Book: Our Boys

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A few days after the Prince ran away, and the day before the one on
which the Christmas presents were to be gathered, the nearsighted
father went out into the wax doll field again; but this time he had
his spectacles on, and could see just as well as any one, and even
a little better. Peter's little sister was swinging herself on her
crutches, in the place where the wax doll did not come up, tipping her
little face up, and smiling just like the dolls around her.

"Why, what is this!" said the father. "_Hoc credam!_ I thought that
wax doll did not come up. Can my eyes deceive me? _non verum est!_
There is a doll there--and what a doll! on crutches, and in poor,
homely gear!"

Then the nearsighted father put out his hand toward Peter's little
sister. She jumped--she could not help it, and the holy father jumped
too; the Christmas wreath actually tumbled off his head.

"It is a miracle!" exclaimed he when he could speak; "the little girl
is alive! _parra puella viva est._ I will pick her and take her to the
brethren, and we will pay her the honors she is entitled to."

Then the good father put on his Christmas wreath, for he dare not
venture before his abbot without it, picked up Peter's little sister,
who was trembling in all her little bones, and carried her into the
chapel, where the Monks were just assembling to sing another carol.
He went right up to the Christmas abbot, who was seated in a splendid
chair, and looked like a king.

"Most holy abbot," said the nearsighted father, holding out Peter's
little sister, "behold a miracle, _vide miraculum_! Thou wilt remember
that there was one wax doll planted which did not come up. Behold, in
her place I have found this doll on crutches, which is--alive!"

"Let me see her!" said the abbot; and all the other Monks crowded
around, opening their mouths just like the little boys around the
notice, in order to see better.

"_Verum est_," said the abbot. "It is verily a miracle."

"Rather a lame miracle," said the brother who had charge of the funny
picture-books and the toy monkeys; they rather threw his mind off
its level of sobriety, and he was apt to make frivolous speeches
unbecoming a monk.

The abbot gave him a reproving glance, and the brother, who was the
leach of the convent, came forward. "Let me look at the miracle, most
holy abbot," said he. He took up Peter's sister, and looked carefully
at the small, twisted ankle. "I think I can cure this with my herbs
and simples," said he.

"But I don't know," said the abbot doubtfully. "I never heard of
curing a miracle."

"If it is not lawful, my humble power will not suffice to cure it,"
said the father who was the leach.

"True," said the abbot; "take her, then, and exercise thy healing art
upon her, and we will go on with our Christmas devotions, for which we
should now feel all the more zeal."

So the father took away Peter's little sister, who was still too
frightened to speak.

The Christmas Monk was a wonderful doctor, for by Christmas eve
the little girl was completely cured of her lameness. This may seem
incredible, but it was owing in great part to the herbs and simples,
which are of a species that our doctors have no knowledge of; and also
to a wonderful lotion which has never been advertised on our fences.

Peter of course heard the talk about the miracle, and knew at once
what it meant. He was almost heartbroken to think he was deceiving the
Monks so, but at the same time he did not dare to confess the truth
for fear they would put a penance upon his sister, and he could not
bear to think of her having to kneel upon dried peas.

[Illustration: The Prince Runs Away.]

He worked hard picking Christmas presents, and hid his unhappiness
as best he could. On Christmas eve he was called into the chapel. The
Christmas Monks were all assembled there. The walls were covered with
green garlands and boughs and sprays of holly berries, and branches
of wax lights Were gleaming brightly amongst them. The altar and the
picture of the Blessed Child behind it were so bright as to almost
dazzle one; and right up in the midst of it, in a lovely white dress,
all wreaths and jewels, in a little chair with a canopy woven of green
branches over it, sat Peter's little sister.

And there were all the Christmas Monks in their white robes and
wreaths, going up in a long procession, with their hands full of the
very showiest Christmas presents to offer them to her!

But when they reached her and held out the lovely presents--the
first was an enchanting wax doll, the biggest beauty in the whole
garden--instead of reaching out her hands for them, she just drew
back, and said in her little sweet, piping voice: "Please, I ain't a
millacle, I'm only Peter's little sister."

"Peter?" said the abbot; "the Peter who works in our garden?"

"Yes," said the little sister.

Now here was a fine opportunity for a whole convent full of monks to
look foolish--filing up in procession with their hands full of gifts
to offer to a miracle, and finding there was no miracle, but only
Peter's little sister.

But the abbot of the Christmas Monks had always maintained that there
were two ways of looking at all things; if any object was not what you
wanted it to be in one light, that there was another light in which it
would be sure to meet your views.

So now he brought this philosophy to bear.

"This little girl did not come up in the place of the wax doll, and
she is not a miracle in that light," said he; "but look at her in
another light and she is a miracle--do you not see?"

They all looked at her, the darling little girl, the very meaning and
sweetness of all Christmas in her loving, trusting, innocent face.

"Yes," said all the Christmas Monks, "she is a miracle." And they all
laid their beautiful Christmas presents down before her.

Peter was so delighted he hardly knew himself; and, oh! the joy there
was when he led his little sister home on Christmas-day, and showed
all the wonderful presents.

The Christmas Monks always retained Peter in their employ--in fact he
is in their employ to this day. And his parents, and his little
sister who was entirely cured of her lameness, have never wanted for
anything.

As for the Prince, the courtiers were never tired of discussing and
admiring his wonderful knowledge of physics which led to his adjusting
the weight of the hamper of Christmas presents to his own so nicely
that he could not fall. The Prince liked the talk and the admiration
well enough, but he could not help, also, being a little glum; for he
got no Christmas presents that year.

MARY E. WILKINS.




[Illustration]

TEDDY AND THE ECHO.


Teddy is out upon the lake;
His oars a softened click-clack make;
On all that water bright and blue,
His boat is the only one in view;
So, when he hears another oar
Click-clack along the farthest shore,
"Heigh-ho," he cries, "out for a row!
Echo is out! heigh-ho--heigh-ho!"
"Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!"
Sounds from the distance, faint and low.

Then Teddy whistles that he may hear
Her answering whistle, soft and clear;
Out of the greenwood, leafy, mute,
Pipes her mimicking, silver flute,
And, though her mellow measures are
Always behind him half a bar,
'Tis sweet to hear her falter so;
And Ted calls back, "Bravo, bravo!"
"Bravo, bravo!"
Comes from the distance, faint and low.

She laughs at trifles loud and long;
Splashes the water, sings a song;
Tells him everything she is told,
Saucy or tender, rough or bold;
One might think from the merry noise
That the quiet wood was full of boys,
Till Ted, grown tired, cries out, "Oh, no!
'Tis dinner time and I must go!"
"Must go? must go?"
Sighs from the distance, sad and low.

When Ted and his clatter are away,
Where does the little Echo stay?
Perched on a rock to watch for him?
Or keeping a lookout from some limb?
If he were to push his boat to land,
Would he find her footprint on the sand?
Or would she come to his blithe "hello,"
Red as a rose, or white as snow?
Ah no, ah no!
Never can Teddy see Echo!

MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.




SONG OF THE CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS.


Six merry stockings in the firelight,
Hanging by the chimney snug and tight:
Jolly, jolly red,
That belongs to Ted;
Daintiest blue,
That belongs to Sue;
Old brown fellow
Hanging long,
That belongs to Joe,
Big and strong;
Little, wee, pink mite
Covers Baby's toes--
Won't she pull it open
With funny little crows!
Sober, dark gray,
Quiet little mouse,
That belongs to Sybil
Of all the house;
One stocking left,
Whose should it be?
Why, that I'm sure
Must belong to me!
Well, so they hang, packed to the brim,
Swing, swing, swing, in the firelight dim.

[Illustration]

'Twas the middle of the night.
Open flew my eyes;
I started up in bed,
And stared in surprise;
I rubbed my eyes, I rubbed my ears,
I saw the stockings swing, I heard the stockings sing;
Out in the firelight
Merry and bright,
Snug and tight,
Six were swinging,
Six were singing,
Like everything!
And the red, and the blue, and the brown, and the gray,
And the pink one, and mine, had it all their own way,
And no one could stop them--because, don't you see,
Nobody heard 'em--but just poor me!

"All day we carry toes,
To-night we carry candy;
Christmas comes once a year
Very nice and handy.
Run, run, race all day,
Mother mends us after play,
We don't care, life is gay,
Sing and swing, away, away!

"Boots and little tired shoes,
We kick 'em off in glee;
It's fun to hang up here
And Santa Claus to see.
Run, run, race all day,
Mother mends us after play,
We don't care, life is gay,
Sing and swing, away, away!

"To-morrow down we come,
The sweet things tumble out,
Then carrying toes again
We'll have to trot about.
Run, run, race all day,
Mother'll mend us after play,
We don't care, we'll swing so gay
While we can--away, away!"

MARGARET SIDNEY.




JOE LAMBERT'S FERRY.


It was a thoroughly disagreeable March morning. The wind blew in sharp
gusts from every quarter of the compass by turns. It seemed to take
especial delight in rushing suddenly around corners and taking away
the breath of anybody it could catch there coming from the opposite
direction. The dust, too, filled people's eyes and noses and mouths,
while the damp raw March air easily found its way through the best
clothing, and turned boys' skins into pimply goose-flesh.

It was about as disagreeable a morning for going out as can be
imagined; and yet everybody in the little Western river town who could
get out went out and stayed out.

Men and women, boys and girls, and even little children, ran to the
river-bank: and, once there, they stayed, with no thought, it seemed,
of going back to their homes or their work.

The people of the town were wild with excitement, and everybody told
everybody else what had happened, although everybody knew all about
it already. Everybody, I mean, except Joe Lambert, and he had been so
busy ever since daylight, sawing wood in Squire Grisard's woodshed,
that he had neither seen nor heard anything at all. Joe was the
poorest person in the town. He was the only boy there who really had
no home and nobody to care for him. Three or four years before
this March morning, Joe had been left an orphan, and being utterly
destitute, he should have been sent to the poorhouse, or "bound out"
to some person as a sort of servant. But Joe Lambert had refused to go
to the poorhouse or to become a bound boy. He had declared his ability
to take care of himself, and by working hard at odd jobs, sawing
wood, rolling barrels on the wharf, picking apples or weeding onions
as opportunity offered, he had managed to support himself "after a
manner," as the village people said. That is to say, he generally got
enough to eat, and some clothes to wear. He slept in a warehouse shed,
the owner having given him leave to do so on condition that he would
act as a sort of watchman on the premises.

Joe Lambert alone of all the villagers knew nothing of what had
happened; and of course Joe Lambert did not count for anything in the
estimation of people who had houses to live in. The only reason I have
gone out of the way to make an exception of so unimportant a person
is, that I think Joe did count for something on that particular March
day at least.

When he finished the pile of wood that he had to saw, and went to the
house to get his money, he found nobody there. Going down the street
he found the town empty, and, looking down a cross street, he saw the
crowds that had gathered on the river-bank, thus learning at last that
something unusual had occurred. Of course he ran to the river to learn
what it was.

When he got there he learned that Noah Martin the fisherman who was
also the ferryman between the village and its neighbor on the other
side of the river, had been drowned during the early morning in a
foolish attempt to row his ferry skiff across the stream. The ice
which had blocked the river for two months, had begun to move on the
day before, and Martin with his wife and baby--a child about a year
old--were on the other side of the river at the time. Early on that
morning there had been a temporary gorging of the ice about a mile
above the town, and, taking advantage of the comparatively free
channel, Martin had tried to cross with his wife and child, in his
boat.

The gorge had broken up almost immediately, as the river was rising
rapidly, and Martin's boat had been caught and crushed in the ice.
Martin had been drowned, but his wife, with her child in her arms, had
clung to the wreck of the skiff, and had been carried by the current
to a little low-lying island just in front of the town.

What had happened was of less importance, however, than what people
saw must happen. The poor woman and baby out there on the island,
drenched as they had been in the icy water, must soon die with cold,
and, moreover, the island was now nearly under water, while the great
stream was rising rapidly. It was evident that within an hour or two
the water would sweep over the whole surface of the island, and the
great fields of ice would of course carry the woman and child to a
terrible death.

Many wild suggestions were made for their rescue, but none that gave
the least hope of success. It was simply impossible to launch a boat.
The vast fields of ice, two or three feet in thickness, and from
twenty feet to a hundred yards in breadth, were crushing and grinding
down the river at the rate of four or five miles an hour, turning and
twisting about, sometimes jamming their edges together with so great
a force that one would lap over another, and sometimes drifting apart
and leaving wide open spaces between for a moment or two. One might as
well go upon such a river in an egg shell as in the stoutest row-boat
ever built.

The poor woman with her babe could be seen from the shore, standing
there alone on the rapidly narrowing strip of island. Her voice could
not reach the people on the bank, but when she held her poor little
baby toward them in mute appeal for help, the mothers there understood
her agony.

There was nothing to be done, however. Human sympathy was given
freely, but human help was out of the question. Everybody on the
river-shore was agreed in that opinion. Everybody, that is to say,
except Joe Lambert. He had been so long in the habit of finding ways
to help himself under difficulties, that he did not easily make up his
mind to think any case hopeless.

No sooner did Joe clearly understand how matters stood than he ran
away from the crowd, nobody paying any attention to what he did. Half
an hour later somebody cried out: "Look there! Who's that, and what's
he going to do?" pointing up the stream.

Looking in that direction, the people saw some one three quarters of
a mile away standing on a floating field of ice in the river. He had
a large farm-basket strapped upon his shoulders, while in his hands he
held a plank.

As the ice-field upon which he stood neared another, the youth ran
forward, threw his plank down, making a bridge of it, and crossed to
the farther field. Then picking up his plank, he waited for a chance
to repeat the process.

As he thus drifted down the river, every eye was strained in his
direction. Presently some one cried out: "It's Joe Lambert; and he's
trying to cross to the island!"

There was a shout as the people understood the nature of Joe's heroic
attempt, and then a hush as its extreme danger became apparent.

Joe had laid his plans wisely and well, but it seemed impossible that
he could succeed. His purpose was, with the aid of the plank to cross
from one ice-field to another until he should reach the island; but
as that would require a good deal of time, and the ice was moving down
stream pretty rapidly, it was necessary to start at a point above the
town. Joe had gone about a mile up the river before going on the ice,
and when first seen from the town he had already reached the channel.

After that first shout a whisper might have been heard in the crowd on
the bank. The heroism of the poor boy's attempt awed the spectators,
and the momentary expectation that he would disappear forever amid
the crushing ice-fields, made them hold their breath in anxiety and
terror.

His greatest danger was from the smaller cakes of ice. When it became
necessary for him to step upon one of these, his weight was sufficient
to make it tilt, and his footing was very insecure. After awhile as
he was nearing the island, he came into a large collection of these
smaller ice-cakes. For awhile he waited, hoping that a larger field
would drift near him; but after a minute's delay he saw that he
was rapidly floating past the island, and that he must either trust
himself to the treacherous broken ice, or fail in his attempt to save
the woman and child.

[Illustration: Joe Saves Mrs. Martin and Baby Martin.]

Choosing the best of the floes, he laid his plank and passed across
successfully. In the next passage, however, the cake tilted up, and
Joe Lambert went down into the water! A shudder passed through the
crowd on shore.

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed some tender-hearted spectator; "it is all
over with him now."

"No; look, look!" shouted another. "He's trying to climb upon the
ice. Hurrah! he's on his feet again!" With that the whole company of
spectators shouted for joy.

Joe had managed to regain his plank as well as to climb upon a cake
of ice before the fields around could crush him, and now moving
cautiously, he made his way, little by little toward the island.

"Hurrah! Hurrah! he's there at last!" shouted the people on the shore.

"But will he get back again?" was the question each one asked himself
a moment later.

Having reached the island, Joe very well knew that the more difficult
part of his task was still before him, for it was one thing for an
active boy to work his way over floating ice, and quite another to
carry a child and lead a woman upon a similar journey.

But Joe Lambert was quick-witted and "long-headed," as well as brave,
and he meant to do all that he could to save these poor creatures for
whom he had risked his life so heroically. Taking out his knife he
made the woman cut her skirts off at the knees, so that she might walk
and leap more freely. Then placing the baby in the basket which was
strapped upon his back, he cautioned the woman against giving way to
fright, and instructed her carefully about the method of crossing.

On the return journey Joe was able to avoid one great risk. As it
was not necessary to land at any particular point, time was of little
consequence, and hence when no large field of ice was at hand, he
could wait for one to approach, without attempting to make use of the
smaller ones. Leading the woman wherever that was necessary, he slowly
made his way toward shore, drifting down the river, of course, while
all the people of the town marched along the bank.

When at last Joe leaped ashore in company with the woman, and bearing
her babe in the basket on his back, the people seemed ready to trample
upon each other in their eagerness to shake hands with their hero.

Their hero was barely able to stand, however. Drenched as he had been
in the icy river, the sharp March wind had chilled him to the marrow,
and one of the village doctors speedily lifted him into his carriage
which he had brought for that purpose, and drove rapidly away, while
the other physician took charge of Mrs. Martin and the baby.

Joe was a strong, healthy fellow, and under the doctor's treatment of
hot brandy and vigorous rubbing with coarse towels, he soon warmed.
Then he wanted to saw enough wood for the doctor to pay for his
treatment, and thereupon the doctor threatened to poison him if he
should ever venture to mention pay to him again.

Naturally enough the village people talked of nothing but Joe
Lambert's heroic deed, and the feeling was general that they had never
done their duty toward the poor orphan boy. There was an eager wish to
help him now, and many offers were made to him; but these all took the
form of charity, and Joe would not accept charity at all. Four years
earlier, as I have already said, he had refused to go to the poorhouse
or to be "bound out," declaring that he could take care of himself;
and when some thoughtless person had said in his hearing that he would
have to live on charity, Joe's reply had been:

"I'll never eat a mouthful in this town that I haven't worked for if
I starve." And he had kept his word. Now that he was fifteen years old
he was not willing to begin receiving charity even in the form of a
reward for his good deed.

One day when some of the most prominent men of the village were
talking to him on the subject Joe said:

"I don't want anything except a chance to work, but I'll tell you what
you may do for me if you will. Now that poor Martin is dead the ferry
privilege will be to lease again, I'd like to get it for a good long
term. Maybe I can make something out of it by being always ready to
row people across, and I may even be able to put on something better
than a skiff after awhile. I'll pay the village what Martin paid."

The gentlemen were glad enough of a chance to do Joe even this small
favor, and there was no difficulty in the way. The authorities gladly
granted Joe a lease of the ferry privilege for twenty years, at twenty
dollars a year rent, which was the rate Martin had paid.

At first Joe rowed people back and forth, saving what money he got
very carefully. This was all that could be required of him, but it
occurred to Joe that if he had a ferry boat big enough, a good many
horses and cattle and a good deal of freight would be sent across the
river, for he was a "long-headed" fellow as I have said.

One day a chance offered, and he bought for twenty-five dollars a
large old wood boat, which was simply a square barge forty feet long
and fifteen feet wide, with bevelled bow and stern, made to hold cord
wood for the steamboats. With his own hands he laid a stout deck
on this, and, with the assistance of a man whom he hired for that
purpose, he constructed a pair of paddle wheels. By that time Joe was
out of money, and work on the boat was suspended for awhile. When
he had accumulated a little more money, he bought a horse power, and
placed it in the middle of his boat, connecting it with the shaft of
his wheels. Then he made a rudder and helm, and his horse-boat was
ready for use. It had cost him about a hundred dollars besides his own
labor upon it, but it would carry live stock and freight as well as
passengers, and so the business of the ferry rapidly increased, and
Joe began to put a little money away in the bank.

After awhile a railroad was built into the village, and then a second
one came. A year later another railroad was opened on the other side
of the river, and all the passengers who came to one village by rail
had to be ferried across the river in order to continue their journey
by the railroads there. The horse-boat was too small and too slow for
the business, and Joe Lambert had to buy two steam ferry-boats to take
its place. These cost more money than he had, but, as the owner of
the ferry privilege, his credit was good, and the boats soon paid for
themselves, while Joe's bank account grew again.

Finally the railroad people determined to run through cars for
passengers and freight, and to carry them across the river on large
boats built for that purpose; but before they gave their orders
to their boat builders, they were waited upon by the attorneys of
Joe Lambert, who soon convinced them that his ferry privilege gave
him alone the right to run any kind of ferry-boats between the two
villages which had now grown to such size that they called themselves
cities. The result was that the railroads made a contract with Joe to
carry their cars across, and he had some large boats built for that
purpose.

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