What Two Children Did Part 3

They all followed her, and sure enough there was the gold of the sky s.h.i.+ning through the misty rain clouds.

"Now, if G.o.d and the angels would just peek out a minute, I'd be thankful," said Elizabeth.

_CHAPTER V_ _The New Way_

It's--hard--to--work-- And easy to play; I'll tell you what we've done, We play our work And work our play, And all the hard is gone.

The children were always glad when Mrs. Flaharty came to wash, for she was never too busy to talk to them, nor to let them wash dolls' clothes in some of her suds, nor, in her own way, to converse, and to explain things to them.

One Monday morning the two were in the back yard with gingham ap.r.o.ns tied around their waists for trails, and with one of Aunty Stevens'

bright saucepans which they put on their heads in turn. In this rig, they felt that their appearance left little to be desired.

They were having literary exercises while Mrs. Flaharty was hanging the white clothes on the line, and, by reason of her exceeding interest in the proceedings, she took her time about it too.

In the midst of Ethelwyn's recitation of "Mary Had a Little Lamb," she paused to say, after, "The eager children cry,"

"What do you s'pose the silly things cried for?"

"'Cause they didn't have any lamb, prob'ly," promptly replied Elizabeth from the audience, where she sat surrounded by her dolls. "Hurry up, sister, it's my turn."

"Is it ager, children, you're askin' about?" asked Mrs. Flaharty, flopping out a sheet. "If you'd ever had the ager, what wid the pain in your bones an' the faver in your blood, you'd be likely to cry--whin you had the stren'th."

"Is it shaking ager?" asked Elizabeth doubtfully. "Oh, I didn't know that. Come and sit down on the steps, Mrs. Flaharty, and I'll tell a story I made up for this special 'casion."

"It's troo wid the white does I am, an' I reckin I can sit and take me breath before I begin on the colored; besides, I'd have to be takin'

away the foine costumes ye has roun' your waists, if I wint now." So Mrs. Flaharty sat down ponderously.

"I've a poem, too," said Ethelwyn, taking her place in the audience, and Elizabeth began:

"Once there was a little boy whose father was cross to him, and kept him home all the while, and when he let him go anywhere, he said he 'mustn't' and 'don't' so much, it spoiled all his fun. Once the boy went in the woods where lived a fairy prince. 'Go not near the fairy prince,'

had said the boy's father so much that the boy thought he'd die if he did. So the fairy prince looked over the back fence and said, 'Avast there,' so the boy avasted as fast as he could. 'I'm in trouble,' said the fairy prince. 'What about?' said the boy. 'I can walk only on one foot till somebody cuts off my little toe,' said the prince.

"So the boy did it with his father's razor, and it thundered and lightened, and his father came and scolded over the back fence, but the prince waved his magic cut toe; then they all banged and went up on a Fourth of July sky rocket, till the father fell off and b.u.mped all his crossness out of him, and like birds of a fevver, they all lived togevver afterwards."

"The saints be praised," said Mrs. Flaharty, fanning herself with her ap.r.o.n.

Then Ethelwyn came forward. "This is my poem," she said, bowing to the audience.

"A little girl lived way down East, She rose and rose, like bread with yeast, She rose above the tallest people, And far above the highest steeple.

She kept right on till by and by She took a peek into the sky--"

"Oh, what did she see?" asked Elizabeth, interested at once.

"That you can guess," replied the poet with dignity. "Mother says she likes poems and pictures that you can put something into from your own something or other, I forget what--you let folks guess about it."

"My sister is smart," complacently remarked Elizabeth to Nan, who had just come over.

"So am I, then," said Nan, not to be outdone. "I can make up beautiful poems."

"Let's hear one."

So Nan came forward, bowed profoundly and began:

"I have a little kitty, Who is so very pretty, Tho' growing large and fat, I fear she'll be a cat.

One day, my sakes, she saw a dog, Her tail swelled up just like a log; He barked, she spit, She does not love dogs, not a bit."

"What color is she?" asked Ethelwyn.

"That is left for your guessing part," said Nan promptly.

Mrs. Flaharty now reluctantly arose.

"It's a trate to hear ye," she said, "but I mus' git troo, and go home.

There's a spindlin' lad named d.i.c.k nex' door but wan to where I live, that can walk only wid a crutch an' not able to do that lately. He'd be cheered entoirely wid your rhymes an' tales."

"O, maybe mother'll take us to see him this afternoon. We'll ask her.

She's intending to go down that way herself, I know, and she'll be so good to d.i.c.k; she just can't help it," said Ethelwyn, and at once they dashed off to see, leaving the saucepan crown rolling down the yard, and their gingham ap.r.o.ns lying on the steps.

_CHAPTER VI_ _A Plan_

It's nice to get gifts, But better to give: For giving leaves always a glow That warms up a part In every heart; The joy of it never can go.

There was woe in Ethelwyn's heart and pain in her throat, and the woe was on account of the pain; for Elizabeth and her mother had gone to town to arrange things for d.i.c.k, who was to be taken to the hospital, where he was to undergo an operation that would, in all probability cure him. And now Ethelwyn, ever desirous of being at the head and front of things, had taken this wretched cold and could not go.

Very shortly after Mrs. Flaharty had told them about d.i.c.k, their mother had taken them to see him. His home was a long way from their cottage, where the fisher people lived, and the sights and smells in the hot summer air were hard to bear even for those who were well. Poor little d.i.c.k, lying day after day on his hard bed, with no care except what the kind-hearted washerwoman could give him, felt that life was an ill thing at best, and he was fast hastening out of it, with the a.s.sistance of ill nutrition and bad ventilation. d.i.c.k's own mother and father were dead, and his stepmother, a rough-looking creature, when she remembered him at all, looked upon him as a useless enc.u.mbrance, and by her neglect was making him very unhappy.

Ethelwyn and Elizabeth, quite unused to suffering of this sort, sat soberly by, during their first visit, and watched their mother bending tenderly over the feeble little invalid, and ministering to his needs.

In a week's time they had changed things marvelously. The stepmother had, for a sum that meant a great deal to her, relinquished all claim upon d.i.c.k, so he was placed in the care of a sewing woman, who, by reason of rheumatism in her fingers, could not sew any more; and she filled the starving sore spot in her childless heart with a loving devotion to d.i.c.k. The sum paid her for this care kept them both in comfort, and d.i.c.k, with flowers and birds about him, and with wholesome, dainty food, gradually lost his gaunt, hunted look and began to take a fresh hold of life.

The doctor attending him gave it as his opinion that in one of the city hospitals the little fellow might be cured, and it was to see about this that Elizabeth and her mother had gone to town.

The night before they were all in their sitting-room, talking it over.

Aunty Stevens, who was greatly interested, had brought her knitting and joined them.

"It would be a lovely work," said Mrs. Rayburn, thoughtfully looking at the fire, "to make a home for d.i.c.k and many such poor little weaklings, somewhere up on these heights where, with fresh air and good, well-cooked food, they could have a fighting chance for life."

"There's our money," said Ethelwyn, cuddling her hand in her mother's.

"Let's make one with it."