A Daughter of the Rich

At that very hour, when the gentleman scarecrow of the corn-patch was looking amiably, although slightly squint-eyed, out from under his tattered straw hat (for March had drawn rude features on the white cloth bag stuffed with cotton-wool which served for a head, and on it Rose had sewed skeins of brown yarn to imitate hair) at the antics of the five pairs of blue overalls, Mr. Clyde, having finished his nine o'clock breakfast, asked for the mail.

"Yes, Marse John" (so Wilkins always called Mr. Clyde when they were alone), "'spect dere 's one from Miss Hazel by de feel an' de smell."

Mr. Clyde smiled. "How can you tell by the 'feel and the smell,' Wilkins?"

"Case it's bunchy lake in de middle, an' de vi'lets can't hide dere bref."

"Well, we 'll see," said Mr. Clyde, willing to indulge his faithful servant's childish curiosity. Wilkins busied himself quietly about the breakfast-room.

As Mr. Clyde opened the envelope, the crushed blue and white violets fell out. Suddenly he burst into such a hearty laugh that Wilkins had hard work to suppress a sympathetic chuckle.

"I shall have to carry this letter over to the Doctor, Wilkins," he said, still laughing. "I shall be in time to find him a few minutes alone before office hours." He rose from the table.

Wilkins followed him out to give his coat a last touch with the brush; he was fearful Mr. Clyde might leave without revealing anything of the contents of the letter from his beloved Miss Hazel.

"'Sense me, Marse John," he said in desperation, as Mr. Clyde went towards the front door, "but Miss Hazel ain't no wusser case yo' goin' to de Doctah's?"

"Oh, Wilkins, I forgot; you want to know how Miss Hazel is. She is doing finely; as happy as a bird, and sends her love to you in a postscript. I think I 'll run up and see her soon."

Wilkins ducked and beamed. "'Pears lake dis yere house ain't de same place wif de little missus gone."

"You 're right, Wilkins," said Mr. Clyde, earnestly. "I shall not open the Newport cottage this year; it would be too lonesome without her."

"Well, Dick," he said gayly, as he entered the Doctor's office, "I shall hold you responsible for some of the lives of the 'Four Hundred.' Here, read this letter."

MOUNT HUNGER, MILL SETTLEMENT, BARTON'S

RIVER, VERMONT, May 19, 1896.

DEAREST PAPA,–Good-morning! I am answering your long letter a little sooner than I expected to, because I want you to do something for me in a business way; that's the way March says it must be.

I don't know how to begin to tell you, but I 've joined the N.B.B.O.O. Society and one of the by-laws is that we must help others all we can and just as much as we can. I wish you'd been at the initiashun. (I don't know about that spelling, and I 'm in a hurry, or I 'd ask.) I had the hand of fellowship from a supposed corpse's hand first, and then I was branded on the arm. And afterwards they all took me in, and now we 're raising four hundred chickens to help others; I 'll tell you all about it when you come. Chi, that's the hired man, but he is really our friend, took me sitting-hen hunting day before yesterday, for I am to own some myself; and we drove all over the hills to the farmhouses and found and bought twelve, or rather Chi did, for I had to borrow the money of him, as I felt so bad when I kissed you good-bye that I forgot to tell you my quarterly allowance was all gone, and I know you won't like my borrowing of Chi, for you have said so many times never to owe anybody and I've always tried to pay for everything except when I had to borrow of Gabrielle, or Mrs. Scott, when I forgot my purse.

But truly the hens were in such an awful hurry to sit, that it did seem too bad to keep them waiting even three days till I could get some money from you; and then, too, we 've all of us, March and Rose and Budd and Cherry and me, bet on which hen would get the first chicken, and that chicken is going to be a prize chicken and especially fatted, and of course, if I waited for the money to come from you, I could n't stand a chance of coming out ahead in our four hundred chicken race, so I borrowed of Chi. The hens came to just $4 and eighty cents. I'll pay you back when I earn it, and don't you think it would have been a pity to lose the chance for the prize chicken just for that borrow?

Please send the money by return mail. I 've other letters to write, so please excuse my not paragraphing and so little punctuation, but I 've so much to do and this must go at once.

Your loving and devoted daughter,

HAZEL CLYDE.

P.S. The hens are sitting around everywhere. Give my love to Wilkins. H.C.

The Doctor shouted; then he stepped to the dining-room door and called, "Wifie, come here and bring that letter."

Mrs. Heath came in smiling, with a letter in her hand, which, after cordially greeting Mr. Clyde, she read to him,–an amazed and outwitted father.

MOUNT HUNGER, MILL SETTLEMENT, BARTON'S

RIVER, VERMONT, May 19, 1896.

MY DEAR MRS. HEATH,–Please thank my dear Doctor Heath for the note he sent me two weeks ago. I ought to write to him instead of to you, for I don't owe you a letter (your last one was so sweet I answered it right off), but he never allows his patients strawberry preserve and jam, so it would be no use to ask his help just now, as this is pure business, March says.

We are trying to help others, and the strawberries–wild ones–are as thick as spatter–going to be–all over the pastures, and we 're going to pick quarts and quarts, and Rose is going to preserve them, and then we 're going to sell them.

Do you think of anybody who would like some of this preserve? If you do, will you kindly let me know by return mail?

I can't tell just the price, and March says that is a great drawback in real business, and this is real–but it will not be more than $1 and twenty-five cents a quart. They will be fine for luncheon. I never tasted any half so good at home.

My dear love to the Doctor and a large share for yourself from

Your loving friend,

HAZEL CLYDE.

P.S. Rose says it is n't fair for people to order without knowing the quality, so we 've done up a little of Mrs. Blossom's in some Homeepatic (I don't know where that "h" ought to come in) pellet bottles, and will send you a half-dozen "for samples," March says, to send to any one to taste you think would like to order. H.C.

"The cure is working famously," said Doctor Heath, rubbing his hands in glee.

"Well," said Mr. Clyde, laughing, "I may as well make the best of it; but I can't help wondering whether the wholesale grocers in town have been asked to place orders with Mount Hunger, or the Washington Market dealers for prospective chickens! There 's your office-bell; I won't keep you longer, but if this 'special case' of yours should develop any new symptoms, just let me know."

"I 'll keep you informed," rejoined the Doctor. "Better run up there pretty soon, Johnny," he called after him.

"I think it's high time, Dick. Good-bye."

At that very moment, a symptom of another sort was developing in Z– Hall, Number 9, at Harvard.

Jack Sherrill and his chum were discussing the last evening's Club theatricals. "I saw that pretty Maude Seaton in the third or fourth row, Jack; did she come on for that,–which, of course, means you?"

"Wish I might think so," said Jack, half in earnest, half in jest, pulling slowly at his corn-cob pipe.

"By Omar Khayyam, Jack! you don't mean to say you 're hit, at last!"

"Hit,–yes; but it's only a flesh-wound at present,–nothing dangerous about it."

"She 's got the style, though, and the pull. I know a half-dozen of the fellows got dropped on to-night's cotillion."

"Kept it for me," said Jack, quietly.

"No, really, though–" and his chum fell to thinking rather seriously for him.

Just then came the morning's mail,–notes, letters, special delivery stamps, all the social accessories a popular Harvard man knows so well. Jack looked over his carelessly,–invitations to dinner, to theatre parties, "private views," golf parties, etc. He pushed them aside, showing little interest. He, like his Cousin Hazel, was used to it.

The morning's mail was an old story, for Sherrill was worth a fortune in his own right, as several hundred mothers and daughters in New York and Boston and Philadelphia knew full well.

Moreover, if he had not had a penny in prospect, Jack Sherrill would have attracted by his own manly qualities and his exceptionally good looks. His riches, to which he had been born, had not as yet wholly spoiled him, but they cheated him of that ambition that makes the best of young manhood, and Life was out of tune at times–how and why, he did not know, and there was no one to tell him.

He had rather hoped for a note from Maude Seaton, thanking him, in her own charming way, for the flowers he had sent her on her arrival from New York the day before. True, she had worn some in her corsage, but, for all Jack knew, they might have been another man's; for Maude Seaton was never known to have less than four or five strings to her bow. It was just this uncertainty about her that attracted Jack.

"Hello! Here 's a letter for you by mistake in my pile," said his chum.

"Why, this is from my little Cousin Hazel, who is rusticating just now somewhere in the Green Mountains." Jack opened it hastily and read,–

MOUNT HUNGER, MILL SETTLEMENT, BARTON'S

RIVER, VERMONT, May 19, 1896.

DEAREST COUSIN JACK,–It is perfectly lovely up here, and I 've been inishiated into a Secret Society like your Dicky Club, and one of the by-laws is to help others all we can and wherever we can and as long as ever we can, and so I 've thought of that nice little spread you gave last year after the foot-ball game, and how nice the table looked and what good things you had, but I don't remember any strawberry jam or preserves, do you?

We 're hatching four hundred chickens to help others,–I mean we have set 40 sitting hens on 520 eggs, not all the 40 on the five hundred and twenty at once, you know; but, I mean, each one of the 40 hens are sitting on 13 eggs apiece, and March says we must expect to lose 120 eggs–I mean, chickens,–as the hens are very careless and sit sideways–I 've seen them myself–and so an extra egg is apt to get chilly, and the chickens can't stand any chilliness, March says. But Chi, that's my new friend, says some eggs have a double yolk, and maybe, there 'll be some twins to make up for the loss.

Anyway, we want 400 chickens to sell about Thanksgiving time, and, of course, we can't get any money till that time. So now I 've got back to your spread again and the preserves, and while we 're waiting for the chickens, we are going to make preserves–dee-licious ones! I mean we are going to pick them and Rose is going to preserve them. We 've decided to ask $1 and a quarter a quart for them; Rose–that's Rose Blossom–says it is dear, but if you could see my Rose-pose, as Chi calls her, you 'd think it cheap just to eat them if she made them. She 's perfectly lovely–prettier than any of the New York girls, and when she kneads bread and does up the dishes, she sings like a bird, something about love. I'll write it down for you, sometime. I 'm in love with her.

Please ask your college friends if they don't want some jam and wild strawberry preserves. If they do, March says they had better order soon, as I've written to New York to see about some other orders.

Yours devotedly,

HAZEL.

P.S. I 've sent you a sample of the strawberry preserve in a homeepahtic pellet bottle, to taste; Rose says it is n't fair to ask people to buy without their knowing what they buy. I saw that Miss Seaton just before I came away; she came to call on me and brought some flowers. She said I looked like you–which was an awful whopper because I had my head shaved, as you know; I asked her if she had heard from you, and she said she had. She is n't half as lovely as Rose-pose. H.C.

IX

THE PRIZE CHICKEN

There was wild excitement, as well as consternation, in the farmhouse on the Mountain.

On the next day but one after Hazel had sent her letters, Chi had brought up from the Mill Settlement a telegram which had come on the stage from Barton's. It was addressed to, "Hazel Clyde, Mill Settlement, Barton's River, Vermont," and ran thus:–

CAMBRIDGE, May 20, 1 P.M.

Hope to get in our order ahead of New York time. Seventeen dozen of each kind. Letter follows.

JACK.

"Seventeen dozen!" screamed Rose, on hearing the telegram.

"Seventeen dozen of each kind!" cried Budd.

"Oh, quick, March, do see what it comes to!" said Hazel.

Then such an arithmetical hubbub broke loose as had never been heard before on the Mountain.

"Seventeen times twelve," said Rose,–"let me see; seven times two are fourteen, one to carry–do keep still, March!" But March went on with:–

"Twelve times four are forty-eight–seventeen times forty-eight, hm–seven times eight are fifty-six, five to carry–Shut up, Budd; I can't hear myself think." But Budd gave no heed, and continued his computation.

"Four times seventeen are–four times seven are twenty-eight, two to carry; four times one are four and two are–I say, you 've put me all out!" shouted Budd, and, putting his fingers in his ears, he retired to a corner. Rose continued to mumble with her eyes shut to concentrate her mind upon her problem, threatening Cherry impatiently when she interrupted with her peculiar solution, which she had just thought out:–

"If one quart cost one dollar and twenty-five cents, twelve quarts will cost twelve times one dollar and twenty-five cents, which is, er–twelve times one are twelve; twelve times twenty-five! Oh, gracious, that's awful! What's twelve times twenty-five, March?"

"Shut up," growled March; "you 've put me all off the track."

"Me, too," said Rose, in an aggrieved tone.

Mrs. Blossom had been listening from the bedroom, and now came in, suppressing her desire to smile at the reddened and perplexed faces. "Here 's a pencil, March, suppose you figure it out on paper."

A sigh of relief was audible throughout the room, as March sat down to work out the result. "Eight hundred and sixteen quarts at one dollar twenty-five a quart," said March to himself; then, with a bound that shook the long-room, he shouted, "One thousand and twenty dollars!" and therewith broke forth into singing:–

"Glory, glory, halleluia!Glory, glory, halleluia!Glory, glory, halleluia,For the N.B.B.O.O.!"

The rest joined in the singing with such goodwill that the noise brought in Chi from the barn. When he was told the reason for the rejoicing, he looked thoughtful, then sober, then troubled.

"What's the matter, Chi? Cheer up! You have n't got to pick them," said March.

"'T ain't that; but I hate to throw cold water on any such countin'-your-chickens-'fore-they 're-hatched business," said Chi.

"'T is n't chickens; it's preserves, Chi," laughed Rose.

"I know that, too," said Chi, gravely. "But suppose you do a little figuring on the hind-side of the blackboard."

"What do you mean, Chi?" asked Hazel.

"Well, I 'll figure, 'n' see what you think about it. Seventeen dozen times four, how much, March?"

"Eight hundred and sixteen."

"Hm! eight hundred and sixteen glass jars at twelve and a half cents apiece–let me see: eight into eight once; eight into one no times 'n' one over. There now, your jars 'll cost you just one hundred and two dollars."

There was a universal groan.

"'N' that ain't all. Sugar 's up to six cents a pound, 'n' to keep preserves as they ought to be kept takes about a pound to a quart. Hm, eight hundred 'n' sixteen pounds of sugar at six cents a pound–move up my point 'n' multiply by six–forty-eight dollars 'n' ninety-six cents; added to the other–"

"Oh, don't, Chi!" groaned one and all.

"It spoils everything," said Rose, actually ready to cry with disappointment.

"Well, Molly Stark, you 've got to look forwards and backwards before you promise to do things," said Chi, serenely; and Rose, hearing the Molly Stark, knew just what Chi meant.

She went straight up to him, and, laying both hands on his shoulders, looked up smiling into his face. "I 'll be brave, Chi; we 'll make it work somehow," she said gently; and Chi was not ashamed to take one of the little hands and rub it softly against his unshaven cheek.

"That's my Rose-pose," he said. "Now, don't let's cross the bridges till we get to them; let's wait till we hear from New York."

They had not long to wait. The next day's mail brought three letters,–from Mrs. Heath, Mr. Clyde, and Jack. Hazel could not read them fast enough to suit her audience. There was an order from Mrs. Heath for two dozen of each kind, and the assurance that she would ask her friends, but she would like her order filled first.

Mr. Clyde wrote that he was coming up very soon and would advance Hazel's quarterly allowance; at which Hazel cried, "Oh-ee!" and hugged first herself, then Mrs. Blossom, but said not a word. She wanted to surprise them with the glass jars and the sugar. Her father had enclosed five dollars with which to pay Chi, and he and Hazel were closeted for full a quarter of an hour in the pantry, discussing ways and means.

Jack wrote enthusiastically of the preserves and chickens, and, like Hazel, added a postscript as follows:

"Don't forget you said you would write down for me the song about Love that Miss Blossom sings when she is kneading bread. Miss Seaton is just now visiting in Boston. I 'm to play in a polo match out at the Longmeadow grounds next week, and she stays for that." This, likewise, Hazel kept to herself.

Meanwhile, the strawberry blossoms were starring the pastures, but only here and there a tiny green button showed itself. It was a discouraging outlook for the other Blossoms to wait five long weeks before they could begin to earn money; and the thought of the chickens, especially the prize chicken, proved a source of comfort as well as speculation.

As the twenty-first day after setting the hens drew near, the excitement of the race was felt to be increasing. Hazel had tied a narrow strip of blue flannel about the right leg of each of her twelve hens, that there might be no mistake; and the others had followed her example, March choosing yellow; Cherry, white; Rose, red; and Budd, green.

The barn was near the house, only a grass-plat with one big elm in the centre separated it from the end of the woodshed. As Chi said, the hens were sitting all around everywhere; on the nearly empty hay-mow there were some twenty-five, and the rest were in vacant stalls and feed-boxes.

It was a warm night in early June. Hazel was thinking over many things as she lay wakeful in her wee bedroom. To-morrow was the day; somebody would get the prize chicken. Hazel hoped she might be the winner. Then she recalled something Chi had said about hens being curious creatures, set in their ways, and never doing anything just as they were expected to do it, and that there was n't any time-table by which chickens could be hatched to the minute. What if one were to come out to-night! The more she thought, the more she longed to assure herself of the condition of things in the barn. She tossed and turned, but could not settle to sleep. At last she rose softly; the great clock in the long-room had just struck eleven. She looked out of her one window and into the face of a moon that for a moment blinded her.

Then she quietly put on her white bath-robe, and, taking her shoes in her hand, stepped noiselessly out into the kitchen.

There was not a sound in the house except the ticking of the clock. Softly she crept to the woodshed door and slipped out.

Chi, who had the ears of an Indian, heard the soft "crush, crush," of the bark and chips underneath his room. He rose noiselessly, drew on his trousers, and slipped his suspenders over his shoulders, took his rifle from the rack, and crept stealthily as an Apache down the stairs. Chi thought he was on the track of an enormous woodchuck that had baffled all his efforts to trap, shoot, and decoy him, as well as his attempts to smoke and drown him out. But nothing was moving in or about the shed. He stepped outside, puzzled as to the noise he had heard.

"By George Washin'ton!" he exclaimed under his breath, "what's up now?" for he had caught sight of a little figure in white fairly scooting over the grass-plat under the elm towards the barn. In a moment she disappeared in the opening, for on warm nights the great doors were not shut.

"Guess I 'd better get out of the way; 't would scare her to death to see a man 'n' a gun at this time of night. It's that prize chicken, I 'll bet." And Chi chuckled to himself. Then he tiptoed as far as the barn door, looked in cautiously, and, seeing no one, but hearing a creak overhead, he slipped into a stall and crouched behind a pile of grass he had cut that afternoon for the cattle.

He heard the feet go "pat, pat, pat," overhead. He knew by the sound that Hazel was examining the nests. Then another noise–Cherry's familiar giggle–fell upon his ear. He looked out cautiously from behind the grass. Sure enough; there were the twins, robed in sheets and barefooted. Snickering and giggling, they made for the ladder leading to the loft.

"The Old Harry 's to pay to-night," said Chi, grimly, to himself. "When those two get together on a spree, things generally hum! I 'd better stay where I 'm needed most."

Hazel, too, had caught the sound of the giggle and snicker, and recognized it at once.

"Goodness!" she thought, "if they should see me, 't would frighten Cherry into fits, she 's so nervous. I 'd better hide while they 're here. They 've come to see about that chicken, just as I have!" Hazel had all she could do to keep from laughing out loud. She lay down upon a large pile of hay and drew it all over her. "They can't see me now, and I can watch them," she thought, with a good deal of satisfaction.

Surely the proceedings were worth watching. The moonlight flooded the flooring of the loft, and every detail could be plainly seen.

"Nobody can hear us here if we do talk," said Budd. "You 'll have to hoist them up first, to see if there are any chickens, and be sure and look at the rag on the legs; when you come to a green one, it's mine, you know."

"Oh, Budd! I can't hoist them," said Cherry, in a distressed voice.

"They do act kinder queer," replied Budd, who was trying to lift a sleeping hen off her nest, to which she seemed glued. "I 'll tell you what's better than that; just put your ear down and listen, and if you hear a 'peep-peep,' it's a chicken."

Cherry, the obedient slave of Budd, crawled about over the flooring on her hands and knees, listening first at one nest, then at another, for the expected "peep-peep."

"I don't hear anything," said Cherry, in an aggrieved tone, "but the old hens guggling when I poke under them. Oh! but here 's a green rag sticking out, Budd."

"And a speckled hen?" said Budd, eagerly.

"Yes."

"Well, that's the one I 've been looking for; it's dark over here in this corner. Lemme see."

Budd put both hands under the hen and lifted her gently. "Ak–ok–ork–ach," gasped the hen, as Budd took her firmly around the throat; but she was too sleepy to care much what became of her, and so hung limp and silent.

"I 'll hold the hen, Cherry, and you take up those eggs one at a time and hold them to my ear."

"What for?" said Cherry.

"Now don't be a loony, but do as I tell you," said Budd, impatiently. Cherry did as she was bidden; Budd listened intently.

"By cracky! there 's one!" he exclaimed. "Here, help me set this hen back again, and keep that one out."

"What for?" queried Cherry, forgetting her former lesson.

"Oh, you ninny!–here, listen, will you?" Budd put the egg to her ear.

"Why, that's a chicken peeping inside. I can hear him," said Cherry, in an awed voice.

"Yes, and I 'm going to let him out," said Budd, triumphantly.

"But then you'll have the prize chicken, Budd," said Cherry, rather dubiously, for she had wanted it herself.

"Of course, you goosey, what do you suppose I came out here for?" demanded Budd.

"But, Budd, will it be fair?" said Cherry, timidly.

"Fair!" muttered Budd; "it's fair enough if it's out first. It's their own fault if they don't know enough to get ahead of us."