Rensselaer Union, Volume 8, Number 3, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 October 1875 — Our Young Folks. [ARTICLE]

Our Young Folks.

BOBBIE’S LETTERS FROM THE COUNTRY. ; BY MRS. lIELEN ANGELL GOODWIN. _ Hilton, July 10. Dear Cousin Susie: We got here last night, but mamma had a sick headacliq and could not write till this afternoon. Grandpa met us at the depot, with Kate. Kate is the old horse and Topsy is the colt that Uncle Ben drives most times. Grandpa says Topsy’s too quick for his old bones. It was most dark when we got here, and the hens had gone to bed. They sleep squatting down on a pole, with their heads under their wings. I should think they’d tumble off. Mr. Robin Redbreast waked me singing. He sings so loud I should think he’d have a sore throat, and have to go to Europe witli Parson Davis, who hollers so when he preaches. He’s got a nest in the cherry tree by my window—l mean Mr. Robin, not the parson—and there are some eggs in it, and the lady robin sits there all the time, and Mr. Robin sings and brings her worms. Mamma says there’ll be baby robins by and by. There’s lots of babies here already. There’s only one child-baby—little May; but there’s calves and pigs and chickens. The old hens are the chicken mothers, mamma says. They keep a scratching and scratching, and when they find a worm they go “ Cluck! cluck! cluck!” and the chickens run quick and eat it. She most ways bites it open; and when she don’t, sometimes two chicks get hold and pull. If it don’t break open "the stoutest gets it and runs, and the others chase him. If it does break open the chickens fall right over back, they pull so hard. They go to their own mother when she clucks, and when they don’t the wrong mother pecks them. The rest of the babies dre a little colt and turkeys and ducks. They swim in the water. I wish I could ride the colt; but grandpa says he would kick. Then there is a kitten. 81ie catches mice. She brought in a field-mouse this morning. It had a big head and a short tail. Kitty put him down on the floor; but, instead of running, he turned round and bit her. Kitty stepped back and looked at him, and he curled himself all down in a heap and looked at her. Then the biggest little rooster—the one that makes a funny noise and calls it crowing—came into the kitchen door. He stretched his neck out long and made little short steps, till he got so near his bill almost touched mousie. Then little May crept up between Kitty and chicky, and grandma laughed like tun and said: “See those three curious babies!” Then she took the poker and killed the mouse; and the rooster ran out quick, and tried to cackle like old Speckle does when she lays an egg. I guess he thought grandma would hit him next, for she does not allow the hens to come into the house.

Kitty ate the mouse all up. She began at the head and made the bones crack. Little May wanted to taste too. She always lets Kitty have some of her food, and she thought it w T as not fair unless she had some of Kitty’s; so she took hold ot mousie’s tail and pulled it away. Then mamma screamed and scared her so she dropped it; and Kitty grabbed the mouse and ran out into the shed to eat it. Mamma says this letter is long enough now. I send you a peppermint lozenge that Uncle Ben- gave me. Write to me right off. You know you said you would, and I want you to ’member it. * Good-by. Y r our loving cousin, Robbie Wells. P. S. —If Tommy Larkins pushes you off the sidewalk, or throws dirt in your lunch-basket, or plagues you a single bit besides, you tell him I’ll ten’ to him when I get back. Robbie. Hamilton, July 17. Dear Cousin Susie: I got your letter yesterday. It was the first truly letter I ever had. I got it at th£ Postoffice myself and opened it with the scissors, and mamma read it. She told me what the words were, so that now I can read it all myself Without looking on. ' —— The Daper horse you sent me is just nice. I tried to make one like it, and I couldn’t. Uncle Ben says I am not much of a nartist. I don’t like Uncle Ben so much as 1 did last summer. He don’t have any time to play with me. He hasn’t made but just three whistles and one go-cart forme since I came. He works all the time on the farm; and they are building a new heuse for him on the hill, and he has to see to that, and the rest of the time he goes to see Miss Fanny. I don’t see what he wants to go and see her for. I don’t like her a bit; but mamma says I must, for she will be my aunt next summer. I don’t believe that, hardly; or I shouldn’t, only mamma says so, and she don’t tell lies for fun as Uncle Ben does. I s’pose aunts and. all your ’lations had to be horned for you. Miss Fanny gave me a doll and a teaset when I went to see her. You better believe I didn’t touch them. I was dreadful polite, though. I said: “Thank you, ma’am. P’r’aps you think I’m a girl; but you’re mistaken, ma’am!”

Then the people all laughed. I don’t know whether they were making fun of me or Miss Fanny, for we both laughed too. Then she did worser. Sheackchully w anted me to sit in her lap! Just think of that! And me big enough to wear pants and a jacket with bright buttons! I was mad. Mamma says I better say ’dignant, and I persume I was; but I don’t, know ’zactly what that means, and I know I was mad besides. I told her big boys who were sens’ble didn’t sit in the girls’ laps; at least, not till they grew as big as Uncle Ben. They laughed at Uncle Ben that time, and his face got just as red as fire; and he said “You horrid boy!’’andshook me a little. But he had to laugh too, for he knew I saw him in the arbor so close to Miss Faimy he might as well have sat in her lap. He asked Miss Fanny to go to a concert at l opham, and said it would be nice coming home by moonlight; and I wanted to go too. Miss Fanny said: “Let him go. I will take care of him.” But Uncle Ben said: “It will be too late. Besides, the boy knows too much.” v You can’t tell anything by Uncle Ben lately. Why, that very day told me 1 didn't know enough to drive the cows to pasture or to weed the carrotbed.

I kept a-teasing him about tlie concert till finally he said I might go if I would lead the old rooster to water and barrel up the little pigs so the geese wouldn't run away, with them. He thought I couldn’t do it; but he found out. I got an ashbarrel in the shed and tipped it over, and rolled it around to the side of the pig. yard, wherC'the wall is built up into the side-bill like a cellar; and then 1 pitched it in as easy as nothing. The old hog lay still and grunted, but the little pigs scampered like fun. Then I got down into*the yard and laid the barrel down oh

its side and stood there just as still. And pretty goon the pigs came up kind of scared. But they said “ Wagfc! wagh!” and wiggled their funny little tails; and pretty soon one went into the barrel—to see what it was, I guess—and the other three followed after, like Jack and Gill went up the hill To get a pail of water; Jack fell down and broke his crown And Gill came tumbling arter. They didn’t break their crowns, though; but when I pushed hard and set the barrel right side up with them all in it they squealed like murder. Their mother started to get up and see what the matter was; so I scrambled out of that pen just as quick as I could. Then I went for the rooster. I got abig string and an ear of corn and went into the hen-house,.calling: “ Biddy! Biddy!” Pretty soon he came and a lot of old hens with him. When they' got fairly to picking up the corn I slipped behind them and shut the door. Then I tried to catch the rooster. I had to chase him into a corner and sit down on him to keep him from flapping his big wings in my face and hitting me witli the sharp toe-nails he has on the back of his legs. He got away lots of times. But he felt too big to squall, like the hens, and by and by I got a slip-noose round his neck, and then I had him sure, for the more he kicked and flopped the more he couldn’t get away. He was so stuffy I couldn’t make him go along a bit; but I was ’termined not to be beat, so I said: “ Old fellow, if you won’t come yourself I’ll drag you.” And I did. I dragged him clear to the brook and then set him upon his feet. He tumbled right down and laid still, with his evg£ shut and his mouth open, and wouldn’t drink at all. Just then Uncle Ben hollered: “Hello! youngster, what are you up to ?” “I’ve got him!” said I. “But he won’t drink.” “ I should think not. The poor bird is dead!” And he picked him up and carried him into the house. “ See here, Anna,” he said to mamma, “ you ought to whip that boy. I wouldn’t have taken five dollars for that bird, and he’s killed him.” “Uncle Ben told me to,” said I. And I told mamma all about it. She looked sober at Uncle Ben, and said: “It seems you put it into the child’s head. lam sorry for your loss but I hope it will teach you a lesson.” But when I told her to put on my very bestest clothes to go to the concert she said: “ I guess not. I don’t think Uncle Ben meant w r hat lie said.” Just then Tim, the hired man, called out:

“ What on airth air all them little pigs in the barrel fur, a-squealin’?” . Uncle Ben went out to ten’ to things ; and when he came in he looked sober and said he was in fun when he told me about going to the concert. He did not suppose I should try to barrel the pigs or take the rooster to water; and didn’t think I could if I did try. If I would stay at home and not cry about it he’d give me ten sticks of candy and a pound of raisins. “No, sir-ee!” said I. “Concerts are better’n candy and raisins. I shan’t give up my buffright for a mess of porridge, 1 as Deacon Jones says at prayer-meeting. You said you’d take me and you’ve got to; and if you don’t it’ll be a lie, and you know about 1 liars shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone.’ ” Then mamma said: “It’s no more than you deserve, Benjamin.” She calls him Benjamin when she don’t like it, just as she calls me Robert when she punishes me. “ It’s no more than you deserve ; but I’ll settle the matter this time. My little boy cannot go out without mamma. There’s a picnic at Shady Vale next week; and you shall go with me there, Robbie. And now I’ll write to Susie for you, and you will feel better.” I do feel better; but I’m pretty mad yet. I can’t think of anything else; so goodby for this time. Your loving cousin, Robbie. Rosbvalb, July 34. Dear Susie: Guess where I am now. Something queer has happened. But mamma says 1 better begin at the beginning, and not tell the last first. I didn’t give up about that concert, after all. The more I thought the more ’termined I was to go. So, after -I carried your letter to the office I came back and made b’lieve to go to bed; and then I crept down the back stairs, when nobody saw me, and ran out to the wagonshed and crept under the seat of the ngw buggy. Pretty soon Uncle Ben came out, with Topsy (she’s the big colt, you know), and he hitched her to the buggy and jumped m and started off. I laughed a little, low to myself, to think how s’prised he’d be to see me get out with them, when they got to the concert. I dare.not let him know I was there till then, for fear he’d leave me at some house till he came back; and I was ’termined to go to a concert for once, just like big folks.

Uncle Ben sang and whistled all through the woods; but when he got most to Miss Fanny’s house he was .still as a prayer-meeting. Then Miss Fanny got in and off we went laster than ever. It was warm under the seat, and dark, too, and kind of hard riding all scrooched down without any pillow; so I took off my coat and put my head on that Their talk ’mused me for a while. Don’t you never tell; but Uncle Ben did tell some awful big stories and Miss Fanny acted as if she believed them. Anyway, she didn’t conterdict. He said her hair was tine-spun gold. Mamma says they make false hair out of a’most everything; but I don’t believe hers is gold any more than little May’s. It’s just yellow hair and that’s all. Then he called her hand so pretty and so little. It’s bigger’n mine by a great sight; and he calls mine clumsy! Then he said her eyes were stars of the firkt magnuptude; and the stars are in the sky, you know. But mamma says I ought not to tell what I hear when nobody thinks I do. It isn’t gemplumly nor ’on’able. So I’ll stop itThen first 1 knew I was asleep—no, I wasn’t, neither. I waked up and Uncle Ben and Miss Fanny were gone and the horse was hitched under a shed I didn’t know but it was too late; but there was a big house across the way, all lighted up, and somebody in it singing,or screaming, I couldn’t tell which; so I went and peeped in. The door was open and lots of people were there; but 1 didn’t see Uncle Ben. ). was just going to find him when a man said: “Here, boy; where’s your ticket?’’ “ x “In my pocket. llow know I had one?”' “ Give it to me or you can’t go in.” So I gave him my pretty Sunday-school Jncture ticket. But lie threw it down and ooked real cross, and.said: “Off with you! None of your tricks on me! Off with you, or I'll call a ,policeman and have you put in the lockup.” *

Then I went right back to the wagon and crawled under, the seat again and laid down. ’Tisn’t much fun to go to concerts and get left, for the man at the door Las to have some money or he won’t let you in. My jacket wasn’t there. I thought somebody must have steaied itwhilol was gone; so I took the rug and rolled it up for a pillow and went to sleep again. 1 kind of half waked up for a minute when we started for home; but I was too ’shamed to speak to Uncle Ben, so I lay still and didn’t wake again till the roosters crowed in the morning. You know I sleep ’mark’ble sound. First, I couldn’t ’member where I was. But after a moment it came to me, and I thought I’d go and see if breakfast was ready, for I was too mad to eat any supper the night before, and was dreadful hungry now. When I got out from under the seat and stood up iu the carriage I did not know what about anything. It wasn’t Grandpa Wells’ house that I saw through the door; it wasn’t his barn nor his cow that somebody I didn’t know was milking. Just than the prettiest little girl I ever saw, ’6ept you, Susie, came through the barn-door. She had brown curls and blue eycsjjmd when she saw me she said : “ Who are you, boy?” “ I don’t know. I guess I must be in a story-book. Are you the Fairy Geraldine?” “ No. My name is Annie Morton? I am grandpa’s little girl.” Then a nice old man with white hair came along and said: “ What boy is this?” And Annie said: “He don’t Know, grandpa. Do you?” “ No. How r did you get here so early in the morning?” “ I don’t know, sir. I rode under the seat. But this isn’t where I ought to be at all.” Then he sat down on a log by the woodpile and took me in his lap, and Annie sat on his other knee, and I told him all about it; and he said he would take me right home. You see I got into the wrong wagon and came home with somebody else* After breakfast they asked me what my name was and where I lived. When I said my name was Robbie Wells and I was stopping with Grandpa Wells, in Hilton, with my mother and little May, they looked sharp at each other, all of them, and asked me lots of questions. And they said they knew where Grandpa Wells lived ana would take me there. They acted very queer, I thought, ahd the old lady said: “ Bring her home, Robert”; and her husband said, “ I will.” And then they both cried. Then we had a nice ride to Hilton—Annie and her grandpa and I. When we got there everybody hugged me and talked and laughed altogether, for they had been hunting for me all night and had about concluded I was drowned dead in the river. “Naughty Robbie!” mamma said. “We thought you either were dead or some bad man had carried you off where mamma would never see you any more.”

Then she looked up at Annie’s grandpa, and she sat right down the step and looked so white it scared me; but he put his arms around her and lifted her up and called her his own child, the only darling death had left him except this little Annie, who was named for her. Then they all laughed and cried worse than ever. - I didn’t know what it all meant. But mamma told me afterward that this old man was her own dear papa and my grandpa, and he had been angry with her and would not speak to her because she married my papa. He has got all over it now, and he took mamma and little May and I right home with him, and then the lady who gave me my breakfast was my other grandma, too, and Annie is my cousin, same as you are, Susie. Mamma says it has all turned out for the best. But I shan’t run away again; for next time ’twouldn’t be another grandpa (folks can’t ’spect to have but two of them); but some bad man might get me into trouble. Besides, mamma would feel so bad 1 wouldn’t anyway. I am coming home week after next, and will tell you lots more then. Your loving cousin, Robbie. —N. Y. Independent.