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ANYHOW STORIES

MORAL AND OTHERWISE

ANYHOW STOEIES

MOEAL AND OTHERWISE

BY

MRS. W. K CLIFFOBD

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY DOROTHY TENNANT

^London

MACMILLAN AND CO.

1882

mg ©ear ©nes.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

I. THE COBBLER'S CHILDREN . . ... 1

II. THE NEW MOTHER . . '. . 8

III. ROUND THE RABBIT HOLES . ... 48

IV. THE THREE LITTLE RAGAMUFFINS . '.'•-•- . 57
V. FROM OUTSIDE THE WORLD . . . . 61

VI. THE PAPER SHIP .. . . . . . 74

VII. THE BABY'S LEGS . . . . . .77

VIII. THE IMITATION FISH . J . . .84

IX. BUTTERCUP QUEEN . . - . .91

X. THE BEAUTIFUL LADY .... . . 93

XI. THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY . ' ." . 102

XII. IN THE PORCH. . . - «. - . . .129

XIII. LULLABY . . ... . 145

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

THEY TURNED, WHIRLED, AND TWISTED OVER

THE RAIL . . . ' . . Frontispiece.

THEN SHE KISSED THEM . . > . . To face page 10
" IT REALLY IS A MOST BEAUTIFUL THING IS A

PEARDRUM" . ... ,, 15

SHE SAT DOWN ON THE LOWER STEP OF THE STILE ,, 50

MARY LEE BEGAN TO CRY . - . -• * . . ,, 58

SHE SAT DOWN ON A BIG STONE . . , „ 61
"WELL, LOOK AT YOUR BABY'S LEGS," SAID

BETSY - . - . , .. . ,, 81

A FAIR LITTLE CHILD WITH GOLDEN HAIR .- ' ,, 85

"DO ALL FISH LIVE IN THE SEA ?" . '. ,, 87

I'LL SING A SONG OF SUMMER-TIME . . ' ,, 91

WE'LL BUILD A THRONE UPON THE SAND ' . ,, 92
A LITTLE GROUP OF CHILDREN ROUND THE

DOOR OF THE FORGE i . . ' ,, 105
THE BOY WAS TURNING OVER THE LEAVES OF

A BOOK . 129

ANYHOW STOEIES.

THE COBBLER'S CHILDREN.

LONG years ago, my children, all through a dreary
afternoon a child sat in a garret working a sampler.
Do you know what a sampler is ? It is a bit of
• canvas on which are worked in cross-stitch some
words, and now and then some little pictures. Long
ago children were always taught to make them, so
that when they became women they might know
how to mark their table-cloths and pillow-cases and
all the linen of the house, for in those days no tidy
housewife had thought of writing her name in ink
upon her belongings.

The child's brother was busy at the other end of
the garret making a table. At Christmas time a
great lady had sent him a box of tools ; so with some
bits of wood his uncle the carpenter had given him
he set to work to make her a little table, just as a

* B

2 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

mark of his gratitude, and to show her how useful
the tools would be and how well he meant to work
with them. And all the time he was cutting and
fitting and measuring the little bits of wood, he was
thinking of a book his father had once read to him.
The book was written by a wise man, and the wise
man had said that he who made the first perfect
thing of its kind, no matter how small or simple the
thing might be, had worked not merely for himself
but for the whole world. He left off for a moment
to wonder how this might be, and to think how grand
a thing it was to work for the world. " It is a
beautiful place," his father said on the day they had
read the book together, " and a grand thing to think
we have all of us the making of its furniture." Then
the boy looked up at the window and at the shoe-
maker's bench that stood by it, and at an unfinished
shoe, a little child's shoe, that was on the bench.
" Father takes so much trouble to work well," he said
to himself. " He often says that when one does well,
one does some good to the whole world, for one helps
to make it better ; and that when one does badly or
does wrong, one does it to the whole world and helps
to make it worse than one found it. But," he added,
" that cannot be so always. How, for instance, can the

i.] THE COBBLER'S CHILDREN. 3

whole world know about a little shoe V Suddenly he
looked at his sister and noticed that the tears were
stealing down her face, though she tried to hide
them, and went bravely on with her sampler, working
the figures that made her name and age thus —
SAKAH SHORT,

AGED 7 YEARS.

He watched her and wondered. " If she works her
sampler well, will it be good for the whole world ?"
And then he saw her tears again, and in a moment
it seemed as if, of their own accord, his arms had
twined round her neck.

"What is the matter? "he asked softly. "You
dear little sister, why are you grieving ?"

" Daddy is so ill," she sobbed. " He will never be
well again."

" I will love you for him when he is gone," he
said. " I will take care of you just as he did ; I will
take care of you all my life." Then, though her
tears flowed faster, she was comforted.

" Oh, but I wish I could do something for him,
because I love him," she cried.

The boy was silent for a few minutes, and stood
thinking of all that their father had been to them.
Then he said —

4 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" We can't do anything for him now, but we will
do things all our lives for him."

Then while the children stood still close together
a woman entered. "You may come and see your
father," she said. "You must tread softly; he is
very ill." She looked round the room and saw the
chips of wood upon the floor.

" I put the room tidy ; you needn't have made
such a mess," she grumbled ; " I am tired enough."
But the boy only heard her as if in a dream, and as
if in a dream thought, " I will gather up all the bits
by and by, and put the room neat and straight ; "
and then with soft steps and grave faces the brother
and sister went to their father. He was lying on a
little bed in the back garret. The children looked
round at the whitewashed walls, then up at the little
shelf of books above their father's head, then down
at their father's face.

" My lass, is that you ? " the cobbler said. " And
what have you been doing ? "

"I have been making this," she answered, and
held up the sampler.

" And I have been making the little table," the
boy said, answering his father's look ; " it is a deal
of trouble to get the bits to fit in and lie flat."

i.] THE COBBLER'S CHILDREN. 5

" Never mind the trouble, dear lad," the cobbler said
gently, looking up at his boy's face ; it always told
him what was in the boy's heart just as the hands of
a clock told him the time that ticked and ticked
away behind it. " Never mind the trouble, lad," he
repeated ; " it's because you are sorry a bit to-day
that you feel it. You must not think of trouble if
you can only do a thing as well as it can be done —
that is all the great men do."

" It's no use wasting his time over that table ; it is
sure to be covered by a cloth," the woman said. " It
would do just as well if he were quicker about it," and
she left the room. She was a lodger in the same house
with the cobbler, and was often puzzled at his ways.

When she had gone, the cobbler turned to his son
again. " Don't heed her, lad," he said. " Do your
best ; do it, lad, don't dream of doing it — good work
lives for ever. It may go out of sight for a time ;
you mayn't see it or hear of it once it leaves your
hand ; you may get no honour by it, but that's no
matter ; good work lives on ; it doesn't matter what
it is, it lives on." And then, tired out, the cobbler
closed his eyes and slept — so sweet a sleep, my
children, that he never knew waking more

The children were weary of sitting alone in the

ANYHOW STORIES.

twilight. They had nothing to say to each other ;
they could not see to work, and the sister's eyes
ached with crying, and the boy's heart ached with a
still sorer pain.

" Let us go to the garden," he said ; and hand in
hand they went down the stairs, treading softly and
slowly lest they should wake the cobbler from his
sleep. They sat on the stone steps that led to the
garden — an untidy dirty garden, in which nothing
grew save a little creeper planted in a painted wooden
box. They looked at the creeper ; they could dimly
see the tendrils struggling to grow up and up just a
little way towards the garret window. They wondered
if it would grow as high as the shoemaker's bench in
the front room, and they thought of the little shoe
their daddy had begun to make for the child whose
name they did not know. The stars came out one
by one ; the little sister's eyes filled with tears when
she saw them, for it seemed to her that they had
changed since she had seen them last, or else that
she knew them better. They looked so soft and
kind, as if they saw her and were sorry, perhaps as
if they loved her just a little bit; and oh, they looked
so wise, as if in that great far-off from which they
shone all things were known and understood.

THE COBBLER'S CHILDREN.

" Dear brother," she whispered, " I wonder if they
see the little shoe, and Daddy's face and Daddy's
books just above his head ? "

" I can't tell," the boy answered softly, " but I
think they know about them."

"Perhaps they knew Daddy loved us," she
whispered again.

" Perhaps they did," he answered with a sigh,
and then he said suddenly, "We have so many
things to do ; we must make a great many things
and send them into the world, because he loved us."

"Wouldn't it have mattered about them if he
had not loved us ? " she asked.

" Oh yes, it would have mattered, he answered ;
" but I don't think we could have done them, love
makes one so strong ; it helps one to do and to bear
so many things."

" Yes," she said softly, as they turned to leave the
garden, " we must make the world a great many things
and tell it Daddy sent them." She saw the wind stir
the creeper in the painted box, and she said to herself,
" Perhaps the little leaves can hear," and as she stood
on the top of the steps looking up at the sky once
more before she followed her brother into the house,
she thought, " Perhaps the dear stars know."

ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

THE NEW MOTHER

THE children were always called Blue-Eyes and the
Turkey, and they came by the names in this
manner. The elder one was like her dear father who
was far away at sea, and when the mother looked up
she would often say, " Child, you have taken the
pattern of your father's eyes;" for the father had
the bluest of blue eyes, and so gradually his little
girl came to be called after them. The younger one
had once, while she was still almost a baby, cried
bitterly because a turkey that lived near to the
cottage, and sometimes wandered into the forest,
suddenly vanished in the middle of the winter ; and
to console her she had been called by its name.

Now the mother and Blue-Eyes and the Turkey
and the baby all lived in a lonely cottage on
the edge of the forest. The forest was so near that
the garden at the back seemed a part of it, and the
tall fir-trees were so close that their big black arms

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 9

stretched over the little thatched roof, and when the
moon shone upon them their tangled shadows were
all over the white-washed walls.

It was a long way to the village, nearly a mile
and a half, and the mother had to work hard and
had not time to go often herself to see if there was a
letter at the post-office from the dear father, and so
very often in the afternoon she used to send the two
children. They were very proud of being able to
go alone, and often ran half the way to the post-
office. When they came back tired with the long
walk, there would be the mother waiting and watch-
ing for them, and the tea would be ready, and the
baby crowing with delight ; and if by any chance
there was a letter from the sea, then they were
happy indeed. The cottage room was so cosy : the
walls were as white as snow inside as well as out,
and against them hung the cake-tin and the baking-
dish, and the lid of a large saucepan that had been
worn out long before the children could remember,
and the fish-slice, all polished and shining as bright
as silver. On one side of the fireplace, above the
bellows hung the almanac, and on the other the clock
that always struck the wrong hour and was always
running down too soon, but it was a good clock, with

10 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

a little picture on its face and sometimes ticked away
for nearly a week without stopping. The baby's high
chair stood in one corner, and in another there was a
cupboard hung up high against the wall, in which
the mother kept all manner of little surprises. The
children often wondered how the things that came
out of that cupboard had got into it, for they seldom
saw them put there.

" Dear children," the mother said one afternoon
late in the autumn, " it is very chilly for you to go
to the village, but you must walk quickly, and who
knows but what you may bring back a letter saying
that dear father is already on his way to England."
Then Blue-Eyes and the Turkey made haste and
were soon ready to go. " Don't be long," the mother
said, as she always did before they started. "Go
the nearest way and don't look at any strangers you
meet, and be sure you do not talk with them."

" No, mother," they answered; and then she kissed
them and called them dear good children, and they
joyfully started on their way.

The village was gayer than usual, for there had
been a fair the day before, and the people who had
made merry still hung about the street as if reluc-
tant to own that their holiday was over.

THEN SHE KISSED THEM.— P. J

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 11

" I wish we had come yesterday," Blue-Eyes said
to the Turkey ; " then we might have seen something."

" Look there," said the Turkey, and she pointed
to a stall covered with gingerbread; but the children
had no money. At the end of the street, close to the
Blue Lion where the coaches stopped, an old man sat
on the ground with his back resting against the wall
of a house, and by him, with smart collars round
their necks, were two dogs. Evidently they were
dancing dogs, the children thought, and longed to see
them perform, but they seemed as tired as their
master, and sat quite still beside him, looking as if
they had not even a single wag left in their tails.

" Oh, I do wish we had been here yesterday,"
Blue-Eyes said again as they went on to the grocer's,
which was also the post-office. The post -mistress
was very busy weighing out half-pounds of coffee,
and when she had time to attend to the children she
only just said "No letter for you to-day," and went
on with what she was doing. Then Blue-Eyes and
the Turkey turned away to go home. They went
back slowly down the village street, past the man
with the dogs again. One dog had roused himself
and sat up rather crookedly with his head a good
deal on one side, looking very melancholy and rather

12 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

ridiculous; but on the children went towards the
bridge and the fields that led to the forest.

They had left the village and walked some way,
and then, just before they reached the bridge, they
noticed, resting against a pile of stones by the way-
side, a strange dark figure. At first they thought
it was some one asleep, then they thought it was
a poor woman ill and hungry, and then they saw
that it was a strange wild-looking girl, who seemed
very unhappy, and they felt sure that something was
the matter. So they went and looked at her, and
thought they would ask her if they could do any-
thing to help her, for they were kind children and
sorry indeed for any one in distress.

The girl seemed to be tall, and was about fifteen
years old. She was dressed in very ragged clothes.
Round her shoulders there was an old brown shawl,
which was torn at the corner that hung down the
middle of her back She wore no bonnet, and an
old yellow handkerchief which she had tied round
her head had fallen backwards and was all huddled
up round her neck. Her hair was coal black and
hung down uncombed and unfastened, just anyhow.
It was not very long, but it was very shiny, and it
seemed to match her bright black eyes and dark

IT.] THE NEW MOTHER. 13

freckled skin. On her feet were coarse gray stock-
ings and thick shabby boots, which she had evidently
forgotten to lace up. She had something hidden
away under her shawl, but the children did not
know what it was. At first they thought it was a
baby, but when, on seeing them coming towards her,
she carefully put it under her and sat upon it, they
thought they must be mistaken. She sat watching
the children approach, and did not move or stir till
they were within a yard of her ; then she wiped her
eyes just as if she had been crying bitterly, and
looked up.

The children stood still in front of her for a
moment, staring at her and wondering what they
ought to do.

" Are you crying ?" they asked shyly.
To their surprise she said in a most cheerful voice,
" Oh dear, no ! quite the contrary. Are you ? "
They thought it rather rude of her to reply in this
way, for any one could see that they were not crying.
They felt half in mind to walk away ; but the girl
looked at them so hard with her big black eyes, they
did not like to do so till they had said something else.
"Perhaps you have lost yourself?" they said
gently.

H ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

But the girl answered promptly, " Certainly not.
Why, you have just found me. Besides," she added,
" I live in the village."

The children were surprised at this, for they had
never seen her before, and -yet they thought they
knew all the village folk by sight.

" We often go to the village," they said, thinking
it might interest her.

" Indeed," she answered. That was all ; and again
they wondered what to do.

Then the Turkey, who had an inquiring mind,
put a good straightforward question. " What are you
sitting on ? " she asked.

" On a peardrum," the girl answered, still speaking
in a most cheerful voice, at which the children won-
dered, for she looked very cold and uncomfortable.
" What is a peardrum ?" they asked.
"I am surprised at your not knowing," the girl
answered. " Most people in good society have one."
And then she pulled it out and showed it to them.
It was a curious instrument, a good deal like a guitar
in shape ; it had three strings, but only two pegs by
which to tune them. The third string was never
tuned at all, and thus added to the singular effect
produced by the village girl's music. And yet, oddly,

•I

"IT REALLY IS A MOST BEAUTIFUL THING IS A PEARDRUM."— P. 15.

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 15

the peardrum was not played by touching its strings,
but by turning a little handle cunningly hidden on
one side.

But the strange thing about the peardrum was
not the music it made, or the strings, or the handle,
but a little square box attached to one side. The box
had a little flat lid that appeared to open by a spring.
That was all the children could make out at first.
They were most anxious to see inside the box, or to
know what it contained, but they thought it might
look curious to say so.

"It really is a most beautiful thing, is a pear-
drum," the girl said, looking at it, and speaking in a
voice that was almost affectionate.

" Where did you get it ?" the children asked.

" I bought it," the girl answered.

" Didn't it cost a great deal of money?" they asked.

"Yes," answered the girl slowly, nodding her
head, "it cost a great deal of money. I am very
rich," she added.

And this the children thought a really remarkable
statement, for they had not supposed that rich people
dressed in old clothes, or went about without bonnets.
She might at least have done her hair, they thought ;
but they did not like to say so.

16 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" You don't look rich," they said slowly, and in as
polite a voice as possible.

" Perhaps not," the girl answered cheerfully.

At this the children gathered courage, and ven-
tured to remark, "You look rather shabby" — they
did not like to say ragged.

"Indeed?" said the girl in the voice of one who
had heard a pleasant but surprising statement. " A
little shabbiness is very respectable," she added in a
satisfied voice. " I must really tell them this," she
continued. And the children wondered what she
meant. She opened the little box by the side of the
peardrum, and said, just as if she were speaking to
some one who could hear her, "They say I look
rather shabby ; it is quite lucky, isn't it ? "

" Why, you are not speaking to any one ! " they
said, more surprised than ever.

" Oh dear, yes ! I am speaking to them both."

" Both?" they said, wondering.

"Yes. I have here a little man dressed as a
peasant, and wearing a wide slouch hat with a large
feather, and a little woman to match, dressed in a red
petticoat, and a white handkerchief pinned across her
bosom. I put them on the lid of the box, and
when I play they dance most beautifully. The little

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 17

man takes off his hat and waves it in the air, and the
little woman holds up her petticoat a little bit on one
side with one hand, and with the other sends forward
a kiss."

" Oh ! let us see ; do let us see ! " the children
cried, both at once.

Then the village girl looked at them doubt-
fully.

" Let you see!" she said slowly. " Well, I am not
sure that I can. Tell me, are you good?"

" Yes, yes," they answered eagerly, " we are very
good!"

"Then it's quite impossible," she answered, and
resolutely closed the lid of the box.

They stared at her in astonishment.

" But we are good," they cried, thinking she must
have misunderstood them. "We are very good.
Mother always says we are."

" So you remarked before," the girl said, speaking
in a tone of decision.

Still the children did not understand.

"Then can't you let us see the little man and
woman?" they asked.

" Oh dear, no !" the girl answered. " I only show
them to naughty children."
c

18

ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

"To naughty children !" they exclaimed.

" Yes, to naughty children," she answered ; " and
the worse the children the better do the man and
woman dance."

She put the peardrum carefully under her ragged
cloak, and prepared to go on her way.

" I really could not have believed that you were
good," she said, reproachfully, as if they had accused
themselves of some great crime. " Well, good day."

" Oh, but do show us the little man and woman,"
they cried.

" Certainly not. Good day," she said again.

" Oh, but we will be naughty," they said in
despair.

" I am afraid you couldn't," she answered, shaking
her head. " It requires a great deal of skill, especi-
ally to be naughty well. Good day," she said for
the third time. " Perhaps I shall see you in the
village to-morrow."

And swiftly she walked away, while the children
felt their eyes fill with tears, and their hearts ache
with disappointment.

" If we had only been naughty," they said, " we
should have seen them dance ; we should have seen
the little woman holding her red petticoat in her

IL] THE NEW MOTHER. 19

hand, and the little man waving his hat. Oh, what
shall we do to make her let us see them ?"

" Suppose," said the Turkey, " we try to be
naughty to-day ; perhaps she would let us see them
to-morrow."

"But, oh!" said Blue-Eyes, "I don't know how
to be naughty ; no one ever taught me."

The Turkey thought for a few minutes in silence.
" I think I can be naughty if I try," she said.
" I'll try to-night."

And then poor Blue-Eyes burst into tears.

" Oh, don't be naughty without me ! " she cried. " It
would be so unkind of you. You know I want to
see the little man and woman just as much as you do.
You are very, very unkind." And she sobbed bitterly.

And so, quarrelling and crying, they reached their
home.

Now, when their mother saw them, she was greatly
astonished, and, fearing they were hurt, ran to meet them.

" Oh, my children, oh, my dear, dear children,"
she said ; "what is the matter?"

But they did not dare tell their mother about the
village girl and the little man and woman, so they
answered, "Nothing is the matter; nothing at all
is the matter," and cried all the more.

20 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

"But why are you crying?" she asked in sur-
prise.

" Surely we may cry if we like," they sobbed.
" We are very fond of crying."

" Poor children ! " the mother said to herself.
" They are tired, and perhaps they are hungry ; after
tea they will be better." And she went back to the
cottage, and made the fire blaze, until its reflection
danced about on the tin lids upon the wall; and
she put the kettle on to boil, and set the tea-things
on the table, and opened the window to let in the
sweet fresh air, and made all things look bright. Then
she went to the little cupboard, hung up high against
the wall, and took out some bread and put it on
the table, and said in a loving voice, "Dear little
children, come and have your tea ; it is all quite
ready for you. And see, there is the baby waking up
from her sleep ; we will put her in the high chair,
and she will crow at us while we eat."

But the children made no answer to the dear
mother ; they only stood still by the window and said
nothing.

" Come, children," the mother said again. " Come,
Blue-Eyes, and come, my Turkey ; here is nice sweet
bread for tea."

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 21

Then Blue-Eyes and the Turkey looked round, and
when they saw the tall loaf, baked crisp and brown,
and the cups all in a row, and the jug of milk, all
waiting for them, they went to the table and sat down
and felt a little happier ; and the mother did not put
the baby in the high chair after all, but took it on her
knee, and danced it up and down, and sang little
snatches of songs to it, and laughed, and looked
content, and thought of the father far away at sea,
and wondered what he would say to them all when
he came home again. Then suddenly she looked
up and saw that the Turkey's eyes were full of
tears.

" Turkey !" she exclaimed, "my dear little Turkey !
what is the matter? Come to mother, my sweet;
come to own mother." And putting the baby down
on the rug, she held out her arms, and the Turkey,
getting up from her chair, ran swiftly into them.

" Oh, mother," she sobbed, " oh, dear mother ! I
do so want to be naughty."

" My dear child ! " the mother exclaimed.

" Yes, mother," the child sobbed, more and more
bitterly. " I do so want to be very, very naughty."

And then Blue-Eyes left her chair also, and, rub-
bing her face against the mother's shoulder, cried

22 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

sadly. " And so do I, mother. Oh, I'd give anything
to be very, very naughty."

" But, my dear children," said the mother, in
astonishment, " why do you want to be naughty ? "

" Because we do ; oh, what shall we do ? " they
cried together.

"I should be very angry if you were naughty.
But you could not be, for you love me," the mother
answered.

" Why couldn't we be naughty because we love
you ? " they asked.

" Because it would make me very unhappy ; and
if you love me you couldn't make me unhappy."

" Why couldn't we ? " they asked.

Then the mother thought a while before she
answered ; and when she did so they hardly under-
stood, perhaps because she seemed to be speaking
rather to herself than to them.

" Because if one loves well," she said gently,
" one's love is stronger than all bad feelings in one,
and conquers them. And this is the test whether
love be real or false, unkindness and wickedness
have no power over it."

" We don't know what you mean," they cried ;
" and we do love you ; but we want to be naughty."

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 23

" Then I should know you did not love me," the
mother said.

" And what should you do ?" asked Bine-Eyes.

" I cannot tell. I should try to make you better,"

" But if you couldn't ? If we were very, very,
very naughty, and wouldn't be good, what then ?"

"Then," said the mother sadly — and while she
spoke her eyes filled with tears, and a sob almost
choked her — " then," she said, " I should have to go
away and leave you, and to send home a new mother,
with glass eyes and wooden tail."

" You couldn't," they cried.

" Yes, I could," she answered in a low voice ;
" but it would make me very unhappy, and I will
never do it unless you are very, very naughty, and I
am obliged."

" We won't be naughty," they cried ; " we will be
good. We should hate a new mother ; and she shall
never come here." And they clung to their own
mother, and kissed her fondly.

But when they went to bed they sobbed bitterly,
for they remembered the little man and woman, and
longed more than ever to see them ; but how could
they bear to let their own mother go away, and a
new one take her place ?

24 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

II.

" GOOD-DAY," said the village girl, when she saw
Blue-Eyes and the Turkey approach. She was again
sitting by the heap of stones, and under her shawl
the peardrum was hidden. She looked just as if she
had not moved since the day before. " Good day,"
she said, in the same cheerful voice in which she had
spoken yesterday ; " the weather is really charm-
ing."

"Are the little man and woman there?" the
children asked, taking no notice of her remark.

" Yes ; thank you for inquiring after them," the
girl answered ; " they are both here and quite well.
The little man is learning how to rattle the money in
his pocket, and the little woman has heard a secret —
she tells it while she dances."

" Oh, do let us see," they entreated.

" Quite impossible, I assure you," the girl answered
promptly. " You see, you are good."

" Oh !" said-Blue Eyes, sadly ; "but mother says
if we are naughty she will go away and send home a
new mother, with glass eyes and a wooden tail."

" Indeed," said the girl, still speaking in the same
unconcerned voice, " that is what they all say."

IT.] THE NEW MOTHEK. 25

" What do you mean ? " asked the Turkey.

" They all threaten that kind of thing. Of course
really there are no mothers with glass eyes and
wooden tails ; they would be much too expensive to
make." And the common sense of this remark the
children, especially the Turkey, saw at once, but
they merely said, half crying —

" We think you might let us see the little man
and woman dance."

" The kind of thing you would think," remarked
the village girl.

" But will you if we are naughty ? " they asked
in despair.

" I fear you could not be naughty — that is, really
— even if you tried," she said scornfully.

" Oh, but we will try ; we will indeed," they
cried ; " so do show them to us."

" Certainly not beforehand," answered the girl,
getting up and preparing to walk away.

" But if we are very naughty to-night, will you
let us see them to-morrow ? "

" Questions asked to-day are always best an-
swered to-morrow," the girl said, and turned round
as if to walk on. " Good day," she said blithely ; " I
must really go and play a little to myself; good

26 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

day," she repeated, and then suddenly she began to

sing—

" Oh, sweet and fair 's the lady-bird,

And so's the bumble-bee,
But I myself have long preferred
The gentle chimpanzee,
The gentle chimpanzee-e-e,
The gentle chim "

" I beg your pardon," she said, stopping, and
looking over her shoulder; "it's very rude to sing
without leave before company. I won't do it again."

" Oh, do go on," the children said.

" I'm going," she said, and walked away.

" No, we meant go on singing," they explained,
"and do let us just hear you play," they entreated,
remembering that as yet they had not heard a single
sound from the peardrum.

" Quite impossible," she called out as she went
along. " You are good, as I remarked before. The
pleasure of goodness centres in itself ; the pleasures
of naughtiness are many and varied. Good day,"
she shouted, for she was almost out of hearing.

For a few minutes the children stood still look-
ing after her, then they broke down and cried.

" She might have let us see them," they sobbed.

The Turkey was the first to wipe away her tears.

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 27

" Let us go home and be very naughty," she said ;
" then perhaps she will let us see them to-morrow."

" But what shall we do ? " asked Blue-Eyes, look-
ing up. Then together all the way home they
planned how to begin being naughty. And that after-
noon the dear mother was sorely distressed, for,
instead of sitting at their tea as usual with smiling
happy faces, and then helping her to clear away and
doing all she told them, they broke their mugs and
threw their bread and butter on the floor, and when
the mother told them to do one thing they carefully
went and did another, and as for helping her to put
away, they left her to do it all by herself, and only
stamped their feet with rage when she told them to
go upstairs until they were good.

" We won't be good," they cried. " We hate
being good, and we always mean to be naughty.
We like being naughty very much."

" Do you remember what I told you I should do
if you were very very naughty ? " she asked sadly.

"Yes, we know, but it isn't true," they cried.
" There is no mother with a wooden tail and glass
eyes, and if there were we should just stick pins into
her and send her away ; but there is none."

Then the mother became really angry at last, and

28 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

sent them off to bed, but instead of crying and being
sorry at her anger they laughed for joy, and when
they were in bed they sat up and sang merry songs
at the top of their voices.

The next morning quite early, without asking
leave from the mother, the children got up and ran
off as fast as they could over the. fields towards the
bridge to look for the village girl. She was sitting
as usual by the heap of stones with the peardrum
under her shawl.

" Now please show us the little man and woman,"
they cried, " and let us hear the peardrum. We were
very naughty last night." But the girl kept the
peardrum carefully hidden. " We were very
naughty," the children cried again.

" Indeed," she said in precisely the same tone in
which she had spoken yesterday.

" But we were," they repeated ; " we were indeed."

"So you say," she answered. "You were not
half naughty enough."

" Why, we were sent to bed ! "

" Just so," said the girl, putting the other corner
of the shawl over the peardrum. " If you had been
really naughty you wouldn't have gone ; but you

THE NEW MOTHER.

can't help it, you see. As I remarked before, it re-
quires a great deal of skill to be naughty well."

" But we broke our mugs, we threw our bread and
butter on the floor, we did everything we could to
be tiresome."

"Mere trifles," answered the village girl scorn-
fully. " Did you throw cold water on the fire, did
you break the clock, did you pull all the tins down
from the walls, and throw them on the floor ? "

" No ! " exclaimed the children, aghast, " we did
not do that."

" I thought not," the girl answered. " So many
people mistake a little noise and foolishness for real
naughtiness ; but, as I remarked before, it wants skill
to do the thing properly. Well, good day," and before
they could say another word she had vanished.

" We'll be much worse," the children cried, in
despair. " We'll go and do all the things she says;"
and then they went home and did all these things.
They threw water on the fire ; they pulled down the
baking-dish and the cake-tin, the fish-slice and the
lid of the saucepan they had never seen, and banged
them on the floor ; they broke the clock and danced
on the butter; they turned everything upside down ;
and then they sat still and wondered if they were

30 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

naughty enough. And when the mother saw all
that they had done she did not scold them as she
had the day before or send them to bed, but she just
broke down and cried, and then she looked at the
children and said sadly —

" Unless you are good to-morrow, my poor Blue-
Eyes and Turkey, I shall indeed have to go away
and come back no more, and the new mother I told
you of will come to you."

They did not believe her ; yet their hearts ached
when they saw how unhappy she looked, and they
thought within themselves that when they once had
seen the little man and woman dance, they would
be good to the dear mother for ever afterwards;
but they could not be good now till they had heard
the sound of the peardrum, seen the little man
and woman dance, and heard the secret told — then
they would be satisfied.

The next morning, before the birds were stirring,
before the sun had climbed high enough to look in
at their bedroom window, or the flowers had wiped
their eyes ready for the day, the children got up and
crept out of the cottage and ran across the fields.
They did not think the village girl would be up so
very early, but their hearts had ached so much at the

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 31

sight of the mother's sad face that they had not been
ahle to sleep, and they longed to know if they had
heen naughty enough, and if they might just once
hear the peardrum and see the little man and woman,
and then go home and be good for ever.

To their surprise they found the village girl
sitting by the heap of stones, just as if it were her
natural home. They ran fast when they saw her,
and they noticed that the box containing the little
man and woman was open, but she closed it quickly
when she saw them, and they heard the clicking of
the spring that kept it fast.

" We have been very naughty," they cried. " We
have done all the things you told us ; now will you
show us the little man and woman?" The girl
looked at them curiously, then drew the yellow silk
handkerchief she sometimes wore round her head
out of her pocket, and began to smooth out the
creases in it with her hands.

" You really seem quite excited," she said in her
usual voice. " You should be calm ; calmness
gathers in and hides things like a big cloak, or like
my shawl does here, for instance;" and she looked
down at the ragged covering that hid the peardrum.

" We have done all the things you told us," the

32 ANYHOW STORIES. [STOKY

children cried again, " and we do so long to hear the
secret ; " but the girl only went on smoothing out
her handkerchief.

" I am so very particular about my dress," she
said. They could hardly listen to her in their excite-
ment.

" But do tell if we may see the little man and
woman," they entreated again. " We have been so
very naughty, and mother says she will go away
to-day and send home a new mother if we are not
good."

" Indeed," said the girl, beginning to be interested
and amused. " The things that people say are most
singular and amusing. There is an endless variety
in language." But the children did not understand,
only entreated once more to see the little man -and
woman.

" Well, let me see," the girl said at last, just as if
she were relenting. " When did your mother say she
would go ?"

"But if she goes what shall we do ?" they cried
in despair. " We don't want her to go ; we love her
very much. Oh ! what shall we do if she goes ?"

"People- go and people come; first they go and
then they come. Perhaps she will go before she

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 33

comes ; she couldn't come before she goes. You
had better go back and be good," the girl added
suddenly ; " you are really not clever enough to be
anything else; and the little woman's secret is very
important ; she never tells it for make - believe
naughtiness."

" But we did do all the things you told us," the
children cried, despairingly.

" You didn't throw the looking-glass out of win-
dow, or stand the baby on its head."

" No, we didn't do that," the children gasped.

"I thought not," the girl said triumphantly.
"Well, good-day. I shall not be here to-morrow.
Good-day."

" Oh, but don't go away," they cried. " We are
so unhappy ; do let us see them just once."

"Well, I shall go past your cottage at eleven
o'clock this morning," the girl said. "Perhaps I
shall play the peardrum as I go by."

" And will you show us the man and woman ?"
they asked.

"Quite impossible, unless you have really de-
served it ; make-believe naughtiness is only spoilt
goodness. Now if you break the looking-glass and

do the things that are desired "

D

34 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

"Oh, we will," they cried. "We will be very
naughty till we hear you coming."

" It's waste of time, I fear," the girl said politely ;
"but of course I should not like to interfere with
you. You see the little man and woman, being
used to the best society, are very particular. Good-
day," she said, just as she always said, and then
quickly turned away, but she looked back and
called out, " Eleven o'clock, I shall be quite
punctual; I am very particular about my engage-
ments."

Then again the children went home, and were
naughty, oh, so very very naughty that the dear
mother's heart ached, and her eyes filled with tears,
and at last she went upstairs and slowly put on her
best gown and her new sun-bonnet, and she dressed
the baby all in its Sunday clothes, and then she
came down and stood before Blue -Eyes and the
Turkey, and just as she did so the Turkey threw the
looking-glass out of window, and it fell with a loud
crash upon the ground.

" Good-bye, my children," the mother said sadly,
kissing them. " Good-bye, my Blue-Eyes; good-bye,
my Turkey; the new mother will be home presently.
Oh, my poor children!" and then weeping bitterly

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER, 35

the mother took the baby in her arms and turned to
leave the house.

" But, mother," the children cried, " we are —
and then suddenly the broken clock struck half-past
ten, and they knew that in half an hour the village
girl would come by playing on the peardrum. "But,
mother, we will be good at half-past eleven, come
back at half-past eleven," they cried, " and we'll both
be good, we will indeed ; we must be naughty till
eleven o'clock." But the mother only picked up the
little bundle in which she had tied up her cotton
apron and a pair of old shoes, and went slowly out
at the door. It seemed as if the children were spell-
bound, and they could not follow her. They opened
the window wide, and called after her —

" Mother ! mother ! oh, dear mother, come back
again ! We will be good, we will be good now, we
will be good for evermore if you will come back."
But the mother only looked round and shook her
head, and they could see the tears falling down her
cheeks.

" Come back, dear mother !" cried Blue-Eyes ; but
still the mother went on across the fields.

" Come back, come back ! " cried the Turkey ; but
still the mother went on. Just by the corner of the

36 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

field she stopped and turned, and waved her handker-
chief, all wet with tears, to the children at the win-
dow ; she made the baby kiss its hand ; and in a
moment mother and baby had vanished from their
sight.

Then the children felt their hearts ache with
sorrow, and they cried bitterly just as the mother
had done, and yet they could not believe that she
had gone. Surely she would come back, they
thought ; she would not leave them altogether ; but,
oh, if she did — if she did — if she did. And then the
broken clock struck eleven, and suddenly there was
a sound — a quick, clanging, jangling sound, with a
strange discordant one at intervals ; and they looked
at each other, while their hearts stood still, for they
knew it was the peardrum. They rushed to the
open window, and there they saw the village girl
coming towards them from the fields, dancing along
and playing as she did so. Behind her, walking
slowly, and yet ever keeping the same distance from
her, was the man with the dogs whom they had seen
asleep by the Blue Lion, on the day they first saw the
girl with the peardrum. He was playing on a flute
that had a strange shrill sound ; they could hear it
plainly above the jangling of the peardrum. After

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 37

the man followed the two dogs, slowly waltzing
round and round on their hind legs.

"We have done all you told us," the children
called, when they had recovered from their astonish-
ment. " Come and see ; and now show us the little
man and woman."

The girl did not cease her playing or her dancing,
but she called out in a voice that was half speaking
half singing, and seemed to keep time to the strange
music of the peardrum

" You did it all badly. You threw the water on
the wrong side -of the fire, the tin things were not
quite in the middle of the room, the clock was not
broken enough, you did not stand the baby on its
head."

Then the children, still standing spellbound by
the window, cried out, entreating and wringing their
hands, " Oh, but we have done everything you told
us, and mother has gone away. Show us the little
man and woman now, and let us hear the secret."

As they said this the girl was just in front of the
cottage, but she did not stop playing. The sound of
the strings seemed to go through their hearts. She
did not stop dancing ; she was already passing the
cottage by. She did not stop singing, and all she

38 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

said sounded like part of a terrible song. And still
the man followed her, always at the same distance,
playing shrilly on his flute ; and still the two dogs
waltzed round and round after him — their tails motion-
less, their legs straight, their collars clear and white
and stiff. On they went, all of them together.

" Oh, stop !" the children cried, " and show us the
little man and woman now."

But the girl sang out loud and clear, while the
string that was out of tune twanged above her
voice.

" The little man and woman are far away. See,
their box is empty."

And then for the first time the children saw that
the lid of the box was raised and hanging back, and
that no little man and woman were in it.

" I am going to my own land," the girl sang, " to
the land where I was born." And she went on to-
wards the long straight road that led to the city many
many miles away.

"But our mother is gone," the children cried;
" our dear mother, will she ever come back ? "

" No," sang the girl ; " she'll never come back,
she'll never come back. I saw her by the bridge :
she took a boat upon the river ; she is sailing to the

ir.] THE NEW MOTHER. 39

sea ; she will meet your father once again, and they
will go sailing on, sailing on to the countries far
away."

And when they heard this, the children cried out,
but could say no more, for their hearts seemed to be
breaking.

Then the girl, her voice getting fainter and fainter
in the distance, called out once more to them. But
for the dread that sharpened their ears they would
hardly have heard her, so far was she away, and so
discordant was the music.

" Your new mother is coming. She is already
on her way ; but she only walks slowly, for her tail
is rather long, and her spectacles are left behind ;
but she is coming, she is coming — coming —
coming."

The last word died away; it was the last one
they ever heard the village girl utter. On she went,
dancing on; and on followed the man, they could
see that he was still playing, but they could no longer
hear the sound of his flute ; and on went the dogs
round and round and round. On they all went,
farther and farther away, till they were separate
things no more, till they were just a confused mass
of faded colour, till they were a dark misty object

40 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

that nothing could define, till they had vanished
altogether, — altogether and for ever.

Then the children turned, and looked at each
other and at the little cottage home, that only a week
before had been so bright and happy, so cosy and
so spotless. The fire was out, and the water was still
among the cinders ; the baking-dish and cake-tin,
the fish-slice and the saucepan lid, which the dear
mother used to spend so much time in rubbing, were
all pulled down from the nails on which they had
hung so long, and were lying on the floor. And there
was the clock all broken and spoilt, the little picture
upon its face could be seen no more ; and though it
sometimes struck a stray hour, it was with the tone
of a clock whose hours are numbered. And there
was the baby's high chair, but no little baby to sit in
it ; there was the cupboard on the wall, and never a
sweet loaf on its shelf ; and there were the broken
mugs, and the bits of bread tossed about, and the
greasy boards which the mother had knelt down to
scrub until they were white as snow. In the midst
of all stood the children, looking at the wreck they
had made, their hearts aching, their eyes blinded
with tears, and their poor little hands clasped to-
gether in their misery.

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 41

" Oh, what shall we do?" cried Blue-Eyes. " I wish
we had never seen the village girl and the nasty,
nasty peardrum."

" Surely mother will come back," sobbed the
Turkey. " I am sure we shall die if she doesn't come
back."

" I don't know what we shall do if the new mother
comes," cried Blue-Eyes. " I shall never, never like
any other mother. I don't know what we shall do if
that dreadful mother comes."

" We won't let her in," said the Turkey.

" But perhaps she'll walk in," sobbed Blue-Eyes.

Then Turkey stopped crying for a minute, to
think what should be done.

" We will bolt the door," she said, " and shut the
window ; and we won't take any notice when she
knocks."

So they bolted the door, and shut the window, and
fastened it. And then, in spite of all they had said,
they felt naughty again, and longed after the little
man and woman they had never seen, far more than
after the mother who had loved them all their lives.
But then they did not really believe that their own
mother would not come back, or that any new mother
would take her place.

42 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

When it was dinner-time, they were very hungry,
but they could only find some stale bread, and they
had to be content with it.

" Oh, I wish we had heard the little woman's
secret," cried the Turkey ; " I wouldn't have cared
then."

All through the afternoon they sat watching and
listening for fear of the new mother ; but they saw
and heard nothing of her, and gradually they became
less and less afraid lest she should come. Then they
thought that perhaps when it was dark their own
dear mother would come home ; and perhaps if they
asked her to forgive them she would. And then Blue-
Eyes thought that if their mother did come she would
be very cold, so they crept out at the back door
and gathered in some wood, and at last, for the
grate was wet, and it was a great deal of trouble to
manage it, they made a fire. When they saw the
bright fire burning, and the little flames leaping and
playing among the wood and coal, they began to be
happy again, and to feel certain that their own mother
would return; and the sight of the pleasant fire re-
minded them of all the times she had waited for
them to come from the post-office, and of how she
had welcomed them, and comforted them, and given

ii.] THE NEW MOTHER. 43

them nice warm tea and sweet bread, and talked to
them. Oh, how sorry they were they had been
naughty, and all for that nasty village girl! They
did not care a bit about the little man and woman
now, or want to hear the secret.

They fetched a pail of water and washed the floor;
they found some rag, and rubbed the tins till they
looked bright again, and, putting a footstool on a chair,
they got up on it very carefully and hung up the
things in their places ; and then they picked up the
broken mugs and made the room as neat as they
could, till it looked more and more as if the dear
mother's hands had been busy about it. They felt
more and more certain she would return, she and
the dear little baby together, and they thought they
would set the tea-things for her, just as she had so
often set them for her naughty children. They took
down the tea-tray, and got out the cups, and put the
kettle on the fire to boil, and made everything look
as home-like as they could. There was no sweet loaf
to put on the table, but perhaps the mother would
bring something from the village, they thought.
At last all was ready, and Blue-Eyes and the Turkey
washed their faces and their hands, and then sat and
waited, for of course they did not believe what the

44 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

village girl had said about their mother sailing
away.

Suddenly, while they were sitting by the fire, they
heard a sound as of something heavy being dragged
along the ground outside, and then there was a loud
and terrible knocking at the door. The children felt
their hearts stand still. They knew it could not be
their own mother, for she would have turned the
handle and tried to come in without any knocking
at all

" Oh, Turkey ! " whispered Blue-Eyes, " if it
should be the new mother, what shall we do ? "

" We won't let her in," whispered the Turkey, for
she was afraid to speak aloud, and again there came
a long and loud and terrible knocking at the door.

"What shall we do? oh, what shall we do?"
cried the children, in despair. " Oh, go away ! " they
called out. " Go away ; we won't let you in ; we will
never be naughty any more ; go away, go away ! "

But again there came a loud and terrible knocking.

"She'll break the door if she knocks so hard,"
cried Blue-Eyes.

" Go and put your back to it," whispered the
Turkey, " and I'll peep out of the window and try
to see if it is really the new mother."

IL] THE NEW MOTHER. 45

So in fear and trembling Blue-Eyes put her back
against the door, and the Turkey went to the window,
and, pressing her face against one side of the frame,
peeped out. She could just see a black satin poke
bonnet with a frill round the edge, and a long bony
arm carrying a black leather bag. From beneath
the bonnet there flashed a strange bright light, and
Turkey's heart sank and her cheeks turned pale, for
she knew it was the flashing of two glass eyes.
She crept up to Blue-Eyes. " It is — it is — it is !" she
whispered, her voice shaking with fear, "it is the
new mother ! She has come, and brought her luggage
in a black leather bag that is hanging on her arm !"

" Oh, what shall we do ? " wept Blue-Eyes ; and
again there was the terrible knocking.

" Come and put your back against the door too,
Turkey," cried Blue-Eyes ; " I am afraid it will break."

So together they stood with their two little backs
against the door. There was a long pause. They
thought perhaps the new mother had made up her
mind that there was no one at home to let her in,
and would go away, but presently the two children
heard through the thin wooden door the new mother
move a little, and then say to herself — " I must
break open the door with my tail."

46 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

For one terrible moment all was still, but in it
the children could almost hear her lift up her tail,
and then, with a fearful blow, the little painted
door was cracked and splintered.

With a shriek the children darted from the spot
and fled through the cottage, and out at the back
door into the forest beyond. All night long they
stayed in the darkness and the cold, and all the next
day and the next, and all through the cold, dreary
days and the long dark nights that followed.

They are there still, my children. All through
the long weeks and months have they been there,
with only green rushes for their pillows and only
the brown dead leaves to cover them, feeding on the
wild strawberries in the summer, or on the nuts when
they hang green ; on the blackberries when they are
no longer sour in the autumn, and in the winter on the
little red berries that ripen in the snow. They wander
about among the tall dark firs or beneath the great
trees beyond. Sometimes they stay to rest beside
the little pool near the copse where the ferns grow
thickest, and they long and long, with a longing that
is greater than words can say, to see their own dear
mother again, just once again, to tell her that they'll
be good for evermore — just once again.

IL] THE NEW MOTHER. 47

And still the new mother stays in the little
cottage, but the windows are closed and the doors
are shut, and no one knows what the inside looks like.
Now and then, when the darkness has fallen and
the night is still, hand in hand Blue-Eyes and the
Turkey creep up near to the home in which they
once were so happy, and with beating hearts they
watch and listen ; sometimes a blinding flash comes
through the window, and they know it is the light
from the new mother's glass eyes, or they hear a
strange muffled noise, and they know it is the sound
of her wooden tail as she drags it along the floor.

48 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

ROUND THE BABBIT HOLES.

THE corn was growing up ever so high, and the
poppies were red between. At the end of the corn-
field there was a stile, and the boy sat on it watching
the sun sink lower and lower into the west. " It is
looking down on some wonderful city," he thought ;
"it sees the faces of the men and women glad to
welcome it, and ready to work in the new light day,
while for us there is only the night. It is a fine
thing to be the sun ; how grand it would be if one
could journey on and on in front of it, with the day
for ever before one and the night for ever behind!"
He heard the children's voices in the distance calling
to him, and he answered, "I am here, I am here;
come and sit by me." And they came, saying —

"Tell us a story, tell us of the things you will
some day do."

"Some day," he said with a sigh, "some day
perhaps I shall journey to the strange city to which
the sun goes at night. It must be a wonderful city,

in.] ROUND THE RABBIT HOLES. 49

for, when the great gates in the west open for the sun
to pass in, all the sky reddens at the sight of its
beauty. Some day when I journey there I shall
make all manner of things. I want to make them,"
he added, and sighed again, "for my father's sake,
and for my little sister, who is far away in the town
waiting for news of them."

" When do you mean to begin ? " the children
asked.

"I do not know yet. I have to work all day
now for my uncle, and when it is over my hands
are tired, and I have so much to think about ; be-
sides, I can make nothing yet so well as I mean to
make it. I like to sit and dream of the days that
will come ; they will all come, but it's long to
wait."

"How long have you been waiting?"

" Ever since Daddy died," he answered.

" Tell us about him," they said, though they had
heard many times before. They were never tired of
listening to the strange boy that had come to the
carpenter's. " Tell us about him and about the little
sister ;" and the children gathered closer round him,
and the tall girl with the pink apron, whose eyes
seemed to know some strange language her lips had
E

50 ANYHOW STOEIES. [STORY

not yet learnt to speak, drew up closer than the rest,
so that she might lose no word of what he said.

"Nurse me," the little one said. Then the girl
gathered the little one of three years old upon her
lap, and sat on the lower step of the stile, and looked
up at the boy's face while he spoke.

" Daddy used to make shoes and mend them," the
boy said ; " and he and the little sister and I lived in
the garret at the top of a house in the town. In the
evening, when Daddy had done his work, he used to
sit and tell us stories : he told us about all manner
of things, of all we must do, and of how the great
men were those who did things as best they could be
done. It makes one long to do things well so much;
I will never do them badly, that is why I am waiting,"
he added softly.

"But one has to try one's 'prentice hand," the
mother said. She had come to seek her children,
but the boy had not noticed her. " One can but do
one's best," she added sadly, " or maybe one gets no
time for anything, and goes away as useless as one
came." But the boy did not heed her, and went on —

"The little sister used to sit and work, for a
woman in the house taught her how to sew, and she
kept all the place neat, and tried to do the things

SHE SAT DOWN ON THE LOWER STEP OF THE STILE.— P. 50.

HI.] BOUND THE RABBIT HOLES. 51

that would please Daddy, though she was only seven
years old ; and sometimes while Daddy worked at the
bench she would sing songs to him."

"Ah, the little doers are better than the great
dreamers," the mother said.

" And what did you do ? " the girl with the pink
apron asked.

"I always had so much to think about," he
answered ; "and then once my uncle came to see us,
the same uncle with whom I am living now, and he
saw the box of tools which the lady, for whose
crippled child Daddy made shoes, had given me, and
he sent me some bits of wood, and I set to work to
make things. Daddy told me to be satisfied only
when I had done my best, and to count all else as
nothing, ' for when one did well,' he said, ' one did it
for all the world.'"

" But one can get one's hand in by working for
those about," persisted the mother.

" Go on," said the children, impatiently ; " tell us
about the little sister."

" She is with the lady who sent me the tools,
learning how to do many things."

" And where is the little table you made ?" they
asked, though they all knew.

52 ANYHOW STORIES. [STOEY

"It is in the great lady's drawing-room," he
answered with a smile. " Some day I shall make a
much better one, but I am waiting till I know more,
and have thought of some grander way to work than
I know now. . . . The night that Daddy died," he
went on suddenly, " my sister and I went into the
garden ; we saw the stars come out, and we looked
at a little creeper planted in a wooden box ; it was
growing up against the wall," and suddenly he
stopped.

" Go on/' they said.

" But that is all," he answered. " The little sister
went to the great lady, and I came here, and am
working for iny uncle the carpenter, and am wait-
ing— the rest is in my heart."

" Tell us what is in your heart," they said.

" I do not know yet," he answered. " One does
not find out all at once."

" Now take us to see the rabbit holes," the children
said, " and tell us all about the rabbits." So the boy
rose to do as they wished, and the mother cried —

"Do not keep them out long; and see the little
one does not fall," she added, speaking to the girl
with the pink apron.

" I will carry the little one," the boy said, taking

in.] ROUND THE RABBIT HOLES. 53

her in his arms. The girl with the pink apron
walked beside him, and the rest followed, talking
among themselves as they went along. All down
the cornfield they went, and over the gate with the
padlock on it into the wood. Then soon they turned
aside from the pathway and went in among the
shadiest trees. The ground was thick with brake
and briar and underwood, the nuts hung green on
the branches above them, the blackberries were
almost ripe on the bushes as they passed by.

" They are here," he said, and he stopped by a tree
that grew at the farthest side of the wood, close to
the hedge that parted off the hayfield. They could
see the schoolhouse across the field, and the church,
and they remembered the gate that stood close by
the church and led to the village. The schoolmaster
had stacked his hay, and the ricks were there right
across the field, compact and well-shaped and com-
fortable-looking, ready for the winter ; the children
thought of the haymaking, but it was always nicer
to be in the woods than in the fields. In the fields
the green was only under their feet, but in the woods
it was all about and above them, as if the sweet
world wrapped them round and filled them with its
beauty, till their hearts brimmed over with content.

54 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

The tree by which the boy had stopped was so tall
and shady, it seemed as if the top that looked at the
sky must be a long way off. ''Here they are," he
said. "I have never seen the rabbits, but I often
think about them." The children went forward one
by one and peeped into the holes, and the little one
looked down at them, holding the boy tighter while
she did so. Then they all stood in a group waiting
for the boy to speak.

"Tell us what they do when they come out of
their holes," they said.

" I don't know," the boy answered. " I have never
seen them."

" What do you think they do ?"

" I think that when the wood is still, and not a
sound or voice or footstep can be heard, they peep
out, and if they hear and see no one, they come
out gaily and play about among the ferns and grass
until they are tired, and they give little, short, quick
runs, stopping to nibble a leaf or to listen to some
strange sound, or else they stay still a while just to
drink in, without knowing anything about them, the
sweetness of the air, and the brightness of the sun,
and the silence of the shade, and the little cool
breeze that steals among the leaves and passes on."

in.] ROUND THE RABBIT HOLES. 55

"And what do they do at night ?"

" Ah, at night they have fine fun. They scamper
across the hayfield, running ever so swiftly, with
their ears put back, and their little tails shaking, till
they find their way into the schoolmaster's garden,
and they eat the cool, crisp lettuce leaves, and play
at hide-and-seek among the cabbages, and then they
scamper to the hayfield again, and wander by the
hedge back to the wood, and there they play about
till the long gray dawn grows lighter and lighter."

"Surely you would like to see them?" the girl
with the apron said.

" No" said the boy. I can think about them. I
should not like them better if I saw them, and they
might go and I should miss them. The things one
thinks about stay unless one sends them away, and
they never change unless one's self changes first."

"How did you learn to think?" the girl asked
curiously.

" Daddy used to talk to me," he answered in sur-
prise ; " and it's just as if he talked to me still, or
had written things down in a book. All the people
we love teach us to see and hear."

"Do you love the people you don't see?" she
asked, " for you love the things you don't see."

ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY i

" Oh, yes," he said, " I love all people, they are
so good," he added. " I have heard there are bad
people, but I never knew any. All people have
hearts, and if one makes for them one always finds
them. But come," he said, "we must go home."
And the children, not understanding what the boy
and girl were talking about, turned silently round
towards the gate that led to the cornfield. The little
one's head drooped on the boy's shoulder, for she was
tired. " You dear little one," he whispered ; " my
sister was small like you once, and I used to carry
her in my arms down to the garden, and sit on the
stone steps with her, waiting for the stars."

" The stars are in the sky already," the girl said.

" Yes," answered the boy, and he whispered to the
little one — "The stars are coming out. They will
all be out soon ; they are shining down upon the
little garden in the town, and the creeper is growing
up to meet them ; it will touch the garret window
on its way."

STORY iv.] THE THREE LITTLE RAGAMUFFINS. 57

THE THEEE LITTLE BAGAMUFFINS.

THEY all stood at the corner of the street looking at
the stall with the pine-apples, and at the man who
was selling slices for a penny each.

" If I had a penny I would have a bit ; I would
have the biggest bit there ! " said the first little
ragamuffin. He was a greedy little ragamuffin, and
liked big bits.

" It looks bad to take the biggest ; I'd take the first
that came," said the second little ragamuffin.

" I'd take the biggest ! " said the third little raga-
muffin ; " for if I didn't, some one else would think
me a fool for leaving it." And then they all went to
the rail at the end of the court and turned and whirled
and twisted over it and under it and all round about
it, until their legs ached and their heads felt dizzy,
and the palms of their hands tingled with excitement.

Suddenly the third little ragamuffin stopped, and
sitting astride on the top of his rail, was silent for a
few minutes ; then he looked at his companions.

58 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" There's Mary Lee been to the stall and bought a
bit of pine-apple," he said ; " shall we go and ask her
how she likes it ?" And in a moment they had all
scampered up to her ; but Mary Lee was afraid, and,
dropping her pine-apple in the mud, began to cry, and
ran home without it. And an old gentleman who
was watching them caught the first little ragamuffin
and boxed his ears ; the second little ragamuffin
picked up the piece of pine-apple, and, brushing the
mud from it with his sleeve, ate it up, and thought
how good it was ; and the third little ragamuffin
went back to the rail alone, and slowly and sadly
whirled round it again. Meanwhile his friend was
crying bitterly, for his ears had been boxed, and he
had had no pine-apple.

" Please, sir," he said to the old gentleman, " we
were not doing any harm; we were only going to ask
her how she liked it."

" And the consequence was she dropped her pine-
apple into the mud."

" Yes, sir, but she ought to have held it tighter ;
and I didn't get any, though I am very hungry."

" You look fat enough."

"Yes, sir," sobbed the poor little ragamuffin,
" mother likes us fat ; but it takes a lot of keeping up."

MARY LEE BEGAN TO CRY. — P. 58.

iv.] THE THREE LITTLE RAGAMUFFINS. 59

" I daresay it does," the old gentleman said, and,
pulling a sixpence out of his pocket, he gave it to the
boy. " Here," he said, "take this; but let the lesson
I have given you teach you experience. Do you
know what experience is ? "

" No, sir," answered the ragamuffin.

" It is a thing that youth is eager for, and that age
regrets, and that only a fool buys twice ; yours
to-day bought you a box on the ear."

" And sixpence, please, sir." But the old gentle-
man turned away, and did not hear him. Then the
ragamuffin bought six bits of pine-apple and carried
them to his friends, and they all three sat in a row on
the top of the rail and ate in silence, lest talk should
spoil the flavour of a single mouthful. And when it
was gone, the first little ragamuffin told his com-
panions all that the old gentleman had said ; while
they, delighted at the feast they had, whirled round
and round the rail for joy. But the first little raga-
muffin sat up thoughtfully while he told his story,
and pondered over it all.

" You see, Mary Lee, she lost her pine-apple and
you ate it, and the old gentleman '

" He boxed your ears ! "

" And gave us sixpence ! "

60 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY iv.

"And then he said it was experience," said the
thoughtful ragamuffin.

" Well, we say experience is excellent," answered
the two little ragamuffins, whirling round faster and
faster ; for they had eaten the pine -apple and found
it good. But still their friend sat thinking.

" Yes," he said at last, " experience is excellent ;
but it's best when another fellow buys it."

Meanwhile the old gentleman was walking home,
for he had given away his last sixpence ; and Mary
Lee was sitting in her mother's cottage, crying over
her dropped pine-apple.

SHE SAT DOWN ON A BIG STONE. — P. 6l.

STORY v.] FROM OUTSIDE THE WORLD. 61

FEOM OUTSIDE THE WORLD.

SHE wandered about in the sunshine all the day long,
over the fields and in the woods, picking the flowers
and listening to the birds, and singing strange songs
to the river. Suddenly she sat down on a big stone
and looked up at the mountain that was just a little
too tall for the world, and had to hide its head in the
clouds.

" I should like to climb that mountain," she
thought ; " I want to know what there is on the other
side." And the more she thought about it the more
did she long to climb. At last she jumped up and
washed her feet in a little stream of clear water, and
set off as fast as she could for the top of the moun-
tain. It was a long way up, but she sang all the
time, and amused herself by wondering if any had
ever been lost on the great hills around her, — the
hills that stretched away and away as far as she
could see, — and if so whether there had been wives
and children watching for them at home, watching,

62 A^HOW STORIES. [STORY

and waiting, and weeping, and listening for a footstep
that would never conie over the heather again, for
the sound of a voice that never would speak to them
more. " If I could only feel," she sighed, " if I could
only understand ; oh, I would give the world to know
what it is like."

She went slowly down the other side of 'the
mountain. At its foot there was a little town; it
was just a very little town, with one street running
down the middle of it, and a town -hall in the
market-place, and a clock on the town -hall that
had lost its long hand, so it pointed to the hours with
its short one, and never troubled itself about the
minutes. There were not many people in the town,
but they all knew one another and talked about one
another, and nobody ever minded his own business, but
always some other body's. She stood at one end of
the street and looked at the schoolhouse and the toll-
bar in the distance, and she walked to the other end
and looked at the meadows, and at an old barn, and
at the farm-house, which was the last dwelling-place
she could see. " It is just the same here as every-
where else, I suppose," she said to herself. "The
people laugh and cry, and love and hate, and play
that queer game of theirs which consists in one person

v.] FROM OUTSIDE THE WORLD. 63

gaining as much money as he can, and the rest getting
as much of it away from him as they can, and the
end of it is always the same; the man dies and is
forgotten, and the next man goes on. I wonder what
it . all means." She sat down by the wayside and
rested; she watched the people in the street, but
no one noticed her. She saw two men pass by ; she
heard one say to the other —

" It is a fair price ; that field is not worth more;"
and she said to herself —

" It is the old story, they are talking of money."

A man and woman passed, the woman saying as
she did so —

" I am not going to do it for less, I can tell her ; "
and again the girl said to herself —

" The old story, it is money for ever, money,
money, for ever ! " She got up and walked a little
way, wondering if there were any children in the
town, the children would be interesting, she thought.
The old people were the world of yesterday ; and the
grown people were the world of to-day ; but the child-
ren would be the world of to-morrow : of to-morrow
that for ever was on its way, for ever held a promise.
There was life in the very word, since only dead men
ceased to think of it and to plan for it.

64 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" There is some clue to life I have missed, there
is something that I am longing for but cannot grasp.
I am for ever feeling as if I ought to be paying myself
in as a tribute to some great whole which I cannot
see because of the darkness before me," she thought.

" Who are you, girl ? " a voice asked suddenly.
She looked up and saw a farmer behind her.

" I have come from a cottage over the mountain,"
the girl answered.

" What have you come for ? "

" Just to see and to think," she answered.

" It is waste of time," he said gruffly, and turned
away. " Will you have a cup of milk ? " he asked
suddenly, " for maybe you are tired ; go to the house
yonder, and say I sent you ; " and he pointed to the
farm-house. She was hungry and thirsty, and glad
to do as she was told.

" Why do you offer me milk ? " she asked ; " I am
a stranger."

"Strangers feel thirsty as well as friends," he
answered.

The girl went to the farm-house, and when the
good wife saw her she made her sit down, and fetched
some fresh milk and home-made bread, and bade her
rest well before she went on her way.

v.] FROM OUTSIDE THE WORLD. 65

" I never gave any one a cup of niilk or a welcome
into my cottage in my whole life," the girl thought.
" There is some meaning in the world I have not
found yet, but it seems a little nearer as I sit and
watch the farmer's wife." Then she rose, and, coldly
thanking her, went on.

"I will go through the town now," she said to
herself. A boy was sitting on the gate at the end of
' the field. He was gaily dressed : from his cap there
hung a gold tassel, and on his finger he wore a ring.
The girl stopped and looked at him.

" Where do you live ? " she asked.

" I live at the great house up there," he answered,
nodding in the direction of the hill. " You can see
the flag waving from the tower."

" You must be rich," she said, " for your house is
very grand. How did you get all your money ?"

" My ancestors won it hundreds of years ago," he
answered proudly. " They were great men."

" And are you great ? " she asked.

" I am great, for I am rich," he answered.

" And so you have time to think," she said eagerly.
" Tell me, do you know all things ? "

" No," he said, " I never trouble about them ; I am
content to live and enjoy my riches."

66 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" I cannot understand it," she sighed ; " men are
content to work for those they will never see, and to
heap up money perchance for fools to spend. Money
doesn't make you great," she said scornfully to the
boy ; " any booby can inherit."

She went down the street, she looked at the faces
of the people; on all of them there seemed to be
written some history of past days, some record of joy
and sorrow, but most of sorrow. " I am very thank-
ful," she thought, " that I shall never know the things
they know. I remember once overhearing some
poet or dreamer say that in every heart there was a
death chamber ; there is none in mine ; I have no heart
to hold one." The townspeople were looking out at
their doors, laughing and making merry when any
two met; she wondered what it was all about, till
suddenly she saw a bridal party go by. "I see
now," she said to herself; "these are two people
going to marry, and they are rejoicing because they
will be together henceforth. One will know when
the other sorrows, and one will sit and watch at last
by the other's dead face. Why do they rejoice ? Oh !
I shall never understand it all." She turned out of
the street, and went towards the fields again. A boy
was loitering on his way from school, and farther on

v.] FROM OUTSIDE THE WORLD. 67

there sat a man by an easel, on which stood an
untouched canvas. The boy looked at the girL

"What do you learn at school ? " she asked.

" All kinds of things," he answered. " I am very
happy while I am learning," he added. "And after
the lessons come the games."

" What shall you do when you are a man ? " she
asked.

" I shall go on with the making of the world," he
said, and began to sing.

" Why do you want to do that ? We all die
soon."

" It was made for us, it is ours now, we have to
make it for those to come. Even to think of it
makes one long to begin."

" But we shall not be here."

" Others will;" he laughed, and went on his way
still singing.

" Perhaps the artist will tell me something," she
thought, and went up to him.

"Have you painted many pictures ?" she asked.

"No" he answered, "I have painted none that
are worth remembering yet, but I shall some day."

" How do you know ?" she asked curiously.

" Because I love the world so much," he answered ;

68 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" it is very beautiful," he sighed. " I should despair
of my own self, but that love makes one so strong ; it
helps one to do all things."

" Why do you want to paint pictures ?" she
asked.

" Pictures are messages of light in dark places,"
he answered. "I want to tell the story of the
world's beauty to the cities, so that some of those
who live, and work, and have seldom time to rest,
and never time to journey, may wander in its fairest
places and know them in their hearts." The girl's
face became eager as she listened, she felt some dim
understanding, and yet why should he care for un-
known people in unseen cities ?

" And can you do it ; can you make pictures that
will do this, and where did you get the power?"

" I worked for it ; I am working for it still, and
some day I shall succeed, as all, who love their work
well, must."

"Love — what has that to do with it?"

" One must love one's work," he answered. " ' For
whatever a man loves he can create, and the work of
his hands is that in which his soul delighteth.'"

" There is some use in love that makes the world
prettier or better," she said ; " I understand that,

v.] FROM OUTSIDE THE WORLD. 69

but there is none in love the end of which is parting
and sorrow."

" The one is the outcome of the other," he said.
"As death is the consequence of life, so is sorrow
the outcome of joy, the price we pay for it somehow
or at sometime."

" But if that is so," the girl said, " surely you
should bear your sorrows in silence, and not cry out
as if your happiness had been over-dear."

" Ah," said the painter, taking up his brush, " that
is an easy thing to say, and a sorry one to hear ;" and
then he began to work, and the girl went towards
the hill.

" I will go home," she said to herself ; " I am no
wiser than when I came." She passed a cottage at
the foot of the hill ; an old woman sat by the door
knitting. Suddenly the girl stopped.

" May I come in and rest a bit, mother ?" she
asked.

" Yes, my child," the woman answered ; and she
took the girl into the cottage and made her sit down
by the fire, and gave her food and drink, and watched
her while she rested. Suddenly the girl looked up.

"Mother," she said, "I have been wandering
through the little town looking at the people, only

70 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

at the outside of their lives, and hearing just their
most careless words. Tell me, what does it all
mean ? Why do they go on eager for life which is
often a burden, and for money which none can hold
long ? "

" Where have you come from that you ask these
things?"

" I came over the hill this morning from a cottage
just outside the world, and so I have no share
in the world. I am just a spectator. But what
does it all mean — the hate and the love, the joy and
sorrow, the for ever seeking for happiness that
must for ever turn to woe in the end ?"

" Surely we should be content to take our share
of work, and sorrow, and pain ; we that take the
world's life, and light, and shelter, and sunshine,
shall we bear nothing in return ?" the woman said in
surprise.

" And money ? Does money bring you happi-
ness that you seek for it, and bear so much for its
sake ?"

" Seldom enough, dear, unless it finds other things
to keep it company. There is nothing so overrated
in all the world as money," the woman said.

" Why do so many seek it ?"

v.] FROM OUTSIDE THE WORLD. 71

" I cannot tell, dear lassie, for I never had it, or
desired it ; but some is necessary, and all should be
willing to work for their share of it, but more than
this I cannot understand. Why it is so precious and
so difficult to win, where so many are willing to work
for it, is one of the strange things one has to think
about. There are many better things than money ; it
is a thousand pities so much good time is wasted in
seeking it."

"And why do people desire to work; is it for
honour ? "

" The best workers think only of their work," the
woman answered, " and whether it will be good for
the world and in itself, or of what it will do for
others, not of what it will do for themselves."

" And love "

" Ah," the woman said quickly, " out of good love
and good work has the world grown up ; from them
and through them we possess all good things. To love
well and to work well are the two things to desire
in life, for all other things are in their gift. To the
lovers and the students we owe all things."

" But the world is not made up of these, dear
mother ; there are the soldiers, and the lawgivers, and
many others."

72 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" They have been lovers and students first."

The girl did not ask how this might be, for she
thought of the words the painter had quoted, " For
whatever a man loves he can create, and the work of
his hands is that in which his soul delighteth;"
and dimly she was beginning to understand.

" Why do people desire to do good work for the
world which they hardly know and have scarcely
seen?" she asked.

" The world is ourselves," the woman answered ;
"it is the thing we make it, and we can all help
to choose what manner of thing it shall be for
those who come after us. Even the least of us
can help to root out sin, and to make unkindness
strange, and some one life better because ours has
been. Oh ! my dear," she cried' passionately, " if I
could but hope that you and I may think this, and
know it before the day comes when our hands shall
be folded, and only our work shall say that we have
lived " But the girl looked on still wondering.

" How did you come to think and know all these
things ?" she asked.

" I have been alone so long," the woman answered,
"just sitting by the fire thinking. But why are you
going ? stay a little longer if you will, lassie."

v.] FROM OUTSIDE THE WORLD. 73

" It is a long way over the hills," the girl answered,
" and I must go home to the cottage." As she spoke
she looked back longingly at the little town, and at
the smoke rising up from the houses in which the
people rejoiced, and sorrowed, and worked, and lived
out their simple lives. Then suddenly she looked
up at the woman.

"Good-bye, dear mother," she said. "It is a
strange thing, but I would give the world to put my
arms round your neck and kiss you just once."

" And why not ? " the woman asked, gently.

"I cannot," the girl answered; "something holds
me back. I am just a spectator and have no part in
the world, and cannot understand the things for
which it cares so much."

"But why is that?"

" Oh, mother, I have no heart, and I live outside
the world and have no share or part in it ; its joys
and sorrows alike pass me by and are never mine ;"
and she started on her way.

"No heart !" the woman said sadly. "Ah, poor
lassie ! then the world must indeed be a riddle of
which you have for ever missed the answer."

74 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

THE PAPEE SHIP.

I SAILED away in a paper ship,

I sailed away and away,
And never did sailor sail so far,

And never was sail so gay.
I sailed away to an unknown land,

Beyond an unknown sea,
Where all the people were dolls, my dear,

And all of them talked to me.

The town was built of card and paint,

The gardens were made of tin ;
And dolls looked out at the windows, dear,

And all of them asked me in.
And dolls sat round on the chairs inside ;

They all were dressed so fine ;
They stared at a clock that never had ticked,

And was ever at half-past nine.

" What shall we do to be real ? " they cried,
" What shall we do to be real ?

vi.] THE PAPER SHIP. 75

We none of us feel, though we look so nice,

And talk of the vague ideal."
And all of them seemed to know so much,

But none of them laughed or sang ;
And none of the fires had ever a blaze,

And none of the bells e'er rang.

And people walked and talked of life,
And all of them looked so grave ;

Yet none of them ever had life, my dear,
Or ever a soul to save.

I fled away to the woods and fields ;

The trees were stuck with glue ;
And even the sky was false, my dear,

And painted a lovely blue.
And dogs and sheep and cows were there,

And all of them stared at me
"With large glass eyes that never had blinked,

And never a one could see.

I sailed away in a paper ship,

Away on an unknown sea ;
And all the fishes were hollow, my dear,

And all of them swam at me.

76 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY vi.

But on and on and on I sailed ;

I met a great wet seal,
He looked at me with two dim eyes,

And turned upon his heel.

The strangest sail that never was sailed,
And sight that never was seen —

The sail I sailed in my paper ship, —
The land that never has been.

STORY viz.] THE BABY'S LEGS. 77

THE BABY'S LEGS.

BETSY'S mother went out charing. All the day long
she scrubbed and cleaned and rubbed at other
people's goods and chattels, and at night, when she
was tired out and could do no more, she went back
to the two kitchens in which she and her children
lived, and sat by the fire and rested. It was just
the same, day in and day out all the year round ; but
the good woman never grumbled, only thought what
a blessed thing it was that long since she had spent
some happy years with her good man gone .to rest,
and that since then she had been able to work for
the five little ones he had left her. Betsy was the
eldest of them all, and eleven years old was Betsy,
a thrifty little lass, able to scrub and clean, and
mend and make, and to buy a dinner and cook it.
" I never can think where she learnt it all," her
mother sighed many a time when she sat down by
the bright fire and clean hearth that awaited her in
the evening, "except she's learnt it off her own heart.

78 ANYHOW STORIES. [STOEY

She's never been spoilt yet, and it's wonderful how
much good people are born with. The way they
come by the bad is rubbing about the world."

"True enough, neighbour, depend upon it," the
stonecutter's wife, who dropped in for a gossip one
morning, answered ; " it's a wicked world, and the
sooner we get out of it the better."

" It's a very good world," the charwoman said, " if
folks would only leave it alone. It's the people that
spoil it, and mostly the grown-ups. The children
are born good enough ; it's the grown-up folk that
prevent their keeping so."

"Maybe you are right," said the stonecutter's
wife. " I always whipped my children well myself,
and never stood any nonsense, and I'm very thankful
to think it."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mrs.
Jones, at your time of life to talk in such a wajV
the charwoman cried, and with that they fell to
quarrelling and discussed the world no more.

Meanwhile Betsy had gone upstairs for the other
lodger's baby. She minded it all the day long, as
well as her own little brothers and sisters, for the
other lodger was as poor as the charwoman, and also
went out to work. Betsy took the poor little baby

vii.] THE BABY'S LEGS. 79

in her arms, and went on her way to market all in
the morning early, so that she might be indoors before
her mother went out to work Now Betsy had very
few clothes, and those were ragged, and she had little
time to mend them, for she had the children and the
baby to take care of, and the place to keep clean, and
errands to go on for odd people, who gave her pence
in return, with which she helped towards the house-
keeping expenses. Moreover, poor little Betsy's
clothes were, many of them, past mending, and it was
strange indeed with some of them that one part held
by another. But Sarah Jones, the stonecutter's
daughter, a tidy lass and thrifty too in her way, and
belonging to well-to-do parents, never considered all
the trials of Betsy's lot, and was not slow to call her
" Odds and Ends," and " Eags and Tags," and " Miss
Coming -to -Pieces," and other descriptive names,
which Betsy neither coveted nor loved. The con-
sequence was that these two, Betsy and Sarah
Jones, generally met in better humour than they
parted.

It was very cold when Betsy started for market,
and she thought of the poor little baby, and fancied
she felt it shiver, and remembered how it had had
bronchitis in the autumn, and so she took off mother's

80 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

shawl, which was round her own shoulders, and
wrapped the baby well in it, and stopped at the
corner of the street and asked the woman who kept
the apple-stall to tie it round her and the baby
together. When this was done, Betsy went on her
way with satisfaction, and the baby, having only its
round bald head exposed, snoodled down in the warm
woollen wrap, evidently feeling as cosy as a cat when
it sits and purrs on the rug before the fire and hears
the kettle singing. The market was only just opened
for the day, and but few customers arrived early, so
Betsy was soon served with the little scraps of meat
and the few vegetables that were all she had come to
buy, and then, still cuddling up the baby close and
tight, she turned to go home, and there, just beyond
the market, was Sarah Jones.

" Good morning, Sarah," said Betsy, going up to
her. " Is there any news ? " Sarah Jones looked
neat and tidy, and in her arms she carried her
youngest brother, a pale little fellow, who sucked his
thumb while his legs hung naked in the cold morn-
ing air.

" I have no time to trouble about news, Betsy,"
answered Sarah. " Mrs. Blake, next door to us, is
ill, and there's plenty to do in thinking about her,

WELL, LOOK AT YOUR BABY S LEGS, SAID BETSY. — P. I

VIL] THE BABY'S LEGS. 81

and then there's the wild beast show coming next
week. I've no time to think about news."

" Is there now, really ? Well, if it's going to be
on a Saturday afternoon, I'll get mother to mind the
little ones and I'll go and see it."

" If I were you, Betsy," said Sarah Jones, " I'd
be careful how I carried that baby. You have got
it huddled up so, it won't know its legs from its arms
soon."

" It's not particular," said Betsy, " as long as it
knows they are there all safe." Then Sarah Jones
looked at Betsy well from top to toe.

" Well, I must say," she exclaimed, " I wonder
you like to let people see you come out like that,
Betsy. Look at your arms and shoulders, nothing
on them, and a bitter day like this."

"Well, look at your baby's legs," said Betsy;
" there's nothing on them."

" Legs are not arms and shoulders, Betsy. I
shouldn't think of coming out without my jacket,
and I wonder you like to do- it."

" I haven't got a jacket," said poor little Betsy,
" and I took off mother's shawl to put round the
baby."

" Well, at any rate, you might mend up your

82 ANYHOW STOKIES. [STORY

clothes a bit, Betsy," said Sarah Jones scornfully, as
she turned to go on her way.

" Maybe I might," said Betsy, " and maybe you
might do many things you don't do. I have my
hands full, Sarah, and plenty to think of besides
myself."

" I can always keep my things mended," said
Sarah.

" You have time enough to do it in," cried Betsy,
" and yet there's a slit in your apron, and maybe your
nice warm jacket covers holes where I've no jacket
to hide them. And yet though you can cover up
yourself you can't cover up your baby. I'll tell you
what it is, Sarah Jones," Betsy called after her,
" if you thought less of yourself and more of your
baby's legs it would be better for you."

Then Sarah Jones went home and put the baby
on the floor, and took up her book and read for an
hour or two, and was all the happier for knowing a
little more to-day than she did yesterday, and the
baby sneezed and coughed, and the next day it
sneezed and coughed a little more, and in a week it
had inflammation of the lungs, and every one said,
" Dear me ! poor little fellow ! "

And Betsy went home, and her mother went out,

VIL] THE BABY'S LEGS. 83

and Betsy scrubbed the floor, and cleaned all the
things, and took care of the children, and thought of
the wild beast show. The baby was well and warm
enough, and sang a little song to itself that no-
body else understood, and at the end of the day untidy
little Betsy, forgetting to mend her rags, sat down and
thought of Sarah Jones, and said to herself, " She's
a nasty cat, and I can't bear her, and I never
shall like good people who give themselves airs."

Now the moral of this story is what you please,
but I think it is, " It's well to be neat and tidy, but
it's still better to take care of the baby's legs."

84 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

THE IMITATION FISH.

IT lived with three or four imitation ducks in a
cardboard box, to which there was a glass lid. It
was about an inch and a half long, and made of tin :
one side was painted a bright red, and the other a
deep yellow. At the end of its nose was a very
little bit of wire, and this bit of wire sadly puzzled
the poor imitation fish. The ducks and the fish were
all packed in soft cotton-wool, and placed in a quiet
corner of the toy-shop.

The fish would have had a comfortable sleepy
time if its nose had not been always longing to
touch a strange little stick at the other end of the
box. The ducks had no such longing and aching,
at which the fish wondered much, until it noticed
that they had no tiny bit of wire at the end of their
noses, and somehow it could not help connecting this
fact with their placid peacefulness.

One day, the ducks and fish and the little stick
(which, with the exception of about a third of an inch

A FAIR LITTLE CHILD WITH GOLDEN HAIR. — P. 85.

viii.] THE IMITATION FISH. 85

at one end, was painted a bright red) were all violently
disturbed, and the next minute the lid of the box, in
which they had slept so long, was quickly pulled
open, and a fair little child with golden hair and
large grave blue eyes stood looking at them.

" Oh, you pretty ducks ! " he cried, in a voice so
sweet that the imitation fish longed for a heart to
beat at its sound. " Oh, you pretty ducks, and you
dear little fish, I will take you home, and you shall
swim in the nice cool water." And the lid was
gently closed, and the child carried the box home to
a tall house by the sea. " Now you shall have a large
bath to swim in," the child said, " and you shall be
as happy as the day is long."

And then the gay little clucks and the red-and-
yellow fish were placed in the cool clear water, and
bravely swam upon its surface. Ah, how happy
they were, going round and round as the fancy of the
child directed, listening to the gleeful voice, and
sometimes feeling themselves taken up by the careful
fingers, looked at for a moment, and then tenderly
placed on the water again !

"Mother," the child asked, "what is the little
stick for ? "

"It is a magnet," the mother answered. And

86 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

then she showed the child how to hold it close to the
little bit of wire at the end of the fish's nose, and lo !
in a moment, the whole of the imitation fish's being
seemed satisfied, and it clung to the stick as if the
gift of life were in it, or swam swiftly and recklessly
after it, as if a whirlwind were behind.

" There is only one fish, mother," the child said
presently, taking the stick out of the water, " but
there are three or four ducks. Poor little fish ! how
lonely you must be, with no other "

Then a voice was heard calling, and the child
vanished, leaving the fish and the ducks aimlessly
waiting in the bath. Presently the mother came, and
lifted them all out, and put them once more into
their box.

" The dear child ! " she said lovingly to herself ;
" all things are real to him as yet ; even this foolish
bit of painted tin he does not dream to be without
life or feeling, for he knows nothing of things that
are false."

And she placed the box on a shelf, and left the
fish wondering greatly at the words it had heard.

The next morning the ducks and the little fish
again swam about the bath, and chased the strange
stick round and round, while the child laughed with

"DO ALL FISH'LIVE IN THE SEA?"— p. 87.

viii.] THE IMITATION FISH. 87

glee, and was happy ; but the fish was not so bright
as yesterday, for it remembered the words it had
heard, and wondered much. And yet the child
loved the little fish far more than the placid and
contented ducks that troubled themselves not at all
about anything.

" Don't be lonely, little fish," the dear voice would
say, while the tender fingers put it away in the
cotton- wool. "I will come and see you again to-
morrow."

One day the little fish heard the child ask —

" Do all fish live in the sea, mother — in the great
sea which is before our windows ? "

" All real fish do, my darling," the mother answered.

"And when they are taken out, mother, what
then ? "

" They die — the real fish do."

And the poor imitation fish feared lest its falseness
should be betrayed to the one heart that, knowing
no falseness, thought it must be real ; but the
mother said nothing more. And many times that
day it was taken from its resting-place, and looked at
long and lovingly, and kissed. And once the soft
voice said —

" Ah, dear fish ! you shall not be lonely long. I

88 ANYHOW STORIES. [STOBY

will not let you die, because I love you ; to-morrow
I will take you back to your great home, tlie sea."

Then the little fish, having learned to love the
child, trembled, for how could it bear to leave the one
thing that cared for it ?

And when the morrow came, the child took the
fish once more from its soft little home, and looked
at it for a few minutes with sorrowful blue eyes, and
then gently carried it away — away from the stick
and the imitation ducks and the little cardboard box
in which it had lived so long, and out of the house
by the sea, which was the child's home.

The sound of the waves came nearer and nearer,
and on and on the child went, until at last he stopped
at the end of a long pier, beneath which the water
rushed and foamed. Then the child looked at the
imitation fish again, and kissed it for the last time,
while his tears fell upon its red-and-yellow sides.

" Farewell, dear little fish," he said. " You shall
never be lonely more, or live in a stupid little card-
board box ; you shall go back to your home in the
sea, and dwell among others like you. I love you,
dear little fish — farewell ! " and the child dropped it
into the deep water beneath. For one moment the
poor little imitation fish dimly saw out of one painted

VHI.] THE IMITATION FISH. 89

eye the sweet face above, and then the waves tossed
it away and away, farther and farther out to sea.

" Ah, dear child," it cried in terrible fear, " your
purity has been the ruin of my false self. I was not
made for things that were real ; now I am indeed
lost."

But no one took any notice of the poor toy, and
the living fish swam past it with scarcely a glance ;
even they knew it was a sham ; and when the fisher-
man cast his line into the sea, the hook at the end
did not touch or hurt the imitation fish ; all around
it was heedless of its presence, only the waves went
on tossing it day after day, week after week. Some-
times the sunlight came, and the real fish swam
about and were glad ; or the storms, and they crowded
into the fisherman's net; but nothing pleased or
hurt or harmed the imitation fish — only the waves
went on tossing and tossing.

At last, after a long, long time, the waves seemed
to be going on and on, always in one direction, and
the fish went with them, until at last it was thrown
on the shore among the pebbles and seaweed, and the
little pools of water that collected between great
stones; and the little fish was thankful, for it had
escaped from a great loneliness, and the quiet of the

90 ANYHOW STOKIES. [STORY vm.

shore seemed a blessed thing after the ceaseless toss-
ing of the waves.

How long it lay there it never knew, but one day
there was a sudden sound of a voice, and the little
fish was lifted up by hands almost as tender as the
child's.

" It is so like a toy my darling loved ! " a voice
said ; and a great happiness stole over the poor little
fish, for he knew the voice of the child's mother.
" He had a little fish that pleased him more than all
his other toys, but he thought it was real, and threw
it into the sea to make it happy," and she raised it to
her lips, and kissed it passionately again and again,
and bathed it in her tears. Then the little fish was
sad, and yet thankful and glad to feel itself gcing
back to the child.

And the mother put it in a soft hiding-place,
and looked at it many a time, kissing it tenderly;
for the sound of the child's voice was hushed, and
the blue eyes that had so lovingly watched the
imitation fish watched it never again — grave blue
eyes that were closed for evermore.

I'LL SING A SONG OF SUMMER-TIME. — P. 91.

STORY ix.] BUTTERCUP QUEEN. 91

BUTTEECUP QUEEN.

I'LL sing a song of summer-time,

And crown my blue-eyed queen,
The prettiest queen the buttercups

And I have ever seen.
Now gather up your pinafore,

And scamper o'er the grass ;
The daisies ne'er looked up to see

A happier lad arid lass.

We'll build a throne upon the sand,

A mist is out at sea ;
Perhaps beyond there is a land

Fresh made for you and me.
If you are true and I am true,

We'll have no doubts and fears ;
But laugh together all our lives,

And live a thousand years.

ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY ix.

Then let us sail away, my sweet,

Before your crown shall fade ;
For lovers true, like me and you,

The summer-time was made.
Though buttercups can fade, my sweet,

And summer-time can pass,
Yet just to-day we'll sail away,

A happy lad and lass.

STORY x.] THE BEAUTIFUL LADY.

THE BEAUTIFUL LADY

THE woods were all white with the blossom of April
and green with the coming of May. The larks were
flying higher and higher watching for the swallows
afar off — surely it was time they had started on their
way ?

The children went to the woods, but they were
not singing for joy as usual ; they followed the tall
girl down the pathway.

" Janet," the little one said, " see, that is where
the rabbit- holes used to be " ; but Janet only nodded,
and did not turn her head. " We never saw the
rabbits," the little one added. " Do you think the
lad ever saw them ?"

" I don't know," the tall girl answered ; " but I
think he would have told me if he had."

They filled their baskets with flowers and went
out of the wood, and sauntered along the lane that led
to the village.

" Janet," the little one asked, as they passed two

94 ANYHOW STORIES. [STOEY

cottages that had been built just the year before, " is
it there the crazy woman lives ? " One of the boys
laughed. "She's such a funny mad woman." But
before he could say more Janet turned round quickly.

" It is only a bad heart that laughs," she said ; and
the boy was ashamed in a moment. " Come," she
added, " let us cover her window-ledge with flowers."
And eagerly the children stopped and piled up the
flowers on the window-sill, and then they tapped at
the window-pane.

" The fairies have been/' they cried ; " see what they
have left you ;" and went on their way. They heard
the window opened and the woman's voice singing : —

" And oh, my heart is sad to-day,

And oh, 'tis full of sorrow,
For sweet my love is far away,

And won't be home to-morrow.
And won't be home to-morrow-day,

And won't be home "

Then she stopped with a little cry of joy, and the
children knew she had found the flowers.

The tall girl's heart gave a leap when she heard
the woman's cry, and she clasped the little one's hand
more tightly. " Ah, poor dear ! " she thought, " the
lad at the carpenter's would have known how to com-
fort you with his talk of the strange lands your son's

x.] THE BEAUTIFUL LADY. 95

eyes never saw, and the lad knew only in his
heart."

All down the lane the children went — past the
lilac-trees just bursting into bloom, past the farm-
house,— they could hear the grunting of the pigs, and
the rattle of the milking-pans the dairy-maid was
washing as they passed by, — and on towards the
village. But when they came in sight of their
mother's cottage they stopped suddenly, for there,
waiting by the door, stood a grand carriage.

" Janet," they whispered, afraid to speak aloud,
"it must be the beautiful lady." They stood still,
not liking to go on and wondering what to do. But
the little one looked up and said —

"I do want to see the beautiful lady." So
they gathered courage and went slowly on to the
cottage, and one by one they shyly entered in at the
door, curtseying as they did so, for the beautiful
lady sat by the fireplace talking to the mother.
The little one was glad the china dog she won off
the Christmas-tree stood upon the mantelpiece, for
half a dozen times did the beautiful lady look up
at it ; and for ever afterwards it seemed to have a
remembrance of her, though it only told it to the
little one.

96 ANYHOW STOEIES. [STORY

Janet had learnt all manner of things from the
carpenter's lad — to love books and the histories of
far-off lands, and all manner of strange stories ; and
in the evening she talked to the children of all she
knew. So when they saw the beautiful lady they
thought of the fairy-queen who loved a mortal man
and took him off to fairyland, and they fell to
wondering if this could be she. She had blue eyes
and soft golden hair, which was twisted all round her
head, till it looked just like a crown. She had surely
listened while Thomas the Ehymer played upon his
harp, they thought ; and perchance she knew where the
three roads met and one branched off to Elfinland.
She had taken her gloves off, and they saw that on
her little finger she wore a gold ring with a green
stone set in it. Perhaps when she was tired of earth,
they thought, she turned it round three times and
found herself in fairyland once more. And while
they thought all this, and stood in a group staring at
her, they heard the clicking of the harness on the
horses, and knew that really she was no fairy at all,
but just the beautiful lady who had come to live in
the big house beyond the bridge ; but of course she
might have been the fairy-queen — it seemed so odd
that she was not. She turned and looked at the

x.] THE BEAUTIFUL LADY. 97

children with her sweet blue eyes, and then she said
— it seemed a wonderful thing to hear her voice —

" I have come to ask your mother about a boy
who lived in this village. He was a cobbler's son ;
I know his sister." Then all speaking together the
children answered —

" The strange lad at the carpenter's."

" Did you know him ?" the lady asked.

" Yes, we all knew him," they answered, " but
Janet knew him best. He used to take us to the
woods to show us the rabbit-holes. They are not
there now, and we never saw the rabbits. He used
to tell us stories about the strange countries, and of
all the things he meant to do."

" And while he was thinking of all the great ends
he would gain he forgot to make any beginning," the
mother said. She was a stern woman, but her voice
was sad while she spoke. " He was always dream-
ing," she added, " and while he was dreaming his
hands were folded."

Then the beautiful lady sighed but made no answer,
for she thought how many of us are like the cobbler's
son, longing to climb great heights, looking up at the
far-off light, yet standing still the while ; and as for
the things we see and do in dreams, — should we not
H

98 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

most of us travel far and wide and achieve great
things indeed, if we could but tack our hands and
feet on to our fancies ?

The tall girl who had known the boy so well,
went forward a step.

" He worked hard all day," she said gently ; " he
did all that was given him to do. It was only in the
evening that he read books and thought of the
strange countries and told us of his dreams and of
all he meant to do. Once he made a little table,"
she began, but before she could say more the beautiful
lady interrupted her.

" I know," she said, " it is in my brother's home
far away in India. It was my mother's, and because
it was made so well she once sent it down to the
schoolhouse, so that all the village boys might see it,
and know how well a cobbler's little son could
work."

" Yes, yes," the children cried, eagerly crowding
up close round the beautiful lady ; " oh, go on and
tell us more, we know he made a little table."

"And as it was coming back from the school-
house," she went on, " the man who carried it let it
fall, and a little piece of wood that was not so firmly
glued as the rest fell from the under part, and we

x.] THE BEAUTIFUL LADY. 99

saw that beneath it had been written : * Daddy's lad
made this table, and sent it into the world with his
love' and we all thought much about these words,
and how the cobbler's little son had put one thing
at least that was well done into the world. And
when my brother went away to India, he asked my
mother for the little table, and he took it with him ;
and in one of his letters he said it always seemed to
him more like a living thing with a human voice
than a bit of furniture."

"He was a clever lad," the mother sighed, her
stern face relaxing a little.

" He used to tell us about all manner of things,"
the children said; "we were never tired of hear-
ing."

" But it was all waste of time," the mother said.

" No, dear mother," the tall girl answered gently,
" I do not think so, for we all loved him, and some-
how after he came we all loved each other more."
Then the mother's eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"His heart was stronger than his hands," she
said to the beautiful lady, " and what the girl says is
true ; he taught us to love better, but he never knew
it. And he loved the children, and the birds, and
the bats, and the bees, and the sunshine, and the

100 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

flowers that grew in the woods. It was wonderful
how he loved them all"

" And they loved him back again ! " the tall girl
said, eagerly.

Then the beautiful lady gently touched the mother's
arm that was brown and bare, and said softly —

" He did not only dream, dear woman, and there
are some dreams far better and sweeter than any
waking."

"But the pity of it is that we live our lives
awake," the woman said. "But the poor lad," she
added sadly, "he sleeps on just by the pathway
between the church and the schoolhouse."

"Come and see," the little one cried, "oh, dear
beautiful lady, come and see ! " and almost before she
knew it, the beautiful lady had risen from her seat
and taken the little one by the hand and left the
cottage ; the tall girl walked by her side, and the
children followed in a group. So they went on to the
place where the carpenter's lad slept well.

It was close by the pathway, just as the mother
had said, so that if he did not sleep too soundly, he
could hear the children's voices singing in the school-
house, or the patter-patter of their feet when the
church clock struck the hour, at which the schoolhouse

x.] THE BEAUTIFUL LADY. 101

door opened wide, and they came joyfully forth and
hurried away to their homes.

"He is here," said the children softly, and they
stood still, while the beautiful lady looked down at the
grass growing wild and tall above him.

"We told the man not to cut the grass often,"
they whispered ; " for when it grows up high it seems
like the woods, and he was always so happy in the
woods."

" There are some wildflowers growing among the
grass," the beautiful lady said.

" Ah, yes," the tall girl answered, " we don't know
how it is, but there are always flowers among the
grass above him ; we think sometimes that perhaps
they are his little dreams coming through."

102 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

THE STOKY OF WILLIE AND FANCY.
I.

IT always seemed to Willie as if other children knew
so many more things than he did, as if they played
at some game at which he was left out, as if they
had some clue to life and its enjoyment which he
had somehow missed. Perhaps it was only because
he had never known any children of his own age.
His father and mother were dead, and he lived with
his grandparents in a little cottage at the top of the
hill, just about a mile from the village. There were
two other cottages adjoining his grandfather's, but no
one had lived in them since he could remember, and
all three cottages were nearly tumbling down and
yet never quite tumbled. The grandfather used to
say it was a bad thing to live in a broken-to-bits
cottage, but he never thought of leaving it. Willie
was left to do just as he liked, for his grandparents
were very old, and did not know how to amuse a
little boy. His grandmother, to be sure, cut up her

XL] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 103

husband's old clothes for him, and made him a seed-
cake once a fortnight, but that was all. The cut-up
clothes were very funny ; the trousers were generally
too short, and the jacket sleeves too long, and the
pockets were never in the right place; but some-
how they always seemed to go well with Willie's
grave little face, and large blue eyes, and soft hair,
that was brown in the shade and gold in the
sun.

He was very lonely in the winter-time, for his
grandmother was very old and nervous, and did not
like his wandering about in the cold or when the
snow was on the ground.

" You might fall and break your leg," she said ;
" and then what would you do ? Wooden legs are
dear to buy and awkward to walk with; besides boots
are always bought in pairs, and one boot would be
wasted if you had no foot to put it on, so it is real
economy to stay at home and keep two legs, my
dear!" And Willie looked up with his big blue
eyes at his grandmother, and said —

" Yes, granny, dear ; but the odd boots would do
to throw at the sparrows in the cherry-tree."

" It would never do to throw new boots at them,"
his grandmother answered; "it would frighten the

104 ANYHOW STORIES. [STOEY

poor little sparrows, for they have been used to old
ones so long."

And so all through the winter Willie seldom went
far from the cottage ; but he amused himself by
getting over the fence into the next-door gardens,
and then by the unbolted doors into the empty
cottages. He was never tired of going through and
through the deserted rooms. He looked in all the
empty cupboards, and stood before all the rusty little
fireplaces, trying to imagine what the people, who
had dwelt there once, had been like ; the people who
had lived, and laughed, and worked, and wept, be-
tween the mouldy grimy walls; who had sat over
the damp fireplaces, and kept their good things in
the bare cupboards, and who had died or journeyed
on to other places.

" Perhaps there were children/7 he thought once,
"and perhaps they ran in and out, and sang, and
danced, and gathered the fruit in the garden in the
summer, and played at snowball in the winter. I
would give the world to have seen them."

In the summer-time he was not nearly so lonely,
for then he could go off for the whole day if he
pleased, and wander about in the fields and woods, or
over the brow of the hill to look at the long straight

A LITTLE GROUP OF CHILDREN ROUND THE DOOR OF THE FORGE.— P. 10$.

XL] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 105

road beyond, — he never knew where that road led
to, — and in the evening he went home past the black-
smith's shop. The blacksmith lived just half-way
between the village and the cottage, and there was
generally a little group of children round the door of
the forge ; and Willie used to stand too, and watch
the sparks fly upwards, and listen to the sound of the
blacksmith's hammer; but he always stood a little
way off from the others, for they were strange to
him, and he was shy. The blacksmith's little daughter
was generally sitting by the door sewing ; it seemed
as if she stitched away at the same piece of blue-
checked linen for ever. She was evidently making
something, but Willie often thought it had had no
beginning and would have no end, that for ever the
blacksmith would be hammering at his anvil, and for
ever his little daughter would be sitting by the door,
stitching away at the same piece of coarse blue
linen.

" Grandfather," Willie asked one day, " is it far to
the rest of the world ? "

" The rest of the world ? " his grandfather said
looking up; "why, what are you thinking of,
lad ? "

" I want to see it, that is all ; is it far ? "

106 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" It depends what part you want to see, it's a
long way from end to end of tile world, if that is
what you mean; and a vast deal lies between."

" Shall I ever see it all, grandfather ? "

" No, I should say not. I have seen little enough
myself, and I don't know how you are going to see
more. By and by you'll have to learn, and when
you have done learning you'll have to work, and
when you have done working, and maybe before,
you'll have to die. That's what life is for most of us,
lad — one after another, one after another; little enough
difference there is in the lives of us, take them all
round."

" But some work in one way and some in another,"
the old man's wife said, looking up quickly ; " and
it's the business of some to travel far, and of some to
stay at home."

" Tell me more, granny dear," the boy said eagerly.
His grandmother thought about more things than his
grandfather did, or at any rate talked about more, and
Willie liked best to listen to her. " What does one
do if one wants to travel ? "

" Get ready — ready for what one means to do."

" Get what ready, dear granny ? "

The old woman took her knitting, put on her

XL] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 107

glasses, and looking up into her little grandson's face,
said quickly, " Oneself."

He waited a minute and then he asked, "What
shall I be when I am a man, dear granny ? "

" How can I tell, lad ? you are only a boy yet.
Bless me," she said suddenly, " but you are eight
years old, and it is time you took to getting ready to
be a man." Then she turned to her husband. "Tom,
the boy is eight years old. We must write to the
city and ask John what we shall do with him." The
old woman's eldest son, who was a lawyer, lived in
the city. He was a clever man, who had taught
himself nearly all he knew and had made money,
for people were glad to get his advice. "Yes, we
must write to John. He will tell us what to do with
the lad. What would you like to be, Willie, some
day when you are a man ? "

Then Willie thought for a few minutes.

" Granny, dear, I should like to be something that
should take me right to the end of the world; I
want to see what there is there. And I should like
to go to sea in a ship and to be wrecked ; oh, granny,
I should like it so ; and to escape in a little boat
while the waves tossed and tossed all about, and
we rode over them and over them ever so high."

108 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

The old woman laid down her knitting, and took off
her spectacles and wiped them well, and put them on
again. " Willie, my little lad," she said, " you have
been reading books. Now, where did you get them ?"

"It's only the book up on grandfather's shelf,
grandmother. I looked at the picture, and then I
thought I should like to be one of the people in the
boat."

" Ah, well, people are safe enough once they are
in a picture, but no one knows what they have had to
go through before they got there. Don't let pictures
unsettle your mind, lad, and set you hankering after
dangerous things that do you no good till they are
past and gone, and maybe have taken you with
them."

"Oh, grandmother, but I am tired of seeing so
little and being so little ; I want to see more."

"Ah, it's wonderful the things one wants and
never gets. It takes a long time to understand how
little it is one ever gets of what one wants," the
grandfather said. " One grows used to doing without
at last and so content."

" More's the pity if one's young," the old woman
answered ; and then she turned to Willie again and
said, " Learn to do without things, lad ; but never to

XL] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 109

be content not to get them while you have hands to
work, and feet to run, and a head to think. Try
after all things ; but not to keep them, for they are
better worth winning for others than for oneself.
Eemember that, dear, as long as you live."

"But I don't know any one to do things for,
except you and grandfather," the boy said, puzzled.
He often wondered how it was that his grandmother
talked so strangely. After the first few minutes she
sometimes said things that seemed to belong not to
the old woman who lived in the cottage and knitted
day in and day out, and who thought of nothing save
the chickens and the cherry-tree and the making of
cakes and clothes for Willie and the keeping of the
cottage tidy, but to some past life, and to some world
in which she lived no longer, and of whose ways some
knowledge lingered unknown to her memory ; it was
almost as if some past self awoke, a self of which
the present one was unconscious.

" I don't know any one but you and grandfather
to do things for, and even then I don't know how to
do them, or how to begin, granny dear."

"You won't have far to look. There'll be a
crowd waiting when you lift up your eyes, dear.
One has never far to seek when one has a mind to

110 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

help — learn how to do first, and the chance to do
will be at your elbow."

" Ah, but, grandmother, I want to see so much,
and first of all, I want to go right to the end of the
world."

" Well, well," she said, and took up her knitting
again, "we'll ask your uncle John. There's little
that he cannot give one advice about. Your grand-
father shall write soon enough. Go out and see
that the chickens are gone to roost, and take a little
run over the brow, and maybe you'll think less of
the end of the world for to-night."

Then Willie went out and looked at the chickens.
They fluttered their wings and flew past him as he
entered the fowl-house, for they were just settling
down to roost and did not want to be disturbed.
He pulled-to the door of the fowl-house, and then
he went out at the little wooden gate by the side of
the cottage, and ran along the road that led over the
hill. " If I could only run to the end of the world,"
he thought, " or to the great sea, and hear the waves.
I don't want to do things," he went on. " I want to
see them."

There was a little grassy bank at the side of the
road ; he sat down to think, and rested his face in

XL] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. Ill

his hand so long, wondering and wondering, that he
did not notice the twilight gather closer and closer
around him, or the mist rise up from the river and
the fields, and wrap the trees in a soft gray cloak
and hide all things before him. It was odd, but as
he sat there, it seemed as if he could hear a soft voice
singing the words that were running in his head —

" Eight to the end of the world, my dear ;
Bight to the end of the world."

" It isn't a song," he said to himself. " It is only
what I was saying to myself, and yet I thought I
heard some one else singing it." He looked up ; but
there was no one near. He saw the mist then. He
felt it softly touching his face and hair. It made
him think of the waves and the sailors. " If I could
but see them just once," he cried.

" I will take you, Willie ; come with me," he
heard a voice say ; and, looking up quickly, he saw
that on the dewy green bank beside him a little
girl was sitting. He looked at her face long and
gravely. He could see it well in the dim light. It
was very beautiful, and he had never seen it before ;
but yet he felt that he and she knew each other.
He remembered her as one remembers some sweet
dream, forgetting when one dreamt it. She had soft

112 ANYHOW STORIES. [STOEY

restless eyes that seemed to have a thousand things
to say ; her hair was like threads of gold, and fell
down to her waist, and her mouth was sweet, and
her smile was bright. Oh, she was lovely, and never
was any one half so sweet as Fancy when Willie first
saw her.

" Dear Fancy," he said, for he knew her name
' quite well, " have you come to me ? " Then she crept
up closer to him.

"We will go so far together," she said softly.
" Oh, Willie, you are not afraid, are you ? The
sea is creeping up to us. It has overtaken the
river. It is sweeping over the meadows. Are you
afraid?" she whispered. Then he held her tight
and close, and her face was pale, and he saw no
longer the gold upon her hair or the sweetness in
her eyes, for the night had grown dark and the wind
had risen and cried out shrilly from tree to tree, and
slowly and surely the great sea was coming with
many a leap and many a roar over the meadows
and over the hill towards them. And yet he knew
that somewhere, afar off in some, still corner that
fled back and back as the sea came on, the cottage
was safe; the danger was only for him and for
Fancy, and he was brave for both. And still the

XL] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 113

waves came madly on till suddenly they were at his
feet, and then he ran, holding Fancy close, so that
no harm should come to her.

"Perhaps we could ride on the waves," she
whispered. " See, there is a great ship ; the wind
is driving it on. Oh, we are going already; hold
my hand ; hold fast, lest we be lost." But he could
hear no more, for they were riding on and on, over
and over the great waves, faster and faster than the
ship, and nowhere was anything to be seen save the
blackness and the sea and the sky and the great
ship being driven on. Soon they overtook the ship.
They saw the man at the wheel They knew that
he was not thinking of the storm and the waves,
but of a little cottage high up upon a cliff, and of
the sunshine falling down upon it, and of a woman
shading her eyes with her hands and for ever turning
her face southwards and watching, while the chil-
dren played among the flowers and asked, " When
will he come home, dear mother? when will he
come home ? " On went "Willie and Fancy, on and
on. There was a little boat, tossing higher and
higher while Death rode on in front, but, oh so slowly!
Willie could have cried out with fear, for he knew the
boat would overtake it, and he saw the wild eyes

114 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

and the scared white faces of the wrecked as they
with their last hope passed by. On went Willie and
Fancy, on and on, till far above them shone one little
star, and the water became suddenly smooth, and the
waves rocked them as a mother rocks her child to
sleep, and gently carried them home to the cottage-
gate, and in a minute Fancy had waved her hand to
him, and Willie had climbed the narrow stairs that
led to the little room in which he slept.

He heard Fancy's voice long after she had left him.
He heard it in his dreams that night. " We will go
so far," she whispered. " We will see the end of the
world together."

n.

" WHEEE shall we go ? " Fancy asked ; " where
shall we go to-day? The sun is in the sky, the
flowers are all in bloom, and the birds are singing.
Where shall we go to-day?" She did not wait
for an answer, but danced all down the wood, taking
the strangest flights and singing the wildest songs,
telling Willie a hundred things he had never heard
before, teaching him to he'ar where till now he had
heard no sound, and to see where formerly he' had
seen nothing. He never knew how they went, how

XL] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 115

high they climbed, or the names of the places he
passed, or of the people he met, but none of them
were strange to him, for Fancy knew them well, and
made them all known to him.

" Dear Fancy," he said, " why did you not come
before ? I have been alone so long ; till you came I
had no companion."

"You did not call me," she cried. "You did not
want me till the days when you went through and
through the empty cottages thinking of all the people
who once dwelt there ; and then, though you said no
word, I heard your voice calling me faintly, and I
came a little nearer and a little nearer until at last I
was sitting by you on the grassy bank."

" And when shall we go to the end of the world?"
he asked. " Let it be soon, for I am always thinking
of it."

" We will go to-night," she said, " this very night.
I will tap at the window-pane when you have slept
one single hour, and then you must wake up and
open wide the window, and there on the window-
ledge I will be waiting."

" How shall we get down ? "

"We will climb down by the cherry-tree, and
soon we will be far away."

116 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" Is it very far ? " lie asked ; " for what will grand-
mother say ? "

" It is very far, but we shall soon be there ; " and
then Fancy skipped away.

He saw her at the end of the wood, the sun still
shining on her hair, and he held out his hands and
called, " Come back for a little while now, and sing
me one song more, dear Fancy;" but she laughed a
merry mocking laugh, and was gone.

" Where have you been, my little lad ? " his grand-
mother asked, " and what have you been doing ? "

" Oh, grandmother," he said, _" I am so happy.
I shall never be lonely more ; " but his grandmother
had no desire to listen.

" Ah, well, you will have to go to school soon and
learn, and then you'll have less time on your hands,"
was all she said.

" Am I to go to school ? " he asked.

"Your grandfather has written to uncle John
about it. The blacksmith's little daughter is going
to school, and she is younger than you. She is
going to learn some day how to teach others. It
is time you were thinking of your books too." And
then the grandmother took up her knitting. "A
great man is your uncle John," she said presently,

XL] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 117

" a very great man ; and all his greatness is his own
doing. We never thought he'd be the man he is."
Then suddenly she said, " There's a large cake in the
oven, dear lad ; do you think you could go and turn
it?"

So Willie went and turned the cake, and then sat
down on the rug and looked at the great tabby cat fast
asleep, and listened to the ticking of the clock, and
thought how much he longed to see all the world
before he did any work in it ; and then he smelt the
cake, and remembered how kind his grandmother
was to him. While he had been wandering away
with Fancy, she had been making that good cake for
him to eat, and working for him; yet here was he,
who had never done anything in the world, grumbling
and discontented because some day he would have
to make a beginning. He got up and went back to
his grandmother, and put his arms round her neck
and his little face close to hers.

" Dear granny," he said, " I will be a great man
some day if I can. I will try to be like uncle
John. Perhaps Fancy will teach me."

"Fancy! Fancy will teach you nothing," she
said. "Don't waste your time on Fancy;" and then
she looked into the little lad's blue eyes and grave

118 ANYHOW STORIES. [STOEY

pale face. " It is by your own head and your own
heart that you will be great, my dear, if you have
the will to mind them."

IIL

" WILLIE, Willie," called Fancy, " are you ready ?
I am waiting ; " and in a minute Willie sprang up
and opened the window ; he was dressed, and had
been listening for her tap. He clambered on to the
window-ledge, and then together they jumped into
the cherry-tree and down to the garden beneath. He
stopped for a moment and looked round — at the
cottage, and his own little window wide open, and
the fowl-house, and the empty cottages beyond, and
at the cherry-tree above him, and at Fancy — Fancy
with her golden hair and restless eyes and eager
bright face beside him.

" Are we going to the end of the world ? " he
asked with a sigh, for he had longed so much for this
strange journey.

" Yes, we are going," answered Fancy ; " are you
ready ? "

" Yes, I am ready ; but wait a minute," he said,
and picked a rose. It fell to pieces as he held it, and
the rose leaves fluttered to his feet. He looked down

XL] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 119

at it, and something like a sob was in his throat,
though he did not know why. It is long years since
that summer night, and he has travelled far, and seen
much, and many things are known to him now, yet
no memory of past days stays with him more faith-
fully or is sweeter than the memory of this one even-
ing when he stood beneath the cherry-tree with
Fancy by his side and the rose leaves at his feet,
waiting to start for the end of the world, he and
Fancy hand in hand together.

" Come," said Fancy, " come ;" and, looking into
her eyes, and giving himself up to her guidance, they
started. Slowly down the garden they went, over
the fence at the bottom, then quickly across the
field. They passed the blacksmith's cottage; there
was a light in the window, for the blacksmith's wife
was stitching at new clothes for her little daughter.
On through the village they went; they heard the
neighbours talking in the doorways, but they did
not stay to listen. "We must run," said Fancy.
" Hold my hand tighter ; " and through the woods
and along the roads and over the great high hills,
faster and faster they ran ; they saw the twinkling
lights of the city, and in a minute they were there ;
they heard a mother weeping, for her little one had

120 ANYHOW STOKIES. [STORY

died ; they heard some merrymakers singing till the
voices grew faint in the distance. " Quicker, quicker,"
cried Fancy, " for we must journey faster than the
wind and faster than time, and as yet we have not
overtaken the middle of the night ; the city is not
sleeping yet: faster — faster — faster!" she cried, and
on they went beyond the city and over the moors.
They saw the mountains in the distance; the moon was
slowly climbing them. On and on through the dense
forests ; on and on through the villages, and over the
shining waters, past great cities, with their high build-
ings and their towers and their steeples ; past the
scattered houses around and beyond them — the houses
that seemed as if they would have crept into the
throng had their courage been great enough ; past
every habitation in which man could live, on and
on, faster and faster went Willie and Fancy, till fewer
and fewer became the landmarks, and farther and
farther apart all things that the hand of man had
placed, and taller and thicker were the trees, and
vaster and vaster the great bare tracks of land, and
then at last amid mighty stones that seemed hurled
from some unseen height, — mountains and forest and
sea and cities all far behind ; then at last Willie and
Fancy stood at the end of the world. Before them

xr.] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 121

were only the clouds and the great rnoon shining, and
the little stars that seemed like golden stairs leading
up higher and higher; and beyond and above all
towered two mountains in the midst of the stars and
the clouds ; the one bathed in golden light ; the other
dark and drear,' wild and rugged with strange masses
of blackness clinging to it.

" Come up higher, come up higher/' he could hear
Fancy calling. " The little stars shall be your steps ;
come up higher." And with his eyes still straining
upwards, he went on climbing, up and up, treading on
the stars till they were far beneath his feet and even
the moon was behind, until at last he halted and saw
the world afar off beneath him.

"Fancy," he cried, "Fancy, where are you?"

" I am here beside you," she whispered, for she
was half afraid.

" There is a woman up there ; tell me what she is
doing ?" Then Fancy looked up and laughed a wild
strange laugh ; it almost made Willie shudder, it
seemed so out of place.

" She is there to rub up the world/' laughed Fancy.
" Oh, it takes a great deal of rubbing, so many people
make it dull, so few make it bright ; and there she
sits for ever working away, but it is little enough

122 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

she can do, so little that few besides the children
find the bright places."

" What are the two hills over there ? why is one
dark and one. so bright?"

" They are the sunshine and the storms. The one
is made of laughter and of gladness, of all the good
that people do ; the other of tears and sorrow and
misery and vice ; from the one the sunbeams and
the warm sweet days of summer journey ; from the
other is hurled the storms, and from it steals the
darkness. Every smile you cause, every good thing
you do, makes the one hill taller, and is given back
as sunshine into the world. Every tear you cause
others to shed, every wrong you do, is heaped on
to the dark hill there, and helps to make the sad
days and stormy ones. Of joy and sorrow, of light
and darkness, is the whole world made."

IV.

" GET up," called the grandmother ; " it is the first
day of school ; get up, lad, and feed the chickens, and
hurry away to the village."

" Oh, grandmother, but I like the woods so well,"
Willie answered.

XT.] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 123

" Uncle John says you are to learn, learn on until
he comes in the spring, and then he will see what you
are fit for." So Willie got up and fed the chickens,
and took his books and went to school. . He passed
the blacksmith's shop, but the blacksmith's daughter
was learning too, and no longer sat by the door of the
forge. All down the road Fancy went by his side,
singing to him in the fresh sweet morning ; but he had
no time to listen to her, he had to think of all he was
going to do.

The first day and the first week and the first month
went by, and every morning saw Willie going to the
village ; at first Fancy always went by his side, but
he found that her songs came between him and his
books, and he turned his head away and would not
hear her, and would not see her, until at last she
troubled him no more.

The days were not so sweet when she had ceased
to sing him songs, and to take him breathless journeys,
and tell him of the strange things that were or that
might be between the earth and sky. He went on
day after day trying to do his best, making his happi-
ness in seeing his grandmother's face light up when
he was first in his class, or in hearing his grandfather
say, "Ah, he's a good lad; he'll be as great as his

124 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

uncle John some day." At night, when he had learned
his lessons, he went to sleep quickly lest Fancy should
come and carry him off on some strange journey, and
so unfit him for the next day's work. Yet how he
sometimes thought of her, and longed for her, and
dreamt for a little while of those days that would
surely come, when he and she would once more be
companions !

At last the winter came ; and with it the holi-
days ; and Willie, being older, was allowed to walk
about as he pleased, and so he wandered through
the leafless woods, and over the brow of the hill,
and looked again and again at the long straight
road, wondering to what strange city it might
lead.

One day, when the snow was on the ground, he
went into the woods, and sat down beneath a tree, to
think a while. The few leaves that lingered were
sere and yellow, but as he looked down the pathway
he thought, as he shivered, that they would look like
gold, if the sun would but shine through the trees.
And as he thought this, suddenly he looked up, and
there was Fancy. But, ah ! how she was changed !
All the colour had gone from her face, her eyes were
sad, her hair was dulL

XL] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 125

"Fancy," he said, "is it you?" and his heart
smote him for forgetting her.

" Yes, it is I," she answered, sadly and bitterly.

" But how you are changed!" he said. " The blue
is gone from your eyes, and the gold from your hair.
Oh, Fancy, you are not so bright as you used to
be."

" How can I be?" she cried. "You will not hear
rne, you will not see me, you will not listen if I sing,
or follow if I lead. How can I be the same V

Then the tears came into Willie's eyes.

" Sing to me," he said ; " sing one of your old sweet
songs, dear Fancy, and let me wander with you
again." Then Fancy tried to sing, but her voice was
weak and faltering, and she broke down in the middle
of her song and sobbed.

" Oh, I cannot, I cannot," she cried, " for I am
starved."

" And I am almost frozen," said Willie, his teeth
chattering with cold. " But come closer, Fancy, and
tell me what I can do to help you. Oh, my sweet
Fancy," he cried, " how happy we have been to-
gether ! "

" But you are frozen," she said ; " what is the use
of you ? Is your heart cold too ?"

126 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" Oh no," he answered, " that is very warm ; it
always is."

" Let me creep in there," she whispered, " and
make it my home; and I will grow bright again, and
make the world bright for you ; and I will tell you
strange stories, and sing you sweet songs, which you
shall hear in your sleep, and call dreams. Take me
into your heart, dear Willie, and let me rest there."

" Fancy, oh Fancy," he cried, " there is no one so
sweet as you, even now ; " and he held out his arms,
and she nestled down in them, and found her home at
last. For many a day was she there ; many a lonely
hour did she beguile for Willie; many a song she sang
to him, and many a tale she told him; and sometimes,
when he had worked hard and yet could not accom-
plish what he wished, she would whisper some sound
to him, that helped him, he hardly knew how, to do
what before he had given up as hopeless.

But the months went on, and Willie had so much
to do that, though Fancy still stayed in his heart, he
had no time to listen to her ; and then sorrow came
to him, for his grandfather died; and his heart was so
full of grief there was no room in it for Fancy.

" I must work hard and learn all things, so that I
may know how to comfort you, dear granny," he

XL] THE STORY OF WILLIE AND FANCY. 127

said; ".and by and by we will live together in the
cottage again."

But she answered, "Oh no, dear lad, you will be
great when you are a man, and the people will want
you to go and live among them, to make their lives
better."

And still Fancy stayed by his side, half hoping that
one day he would turn from his work, and see her, and
once again go journeying with her. She had grown
small and thin, and sad and grave, and her steps
were slow and soft, and she was afraid to whisper to
him lest he should tell her that the time for play had
passed and the time for work had come, and send her
from him.

At last there came the day on which she left him.
Willie had grown tall and strong, and had to choose
what he would be when he should be a man ; and
then his uncle sat down and talked to him of all the
things that he might do. When Willie had listened,
he looked up and said, " Uncle John, I should like to
be a lawyer." And when Fancy heard that sad word
she fled away from him swiftly and for ever.

She went back again to the cottage, and the woods,
and the fields where she and Willie had been so
happy, and sadly roamed alone, until the blacksmith's

128 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY xi.

little daughter, dreaming over her poetry books one
day, went fast asleep, and Fancy, stealing up to her,
crept into her life and held fast to it for ever.

Long afterwards, when the blacksmith's little
daughter had become a woman, and was a teacher of
others, and lived in a schoolhouse, Willie met her
and wondered why it was he found some new beauty
in her face. In her eyes there seemed to be some
strange history that was half his own, and he thought
that life with her would be sweeter than any life
without her.

At last he fell to wondering if she would marry
him, so that he might have her with him always;
and when she said " Yes," and everything around
seemed changed and brighter far than it had since he
had wandered away from the cherry-tree, he never for
a moment thought that the reason was just this — that
the blacksmith's daughter had taken his Fancy.

THE BOY WAS TURNING OVER THE LEAVES OF A BOOK. — P. I2Q.

STORY XIL] IN THE PORCH. 129

IN THE POKCH.

THEY sat down in the porch, the two women and
the boy, and the stranger who had come from the
country. The old woman was spinning, and the
young one was sewing, and the stranger was watch-
ing the rain-clouds gather. The boy was turning
over the leaves of a book in which the lives of
great men were written down.

" I would give the world to know a great man,"
he said, and the spinner looked up and answered —

"Ah! it is a grand thing; one feels one knows
the world when one knows a great man."

" And what is greatness ? " asked the woman
from the country; and then they were all silent,
each wondering how the others would answer. And
at last the boy spoke again, looking round at the
women —

"Have any of you known a great man?" he
•K

130 ANYHOW STORIES.

asked, and again they were silent ; but presently the
spinner said —

" When 1 was young, there was a rich man living
in the town ; he must have been great, for he was
very rich, and over his grave there stands a tall
marble monument."

" And what did he do ? " asked the boy.

" I don't know what he did ; but once when he
was young he had no money, so he set to work, and
he worked and worked hard, so that long before he
was middle-aged he became very rich ; and then he
built a great house and lived in it, and kept grand
horses and carriages, and when he drove through the
town, all the people looked after hirn with wonder."

" But what good deeds did he do ?" asked the boy,
" and what great things ?"

" I never heard of any good deeds," the spinner
answered ; " he had no time to think of the poor, or
to fight battles as the heroes did ; but he worked
hard to* become rich, and he had all things that
money could buy."

" It is a good thing to work," said the woman
from the country.

"And was he learned?" asked the boy.

" Ah, I do uot know," the spinner said. " He may

XIL] IN THE PORCH. 131

have been, but he had his business to think of, and
he did not talk much, or write books, or paint
pictures, or teach others; none can tell how much
he knew."

" And had he many friends ?"

"He had little time to make friends, and none
knew him well ; but sometimes rich men sat at his
table, and ate and drank, and invited him to their
houses, but he had little time to go, and little to say
when he went, for he had to think of all the ways of
making money, so that his riches might exceed those
of other men."

"And had he wife and children ?"

" Oh no," said the spinner, shaking her head
sadly ; " he had no time to give to his affections,
and his heart had no room for them."

"And for what did he work ?"

" He worked to become rich, and to live among
the things that money buys, and so that, if he chose,
he might live at ease. He was a great man to win
all these things for himself."

" And who loved him ?"

" There were none who loved him, but some
feared him, and many longed to be as rbh as he."

" And had he never lived, what then ?"

132 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" Dear lad, I cannot tell : another would have
been in his place, and the money that he earned
would have been in other hands, but I cannot tell in
whose."

"And what was the good of him ?"

" I do not know. But he was a great man, and
when he died, he left directions for a grand marble
tomb."

" And what was the good of that ?" asked the
boy.

" Ah, lad, if our name is written in no human
heart, and none care to remember it, and if there are
no books and no deeds called after us, is it not a
great thing to have it written up on marble ? It
would be sad indeed if there were no room anywhere
on earth for it : there was room on a marble tomb
for his."

"Did any weep for him?"

" No, there were none to weep for him ; but the
marble monument is there, tall and fine."

"Do any remember him ?"

" Few remember him, and none care to think of
him ; but there are some distant cousins of his in a
far-off land, and these spend his money : they had
no need of it, and they never saw his face, but they

XIL] IN THE PORCH. 133

spend his money with a lavish hand — all the gold
and silver which he had heaped up. Oh, he was a
great man, and very rich." And then the spinner
was silent."

II.

"AND now tell me," said the boy, turning to the
young woman, " did you ever know a great man ?"

" I have known so few people," she answered,
thoughtfully. She was silent for a few minutes, and
then spoke again. " When I was a little girl," she
said, " there was a poor woman who lodged for a
time in my mother's cottage. She was very poor ;
she had only a few clothes and a little shoe that her
father, who was a cobbler, had left unfinished when
he died, and she had an old sampler which she had
worked when she was a child. One day she showed
the little shoe to the village cobbler, and I think he
always worked better afterwards ; for he said he had
never seen work better done than the work that was
in the unfinished shoe, and he felt ashamed of his
own bad stitches. When the woman had been a
year in my mother's house she died, and left my
mother all she had, just the old clothes, and the little
shoe, and the sampler. On the sampler there was

134 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

worked the name and age of the worker, 'Sarah
Short, aged 7 years,' and right down at the bottom
there was written on the frame, 'I have tried to
work this well, for Daddy said good work lives on
for ever' And my mother told me to take these
words to heart, and then she hung the sampler up
over the fireplace in our little sitting-room. And
one day, just a few years ago, an artist came to my
mother's cottage, and asked if he could lodge there
for the summer while he painted a picture ; so we
made room for him, and every day he went out
to paint the view from the hillside. He was not
strong when he came, and he was sorely disheartened
about his work, for he was poor, and no one bought
his pictures ; though he tried hard to paint his very
best, no one seemed to care for them or to notice
them. He was almost in despair when he came,
and beginning to think that it was of no use working
well, or hoping for good things to come. After a
bit he lost patience with the picture he was painting,
for it took so much time, and he was not sure that
any would buy it, or that those who cared for
pictures would ever see it, and so he put it away, and
began painting portraits of the village folk. He
painted many, and there was one delicate child

xn.J IN THE PORCH. 135

whose little face he painted just for love of it ; and
because he loved the child he took so much -pains
with the portrait that he did it better than all the
others, and those who saw it stood for a long time
looking at the pale little face, and the large blue
eyes; and then I think they fell to thinking of things
far better than themselves. At last there were no
more portraits to paint, and the painter seemed to
lose all heart again, and he used to take a book and
go to the woods and spend the whole day in reading.
My mother was grieved for him, for she saw that he
was poor, and that fame and money would be very
sweet to him. One day " — the young woman stopped
for a moment and looked up at the boy, scarcely
seeing him, but thinking of the days that were gone,
and living once more in them — "it seems like
yesterday," she said with a sigh, and then went on —
" one day when he was going out, and had to pass as
usual through our little sitting-room, his eye caught
the old sampler hanging up over the fireplace, and
he went up to it and looked at it, and then he read
the words beneath, ' Good work lives on for ever.' He
read them and turned away, and then went back and
read them again. The next morning he took the
unfinished picture to the hillside again and worked

136 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

at it with a will to which he had been a stranger

o

many a day. He worked at it every day, oh, so
carefully. Many a bit he painted out and painted
in again, and many a night he was dissatisfied with
his whole day's work, but still he went on and on.
It seemed as if there was something in his heart
that he painted right into the picture, and besides
this, he painted all he saw, and at last when it was
done, and one looked at it, one fancied one could
hear the birds sing, and feel the sweet summer air
coming from the south. I always thought when I
saw it," continued the woman, " that it was a blessed
thing for us all to live in so beautiful a world, and a
sin and a sorrow when we did anything to disgrace
it. There are few of us," she added, "who can do
things worthy of it : that is too great a happiness for
many of us to reach.

"At last the painter went away, and we heard
no more of him for a long time, not till the next year,
and then news came that every one was talking of his
pictures — that they were hanging in the Exhibition,
and were counted the best there — and the pictures
were the view from the hillside and the portrait of
the little child. And we were all so proud and
happy in the village, thinking of the grand people

XIL] IN THE PORCH. l'37

who would see our child's face and the view of our
own country-side that we had known all our lives.
After that the painter painted many pictures, and
we heard his name many times, though it was long
before we saw him again. But at last one day he
walked into our cottage, looking proud and happy, as
those who have done well must surely feel. He
told us how the picture he had painted, which he
had so nearly put away unfinished, had been sold
and hung up in a public gallery, where all could see
it. But the portrait of the child he had brought for
the child's mother, for he said none could value it as
she would. And then he told us how he owed most
of his fame to the old sampler that hung up over our
fireplace. For he had given up his picture in despair,
fearing he would gain nothing by it, but when he
read the words written on the sampler, he sat and
thought how gain and fame were small things to
seek, and that the knowledge that one had done
some good work would surely be sweeter far than
either. So he had taken out his picture and worked
at it again, trying hard with that, as with all after
work, to make it better and better, never wholly
satisfied with what he had done, and for ever with
each new thing he did, aiming higher and higher;

138 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

striving after that perfection which many seek yet
none can hope to gain. And now," said the woman,
looking up at the boy again, " all people know his
name, and the knowledge he sought is his, and all
other things are in his reach. He offered to buy the
old sampler of us, and said he would keep it all his
life ; but my mother would not sell it, for she said it
had been given to her from simple love, which no
money can buy. Surely the painter is a great man S"
and the woman stopped.

" Yes," said the boy, " he is a great man ; but I
think the cobbler was a great man too. Do you
know what he was called ? "

" I never heard his name," the woman answered,
"but I suppose it was that by which his daughter went."

" Where did he live ? " asked the boy.

" I do not know," the woman answered, " but
what he was and where he lived do not concern us ;
it is what he did that has been of help and service to
others ; and what we are matters little, but what we
do matters to all the world." Surely she was right,
seeing how immortal is human action, be it good or
ill ? None of us can say that the good shall live and
the bad shall die, and none of us can tell when we
may be making history.

XIL] IN THE PORCH. 139

III.

" SURELY the things we can do matter little ! " the
boy said. " I cannot think that anything I can ever
do will be of consequence."

" You cannot tell," said the woman, " and thus it
is that we must be so careful."

" And why is what one does so much greater than
what one is ? " he asked absently, half forgetting the
story she had just told him.

" Man must die," the woman answered sadly ;
" even the best loved and the greatest, and those who
knew him and remember his face die also in their
turn. So he who desires to live must fashion his own
immortality out of what his hands shall find to do.
And he whose ambition is highest has no wish to be
remembered, save by those who loved him ; but that
his work shall be remembered, that is the desire of
his soul."

" Many a man lives and works and dies," said the
woman from the country, " without thought of any-
thing save of doing his best in his day, glad and
ready to help those about him, content to die when
his turn comes, and never a thought of lying in wait
for immortality."

140 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

"It steals on many a one unawares and wraps
him round so softly he never knows that it is his ! "
said the young woman, taking up her sewing once
more.

"I am not thinking of those," said the stranger,
" but of those whom it never touches, and who have
neither thought nor knowledge of it, and yet are as
useful as any. One does not think of the stones
hidden at the base, and yet the great tower rests on
them, and but for them would never stand so high."

" Ah ! but then it is surely a great thing to help
a tower to stand," the spinner said. But the stranger
did not seem to hear her, and went on —

"It is the simple-hearted folk, pure -lived and
pure -thinking, who do well for love of doing well,
and for love of those about them that help, each one
in his place, to make the world so beautiful and life
so sweet. Each one helps to make a whole, just as
the little grains of sand make up the long sea- shore."

" But we were talking of great men," the boy said
impatiently. " Did you ever know any ?" he asked
the stranger.

She was silent for a moment, and then she
spoke, looking away from the boy, far off into the
distance, as if the place she had come from lay

xir.] IN THE PORCH. 141

beyond, and her thoughts were going home to it with
every word she said.

"No," she said, "I have never known any that
were called great ; but once, years and years ago, I
knew a scholar : he had more knowledge than any
man for miles and miles round."

" Tell me about him," the boy said eagerly.

"He had studied all his life long," the stranger
went on; "he knew all manner of languages, and had
read all the books that were written in them. He
was always studying : he shut himself up and saw
no one, and talked to no one if he could help it, and
learned more and more and more, and bought all
strange and learned books to read, and at last I
heard that there were few greater scholars than he.
Many people went to his house ; but even if he saw
them, he did not say much, for he was always think-
ing of this strange science, and that new art, and of
the books he was reading, and the language he was
learning, so that he seemed to have no words for
common use, and those who went to see him came
away strangely impressed by his learning, and yet no
wiser than they went."

"What did he do with his learning?" asked the
boy. " Did he teach any ?"

142 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY

" No, lie taught none : the simple people were
afraid of him, for he knew so much and said so little.
Even to learned men like himself he did not say
much more ; so they too went away disappointed."

"What did he do with his learning?"

" He did nothing with it, he never wrote it down,
he never taught others ; he just went on for ever
taking in and never giving out ; he was like a human
cupboard "

" He was just like a cupboard," laughed the boy.
But the stranger frowned when she heard his laugh ;
it seemed as if the recollection of the scholar was
painful to her.

"And one day," she went on, "a lock was put
upon his lips, and he could never learn again, and
could speak no more, for the key to the lock has
never been found in this world ; and so there was
nothing more to be done with the scholar, and he
was hidden away out of sight and sound for ever,
and all his learning was locked up with him."

"Is that all?" asked the boy ; but the stranger
went on quickly, not seeming to hear him. " There
was a blacksmith living in the same place with the
scholar," she said. " He had a wife and children ;
he worked hard, as best he could, and was always

XIL] IN THE PORCH. 143

cheerful and hopeful, and had a helping hand and a
ready smile for all who looked for them, and for
many who had no thought of finding them. He died
at the same time as the scholar, and those who were
nearest to him would have died for love of him,
but that they knew it would be greater love still to
live for him. All the place was sadder and poorer
for his loss, and the best wish folk could wish his
sons was that they might grow up to be like him."

" But he was not a great man ; there are surely
many like him ? " the boy said.

" And he was lucky in his friends to be loved so
well," the spinner said.

" No, he was not a great man, and there are many
like him," the stranger said with a sigh. " But he
was worth considering ; it is the like of him that
have made the world worth living in for us, and will
make it worth living in for those that are to come.
As for love," she said, looking at the spinner, " there
is always love somewhere for the heart that knows
how to bid it welcome ;" and she rose to go on her
way.

" But we were talking of greatness," the boy per-
sisted.

" Yes, we were talking of greatness," she repeated

144 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY xn.

sadly. " Don't hanker after it or go seeking it ; do
what you can as best you can, and some day perhaps,
without your knowing it, it will be looking over
your shoulder;" and before any of them spoke again
the stranger was journeying on into the distance.

STORY XIIL] LULLABY. 145

LULLABY.

THE drowsy night is coming,

The mist is on the heath;
Above the stars are shining,

The glow-worms underneath.
The flowers for sleep are sighing,

The bird is in its nest,
The daylight is all hidden

With sunshine in the west.

The ladybird at sunset

Went swiftly to her home ;
The bats their wings are spreading,

And quite prepared to roam.
And, hark ! the cricket singing

His love-song to the skies,
Where all the stars are waiting

To see you close your eyes.
L

146 ANYHOW STORIES. [STORY xm.

They wish you all sweet slumber,

They wish you all good night ;
They'll tell the sun to rouse you

When once again 'tis light.
And while you sleep, the roses

May think your cheeks so fair
That, in the early morning,

You'll find them resting there.

THE END.

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HEREWARD THE WAKE.

By the Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman."

HUSBAND.

THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY.
Illustrated.

THE OGILVIES. Illustrated.

AGATHA'S

trated.
OLIVE. Illustrated.
MY MOTHER AND I.

By Charlotte M. Yonge.

THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE.
With Illustrations.

HEARTSEASE. With Illustrations.

THE DAISY CHAIN. With Illus-
trations. ' » . '.

THE TRIAL : More Links in the
Daisy Chain. With Illustrations.

HOPES AND FEARS. Illustrated.

DYNEVOR TERRACE. With
Illustrations.

MY YOUNG ALCIDES. Illustrated.

THE PILLARS OF THE HOUSE.
Two Vols. Illustrated.

CLEVER WOMAN OF THE
FAMILY. Illustrated.

THE YOUNG STEPMOTHER.
Illustrated.

THE DOVE IN THE EAGLE'S
NEST. Illustrated.

THE CAGED LION. Illustrated.

THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS.
Illustrated.

LADY HESTER, and THE DAN-
VERS PAPERS. Illustrated.

THE THREE BRIDES. Illus-
trated.

MAGNUM BONUM. Illustrated.
LOVE AND LIFE. Illustrated.

HAWORTH'S.
"LOUISIANA" and
Illustrated,

By Frances H. Burnett.

'THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S." Two Stories.

By Lady Augusta Noel.

OWEN GWYNNE'S GREAT
WORK.

FROM GENERATION TO GEN-
ERATION.

BELLES LETTRES.

MACMILLAN'S POPULAR NOVELS— continued.

By Mrs. Oliphant.

YOUNG MUSGRAVE. I A SON OF THE SOIL.

THE CURATE IN CHARGE. I A BELEAGUERED CITY.

HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY.

By Annie Keary.

CLEMENCY FRANKLYN.

A YORK AND A LANCASTER

CASTLE DALY.
OLDBURY.
JANET'S HOME.

A NILE NOVEL.

ROSE.
A DOUBTING HEART.

By George Fleming.
| MIRAGE.

By Henry James, Junr.

THE EUROPEANS.

THE AMERICAN.

DAISY MILLER • AN INTERNA-
TIONAL EPISODE: FOUR
MEETINGS.

RODERICK HUDSON.

THE MADONNA OF THE
FUTURE, and other Tales.

WASHINGTON SQUARE: THE
PENSION BEAUREPAS : A
BUNDLE OF LETTERS.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

By the Author of "Hogan, M.P."

HOGAN, M.P.

THE HONOURABLE MISS FER-
RARD.

CHRISTY CAREW.

FLITTERS, TATTERS, AND
THE COUNSELLOR : WEEDS :
AND OTHER SKETCHES.

TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS.
TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.
THE FOOL OF QUALITY. By

H. BROOKE.
REALMAH. By the Author of

" Friends in Council."
PATTY. By Mrs. MACQUOID.
THE BERKSHIRE LADY. By

Mrs. MACQUOID.
HUGH CRICHTON'S ROMANCE.

By C. R. COLERIDGE.
MY TIME, AND WHAT I'VE

DONE WITH IT. By F. C.

BURNAND.

ROSE TURQUAND. By ELLICE
HOPKINS.

OLD SIR DOUGLAS. By the

Hon. Mrs. NORTON.
SEBASTIAN. By KATHARINE

COOPER.
THE LAUGHING MILL; and

other Tales. By JULIAN HAW-
THORNE.

THE HARBOUR BAR.
CHRISTINA NORTH. By E. M.

ARCHER.
UNDER THE LIMES. By E. M.

ARCHER.
BENGAL PEASANT LIFE. By

LAL BEHARI DAY.
VIRGIN SOIL. By TOURGENIEF.
VIDA. The Study of a Girl. By

AMY DUNSMUIR.

iS BELLES LETTRES.

MACMILLAN'S TWO SHILLING NOVELS :—

By the Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman."
THE OGILVIES.
THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY.
OLIVE.

AGATHA'S HUSBAND.

TWO MARRIAGES.

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