Twilight Stories Part 17

"Here she drew a handkerchif from her pocket. This she fastened carefully to a stick. Then putting it into the hands of my brother Ben, a well-grown lad of twelve, she went on with her directions:

"'We'll form in procession, just as we came, and you, Benjie, may march at the head with this white flag a-wavin' to let them know that we come in peace. I'll follow next with the biggest boys, and the girls, with the little ones, must keep behind where it's safest.'

"Perhaps it was the contagion of Aunt Polly's cheerful courage, but more likely it was the blessed hope of seeing home and father and mother again, that made the little folks so prompt to obey her directions. We formed ourselves in line in less time than it takes to tell about it; we elder girls took charge of the wee ones who were so rejoiced to leave the inhospitable roof of the Gubtils' that they forgot all their fears of the terrible English, and trotted along as blithely over the deserted road as if not a fear had ever terrified their childish hearts, and as if English soldiers were still simply those far-off monsters that had served as bugbears to frighten them now and then into obedience to maternal authority.

"The Gubtils watched us off without a word of encouragement or friendliness. Aunt Polly walked close behind the flag-bearer with a firm step, but I could see that she was very pale, and when we came to descend the little hill that led into the village, and when just at its foot, where then stood the grocery of old Penn Parker, we caught a glimpse of the scarlet uniforms of several soldiers loafing about--then even we children could see that her steps faltered; and I remember I thought she was fearful of some violence.

"But the next moment she was walking steadily along again as if no thought of danger or retreat had ever entered her mind; and as we came opposite the grocery and a tall man in an officer's uniform strolled out toward us with a curious, questioning look upon his handsome face, she gave the word of command to her little brigade in a voice as clear as a bell:

"'Halt, children!'

"We all stood still as mice, eying the stranger with looks in which fear and admiration were probably curiously blended, while Aunt Polly, taking the white flag from her color-bearer, advanced with a firm front to meet the foe who now, reinforced by several men, stood beside the way, evidently wondering what this queer parade was about.

"'Sir!' and Aunt Polly's voice trembled perceptibly but she waved the white flag manfully under his very nose, 'sir, I demand a safe pa.s.sage for these innocent children to their different homes.'

"The officer stared, and his mouth twitched mischievously as if he had hard work to keep from laughing outright. But he was a gentleman; and when he spoke, he spoke like one.

"'My good woman,' he said kindly, 'these children are nothing to me. If you wish permission for them to go to their own homes you are welcome to it, though in what way the matter concerns me I must confess I am at a loss to imagine."

Then, and not till then, Aunt Polly broke down and sobbed aloud:

"'Run, children,' she cried as soon as she could speak; 'go home just as fast as you can scud; an' tell your folks,' she added with a gust of grat.i.tude, 'that there's worse folks in the world than an Englishman.'

"You may be sure that we waited for no further urging; and as we flew, rather than ran, in the direction of our different homes, I heard the irrepressible burst of laughter with which the officer and his men received the grateful spinster's compliment which, to the day of her death, she loved to repeat whenever she told the thrilling story of her adventure with the English officer, 'when Hampden was took by the British in 1814;' always concluding with this candid admission:

"'An' really, now, if he'd 'a' been anybody but an Englishman, an' an inimy, I should 'a' said that I never sot eyes on a better-built, more mannerly man, in all my born days.'"

Heigho! Baby Mine!

Now where are you creeping, With such a rapid pace across the nursery floor?

Only out to Mamma who'll give you royal greeting, With coddling and petting and kisses galore.

CORINNE'S MUSICALE.

Inside of me says I am naughty, But truly, I know I am not; For if Brother Joe could see me Right in this very same spot, He'd let me do just what I'm doing, I'm very sure; that is, perhaps. Oh dear! however do big folks Hold this thing straight in their laps?

It slips, an' it slips, an'

it slips, You naughty old Banjo, oh dear!

Is he coming? then what will he do To find me sitting up here! Ho, ho! 'twas a mouse --how silly An' frightened I've actually been; For he'd say, "If you hold it quite still, You may take it, I'm willing, Corinne!"

I know: so now I'll begin it; How does he go "tum-ty tum ting,"

An' make such beautiful tunes; Too lovely for anything?

I ain't a bit 'fraid they may hear, --The house-people 'way off below-- Me playing in Brother Joe's room, Still I better be careful, you know.

If they didn't say 'twas amusing, I sh'd think 'twas stupid to play, To tug at such tiresome strings An' make them come over this way; But it must be delightful. I'll pull A very fine tune at first; Now, "tum-ty ting tw-a-n-g!"

It sound's as if something had burst!

That string must 'a' truly been cracked, Don't you s'pose? or moth-eaten, p'raps; 'Tisn't pleasant to practice, I'm sure, But forlorn, when anything flaps.

So I guess I have finished; hark, hark!

He really IS coming--Oh my!

Now, Banjo, I know mamma wants me, An' so I must bid you good-by!

MARGARET SIDNEY.

Mr. Bunny was a rabbit, Mr. Bunny was a thief!

He hopped into my garden And stole a cabbage leaf.

He ate up all my parsnips Without asking if he may, And when I tried to catch him Kicked up his heels and ran away.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,

The cl.u.s.tered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall, When Lee marched over the mountain-wall--

Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town--

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down:

In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat, left and right, He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

"Halt"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast, "Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.