Queer Stories for Boys and Girls Part 18

After a year Dudley's father's estate was settled, and owing to an unexpected rise in some of the property, it was found that the debts would all be paid, and a small balance be left for the family. It was but a small amount, but it enabled Dudley to lay aside his blue overalls, and return to the old school again. Dr. Parmlee, the princ.i.p.al, was delighted to have such a good pupil back again. Whittaker came back about the same time, and the very first day he whispered to some of the boys that Dudley smelled of soap-grease. The boys laughed thoughtlessly, as boys are apt to do, and pa.s.sed the poor joke round. Dudley maintained the respect of the school in general, but there was a small clique, who never knew their lessons, but who prided themselves on being genteel dunces. These folks used to talk about the soap-grease, even in Dr. Parmlee's presence; but the Doctor quietly retorted that if Crawford's hands smelled of soap-grease, that was better than to have soap-grease inside his head and pomatum on the outside. They were a little more modest after this, but they could not forbear allusions that kept Dudley under fire. His mother, who was very proud of her son's independence, could not but feel sorry that he was subject to such persecutions. "Ah, mother," he would say, "the thing that I am proudest of in my life is, that I spent a year in Bluff's soap factory. Don't think that I am annoyed at the barkings of lap-dogs."

At last came the day of graduation. Dudley led the cla.s.s. There was a great crowd of fine people. The last speech of all on the programme was "Honest Work Honorable--Dudley Crawford." With a characteristic manliness he stood up bravely for work. So fine were his arguments, so undaunted his bearing, that the audience were carried away. Dr. Parmlee took off his spectacles to wipe his eyes. Dudley's mother could not conceal her pleasure. "Franklin's hands had printers' ink on them," he said, "but they were shaken by princes and savans--the lightning did not despise them. Garibaldi's fingers were soiled with candle-grease, but they have moulded a free nation. Stephenson's fingers were black with coal, and soiled with machine oil of a fireman's work, but they pointed out highways to commerce and revolutionized civilization. There are those"

(Whittaker and his set looked crestfallen here) "who will gladly take the hand of worthless loafers, or of genteel villains" (here certain ladies looked down), "but who would not have dared shake hands with Franklin, the printer, with Garibaldi, the tallow-chandler, with Stephenson, the stoker. But before G.o.d and right-thinking men there are no soiled hands but guilty hands or idle ones."

When he sat down, others beside his mother shed tears, and good Dr.

Parmlee shook his pupil's hand in sight of the audience, but the applause was so great that n.o.body could hear what he said. And the next day a note came from the chief editor of a leading paper, saying that one who believed enough in labor to carry out his principles in his life, would make an earnest advocate of them. He therefore tendered Mr. Crawford a place on the editorial staff of his paper.

"P-pretty well done, Dominie," stammered Will Sampson.

THE SHOEMAKER'S SECRET.

All things have an end. Among other things that had an end was the fine summer weather. Many other things came to an end with it. Gra.s.s, flowers, and leaves came to an end. Chirping of katydids came to an end, and chattering of swallows and songs of robins. And with the summer ended the Cellar-door Club, like all other out-door things that could not stand the frost. The boys understood that their last meeting had come. But Will Sampson, the stammering chairman, was to tell his story, and though the cold evening made them b.u.t.ton up their coats, they determined to have one more good time together. And so with many a merry joke they took their places for what Jimmy Jackson called the "inclined plane of social enjoyment." Tom Miller got up under the window and called the meeting to order, announcing that Mr. Sampson would tell the story for the evening.

"I d-don't know about th-that," said Will. "You s-s-see, b-boys, if I tell it I shall have to d-do it b-by fits and starts. If you w-want a s-story told straight ahead, g-g-get somebody whose tongue w-will w-wag when they want it to. If you want a y-yarn j-j-jerked out, I am your man."

"We will take it jerked or any other way you choose, Will," said Miller.

I want to say just here that patience and self-control would have cured Sampson of his stammerings. There is no excuse for anybody going through the world with such a defect, when there are so many instances of the victory of a strong and patient resolution over it. I shall give the story here as if he had spoken it smoothly.

_WILL SAMPSON'S STORY._

In a country a long way off--I don't care to tell you the name of it for fear I should make some mistake in regard to its geography or history or manners, and besides don't think it's anybody's business just where a story happened--in a country a long way off--perhaps that country never existed except in somebody's head, who knows? Besides, a country that is in your head is just as good as one that is on the map. At least it's as good for a story. Well, in this country there was a village known as the village of shoemakers, because nearly all the people made shoes. Peg, peg, peg, could be heard from one end of it to the other, from morning till night. It was a perfect shower of hammers. Into this town came one day a peasant lad of twelve years of age, with a blue blouse and a queer red flannel cap. He had travelled many a weary mile, and he asked at every shop that he might learn the shoemakers' trade. At last he was taken into the shop of a hard master, who was accustomed to beat his boys severely. But when the master went out, the new boy in the red flannel cap did not throw bits of leather about as the rest did, but attended to his work and said nothing, even when the leather was thrown at his own red cap. And somehow he always got more work done than the rest. And the master never beat Hugo, the boy in the red flannel cap. The other boys said it was because of the charm that he wore round his neck. For Hugo wore an old copper coin suspended like a school-boy's medal. The master paid a little something for extra work, and for some reason, the boys said on account of his charm, Hugo always had more than the rest. He did not spend it, but once a year a man with a red flannel cap like Hugo's appeared and received all the boy's pay for overwork, and then went away.

The boys made up their minds that Hugo had some sort of witchcraft in his copper coin. After some years his apprenticeship expired, and Hugo became a journeyman, working in the same quiet way and doing more work than any other man in the village, though he did not work any faster. Meantime several of his brothers, each with the same quiet way, had appeared, and sat down to work in the same shop. Each of them wore the red flannel cap with a ta.s.sel, and each of them had a copper coin about his neck. Hugo had disappeared for a few days once, and had brought back a wife. His brothers lived in his house. Soon he set up a shop. As the other shoemakers were afraid of his charm, he had neither apprentice nor journeyman except his brothers. Fortunately there were no less than ten of them, all with red flannel caps and blue blouses, and wearing copper coins about their necks. But Hugo's shop turned out more than any other.

The dealers over the border, when there was an order to be quickly filled, always said, "Send to Hugo, he wears a charm."

At last there came a war. The king of the country in which the "village of shoemakers" was, sent a herald into the town, who proclaimed that if the village would furnish a certain number of shoes for the army by a given day, the young men should be exempt from conscription; but that if the village failed, every man in the town, young and old, should be marched off into the army. There was a great cry, for the task appeared to be an impossible one. Whether it was a superst.i.tious reverence for Hugo's charm, or that in trouble they naturally depended on him, certain it is that the crowd by common consent gathered before the shop-door of the silent shoemaker in the blue blouse and red flannel cap. For so busy had Hugo been that he had not heard the herald's proclamation.

"Neighbors," said Hugo, "this is a great waste of time. We have a very few days to do a great work, and here is one hour wasted already. Every journeyman and apprentice is here idle. Let every one of them return to their benches and go to work. Let the masters step into my little house here to consult." The journeymen hastened off, the masters divided the work between them, and Hugo was put in charge of the whole village as one great shop. He did not allow a man to be seen on the street. He set the women at work doing such work as they could. He did not allow a shop to close until far into the night. But as the last day given by the king drew near, the masters were about to give up, for it was found that every shop was falling behind its proportion. But Hugo sternly told them to hold their men in their places. When the last night came, he did not allow a man to sleep. When morning came he made the women count the shoes from each shop, but kept the men at work. As the accounts were made up, it was found that each shop fell behind. The men quit work in despair at last, and women were crying in the streets. Hugo's shop came last. It was found that he and his brothers had made just enough over their share to make up the deficiency. The whole village hailed him as their deliverer, and everybody said that it was because of his charm.

When the war was over the king came to the village to thank the shoemakers for their aid. All but Hugo appeared before him. When he heard of Hugo's conduct he sent for him. "They tell me," said the king, "that you are the man who had the required number of shoes done. They say that you and your ten brothers wear charms. Tell me your secret."

Hugo, holding his red flannel cap in his hand, began: "Sire, when I was a lad my father had many children. I left my mountain home, and came here to earn something to help support them. These my ten brothers came after me. When each one left, our good mother hung a copper coin about his neck, and said, 'Remember that you are going to a town where there is much idleness among the shoemakers, masters and men. Whenever you are tempted to be idle or to be discouraged, remember what I tell you, KEEP PEGGING AWAY!' Behold, sire, the charm by which we have succeeded, by which we saved the village from your wrath, and your land from destruction."

And after that there might have been seen in the king's employ, in various affairs of importance, ten men in blue blouses and red flannel caps, wearing each a copper coin about his neck.

When Sampson had stammered his way through this story, the boys agreed to meet for the winter in Tom Miller's house.

Modern Fables.

FLAT TAIL, THE BEAVER.

A colony of beavers selected a beautiful spot on a clear stream, called Silver Creek, to build themselves a habitation. Without waiting for any orders, and without any wrangling about whose place was the best, they gnawed down some young trees and laid the foundation for a dam. With that skill for which they are so remarkable, they built it so that it would protect them from cold, from water, and from their foes. When it was completed, they were delighted with it, and paddled round joyously in the pond above, expressing their pleasure to each other in true beaver style.

In this colony there was one young beaver, by the name of Flat Tail. His father, whose name was Mud Dauber, had been a celebrated beaver, who, having very superior teeth, could gnaw through trees with great rapidity.

Old Mud Dauber had distinguished himself chiefly, however, by saving the dam on three separate occasions in time of flood. He had done this by his courage and prudence, always beginning to work as soon as he saw the danger coming, without waiting till the damage had become too great to repair.

But his son, this young fellow Flat Tail, was a sorry fellow. As long as old Mud Dauber lived, he did pretty well, but as soon as his father died Flat Tail set up for somebody great. Whenever any one questioned his pretensions, he always replied:

"I am Mud Dauber's son. I belong to the best blood in the colony."

He utterly refused to gnaw or build. He was meant for something better, he said.

And so one day in autumn, when the beavers were going out in search of food for winter use, as Flat Tail was good for nothing else, they set him to mind the dam. After they had started, Flat Tail's uncle, old Mr.

Webfoot, turned back and told his nephew to be very watchful, as there had been a great rain on the head-waters of Silver Creek, and he was afraid there would be a flood.

"Be very careful," said Webfoot, "about the small leaks."

"Pshaw," said Flat Tail, "who are you talking to? I am Mud Dauber's son, and do you think I need your advice?"

After they had gone the stream began to rise. Little sticks and leaves were eddying round in the pool above. Soon the water came up faster, to the great delight of the conceited young beaver, who was pleased with the opportunity to show the rest what kind of stuff he was made of. And though he disliked work, he now began to strengthen the dam in the middle where the water looked the most threatening. But just at this point the dam was the strongest, and, in fact, the least in danger. Near the sh.o.r.e there was a place where the water was already finding its way through. A friendly kingfisher who sat on a neighboring tree warned him that the water was coming through, but always too conceited to accept of counsel, he answered:

"Oh, that's only a small leak, and near the sh.o.r.e. What does a kingfisher know about a beaver dam anyway! You needn't advise me! I am the great Mud Dauber's son. I shall fight the stream bravely, right here in the worst of the flood."

But Flat Tail soon found that the water in the pond was falling. Looking round for the cause, he saw that the small leak had broken away a large portion of the dam, and that the torrent was rushing through it wildly.

Poor Flat Tail now worked like a hero, throwing himself wildly into the water only to be carried away below and forced to walk up again on the sh.o.r.e. His efforts were of no avail, and had not the rest of the Silver Creek beaver family come along at that time, their home and their winter's stock of provisions would alike have been destroyed. Next day there was much beaver laughter over Flat Tail's repairs on the strong part of the dam, and the name that before had been a credit to him was turned into a reproach, for from that day the beavers called him, in derision, "Mud Dauber's son, the best blood in the colony."

Don't neglect a danger because it is small; don't boast of what your father did; and don't be too conceited to receive good advice.

THE MOCKING-BIRD'S SINGING-SCHOOL.

A lady brought a mocking-bird from New Orleans to her home in the North.

At first all the birds in the neighborhood looked upon it with contempt.

The chill northern air made the poor bird homesick, and for a few days he declined to sing for anybody.

"Well, I do declare," screamed out Miss Guinea-fowl, "to see the care our mistress takes of that homely bird. It don't seem to be able to sing a note. I can make more music than that myself. Indeed, my voice is quite operatic. Pot-rack! pot-rack! pot-rack!" and the empty-headed Miss Guinea-fowl nearly cracked her own throat, and the ears of everybody else, with her screams. And the great vain peac.o.c.k spread his sparkling tail-feathers in the sun, and looked with annihilating scorn on the dull plumage of the poor mocking-bird. "Daddy Longlegs," the Shanghai rooster, crowed louder than ever, with one eye on the poor jaded bird, and said: "What a contemptible little thing you are, to be sure!" Gander White, Esq., the portly barn-yard alderman, hissed at him, and even Duck Waddler, the tadpole catcher, called him a quack.

But wise old Dr. Parrot, in the next cage, said: "Wait and see. There's more under a brown coat than some people think."

There came a day at last when the sun shone out warm. Daddy Longlegs crowed hoa.r.s.ely his delight, the peac.o.c.k tried his musical powers by shouting Ne-onk! ne-onk! and Duck Waddler quacked away more ridiculously than ever. Just then the mocking-bird ruffled his brown neck-feathers and began to sing. All the melody of all the song-birds of the South seemed to be bottled up in that one little bosom. Even Miss Guinea-fowl had sense enough to stop her hideous operatic "pot-rack," to listen to the wonderful sweetness of the stranger's song. Becoming cheered with his own singing, the bird began to mimic the hoa.r.s.e crowing with which Daddy Longlegs wakened him in the morning. This set the barn-yard in a roar, and the peac.o.c.k shouted his applause in a loud "ne-onk!" Alas! for him, the mocking-bird mimicked his hideous cry, then quacked like the duck, and even Miss Guinea-fowl found that he could "pot-rack" better than she could.

The Shanghai remarked to the peac.o.c.k that this young Louisianian was a remarkable acquisition to the community; Gander White thought he ought to be elected to the city council, and Miss Guinea-fowl remarked that she had always thought there was something in the young man. Dr. Parrot laughed quietly at this last remark.

The very next day the mocking-bird was asked to take up a singing-school.