’s this way, madam,” said the man, agree- 
ably. “ Most folks think it’s a world of trouble. 
It ain’t. Animals are more thought of than 
they used to be. There’s a place in the bag- 
gage-car for that there dog. The baggage-man 
chains him up. See that he gets a tip now and 
then, and he’ll give the dog some old mail- 
sacks to lie on. At stations, don’t run for the 
eating-places, but exercise your dog, and take 


Nit A 


21 


your own meals on the train. Why, it’s as 
easy for animals to travel as it is for us.” 

The lady’s face brightened. “ I see you 
are an honest man, and I think you would better 
go yourself. The Denvilles can afford to pay 
you. Call at my husband’s office for a cheque. 
I hope you will have a pleasant journey. Tell 
Mrs. Denville about the dog’s mysterious ill- 
ness. Good-bye, dog,” and with a careless pat 
on the head that submitted to her caress, she 
drove away. 

Five days later, an excited group stood in the 
parlour of the Denville’s suite of apartments. 
The little girl, her cheeks pink with excitement, 
was the centre of the group. Her father, 
benign and cheerful, now that his only child 
was herself again, stood in silent contempla- 
tion of her. The mother, scarcely less excited 
than the child, kept running to the window. 
The young doctor, pretending to read a note- 
book, was in reality watching his patient, while 
the nurse hovered about the dooi*way. 

A bell-boy paced the sidewalk like a sentinel. 
Suddenly he sprang to the door of a carriage. 
A rough-looking man, accompanied by a silky 
setter wearing a huge bow of ribbon, jumped 


22 


NITA 


out, and was eagerly hurried by the bell-boy 
out of the din of the street to the elevator. 

The child could not be kept in the room. 
“ Your back, your back! ” warned the mother, 
but the youthful Mary was running to the 
elevator. 

“ My darling red dog, my darling red dog! ” 
A wail of impatience answered the shriek. 
The dog heard her voice. The veterinary held 
the dog until the elevator door sprang back. 
Then there was a reunion such as one is seldom 
privileged to witness. The child held out her 
arms, and the dog sprang to them, crying, paw- 
ing, panting, licking the little gentle hands, and 
only stopping to look imploringly at the by- 
standers as if to say, “ You will not separate 
me from her again, will you ? ” 

Mary’s papa stepped aside and rubbed his 
handkerchief all over his face. It was abom- 
inable to keep this hotel so hot. 

“ They shall never be separated again,” said 
Mrs. Denville, solemnly. “ Where Mary goes 
her dog goes, to Europe or to California! ” — 
and she kept her word. Mary and the dog are 
at present viewing together the wonders of 
Switzerland. 


0 


« 


UNCLE JIM’S BURGLAR 


/ 


•c 


♦ 4 • .» 

■»J . 1 

.vijMt 





UNCLE JIM’S BURGLAR 


It was Christmas eve in Southern California. 
Mother had driven us all out to the back 
veranda, where we sat looking at the moon, and 
the rose and heliotrope bushes, and at Aunt 
Mollie, who was walking slowly up and down 
with a little white shawl over her shoulders. 

The younger children were trembling with 
excitement, and we older ones were — well, 
we were considerably interested. Inside the 
house, mother and father were filling the stock- 
ings. 

‘‘ Dear Aunt Mollie,” I pleaded, at last, do 
tell us a story to compose our minds.” 

‘‘ What shall I tell you ? ” she asked, turning 
her brown head toward us. 

Oh, something beginning with, ‘ When I 
was a girl in Maine.' ” 

When I was a girl — then it must have 
Uncle Jim in it.” 


25 


26 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


At this there was a burst of applause. Sailor 
Uncle Jim was one of the chief favourites 
among our host of relatives. 

“ Thweet Uncle Jim,” said lisping sister 
Sue, ‘‘I wonder where he ith?” 

“ He’s on the wing wherever he is,” re- 
sponded Aunt Mollie. “ There’s nothing 
stationary about him. He wrote me that he 
wanted to go to Tibet.” 

“To Tibet!” exclaimed my mother, sud- 
denly putting her head out through an open 
window behind us. “ Oh, I hope not.” 

“ He said he wanted to,” replied Aunt 
Mollie, “ but perhaps he won’t be able to. I 
wish he would come here.” 

“ So do I,” said we all, and immediately 
there arose before us a vision of Uncle Jim’s 
round head, his closely cropped iron-gray hair, 
his determined mouth and chin, and his jolly 
laugh. Oh, he was a darling! 

“ I have it ! ” exclaimed Aunt Mollie. “ Our 
mention of Uncle Jim has reminded me that 
in his last letter he asked me to tell you a story 
that he knew I would not relate without his 
permission. He says it may do you good.” 

“ Oh, I hope it is a Christmas story,” cried 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


27 


Rob, with sparkling eyes, “ with snow and ice, 
and whirling icicles in it ! ” 

“ Whirling ithicles ! ” shrieked Sue. ‘‘ What 
a thory that would be ! ’’ 

Aunt Mollie smiled at him. Rob is a 
native son of the Golden State. Wait till he 
goes East. Then he will learn about our 
winters.” 

“ But Fm coming back tO' California,” said 
Rob, decidedly. 

Aunt Mollie nodded her head at him. 

Good boy ! ” Then she turned to the rest of 
us. “ Well, nephews and nieces, shall I 
begin ? ” 

Yes, yes,” we all exclaimed. 

“ The name of my story is ‘ Uncle Jim’s 
Burglar,’ ” said Aunt Mollie, and as she spoke 
she seated herself in a big rocking-chair, and 
allowed the twins to scramble up on the arms 
of it. When I was a child, everything I did 
vras connected with my brother. I had no more 
character than a rabbit.” 

“ My wabbits fight like the mithchief ! ” 
volunteered Sue, in a low voice. 

Aunt Mollie burst into a merry laugh. 


28 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


“ That was a wrong thing for me to say. I 
forgot how decided rabbits sometimes are.” 

Wabbits and wobbins,” said Sue, “ would 
wather fight than eat.” 

Aunt Mollie laughed again, then she went 
on : Jim knew that I loved him dearly, and 

he was very good to me. He always let me 
go to school with him, and when my class was 
dismissed I loitered about, waiting for him to 
accompany me home. 

During the afternoon he played with boys, 
but, when his playtime was over and he had 
eaten his supper, he allowed me to sit with him 
until my bedtime came. He always prepared 
his lessons up in the garret. Mother had had 
one corner curtained off for him, and there he 
had a stove, and chairs, and table, and a good- 
sized bookcase. 

“He invariably read a story to me before I 
went to bed, not always a story from the book- 
case that mother had provided for him. No, 
Jim had a way of getting stories of a most 
undesirable character. Certain men in large 
cities used to send to the girls and boys in our 
school circulars containing lists of books that 
could be bought for a few cents apiece. These 


UNCLE JIm’s burglar 


29 


bcK>ks were great rubbish, and even in those 
his youthful days he knew that they were, for 
I remember how careful he was to keep them 
hidden from mother. 

‘‘ It’s queer, nephews and nieces, how you 



have to pay up for anything that you do that’s 
one bit off the straight line. That’s why Uncle 
Jim wants me to tell you this story. These 
books I speak of were not prepared by persons 
who had the welfare of boys and girls at heart. 
The paper was cheap, the type was poor, the 


30 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


plots were trashy — you have noticed Uncle 
Jim’s red eyes? ” 

“ Not weally wed,” said Sue, remonstra- 
tingly, “ only wose colour.” 

Auntie pinched her cheek. “ Well, child, 
they are weak, anyway, and uncle wants to 
warn you against poorly prepared books. Read 
only what your parents approve of — then you 
cannot go wrong. 

“ Jim always hid his silly books when he 
heard mother coming. I aided and abetted him 
by my silence, but we were punished — we 
were punished. 

“ I must tell you of one of the least mis- 
chievous of Jim’s collection — one that took 
a great hold of himi because something in it 
appealed to his generous nature. This story 
was about a lad called Dick, who was a cabin- 
boy on a large ship. The ship was wrecked, 
and only Dick and some lady passengers were 
saved. That the helpless women and one boy 
should be spared, and a crew of strong men 
should be drowned, did not seem to us at that 
time in any way remarkable. 

“ In some astonishing manner Dick had 
managed to secure two revolvers, and, holding 


UNCLE JIm’s burglar 


31 


one in each hand, he disposed of the savages 
and protected the ladies in a way so exciting 
to Jim, that he could not sit still, but usually 
read this story pacing up and down the room. 

‘‘ Well, time went on, and just as Jim was 
at the height of his story-book fever, our father 
gave up his house in town and moved away out 
in the country near grandmother, to take up 
a small farm that your great-uncle Silas left 
when he came to California. 

'‘We moved in the winter-time, Rob, when 
the ground was covered with snow. Jim was 
wild with delight over the country. His eyes 
would grow round with mystery as he surveyed 
the pine-grove near us, and he said that when 
summer came he must have a camp there, and 
perhaps we should have adventures with In- 
dians, such as befell the heroes in some of his 
stories. 

“ Oh, dear, me — what silly fancies filled 
that dear boy’s head. We often laugh at them 
now ! ” 

“ But Indians are vewy thavage with white 
folkth,” observed Sue, opening her eyes wide 
at Aunt Mollie. 

“ Yes, dear, in olden times. Nowadays they 


32 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


are kinder, and we try to treat them well and 
give them schools for their children. There 
were no wild Indians in Maine when Jim and 
I were children, and we might have found this 
out, if we had only talked things over with 
our mother. 

‘‘ But we did not talk to dear mother, so 
we went from bad to worse. 

“ I must not forget to say that just before 
we moved to the country Jim was foolish 
enough to get a revolver. . As soon as he heard 
we were going to move, he began getting 
money enough to buy it. He had a hard time, 
for we were not very well off in those days. 
Poor Jim, he even sold the mittens off his 
hands. In what deplorable way he got the. 
revolver, and how he managed to hide it, and 
transport it without mother’s knowledge, I 
do not know, but he did it. 

“ Our family in the farmhouse was not a 
large one. Just father, mother, Jim, and I, 
and the baby, your mother, who was then only 
three years old. 

“ The house was a long, low building, 
painted red, and standing some distance back 
from the road. It had a front door, and a 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 33 

side door, and behind the house stretched a 
woodshed and a small bam. 

“ The day before Christmas, and about ten 
days after we had arrived, a man on horseback 
rode up to the side door, and told us that 
grandmother, who had been ill, had suddenly 
grown worse, and wished to see father and 
mother. 

‘‘ The man went away, and our parents got 
into the sleigh and drove off as quickly as 
they could. My mother took the baby — your 
mother — with her, and said that she would 
send a woman from one of the neighbouring 
houses to stay with us. 

“ The woman told our dear mother that she 
would come right over to us, but, unfortu- 
nately, she slipped and twisted her foot in 
hurrying to get ready, sO', of course, was 
obliged to stay at home. 

We did not know this, and the morning 
passed away drearily enough. The house was 
in disorder, for mother had been getting ready 
for Christmas. It was painful to view these 
interrupted preparations, so Jim and I faint- 
heartedly finished putting up the evergreens 
in the parlour. Then we amused ourselves by 


34 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


trying to bake the mince pies. Here we were 
not successful. We burned them to a cinder. 

“ The afternoon dragged by. Soon it would 
be dark, and the woman had not come ; neither 
did our parents arrive, and, worst of all, Jim 
was acting so mysteriously that he almost 
drove me crazy. All the afternoon he had been 
going about with two red spots on his cheeks. 
Then he kept pressing his lips together in 
such a provoking way that I got quite cross 
with him. He also went all around the house 
examining the fastenings of the doors and 
windows, till at last I was so puzzled that I 
colild stand it no longer. 

“ ‘ Jim,’ I said, ' what’s the matter? ’ 

‘‘ ‘ I would rather not tell you,’ he replied. 

‘ Ah, tell me, Jim,’ I said, coaxingly. 

“ ‘ Will you promise not to be frightened? ’ 
he asked. 

I promised, and, taking the milk-pail, he 
led the way to the barn. I had to wait till he 
finished milking the cow, and had fastened the 
barn door. Then he led the way to the hen- 
house, and, looking cautiously around in the 
gathering dusk, pointed to some white chalk- 
marks on the door. 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 35 

‘ Those marks weren’t there two days 
ago,’ he said, with glittering eyes. 

I was completely mystified. 

Come back to the house,’ he said, in a 



low voice. ‘ I will explain there,’ and, locking 
the doors behind us as we went, he beat a 
retreat to the kitchen fire. 

“ When we were comfortably seated by it. 


36 UNCLE JIM*S BURGLAR 

he said, ' Don’t be nervous, Mollie, Fll protect 
you.’ 

“ ^ I wish you would tell me what it is,’ I 
said, tearfully. 

“ ‘ Child,’ and he lowered his voice, ‘ they 
are going to attack this house to-night. Those 
chalk-marks that I discovered are private 
signs. They leave them wherever they go.’ 

“ ‘ Who leaves them ? ’ I exclaimed. 

“ ‘ Tramps and burglars. Don’t you re- 
member the tale of Bright-Eye the Burglar, 
and do you remember that father said some 
one had been sleeping in our bam night before 
last? They’re probably keeping an eye on us. 
If any other tramps come along, they will join 
them. To-night will be their chance, for they 
will easily find out mother and father are 
away.’ 

‘ Jim,’ I said, having hard work not to 
cry, ‘ let’s go for some of the neighbours.’ 

“ ‘ Too late,’ he returned, ‘ the burglars are 
probably in the pine-wood, watching, and 
would catch us on the way there.’ 

“ At this I did cry outright, but Jim soon 
dried my tears. 

He was brave, if he was misguided, and 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


37 


in intense admiration I sat gazing at his red 
cheeks and bright eyes, while he told me in a 
manly way that he had resolved to die if 
necessary in defence of his father’s property. 

“ I shall never forget our wait for the bur- 
glars that night, as we sat close to the crack- 
ling fire. Outside a storm rose, and the snow 
blew against the window. Jim and I alternately 
grew hot and cold as we listened. 

“ When the clock struck eleven, Jim said, 
solemnly, ‘ It is time to make preparations.’ 

“ I had such entire confidence in him, that 
I never thought of questioning anything he 
did. Like a little dog, I followed him about 
the house, watching him lock doors, and store 
in out-of-the-way places the few valuables we 
possessed. Finally he shut all the doors, and 
went back to the kitchen. 

Then he laid his hand on the big ring 
of the trap-door leading to the cellar, and threw 
it open. 

‘‘ I wondered what he was going to do, but 
my teeth were chattering so that I thought it 
unwise to attempt to frame a question. 

“ Descending the short, steep steps while 
I held the candle for him, Jim quickly sur- 


38 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


veyed the winter supplies about him. Then 
he drew immediately under the open door a 
tub of pickled pork, a few cabbages, and some 
potatoes, and, while he did so, I heard him 
mutter to himself something about ‘ breaking 
a fall.’ 

These preparations made, he skipped 
nimbly up the steps, and I watched him in 
amazement as, instead of dropping the door, 
he allowed it to remain open. 

“ ‘ If they’re coming to-night, they’ll soon 
be here,’ he said. ‘ Mollie, put that candle on 
the window-ledge, and listen to me. Will you 
do just as I tell you? ’ 

“ ' Y-Yes,’ I stammered. 

“ ‘ Then when I say “ Extinguish ! ” do you 
put out the candle, and when I call out 
Light ! ” do you be all ready to light it again. 
That is your duty. Stand well in the corner 
behind the table, so you won’t get hurt. Now 
here is my trusty friend all ready for me,’ and 
lovingly handling that wretched revolver, he 
laid it in a chair near the side door. 

“ All the other chairs he placed against the 
wall, and threw the rag mats in a heap in the 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 3^ 

comer, making a clear course from the en- 
trance to the trap-door. 

“ Over by the window, my head rising above 
the table whenever my limbs did not double 
helplessly under me, I kept my astonished eyes 
on him. 

“ Occasionally he let fall such bold sentences 
as ‘ The time draws near ! ’ ‘ Stout hearts and 
ready hands,’ and, at last, with the exclamation, 
‘ I’ll take an observation,’ he approached the 
window. 

“ With a cautious hand, he raised a corner 
of the white curtain, and opened the shutter. 

'' He dropped it immediately, and, with a 
hurried ‘ Hush, Mollie — attend to your or- 
ders ! ’ he sprang to his former position. 

“ A minute later, there was a knock at the 
door, and some one rattled the latch. 

'' ^ Extinguish ! ’ cried Jim, and, leaping for- 
ward, he threw open the door. 

Whether the snowy blast that came 
promptly sweeping in blew out the light, or 
whether I did it myself, I can never tell. I 
only know that suddenly there was darkness, 
and a rush of cold air in the kitchen — that I 


40 UNCLE JIM’s burglar ' 

could dimly perceive a burly figure stepping 
in, and almost instantly disappearing. 

“ Before I could get my breath, Jim had the 
trap-door shut down, the table dragged over it, 
and was calling to me to light up. 

“ In some way, I could not make connection 
between the match and the candle, so Jim 
sprang to my side and did it for me. 

“ ‘ Pile more furniture on the door,’ he cried, 
* while I lock up. There’s probably another 
watching outside,’ and he darted so rapidly 
about my mother’s usually tidy kitchen, that in 
about two minutes he had stacked up in the 
middle of it a heap of articles higher than 
himself. 

“ ‘ Now,’ he said, ‘ I’ll frighten him and the 
fellow outside, too, if there happens to be one,’ 
and he began to fire off his revolver. 

I understood the affair now, and, as the 
burglar was securely fastened in the cellar, I 
came out from behind the table and shouted 
valiantly, ‘ Give it to him, Jim — shoot him ! ’ 

‘‘ ‘ I will not shed blood unnecessarily,’ he 
vociferated. ‘ Light all the lamps in the house, 
Mollie. That will frighten the rest of the gang. 
Make all the noise you can.’ 


UNCLE JIM’S burglar 


4 


“ The lamps stood in a row on the kitchen 
mantelpiece. I got them all down, and, while 



Jim pranced about the kitchen kicking, stamp- 
ing, firing his revolver, and chanting a kind 
of war-song, I soon had on the floor a se- 


42 UNCLE JIM’s BURGLAR 

ries of illuminations like the footlights of a 
stage. 

“Just as I was going to carry the lamps to 
the other rooms of the house, there came, first 
a loud knocking, then an impatient kicking 
at the door. 

“ ' We’re in a state of siege ! ’ yelled Jim, 
whose blood was now thoroughly up, ‘ but the 
boy detective will be a match for ye all,’ and 
he waved his revolver in the air. 

“ Smash — we heard at the window, and 
glass and bits of broken shutter, impelled by 
some powerful hand, came flying into the room, 
while some one called in a loud voice, ‘ What 
in the name of common sense is going on? 
Let me in, you young rats. I’m your cousin 
Richard.’ 

“ Jim sank into a chair, his face as pale as 
ashes. Never as quick-witted as he was, I 
fancied that some of our relatives whom we 
had not seen had heard about the burglars, and 
had come to our rescue, so I joyfully unbolted 
the door. 

“ A young man, six feet in height and 
powerfully built, entered the kitchen, stamping 
and shaking the snow from him. 


UNCLE JIm’s burglar 


43 


Hello, cousins ! ’ he said, his eyes run- 
ning in amazement around the disordered 
room, ‘ what kind of shines are you up to — 
and why didn’t you let me in? Folks about 
here don’t wait for a formal introduction in a 
snow-storm — where’s father ? ’ 

We were both speechless. 

‘‘ ‘ You don’t seem overjoyed to see me,’ 
he went on, sarcastically. ‘ I rather think by 
your actions that father did not tell you that 
your parents had sent word to us to come to 
them and bring you with us. Grandmother’s 
worse.’ 

“ ‘ Your father! ’ gasped Jim. 

‘ Yes, my father. Didn’t he come in? 
Perhaps he’s at the front door,’ and the young 
man started to go through the house. 

‘^‘Stopl’ implored Jim. ‘Your father’s 
here.’ 

“ ‘ Here — where? ’ and Richard eyed him 
as if he thought he was crazy. 

“ ‘ In — in the cellar,’ and the words seemed 
to stick in Jim’s throat. 

“‘The cellar — what’s he doing there?’ 

“Jim spoke up like a man. ‘ I thought he 


44 UNCLE jim’s burglar 

was a burglar when he came, and I pushed 
him down.’ 

“ ‘ You young rascal,’ said Richard, and he 
began to throw the furniture off the cellar 
door with as much haste as Jim had put it on. 

“ In two minutes we were all down in the 
cellar, bending over Uncle Harvey, who lay 
with his legs in the pickle-tub, and his head 
on the cabbages and potatoes. 

‘ Are you hurt, father? ’ asked Richard, in 
a choked voice. 

“ Uncle Harvey groaned fearfully, but, on 
being raised to an upright position, discovered 
that, owing to his heavy wrappings, he had 
sustained no injury except a few bruises and 
a slight cut on his nose. 

“ Richard’s wrathful expression, as he 
emerged from the cellar, supporting his father, 
to the brightly lighted kitchen, filled me with 
dismay. 

“ ‘ Run, Jim ! ’ I whispered, but I am thank- 
ful to say that he stood his ground. 

‘ Now, what’s the meaning of this? ’ asked 
Richard, while his father sat down in mother’s 
armchair, and pressed a handkerchief against 
the cut on his nose. ‘ Explain quick ! ’ 


UNCLE JIm’s burglar 45 

' I did explain! ’ said Jim. ‘ I found bur- 
glar’s marks to-day, and I thought some one 
was going to attack us.’ 

“ ‘ Burglars ! ’ groaned Richard. ‘ Heavens 
and earth, there hasn’t been such a thing heard 
of in these parts since I was born, and what 
do you mean by their marks ? ’ 

Signs and writings that they leave for 
each other,’ said Jim. 

“^Bah! stuff and nonsense. You’ve been 
reading dime-novels,’ said Richard, disdain- 
fully, ‘ now, haven’t you ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Jim, ‘ I have.’ 

‘‘ ' You young simpleton — and you think 
the world is full of rogues and villains. The 
sooner you get that notion out of your head 
the better. And look here ! ’ he suddenly ex- 
claimed, turning upon me, ‘ if that mite of a 
girl isn’t handling a revolver ! ’ 

“ It was true. In my distress and bewilder- 
ment, I had picked up Jim’s treasure, and was 
fingering it affectionately. 

‘‘ ‘ You little witch,’ said Cousin Richard, 
and he burst into a laugh. ‘ Here, give it to 
me. I’ll hand it over to your father, and I 
rather guess he’ll chuck it in the river rather 


46 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


than let it come into your hands again — well, 
I declare — it’s enough to make a horse laugh. 
An infant carrying firearms,’ and, sitting down 
in a chair, he began to laugh enjoyably. 

“ There was something funny about the sit- 
uation. Uncle Harvey, bulging and volumi- 
nous in his many wraps, sat in mother’s chair 
and surveyed with a rueful face the extraor- 
dinary condition of things about him, brightly 
illuminated by my rows of lamps. 

‘ You’re not hurt, are you, father? ’ asked 
Richard, checking his tittering. 

“ ' No thanks to them, if I’m not,’ replied 
Uncle Harvey, indicating us, and carefully 
feeling the tip of his nose. 

“ With a satisfied face, Richard turned to 
Jim. ‘ That is a pretty good bulk of a man. 
You must have been uncommon sneaky to get 
him off his feet.’ 

“ ‘ I took him by surprise,’ said Jimi. ‘ I ran 
at him as soon as he came inside the door — 
and I am sorry for it,’ he added, firmly. 

‘ Oh, you played the goat,’ said Richard, 
and he stared at Jim solemnly for about five 
minutes. 

'' Then he burst into a roar of laughter. I 


UNCLE JIm’s burglar 


47 


had never heard any one laugh like that before. 
His voice seemed to shake the house. 

“ Jim never said a word, but Uncle Harvey 
got out of his chair with a gruff ‘ Come, let 
us go.’ 

‘ Excuse me, father/ said Richard, wiping 
his eyes, ‘ but I’m most done for. To think 
of this brace of young ones coming out to this 
prosperous settlement, and attacking the 
peaceful inhabitants with a revolver. Land 
alive! I wish grandmother wasn’t so sick. 
She loves a joke 1 ’ 

‘‘ ‘ Come on,’ said Uncle Harvey, and he 
started for the door. 

“ ‘ Do you think it’s safe to leave them 
alone ? ’ asked Richard, looking as if he were 
reluctant to part from us. 

“ ‘ I sha’n’t take them in my sleigh,’ said 
Uncle Harvey, decidedly. 

“ ‘ We don’t want tO' go,’ muttered Jim, 
between his teeth. 

* I’ll come back for you,’ said Richard, 
over his shoulder. ' I like you — you’re gritty. 
But I’m afraid of her,’ and he pretended to 
hide from me. ^ She’s a cowboy,’ then he ran 
after his father. 


48 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


As soon as he disappeared, Jim threw him- 
self in a chair by the table and buried his face 
in his hands. 

“ For hours he sat there, and I could not 
console him. It was nearly morning when we 
heard sleigh-bells, and my mother rushed into 
the room. I never was so glad of anything 
in my life. She threw her arms around Jim, 
then he gave way and cried as if his heart 
would break. 

“ She didn’t scold, and, looking back on her 
conduct, now that I am older, I am reminded 
of an expression in the Bible, ‘ As one whom 
his mother comforteth.’ 

“ When Jim got quieter, she brought out 
our Christmas presents, and while we were 
examining them father came in. Then a few 
hours later Cousin Richard drove up again to 
our side door. He brought joyful news. 
Grandmother had had a sudden turn for the 
better. 

“ When she saw Uncle Harvey’s cloudy face 
and disturbed manner, she made signs for 
some one to tell her what had happened. 

“ Richard tried hard to be solemn. He 
knew that his dear grandmother was alarm- 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


49 


ingly ill with a gathering in her throat, but he 
must have given a comical twist to his words 
in speaking of us, for grandmother suddenly 
burst out laughing, the abscess broke, and her 
life was saved. 

“ All the family appreciated Uncle Harvey, 
but he was terribly conceited, and had a great 
habit of boasting of things that had never 
happened to him. He had never been cheated 
— never lost money — never been snubbed, 
and so on. 

“ However, he bore no resentment against 
Jim after some time had passed, but Jim could 
not forgive himself, and for weeks afterward, 
to escape teasing, he would rush home from 
school as if something were after him. 

One good thing came out of it. He 
wouldn’t look at another book until mother 
had passed an opinjpn on it, and, let me see, 
that’s about all, I think.” 

But the marks on the hen-house door?” 
said six eager voices. 

“ Mother’s records about the number of eggs 
laid,” said a sudden familiar and beloved voice. 

There was a chorus of delighted shrieks. 

Uncle Jim! ” Then we rushed to meet him. 


50 


UNCLE JIM’s burglar 


He had crept quietly up the veranda steps, 
suit-case in hand. 

Merry Christmas ! Merry Christmas ! ” 
he exclaimed, dropping his suit-case and em- 
bracing Aunt Mollie and nephews and nieces 
by the armful. 

Sue went down on her knees by the suit- 
case. ‘‘ He’th brought uth prethenth. I hear 
them wattle ! ” 

Uncle Jim heard her. “ Yes, lots of pres- 
ents,” and he uplifted his jolly voice to be 
heard above the din, a whole boxful down 
at the station. How de do, sister,” and he 
stretched out a hand to mother, who ran out 
when she heard the noise. 

Oh, what a good Christmas we had that 
year — the best I think I ever had ! 


MEHITABLE’S CHICKEN 





S'* 






Kff' •’'i^#V -' ^t hu^.-^ -" ^ ‘. ^ j , r • H 11. r ^ ^ w .mm 

PSi^-K'^., .... ^r.. .SH 


asSSb?^: 


r- *.a‘ 


?". v' >;’f4:l''..v^ -•' 






/»• 





ra' ' • -'•-11 ^*V!S^. 


, VN‘ '* 


- • V 


■,^., -■ ^^11 

ir . • - f'.' ■-•:?^ •■ • 







li^.'^.«&.‘; >.,g' ■^■; v\| ^ .,j ' 

&■ . '^r '■ •IPS^WOB ' '^ ^ •‘IT . 

Z ^ ^ * '*• '. f 

ka . « ~ ^ V? ^9F 1.- • .A . ‘ tf . M. A. 




MEHITABLE’S CHICKEN 


CHAPTER I. 

•In the afternoon heat of a day in June, they 
were playing away out behind the barn, down 
on the sunny slope of the field toward the 
brook, — these two cousins, the boy, dark, 
overbearing, mischievous, the little girl, open- 
faced and sunny as the sky above them. 

They had seated themselves on the grass to 
rest, and the boy, whose name was Seton, was 
saying, curiously, “ So grandpa is ill ? ” 

‘‘ Yes,” said the clear-faced child, soberly. 

Our grandpa is very sick.” 

Did he get cold ? ” asked Seton. 

No, he didn’t get cold,” replied Mehitable, 
with a sigh. He fell down.” 

What made him fall ? ” 


53 


54 


mehitable’s chicken 


Mehitable sighed again, and pointed to a 
good-sized, yellow chicken, which, after follow- 
ing her about like a dog, had finally climbed up 
into her lap, and was going to sleep. 

“ Did Prudy get in his way ? ’’ pursued the 
boy. 

“ Yes,” answered Mehitable, shortly. 

“ She’s tripped him before, hasn’t she? ” he 
went on. 

Mehitable said nothing. 

“ She has, hasn’t she ? ” reiterated the boy. 

You know she has,” replied Mehitable, re- 
luctantly. 

“ How many times ? ” 

Mehitable hung her head. ‘‘ Two or three.” 

Set on’s eyes twinkled. “ Seems as if some- 
thing ought to be done to that chicken.” 

“ Prudy just loves grandpa,” exclaimed Me- 
hitable, with sudden fire. 

“ Yes, but it isn’t a wise love,” said the boy, 
promptly. A chicken shouldn’t crowd an old 
man, ’specially when he walks with a stick.” 

“ She doesn’t crowd him,” responded Mehit- 
able, “ she just loves him so much that she 
presses up close to him.” 

Well, isn’t that crowding? Grandpa feels 



<‘‘PRUDY JUST LOVES GRANDPA 


5 J» 



mehitable’s chicken 


57 


her near. He tries to put down his stick with- 
out spearing her through the back. He fumbles, 
then he falls. I guess he’s hurt himself pretty 
bad this time, hasn’t he ? ” 

“ Yes, he has,” murmured Mehitable. 

Maybe he’s going to die,” observed 
Seton. 

Mehitable’s blue eyes grew round with 
terror. “ Our grandpa die! ” 

“ Old men have to die some time,” said 
Seton, solemnly. 

Mehitable scrambled to her feet, and pre- 
pared for a speedy rush to the house. 

“ Don’t do that,” cried the boy, command- 
ingly, “ you’ll work your mother into a state, 
and she’ll excite grandpa, and he’ll die sooner.” 

Mehitable helplessly sat down again. 

“ Perhaps we can do something here,” said 
Seton, and his roving eye took in the field, the 
brook, and the meadow beyond. “ Something 
to help grandpa.” 

Mehitable clasped the yellow chicken to her 
breast. ‘‘ It’s no use to give Prudy away. 
You know you took her once, and she ran 
home just like a dog.” 

“ She’s no chicken,” said the boy. I be- 


58 


mehitable’s chicken 


lieve she’s some dwarf old hen. She knows so 
much.” 

“ She is a chicken — I brought her up my- 



self, and she was just the sweetest thing!” 
exclaimed Mehitable, with a break in her voice. 

“ Well, don’t get husky,” replied Seton, 
calmly. “ When you’re excited, you sound just 
like a hen with a horse-mane oat in her throat. 


MBHiarADLE^S jQHfiQSmW 




¥heyl:ilDe£lfidii Aow^^i^^p iwhafelc^ijii^Q) do to save 
grandpat? anbidfeaj 'if you’ll help me 

carry it out,” he said, in a mysterious whisper. 
.71^:^301^ telhnlie, tell me,” exclaimed Mehitable, 
wildly excited at the thought. 

“ Well, it’s just this,” said Seton, medita- 
tively. “ The chicken tripped grandpa — 
grandpa’s ill. Now if we could do something 
to the chicken, maybe grandpa would get well.” 

Mehitable reflected for a moment. Her little 
brain was not as active as that of her cousin. 
At last she said, “You may trip her up, if you 
don’t hurt her.” 

“ Bah ! Trip her up when she has wings. 
I’d have to cut them off, before I could trip 
her.” 

“ You sha’n’t cut her wings.” 

“ What a bad girl you are, Mehitable 
Green ! ” said the boy, sternly. 

“ Mother says I’m a pretty good girl.” 

“If you were a good girl, you’d love your 
grandpa.” 

“ So I do love him ! ” cried Mehitable, on the 
verge of tears. 

“ Then why aren’t you willing to do some- 
thing to save his life? ” 


E'3 JGHHIHHM 


“To sav^’^i$i4i)f^BrfV/ref)ba4redi Mialiatoljle^iil' 
bewilderment. IMbidoB aai^hiihg ^tifl[|baatvg 
grandpa’s life.” ^‘ifiB 9fl '\tno ii ’{hbd 

“ Anything,” repeated the ho51pt qlfibh'ly. 
“ Then sacrifice your chicken.” ^bliw 

“ Sacrifice her ! ” faltered Mehitable. “ I 
don’t know what you mean.” 

“ I suppose you never heard a Bible story,” 
said the boy, scornfully. 

“ Of course I have. Mother tells me one 
every night.” 

“ Do you know about Abraham and Isaac 
and — and — well, lots of old patriarchs?” 

“ Course I do.” 

“ And did you ever hear tell of ancient 
Greece ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And Rome?” 

“ I’m in Roman history,” said Mehitable, 
proudly, “ second class. Miss Fuller’s room.” 

“ Then you know about sacrifices.” 

“ You mean people killing each other? ” 

“ I mean ‘ blood for blood and a life for a 
life,’ ” quoted the boy, doggedly. 

“ You don’t mean I ought to kill my chicken. 


mehitable’s chicken 


6i 


do you?” gasped Mehitable, in a scarcely 
audible voice. 

The boy nodded his head. “ I mean just 
that. You ought to sacrifice your chicken to 
save grandpa’s life.” 

Oh, I can’t kill my chicken, my dear 
chicken,” she wailed, dismally, “ the little, 
sweet chicken I brought up, and fed from my 
plate. You are a wicked, horrid, cruel boy.” 

Seton compressed his lips ominously. “ Then 
you want grandpa to die.” 

“ I don’t want him to die,” cried the tor- 
tured little girl, “ I want him to live.” 

‘‘ Grandpa’s been very good to you,” pursued 
Seton. He gave you a sled last Christmas, 
and a pair of skates and a box of candy.” 

‘‘ And I gave him a muffler,” exclaimed 
Mehitable, “ and a silk handkerchief. Oh, we 
had such a happy, happy time. And he walked 
around the Christmas-tree with me. Oh, dear 
grandpa, I don’t want you to die.” 

“ Neither do I,” said the boy, decidedly. 
‘‘ He’s my grandpa as well as yours. I think 
you ought to keep our happy family together. 
Your mother and father would miss him dread- 
fully.” 


62 


mehitable’s chicken 


“It would just kill mother,” gasped Me- 
hitable. “ Oh, dear, dear, I don’t know what 
to do. Are you sure grandpa’s life would be 
spared if I — I — ” 

“ If you sacrificed Prudy,” concluded the 
boy. “ Dead sure. I dare say he’s better just 
for our talking about it. I’ll run up to the 
house and see.” 

He was off with a bound, and, with blank 
dismay at her heart, Mehitable squeezed the 
chicken to her little, heaving breast, and stared 
after him. 

Seton soon came back, brandishing a carv- 
ing-knife in his hand. “ Your mother was in 
the kitchen. I asked her if grandpa was better, 
and she said, yes. I asked her when he began 
to improve, and she said about ten minutes ago 
he woke up and asked for something to eat. 
So there — that’s just the time we began talk- 
ing about the sacrifice.” 

“ What’s that knife for? ” asked Mehitable, 
tremblingly. 

“To kill the chicken,” said Seton, flourish- 
ing it. “ The easiest, best death. Just like a 
guillotine.” 

Spots came on the sun, the little girl’s head 


MEHITABLE S CHICKEN 


63 


swam, but she did not loosen her grasp of the 
chicken. Where did you get that knife, 
Seton Green ? ” 

“ From the wood-shed table/’ 

'' My mother never lends her best carving- 
knife/’ 

“ I took it,” said Seton, promptly, “ it was 
for a good object. Don’t you suppose your 
mother would lend a knife to save her father’s 
life?” 

You never asked her,” said Mehitable, 
firmly. “ That knife is stolen property. You 
shall not kill my chicken with it, for that would- 
not be a clean sacrifice.” 

Seton grinned. “ Not bad for you! How- 
ever, there are fifty ways of killing a chicken. 
You choose the death. I’ll perform the sacri- 
fice.” 

Mehitable glanced over her shoulder toward 
the house and barn. Oh, if some grown person 
would only come along, to settle this knotty 
question of sacrifice or no sacrifice. 

'' I think I’ll wait till to-morrow,” she said, 
suddenly. ‘‘ Oh, let me ask mother about this.” 

‘‘ Your mother is soft-hearted, like all 
women,” said the boy, disdainfully. ‘‘ She will 


64 


mehitable’s chicken 


say whatever she thinks will please you. Then 
how will you feel when grandpa dies in the 
night ? Do you want to go through life a mur- 
deress ? ” 

“ Grandpa isn’t going to die,” shrieked Me- 
hitable, stamping her foot. ‘‘ Don’t you speak 
of such a thing.” 

“ Then kill your chicken,” said the boy, res- 
olutely. Two old men died last week over 
in Brookfield — Prudy won’t suffer long. 
Choose an easy death.” 

Mehitable sank on the grass. She might at 
least prolong poor Prudy’s existence. “ Build 
an altar,” she said, at last, in a whisper. ‘‘ If 
Prudy is to be sacrificed, it must be done in the 
right way.” 

“ All right,” said Seton, joyfully, and he 
pointed to the brook. “ Here are lots of stones. 
You help me.” 

“ No,” replied Mehitable, “ I’ll hold Prudy,” 
and, cuddling the yellow bundle of feathers in 
her arms, she furtively watched Seton as he 
ran to the brook and piled up stones until at last 
he had a good-sized altar. 

“ I’m sorry for you, Mehitable,” he said, 
with real concern, stopping his work after a 


mehitable’s chicken 


65 


time and gazing sympathetically at the big sun- 
bonnet atop her huddled figure. “I’m sorry, 
but we have to do lots of disagreeable things in 
this world. NovYlthi^^ffacjr^f^ut ready. You 
might begin saying good-bye to the chicken.” 

cteifiipd inw ,nwji!c)wci9h« 

.baHej gri - .g„i 

Seton’s counten.^R^/%Jl^r,fe^w^y^r„flf^ 
covered himself nfl>b|y-,o iVs^’fof'^tyjiiW/l 
dig a grave, but I’ll do Ih, jfpiUjf^dJj’t 

thought before. I’ll just run up.^tjq 
for a spade.” 




l i. X 


-nue gid odj '^nBoiJ3d^Bqrn''(8 ^nis£g bnB arriiJ 
.^noa rn I '' .3'm^fi balbburl • 13 d qolB lannod 

ni 8gnrdJ 3ldB33*fgB8tb io eiol ob o^ 3 VBd 3 v/ Jud 
troY .^(bB3i .bl-io 7 /^ airh 

.nadoidD adl oi 3Yd-boo§ ■gnivBa nrgod idgirn 

bx’tr 

ing/’ he called, gaily. 

S± 8 r^-* ' 

INjMiit^tte'^o^^ifed ov^i*%^r yhicken. Every 
^iVh thf-oHN^n up from the soft soil 
flife b*i^o6k seemed to fall with a thud on 
her sensitive and quivering flesh. “ Oh, Prudy, 
Prudy,” she murmured, bedewing the chicken’s 
head with her tears. “ How can I give you up ? 
If it had only been some other little girl’s 
chicken ! ” 

“ Grave’s ready,” called Seton, cheerily, at 
last. “ Come, put her in, and I’ll throw the 
earth on. I’ve thought of a lovely charm to 
say : 

“ ‘ Chicken, chicken, drop your strife, 

Give me back my grandpa’s life ! ’ ” 

He threw down his spade, and seated himself 
on an overturned tree by the brook. ‘‘ This 
66 


y 


mehitable’s chicken 


67 


isn’t business,” he protested, at last. Come — 
quit sniffling, and put your chicken in this nice 
deep hole.” 

“ It’s too awful,” gasped Mehitable. “ I 
can’t think of her smothering to death. You’ve 
got to kill her quicker.” 

Seton scowled, then a sudden thought struck 
him, and he brightened perceptibly. “ I’ll tell 
you what, Mehitable Green. We’ll have some- 
thing brand new. Mother was reading to me 
the other day about the way some Polynesian 
Islanders used to kill their wives. Every 
woman wore what they called a strangling- 
cord around her neck. When a man died, 
some one always pulled the cord around his 
wife’s neck, and she died in a few minutes. 
Then they threw her into the sea.” 

“ There isn’t any cord here,” said Mehitable, 
feebly. 

‘‘Isn’t there?” exclaimed the boy, and he 
drew a tangle of twine from his pocket. 

Mehitable surveyed him in mingled despera- 
tion and terror. Then from her over-stimulated 
and worried brain, she evoked another protest : 
“ My chicken must be strangled with a silk 
cord.” 


68 


MEHITABLE S CHICKEN 


“ And where am I to get a silk cord ? ” asked 
Seton, irritably. “ Silk cords don’t grow on 
alder-bushes.” 

She sha’n’t be strangled with a common 
cord,” reiterated Mehitable, firmly. “ She’s 
not a common chicken.” 

Seton ruefully gazed at the long, sunny path 
leading to the house. “ Seems to me I’ve done 
about enough errands for that chicken,” he re- 
marked. “ Hi ! ” and he gave a joyful yell that 
made the nervous Mehitable spring to her feet. 
“ Here’s just the thing — the cord lacing my 
shirt is silk. Here it is,” and he rapidly un- 
laced it, and advanced with it in his hand. 

Mehitable, almost at the end of her re- 
sources, clasped the chicken more closely, and 
once more faced him. Prudy’s beak lovingly 
tapped against her ear. Hush,” said the little 
girl, warningly, as Seton stretched out a hand. 

Prudy is whispering to me.” 

There was a long silence, broken at last by 
the impatient Seton. “ Well, what does she 
say ? She’s slow enough to be reciting a book.” 

'' Hush ! ” said Mehitable again, and she 
made him wait a few minutes longer. Then 
she heaved a sigh. Prudy says she wants to 


mehitable’s chicken 69 

choose her own death. She prefers to be burnt 
alive.” 

“ And there isn’t a dry stick nearer than the 
woodyard,” exclaimed Seton, in dismay. “ I 
say, Mehitable, your chicken is too changeable. 
She won’t get killed at all, if we don’t look 
out.” 

“ Prudy isn’t changeable. This is her first 
choice. I chose before.” 

Seton grumblingly began searching the 
banks of the brook. There were no dry sticks 
there. It was early summer, and everything 
was fresh and green. Scuffling his feet, he at 
last made his way to the house. 

As soon as he was out of sight Mehitable 
painfully toiled to the clump of aider-bushes. 
There, out of sight, and out of reach of any 
earthly help, the little maiden went down on 
her knees. Her trouble was as gigantic to her 
as the serious problems and momentous de- 
cisions of more mature life. 

Dear Father in heaven,” she prayed, rever- 
ently, ‘‘ help me to save Prudy’s life. I do not 
believe it is right to kill her, but Seton thinks 
it is. And I don’t want dear grandpa to die. 
Save him and change Seton’s heart.” 


70 


mehitable’s chicken 


The little girl felt better after her prayer. 
Wiping her eyes, she left the alders and sat 



down on a large flat rock. Presently Seton 
came running back. He had taken off his 



mehitable’s chicken 


71 


jacket, and held it before him full of birch- 
bark chips, and shingles. “ This will make 
a great blaze,” he said, cheerfully, “ just like 
a winter fire. I think I’ll lay it on the altar. 
That will make a good foundation.” 

Soon there, was a fine fire laid. “ If it wasn’t 
wicked we might eat Prudy after she’s roasted,” 
remarked Seton, stepping back and looking at 
his work with satisfaction. “ But I suppose 
only cannibals eat sacrifices. Now, Mehitable, 
everything is ready — why, what’s the matter 
with you ? Catch Prudy — she’s running 
away.” 

“ She’s only going to the brook for a drink,” 
observed Mehitable, calmly. 

“ She needs it,” remarked the boy, grimly. 
** Come on now. I must bind her.” 

The little girl’s face was no longer white and 
tortured. With a calm, glowing expression 
she looked firmly into the eyes of her boy 
cousin. Seton, I am sorry to disappoint you, 
but the sacrifice must not take place.” 

‘‘ Not take place — after all I’ve done! ” 

‘‘ I’ve been thinking it over,” said Mehitable, 
gently. ‘‘ Seton, you were speaking of old 
times. These are new times.” 


72 


mehitable’s chicken 


“ Well, aren’t old times the best? ” 

‘‘Not always. The sacrifices are in the front 
part of the Bible. We’re living by the back 
part of it. Mother says so. She calls the first 
part the old dis — dis — something.” 

“ Dispensation,” said the boy, sulkily. 

“ Yes, dispensation,” repeated Mehitable, 
“ and now I remember, that in Greek and 
Roman history, it was in the old, bad times, 
that they killed so many people and ani- 
mals.” 

“ It wasn’t in the old times that the cannibal 
islanders strangled their women,” muttered 
Seton, “ it’s only a few years ago — you might 
throttle Prudy.” 

Mehitable’s face clouded for a minute, then a 
ray of sunshine broke over it. “ Yes, but didn’t 
the savages stop strangling their women when 
the missionaries told them better ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” muttered Seton, then he 
added, honestly, “Yes, I guess so.” 

“ Then the sacrifices were wrong,” continued 
Mehitable. “ Seton, I’m sorry for you, but you 
mustn’t sacrifice my chicken.” 

“ If I had any matches here,” growled the 


mehitable’s chicken 


n 

boy, angrily, “ we’d soon see, but I forgot 

them. ” 

“ Yes, I’m sorry for you, Seton,” repeated 
Mehitable, indulgently, “ for I see how much 
you love dear grandpa, but I promise you if 
God lets him get better. I’ll shut Prudy up 
every time he takes a walk. See, there’s father 
coming. Shall I ask him if I’m right?” 

Seton turned around fiercely. “ Don’t you 
say one word to him. If you do I’ll never play 
with you again. Now don’t you mention sacri- 
fice. ' Promise — ” 

“ Sure, sure, true, true. 

“ Pound me black, and pound me blue, if I 
lie! — ” 

“ Sure, sure, true, true,” repeated Mehitable, 

then, turning swiftly, she called out to the tall 
man with the hoe over his shoulder, “ Daddy, 
dear,, how’s grandpa ? ” 

“ Better,” said her father, “ getting better 
every minute. The doctor has just been here 
— says he’ll soon be out of bed.” 

Now you see I am right,” said Mehitable, 
turning to her cousin. 

He growled something at her, then uneasily 
stared at his uncle, who had come down the 


74 


mehitable’s chicken 


slope to them, and was asking, as he surveyed 
the hole in the ground, the altar, and the kind- 
ling-wood, “ Why, what have you been doing 
here?” 

“ Just playing,” said Seton, gloomily, just 
play — nothing serious.” 

“ Had a good time ? ” asked the man, direct- 
ing his attention to his little daughter. 

‘‘ Pretty good, father. I guess Seton likes 
to play with boys better than girls.” 

“ Course I do,” said the boy, in a lordly 
fashion ; “ but we might as well have some fun 
out of our morning’s work. Have you any 
matches, uncle ? ” 

Mr. Green pulled a few from his pocket. 

Seton strode up to the altar, and lighted the 
sticks on it. 

Mehitable shuddered as the crackling flames 
ascended. Then she looked away. She could 
not bear even to think of Prudy’s tender body 
laid on that pyre. It also pained her to have 
Seton gazing so regretfully at the leaping 
blaze. 

“ Oh, look ! ” she exclaimed, and she pointed 
to a saucy red squirrel who was staring at 


mehitable’s chicken 


75 


them from an old pine-tree across the brook. 
“ See what a cunning thing! ” 

Her tone startled Seton, who had been deep 
in a gloomy reverie. He turned suddenly, 
stepped into the hole where he had proposed 
burying Prudy alive, and, in stumbling out, fell 
headlong across the altar. 

He was up in a trice, but he had got a whiff 
of the burning flame in his face. His hair was 
singed, and one wrist was red and smarting 
where it had lain across the fire. 

‘‘ Ginger I How that hurts,” he exclaimed, 
hopping about on one foot. 

“ Go to the brook,” screamed Mehitable, but 
her father interrupted. “ Here, boy, tie my 
handkerchief around it to keep out the air, and 
run up to the house. Aunt will fix you up. 
Go with him, Mehitable.” 

The boy and girl set off at a run, while the 
chicken hurried after them, flapping her wings 
to gain momentum. 

Ten minutes later the burn was dressed, and 
Mehitable and Seton were sitting on the back 
door-step, each eating a slice of bread and 
molasses. 

Poor old Seton,” said Mehitable, “ you are 


76 


mehitable’s chicken 


just like the sinner in the Psalms; you made a 
pit and digged it, and fell into the ditch which 
you made. I was always sorry for that 
sinner.” 

“ I didn’t know it hurt so to be burned,” said 
the boy, frankly. 

''You love Prudy more now, don’t you?” 
asked Mehitable, gently. 

" She’s got lots of sense for a chicken,” said 
Seton, generously throwing her a crumb. 

" And you wouldn’t let any other boy burn 
her, would you?” pursued Mehitable. 

Seton’s face flushed. He was touched by 
Mehitable’s sweetness and sympathy, and 
something told him that his boyish love of 
horrors had made him play upon her affection 
for her grandfather, and her frantic wish to 
preserve his precious life to the family. He 
had given his little cousin a morning of torture 
by the farm brook. 

He couldn’t say he was sorry — he never did 
that — but he could make it up to her in some 
way. 

" Fm going to ask mother to give you, and 
me, and Prudy, and the Hamilton boys and 
girls a picnic down by the brook to-morrow.” 


mehitable’s chicken 


77 


“Oh, Seton!” ejaculated Mehitable, over- 
come by his generosity. 

Seton smiled, and in his smile was the dawn- 
ing of a better, kinder day for him. 


THE END. 



> 


V 4 



9 


0 


r 


4 


» 


* 


9 

% 


t 




I 


4 

• - 






^ 4 


* 


J. 


\ m 


1 



0 


V. 


f 




i 


• « 


4 


COSY CORNER SERIES 


It is the intention of the publishers that this series shall 
contain only the very highest and purest literature, — 
stories that shall not only appeal to the children them, 
selves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with 
them in their joys and sorrows. 

The numerous illustrations in each book are by well- 
known artists, and each volume has a separate attract- 
ive cover design. 

Each, I vol., i6mo, cloth $0.50 

By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON 

The Little Colonel. (Trade Mark.) 

The scene of this story is laid in Kentucky. Its 
heroine is a small girl, who is known as the Little 
Colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an 
old-school Southern gentleman, whose fine estate and 
old family are famous in the region. This old Colonel 
proves to be the grandfather of the child. 

The Qiant Scissors. 

This is the story of Joyce and of her adventures in 
France, — the wonderful house with the gate of The 
Giant Scissors, Jules, her little playmate. Sister Denisa, 
the cruel Brossard, and her dear Aunt Kate. Joyce is 
a great friend of the Little Colonel, and in later volumes 
shares with her the delightful experiences of the “ House 
Party ” and the “ Holidays.” 

Two Little Knights of Kentucky, 

Who Were the Little Colonel’s Neighbors. 
In this volume the Little Colonel returns to us like an 
old friend, but with added grace and charm. She is 
not, however, the central figure of the story, that place 
being taken by the “ two little knights.” 


2 


L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY’S 


By ANNIE FELLOIVS JOHNSTON {Continued) 

Cicely and Other Stories for Qirls. 

The readers of Mrs. Joliii.>iun’s charming juveniles 
will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for 
young people, written in the author’s sympathetic and 
entertaining manner. 

Aunt ’Liza’s Hero and Other Stories. 

A collection of six bright little stories, which will 
appeal to all boys and most girls. 

Big Brother. 

A story of two boys. The devotion and care of 
Steven, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the 
theme of the simple tale, the pathos and beauty of which 
has appealed to so many thousands. 

Ole riammy’s Torment. 

“Ole Mammy’s Torment” has been fitly called “a 
classic of Southern life.” It relates the haps and mis- 
haps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by 
love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. 

The Story of Dago. 

In this story Mrs. Johnston relates the story of Dago, 
a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. Dago 
tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mis- 
haps is both interesting and amusing. 

The Quilt That Jack Built. 

A pleasant little story of a boy’s labor of love, and 
how it changed the course of his life many years after 
it was accomplished. Told in Mrs. Johnston’s usual 
vein of quaint charm and genuine sincerity. 


cosy CORNER SERIES 


3 


By EDITH ROBINSON 

A Little Puritan’s First Christmas. 

A story of Colonial times in Boston, telling how 
Christmas was invented by Betty Sewall, a typical child 
of the Puritans, aided by her brother Sam. 

A Little Daughter of Liberty. 

The author’s motive for this story is well indicated by 
a quotation from her introduction, as follows : 

“ One ride is memorable in the early history of the 
American Revolution, the well-known ride of Paul 
Revere. Equally deserving of commendation is another 
ride, — untold in verse or story, its records preserved 
only in family papers or shadowy legend, the ride of 
Anthony Severn was no less historic in its action or 
memorable in its consequences.” 

A Loyal Little flaid. 

A delightful and interesting story of Revolutionary 
days, in which the child heroine, Betsey Schuyler, 
renders important services to George Washington. 

A Little Puritan Rebel. 

Like Miss Robinson’s successful story of “ A Loyal 
Little Maid,” this is another historical tale of a real girl, 
during the time when the gallant Sir Harry Vane was 
governor of Massachusetts. 

A Little Puritan Pioneer. 

The scene of this story is laid in the Puritan settle- 
ment at Charlestown. The little girl heroine adds 
another to the list of favorites so well known to the 
young people. 

A Little Puritan Bound Girl. 

A story of Boston in Puritan days, which is of great 
interest to youthful readers. 


4 


L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 


By QUID A (Louise de la Ram^e) 

A Dog of Flanders : a Christmas Story. 
Too well and favorably known to require description. 

The Nurnberg Stove. 

This beautiful story has never before been published 
at a popular price. 

A Provence Rose. 

A story perfect in sweetness and in grace. 

Pindelkind. 

A charming story about a little Swiss herdsman. 

By MISS MULOCK 

The Little Lame Prince. 

A delightful story of a little boy who has many adven- 
tures by means of the magic gifts of his fairy godmother. 

Adventures of a Brownie. 

The story of a household elf who torments the cook 
and gardener, but is a constant joy and delight to the 
children who love and trust him. 

His Little Mother. 

Miss M dock’s short stories for children are a constant 
source of delight to them, and “ His Little Mother,” in 
this new and attractive dress, will be welcomed by hosts 
of youthful readers. 

Little Sunshine’s Holiday. 

An attractive story of a summer outing. “ Little Sun- 
shine” is another of those beautiful child-characters for 
which Miss Mulock is so justly famous. 


cosy CORNER SERIES 


5 


By JULIANA HOE AT/A EWING 

Jackanapes. 

A new edition, with new illustrations, of this exquisite 
and touching story, dear alike to young and old. 

story of a Short Life. 

This beautiful and pathetic story will never grow old. 
It is a part of the world’s literature, and will never die. 

A Great Emergency. 

How a family of children prepared for a great emer- 
gency, and how they acted when the emergency came. 

The Trinity Flower. 

In this little volume are collected three of Mrs. 
Ewing’s best short stories for the young people. 

Madam Liberality. 

From her cradle up Madam Liberality found her 
chief delight in giving. 

By FRANCES MARGARET FOX 

The Little Giant’s Neighbours. 

A charming nature story of a “ little giant ” whose 
neighbours were the creatures of the field and garden. 

Farmer Brown and the Birds. 

A little story which teaches children that the birds 
are man’s best friends. 

Betty of Old Mackinaw. 

A charming story of child-life, appealing especially to 
the little readers who like stories of “ real people.” 

Mother Nature’s Little Ones, 

Curious little sketches describing the early lifetime, or 
“childhood,” of the little creatures out-of-doors. 


6 


L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 


By WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE 

The Farrier’s Dog and His Fellow, 

This story, written by the gifted young Southern 
woman, will appeal to all that is best in the natures of 
the many admirers of her graceful and piquant style. 

The Fortunes of the Fellow. 

Those who read and enjoyed the pathos and charm 
of “ The Farrier’s Dog and His Fellow” will welcome 
the further account of the “ Adventures of Baydaw and 
the Fellow” at the home of the kindly smith. 

The Best of Friends. 

This continues the experiences of the Farrier’s dog and 
his Fellow, written in Miss Dromgoole’s well-known 
charming style. 

By ERANCES HODGES WHLTE 

Helena’s Wonderworld. 

A delightful tale of the adventures of a little girl in 
the mysterious regions beneath the sea. 

Aunt Nabby’s Children. 

This pretty little story, touched with the simple humor 
of country life, tells of two children who were adopted 
by Aunt Nabby. 

By MARSHALL SAUNDERS 

For His Country. 

A sweet and graceful story of a little boy who loved 
his country ; written with that charm which has endeared 
Miss Saunders to hosts of readers. 

Nita, the Story of an Irish Setter. 

In this touching little book. Miss Saunders shows 
how dear to her heart are all of God’s dumb creatures. 


COSY CORNER SERIES 


; 

By OTHER AUTHORS 

The Flight of Rosy Dawn. By Pau- 
line Bradford Mackie. 

The Christmas of little Wong Jan, or “ Rosy Dawn,” 
a young Celestial of San Francisco, is the theme of this 
pleasant little story. 

Susanne. By Frances J. Dela5io. 

This little story will recall in sweetness and appealing 
charm the work of Kate Douglas Wiggin and Laura E. 
Richards. 

nillicent in Dreamland. By edna s. 

Brainerd. 

The quaintness and fantastic character of Millicent’s 
adventures in Dreamland have much of the fascination 
of “Alice in Wonderland,” and all small readers of 
“Alice” will enjoy making Millicent’s acquaintance. 

Jerry’s Reward. By Evelyn snead 

Barnett. 

This is an interesting and wholesome little story of 
the change that came over the thoughtless imps on Jef- 
ferson Square when they learned to know the stout- 
hearted Jerry and his faithful Peggy. 

Peggy’s Trial. By Mary Knight Potter. 

Peggy is an impulsive little woman of ten, whose 
rebellion from a mistaken notion of loyalty, and her sub- 
sequent reconciliation to the dreaded “ new mother,” are 
most interestingly told. 

Loyalty Island. By Marian W. Wildman. 

An account of the adventures of four children and 
their pet dog on an island, and how they cleared their 
brother from the suspicion of dishonesty. 


8 


Z. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 


Prince Yellowtop. By kate whiting patch, 

A pretty little fairy tale. 

The Little Christmas Shoe. By jane p. 

SCOTT-WOODRUFF. 

A touching story of Yule-tide. 

The Little Professor. By Ida Horton 

Cash. 

A quaint tale of a quaint little girl. 

The Seventh Daughter, By grace Wick- 
ham Curran. 

One of the best stories for little girls that has been 
published for a long time. 

Wee Dorothy. By laura updegraff. 

A story of two orphan children, the tender devotion 
of the eldest, a boy, for his sister being its theme and 
setting. With a bit of sadness at the beginning, the 
story is otherwise bright and sunny, and altogether 
wholesome in every way. 

The King of the Golden River: a 

Legend of Stiria. By John Ruskin. 

Written fifty years or more ago, and not originally 
intended for publication, this little fairy tale soon be- 
came known and made a place for itself. 

A Child’s Garden of Verses. By r. l. 

Stevenson. 

Mr. Stevenson’s little volume is too well known to 
need description. It will be heartily welcomed in this 
new and attractive edition. 

Little King Davie. By Nellie Hellis. 

The story of a little crossing-sweeper, that will make 
many boys thankful they are not in the same position. 
Davie’s accident, hospital experiences, conversion, and 
subsequent life are of thrilling interest. 


















t 


A 



I 


t 


1 



« 








‘ < 


/ 

t 

-» 

k 

V 

t 

t, 

» 


• i 

• > ■ 

/ . 


4 



« 

it 


« 


a -'■ 



» » 


1 

'i 

i 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


avrf *ft : 


***♦•« •«•*%«• 




«# ff • . 

*• » M »« » < 

*«•••» *•«!« 




ifXK;;5e;:v!”:::~ia; sS i fliisU;?:: ji: '; « J! ;::::: 


f I 

***** *•«• •****• 

• * ••»«•• 4t*tl 

* • *** •*« « •« • ••«• • • « 




f/ 

(I 

«'tWi* itit* r 

*»«4 W*# • »<• « I 

,!«** v«»*«4a* \ 

iStSTXt:XM3 


□0Q5D7 aiaib 


. , 

II 

• ■••• Ki •. a .< I 

L‘£ji^::;«^;s;; 

tSf - - - 

t • 


«a a*a, ^ 

■ I'l^aaaaaJL! i 

•«iJ. •. 




WWfii:!*; 

I • j 1 Hi’ .5 jjj* j •■• •* »* •* ' 


•a* »a M(f « 

••«• aa)aa« 

IT;* 5* *•*••'*•■ •••••**i«TT;:.';iiT{T <•*'<'•*•> '•'••••■•*••». •»» 






iHJ^jiSiJ'ins***'*^^***'*'***'**'***^*'-*^**!*^;;; 


» 2i • 1 * i '• ♦ •• •** 


iKi'inanH,,. .a..,.. ........... 

53 :j .'If!} : ii:!S2;s:i • ‘ 5? :s : 

a«(ataa*iiaa7!a ..ZTir!. J ■* m 


w; ?:j;f Sf;:.v v ‘-i 



fty.i;:>.i • i'* ^ 

Jf 'if * *5 *•••'**» •»•»••'**. (ii 

I ni:: : : trs'if.- ' • * •-*- 


ItlHiiS**'*** ••«a« 


:; v.,:; :;:; *. 

iJiftSMfs::::!;!;-*?*!!?*?*;??':;;;:: 


■ •*••>#.<. .a ..,« 
*»»*»*•• 


0 *» •» 1 

• «0 *•••#*«• ; 
• a>a«« i.aa <• a>«t*l! I 




Ttt'. •**• 


<• >1 « lai a iaii.a! 
• < •• <ia laa >•• -i. • 

iiinr'I'”*'*’**************-*" 

iiti Ti? j - ' '* 




a, a.i,;u Mii;;;;:;;; ; 

•••Tiaava.., 


•O'. aaaaaOMIatt : :;;; 


I • la ,a%a« 
.•a.*«aa« 

• •»• ••laaiaaawia*' 


.Si'.StaJi 

t!l!i* •* ■•••« 


k«a««a« , 


' aaaa