OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 691, 29 May 1885, Page 4

OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

SNOWED-IN-Br Ada Carlkton Stoddard. One cloudy winter morning, not less than twenty years ago, there was an unusual commotion about a certain little old house standing far up on the St. John River. Within, Mrs Grace sat before the great fire-place in the fore-room, so bundled up in shawls anil blankets and hoods that she could scarcely stir. In a warm corner of the hearth lay three or four hot bricks, well wrapped in newspapers, and two home-made robes were hanging across a chair to warm everything indicating preparations for a long, cold journey. Without, Mr Grace was hitching the old red mare into the thills of the still older red pung, that looked as if it might have come over in the Mayflower. His round, good natured face wore a troubled

expression, and he jerked at old Dolly’s bifc : once or twice iu an ungentle way which • wasn’t like himself. 1 The small part of Mrs Grace's face that ; was visible among the folds of her homeknit hood showed the same look of anxiety ; ; and her voice trembled a good deal when * she spoke to the children, and gave Charly her last directions. There were four of the children, Dean and Emmy, and Joe and Charly—though Charly was not one of the Grace children. Mrs Grace had taken her, a wee lame mite, when there was no ona else to take her, and she often declared she couldn’t and didn’t love one of her own little ones better than she could and did love Charly. Emmy and Dean and Joe were round, rosy little bodies, of three and five and seven years, blue-eyed and yellow haired. Charly was eleven, and she was neither round nor rosy. Her face was thin and her eyes were big and shadowy. And Charly was lame ; there was a pair of tiny crutches always by her chair. ‘ I couldn’t think of going,’ said Mrs Grace, 4 if Charly wasn’t the wise, patient little mother I know she is. I never was so worried in my life. But what can Ido ?’ It was a hard question to answer, indeed. For the night before had come a letter to Mrs Grace from her sister in a distant town saying that her mother—the children’s dear old grandmamma—was very, very ill. ‘ Come at once,’ the letter read ; and it was a week old when Mr Ringgold, who lived two miles above them, but was yet their nearest neighbor in the sparsely settled region, brought it from the post-office, five miles below. It was little to be wondered at that the tears filled poor Mrs Grace’s eyes, that her lips quivered, and her voice shook. 1 1 couldn’t do it if it was not for trusting in Charly so,’ she repeated time and again, in tones that brought a pretty glow to to Charly’s thin little face. ‘ I know you’ll take good care of them, dear. There’s bread enough baked, and I’ve left tha jar of doughnuts in the closet.’ * Oh, good again !’ cried Joe. ‘ Can we have all we want? Won’t it be fun, Charly ?’ 4 You must have what Charly gives you, said Mrs Grace, ‘ and attend to what Charly says. ‘ I’ve locked the pantry door so you can’t bother her by running in and out. Now— ’ She looked at Charly as the outer door opened. ‘ I’ll do just the best I can,’ said Charly bravely. * I know you will, dear. Be good children, all of you.’ 4 There’s wood enough piled up in the entry to last you,’ said Mr Grace, a little huskily. ‘We shall be back day after tomorrow night, sure. All ready, wife.’ And a few minutes later old Dolly was jogging at her best pace down the snowy level of the river. It was thirty long miles to Dunbar corner. 4 1 wish they were home again,’ said Joe. 4 They will be before you know it,’ laughed Charly. ‘ Now I’ll tell you a story,’ So the three little ones cuddled around Charly’s chair before the open fire while she told them the wonderful tale of the 4 Three Tiny Pigs ’; and from first to last they listened breathlessly, though they had heard the same story many times before, no doubt. Charly had a wonderful gift for telling stories, Mrs Grace often declared. And Charly had a gift for something else besides story-telling. When the stories, came to an end she smiled. 4 Bring me my box, will you. Joey, please V Charly asked. Her poor little limbs were so weak and misshapen that it was with difficulty she could move about, even with the aid of her crutches. Joe obeyed, climbing up on the wide fourposted bed in the corner, and taking from a shelf above it a square wooden box with a sliding cover. Dean and Emmy knew what was coming then, ‘ Dire me the kitty,’ pleaded Emmy. 4 And me the mooses,’ said Dean. ‘They’re deers, goosey,’said Joe, with a' little scornful sniff. ‘ Let me see all of ’em, won’t you, Charly ?’ Charly smiled in the brightest way, and pulled off the cover. Shall I tell you what were there ? The daintiest little images under the sun, carved all in wood, and the .largest one scarcely four inches high. It is" true, they were the work of ja single awkward tool in untaught fingers, but if you had seen, them, I am sure you could not have helped exclaiming with Joe and Dean and Emmy, ‘ Oh, Charly, how pretty they are !' They were exceedingly true to life, too. There was the old house cat, which Emmy instantly appropriated—why, you could almost hear her drowsy purr—and there were Dean's ‘ mooses ’’ with their delicate branching horns, and a pair of rabbits eating clover, and a cunning creeping baby, and there was old Dolly herself standing with drooping head and lopped ears—lazy Dolly. ‘l’d know her anywheres,’ laughed Joe. Charly laughed too, and fingered her treasures lovingly. Her cheeks glowed, and her eyes were starry. * Do you think they’re nice ?’ she asked — *as nice as some they have at the stores at „ Christmas time, Joey ?’ ‘ Nicer,’ returned Joe, in a tone expressive of great wisdom and experience— ‘ a whole heap nicer.’ ‘ Web,’ pursued Charly, * I’m going to make all I can, and when I get enough, I’ll send them to sell. Mrs Ringgold said they ought to be half a dollar apiece.’ ‘ O-oh I’ ■ cried Joe, quite taken aback by this prospect of unbounded wealth. 4 What ’ll you do with so much ?’ ‘ I know,’ put in Dean. 4 You’ll get cured, won’t you, Charly ?’ ?t ; r ' 5 The quick tears sprang to Charly’s dark eyes. ‘ I will, if I can,’ said she, and she pulled Emmy to her, and hid her face in the baby’s yellow curls. 4 Maybe I can’t.’ * Mr Perks said you could if you could go to see Dr Lester. He can cure everything.’ ‘But it’ll cost a great lot of money —may be a hundred dollars,’ said Charly. ‘ I’d have to make two hundred of these, Joey.’ * Well, you ain't going to wait that long,’ declared Joe, stoutly. ‘ Father says just as soon’s this old farm pays anything, he’s going to take you to Fredericton to see Dr. Lester. Maybe ’twill pay next summer ; we’re going to have a cow then. And we

haven’t been here long enough yet you know.’

* That’ll be real nice,’ said she. ‘ Now, after dinner, I’ll cut out something more.’ ‘I think it's real fun,’ said Joe. But Charly only shook her head and smiled again. Well, that day passed, and the next, and all the time the sun did not once show his face. The clouds hung heavy and black, and dark came early, and weather-wise Joe, with his nose against the window-pane, prophe- * I hope ’twon’t come, though, till father and mother are home,’ said he. It did, however. When the children awoke next morning the snow was falling fast and steadily in large flakes. It had grown very much colder, too, in the night. Poor little Joe’s teeth chattered spitefully even after he had raked open the bed of coals in the fire-place, and built a roaring fire. The wind came up with the sun ;it whistled and raved along the bleak rivershore in a way that set the timbers of the old house to creaking dolefully. [To be concluded, in our next.\