The Pot of Gold, and Other Stories Part 17

"Well," sighed the Chinese Amba.s.sador, standing on tiptoe so his queue should not pull so hard. He was a patient man, but after he had eaten his dinner the time seemed terrible long.

"Why don't you talk?" said he to the Mayor, who was dozing beside him in an easy-chair. "Can't you tell me a story?"

"I never did such a thing in my life," replied the Mayor, rousing himself; "but I am very sorry for you, dear sir; perhaps the Patchwork Woman can."

So he asked the Patchwork Woman through the keyhole.

"I never told a story in my life," said she; "but there's a boy here that I heard telling a beautiful one the other day. Here, Julia,"

called she, "come and tell a story to the Chinese Amba.s.sador."

Julia really knew a great many stories which his Grandmothers had taught him, and he sat on a little stool and told them through the keyhole all night to the Chinese Amba.s.sador.

He and the Mayor were so interested that morning came and the door swung open before they knew it. The poor Amba.s.sador drew a long breath, and put his hand around to his queue to see if it was safe.

Then he wanted to thank and reward the boy who had made the long night hours pa.s.s so pleasantly.

"What is he in here for?" asked the Mayor, patting Julia, who could hardly keep his eyes open.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE GRANDMOTHERS ENJOY THE CHINESE TOYS.]

"He grumbled about his Christmas presents," replied the Patchwork Woman.

"What did you have?" inquired the Mayor.

"Eight pairs of blue yarn stockings," answered Julia, rubbing his eyes.

"And the year before?"

"Eight pairs of blue yarn stockings."

"And the year before that?"

"Eight pairs of blue yarn stockings."

"Didn't you ever have anything for Christmas presents but blue yarn stockings?" asked the astonished Mayor.

"No, sir," said Julia meekly.

Then the whole story came out. Julia, by dint of questioning, told some, and the other children told the rest; and finally, in the afternoon, orders came to dress him in his own clothes, and send him home. But when he got there, the Mayor and Chinese Amba.s.sador had been there before him, and there hung the eight pairs of blue yarn stockings under the mantel-shelf, crammed full of the most beautiful things--knives, b.a.l.l.s, candy--everything he had ever wanted, and the mantel-shelf piled high also.

A great many of the presents were of Chinese manufacture; for the Amba.s.sador considered them, of course, superior, and he wished to express his grat.i.tude to Julia as forcibly as he could. There was one stocking entirely filled with curious Chinese tops. A little round head, so much like the Amba.s.sador's that it actually startled Julia, peeped out of the stocking. But it was only a top in the shape of a little man in a yellow silk gown, who could spin around very successfully on one foot, for an astonis.h.i.+ng length of time. There was a Chinese lady-top too, who fanned herself coquettishly as she spun; and a mandarin who nodded wisely. The tops were enough to turn a boy's head.

There were equally curious things in the other stockings. Some of them Julia had no use for, such as silk for dresses, China c.r.a.pe shawls and fans, but they were just the things for his Grandmothers, who, after this, sat beside the fireplace, very prim and fine, in stiff silk gowns, with China c.r.a.pe shawls over their shoulders, and Chinese fans in their hands, and queer shoes on their feet. Julia liked their presents just as well as he did his own, and probably the Amba.s.sador knew that he would.

The Mayor had filled one stocking himself with bonbons, and Julia picked out all the peppermints amongst them for his Grandmothers. They were very fond of peppermints. Then he went to work to find their spectacles, which had been lost ever since he had been away.

THE SQUIRE'S SIXPENCE.

Patience Mather was saying the seven-multiplication table, when she heard a heavy step in the entry.

"That is Squire Bean," whispered her friend, Martha Joy, who stood at her elbow.

Patience stopped short in horror. Her especial bugbear in mathematics was eight-times-seven; she was coming toward it fast--could she remember it, with old Squire Bean looking at her?

"Go on," said the teacher severely. She was quite young, and also stood in some awe of Squire Bean, but she did not wish her pupils to discover it, so she pretended to ignore that step in the entry. Squire Bean walked with a heavy gilt-headed cane which always went clump, clump, at every step; beside he shuffled--one could always tell who was coming.

"Seven times seven," begun Patience trembling--then the door opened--there stood Squire Bean.

The teacher rose promptly. She tried to be very easy and natural, but her pretty round cheeks turned red and white by turns.

"Good-morning, Squire Bean," said she. Then she placed a chair on the platform for him.

"_Good_-morning," said he, and seated himself in a lumbering way--he was rather stiff with rheumatism. He was a large old man in a green camlet cloak with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons.

"You may go on with the exercises," said he to the teacher, after he had adjusted himself and wiped his face solemnly with a great red handkerchief.

"Go on, Patience," said the teacher.

So Patience piped up in her little weak soprano: "Seven times seven are forty-nine. Eight times seven are"--She stopped short. Then she begun over again--"Eight times seven"--

The cla.s.s with toes on the crack all swayed forward to look at her, the pupils at the foot stepped off till they swung it into a half-circle. Hands came up and gyrated wildly.

"Back on the line!" said the teacher sternly. Then they stepped back, but the hands indicative of superior knowledge still waved, the coa.r.s.e jacket-sleeves and the gingham ap.r.o.n-sleeves slipping back from the thin childish wrists.

"Eight times seven are eighty-nine," declared Patience desperately.

The hands shook frantically, some of the owners stepped off the line again in their eagerness.

Patience's cheeks were red as poppies, her eyes were full of tears.

"You may try once more, Patience," said the teacher, who was distressed herself. She feared lest Squire Bean might think that it was her fault, and that she was not a competent teacher, because Patience Mather did not know eight-times-seven.

So Patience started again--"Eight times seven"--She paused for a mighty mental effort--she must get it right this time. "Six"--she began feebly.

"What!" said Squire Bean suddenly, in a deep voice which sounded like a growl.

Then all at once poor little Patience heard a whisper sweet as an angel's in her ear: "Fifty-six."

"Eight times seven are fifty-six," said she convulsively.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SIX"--SHE BEGAN FEEBLY.]

"Right," said the teacher with a relieved look. The hands went down.

Patience stood with her neat little shoes toeing out on the crack. It was over. She had not failed before Squire Bean. For a few minutes, she could think of nothing but that.