Holiday Stories for Young People Part 33

Freedom's Silent Host.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

There are many silent sleepers In our country here and there, Heeding not our restless clamor, Bugle's peal nor trumpet's blare.

Soft they slumber, Past forever earthly care.

O'er their beds the gra.s.ses creeping Weave a robe of royal fold, And the daisies add their homage, Flinging down a cloth of gold.

Soft they slumber, Once the gallant and the bold.

Oft as Spring, with dewy fingers, Brings a waft of violet, Sweet arbutus, dainty primrose, On their lowly graves we set.

Soft they slumber, We their lives do not forget.

Childish hands with rose and lily Showering the furrows green, Childish songs that lift and warble Where the sleepers lie serene (Soft they slumber) Tell how true our hearts have been.

Wave the dear old flag above them, Play the sweet old bugle call, And because they died in honor O'er them let the flowerets fall.

Soft they slumber, Dreaming, stirring not at all.

Freedom's host of silent sleepers, Where they lie is holy ground, Heeding not our restless clamor, Musket's rattle, trumpet's sound.

Soft they slumber, Ever wrapped in peace profound.

Presence of Mind.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Such a forlorn little sunbonnet bobbing here and there among the bean poles in the garden back of Mr. Mason's house! It seemed as if the blue gingham ruffles and the deep cape must know something about the troubled little face they hid away, for they hung in a limp fas.h.i.+on that was enough to tell anybody who saw them just how badly the wearer of the sunbonnet was feeling. She had, as she thought, more than her share of toil and trouble in this busy world, and to-day she had a specially good reason to carry a heavy heart in her little breast.

All Morningside was in a perfect flutter of antic.i.p.ation and excitement.

There had never been a lawn party in the little village before, and Effie Dean, twelve years old to-day, was to have a lawn party, to which every child for miles, to say nothing of a gay troop of cousins and friends from the city, had been invited. Everybody was going, of course.

The Deans had taken for the season a beautiful old homestead, the owners of which were in Europe. They were having gala times there, and they managed to draw all the young folks of the village in to share them.

All, indeed, except one little girl. Cynthia Mason did not expect to go to many festivities, but with her whole heart she longed to see what a lawn party might be. The very name sounded beautiful to her, and she said it over and over wistfully as she went slowly down the door-yard between the tigerlilies and the hollyhocks, through the rough gate which hung so clumsily on its leathern hinges, and, with her basket by her side, began her daily task of picking beans.

Cynthia Mason had no mother. Her father loved his little daughter and was kind to her, but he was a silent man, who was not very successful, and who had lost hope when his wife had died. People said he had never been the same man since then. His sister, Cynthia's Aunt Kate, was an active, stirring woman, who liked to be busy herself and to hurry other people. She kept the house as clean as a new pin, had the meals ready to the moment, and saw that everybody's clothing was washed and mended; but she never felt as if she had time for the kissing and petting which is to some of us as needful as our daily food.

In her way she was fond of Cynthia, and would have taken good care of the child if she had been ill or crippled. But as her niece was perfectly well, and not in want of salts or senna, Aunt Kate was often rather tried with her fondness for dreaming in the daytime, or dropping down to read a bit from the newspaper in the midst of the sweeping and dusting.

There were, in truth, a good many worries in the little weather-beaten house, and Miss Mason had her own trouble in making both ends meet. She was taking summer boarders now to help along, and when Cynthia had asked her if she might go to Effie's party, the busy woman had been planning how to crowd another family from New York into the already well-filled abode, so she had curtly replied:

"Go to a lawn party! What nonsense! Why, no child. You cannot be spared." And she had thought no more about it.

"Step around quickly this morning, Cynthy," she called from the b.u.t.tery window. "Beans take for ever and ever to cook, you know. I can't imagine what's got into the child," she said to herself. "She walks as if her feet were shod with lead."

The blue gingham sunbonnet kept on bobbing up and down among the bean poles, when suddenly there was a rush and a rustle, two arms were thrown around Cynthia's waist, and a merry voice said:

"You never heard me, did you, till I was close by? You're going to the party, of course, Cynthy?"

"No, Lulu," was the sad answer. "There are new boarders coming, and Aunt Kate cannot do without me."

"I never heard of such a thing!" cried eleven-year old Lulu. "Not going!

Cannot do without you! Why, Cynthy, it will be just splendid: tennis and croquet and games, and supper in a _tent_! ice cream and everything nice, and a birthday cake with a ring, and twelve candles on it. And there are to be musicians out of doors, and fireworks in the evening.

Why, there are men hanging the lanterns in the trees now--to see where they ought to be hung, I suppose," said practical Lulu. "Not let you go?

I'm sure she will, if I ask her." Lulu started bravely for the house, intent on pleading for her friend.

But Cynthia called her back. "Don't go, Lulu, dear. Aunt Kate is very busy this morning. She does not think I care so much, and she won't like it either, if she thinks I'm spending my time talking with you, when the beans ought to be on the fire. A bean dinner," observed Cynthia, wisely, "takes so long to get ready."

"Does it?" said Lulu, beginning to pick with all her might. She was a sweet little thing, and she hated to have her friend left out of the good time.

As for Cynthia, the sunbonnet fell back on her neck, showing a pair of soft eyes swimming with tears, and a sorrowful little mouth quivering in its determination not to cry.

"I won't be a baby!" she said to herself, resolutely. Presently there came a sharp call from the house.

"Cynthia Elizabeth! are you never coming with those beans? Make haste, child, do?"

Aunt Kate said "Cynthia Elizabeth" only when her patience was almost gone; so, with a quick answer, "Yes, Aunt Kate, I'm coming," Cynthia left Lulu and ran back to the b.u.t.tery, sitting down, as soon as she reached it, to the weary task of stringing the beans.

Lulu, meanwhile, who was an idle little puss--her mother's pet--sauntered up the road and met Effie Dean's mother, who was driving by herself, and had stopped to gather some late wild roses.

"If there isn't Lulu Pease!" she said. "Lulu dear, won't you get those flowers for me? Thank you so much. And you're coming this afternoon?"

"Yes, 'm," said Lulu, with a dimple showing itself in each plump cheek; "but I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Dean, that my dearest friend, Cynthy Mason, has to stay at home. Her Aunt Kate can't spare her. Cynthy _never_ can go anywhere nor do anything like the rest of us."

"Cynthia Mason? That's the pretty child with the pale face and dark eyes who sits in the pew near the minister's, isn't it?" said Mrs. Dean.

"Why, she must not stay at home to-day." And acting on a sudden impulse, the lady said good morning to Lulu, took a brisk turn along the road and back, and presently drew rein at Mr. Mason's door.

She came straight into the b.u.t.tery, having rapped to give notice of her presence, and with a compliment to Miss Mason on the excellence of her b.u.t.ter, she asked whether that lady could supply her with a few more pounds next week; then her eyes falling on the little figure on the doorstep, she said: "By-the-way, Miss Mason, your niece is to be one of Effie's guests to-day, is she not? Can you, as a great favor, let her come home with me now? I have to drive to the Centre on some errands, and Cynthia, who is a helpful little woman, I can see, can be of so much use if you will part with her for the day. It will be very neighborly of you to say yes. I know it's a good deal to ask, but my own girls are very busy, and I wish you would let me keep Cynthia until to-morrow.

I'll take good care of her, and she shall be at home early. Lend her to me, please?"

Mrs. Dean, with much gentleness of manner, had the air of a person to whom n.o.body ever says no, and Cynthia could hardly believe she heard aright when her aunt said, pleasantly:

"Cynthia's a good girl, but she's like all children--she needs to be kept at her work. She can go if you really wish it, Mrs. Dean, and I'll send for my cousin Jenny to stay here to-day. There are new boarders coming," she said, to explain her need of outside a.s.sistance. Miss Mason prided herself on getting through her work alone; hired help she couldn't afford, but she would not have had any one "under-foot," as she expressed it, had money been plenty with her.

"You are a wonderful woman," said Mrs. Dean, surveying the spotless tables and walls. "You are always so brisk, and such a perfect housekeeper! I wish, dear Miss Mason, you could look in on us yourself in the evening. It will be a pretty sight."

Miss Mason was gratified. "Run away, Cynthia; put on your best frock, and don't keep Mrs. Dean waiting," she said. In spite of her independence, she was rather pleased that her boarders should see the low phaeton at her door, the brown horse with the silver-mounted harness, and the dainty lady, in her delicate gray gown and driving gloves, chatting affably while waiting for Cynthia to dress. She offered Mrs. Dean a gla.s.s of her creamy milk, and it was gratefully accepted.

Cynthia came back directly. Her preparations had not taken her long. Her "best frock" was of green delaine with yellow spots--"a perfect horror"

the lady thought; it had been purchased at a bargain by Mr. Mason, who knew nothing about what was suitable for a child. Some lace was basted in the neck, and her one article of ornament, an old-fas.h.i.+oned coral necklace with a gold clasp, was fastened just under the lace. The stout country-made shoes were not becoming to the child's feet, nor was the rim of white stocking visible above them at all according to the present styles. She was pretty as a picture, but not in the least arrayed as the other girls would be, whether from elegant city homes or the ample farm houses round about.

How her eyes sparkled and her color came and went when Mrs. Dean told her to step in and seat herself, then, following, took the reins, while Bonny Bess, the sagacious pony, who knew every tone of his mistress'

voice, trotted merrily off!

Having secured her little guest, Mrs. Dean thought she would give her as much pleasure as she could. So they took a charming drive before pony's head was turned to the village. The phaeton glided swiftly over smooth, hard roads, between rich fields of corn, over a long bridge, and at last rolled into Main Street, where Mrs. Dean made so many purchases that the vehicle was soon quite crowded with packages and bundles.