Book: Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know

V >> Various >> Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know




Soon a merry clashing of bells, blowing of horns, and mingling of
voices were heard outside, sleighs and carriages dashed up to the
door, and in came, "just in season," Grandpa Time, with Grandma Year
leaning on his arm, followed by all their children and grandchildren,
and were warmly welcomed by the hostess and her family.

"Oh, how glad I am we could all come to-day!" said Mr. January, in his
crisp, clear tones, throwing off his great fur coat, and rushing to
the blazing fire. "There is nothing like the happy returns of these
days."

"Nothing, indeed," simpered Mrs. February, the poetess. "If I had had
time I should have composed some verses for the occasion; but my son
Valentine has brought a sugar heart, with a sweet sentiment on it, to
his cousin Thanksgiving. I, too, have taken the liberty of bringing a
sort of adopted child of mine, young Leap Year, who makes us a visit
every four years."

"He is very welcome, I am sure," said Mrs. November, patting Leap Year
kindly on the head. "And, Sister March, how have you been since we
last met?"

"Oh! we have had the North, South, East, and West Winds all at our
house, and they have kept things breezy, I assure you. But I really
feared we should not get here to-day; for when we came to dress I
found nearly everything we had was lent; so that must account for our
shabby appearance."

"He! he! he!" tittered little April Fool. "What a sell!" And he shook
until the bells on his cap rang; at which his father ceased for a
moment showering kisses on his nieces and nephews, and boxed his ears
for his rudeness.

"Oh, Aunt May! do tell us a story," clamoured the younger children,
and dragging her into a corner she was soon deep in such a moving tale
that they were all melted to tears, especially the little Aprils, who
cry very easily.

Meanwhile, Mrs. June, assisted by her youngest daughter, a "sweet girl
graduate," just from school, was engaged in decking the apartment with
roses and lilies and other fragrant flowers that she had brought from
her extensive gardens and conservatories, until the room was a
perfect bower of sweetness and beauty; while Mr. July draped the walls
with flags and banners, lighted the candles, and showed off the tricks
of his pet eagle, Yankee Doodle, to the great delight of the little
ones.

Madam August, who suffers a great deal with the heat, found a seat on
a comfortable sofa, as far from the fire as possible, and waved a huge
feather fan back and forth, while her thirty-one boys and girls, led
by the two oldest, Holiday and Vacation, ran riot through the long
rooms, picking at their Aunt June's flowers, and playing all sorts of
pranks, regardless of tumbled hair and torn clothes, while they
shouted, "Hurrah for fun!" and behaved like a pack of wild colts let
loose in a green pasture, until their Uncle September called them,
together with his own children, into the library, and persuaded them
to read some of the books with which the shelves were filled, or play
quietly with the game of Authors and the Dissected Maps.

"For," said Mr. September to Mrs. October, "I think Sister August lets
her children romp too much. I always like improving games for mine,
although I have great trouble to make Equinox toe the line as he
should."

"That is because you are a schoolmaster," laughed Mrs. October,
shaking her head, adorned with a wreath of gayly tinted leaves; "but
where is my baby?"

At that moment a cry was heard without, and Indian Summer came running
in to say that little All Hallows had fallen into a tub of water while
trying to catch an apple that was floating on top, and Mrs. October,
rushing off to the kitchen, returned with her youngest in a very wet
and dripping condition, and screaming at the top of his lusty little
lungs, and could only be consoled by a handful of chestnuts, which his
nurse, Miss Frost, cracked open for him.

The little Novembers, meanwhile, were having a charming time with
their favourite cousins, the Decembers, who were always so gay and
jolly, and had such a delightful papa. He came with his pockets
stuffed full of toys and sugarplums, which he drew out from time to
time, and gave to his best-loved child, Merry Christmas, to distribute
amongst the children, who gathered eagerly around their little cousin,
saying:

"Christmas comes but once a year,
But when she comes she brings good cheer."

At which Merry laughed gayly, and tossed her golden curls, in which
were twined sprays of holly and clusters of brilliant scarlet berries.

At last the great folding-doors were thrown open. Indian Summer
announced that dinner was served, and a long procession of old and
young being quickly formed, led by Mrs. November and her daughter
Thanksgiving, whose birthday it was, they filed into the spacious
dining-room, where stood the long table groaning beneath its weight of
good things, while four servants ran continually in and out bringing
more substantials and delicacies to grace the board and please the
appetite. Winter staggered beneath great trenchers of meat and
poultry, pies and puddings; Spring brought the earliest and freshest
vegetables; Summer, the richest creams and ices; while Autumn served
the guests with fruit, and poured the sparkling wine.

All were gay and jolly, and many a joke was cracked as the contents of
each plate and dish melted away like snow before the sun; and the
great fires roared in the wide chimneys as though singing a glad
Thanksgiving song.

New Year drank everybody's health, and wished them "many happy returns
of the day," while Twelfth Night ate so much cake he made himself
quite ill, and had to be put to bed.

Valentine sent mottoes to all the little girls, and praised their
bright eyes and glossy curls. "For," said his mother, "he is a sad
flatterer, and not nearly so truthful, I am sorry to say, as his
brother, George Washington, who never told a lie."

At which Grandfather Time gave George a quarter, and said he should
always remember what a good boy he was.

After dinner the fun increased, all trying to do something for the
general amusement. Mrs. March persuaded her son, St. Patrick, to dance
an Irish Jig, which he did to the tune of the "Wearing of the Green,"
which his brothers, Windy and Gusty, blew and whistled on their
fingers.

Easter sang a beautiful song, the little Mays "tripped the light
fantastic toe" in a pretty fancy dance, while the Junes sat by so
smiling and sweet it was a pleasure to look at them.

Independence, the fourth child of Mr. July, who is a bold little
fellow, and a fine speaker, gave them an oration he had learned at
school; and the Augusts suggested games of tag and blindman's buff,
which they all enjoyed heartily.

Mr. September tried to read an instructive story aloud, but was
interrupted by Equinox, April Fool, and little All Hallows, who pinned
streamers to his coat tails, covered him with flour, and would not let
him get through a line; at which Mrs. October hugged her tricksy baby,
and laughed until she cried, and Mr. September retired in disgust.

"That is almost too bad," said Mrs. November, as she shook the popper
vigorously in which the corn was popping and snapping merrily; "but,
Thanksgiving, you must not forget to thank your cousins for all they
have done to honour your birthday."

At which the demure little maiden went round to each one, and returned
her thanks in such a charming way it was quite captivating.

Grandmother Year at last began to nod over her teacup in the chimney
corner.

"It is growing late," said Grandpa Time.

"But we must have a Virginia Reel before we go," said Mr. December.

"Oh, yes, yes!" cried all the children.

Merry Christmas played a lively air on the piano, and old and young
took their positions on the polished floor with grandpa and grandma at
the head.

Midsummer danced with Happy New Year, June's Commencement with
August's Holiday, Leap Year with May Day, and all "went merry as a
marriage bell."

The fun was at its height when suddenly the clock in the corner struck
twelve. Grandma Year motioned all to stop, and Grandfather Time,
bowing his head, said softly, "Hark! my children, Thanksgiving Day is
ended."




THE VISIT[12]

A STORY OF THE CHILDREN OF THE TOWER

BY MAUD LINDSAY.

The children went back to spend Thanksgiving at
grandfather's farm. They got into some trouble and were
afraid that they would miss their dinner.


Early one morning Grandmother Grey got up, opened the windows and
doors of the farmhouse, and soon everybody on the place was stirring.
The cook hurried breakfast, and no sooner was it over than Grandfather
Grey went out to the barn and hitched the two horses to the wagon.

[Footnote 12: From "More Mother Stories," Milton Bradley Company.]

"Get up, Robin and Dobbin!" he said, as he drove through the big gate.
"If you knew who were coming back in this wagon you would not be
stepping so slowly."

The old horses pricked up their ears when they heard this, and trotted
away as fast as they could down the country road until they came to
town. Just as they got to the railway station the train came whizzing
in.

"All off!" cried the conductor, as the train stopped; and out came a
group of children who were, every one of them, Grandfather and
Grandmother Grey's grandchildren. They had come to spend Thanksgiving
Day on the farm.

There was John, who was named for grandfather and looked just like
him, and the twins, Teddie and Pat, who looked like nobody but each
other; their papa was grandfather's oldest son. Then there was Louisa,
who had a baby sister at home, and then Mary Virginia Martin, who was
her mamma's only child.

"I tell you," said grandfather, as he helped them into the wagon,
"your grandmother will be glad to see you!"

And so she was. She was watching at the window for them when they
drove up, and when the children spied her they could scarcely wait for
grandfather to stop the wagon before they scrambled out.

"Dear me, dear me!" said grandmother, as they all tried to kiss her at
the same time, "how you have grown."

"I am in the first grade," said John, hugging her with all his might.

"So am I," cried Louisa.

"We are going to be," chimed in the twins; and then they all talked at
once, till grandmother could not hear herself speak.

Then, after they had told her all about their mammas and papas, and
homes, and cats and dogs, they wanted to go and say "how do you do" to
everything on the place.

"Take care of yourselves," called grandmother, "for I don't want to
send any broken bones home to your mothers."

"I can take care of myself," said John.

"So can we," said the rest; and off they ran.

First they went to the kitchen where Mammy 'Ria was getting ready to
cook the Thanksgiving dinner; then out to the barnyard, where there
were two new red calves, and five little puppies belonging to Juno,
the dog, for them to see. Then they climbed the barnyard fence and
made haste to the pasture where grandfather kept his woolly sheep.
"Baa-a!" said the sheep when they saw the children; but then, they
always said that, no matter what happened.

There were cows in this pasture, too, and Mary Virginia was afraid of
them, even though she knew that they were the mothers of the calves
she had seen in the barnyard.

"Silly Mary Virginia!" said John, and Mary Virginia began to cry.

"Don't cry," said Louisa. "Let's go to the hickory-nut tree."

This pleased them all, and they hurried off; but on the way they came
to the big shed where grandfather kept his plows and reaper and
threshing machine and all his garden tools.

The shed had a long, wide roof, and there was a ladder leaning against
it. When John saw that, he thought he must go up on the roof; and
then, of course, the twins went, too. Then Louisa and Mary Virginia
wanted to go, and although John insisted that girls could not climb,
they managed to scramble up the ladder to where the boys were. And
there they all sat in a row on the roof.

"Grandmother doesn't know how well we can take care of ourselves,"
said John. "But I am such a big boy that I can do anything. I can ride
a bicycle and go on errands--"

"So can I," said Louisa.

"We can ride on the trolley!" cried the twins.

"Mamma and I go anywhere by ourselves," said Mary Virginia.

"Moo!" said something down below; and when they looked, there was one
of the cows rubbing her head against the ladder.

"Don't be afraid, Mary Virginia," said Louisa. "Cows can't climb
ladders."

"Don't be afraid, Mary Virginia," said John. "I'll drive her away."

So he kicked his feet against the shed roof and called, "Go away! go
away!" The twins kicked their feet, too, and called, "Go away! go
away!" and somebody, I don't know who, kicked the ladder and it fell
down and lay in the dry grass. And the cow walked peacefully on,
thinking about her little calf.

"There, now!" exclaimed Louisa, "how shall we ever get down?"

"Oh, that's nothing," said John. "All I'll have to do is to stand up
on the roof and call grandfather. Just watch me do it."

So he stood up and called, "Grandfather! Grandfather! Grandfather!"
till he was tired; but no grandfather answered.

Then the twins called, "Grandfather! Grandmother!"

"Baa," said the sheep, as if beginning to think that somebody ought to
answer all that calling.

Then they all called together: "Grandfather! Grandfather!
Grandfather!" and when nobody heard that, they began to feel
frightened and lonely.

"I want to go home to my mother! I wish I hadn't come!" wailed Mary
Virginia.

"It's Thanksgiving dinner time, too," said John, "and there's turkey
for dinner, for I saw it in the oven."

"Pie, too," said Louisa.

"Dear, dear!" cried the twins.

And then they all called together once more, but this time with such a
weak little cry that not even the sheep heard it.

The sun grew warmer and the shadows straighter as they sat there, and
grandmother's house seemed miles away when John stood up to look at
it.

"They've eaten dinner by this time, I know," he said as he sat down
again; "and grandfather and grandmother have forgotten all about us."

But grandfather and grandmother had not forgotten them, for just about
then grandmother was saying to grandfather: "You had better see where
the children are, for Thanksgiving dinner will soon be ready and I
know that they are hungry."

So grandfather went out to look for them. He did not find them in the
kitchen nor the barnyard, so he called, "Johnnie! Johnnie!" and when
nobody answered he made haste to the pasture.

The children saw him coming, and long before he had reached the gate
they began to call with all their might. This time grandfather
answered, "I'm coming!" and I cannot tell you how glad they were.

In another minute he had set the ladder up again and they all came
down. Mary Virginia came first because she was the youngest girl, and
John came last because he was the biggest boy. Grandfather put his
arms around each one as he helped them down, and carried Mary Virginia
home on his back. When they got to the house dinner was just ready.

The turkey was brown, the potatoes were sweet,
The sauce was so spicy, the biscuits were beat,
The great pumpkin pie was as yellow as gold,
And the apples were red as the roses, I'm told.

It was such a good dinner that I had to tell you about it in rhyme!

And I'm sure you'll agree,
With the children and me,
That there's never a visit so pleasant to pay
As a visit to grandma on Thanksgiving Day.




THE STORY OF RUTH AND NAOMI[13]

ADAPTED FROM THE BIBLE, BY C. S. BAILEY AND C. M. LEWIS.

Ruth's story is one of the most beautiful ones to be found
in the Old Book. As a tale of the harvest, it deserves to be
included in this collection.


Now it came to pass, many hundreds of years ago, that there was a good
woman named Naomi who lived in the land of the Moabites. She had once
been very rich and happy, but now her husband was dead and her two
sons also, and she had left only Orpah and Ruth, the wives of her
sons. There was a famine in the land. Naomi could find no grain in the
fields to beat into flour. She and Orpah and Ruth were lonely and sad
and very hungry.

[Footnote 13: From "For the Children's Hour," Milton Bradley Company.]

But Naomi heard there was a land where the Lord had visited His people
and given them bread; so she went forth from the place where she was,
and her two daughters with her, to the land called Judah. It was a
long, hard way to go. There were rough roads to travel and steep hills
to climb. Their feet grew so weary they could scarcely walk, and at
last Naomi said:

"Go, return each to your father's house. The Lord deal kindly with
you as you have dealt with me. The Lord grant you that you may find
rest."

Then she kissed them, and Orpah kissed her and left her, but Ruth
would not leave Naomi. And Naomi said to Ruth:

"Behold, thy sister is gone back unto her own people; return thou!"

But Ruth clung to Naomi more closely, as she said:

"Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee:
for whither thou goest, there will I go; and where thou lodgest, there
will I lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God."

When Naomi saw that Ruth loved her so much, she forgot how tired and
hungry she was, and the two journeyed on together until they came to
Bethlehem in Judah in the beginning of the barley harvest. There was
no famine in Bethlehem. The fields were full of waving grain, and busy
servants were reaping it and gathering it up to bind into sheaves.
Above all were the fields of the rich man, Boaz, shining with barley
and corn.

Naomi and Ruth came to the edge of the fields and watched the busy
reapers. They saw that after each sheaf was bound, and each pile of
corn was stacked, a little grain fell, unnoticed, to the ground. Ruth
said to Naomi: "Let me go to the field and glean the ears of corn
after them." And Naomi said to her, "Go, my daughter." And she went,
and came and gleaned in the field after the reapers.

And Boaz came from Bethlehem, and said to his reapers: "Whose damsel
is this?" for he saw how very beautiful Ruth was, and how busily she
was gleaning. The reapers said: "It is the damsel that came back with
Naomi out of the land of the Moabites."

And Ruth ran up to Boaz, crying: "I pray you, let me glean and gather
after the reapers among the sheaves."

And Boaz, who was good and kind, said to Ruth:

"Hearest thou not, my daughter? Go not to glean in any other field,
but abide here."

Then Ruth bowed herself to the ground, and said: "Why have I found
such favour in thine eyes, seeing I am a stranger?"

And Boaz answered her: "It hath been showed me all that thou hast done
to thy mother."

So, all day, Ruth gleaned in Boaz's fields. At noon she ate bread and
parched corn with the others. Boaz commanded his reapers to let fall
large handfuls of grain, as they worked, for Ruth to gather, and at
night she took it all home to Naomi.

"Where hast thou gleaned to-day?" asked Naomi, when she saw the food
that Ruth had brought to her.

"The man's name with whom I wrought to-day is Boaz," said Ruth. And
Naomi said: "Blessed be he of the Lord--the man is near of kin unto
us."

So Ruth gleaned daily, and at the end of the barley harvest the good
man Boaz took Ruth and Naomi to live with him in his own house
forever.




BERT'S THANKSGIVING[14]

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

Bert is a manly, generous, warm-hearted fellow. Other boys
will like to read how good luck began to come his way on a
certain memorable Thanksgiving Day.


At noon, on a dreary November day, a lonesome little fellow, looking
very red about the ears and very blue about the mouth, stood kicking
his heels at the door of a cheap eating house in Boston, and offering
a solitary copy of a morning paper for sale to the people passing.

[Footnote 14: From "Young Joe," Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company.]

But there were really not many people passing, for it was Thanksgiving
Day, and the shops were shut, and everybody who had a home to go to
and a dinner to eat seemed to have gone home to eat that dinner, while
Bert Hampton, the newsboy, stood trying in vain to sell the last
"extry" left on his hands by the dull business of the morning.

An old man, with a face that looked pinched, and who was dressed in a
seedy black coat and a much-battered stovepipe hat, stopped at the
same doorway, and, with one hand on the latch, appeared to hesitate
between hunger and a sense of poverty before going in.

It was possible, however, that he was considering whether he could
afford himself the indulgence of a morning paper (seeing it was
Thanksgiving Day); so, at least, Bert thought, and accosted him
accordingly.

"Buy a paper, sir? All about the fire in East Boston, and arrest of
safe-burglars in Springfield. Only two cents!"

The little old man looked at the boy with keen gray eyes, which seemed
to light up the pinched and skinny face, and answered in a shrill
voice that whistled through white front teeth:

"You ought to come down in your price this time of day. You can't
expect to sell a morning paper at twelve o'clock for full price."

"Well, give me a cent then," said Bert. "That's less'n cost; but never
mind; I'm bound to sell out anyhow."

"You look cold," said the old man.

"Cold?" replied Bert; "I'm froze. And I want my dinner. And I'm going
to have a big dinner, too, seeing it's Thanksgiving Day."

"Ah! lucky for you, my boy!" said the old man. "You've a home to go
to, and friends, too, I hope?"

"No, _sir_; nary home, and nary friend; only my mother"--Bert
hesitated, and grew serious; then suddenly changed his tone--"and Hop
Houghton. I told him to meet me here, and we'd have a first-rate
Thanksgiving dinner together; for it's no fun to be eatin' alone
Thanksgiving Day! It sets a feller thinking of everything, if he ever
had a home and then hain't got a home any more."

"It's more lonesome not to eat at all," said the old man, his gray
eyes twinkling. "And what can a boy like you have to think of? Here, I
guess I can find one cent for you, though there's nothing in the
paper, I know."

The old man spoke with some feeling, his fingers trembled, and somehow
he dropped two cents instead of one into Bert's hand.

"Here! You've made a mistake!" cried Bert. "A bargain's a bargain.
You've given me a cent too much."

"No, I didn't. I never give anybody a cent too much."

"But, see here!" And Bert showed the two cents, offering to return
one.

"No matter," said the old man, "it will be so much less for _my_
dinner, that's all."

Bert had instinctively pocketed the pennies when, on a moment's
reflection, his sympathies were excited.

"Poor old man!" he thought; "he's seen better days I guess. Perhaps
he's no home. A boy like me can stand it, but I guess it must be hard
for _him_. He _meant_ to give me the odd cent all the while; and I
don't believe he has had a decent dinner for many a day."

All this, which I have been obliged to write out slowly in words, went
through Bert's mind like a flash. He was a generous little fellow, and
any kindness shown him, no matter how trifling, made his heart
overflow.

"Look here!" he cried, "where are _you_ going to get your dinner
to-day?"

"I can get a bite here as well as anywhere. It don't matter much to
me," replied the old man.

"Dine with _me_," said Bert, laughing. "I'd like to have you."

"I'm afraid I couldn't afford to dine as you are going to," said the
man, with a smile, his eyes twinkling again and his white front teeth
shining.

"I'll pay for your dinner!" Bert exclaimed. "Come! We don't have a
Thanksgiving but once a year, and a feller wants a good time then."

"But you are waiting for another boy."

"Oh, Hop Houghton! He won't come now, it's so late. He's gone to a
place down in North Street, I guess--a place I don't like: there's so
much tobacco smoked and so much beer drank there." Bert cast a final
glance up the street. "No, he won't come now. So much the worse for
him! He likes the men down there; I don't."

"Ah!" said the man, taking off his hat, and giving it a brush with his
elbow, as they entered the restaurant, as if trying to appear as
respectable as he could in the eyes of a newsboy of such fastidious
tastes.

To make him feel quite comfortable in his mind on that point, Bert
hastened to say:

"I mean rowdies, and such. Poor people, if they behave themselves, are
just as respectable to me as rich folks. I ain't the least mite
aristocratic."

"Ah, indeed!" And the old man smiled again, and seemed to look
relieved. "I'm very glad to hear it."

He placed his hat on the floor and took a seat opposite Bert at a
little table, which they had all to themselves.

Bert offered him the bill of fare.

"No, I must ask you to choose for me; but nothing very extravagant,
you know. I'm used to plain fare."

"So am I. But I'm going to have a good dinner for once in my life, and
so shall you!" cried Bert, generously. "What do you say to chicken
soup, and then wind up with a thumping big piece of squash pie? How's
that for a Thanksgiving dinner?"

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