all the talking.

"Oh, so much!" said Phil.

After a while the song stopped, and the fairies drew all together in a
cluster, and were quite still.

"What does that mean?" asked Phil.

"They are disturbed; there is a storm coming. We shall have to return."

"I am so sorry! I wanted to know more about you, and to see what you
wear."

"Mortals must not approach us too nearly. We may draw near to you. See,
I will stand before you."

"You seem to be all moonshine," said Phil.

"Yes," said the fairy, laughing merrily; "these robes of ours are of
mountain mist, spangled with star-dust so fine that it makes us only
glisten. We have to wear the lightest sort of fabric, so that we are not
hindered in our long flights."

"Do you know flower fairies?"

"Yes; but we are of a very different race. I suppose you thought we
dressed in rose-leaves and rode on humble-bees, but we do not; we are
more--now for a long word--more ethereal." And again the fairy laughed.

"Ether means air," said Phil, quite proudly. "Do you know any fairy
stories?" he asked.

"Yes; shall I tell you one next time I come?"

"Oh do, please. So you _will_ come again."

"Yes, if I can. Now I must go. I thought I heard distant thunder. We
must fly so fast--so fast! Good-bye--good-bye."

There was a long rumbling of thunder far off in the distance, and a
cooler air in the hot, close room. Phil lay and dreamed, wondering how
long it took the wind fairies to reach their home. Then the sweet, spicy
odors came to him again, and he lifted the languid flowers Miss Schuyler
had brought him, and put them in his glass of water.

He dreamed of fair green fields and meadows, of silent lakes bordered
with rushes, out of which sprang wild-fowl slowly flapping their broad
wings; of forests thick and dark, where on fallen trees the green moss
had grown in velvet softness; of mountains lifting their purple tops
into the fleecy clouds, and of long, shady country roads winding in and
out and about the hills; of lanes bordered with blackberry-bushes and
sumac, clematis and wild-rose; of dewy nooks full of ferns; of the songs
of birds and the chirp of insects; and it seemed to him that he must put
some of all this beauty into some shape of his own creation--picture or
poem, song or speech; and then came a sudden sharp twinge of pain, and
the brightness faded, and the room was dark, and he was hungry, and only
poor little Phil, sick and sad and weary and poor.

CHAPTER V

LISA VISITS MISS SCHUYLER

"So you are Phil's good friend Lisa?" said Miss Rachel Schuyler, sitting
in her cool white wrapper in the dusk of this warm May evening. "I want
to hear more about Phil. The dear child has quite won my heart, he looks
so like a friend of mine whom I have not seen for many years. How are
you related to him, and who were his parents?"

"I am not related to him at all, Miss Schuyler."

"No?" in some surprise. "Why, then, have you the care and charge of
him?"

"I was brought up in his mother's family as seamstress, and went to live
with her when she married Mr. Randolph, and--"

"Who did you say? What Mr. Randolph?"

"Mr. Peyton Randolph."

Miss Rachel seemed much overcome, but she controlled herself, and
hurriedly said, "Go on."

"There was no intercourse between the families after the marriage, for
Mrs. Randolph was poor, and they all had been opposed to her. I suppose
you do not care to hear all the details--how they went abroad, and Mr.
Randolph died there; and while they were absent their house was burned;
and there was no one to take care of Phil but me, for Phil had been too
sick to go with his father and mother; and Mrs. Randolph did not live
long after her return. I nursed them both--Phil and his mother; and when
she was gone I came on to the city, thinking I could do better here, but
I have found it hard, very hard, with no friends. Still, I have pretty
steady work now as shopwoman, though I cannot do all that I would like
to do for Phil."

Miss Schuyler was crying.

"Lisa, you good woman, how glad I am I have found you! Phil's father was
the dearest friend I ever had."

"Phil's mother gave the child to me, Miss Schuyler."

"Don't be alarmed. I do not wish to separate you. How can I ever thank
you enough for telling me all this? And what a noble, generous creature
you are, to be toiling and suffering for a child no way related to you,
and who must have friends fully able to care for him if they would!"

"I love him as if he were my own. Sometimes I have thought I ought to
try and see if any of his relatives would help us, but I cannot bear to,
and so we have just worried along as we could. But Phil needs a doctor
and medicine, and more than I can give him."

"He shall have all he needs, and you too," said Miss Schuyler, warmly.

At this Lisa broke down, the kind words were so welcome. And the two
women cried together; but not long, for Miss Schuyler rose and got Lisa
some refreshing drink, and made her take off her bonnet and quiet
herself, and then said:

"Now we must plan a change for Phil, and see how soon it can be
accomplished. And you must leave that tiresome shop, and I will give you
plenty of work to do. See, here are some things I bought to-day that I
shall have to wear this summer."

She opened the packages--soft sheer lawn and delicate cambric that gave
Lisa a thrill of pleasure just to touch once more, for she loved her
work. "I shall be so glad to sew again, and I wish I had some of my
work to show you."

"Oh, I know you will do it nicely. I am going out of town in a few days,
and I want you and Phil to go with me. Do you think you can?"

"I am a little afraid," said Lisa, hesitating, "that we are not fit to;
and yet--"

"I will see to all that. Now I suppose you cannot leave Phil alone much
longer--besides, there is a shower coming. To-morrow I will bring a
doctor to visit the dear boy, and we will see what can be done"; and she
put a roll of money in Lisa's hand, assuring her that she should be as
independent as she pleased after a while, and repay her, but that now
she needed help, and should have it, and that henceforth Phil was to be
theirs in partnership.

Lisa hurried away with a light heart. She had indeed toiled and
suffered, striven early and late, for the child of her affections, and
this timely assistance was a source of great joy.

She was too happy to heed the dashing shower which was now falling.
Herself she had never thought of, and her dear Phil now was to be
helped, to be cheered, perhaps to be made strong and well, and able to
do all that his poor weak hands had tried to do so ineffectually.

She opened the door softly when she reached her room. A little shiver of
sweet, sad sounds came from the wind harp. She lighted a candle, and
looked into the pale face of the sleeping child as he lay in an attitude
of weariness and exhaustion, with hands falling apart, and a feverish
flush on his thin cheeks.

"My poor Phil! I hope help has not come too late," she whispered, as she
began her preparations for his more comfortable repose.

The next day Miss Schuyler came, as she had promised, and brought a
physician--a good, kind surgeon--who examined Phil, and pulled this
joint and that joint, and touched him here and there, and found out
where the pain was, and what caused it, and said nice, funny things to
make him laugh, and told him he hoped to make him a strong boy yet. And
then they whispered a little about him, and Joe was sent for, and a
carriage came, and Phil was wrapped in a blanket and laid on pillows,
and taken out for a drive alone with Miss Schuyler, who chatted with
him, and got him more flowers; and when they came back there was a nice
dinner on a tray, and ice-cream for his dessert, and Joe was to stay
with him until Lisa came home; and before Lisa came there was a nice new
trunk brought in, and several large parcels. And Phil thought he had
never seen such a day of happiness. After his dinner and a nap, and
while Joe Sat and played on his violin, Phil sketched and made a lovely
little picture of flowers and fairies, in his own simple fashion, to
give to Miss Schuyler. And then Lisa came home, and the parcels were
opened; and there were nice new dresses for Lisa, and a pretty, thin
shawl, and a new bonnet; and for Phil there was a comfortable flannel
gown, and soft slippers, and fine handkerchiefs and stockings; and Phil
found a little parcel too for Joe with a bright bandanna in it, and the
old man was very happy.

"It seems like Christmas," said Joe.

Phil thought he had never seen quite such a Christmas, and said, "It
seems more like Fairy-land, and I only hope it will not all fade away
and come to an end, like a bubble bursting."

"To me," said Lisa, "it is God's own goodness that has done it all, for
it was He who gave Miss Schuyler her warm, kind heart."

"And, Joe," said Phil, "we are to go to the country, and you are to go
with us; is not that nice?"

"Very nice, Phil. I'm glad Miss Rachel's found out your father was her
friend."

Then Joe took up his violin again, and played "Home, Sweet Home," and
"Auld Lang Syne"; and Phil fancied the violin was a bird, and sang of
its own free-will, and thinking this reminded him how soon he would hear
the dear wild birds in the woods, and he wondered if the fairies would
come to him there.

Then Joe went home, and Lisa had errands to do, and again she put the
wind harp in the window, and left Phil alone, keeping very still in
expectation of another visit from his fairy friend.

CHAPTER VI

THE FAIRY'S STORY

"I promised you a story," said the little voice, to his ear again.

"Yes, I know you did; can you tell it now?"

"To be sure I can, if I only have time. I did not bring any of my
people to-night; they are helping some of the herb elves. It is a little
late in the season, and some blossoms have been slow in opening, so that
we have to urge them."

"How?" asked Phil.

"By coaxing and persuasion for some of them; others we have to blow upon
quite forcibly."

"I am ready for the story when you are," said Phil.

"It is a wild affair, and one that all children might not care to hear;
but to you, I fancy, nothing comes amiss."

"No, I like almost everything," said Phil.

"I shall begin just as my grandmother used to. Once upon a time, in the
days of enchantment, there was a dreadful old ogre--"

"Do not make him too dreadful, or I shall have bad dreams," interrupted
Phil.

The fairy laughed and flapped her little wings. "Now you must not be
afraid; it will all come out right in the end. When I said the ogre was
dreadful, I meant he was ugly-looking; we fairies like everything
beautiful. Shall I go on?"

"Oh yes, and please forgive me for stopping you."

[Illustration: THE APPROACH OF THE SWANLIKE BOAT]

"This ogre was ugly, with a shaggy head, a shaggy beard, and fierce
eyes, and he lived all by himself in a great stone castle on the shore
of a large lake. His principal pleasure consisted in tormenting
everything and everybody he came near; but if he had any preference, it
was for boys; to tease and ill-use them had the power of affording him
great happiness. Lazy, loitering little fellows were in especial danger,
for he would catch them quite easily by throwing over their head's the
nets he used in fishing, drag them off to his castle, and keep them in a
dungeon until there would be no chance of discovery, and the boys'
parents would think them lost forever. Thus he would gain a very useful,
active set of laborers for a stone wall he was building, for so afraid
were they of his displeasure, and so fearful that they might be starved,
since the only food they received was dried and salted fish, that these
boys worked like bees in a hive, only it was a sullen, painful sort of
working, for they never sang or shouted, whistled or talked, and they
were thin and wretched, and more like machines than boys.

"Now in this lake, on the shore of which was the ogre's castle, was an
island, where lived a Princess whom the ogre had bewitched, but who had
also regained her liberty, and near whom the ogre could never again
come; even to land on her island or bathe in the water near would at
once change him into a shark.

"This Princess, passing the ogre's castle in her beautiful swan-like
sailing-boat, had seen the unhappy little boys at work on the stone
wall; her sympathies had been aroused at so sad a sight, and she
determined to wait her chance, and do what she could to relieve them.
The chance came one day when the ogre had gone on a fishing excursion,
from which he would not return till night. He had given the boys their
rations of salt fish, and had commanded them in the gruffest tones to be
sure and do an unusual amount of work in his absence, or they should all
have chains on again; for when they were first caught he always chained
them for fear they might try to escape; but they so soon lost all spirit
and all desire for freedom that their chains were removed to enable them
to work more easily.

"He had no sooner disappeared in his great clumsy craft, laden with
seines and harpoons, and baskets and jugs, than a whispering began
among the boys, a sad sort of sighing and crying, almost like the
whispering of wind in the tree-tops, which changed again to looks and
glances of surprise as a beautiful vessel with silken sails floated up
to the wharf, and a lovely, gracious-looking lady clothed in white
stepped from the boat, and came rapidly towards them.

"'Boys,' said she, addressing them in a very soft, sweet voice, 'I have
come to release you from this cruel bondage; will you trust me, and go
with me?'

"'Yes, yes,' came from more than a dozen little tongues.

"'Come, then, at once. Drop your work, get into my boat, and we will be
off. We have no time to lose, for your cruel master might possibly
change his course and overtake us; then we should be in great danger.'

"The boys crowded about her, and with a wild cry followed her to her
little vessel, and almost tumbled into it in their delight. It was with
some difficulty that she kept them balanced, and prevented their falling
out; but once packed, there were so many of them that they could not
move. The vessel seemed to start of itself; its sails swelled out and
spread themselves like wings, and away they dashed over the rippling
waves, which rose and fell and hurried them on their way. The ogre's
castle was quickly left far behind, and the tired boys breathed more
freely as it disappeared entirely from their view. In another minute
they fell fast asleep, and did not waken till the motion of the boat
ceased, and they found themselves gliding into a quiet harbor, fringed
on each side with lovely shrubs that dipped their beautiful flowers into
the calm water. Then the lady bade them follow her as she stepped from
the boat on to the soft grass, and led them past fruits and flowers, and
winding walks and fountains, up to the dazzling crystal palace in which
she lived. Here the boys were halted while she made them this little
speech: 'Boys, this is my home, these are my gardens; for a while you
will have to remain here. We may have trouble with the ogre, but I want
you to have no trouble among yourselves. Kindness, good-humor, pleasant
looks and words, must prevail. There must be no envy, no selfishness, no
desire to get the better of each other in any way. I demand obedience.
If I receive it, all will be well; if I do not, you will have to suffer
the consequence. Now I have said all that I need. These flowers, these
fruits, are yours to enjoy in moderation.'

"As she ceased speaking she clapped her hands, and a troop of servants
appeared. They led the boys to marble baths, where waters gushed and
flowed in liquid beauty, and groves of orange-trees made a dense thicket
about them. Here each boy was made sweet and clean, and provided with a
suit of white clothes. When they emerged from the baths, they saw before
them on the lawn tables filled with tempting food--roasted meats,
broiled birds, pitchers of milk and cream, biscuits and jellies and
ices.

"The utmost order prevailed. Starved as the poor boys were, the grace
and beauty of their surroundings made them gentle and patient. At each
plate was a tiny nose-gay held in the beak of a crystal bird, the body
of which was a finger-bowl. Every plate was of exquisite workmanship.
Some had birds of gay plumage; some had fierce tigers' heads or
shaggy-maned lions; others bore designs of tools or curious instruments;
but that which most delighted the boys was a dish of crystal, an exact
imitation of the _Swan_--the _Fairy Swan_--in which they had sailed
to this lovely island. It was laden with choice fruits. While the
boys feasted as they had never before, strains of sweet music became
audible; they could also hear the soft splash of the waves on the shore,
or the dripping of fountains, as the waters sparkled and fell in their
marble basins.

"After they had feasted, the boys wandered off in most delightful
idleness to all parts of the island. They climbed the trees, which bore
blossoms, fruits, and nuts, all at the same time; they fished in the
little coves; they waded in the shallow basins; and nothing would have
marred their happiness had not one tall boy, with unnaturally strong and
keen vision, declared that he saw the ogre's sail coming in the
direction of the island.

"This was terrible, and had the effect of bringing all the boys together
from their various amusements, just as chickens run from a hovering
hawk. Together they crowded for a moment in mute dismay, unable to
speak, to even hide, waiting the approach of their cruel foe.

"Nearer came the sail, and now they could all discern it. Its great
clumsy shape, its heavy lumbering action, were not to be mistaken.

"What should they do?

"'Run for the Princess,' said one.

"'Too cowardly, that,' said another; and indeed their good, abundant
meal had begun to put strange courage in their little hearts.

"'Let's meet him, and fight him,' said one.

"'Let's upset his boat,' said another.

"'How?'

"'By pelting him with stones when he comes near enough.'

"'Good!' cried they all; and they began gathering all the bits of rock
and pebbles they could find.

"Now came a roar of ogreish rage from the boat as it neared them.

"'I'll have ye again!' screamed the ogre.

"Then began the attack--a volley of small stones, nuts, fruits, anything
they had in their pockets.

"One of the ogre's eyes was closed, so certain had been the aim of the
tall boy who acted as leader.

"But the boat came nearer, and they were very much afraid the ogre
would leap from it, when one of the boys whispered, 'I'll go out to
tempt him. Once get him in the water, and he's a goner. He'll be
bewitched.'

"So he off with his jacket, and out he waded, while the others looked on
in breathless admiration.

"The ogre looked with his one eye in eager derision; then forgetting his
danger, and regarding the boy much as he might do an unwary fish that he
would gobble up, he sprang from his boat into the shallow water,
preparing not only to snatch the one boy, but to seize them all in a
great seine he dragged after him, when suddenly the waves from the
centre of the lake began hissing and seething, a tremendous swell set in
towards the shore, driving the brave little fellow who had gone out to
tempt the enemy completely off his legs, and obliging him to swim to the
land, which he had no sooner reached than a great shout from all the
boys made him look back, when, lo and behold! there was no ogre, only a
great shark, with open jaws and a shining row of teeth, floundering
about, and dashing himself in angry transports against the sides of the
ogre boat, which he vainly attempted to board. And now could be seen
swarms of little fish attacking the great one, darting hither and
thither, now at his head, now at his tail, but keeping well away from
his open jaws. And the waves began to be colored with the shark's blood.
At last, wearied and wounded, with an angry snap of his jaws he dived
down, and was seen no more.

"Then the boys gave another loud huzza, when, like a broad flash of
sunshine, the lovely Princess came among them.

"'Boys,' said she, 'you have proved yourselves brave youngsters. The
ogre can never again trouble you. He will be a shark for three thousand
years, and he will not care to stay in these waters, with so many
enemies about him. Now, when you have regained your good looks and
strength, I will take you all home. Here is the key to my sweetmeat
closet. Run off, now, and have a good time.'

"The sweetmeat closet was a large enclosure where grew sugar-almond
trees, candied pears, candied plums, and where even the bark and twigs
of trees and bushes were of chocolate. In the centre was a pond of
quivering jelly. Mounds and pyramids of jumbles and iced cakes
abounded. They were too tempting to be long looked at without tasting,
and the boys helped themselves gladly.

"A long, sweet strain from a bugle called them away from this delightful
spot, and on a broad, smooth field they found bats and balls, tenpins
and velocipedes--in short, everything a boy could want to play with.

"After this they supped in simple fashion, each boy with only a great
bowl of bread and milk. Then to more music they were marched to their
beds--downy white nests, in a great room arched with glass, through
which they could see the moon and stars shining, and where the dawn
could awaken them with its early light.

"Such was their life for two of the most happy weeks of their lives, and
never did boys thrive better. They grew fat and rosy; they sang, they
danced, they played. Every time the Princess came among them they
shouted with glee, and nearly cracked their young throats in doing her
honor. But all fine things come to an end some time. Once more they were
packed in the _Fairy Swan_, and away they sailed for the land of reality
and for home. The Princess gave them each a beautiful portrait of
herself, of the island, and of the _Swan_. And each boy promised that
whenever he had a chance to perform a kind action he would do it in
remembrance of the gentle courtesy of the Princess. And so ends my fairy
story. Good-night, Phil."

"Good-night. Oh, how nice it was! I thank you so much!" and sleepy Phil
turned to see the little white butterfly wings skimming out of the
window, while a long, sweet sigh came from his wind harp, sounding like,
"Good-night--good-night," again.

CHAPTER VII

FAREWELL TO THE CITY

A day or two later, Phil, wrapped in shawls, was carried by Joe to a
carriage, and the carriage rolled away to a wharf where puffed numerous
steamboats; and here he was taken on board one of the river-steamers,
and safely placed in the midst of a heap of pillows on deck, where he
could see all the busy life about him--see the newspaper boys and the
orange women, and the hurrying hacks and the great teams, and all the
stir and tumult of the city's busiest hours. Miss Schuyler, in her cool
gray suit, was on one side of him, and Lisa, looking tranquil and
thoroughly glad and grateful, on the other, and Joe, just the happiest
darkey in the world, sat at his feet, ready to take charge of all and
everything.

They sailed and they sailed, away from the city and its many roofs, from
the factory chimneys and the steeples, from the cloud of smoke which
hung between the sky and house-tops, until they came to the hills and
dales of pasture-lands and villages. Then they landed, and were whirled
away in the cars, and Phil enjoyed it all, even the fatigue which made
him sleep; and Joe carried him about as if he were a baby.

It was quite dark when, after a drive over a rather rough road, they
reached the lake-side cottage which was Miss Schuyler's summer home, and
Phil was glad to be put in bed, for the old pain had begun again.

When he opened his eyes the next morning, it was with a strange feeling
of wonder at his new surroundings. Birds were twittering out-of-doors,
and there was a soft lapping of water on the shore. The green boughs of
a cherry tree almost brushed against the window-panes. He was no longer
in his old garret room, but in a pretty apartment, with bunches of
rosebuds on the walls, and scent-bottles on the toilet-table, and muslin
curtains, and a bright carpet, and pretty book-shelves, and brackets,
and lovely child-faces in the engravings; and on a broad table was a
little easel, and a paint-box, and drawing-paper; and here too was his
old box with the violin strings.

"Oh," said Phil, softly, "I wonder if heaven is any better than this!"

He had closed his eyes as he said it, and went over his usual morning
prayer of thankfulness; and when he opened his eyes, there was Lisa with
his breakfast-tray--poached eggs and toast, and a goblet of milk.

"Lisa, Lisa, is not this too nice for anything?" asked Phil.

"Yes, indeed, dear, it is nice. Miss Schuyler says you must hurry and
get strong, so that you can make the acquaintance of the hens that laid
these eggs for you, and the cow whose milk is to do you so much good."

"What is the cow's name, Lisa?"

"I don't know," said Lisa.

"It is Daisy," said Miss Schuyler, coming in to say good-morning.
"She's a lovely little Alderney, and her milk is like cream. Oh, you
will soon be strong enough to row my boat for me."

"A boat! Have you a boat?"

"Yes, and you are going out on the lake in her this very morning."

"It is just too much happiness, Miss Schuyler."

"Well, we will not overpower you. For a day or two you must rest, and do
nothing but breathe the sweet air. I have to be busy getting things in
order and looking after my garden. Lisa will take her work on the
piazza, and you can lie in one of the easy-chairs. Joe is to wait on
you, and do a little weeding, and keep the paths in order, and bail out
the boat; and the old man seems to be very much at home already. So that
is the order of the day. Now good-bye, and don't do too much thinking."

"One moment, Miss Schuyler; do you believe in fairies?"

"Just a little," said Miss Schuyler, with a quizzical smile.

"Well, I believe in them," said Phil, "and I think you are one of the
best of them."

"Oh no, I am very human, dear Phil, as you will find out. And now I must
go look after my strawberry-beds. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," said Phil, waving her a kiss. "Only think, Lisa, we will
actually see strawberries growing! It is quite fairy-land for me."

After that he was carried down to the easy-chair on the piazza, where he
could see the lawn sloping down to the lake, and watch the birds
lighting on the rim of a vase full of daisies and running vines. He
could see that the cottage was low and broad, and painted in two shades
of brown; and that there were arbors covered with grape-vines on one
side, and on the other he knew there were flower-beds and fruit-trees,
for every once in a while Miss Rachel was to be seen emerging from there
in a broad straw hat and with buck-skin gloves, trailing long bits of
string or boughs of green stuff, with scissors and trowel and
watering-can.

Lisa had her work-basket, and with deft fingers and a little undertone
of psalmody was fashioning a pretty summer garment. Then Miss Rachel
came and tossed a basketful of early roses and syringa down beside Phil,
and put a little table beside him, with some slender glass vases and a
pitcher of water, and asked him to arrange the flowers for her. This he
was glad to do, and made the bunches up as prettily as his nice taste
suggested. But he was really wearied with great happiness. It was all so
new, so charming, every sense was so satisfied, that at last he closed
his eyes and slept.

It seemed to him only a little while, but when he opened his eyes again
Lisa was beside him with his dinner; and after dinner he slept again,
and when he awakened the lawn was in shadow, and the sun low in the sky,
and the birds were twittering and seeking their nests, and Miss Rachel
was telling Joe to put cushions in the boat, the _Flyaway_; and
presently Phil found himself floating gently on the lovely water of the
lake, and the cottage and lawn and arbors were looking like a pretty bit
of landscape he had seen in books.

He dipped his fingers in the clear water, and looked down at the pebbly
bottom, and listened to the even dip of the oars, as old Joe rowed
farther out from shore.

"It must be fairy-land," thought Phil, but he said nothing; he was too
happy to talk. And so the day ended--the first day in the country.

CHAPTER VIII

THE NEW COMPANION

Miss Schuyler was a very active, industrious lady, and her time was
fully occupied. She had her house and grounds to attend to, her business
affairs, her domestic duties, and her poor people--for paradise or
fairy-land, whichever Phil chose to call his present abode, was not
without its poor--and so, during the day, Lisa was mostly with Phil; but
he and Miss Rachel had always a pleasant chat after breakfast; and in
the evening many a long talk made known to Miss Rachel more of Phil's
character than he had any idea of; and the more she knew of the boy, the
warmer her heart became towards him, and the more thankful she was that
she had been able to do for him just what was wanted, and just at the
right time.

Already there was a little color in his pale cheeks, and an eagerness
for his meals. He could endure more fatigue, and he suffered less pain.
Indeed, Dr. Smith, who lived half a mile off, had promised to send his
son, a lad of twelve, down to see Phil in his stead. "For," said he,
"Graham does not know one bone from another, and will soon help Phil to
forget all about his, or whether they ache or not."

And so Graham Smith, a ruddy-cheeked fellow, full of life and spirit,
came to see Phil.

It was a warm June day when they first saw each other.

Phil was sketching, and Lisa was sitting beside him sewing. Joe was
Phil's model, standing patiently by the hour to be made into studies of
heads, arms, trunk, or the whole man.

Suddenly there was a loud bark of welcome from Nep, the Newfoundland
dog--who greeted tramps with growls--and Graham Smith came up the garden
path, followed by Nep, leaping frantically upon and about him.

He nodded in a brusque way to Lisa and Phil, and without a word bent
down over the sketch, gave a long, low whistle, and said, "Isn't that
bully?"

"If I knew what bully meant, I could answer you, perhaps," replied
Phil, gazing up with admiration at the brown and red cheeks, the clear
blue eyes, and the tough, hardy-looking frame of his new acquaintance.

"I'm not sure I can tell you; only you can beat all the boys I know at
this sort of work," said Graham. "Where did you learn how to do it?"

"Oh, I have not learned yet; I am only just beginning."

"Haven't you had any lessons?"

"No; it comes naturally to me to draw. I wish I could do it better,
that's all," said Phil, with a little sigh.

"I wouldn't want to do any better than that," said Graham.

"Oh yes, you would," replied Phil, very much pleased, however, with such
heartfelt admiration of his drawing.

Just then Nep made another leap upon Graham, and the two, after a
friendly tussle, had a race down to the lake, where Graham tossed a
stick, and sent the dog after it.

"That is something _I_ cannot do," said Phil, as the boy came up to him
again; "and yet you do it as easily as I draw."

"What--shy that stick off on the water? Then you don't play ball?"

"I don't even walk," said Phil.

Graham seemed both astonished and sorry, so he turned it off with, "But
you are going to, you know, when you get well--and you can do more than
any of us now. Let's go out on the water. May we?" he asked, turning to
Lisa.

"Oh yes," said Lisa; and Joe was glad to get the _Flyaway_ ready for a
start.

Phil was placed in the stern, where Graham promised to show him how to
steer. Phil was an apt scholar, and delighted to be of use. Joe
addressed Graham as "Captain," and complimented him on the fine
feathering of his oar. The lad was a good oarsman, and made the boat
respond to her name.

"Where shall we go, mate?" asked Graham of Phil.

"The Captain must give orders," was Phil's reply.

"Have you been down to Point of Rocks?" asked Graham, directing Phil's
eyes to a distant promontory.

"No, I have not been so far yet."

"There are lots of water-lilies there."

"Oh, do go there, then! I want some to copy."

"All right. Pull on your starboard oar, Joe; there, that will do. Now we
will soon reach it."

It was a lovely little nook where grew the lilies, after they had turned
around the jutting stones which gave a name to the spot, and Phil soon
had his hands full of fragrant buds. The water was so clear that he
could see their long green stems away down to the black mud from which
they sprang. They moored the boat, and Graham got out to ramble,
returning with ferns and mosses and wild-flowers for Phil.

"Now," said he, "if you don't mind, I'm going to have a swim just around
the rocks here where the water is deeper and not so full of weeds. I
wish you could come."

"So do I," said Phil, watching with admiration every movement of his
lively companion. Besides admiration, too, there was a twinge of envy,
which he really did not know to be that hateful fault; but it passed in
a moment, and he laughed loudly to see Graham's antics in the water.

The bath over, they turned homeward. Miss Rachel was entertaining guests
in the parlor. Lisa had gone off for a walk. Graham had to go home, but
promised frequent visits; and as Phil was tired, Joe carried him up and
laid him on his bed, putting his mosses on the table, and the
water-lilies in an oblong vase which was usually filled with fragrant
flowers. The wind harp was there, too, and as Phil, with closed eyes,
was resting in the half-twilight made by shut blinds, there came from it
a little murmur, which grew into a long, sad monotone. He dared not
move, and would not speak, but between his eyelids, partly raised, he
thought he saw the familiar little winged creature who had comforted and
entertained him in his wretched city home.

"How little people know what they are doing when they pull up ferns and
mosses in the woods!" said the soft voice. "I was sleeping soundly on
the nicest bed imaginable, having travelled far for just a whiff of
water-lily odor that I thought might refresh a poor little hospital
patient tossing with fever in the city, when with a violent wrench I
found myself borne off from my sheltered and dusky resting-place, and
tossed into a boat in the blinding glare of the sun. Fortunately, I had
wrapped myself in some broad grape-vine leaves, and was mistaken for a
moth cocoon; else, dear Phil, I had not been here."

"I am so glad, so very glad, to see you again!" murmured Phil, softly.

"And I am so glad you are in the country! You could not have lived long
in the city. What are you doing now?"

"Getting well, they tell me."

"Do you ever think of the ones who cannot do that?"

"No, I do not," said Phil, in some surprise.

"Ah, there are so many. I see them often--little creatures who are
friendless and helpless. You should not forget them."

"It is not that I forget, I do not think of them at all. I suppose I
would if I saw them."

"Well, you must think of them, and do something for them. Oh yes, I know
you do not believe you can, but the way will come if you try. All that I
do is to whisper soft songs in their ears, or give them a little waft of
summer freshness, but it sometimes stops their painful tossing, and
brings sleep to their tired eyes."

"I will think; I will try," said Phil.

"That is right," replied the fairy. "Now I will call some of my friends,
the flower fairies, hidden in these water-lilies, and you shall see them
dance." She clapped her hands softly together, and out of each lily
crept a tiny shape of radiant whiteness and lily-like grace, so pure, so
exquisite, that they did indeed seem to be the very essence and spirit
of the flower. And now began another of those fantastic movements which
Phil had before witnessed. Now in wreaths, now apart, and again in
couples, they swayed about in an ecstasy of mirth, and the wind harp
gave out strains of wild and melodious sound. They nodded to each other
in their glee, and Phil could hardly tell whether they really were
fairies or flowers, for they looked just as the flowers might when blown
about in a breeze. As he gazed, his eyelids began to droop. He was very
tired. The music grew fainter and fainter. He seemed to be again in the
boat, listening to the water lapping its sides, and Graham seemed to be
with him, reaching out for lilies; and then all faded, and Phil was fast
asleep.

CHAPTER IX

A VISIT FROM THE YOUNG DOCTOR

"Now, Phil," said Miss Rachel, "I am not going to be so busy for a
while, and though you cannot study yet, for the doctors say you must
not, I shall read aloud to you a little every day. Graham has promised
to come often to visit you, and with our boating and driving, and
pleasant friends coming to stay with us, I think we shall have rather a
nice summer. What do you think?"

Phil's face lighted up with a grateful smile, which grew into rather a
sober expression.

"I think it is all delightful; but--"

"But what, my dear; are you not contented?"

"Oh yes, more than that: I am as happy as I can be; but--"

"Another but."

"Miss Rachel, what becomes of all the poor sick children in the city who
have no such friend as you are to me?"

"They suffer sadly, dear Phil."

"Then don't you think I ought to remember them sometimes?"

"Yes, in your prayers."

"Is there no other way?"

"I am not sure that there is for a child like you. Perhaps there may be,
and we will think about it; but you must not let such a thought oppress
you; it is too much for a sick child to consider. Be happy; try to get
well; do all you can to make everybody about you glad that you are here,
by pleasant looks and good-nature. There, that is a little sermon which
you hardly need, dear, for you are blessed with a sweet and patient
temper, and are far less troublesome than many a well child."

"I suppose I do not deserve any praise if I was made so," said Phil,
laughing.

"No, not a bit; the poor cross little things who fret and tease and
worry are the ones who should be praised when they make an effort not to
be disagreeable. But I am not going to preach any more. I am going
down-stairs to make some sponge-cake for the picnic you and Lisa and I
are going to have to-morrow."

"A picnic! a real one in the woods?"

"Yes, and here comes Graham with a basket. I wonder what is in it.
Good-bye. I will send him up to you."

Graham came up in a few moments with the basket on his arm.

"Guess what I have here, Phil."

"How can I?"

"Oh yes, you can--just guess."

"Something to eat?"

"No, little piggy; or rather yes, if you choose."

"Well, chickens or eggs?"

"No, neither."

"Fruit?"

"Guess again."

"Medicine for some of your father's sick people?"

"No."

"Flowers? Oh no, one cannot eat flowers if they choose. I give it up."

"Well, then, watch," and lifting the cover slowly, three cunning white
rabbits poked their little twitching noses over the edge of the basket.

Phil gazed at them delightedly. "And you call those little darlings
something to eat, do you?"

"If you choose, yes."

"As if any one could choose to be such a cannibal! What precious little
beauties they are! Oh, how pretty they look!"

"They are for you."

"Really! Oh, thank you, Graham. But you must ask Miss Schuyler."

"I did, and I am to build them a hutch. Until I do, there is an empty
box in the barn where they can stay."

"And you can build--handle tools like a carpenter? How nice that must
be!"

"Oh, that's nothing; all boys can do that."

Graham forgot that Phil was one boy who could not, but seeing the shade
come over his friend's face made him repent his hasty speech.

"I beg your pardon," he said, in a low voice.

"No, you need not, Graham. I must get used to being different from other
boys. Well, these are just the loveliest little things I ever saw. What
do they live on?"

"Almost any green thing; they are very fond of lettuce. When you are
able you must come and see my lop-ears."

"Have you many rabbits?"

"Yes, quite a number. Let me see: there's Neb (he's an old black
fellow--Nebuchadnezzar), and Miss Snowflake, Aunt Chloe (after the one
in _Uncle Tom's Cabin_), Fanny Elssler (because she jumps about so), and
Mr. Prim--- he is the stillest old codger you ever saw."

"What other pets have you?"

"I've lots of chickens, three dogs, two cats, a squirrel, and a parrot."

"A large family."

"Yes, almost too large; they will have to be given up soon."

"How soon?"

"In the fall, I suppose; I am going to boarding-school."

"What fun!"

"You would be amused with Polly. She is a gay old thing--laughs, sings,
and dances."

"Oh, Graham, can she do all that?"

"Indeed she can; sometimes she sings like a nurse putting a child to
sleep, in a sort of humming hush-a-by-baby way; then she tries
dance-music, and hops first on one foot, then on the other--this way,"
and Graham began mimicking the parrot, and Phil laughed till the tears
came.

"She screams out 'Fire!' like an old fury, but she is as serene as a
May day when she gets her cup of coffee."

"Is that your parrot, Graham?" asked Miss Schuyler.

"Yes, ma'am, that's our green-and-golden Polly."

"We will have to pay it a visit. Can you join our picnic to-morrow? it
is Phil's first one."

"Really! why, he has a good deal to learn of our country ways."

"Yes, and I have a little plan to propose in which you may help us.
Promise you will come."

"Oh, I am always ready, thank you, Miss Schuyler. Shall we go by boat?"

"To be sure, to Eagle Island."

"Then we will go early, I suppose, as it is quite a long pull. What must
I bring, Miss Schuyler?"

"Only your arms, Graham, for alone Joe will perhaps find the rowing a
little too much in the warm sun. I am Commissary-General for the party.
That means, Phil, that I furnish the provisions: a Commissary-General
has to see that his troops are well fed."

"There is no danger about that, I am sure," said Graham, gallantly, "if
Miss Schuyler leads us."

"Well, then, to-morrow at nine, before the sun is too high--earlier
would not do for Phil. And now be off with yourself: and your bunnies,
Graham, leave them in the barn; and tell your good, kind father that you
are an excellent substitute for himself, that Phil is improving even
faster with your visits than he did with his."

"Good-bye, then, Phil; good-bye, Miss Schuyler. To-morrow at nine."

CHAPTER X

THE PICNIC

It was a perfect morning. Blue sky, with pure little snow-drop clouds,
as if the angels had dropped them from their baskets as they tended the
flowers in the heavenly gardens. The lake sparkled and glistened in the
sunshine, and every wave seemed to leap joyously as it broke in soft
foam on the shore. In one end of the _Flyaway_ sat Phil, on a pile of
shawls; in the other were stowed a large basket, a pail of ice, and a
pail of milk, and in between were Miss Rachel, Lisa, Joe, and Graham.
Phil had twisted up a little nosegay for each, and had pinned a broad
wreath of grape-leaves around Joe's straw hat, making the old fellow
laugh at his nonsense. They were just pushing off, when a sudden
rattling of chain and some impatient barks from Nep showed that he began
to feel neglected.

"I thought we could get away unnoticed," said Miss Rachel, "but I find
myself mistaken."

The boys pleaded for Nep. "Ah, let him come, please let him come."

Nep's leaps becoming frantic, Miss Rachel yielded, and Graham soon had
him loosened. He jumped at once into the boat, and crept under Phil's
feet, making a nice warm mat.

"Poor Nep," said Phil, patting him, "he felt neglected"; and the big
tail wagged thankful thumps against the boat.

The morning air was sweet with all manner of herbage yet fresh from the
morning dew. The trees were in their most brilliant green, and every
leaf seemed newly washed.

Graham began a boating song, and Miss Schuyler joined in the chorus. Old
Joe chuckled and grinned; even quiet Lisa hummed a little as the song
rose louder; and Phil, dipping his hands in the clear water, imagined
that the fishes were frisking a waltz in their honor. They glided past
Point of Rocks, past huge beds of water-lilies, past lovely little coves
and inlets, and spots where Graham said there was excellent fishing;
finally Eagle Island became more distinct, and its pine-trees began to
look imposing.

"Here we are!" said Graham at last, bringing the _Flyaway_ up nicely on
a pebbly beach, in good boating style.

Graham and Joe made a chair with their hands and arms, and so carried
Phil very comfortably to the place under the trees which Miss Rachel had
chosen for their encampment.

"Now," said Miss Rachel, as she brought out Phil's portfolio, a book,
her own embroidery, and Lisa's sewing, "I propose that Graham, being a
more active member of society than we are, go off with Joe and catch
some fish for our dinner."

"Just the thing!" said Graham; "but I did not bring a line."

"Joe has everything necessary--bait and all," said Miss Schuyler.

"Now," said Miss Rachel, when the fishermen had gone, seeing Phil's
longing look, and knowing well how much he would have liked to go with
them, "we must go to work too, so that we may enjoy our play all the
more afterwards. I could not let you go with Graham, my dear Phil; it
would have fatigued you too much; but I want you to try and draw me that
drooping bush on the edge of the water, and while you draw I will read
aloud for a while."

Miss Schuyler read, explained, talked to Phil about his drawing, and
gave him the names of the trees about him.

The time flew fast, and it seemed a very little while when Miss Schuyler
said to Lisa, "I think I hear oars; we had better be getting our feast
ready."

They brought out the basket and pails, spread a nice red dessert cloth
down on a smooth patch of grass, laid broad green leaves down for the
rolls and biscuits; golden balls of butter were in a silver dish of
their own, and so were the berries in a willow basket, around which they
put a few late wild-flowers.

"Now we want a good flat stone for our fireplace, and--Ah! here come
our fishermen just in time."

Graham and Joe now appeared with a few perch, but plenty of catfish.
They went to work with zeal, and soon had enough brush for the fire,
which they built at a good distance. And while Graham fed it, Joe
skinned his catfish, salted the perch, and laid them on the stone.

Then they all sat around their grassy table, and Joe served them in fine
style, bringing them their fish smoking hot on white napkins.

How merry they were over the good things, and how eager Graham was to
cook fish for Joe, and serve the old fellow as nicely as he had done all
of them! And Phil cut the very largest slice of cake for Joe.

"It is just the jolliest picnic I ever was at," said Graham, helping to
wash and clear away, and re-stow spoons and forks.

"Of course it is," said Phil. "There never can be another quite so nice:
it is my first one, you know."

"Yes; just think of it, and it's my fiftieth, I suppose; but then you
must not think all picnics like this. It is something really remarkable
to have everything go off so smoothly. Why, sometimes all the crockery
gets smashed, or the fire won't burn, or if it does, you get the smoke
in your eyes, or your potatoes get burned, and your lemonade gets in
your milk, or somebody puts your ice in the sun, and, to crown it all,
down comes a shower."

"Dear, dear, what a chapter of accidents, Graham!"

"Are you listening, Miss Rachel?" said Graham, with a quizzical look. "I
was only letting Phil know how much better you manage than most people."

"Well, when you and Phil are ready, I want to tell you about something
else I should like to manage. Come, put away all the books and work, and
listen to my preaching."

Miss Rachel sat on a fallen tree, leaning against some young birches.
"Phil was asking me, yesterday," said she, "what becomes of all the poor
sick children in the city, and he seemed to think he ought in some way
to help them; so I promised to think about what he had been
considering, and a little plan came into my head in which I thought you
could help us, Graham."

Graham looked up with a pleased face, and nodded.

"It is just this. In the city hospitals are many sick children who have
to stay in bed almost all the time. Now Phil and I want to do the little
that we can for them, and it seems to me it would be nice to send fresh
flowers and fruit--all that we can spare from our gardens--once or twice
a week to some of these sick city children. What do you think, boys?"

"It would be lovely, Miss Schuyler," said Phil, "only I do not see how
_we_ could help; it would all come from you."

"Not all, dear child. I mean to give you both a share of the work--you
in your way, and Graham in his. Are you interested? Shall I go on and
tell you?"

"Yes, indeed," both exclaimed.

"I propose that we set aside a certain part of our flower-garden and our
fruit-trees, you and I, Graham (for I know you have a garden of your
own), which we will call our 'hospital fruits and flowers,' and Phil is
to assist in making up boquets, hulling berries, and packing to send
away; besides that, he is to make some little pictures, just little bits
of sketches of anything that he fancies--a spray of buds, a single
pansy, Joe's old hat and good-natured face beneath, a fish, or a bit of
vine-covered fence--and we will sell them for him, and the money shall
help pay the express charges upon our gifts to the sick children, so
that Phil will really be doing more than any of us. How do you like my
plan?"

The boys were pleased, and had begun to say so, when a shout came from
the other part of the island from Joe, and Nep set up a violent barking.

"Hi! look up dar, Miss Schuyler!" called out Joe.

"Quick, Phil!" said Graham; "look! there's an eagle. How fortunate we
are! There he goes, sailing away in all his glory"; and sure enough, the
great bird floated farther and farther up in the blue sky.

Still Nep kept on barking, and Graham ran down to see what was the
matter. He came back with something dangling from his hand, Joe and Nep
following.

[Illustration: "LOOK! THERE'S AN EAGLE"]

"A black snake--oh, what a dreadful creature!" exclaimed Lisa.

"Yes, indeed, ma'am," said Joe; "and if Nep hadn't barked so, the
drefful cretur would have bitten me sure. That dog knows a heap; you'd
better allus take him with you in the woods, Miss Rachel. I was lyin'
off sound asleep, with this critter close beside me, when Nep come up,
and barked just as plain as speakin'. 'Take care,' says he, 'ole Joe,
you're in danger,' an' with that I woke in a hurry, an' jist then I saw
that big eagle come soarin' overhead, and then Marsa Graham come and
give that snake his death-blow."

"How did you do it, Graham?" asked Phil, excitedly.

"Oh, I pounded him on the head with a stone as he was making off. He is
a pretty big fellow, and he must have swum from the main-land, Miss
Schuyler."

"Yes, I never saw a snake on this island before."

"Come here, Nep," said Phil, "dear old fellow; good dog for taking care
of Joe. Your head shall be my first picture for our sick children."

CHAPTER XI

A PAIR OF CRUTCHES

Aunt Rachel's plan was entered into most heartily by both boys, and
Graham became so much interested as to act as express agent on his own
account, going to the city with what he called his first load of berries
and flowers; but on his return was so silent and uncommunicative that
Phil asked him if anything had gone wrong.

"Don't ask me to tell you what I saw," said he, in reply; "it was more
than I could stand." Then, as if sorry for his short answer, he added,
"It was the most pitiful thing in the world--such a lot of little pale
faces all together! and when I came to give them their share, as the
lady in charge told me to do, I cried right out like any baby--there,
now! But you have no idea how they brightened up, and how glad they
looked when they took the posies. I don't want to go again, though,
unless Miss Rachel asks me to. I shall see those poor wizened little
things as long as I live. I am going to sell all my pets this fall and
give the money to St. Luke's Hospital, and I shall sell every egg my
chickens lay, for the same purpose."

After that Phil asked no more questions, but worked harder than ever at
his drawings, and as the season advanced, and flowers and fruit grew
more abundant, they were able to despatch a basket twice a week.

Every day was filled with new life and pleasure. Increasing strength
alone would have been a source of happiness, but in addition to this
Phil had the benefit of Aunt Rachel's loving-kindness, Lisa's nursing,
Joe's good offices, and Graham's pleasant, friendly attentions. Then he
was learning constantly something new, with eyes and ears, from the book
of nature, with all its wonderful pictures, and from the other books
allowed him.

Driving behind old Slow Coach and floating on the lake in the _Flyaway_
were some of the delights, and when more visitors came, and two charming
young cousins of Aunt Rachel made the house resound with melody, Phil
thought his happiness complete. But a new surprise was in store for him
when, after repeated consultations and measurements and whisperings, a
huge parcel was brought to his room, and Aunt Rachel and Lisa took off
the wrappings. Neither of them looked particularly joyful as a pair of
stout crutches made their appearance, but their faces changed
wonderfully when Phil gave a cry of glee, and said, hilariously, "Now I
can walk! now I can walk!"

He was eager to use his new helps, but it took a longer time than he had
imagined to get accustomed to them, and it was many weeks before he
could go down the garden paths (followed by Nep with much gravity, as if
Phil were in his especial care) with desirable ease.

Coming in from one of these rather tiresome attempts one warm morning,
and hearing music and voices in the parlor, Phil strayed into the
dining-room, which was darkened and cool, and fragrant with fresh
flowers. He lay down on a lounge, with his crutches beside him, and was
listening to the pretty waltz being played in the other room, when he
thought he saw a tiny creature light upon one of his crutches. Supposing
it, however, to be a butterfly, he watched it in a sleepy, dreamy
fashion, until it approached more nearly, and these words startled him:

"You do not know me?" said a tiny voice, rather reproachfully.

"What! is it you, my dear little wind fairy?" he asked. "I never dreamed
that I should see you again. How did you get here?"

"Blown here, to be sure, as I always am, only I have to pilot myself, or
what would be the use of having wings? I came on some thistle-down this
time, for I wanted to have another peep at you, and I have had hard work
to follow you in here, I assure you; but the vibrations of that lovely
music helped me, and here I am. Do not talk--let me do it all. I never
have much time, you know, and I want to thank you for your goodness in
taking my advice, and helping some of my little sick friends. You do not
begin to know what good you have done--nobody does; but doing good is
very like the big snowballs that children make in winter--a little ball
at first, but as they roll, it grows bigger and bigger, almost of
itself, until it is more than one can manage. So it has been with your
kind action: many have imitated it, and flowers come now to the
hospitals by the bushel. Not only children, but grown people, sad with
suffering, have been cheered and benefited. And you too are growing
strong: how glad I am to see it! Your cheeks are tinged with just a
delicate bloom, and you have grown taller. Ah, the country is the place
for you children! I saw one of your sketches in the hospital the other
day, hung under a little cross made of moss; it was a water-lily, and
out of it was stepping some one who looked like me. The child who owned
it said it came to her tied to some roses. She did not know I heard her;
she was telling a visitor, and she said it made her happy every time she
looked at it. That was a pretty thought of yours. This is my last visit
for a long while. I am to be sent off to fan her Royal Highness, the
Queen of Kind Wishes, when her coronation takes place. She lives in her
palace of Heart's Ease, in a far-away island. I am to sail part of the
way in a nautilus--one of those lovely shells you have seen, I dare
say."

"No," said Phil, "I never saw one. And so you are going away--"

"Never saw a nautilus!" interrupted the fairy, as if afraid Phil was
going to be doleful over her departure. "It looks like a ship, for all
the world, and it _is_ a ship for me, but it would not hold you--oh no!
not such a gigantic creature as a boy"; and the fairy laughed aloud.

"Dear me," said Phil; "no more visits, no more fairy stories. What will
I do?"

"Shall I tell you just one more story before I say good-bye?"

"Please do."

"Well, shut your eyes and listen."

Phil obeyed, and the fairy began:

"In the days when fairies had much more power than they now have, there
lived in a little house on the edge of a wood haunted by elves and
brownies a boy named Arthur. He was a bright, handsome lad, but a little
lazy, and much more fond of pleasure than of work; and he had a way of
flinging himself down in the woods to lounge and sleep when his mother
at home was waiting for him to come back with a message, or to do some
little promised task. Now the fairies knew this, and it displeased them;
for they are as busy as bees, and do not like idleness. Besides, as one
bad habit leads to another, Arthur, in his lounging ways, would often do
great damage to the fairies' flower-beds, switching off the heads of
wild-flowers in the most ruthless fashion, and even pulling them up by
the roots when he felt like it.

"One day he had been indulging this whim without any motive, hardly even
thinking what he was doing, when he began to feel very strangely: a
slight chill made him shiver; his eyes felt as if they were coming out
of his head, his legs as if they were getting smaller and smaller; he
had an irresistible desire to hop, and he was very thirsty. There was a
rivulet near, and instead of walking to it he leaped, and stooping to
drink, he saw himself reflected in its smooth surface. No longer did he
see Arthur; no longer was he a mortal boy. Instead of this, a frog--a
green speckled frog, with great bulging eyes and a fishy mouth--looked
up at him. He tried to call, to shout, but in vain; he could only croak,
and this in the most dismal manner. What was he to do? Sit and stare
about him, try to catch flies, plunge down into the mud--charming
amusements for the rest of his life! A little brown bird hopped down for
a drink from the rivulet; she stooped and rose, stooped and rose, again
and again.

"A great green tear rolled down from the frog's bulging eye, and
splashed beside the bird's drinking-place. She looked up in alarm, and
said, in the sweetest voice imaginable, 'Can I do anything to assist
you?'

"'I am sure I don't know,' croaked Arthur, hoarse as if he had been born
with a sore throat.

"'But what _is_ the matter?' persisted the little brown bird, as more
green tears splashed beside her.

"'The matter is that I am a frog, I suppose,' said Arthur, rather
rudely.

"'Well, what of that?' still said the little bird. 'Frogs are very
respectable.'

"'Are they, indeed; then I'd rather not be respectable,' said Arthur.

"'You shock me,' said the bird.

"'I don't wonder; it has been a great shock to me,' responded Arthur.

"'What has?' said the bird.

"'Being a frog,' replied Arthur.

"'Have you not always? Oh no; I presume you were once a tadpole; all
frogs are at first.'

"'Indeed I never was a tadpole,' said Arthur, indignantly; and then, it
seeming somewhat a funny idea to him, he began to laugh in the hoarsest,
croakiest _kerthumps_, which brought him to his senses again. Then he
added, to the little brown bird which fluttered about him in some
agitation, 'No, I never was a tadpole--I was a boy named Arthur a few
moments ago.'

"'Aha!' twittered the little brown bird, 'I see now: you have been
bewitched.'

"'I suppose so,' said Arthur, 'and I would gladly be bewitched into a
boy again, if that would do any good.'

"'I must try and see what I can do for you. I am very busy repairing my
nest--it was injured in the last storm; but I will go as soon as I can
to see one of the herb elves, and find out what is to be done. You must
have displeased them very much.'

"'You are very kind,' replied Arthur, taking no notice of the latter
words.

"'Oh no, not at all; it is a pleasure,' said the little brown bird.

"'Can I do anything for you?' asked Arthur, roused into politeness by
the pleasant manners of his little friend.

"'You might gather some twigs or moss. Oh no, it would be all wet, and I
should have great bother in drying it,' said the little house-keeper. 'I
am equally obliged, but you had better just stay quiet and keep cool
till I return'; and she flew softly away.

"'I can keep cool enough,' repeated Arthur; 'when one's legs are in the
water, it would be pretty hard to do anything else.'

"It seemed dreadfully long to wait, when all he could do was to wink and
yawn and gobble flies, and yet lounging in the woods and killing flowers
had never seemed tedious when he was a boy. He tried to go to sleep, but
was in too great a bewilderment to quietly close his eyes in slumber, so
he gazed at the brook, and wondered when the little brown bird would
reappear."

CHAPTER XII

THE FAIRY'S STORY CONTINUED

"Sooner than he had supposed, Arthur heard the soft little twitter of
his new friend.

"'I have flown really quite a distance, and had the good-fortune to see
the elf who has charge of these woods. He is very much vexed with you,
and will not listen to any excuse; though knowing so little about the
matter, I hardly knew what to offer. I pleaded your youth, however, and
made bold to promise your good behavior in the future, and while I was
speaking one of the lesser elves twitched my wing a little, and
whispered,

"'"Promise him something he likes as a ransom, and perhaps he will
answer your request."

"'"But I do not know what he likes," I replied. "Can you suggest
anything?" I added, in the same whisper.

"'"He is very much in need of some sea-weed. I heard him say the other
day that he wanted some iodine, and that he would have to send a party
of us off to the sea-shore to get sea-weed, from which we make iodine.
Now, if your friend can get it, he would be so much pleased that I am
sure he would be willing to forgive him, and restore him to his proper
condition."

"'After hearing this, I made the offer in your name, and received a
favorable reply. You are to get two pounds of sea-weed in less than a
fortnight. It is to be laid on the large flat rock which you will see
lower down the stream, under the chestnut-tree. You are to leave it
there, and by no means to remain there, but return here, and your
reward will await you.'

"Arthur thanked the little bird warmly, but inwardly despaired of
accomplishing anything so difficult.

"The little bird hopped restlessly about. 'You will try to do this, will
you not?' she asked.

"'Of course I will try,' said Arthur, rather ashamed, and striving to
put a bold face on the matter. 'I will try, but I do not know exactly
what to do first.'

"'Streams run into rivers, and rivers to the sea,' twittered the bird.

"'Yes; but I hardly think frogs swim in deep water. I will have to
contrive a boat or a float of some sort.'

"Just then a huge trout sprang up after a fly and missed it. Quick as a
flash the little bird darted up, caught the fly, dropped it into the
trout's open mouth, and twittered something unintelligible to Arthur. He
heard, however, a curious sound of words from the trout.

"'Jump on my back, jump on my back, and be off, alack!'

"'Go,' said the bird, quickly.

"Arthur made a bound, and found himself on Mr. Specklesides's back in
an instant.

"'Good-bye,' sang the little bird, loudly, for already the trout had
flashed away into a dark pool beneath a cascade, where the falling
waters made a deafening noise. In another instant he made another dart,
and quick as lightning they were in broad, shallow water. Again they
were whirled from eddy to eddy, and already the stream had widened into
a little river. The bending trees, the weeds, and grasses, were mirrored
in its cool depths, as now with long, steady stroke the trout swam on.

"Suddenly another shape darkened the glassy surface of the water. It was
the figure of a man in slouched hat and high boots, and long tapering
rod in hand. He seemed to be quite motionless, but far out near the
middle of the stream, just where the trout was swimming, danced a
brilliant fly. A leap, a dash, and then began such a whirling mad rush
through the water that Arthur knew he would be overthrown. The trout had
seized the fly, and the fisherman, rapidly unreeling his line, waited
for the fish to exhaust himself. Before this was done, however, Arthur
was thrown violently off the trout's back, and by dint of desperate
efforts reached the shore, where for a long while he lay motionless.

"When he revived he found himself in long sedgy grass, well shielded
from observation. The trout was nowhere to be seen, and Arthur knew that
it was idle to search for him. Poor fellow! his fate had found him, and
no doubt he was lying quietly enough now in the fisherman's basket.

"'"Streams run into rivers, and rivers to the sea," and I must look for
some other method than the trout's back.'

"He hopped about wearily, ate a few flies, and then, quite worn out,
fell fast asleep. When he awoke it was dark. Fire-flies flashed about
him brilliantly; stars beamed so brightly that they seemed double, half
above in the sky, and half below in the water. From some overhanging
boughs came a dismal hooting.

"'Hush!' cried Arthur, impatiently. 'Why do you want to spoil the night
with such wailing?'

"'I have lost three lovely little owlets,' was the response. 'Darling
little fluffy cherubs! Never had an owl-mother three such beauties!'

"'Where are they?' asked Arthur.

"'Devoured by a horrible night-hawk,' sobbed the owl.

"'Where has the night-hawk flown?'

"'Far down the river after prey.'

"'Why do you not go after him and punish him?'

"'It is too far, and I am too sorrowful.'

"'You have no spirit. _I_ would peck his eyes out were I in your place.'

"'Ah! you are young and strong and brave.'

"'Take me on your back, and we will fly after him.'

"'Come, then, and do battle for me, noble friend.'

"Down flew the owl, and up jumped Arthur quickly on its back, inwardly
wondering how a frog could be a match for a night-hawk, but quite
resolved to aid the poor owl if he could. With a delightful sense of
freedom and glorious liberty, such as he had never before even imagined,
they rose high above the tree-tops.

"The moon had now risen, and the air seemed transparent silver.

"Keeping near the border of the river, which had greatly widened, they
emerged from one forest only to enter another.

"The wild cries of loons saluted them; herds of deer, cooling themselves
in the water, glanced up with startled gaze as they passed.

"A dark bird flapped low over the water as a fish leaped from the waves.

"'It is my enemy,' whispered the owl.

"'Pursue him,' returned Arthur.

"'My heart sinks within me; the memory of my owlets subdues all
revengefulness. Though I should make him suffer, it would not return to
me my children.'

"'But if we kill him he can do no further mischief.'

"'True, true; but he is a fearful fellow. What weapons have you with
which to meet him?'

"'None but my eyes and legs; a frog is a poor despicable wretch under
such circumstances. Our weight together might sink him. You must fly at
him with one tremendous blow, get him down in the water, and all the fish
will assist to punish him, for all owe him a grudge. Or stay: fly close
to him, and I will leap upon him; the weight will surprise and annoy
him, and you must then make a dash for his eyes. Pluck them out if you
can; it will be worse than death for him.'

"'Barbaric torture! But the memory of my owlets hardens my motherly
heart; it pulsates with tremendous force; their loss is the world's
loss. I hasten to the combat.'

"They swept down low as the hawk swooped for fish; Arthur sprang upon
its back; the owl darted at the creature's eyes, and with a furious
blow, first at one then at the other, made her enemy sightless. The
hawk, with a cry of pain, fell into the water. Instantly an enormous
fish dragged him beneath, and it was only by wonderful dexterity on the
part of the owl and of the frog that the latter was unhurt. He nestled
once again among the owl's soft feathers, and they sought the shore.

"'Now how shall I repay you, my brave friend?' asked the owl, as Arthur
leaped upon land.

"'I do not wish for any reward,' replied Arthur.

"'Nevertheless, you will not refuse to grant a sorrowful and stricken
mother the little balm which her grateful spirit seeks in the return or
acknowledgment of so vast a favor as you have conferred upon me.'

"Arthur thought a moment, and then told the owl of his journey and
errand to the sea-shore. 'Perhaps, as you are so famous for wisdom,
Mother Owl, you may be able to give me some advice which will assist me
to get the sea-weed, and return as speedily as I can,' he said, as he
finished his narration.

"'I will consider,' replied the owl, bending her searching gaze towards
the earth. After a few moments' reflection, in which she rolled her
luminous and cat-like eyes about, ruffled her feathers, and uttered a
few soft 'to-whit to-whoos,' she murmured, 'I have it. Seldom do I
require to deliberate so anxiously, but parental anguish has clouded my
active brain; the recent combat, also, has exhausted my nervous system.
I have the happy thought at last, though, and you shall be assisted. We
will fly to the nest of an old friend, a celebrated kingfisher. He lives
not far from here; he knows the coast well, and will aid us. Come, mount
upon my willing back, and we will fly at once.'

"This was no sooner said than done. They flew swiftly over the now broad
expanse of water, rolling in a powerful stream, bordered by a wild and
harsh-looking forest. A few tall and leafless trunks in a cluster
contained, high among the bare boughs, a huge nest. From it, aroused
from his sleep, sullenly flapped a large bird.

"'Wait a moment, my friend,' called the owl, in her most beseeching
manner. 'I have a favor to ask. I wish to appeal to your intelligent
geographical, topographical, and comprehensive intellect for guidance.
You know the coast; lead us to it before the dawn of day.'

"'A most unwarrantable request, upon my word,' was the answer, in a
gruff voice. 'Why should you thus disturb my slumber, and demand of me
this journey in the night?'"

CHAPTER XIII

THE FAIRY'S STORY CONCLUDED

"The owl replied softly, telling her errand, praising the bravery of the
frog, and evidently pleasing the kingfisher with the news of the death
of his enemy the night-hawk.

"'I will go,' he answered. 'I do not pretend to be chivalric; I should
prefer to sleep; nevertheless, I will go. Rise, follow-me. I expected to
breakfast at home; now we will get some seafood.'

"'He is always thus,' whispered the owl, as Arthur and she rose high in
the air. 'He is a wonderful naturalist, a student of ichthyology, has a
vast and profound fund of knowledge, but a great gourmand, always
considering what he will eat; but he is reliable; we may trust him.'

"They sailed now high, now low, over ravines and gulfs, until the
continuous murmur which had accompanied them deepened into the steady,
solemn roar of the ocean. Great crags, broad sands, and huge waves
tossing their white crests now met their eyes.

"The soft faint gray of early dawn lit the heavens. The kingfisher
perched himself on the top of a rock, and watched the seething waves
with a steady and keen outlook. The owl fluttered down to the long line
of breakers, and bade Arthur notice the immense quantity of sea-weed
fringing the rocks in all directions.

"'Now how to carry it back is the question,' said Arthur, rather
dolorously.

"'My friend, have no fear,' said the owl. 'Go to work bravely, and
gather all you can, then we will arrange to transport it. Hasten,
however, as much as you can.'

"Arthur hopped about zealously. He was half deafened with the thunder of
the waves, half blinded with the dashing spray, half drowned with the
salt-water pouring from every cliff and cranny of the rocks. Still he
tore and clutched at the sea-weed, dragging it in masses larger than his
own frog body to where the owl waited for him on the beach, in a sort of
grotto hollowed out by the waves. There they piled it until they both
were assured they had the proper quantity. Then the owl flew to a
promontory and hailed the kingfisher. Arthur, quite worn out, fell
asleep. When he awoke, he found him self most strangely placed.

"So soundly had he slept that the owl and kingfisher, having completed
their arrangements for the removal of the sea-weed, had removed Arthur
also, and he woke to find himself on the back of an enormous sturgeon,
with sea-weed under him, over him, and about him. Tightly about the
sturgeon was bound an old rope, which the kingfisher had procured from
the remains of a wreck on the rocks, and in which he had entangled
the sturgeon; this rope the owl and kingfisher took turns in holding,
keeping the sturgeon near the surface of the waves by its check upon his
movements, which were very bold and rapid. Thus, by the double force of
flying and swimming, Arthur was carried with immense speed into the
quiet waters of a bay from which they had emerged on arriving at the
ocean.

[Illustration: MAKING THE STURGEON USEFUL]

"From the bay they sailed up into the river, and were coursing rapidly
on to its narrower surface, when the sturgeon suddenly gave a great
leap, very nearly throwing Arthur and his precious load off his back.

"The owl screamed, the kingfisher shouted hoarsely, but tightened his
hold upon the rope, while the sturgeon dashed madly on.

"Again he made another frantic leap, whereupon the kingfisher gave him a
thrust with his beak, to which the sturgeon replied,

"'The current is becoming too shallow; I can go no farther. I _must_
have air. How can you expect me to go up this trout stream? have you no
mercy for such a beast of burden as you have made me?'

"'Forward again!' shouted the kingfisher, tightening the rope once
more.

"Arthur felt the sturgeon shiver, and was conscious that his movements
were weaker. Another leap, and he burst the rope; but as he jumped he
tossed his load of sea-weed high in the air; it fell, and Arthur with
it, on a rock.

"The owl gave a long, dismal cry, the kingfisher swept madly away after
the sturgeon, and Arthur, bruised and sore, lay panting on the rock. For
a long while he could do nothing. The owl went off in search of food,
promising to return at nightfall. The day wore on. Arthur, weak with
hunger, tried to devour some of the sea-weed. It was too bitter and
salty. Leaning over the edge of the rock, he saw a shoal of tiny fishes
playing hide-and-seek in the eddies of the stream. He clutched at one of
them and devoured it. Never had he tasted a sweeter morsel. He caught
another, and another, until his hunger was fully appeased. Evening came
again; the moon shone early; Arthur was awakened from a long nap by the
hooting of the owl, which said,

"'Here I am again, my distressed friend.'

"At the same moment the kingfisher swooped down on them, and stood
tilting and flapping his wings on a corner of the rock. 'Now,' said he,
'as I am a bird of my word, and have promised to help you, we will
proceed to business. This sea-weed is dry, as you see, and very much
lighter. You, Mrs. Owl, can easily carry it, while I will take your
young friend Mr. Frog. Let us be off at once, you, madam, directing the
flight.'

"The kingfisher and Arthur then heaped the sea-weed upon the owl, and
Arthur, clambering on the rather oily back of the kingfisher, was once
again going over the tree-tops.

"Before morning they had reached the desired spot, the flat rock under
the chestnut-tree, placed the sea-weed upon it, and, hardly waiting for
thanks, the kingfisher left them.

"Arthur thanked the owl warmly, assuring her of his deep gratitude. To
which the owl replied, 'You have done me quite as good service, and my
thanks are quite as due to you. I return to my empty nest a desolate
mother, but never shall I forget your generous sympathy. Possibly I may
find consolation, but should I ever raise another brood, it could never
equal the beauty of my lost darlings. Alas! we feathered creatures have
great trials: we toil diligently for our families, build nests at great
cost of time and effort, often to see them swept away by the winds; or,
our nests lasting, and unattacked by enemies, many a young bird is
thrown to the earth by the violence of storms, and comes to an untimely
end through starvation. Sympathy, therefore, we appreciate; it helps us
to bear our sorrows with becoming fortitude. Never shall I forget your
gallantry, my friend; the thought of it will cheer many a solitary hour
when all the world is asleep. I bid you farewell.' So saying, the owl
flapped her wings and was gone.

"Arthur hopped away from the chestnut-tree to the place where he had
lost himself. It was early morning, but he was wearied, and slept in
spite of all his anxiety. When he awoke he was no longer a frog, but a
very hungry boy. The noonday sun was shining, and at his side hopped a
little brown bird. It twittered gladly, as if congratulating him, but
not one word could he understand. Before this adventure he would have
probably frightened it away, but now he reached out his hand softly and
stroked its feathers, then seeking berries, he placed them where the
little creature could feast upon them. It peered at him with its bright
little eyes, and even perched upon his shoulder. Never again did Arthur
idly destroy any living creature of the woods--not the humblest weed or
flower, bright-winged insect or speckled egg. Nor did he loiter again
when sent upon errands. The elves thereafter left him in peace."

"Good-bye, dear Phil; I am off now. This is my last story."

"Where am I? Has the music stopped? Was it my wind harp--my poor little
wind harp?"

"Why, Phil, your wind harp is broken. Did you not know that it fell from
your window last night?" said Lisa, coming into the dining-room.

"No. I wonder if I shall ever see the wind fairy again?"

"Dreaming again, Phil?" said Lisa.

"You always think I dream, Lisa, whenever I speak of fairies."

"Do I, dear? Well, you must get ready now for Graham; he is coming to
take you out on the lake. Miss Schuyler will not be home to dinner, and
we three are to have ours on Eagle Island."

Phil went up-stairs and gathered together the broken pieces of his wind
harp. He folded each piece up carefully in paper, and put them all away.
"No more fairy stories," he said to himself. "Well, I suppose I am
getting beyond them, and must put up with sober facts; but they are not
half so nice," he said, with a sigh--"not half so nice." Then he took
out his sketch-book and pencils, and prepared for work.

CHAPTER XIV

PLANS FOR THE WINTER

Summer had gone. Visitors had gone. Graham had gone to school. The banks
of the lake were red and yellow, brown and purple, with autumnal
foliage. Aunt Rachel was superintending the making of preserves. Lisa
was at work on the piazza. Phil was sketching.

Slowly up the garden path came old Joe. He took off his hat and stood
still a moment waiting for Phil to speak.

"Well, Joe, what is it?" said Phil, hardly looking up, he was so busy.

"This is just as fine as ever the garden of Eden was, but old Adam had
to go, you know, Massa Phil." He had lately, of his own accord, put the
Massa before Phil's name.

"What are you driving at, Joe?" asked Phil, absently.

"I mean I's a-gwine home, Massa Phil."

"To the city?" said Phil, surprised into attention.

"Yes, back to New York. I wants to go to work."

"Have you not enough to do here?"

"No," said Joe, with a chuckle. "It's all play here--no real hard work
sich as I's customed to."

"It is time you took it easy, Joe," said Phil.

"True nuff, but I's not one of the easy sort. Besides, who knows, Massa
Phil, but there may be other chillen--poor sick chillen--waitin' for to
hear my fiddle an' be comforted?"

Phil looked up hastily; a bright look of gratitude and love came into
his eyes.

Just then Miss Schuyler appeared, with a glass jar of jelly in her
hand; the maid was following with a trayful.

"Joe wants to go to the city, Aunt Rachel," said Phil.

"I dare say," was the ready response. "He wants a little gossip over the
kitchen fires, and he wants this nice jar of jelly for his
bread-and-butter when he has company to tea; and as we all are going
home next week, he may as well wait for the rest of us."

"Aunt Rachel!" said Phil, in dismay. Going home to the city seemed like
going back to poverty and illness, and the garret room he so well
remembered.

Aunt Rachel divined it all. "You belong to me now, Phil. Lisa and I are
partners henceforth; and while you and I travel in search of health,
study, and improvement, Lisa is going to keep house for us in her own
nice, quiet way."

"Travel!--where?--when?" said Phil, eagerly.

"The doctors suggest our going abroad--to a warm climate for the
winter--where we please; in summer, to the German baths."

"Oh, Aunt Rachel!"

This was enough for Phil to think of and wonder about all the rest of
the happy days at the lake. He could walk now with comparative ease, not
of course without crutches, and the gold and scarlet glory of the autumn
leaves was a perpetual delight to him. He gathered them for wreaths and
bouquets; he pressed them and ironed them and varnished them, and tried
every method suggested to him for keeping them; and when it came packing
time it was found necessary to get an extra trunk to contain all the
woodland treasures.

The happy summer had ended, and not without a lingering look of regret
that it could not last longer was the farewell said to the house and
lake and every pretty graceful tree or plant that adorned them.

They found the city house all in nice order for them, for Aunt Rachel
was always wise in her forethought and provision for future comfort.

Phil's little room near her own had been especially attended to, and he
found it, in all its arrangements, as complete and satisfactory as the
lovely summer nook he had vacated.

In three weeks' time they were to start for Europe. The days were spent
in preparation. Phil must have a steamer-chair, plenty of clothes,
wraps, and contrivances. All Aunt Rachel's thoughts were for Phil's
comfort; but it did not spoil him nor make him selfish; he had the happy
faculty of receiving kindness gracefully, as if glad to be the means of
making others happy by his gratitude, not as if it were his due in any
way. And in his turn he was thoughtful and considerate for others, in
trifles light as air, but nevertheless showing by the gentle, tender
manner that he meant them as evidences of his affection. He knew Lisa
dreaded parting from him, so before her he was quite silent as to his
expected pleasures, although his imagination was constantly picturing
the details of an ocean voyage. His sketch-book was getting full of
yachts and craft of all sorts and sizes--some that would have astonished
a sailor very much. Whenever he met Lisa he kissed her, whether with hat
on she was hurrying out on some errand for Miss Schuyler, or on her
return, with arms full of bundles, she was hastening through the hall.

He was necessarily left much alone, and thus had the chance to draw a
charming little picture for Lisa, and frame it with acorns, lichen, and
red maple leaves. He hung it in her room one day when she was out, and,
to his surprise, the next day it was missing. He had expected some
recognition of it, but none coming, he kept still, wondering what Lisa
had done with it. The secret came out in due time.

A day or two before their departure Lisa came to him with tears in her
eyes and a little package in her hand.

"Open it, dear; it is for you."

It was a tiny leather purse with four dollars in it.

"Lisa, you must not give me all this."

"Yes, it is yours--your own earnings. I sold your little picture, and
bought this purse with part of the money, so that you might have
something to spend just as you pleased."

"Oh, Lisa!" was all Phil could say, for though grateful, he was yet
disappointed that Lisa had not kept his picture.

"Now, dear," she said, "you can buy some little trifle for Joe, and any
one else you want to make a present to."

"Thank you, Lisa; yes, I will. It is a very nice purse," he replied; but
as soon as he could find Miss Schuyler he unburdened his heart.

"After all the pains I took with that little picture, Aunt Rachel, to
think of Lisa's selling it! Oh, how could she?"

"Hush, dear Phil; Lisa is the most unselfish creature in the world. Has
she not given you up to me? And for the pleasure she supposed it would
give you to have money of your own earning, she was willing to part with
even a thing so precious as a picture painted by you for her. Do not
question her motive for a moment. Take the money, and buy her something
useful. Come, we will go get a pretty work-basket; she will find it even
more to her taste than a picture."

So they went out and bought a light, nicely shaped basket, with little
pockets all around it, and Aunt Rachel made it complete with a silver
thimble, a strawberry emery cushion, a morocco needle-book, and an ample
supply of silk, thread, needles, pins, and buttons.

Lisa was delighted; but Phil could not be satisfied until he had painted
another little picture, and made Lisa promise that no one else should
ever have it.

Joe was made happy with some new bandanna handkerchiefs in brilliant
yellows and reds, a pipe, some tobacco, and a suit of clothes from Miss
Schuyler.

It was a tranquil, lovely day in the fall when the steamship sailed with
Aunt Rachel and Phil on board. All the bay sparkled in the sunshine, and
boats of every shape and size danced upon the blue water. After the
bustle and confusion of getting off, the leave-takings, the cries and
shouts of sailors, the blowing of whistles and ringing of bells, they
sat quietly down to watch the receding shores, and look out upon the
glittering water.

"Aunt Rachel," said Phil, "it all seems like another fairy story to me,
and we are sailing in a nautilus to the island of Heart's Ease."

"Yes, dear child, so it does. And let us hope that we shall find that
beautiful island, and never wish to leave it."

FLORIO AND FLORELLA

A CHRISTMAS FAIRY TALE

CHAPTER I

There was once a child named Florio, who had neither father nor mother,
uncle nor aunt, and so it happened that he was adopted by a witch. He
might have had a fairy godmother if anybody had remembered to ask one to
the christening, but as no one took enough interest in him for that, it
was neglected, and poor Florio became the property of a hideous, hateful
old hag, who was never so happy as when she was making trouble. Of
course Florio was compelled to do her bidding. Naturally inoffensive and
gentle, he was continually obliged to do violence to his conscience by
obeying the witch.

For instance, the witch--who was known by the name of Fussioldfuri, and
lived in a miserable cavern when she was not travelling about--had
great delight in spoiling any one's innocent amusement or upsetting his
or her plans; she even started children quarrelling and disputing;
indeed, she found this one of her particular pastimes when she was not
engaged in annoying older people.

It was among children that she made Florio particularly useful--so
useful, in fact, that he never had a friend. If she found him amusing
himself with a happy little company, she made him do some selfish or
ugly thing which at once put a stop to all the cheerfulness; and often,
before he knew what he was about, he would be struggling and kicking and
screaming and flinging himself upon one or the other of his comrades,
while Fuss--as we must call her for convenience--laughed till she shook,
and tears of joy ran down her ugly leathery cheeks. Then Florio,
ashamed, miserable, and unhappy, would creep off to a corner and weep as
if his little heart would break.

It was after one of these dreadful occurrences one day that Florio,
hiding in the woods, heard a strange rustling among the bushes. He was
so used to wandering about after old Fuss, and living anyhow and
anywhere, that he was more like a little creature of the woods himself
than anything else, and it took a good deal to frighten him. Patter,
patter, patter it went. What could it be? He peered in and out and under
the bush, but he saw nothing except a nest full of little blue eggs,
which he would not touch for the world; no, he knew too well how pleased
old Fuss would be to have him disturb this little bird family, and he
concealed it again. As he did so, the sweetest little voice said,

"That's right."

Florio jumped as if a wasp had stung him.

"Yes," continued the voice, "you couldn't have pleased me better."

"But who are you? where are you?" asked Florio, to whom kind words were
unknown, but on whom they had the effect of making his heart beat with a
new and strange emotion.

"I cannot tell you anything just now very well, but if you will meet me
here in the moonlight this evening, Florio, I will be glad to see you."

"To-night?" questioned the boy, who did not like the darkness.

"Yes, child; have no fear. I am the fairy Florella. Adieu."

The days were generally too short for Florio, who hated the nights in
the dismal cavern, when Fuss pulled his hair and pinched his nose and
tripped him up over her staff by way of amusement; but now he longed for
the night to come, although it must be confessed he was not without
fears. Fuss was uglier than usual, but this did not affect Florio as it
might have done had he not had something unusual and exciting to think
of. Soon as the witch tumbled down on her heap of straw for the night,
and showed by her heavy breathing and frightful snoring that she was
asleep, Florio crept softly from the cavern.

It was a beautiful evening, soft and balmy, but to leave the bright
roadway and enter the dark woods demanded some courage, for ill-usage
had rendered Florio timid in the darkness, though, as I have said
before, he did not fear wild animals. Indeed, when a young fox came
cautiously out of the thicket, and glanced about, Florio approached near
enough to touch his bushy tail.

It was somewhat difficult to find the precise spot of the day's
occurrence, but he noticed that whenever he went in a wrong direction a
crowd of fire-flies would start up and show him the right way, and thus
he was enabled to find the sweet-brier bush. As he reached it he heard
the same patter, patter, patter on the leaves of the bush, and looking
up he saw what caused the sound. Troops of tiny creatures were
fluttering from leaf to leaf. Each had little silvery wings like
butterflies, and each carried sprigs and sprays of blossoms, while
following them came elves of most grotesque appearance, bearing platters
of fruit and wild honey. In a moment they had formed a circle on the
grass, and danced about, singing as they went, while the elves arranged
a feast.

When all was in readiness, one--of largest size and of apparent
superiority--beckoned to Florio to come near. Afraid to disobey, yet
equally fearful of treading upon them, Florio approached, and in a
moment he was surrounded, and with gentle pressure obliged to take their
various offerings. One gave him grape leave cups and baskets woven of
perfumed grasses, another filled them with honey and fruit, while all
laughed to see what appeared to them the enormous quantities necessary
for one so large.

"Florio, you have done well to obey me," said the same sweet voice he
had heard in the daytime. "This, added to your consideration for the
bird's-nest to-day, has pleased me, and your evident misery has aroused
my compassion. Fussioldfuri is an enemy of ours, and I never expected to
see one trained by her show a pitiful or kind spirit. It proves to me
that there must be something in you worth cultivating. Are you willing
to be guided by me? Do you want to leave old Fuss, and become one of my
servitors?"

Florio was not quite sure that he fully understood all that was said to
him, but he was delighted at the idea of leaving Fuss, and said so.

Florella smiled upon him, and continued, "It may not be so easy as you
imagine; those who serve me have to stand a test of faithfulness,
energy, and courage. Our life seems one of careless mirth, but it is not
so. We, of course, are happy, and enjoy ourselves; but we have many
duties, and are not altogether free, as would be supposed. I am at the
head of this little band. We are Flower Fairies, cousins to the Wind
Fairies and Herb Elves. I am familiar with every wild-flower that grows,
and I am now desirous of getting for our forests some seeds of the
Swiss Edelweiss. If you can procure them for me I will reward you
handsomely."

Poor Florio heard this speech with consternation. He had never in all
his life known one flower from another. Where, when, how could he go?
And if he went, how should he escape Fuss? These thoughts made the poor
child falter and grow pale. It would have been so much easier to say he
could not do it, and have done with the matter; but the remembrance of
his horrible slavery, and the thought that Florella believed in his
ability to aid her, stimulated his courage, and he said,

"I know nothing of flowers, dear lady; I am a very ignorant fellow; but
if you will direct me, and tell me where to go, I am ready to try."

"Spoken well, my lad," said the fairy. "I do not expect impossibilities.
_We_ are the only ones who can do what seems impossible to man. The
Edelweiss is a mountain flower, growing on the highest Alps, and many a
man has lost his life striving to pluck it for one he loved. It is much
esteemed for its rarity, and because of the often great difficulty of
getting it. See, here is a dried blossom;" and she put in his hand a
small white flower like an immortelle, though Florio thought that it
looked as if it were made of flannel, it was so soft and woolly.

"This you must keep; see, I will put it in this case of birch-bark, and
you had better place it in your bosom. Now I must tell you about the
journey. To leave Fussioldfuri immediately might make the task more
difficult. She is about starting for the mountains, and if you keep with
her a while longer you will be able to find the place you need much
sooner than if you went alone. But when you reach Geneva you are to
leave her. Can you remember that?"

"Oh yes, the rhyme will help me:

  "'When I get to Geneva,
  Then I must leave her.'"

"Exactly; and then you are to seek the Edelweiss, and when you have
gathered the seeds you are to meet me here in this forest, whether it be
winter or whether it be summer. Adieu."

The fairy vanished, and with her went her band--nodding, waving, and
kissing their finger-tips.

Oh, how dreary the woods seemed without the little troop! The wind
sighed in the pines, and the moonlight cast fearful shadows from the
gnarled and knotty boughs.

Florio rose with a sigh and stretched his limbs, wondering if it was
worth while to try and do the fairy's bidding when he had to go back to
hear the dreaded voice of old Fuss. Then he made sure of the birch-bark
case, and again with the aid of the fire-flies found the road. Fuss was
sound asleep still when he laid himself down on his bundle of straw in
the farthest corner of the cavern. One thing he did not notice, and that
was the young fox whose bushy tail he had touched going into the woods.
It had followed him home, and crept in under the straw beside him.

CHAPTER II

High up in the Swiss mountains a storm was brewing. On their
cloud-capped summits nothing could be seen but snow--dazzling, blinding
white snow, and wreaths of vapor which congealed as it fell. All day the
people of the hamlets had been preparing for the visitor, knowing full
well that they should be housed for weeks after its descent, and as
Christmas was approaching, it was needful that much should be done.

As the day grew darker, each hurried to complete his or her work, and
none essayed more eagerly to do this than young Franz, the goatherd; but
try as he would, the heedless, wanton little flock were constantly
escaping from him, and if it had not been for Jan, the great mastiff of
the famous St. Bernard breed, he would have been still more troubled. As
it was, he found one goat missing when he went to house them, and again
he had to take his alpenstock and try what he could do.

By this time the storm was indeed upon them, and between the wind and
the snow, the icy atmosphere and the darkness, Franz had about concluded
to let the goat go, when Jan began to sniff about and bark, and show by
signs as easily read as print that he was seeking something. Franz
thought it must be on account of the goat, but just then old Nan
appeared with her customary capriciousness, and made no resistance to
the cord with which Franz bound her.

Still Jan kept up his scratching and sniffing and barking, and Franz
knew only too well that there was no use in opposing him, although his
fingers and toes were half frozen.

As soon as the dog saw that Franz recognized the necessity of following
him he quieted down, and with a zealous industry nosed the path from
side to side, as if in search of something; nor did he have to go far,
for they presently descried what seemed like a big snow-heap on one side
of the now undiscoverable path.

Here Jan halted and looked intently; then he began scratching and
whining again, and Franz saw a bit of cloth. Soon an arm appeared, and
next a leg, and after vigorous work from both Franz and Jan, the whole
figure of a child, clasping something in its arms, was uncovered. Dead
or alive, Franz knew not which it was; but very well he knew what it was
the child carried, for its big bushy red tail showed it to be a fox, and
it too was as motionless and lifeless as the child.

The goatherd had braved the dangers of the mountains all his lifetime,
and knew how to be cool and decided in the presence of danger. He had
his knife and drinking-cup beside him, and his horn slung over his
shoulder. In a moment he had made Nan stand still while he milked her,
and then he pried open the stiff lips of the lad, and forced the warm
liquid within. As he did so, the child revived and swallowed, for he had
not been long unconscious. Then putting him on Jan's back, and driving
Nan before him, Franz made his way home as best he could.

It was late when tired Franz, whose mother was in the door-way looking
anxiously for him, arrived. All the children were within, and the fire
was burning brightly. On the table the soup was steaming. An exclamation
of surprise arose from all as Jan and his burden marched in.

"Who is it?" "Where did he come from?" "Where did you find him?" "What
was he doing all alone in the storm?" burst from all their lips.

"So, so; slowly, please," answered the cool and courageous Franz. Then
he told them his adventure.

"A stranger lad, lost on the roadside," murmured the mother, as she took
the boy from Jan and carefully undressed him, the children meanwhile
attending to the nearly frozen fox.

"Poor child! poor child! he shall be welcome. A sorry Christmas it is
for him."

"Not when he fell into your hands, good mother," said Franz, ladling out
the soup.

"No indeed--no indeed," said one and all.

But the mother's words seemed to be the truth, for though the child
revived, and was able to take nourishment, a fever set in, from which he
did not rally. Day by day he lay in the little curtained recess where he
could see them all with his great wondering eyes, watching them carve
their beautiful toys--for this was their winter work--but saying
nothing, for he knew not their language, and only one word had he
uttered which they could understand.

This word was simply "Edelweiss." "Edelweiss," he muttered, when the
fever was at its height, and "Edelweiss" he softly whispered when
dreaming.

The children called him "Little Edelweiss," and fed his fox, which
lapped their hands and brought a sweet smile to the face of the little
sufferer.

Christmas-eve would be on the morrow, and all were busy dressing the
room with boughs of evergreen. The tree stood in the corner, waiting
for its glittering fruit. Outside the sheaf of grain had been tied to a
pole for the snow-birds. All had some trifling gifts prepared for a
joyful keeping of the day, Franz only seemed to be uneasy. He would
glance at the pale face of his little foundling, and then he would look
out to see if the weather was fine, and at last he reached up for his
thickest wrap and staff, and away he went up the mountain-side. Nothing
could be seen up that way but the red roof of a convent, and peak after
peak of ice piercing the blue sky.

It was late when he returned and put something carefully behind the
tree. All were waiting for their supper, for they were anxious to go to
bed that the dear Christmas might the sooner come.

His mother scolded a little, but the stranger boy put up his thin hand
reprovingly, as if he could not bear to have Franz rebuked, and then
they all laughed, for they all loved Franz.

But soon they were sleeping quietly, and the moon shone upon happy
faces--only the little guest tossed and murmured "Edelweiss."

The morrow came, and with it many a merry greeting. And now they could
hardly wait for the day to pass. Long before dark the table was set with
its sausages and spice-cake, and beside each plate a mysterious
packet--for the tree bore only glittering trifles. And when the girls in
their pretty scarlet bodices and whitest chemisettes sat down, and the
mother reverently asked God's blessing on their food, all broke into a
joyful carol. Then they examined their gifts, and the little stranger
was given his share of the good things.

But just then Franz arose and brought from behind the tree a curious
looking box. Tearing off the papers a small but hardy plant was
revealed, and putting it in the hands of the invalid, Franz pointed to
its buds and said one word, "Edelweiss."

A cry of joy burst from the boy's lips, and he clasped his treasure as
if it had been indeed a flower from paradise.

"Edelweiss! Edelweiss!" was all he could utter, but the sweet and
grateful tone thanked Franz better than a thousand other words could
have done.

"Why, Franz," they all asked, "where did you get it at this season? It
does not grow in winter."

"No," said Franz, "I know that it does not, but I have often found it in
summer, and I just happened to remember plucking some by the roots last
spring for Father Glückner up at the convent--he is always gathering
roots and herbs for the sick, and he has a great curiosity to transplant
wild-flowers that he may see what they will produce under cultivation.
See; this plant already has flowers--months too soon. He has several
others, so he gave me this quite willingly."

While they were talking, the little stranger had drawn a small case of
birch-bark from his pocket, and was earnestly comparing the faded and
pressed flower it contained with the blooming one beside him. His face
glowed with happiness, and from that moment his restoration to health
began.

Again the summer-time had come, with all its warmth and beauty. The
fairies were thronging all the wildwood one lovely summer evening, when
a tall, handsome lad, with light, quick tread and merry glancing eyes,
entered the woods, followed by a red fox, and boldly shouted, "Florella!
Florella!" making the woods ring with his voice.

You would not have supposed that this could be the same boy whose
sobbing aroused Florella's compassion--the poor, trembling little
creature, spiritless and unhappy, who had hardly dared to say his name
was Florio. But so it was; and when he called so loudly in his cheery
voice, Florella quickly came forth from the sweet-brier bush and stood
before him.

Doffing the cap which covered his curly pate, and bending on one knee,
Florio presented without words the small plant which he had guarded with
the utmost care.

A look of gracious sweetness came into the fairy's face, and she
examined the flowers with the eye of one accustomed to look at things
closely. Having assured herself that it was the desired plant, she
turned to her assistants and invited them to examine it also. All agreed
that it was the far-famed Edelweiss, and there was a great fluttering of
wings, and soft exclamations of delight and excited surprise, until
Florella, with a gentle wave of her hand, commanded silence.

"Now, young knight of our fair domain," she said, addressing Florio,
"give me some account of your journeying, for not only have you done all
that I desired, but more: here are not only seeds, but flowers and root.
I pray you be seated while I listen."

Florio had learned to be mannerly, so with cap in hand he only leaned
against a beech-tree, and began:

"When you bade me depart with that dreadful old Fuss, dear lady, my
heart failed me entirely, and I thought I should not be able to do your
bidding. So long had I been used to her cruel power that the thought of
opposing her filled me with alarm; but curiously enough the very night I
hastened from you to the miserable cavern we called home, a young fox
followed me, and unknown to me slept by my side. When I awoke the witch
was preparing for her journey, for on her back and by her side she
carried bags of all shapes and sizes, with everything in them that could
do mischief. In one was snuff, in another was pepper, and in a third was
mustard, and in all were flinty pebbles and bits of glass. Some of
these were for people's eyes and some for their feet, and she had hardly
room for the mouldly old crusts and pieces of cheese which furnished us
with food.

"As soon as she saw the fox, which I was petting with delight, she made
a pass at it with her stick, which I am sure would have killed it had I
not caught the blow. The little fellow sprang from my arms and bit her
heel, which made her so very angry that I had to run for my life--but,
strange to say, after that he was my only protection.

"Although she bade me drown him, and although I, remembering your
commands, disobeyed her, she did not dare come near me when I had him in
my arms. Day after day he followed me, night after night he slept beside
me, and though I had fewer beatings, old Fuss watched me closely; she
seemed to know that I wanted to get away from her.

"We toiled along on the roadsides, begging from house to house.

"At last one day we came to a beautiful sheet of water, blue and
sparkling in the sunshine. Everywhere I went I had gathered
flowers--sometimes they were only weeds, such as dandelions and
daisies, but here on the banks of this lovely lake I found the sweetest
blossoms. From every one I had tried to learn the names of the plants,
but it was a very difficult matter, for half the time they misunderstood
my signs, and supposed I was only making game of them; besides, when
Fuss came up with her horrible jargon, every one was so disgusted that
he would have nothing to do with me.

"But every day I repeated as a lesson the one word 'Edelweiss,' and
whenever I had the chance I would say this to a stranger. Generally they
took no notice--sometimes they would smile, and point to the
mountain-peaks before us.

"The day we reached the lake Fuss was in one of her ugliest moods: she
had not received a penny from any passer-by, and she had not been able
to make a young boatman quarrel with his companions, although she had
sprinkled pepper about until they were all sneezing as if they were
crazy. I was weary and disconsolate, sitting paddling in the water, and
the fox was not by me, having run after a rat that had crawled from the
wreck of an old unused craft. Without a word of warning Fuss came up
behind me and gave me a push.

"Over I went into the water, head and heels both submerged. Strangling,
puffing, battling for my life, I rose to the surface. I had fallen just
where the water was shallow, but where grasses and water-plants so
entangled my feet that I could not swim, and should certainly have been
drowned had not one of the boatmen thrown me a rope and drawn me to the
shore.

"'Hang her!' 'Drown her for an old witch!' were the exclamations I heard
from the rough by-standers, and also, 'Take her to the jail at Geneva.'
This aroused me. Now I knew the name of the fine town towards which so
many were wending their way.

  "'When you get to Geneva,
  Then you must leave her.'

"Oh, joy! Then I need no longer follow my dreadful guide! And there were
people about who spoke English.

"As soon as I could discover who these English people were I made
inquiries of them, and found they were servants of some persons
travelling in their own conveyance. Tattered and draggled and wet, I
dared not do more than run after the carriage at a respectful distance,
with my fox in my arms, and so fearful was I of being overtaken by old
Fuss that I darted into the woods whenever a wayfarer approached. But my
fears were needless, for so alarmed had the witch been at the threats of
the boatmen that she disappeared suddenly. Some said they saw her flying
over the woods on a broomstick, with all her wretched rags and tags
fluttering behind her like the tail of a kite.

"After this I toiled on, often hungry, always weary, but frequently
meeting with kindness. I only wanted to find some place of shelter from
the cold until the warm weather should return again, and I could renew
my search for your flower.

"At last, one bitter day, striving to reach a convent where I had found
out they received poor people like myself, I fell, during a blinding
storm, and had neither the courage nor the wish to make the effort to
rise. Gradually a heavy sleep came on. I forgot my woes, and dreamed of
a garden of roses, among which floated brilliant butterflies and golden
bees.

"I was aroused from this sleep by a barking and scratching, and the
forcing open of my mouth to make me swallow some warm milk. A goatherd
had found me, and putting me on the back of his great dog, carried me
home. From that moment my troubles ended. Franz, the boy who found me,
had a warm heart. His home became mine. I was ill, but all did what they
could to make my sufferings less. I had only the one word, 'Edelweiss,'
at my command, and but the one hope--that of procuring the flower.

"Christmas-day came. All were rejoicing, all were happy; but none could
appreciate my joy when the noble Franz put this plant in my possession,
his Christmas gift to me. I recovered immediately, and happiness so
inspired me that I learned their language, and was enabled to tell them
my story. All agreed that I must return to you, but must wait till I was
strong for the journey. While with my friends I watched them carve their
beautiful toys, some of which I have brought you, and learned to do
their exquisite work myself. I also went often to the convent, and
learned much from the celebrated Father Glückner about herbs and
flowers. See; I have brought these packets of seeds, and a good
collection of remarkable specimens. And all the time my little fox has
been my pet, my companion, my solace. Accept, then, dear lady, these
proofs of my obedience."

So saying, Florio finished speaking. As he stopped, his cheeks flushed
with pleasant emotion, a nightingale poured forth a warbling stream of
melody. The fairy drew her band around her and thus spoke:

"Happy mortal, thus to have achieved success. Your faithfulness and
courage shall be well rewarded. Look! this is your home, this we have
prepared for you. Our emissary, the young fox, had warned us of your
approach, and we have all in readiness."

Saying this, she led the astonished Florio to a cottage of twisted vines
and roots, built by herself and her attendant elves. The walls were
brilliant with innumerable glow-worms and fireflies, which sparkled like
living gems; the floor was soft with scented rushes. Garlands of roses
festooned the rooms, in one of which was a table filled with fruit.
Smiling with glee, Florella watched her young friend's admiration, which
ended in complete astonishment when from an adjoining apartment came
Franz and Rosa, the goatherd and his sister. His joy was now complete,
but when he turned to thank Florella she was nowhere to be seen.

Thus it came to pass that we know of the famous gardener and seedsman
Florio, whose plants are of boundless celebrity, and whose cultivated
blossoms outrival the famous exotics of the world. In this forest he
lived, and raised from season to season every flower that grows. No
frost seemed to touch them, no drought withered them, for Florella was
true to her promise of reward, and in addition to giving Florio a home,
gave him also health and wealth and fame.

The elves were always on guard against moles and injurious worms, the
fairies sprinkled the seeds and protected the young buds, and basking in
the sunshine outside the cottage door was always to be found Florio's
pet, the red fox, whom Florella for a time had chosen to be his
guardian. Franz and Rosa also induced their family to leave the Alpine
snows for the beautiful land of flowers.

BOREAS BLUSTER'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT

"'_Tis an ill wind that blows no good_."

CHAPTER I

It had been a hard, cold, cruel winter, and one that just suited old
Frozen Nose, the Storm King, whose palace of ice was on the north shore
of the Polar Sea. He had ordered Rain, Hail, and Snow, his slaves, to
accompany Lord Boreas Bluster on an invasion of the temperate zone, and
when they had done his bidding he harnessed up his four-in-hand team of
polar bears and went as far south as he dared, just to see how well they
had obeyed him. How he roared with laughter when he found nearly all
vegetation killed, and the earth wrapped in a white mantle as thick as
his own bear-skins piled six feet deep! There was no nonsense about that
sort of work.

"Catch any pert, saucy little flowers sticking up their heads through
such a blanket!" said Frozen Nose to himself. "No, no; I've fixed 'em
for a few years, anyhow. They're dead as door-nails, and Spring with all
her airs and graces will never bring them to life again. Ugh! how I hate
'em and all sweet smells! Wish I might never have anything but whale-oil
on my hair and handkerchiefs for the rest of my life!"

"There's no fear but what you will, and stale at that," said the ugliest
of his children, young Chilblain, giving his father's big toe a tweak as
he passed, and grinning when he heard Frozen Nose grumble out,

"There's the gout again, I do believe!"

But Boreas Bluster, coming in just then, saw what was going on, and gave
Chilblain a whack that sent him spinning out of the room.

To tell the truth, Boreas was not as hardhearted as he looked. He was
the most honest and straightforward of all Frozen Nose's friends. To be
sure, he had to obey stern commands, and do many things that required a
show of fierceness, but in the course of his travels he often yielded to
a kind impulse, and restrained his fury when to indulge it would have
pleased old Frozen Nose mightily.

This very day he had met with a strange adventure, which had been the
occasion of a hasty return to the palace, and had so stirred his heart
that the whack he gave young Chilblain was but the safety-valve to his
feelings--a sort of letting off of steam which otherwise might have
exploded and burst every block of ice in the realm.

In the many furious storms which had occurred of late Boreas had seen
the destruction of numerous forests, and had even assisted in laying
waste the country. But one night an avalanche had buried a hamlet from
which only one living soul had escaped, and that was a young child--a
mere sprig of a girl, with hair like the flax and eyes like its flowers,
a little, timid, crying child--whom B.B. had actually taken in his arms
and carried all the way out of the woods, over the mountains, and
finally into Frozen Nose's own palace by the Polar Sea.

Never had such a thing happened before. Never had the tones of a child's
voice pierced his dull ears, and made that big sledge-hammer of a heart
positively ache with its throbs. It was a new and even a dangerous
feeling; for though he made young Chilblain's impertinence the pretext
of an outburst, he might just as readily have given a cuff to the
hoary-headed Prime-minister, Sir Solomon Snow-Ball--and then there would
have been a revolution. But happily for the peace of the Polar Sea
palace, B.B. was satisfied with Chilblain's howl of rage, and in another
moment had sunk down into his favorite arm-chair of twisted walrus
tusks, and was lost in thought.

It was a curious scene, these three old men half asleep in their
bear-skins, smoking long pipes of smouldering sea-weed. No fire danced
on the hearth, no lamp shed its lustre, but the moon's pale beams
gleamed on the glittering walls and lit the ice-crystals with its silver
rays. B.B.'s thoughts seemed to be of a troublesome nature, for he
sighed heavily, almost creating a whirlwind, and at last, looking
cautiously at his companions, and seeing they were asleep, he rose and
went softly from the room. In the hall was a huge pile of furs, among
which B.B. gently pushed until he found the object of his search, which,
lifting carefully, he bound about him with thongs of reindeer hide. Then
pulling on his immense snow-shoes, and drawing his cap closely about
his ears, he went out into the night.

B.B. was aware that it would be impossible for him to keep his little
Flax-Flower any longer in Frozen Nose's dominions; indeed, he had only
hidden her in the hall until he could decide what course to pursue, for
he knew only too well that Chilblain, in seeking revenge, would be sure
to discover his secret, and do all he could to injure him. Personally he
had little to fear, but the punishment for mortals entering Frozen
Nose's realm was death, and Flax-Flower was mortal.

With the speed for which he was so celebrated, Boreas slid over the
ground in a southerly direction, never stopping until he had come upon
what seemed to be a river which led down to a dark forest of pine-trees.

He was now at least three thousand miles from the Storm King's palace,
and could afford to rest Wiping his brow, and panting still with his
recent efforts, Boreas drew a corner of the bundle of furs away from the
face of Flax-Flower, and looked at the sleeping child. As he did so a
thrill of tenderness made him long to kiss her, but he knew that his
rough caress would chill her with fear. So, softly wrapping her up
again, he plunged into the pine forest. Stopping again when in the
middle of it, he gave a shrill whistle, which was responded to by one
fainter and farther away, and presently a dwarf in the garb of an
Esquimau emerged from the dusky gloom, and bending low, said,

"What will you, my master?"

"I would see thy lord, the good St. Nicholas--the Storm King's enemy. Is
he at home?"

"He is at home, but he is no man's enemy. What message shall I bear
him?"

"Tell him that Boreas, of the Frozen Noses, awaits him." The dwarf
vanished, and returned.

"My lord bids thee enter, but entreats thee to be gentle, and remember
the manners of his court."

"That was a needless charge, considering my errand. Never has my mood
been more peaceful. But it strikes me as passing strange thus to dictate
terms to one of my station," responded Boreas, proudly.

"Pardon," answered the dwarf, "but we are no sticklers for ceremony, and
recognize no rank save goodness. Follow me if it be thy wish to enter."

Pushing aside the heavy boughs on which the snow lay in icy masses that
rattled and clashed like bolts and bars, he uncovered a low-arched
opening into what seemed a vast snow-bank. Through this tunnel he and
Boreas made their way to a broad court, which was as airy as a
soap-bubble, round in shape, with pillars and dome of glass, through
which streamed rays of light softer than sunshine and brighter than
moonbeams.

From this court a broad, low stairway led to another apartment, which
was as free from any show or splendor as the kitchen of a farm-house,
and, indeed, in its suggestion of homely comfort and hospitality it was
not unlike that cheery place. A Saxon motto, meaning "Welcome to those
who hunger," was carved in the wooden frame of the fireplace. The floor
was sanded, the tables and chairs were of oak, blackened by age, as were
also the timbers of the ceiling, and cut and carved with curious
devices.

On a big settle by the fire sat an old man, whose twinkling eyes could
but just see through the shaggy and snowy brows which overhung them,
and whose white beard fell in a flowing mass upon his breast. What could
be seen of his face bore a kind expression.

"Ho, ho, old Bluster!" he cried, in a clear and merry voice, drawing up
and around him the sheepskin mantle which was beside him, "what new
freak is this of yours to enter our peaceful dwelling? Methought you
were so sworn to do the Storm King's bidding that no power other than
his rough sway could compel your presence. Come you on your own account
or on his? Be it either, you are free to partake of our bounty. Ho,
there, Merrythought! heave on more logs and heat the poker, that we may
thrust it fizzing into our tankards: 'tis always bitter cold when Boreas
is abroad."

The dwarf skipped quickly to his task, assisted by a dozen others, and
Boreas, unstrapping his bundle, drew little Flax-Flower, still sleeping,
from the furs.

"Mine is a strange errand, good Claus--so strange, that I hardly know
myself to be myself. Rough and stormy as I am ever, a child's misery has
made me once gentle. You know my mad career, my furious passions, and
that they indeed are the strength of the Storm King's realm. Too well I
knew that I should be but the sport of mocking derision if I appealed to
his mercy in behalf of this suffering child. Mercy, did I say? He knows
none. Death alone could have met this little creature, whose cries have
aroused within me the deepest feelings I have ever known. To be honest,
I have not always been the fierce being I appear. Many and many a time,
unknown to you, I have followed you on your errands of love and pity,
and watched with admiration the course you have pursued. This has
induced me now to come and ask your favor for my treasure. Wake, little
Flax-Flower, wake!" he continued, gently kissing the child's eyes, who,
so stirred, rubbed her sleepy lids with rosy little fists, and looked
around in astonishment.

"Ha!" said the good St. Nicholas; "this is indeed a strange story for
you to tell, friend Bluster. Ho, there, Merrythought! send for Mrs.
Christmas, my house-keeper. The child may be frightened at our grim
faces. But what a pretty little dear it is!" said Claus, in the kindest
tones, putting out his big fat hand to caress her. To Boreas's surprise
Flax-Flower did not shrink from his salute, but with a bright smile
bounded into the old man's arms and kissed him.

Turning away with a pang of jealousy, Boreas muttered, "She wouldn't
kiss _me_; but no matter. That settles it. She's in the right place, and
I'll leave her. Farewell, Claus; I'm off. No, no; I've no time for
eating and drinking. Frozen Nose will be thundering at my absence
already. There's a storm brewing even now; I feel it in my bones." So
saying, he tramped noisily out of the apartment, nearly knocking over a
fleshy dame in ruffled cap and whitest apron, whose rosy cheeks were
like winter apples, and who bore in her hands a huge mince-pie in which
was stuck a sprig of mistletoe.

CHAPTER II

"Come mother, cease thy spinning, and look at the lovely tree that Olaf
has brought thee; it stands as straight as himself in the best room.
Surely thou wilt deck it to please him."

"Ah, Fritz! how can I?" said the forester's wife, rising from her wheel,
with a sad but sweet smile, in obedience to her husbands wishes.

"But there is surely no reason for longer indulging thy grief. Our
child is too happy in heaven to wish her return to earth, and whatever
the good God sends of pleasure or innocent mirth we should take with
thankfulness. Look at the tree; it is the very image of Olaf's own
strong youth. Make it pretty to-night, and he will be glad. A good
friend is he for two lonely beings like us to possess."

"You are right, Fritz," said the wife, wiping a tear from her eyes. "For
Olaf's sake I will dress the tree and bake a cake." So saying, she
tidied up her best parlor, and took from a brass-bound chest the gay
ribbons and trinkets which had not been used since the Christmas eve her
little one last spent on earth.

Very lonely and sad would these two people have been but for Olaf, the
son of their nearest neighbor. It was he whose clear ringing voice might
be heard in the forest when returning from his work, and Fritz said that
it made labor light but to hear him. It was he, too, who, when Fritz had
been lamed by the fall of a tree, had borne him home on his strong young
shoulders; so it was no wonder that the good wife was grateful to him.
Often at evening he made their fireside bright with his songs and merry
stories, and now it was but just that they should shake off their sorrow
for his sake; so the good wife drew out her spotless board, and kneaded
spice-cakes, and spread her best damask, and set out the fine china.

"Ah, if I had my little one!" murmured the good woman. "But God knows
best," she quickly added, as she remembered many blessings.

"Here comes Olaf!" shouted Fritz from below. "Come quickly, lest he
think thee tardy."

"Yes, yes, I come. I see him," was her reply. "But what is that he
carries--something he has picked up on the way?"

"A Christmas gift for thee," was the merry answer from Olaf's ringing
voice, as he laid a strange bundle in her arms.

Little Flax-Flower had been with St. Nicholas a whole long week. In that
time she had been in every nook and corner of his dwelling. She had seen
all his elves and dwarfs at work manufacturing every known toy to be
found in the world. She had watched the dolls' dress-makers; she had
ridden the toy horses; she had blown the brass bugles and beaten the
drums until Mrs. Christmas had to put cotton in her ears.

Now all this was very delightful, and made Santa Claus laugh long and
loud. He would not have cared if she had brought the house down on his
ears, so long as she had a bright smile and a kiss for him. But when
Boreas Bluster stopped to see how his young ward was getting on, he
shook his head gravely and told Mrs. Christmas he feared she was
spoiling Flax-Flower. But Mrs. Christmas laughed just in the same manner
that Santa Claus had done, and declared that the child must have all she
wanted.

Unfortunately, Flax-Flower went into the kitchen one day, and finding
all the cooks busily making sugar-plums, helped herself so largely to
taffy that she was made very ill; she ate, besides, quite a menagerie of
lemon-candy elephants, camels, and kangaroos, which disagreed with
themselves and with her; so that her head ached, and she had to be put
to bed, with a hot-water bottle and a mustard draught for companions.
This happened just as Boreas had stopped in to inquire about his pet,
and he shook his head gravely when Mrs. Christmas related the incident.
But Santa Claus only laughed till the air seemed full of merriment.