Various - Golden Days for Boys and Girls, Vol. XII, Jan. 3, 1891

V >> Various >> Golden Days for Boys and Girls, Vol. XII, Jan. 3, 1891

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"And she knows all that, too," said Rosalie, knocking down his protests
like tenpins.

Her mother sat thinking.

"I wish I knew what to say," she said, sincerely, "or what to do. I
should be glad to do something, believe me. I am deeply sorry for you,
my boy. It seems to me that your case is a peculiarly hard one. I am
glad I have heard your story, for I can give you my sympathy, if nothing
more. You made a mistake; you were thoughtless and weak; yes, you did
wrong. But--I can't help saying it--it seems to me that your punishment
is too great. You have escaped nothing; the worst has come. The worst
fault was not yours, and yet you are suffering most. At least, don't be
ashamed of having told me," said Mrs. Scott, that ready sympathy of
which her face spoke strongly roused.

"I wish I could help you," she declared. "Not only does your case
deserve it, but Trudy Carr here"--she smiled brightly. "I feel as though
I knew Trudy Carr. I have heard nothing but items concerning her since
Rosalie first saw her. And that little adventure on the bay is not to be
forgotten. Yes, I would help you gladly."

"There's only one way for me," said Collin. "If I could go back there to
work, and show Mr. Conover what I _can_ be and do, there'd be some
chance for me; I could 'live it down.' But _that's_ gone up."

"That is the only way, or the best by far," was Mrs. Scott's quiet
agreement. "I wish it might be. I had an idea about it--I wonder--I want
to do what I can. I might send a note to Mr. Conover." And then she
added, with an impulsiveness much like Rosalie's own, "I will go myself.
We'll go together. I have an idea, as I said. Come, it will do no harm
to try."

Collin was getting used to bewilderments, to being hustled and managed
like a baby instead of a tall, seventeen-year-old boy. One thing--he had
not been remarkably successful at managing himself.

And when, ten minutes later, he stood with Mrs. Scott, her bright young
daughter and Trudy in Mr. Conover's livery-stable, he kept a stiff upper
lip and waited for what should come.

Mr. Conover came forward to meet the oddly-assorted four. For Collin
Spencer he had only unsmiling surprise, and his glance at Trudy was
puzzled. But he knew by sight the lady from the Bellevue Hotel, and he
raised his hat with an inquiring face, and drew forward the only chair
the stable boasted. Accepting it, Rosalie's mother wasted no time in
getting to the point, and wasted no words.

"First, Mr. Conover," she began, "I must apologize for being an
interferer, for that is what I am. My business concerns this boy. I have
just now heard his story from the beginning."

"About the trick he played me?" said Mr. Conover, half doubting the
interest of such a lady in such a case.

"That exactly; all about his foolish escapade and the result of it.
About the effort of this little girl, Trudy Carr, to save him, and about
the discovery and discharge. And, Mr. Conover, I want to ask nothing
less than that you take the boy back into your service on a month's
trial. I feel convinced that the consequences of his error are almost
more than he deserves, and perhaps more than you realize, Mr. Conover.
He was led into it by a bad companion, whom he has certainly dropped.
First impressions go for something. I _cannot_ but believe the boy
himself is steady and trustworthy. And then the anxiety of this girl,
who seems to have been such a friend to him--"

Mrs. Scott's voice was a little unsteady.

"And his position now is pitiable. The story has spread through the town
in exaggerated forms. He has tried to get work elsewhere and on that
account failed. I cannot see what is before the boy unless you can
forgive and take him back, for it is here only, it seems both to him and
to me, that he can redeem himself. I ask you to take him on a month's
trial, and I wish to give bonds for his good behavior. I am Mrs. John
Scott."

This, then, was Mrs. Scott's idea of which she had spoken. Surely a
convincing one. She opened her purse, took five ten-dollar bills
therefrom and handed them to the young livery-stable keeper.

Mr. Conover looked at her in astonishment, slowly rubbing his
smooth-shaven head.

"I--Mrs. Scott," he said, with earnestness, "I don't want to take the
money. I begin to see how it is; I see you're right. To tell the truth,
I was afraid I'd been a little hard on the boy. I knew that young cur of
a Freeman was to blame for it, and I was sorry on the girl's account and
all; but I was hasty, I suppose. I shouldn't have done anything, though,
about taking him back; but now that you've made me see it plainer yet,
and if he's in such a bad fix as all that, why, I'll give him another
chance," said the young man. "But never mind the money; I'll try him."

"Keep it," Mrs. Scott answered, "and if he does not do his best, it is
forfeited. I think he will."

Poor Collin! Perhaps in all the course of his troubles he had known no
sharper moment than that. He looked around the group. Several of the
stable-hands had gathered, Sim Miles, with a broadly smiling face, being
among them.

The tears sprung to Collin's honest blue eyes. Nor was he ashamed of
them.

"I _will_ do my best," was all he could say.

"All right; come around to-morrow, Spencer," said Mr. Conover, bluffly,
seeing that the scene threatened to be rather a moving one, and he went
back to his business.

CHAPTER XX.

An Important Letter.

His visitors turned away.

Rosalie, whose triumph was supreme, could not wholly control herself.
She gave an occasional hop as they went.

Trudy's face shone, and her eyes were starry. As for Collin, he felt
that silence was best.

"Go and tell your mother, Collin," Trudy whispered. "You won't be afraid
to see her _now_."

"I'm going there," Collin answered--they stood at the corner of his
street. "I'll go; and all I can say is, that I shan't ever forget what
you've all done for me. You've saved me--that's what. I don't know what
would have become of me. And you'll never be sorry for it."

And, choking somewhat, Collin Spencer turned down the street to his
mother's home.

It seemed to Trudy that it was the strangest piece of good fortune in
the world which had taken place. After all the dark worry her true young
heart had known, she could hardly believe it. And yet a stranger thing
was to happen then and there.

As they walked on, Trudy's eyes turned down the street and fixed
themselves upon a figure coming rapidly towards them, or as rapidly as
was possible. The figure, which was small and bent in the shoulders,
limped. Rosalie saw it at the same instant.

"See! who is that?" she asked, in wonder.

"It's Ichabod," said Trudy--"why, it's Ichabod! And I left him sick
abed. Whatever is the matter?"

Ichabod came hurriedly limping on. It became plain that he had seen them
and was hastening to reach them; and Trudy ran forward.

"Why, Ichabod," she cried, in remonstrance, "if you didn't get up! Were
you able? No; see how tired you are!"

Certainly Ichabod was. He leaned against the fence a minute, and then,
giving it up, sat down on the grass beside it, pulling off his old hat
and fanning himself.

Something else dawned upon Trudy. Ichabod was excited. That indeed
seemed to be the greater cause of his exhaustion, for he sat blinking up
at Trudy in a peculiar manner and tried vainly to speak.

Mrs. Scott and Rosalie had come up, and paused. Too courteous to smile,
they looked their perplexity.

"What _is_ the matter, Ichabod?" said Trudy, again. She began to feel
some alarm. "What made you get up? What _have_ you been doing?"

Ichabod, slowly and painfully, rose to his feet.

"I was calc'lating to git up. Didn't I say to ye I was? Didn't I say I
was goin' to git up soon as ever I could? And what fer did I say? Why, I
was goin' to ask a favor o' Mr. Doolittle--jest a leetle favor."

"Oh!" said Trudy, remembering.

She had forgotten the old man's queer talk about the box in the closet,
and the papers in the box, and his odd eagerness concerning them.

"Seein' you--" continued the old man. "Well, I couldn't stan' it another
minute arter that. I jest got up. I _was_ kind o' weak in my legs to the
fust, but I got thar. I got to Mr. Doolittle's office, and thar he was
settin'. He knows me, Mr. Doolittle does, and I wan't afraid to ask that
leetle favor of him."

Ichabod had got back his breath and his composure now. He covered his
bald head with his hat, planted himself against the fence, his little,
twinkling eyes fixed on Trudy with an intense gaze, and continued his
story:

"Thar he set. And I walked in and I says to him, 'Air ye willin' to do
sump'n fer me, Mr. Doolittle?' And says he, 'Yes I be, Ichabod.' And
says I, 'It ain't goin' to take but jest a minute, Mr. Doolittle.' And
says he, 'Go ahead, Ichabod.'

"Says I, 'I was lookin' in the closet of the garret bed-room up to Mrs.
Spencer's house, whar I've been stayin', and I found a leetle box,
shoved 'way back, as though it wan't no use, anyhow. And, kind o'
hankerin' to know what 'twas, I broke it open. And thar was papers in
it,' says I-- 'and letters.

"'I can't read none myself,' says I-- 'only jest a leetle; but I looked
over them letters, and I worked and I figured, and I studied out a
leetle here and a leetle thar, till I begun to suspicion sump'n. Sump'n
awful quare--_awful quare!_ And this here one,' says I, 'I've fetched
down to ye, fer ye to jest look at. And if there ain't nothin' in it,'
says I, 'why, all right, and thank ye fer yer trouble. And if thar _is_
sump'n--' says I.

"And I handed him over that thar ole letter, and then I set still, and I
had my ole eyes glued right onto his face, and I ketched my breath and I
waited.

"'Well, I'll see, Ichabod,' says he. 'Ole letters are quare things,
Ichabod,' says he; 'but I'll look at it.'

"And he looked. He looked it up and down two er three times, and then he
read it clean through two er three times more. And then he took up his
spectacles off'n the table, and he read it ag'in, and he looked jest as
astonished as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Says he, 'I can't make it out. Reuben Wallace has been dead a year, and
this is the fust breath o' evidence that he left any money, although
everybody in this town has been clean up a stump about his _not_ leavin'
any. But this letter--dated two months afore he died,' says he, 'is from
a coal merchant in New York, findin' _that_ in the printin' up top o'
the letter. And it makes reference to the sum o' forty thousand dollars
invested by Reuben Wallace in his business. There's more in it,' says
he; 'but that's the principal thing.'

"And he got up and stood thar, shakin' his head and lookin' as if a
feather'd knock him down. And, says he, 'if this means anything at all,
Ichabod, it means an awful lot! It means that Reuben Wallace was worth
forty thousand dollars at the time of his death, and that that forty
thousand dollars was invested with this New York coal merchant. Thar's
one thing fer us to do, Ichabod,' says he, 'and that's to write to this
man in New York and see what's the meanin' of all this 'ere! That's a
simple thing, and I'll do it,' says he. 'I'll do it, this minute.' And
down he sot and begun to write; and when he'd got done with that air old
letter, I put it back into my pocket ag'in.

"And," pursued Ichabod, whose voice had grown shrill as ever, in
excitement, "I come away and I set to lookin' ye up, to tell ye every
word Mr. Doolittle said--every word. And I've been pretty nigh all over
the town, and was jest thinkin' o' startin' up thar to the Browns, when
I see ye."

Ichabod mopped his face and head with his handkerchief.

Trudy stood still, in a dazed condition, which allowed her neither to
move nor speak; but Mrs. Scott, who had listened with close attention,
though finding it hard to understand a tale which, for her, had begun in
the middle, asked, with practical interest:

"And what is the name of the coal merchant in whose hands this money is
placed?"

"Angus Pritchard," replied Ichabod, nodding his head several times.

He drew the letter from his pocket.

"Here 'tis, down to the bottom. Angus Pritchard, that's what 'tis."

"Angus Pritchard!" Mrs. Scott repeated, in a voice of utter amazement;
and Rosalie stood now as stock still as Trudy. "Angus Pritchard is my
husband's uncle--yes, and a coal merchant in New York. And he is at the
Bellevue Hotel at this moment!"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

WORK AND PLAY.

by KARL WINSHIP.

"Have you watered Prince this evening, Roswell?" asked Mr. Hofford, as
his sixteen-year-old son came into the room at supper time and dropped
into his seat at the table.

"Yes, sir," answered Roswell, sulkily.

"And brought in the wood and coal?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you may go to the village to-night."

"I don't want to go to the village."

For the first time Mr. Hofford appeared to notice his son's air of
discontent, and he asked, kindly:

"What's the matter, Roswell? Are you sick?"

"No; I'm just tired out, that's all," replied the boy, giving the
table-leg a little kick.

"Tired, are you?"

"Yes, I am. I am worked to death."

Mr. Hofford laughed pleasantly.

"You don't look as if you were in danger of dying. And I don't think you
do more work than other boys of your age."

"I don't know about that," rejoined Roswell, in a discontented voice;
"but I know I'm working from morning to night. I have to attend to
everything in the way of chores, until I'm so tired that I can't read or
study. And I never have any time for play."

"I am sorry for that," said Mr. Hofford, gravely, "because all boys
ought to have time for play. I thought I saw you playing football
yesterday?"

"Oh, I play _some_," admitted Roswell, "but nothing like I want to. I
wish I had nothing to do but play, like Rollo there."

"You'd soon get tired of living a dog's life," said Mrs. Hofford, with
an amused look.

"No, I wouldn't," said Roswell, confidently. "I never had enough play."

"Very well," said Mr. Hofford, with a queer smile. "To-morrow is
Tuesday; suppose you start in and play."

"And not do any work?"

"Certainly not; no work for yourself, or anybody else."

Roswell looked at his father, as if disbelieving his ears.

"I mean it," continued Mr. Hofford. "I will tend to the horse and cow,
Jennie will do the house chores and run the errands, and your mother
will do the rest. You will have nothing to do but play, and I hope you
will enjoy yourself."

"I'm sure I shall!" declared Roswell, joyfully.

When he opened his eyes the next morning it was bright daylight, and he
sprang out of bed very hurriedly, forgetting the changed condition of
affairs. Then, as recollection dawned upon him, he dressed slowly and
went down stairs to breakfast.

There was no one there but his mother, who said "Good-morning!"
pleasantly.

"My!" he exclaimed, glancing at the clock; "if it isn't ten minutes to
nine! I'll be late for school."

"You are not to go to school," said his mother, quietly. "Going to
school is not play."

"But I'll miss my promotion, if I don't go," pleaded Roswell, aghast at
the thought.

"Can't help it. You must not do anything but play."

Roswell laughed.

"Very well," he said, lightly.

Then he finished his breakfast in silence and strolled out.

He walked around the yard for five or ten minutes, whistling shrilly;
took a look in the barn at Prince and then set off to the village. It
was almost deserted, the boys being at school--all but a few loaferish
fellows, with whom Roswell did not care to associate.

About ten o'clock he returned home, got a book and read until
dinner-time.

Somehow he did not have much of an appetite, and after dinner he took
his fishing tackle and went off to the creek.

When he returned at dusk, he had a string of perch.

"Where's my fish-knife, Jennie?" he asked, as he laid the fish on the
bench in the wash-house.

"Jennie will clean the fish, Roswell," called out his mother. "Catching
fish is play; cleaning them is work."

"Pshaw!" said Roswell, impatiently.

He was rather proud of his ability to prepare fish for the pan.

At supper Mr. Hofford asked him how he was enjoying himself, and Roswell
answered that he was doing very well. After supper, when the table was
cleared, he got out a lot of traps and set to work on an electrical
machine he was trying to make, but his father promptly checked him.

"That won't do, Roswell. Work is strictly forbidden."

"But this is for myself."

"No matter. It is not play. You had better go to the village and play."

Roswell got up angrily, put away the machine and went out. In an hour he
came back, saying he had had a quarrel with Perry Gantley, and had a
headache. So he went to bed.

The next morning he rigged up a swing in the woods back of the house,
and amused himself for an hour, and then went fishing, but, as he had no
luck, he hardly spoke a word at dinner-time.

During the afternoon he read for a few minutes, and then took a walk
through the woods, returning so tired that he was glad to go to bed
right after supper.

Thursday was simply dreadful. It rained all day, and Roswell read until
his eyes ached. Then he tried to sleep, romped with Rollo awhile, and at
last went to the barn.

Mrs. Hofford followed him presently, and found him currying Prince.

"Come, Roswell, this won't do," she said, quickly. "No work."

Roswell threw down the currycomb with an impatient exclamation, and
returned to the house.

He did not make his appearance at all at supper, and Jennie reported
that he was lying in bed, asleep. She supposed Mr. Hofford smiled, but
made no remark.

Friday morning Roswell came down very early and Mr. Hofford met him
coming in with an armful of wood.

"Here! What does this mean?" he asked, sternly.

"I'm going back to work," replied Roswell, flushing up, but laughing at
the same time.

"It is not possible you are tired of play?"

"No, not tired; but--"

"But you think it is more fun when sandwiched between work?"

"Yes, sir."

"I am glad you have made the discovery for yourself," said Mr. Hofford,
with a smile. "Fun or play is never thoroughly enjoyable unless we have
earned the right to it by hard work. A perfectly idle boy or man is
never happy, and no person knows the absolute pleasure in work until
they are deprived of it, It is a good lesson to learn, my son, and I am
glad you have learned it so early."

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

The aged and the young, man, woman, child,
Unite in social glee; even stranger dogs,
Meeting with bristling back, soon lay aside
Their snarling aspect, and in sportive chase,
Excursive scour, or wallow in the snow.
With sober cheerfulness, the grandam eyes
Her offspring 'round her, all in health and peace;
And thankful that she's spared to see this day
Return once more, breathes low a secret prayer,
That God would shed a blessing on their heads.

--_James Grahame_.

* * * * *

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* * * * *

ROYALTY IN EXILE.

by THOMAS PARKE GORDON.

In olden times thrones were very unstable affairs, and kingdoms were
overthrown in a twinkling. Readers of ancient history will recall many
such instances of the downfall of earthly grandeur.

Alexander the Great overthrew Darius in the plenitude of his power; the
Emperor Aurelian destroyed Palmyra and led Zenobia, the queen, in
triumph to Rome, where she ended her days in peaceful retirement.

Rome, when mistress of the world, overthrew hundreds of monarchies, and
killed or sent into exile innumerable kings. In the days of her decline,
the people deposed their own rulers at such a rate that the imperial
purple was finally put up at auction by the soldiery.

In later days, monarchies became more secure; but kingdoms were
nevertheless overturned, and several royal rulers sent into exile, when
not more severely punished. But, with passing years, revolutions became
more rare, until Napoleon began his wars of conquest, and deposed kings
as if they were playthings.

Since Napoleon's downfall, revolutions have become still more rare; yet
monarchies are so many, and republican ideas are growing so rapidly,
that scores of deposed rulers are in exile, pining for the days that
will never return.

Perhaps the most notable is the Count of Paris, who recently paid a
visit to this country. The count, it is true, has never reigned, so he
cannot be said to have been deposed; but he claims descent from the
Bourbon kings of France, and seeks to revive the ancient rule.

He is a resident of England, and is in easy circumstances. He has a
rival for the throne in Prince Napoleon Bonaparte, who lives in
luxurious exile in Switzerland.

Prince Napoleon's father was a brother of the great Napoleon, and he
hopes that some day the people of France will recognize him as their
ruler.

England gives refuge to another exile in Eugenie, the widow of Napoleon
III, who resides at Chiselhurst, and who makes no pretensions to royal
grandeur. Since the death of her son by Zulu assegais she has lived the
life of a recluse.

Paris shelters the exiled Isabella, Queen of Spain, who takes her
downfall philosophically. She is rich, and passes her time between
Paris, Nice and Boulogne in social enjoyment.

In the same city lives Don Carlos, a pretender to the throne of Spain.
He traces his descent from Carlos, the second son of Charles IV, born
1788.

The original Carlos began the insurrection business in 1825, and, after
being repeatedly defeated and banished, died at Trieste in 1855. His son
Don Carlos continued to make periodical attempts to regain the crown,
but died in 1861, leaving no direct heir.

The present Don Carlos, the nephew of the above, has headed four
insurrections and has many followers, but no one believes that he will
ever be more than an aspirant.

Dom Pedro, the deposed Emperor of the Brazils, lives in Portugal, and is
the most unhappy of ex-rulers. The death of his wife followed close upon
his exile, and he longs to return to Brazil, if only to die. He has
refused the gratuity offered him by the infant republic, and not being
wealthy, the future looks rather dark for him.

When Italy was united, a number of petty sovereigns were deprived of
their crowns and now wander around without any particular aim in life.
Unlike an ex-President of the United States, an ex-king cannot go to
work, and, if he has not saved any money, must depend on charity for a
living, unless he can marry a rich wife.

Austria has taken care of several rulers of the Tuscan provinces, and
the Italians are generous enough to see that none of them starve.

Paris is a notable refuge for royal exiles, and some of them are engaged
in anything but kingly pastimes. A prince of Georgia drives a cab, and
one of the best police agents is a scion of the royal house of Poland.

Among the curiosities of Paris is Orelie, King of Araucania. Originally
a poor lawyer, with a taste for adventure, he made his way to Chili, and
thence to a remote section of the republic, where the Araucanian Indians
live. He won their good will to such an extent that they elected him
king, and for several years he ruled over them. Then the Chilians
started a war and Orelie I decamped. In Paris he still calls himself
King of Araucania, and makes a precarious living by selling titles of
nobility to gullible or vain people.

Another exile, more meritorious, is Francesco, King of Armenia and
Prince of Jerusalem. It has been many years since Francesco's ancestors
were driven by the Turks from the throne of Armenia, but there can be no
doubt whatever of the royal antiquity of the family. Descended from a
bold crusader, they held the kingly rank for centuries, until the rise
of Mohammedan power in the East made them exiles. Russia, for many
years, gave the titular prince a pension, but this was dropped about
forty years ago, and since then the kings of Armenia have had a very
hard time of it. The present king is a waiter in a small restaurant near
Versailles. He is a quiet fellow, and does not parade either his
pedigree or his misfortunes.

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