Five Minute Stories

And so she was; but – oh dear! when she got back to the window-seat the daylight was nearly gone.

Still, the west was very bright, and perhaps she could just find out.

“And he said, ‘Princess, my heart is yours! Therefore, I pray you, accept my hand, also, and with it my kingdom of Grendalma, which stretches from sea to sea. Ivory palaces shall be yours, and thrones of gold; mantles of peacock feathers, with many chests of precious stones.’ So the princess – ”

“Bell!” called Mamma from the next room. “It is too late to read, dear! Blindman’s Holiday, you know, is the most dangerous time for the eyes. So shut the book, like a dear daughter!”

Bell shut the book, of course; but a cloud came over her pleasant face, and two little cross sticks began beating a tattoo on her heart.

Just at that moment came voices under the window, – Carrie and Willy boy, talking earnestly. “Would a princess be very pretty, do you suppose, Willy? prettier than Bell?”

“Ho!” said Willy, “who cares for ‘pretty?’ She wouldn’t be half so nice as Bell. Why, none of the other fellows’ sisters – ”

They passed out of hearing; and even so the cloud passed away from Bell’s brow, and she jumped up and shook her head at herself, and ran to give Mamma a kiss, and ask if she would like her tea.

TOBOGGANING SONG

When the field lies clear in the moon, boy,And the wood hangs dark on the hill,When the long white way shows never a sleigh,And the sound of the bells is still,Then hurry, hurry, hurry!And bring the toboggans along;Tell mother she need not worry,Then off with a shout and a song.A-tilt on the billowy slope, boy,Like a boat that bends to the sea,With the heart a-tilt in your breast, boy,And your chin well down on your knee,Then over, over, over,As the boat skims over the main,A plunge and a swoop, a gasp and a whoop,And away o’er the glittering plain!The boat, and the bird, and the breeze, boy,Which the poet is apt to sing,Are old and slow and clumsy, I know,By us that have never a wing.Still onward, onward, onward!Till the brook joins the meadow below,And then with a shout, see us tumbling out,To plunge in the soft, deep snow.Back now by the side of the hedge, boy,Where the roses in summer blow,Where the snow lies deep o’er their winter sleep,Up, up the big hill we go.And stumbling, tumbling, stumbling,Hurrah! ’tis the top we gain!Draw breath for a minute before you begin it —Now, over, and over again!

SONG OF THE TILT

Up and down and up we go!I am an eagle and you are a crow:Flap your wings, and away we fly,Over the tree-top, up to the sky.Up and down and up we go!I am an albatross white as snow,You are a sea-gull, winging freeOut and away to the open sea.Up and down and up we go!I am a wild duck sinking low,You are a wild goose soaring high,The hunter is after us! fly! oh, fly!Tumble and bump! and down we go!My leg is broken! oh! oh! OH!!Your nose bleeding? poor little Tot!Well, never mind! let’s play we are shot!

THE LAZY ROBIN

The mother robin woke up in the early morning and roused her three children.

“Breakfast time, my dears!” she said; “and a good time for a flying lesson, besides. You did well enough yesterday, but to-day you must do better. You must fly down to the ground, and then I will show you how to get worms for yourselves. You will soon be too old to be fed, and I cannot have you more backward than the other broods.”

The young robins were rather frightened, for they had only had two short flying lessons, taking little flapping flutters among the branches. The ground seemed a long, long way off!

However, two of them scrambled on to the edge of the nest, and after balancing themselves for a moment, launched bravely out, and were soon standing beside their mother on the lawn, trembling, but very proud.

The third robin was lazy, and did not want to fly. He thought that if he stayed behind and said he was sick, his mother would bring some worms up to him, as she had always done before. So he sat still in the nest, and drooped his head.

“Come along!” cried the mother robin. “Come, Pecky! Why are you sitting there alone?”

“I – don’t feel very well,” said Pecky. “I don’t feel strong enough to fly.”

“Oh!” said his mother, “then you had better not eat any breakfast, and I will send for Doctor Woodpecker.”

“Oh no, please don’t!” cried Pecky, and down he fluttered to the lawn.

“That’s right!” said the mother robin, approvingly. “I thought there was not much the matter with you. Now bustle about, my dear! See how well your brother and sister are doing! I declare, Toppy has got hold of a worm as long as himself. It will get away from him – no, it won’t! There! he has it now! Ah! that was a good mouthful, Toppy. You will be a fine eater!”

Pecky sat still, with his head on one side. He felt quite sure that if he waited and did nothing, his mother would take compassion on him and bring him some worms. There were Toppy and Flappy, working themselves to death in the hot sun. He had always been his mother’s favourite (so he thought, but it was not really so), and he was quite sure that she would not let him go hungry.

So he gave a little squeak, as if quite tired out, and put his head still more on one side, and shut his eyes, and sat still. Now his mother did not see him at all, for her back was turned, and she was eating a fine caterpillar, having no idea of waiting on lazy birds who were old enough to feed themselves.

But some one else did see Master Pecky! Richard Whittington, the great gray cat, had come out to get his breakfast, too, and he saw the lazy robin sitting still in the middle of the lawn with his eyes shut.

Richard could not have caught one of the others, for they all had their wits about them, and their sharp black eyes glanced here and there, and they were ready to take flight at a moment’s notice.

But Richard Whittington crept nearer and nearer to the lazy robin. Suddenly – pounce! he went. There was a shrill, horrified squeak, and that was the last of poor Pecky Robin.

The mother robin and her two other children flew up into the tree and grieved bitterly for their lost Pecky, and the mother did not taste a single worm for several hours.

But Richard Whittington enjoyed his breakfast exceedingly; and he was as good-natured as possible all day, and did not scratch the baby once.

THE BOY’S MANNERS

The Boy was going out to Roxbury. He was going alone, though he was only five years old. His Aunt Mary had put him in the horse car, and the car went directly past his house; and the Boy “hoped he did know enough to ask somebody big to ask the conductor to stop the car.”

So there the Boy was, all alone and very proud, with his legs sticking straight out, because they were not long enough to hang over, – but he did not mind that, because it showed his trousers all the better, – and his five cents clutched tight in his little warm hand.

Proud as he was, the Boy had a slight feeling of uneasiness somewhere down in the bottom of his heart. His Aunt Mary had just been reading “Jack and the Bean-stalk” to him, and he was not quite sure that the man opposite him was not an ogre. He was a very, very large man, about twelve feet tall, the boy thought, and at least nine feet round. He had a wide mouth, full of sharp-looking teeth, and he rolled his eyes as he read the newspaper. He was not dressed like an ogre, and he carried no knife in sight; but it might be in one of the pockets of his big gray coat.

Altogether, the Boy did not like the looks of this man at all, but nobody else seemed to mind him. A pretty girl sat down close beside him, – a plump, tender-looking young girl, – but the big man took no notice of her or anybody else, and kept on reading his newspaper and rolling his eyes.

So the Boy sat still, only keeping a good lookout, so that if this formidable person should pull out a knife, or begin to grind his teeth and roar, “Fee! fi! fo! fum!” he could slip off the seat and out at the door before his huge enemy could get upon his feet.

The car began to fill up rapidly. Soon every seat was occupied, and several men were standing up. One of them trod, by accident, on the ogre’s toe, – the Boy could not help calling him the ogre, though he felt it might not be right, – and he gave a kind of growl, which made the Boy quiver and prepare to jump; but his eyes never moved from his newspaper, so the Boy sat still.

By and by a poor woman got in, with a heavy baby in her arms. She looked very tired, but though there were several other men sitting down beside the big gray one, no one moved to give the woman a seat.

The boy remembered his manners, and knew that he ought to get up; but then came the thought, “If I get up, I shall be close to the ogre, for there is no standing-room anywhere else. I am wedged so close between these two ladies that I can hardly get out: and if I do, there cannot possibly be room for that large woman.”

The Boy gave heed to this thought, though he knew in his heart that it did not make any difference. Just then the tired woman gave a sigh and shifted the heavy baby to the other arm.

The Boy did not wait any longer, but slipped at once down from his seat. “Here is a little room, ma’am!” he said, in his clear, childish voice. “There isn’t enough for you, but you might put the baby down, and rest your arms.”

At that moment the car gave a lurch, and the Boy lost his balance and fell forward, – right against the knees of the ogre.

“Hi! hi!” said the big man, putting aside his newspaper, “what’s all this? Hey?”

The Boy could not speak for fright; but the poor woman answered, “It’s the dear little gentleman offering me his seat for the baby, sir! The Lord bless him for a little jewel that he is!”

“Hi! hi!” growled the big man, getting heavily up from his seat and still holding the boy’s arm, which he had grasped as the child fell, “this won’t do! One gentleman in the car, eh? And an old fellow reading his newspaper! Here, sit down here, my friend!” and he helped the woman to his seat, and bowed to her as if she were a duchess. “And as for you, Hop-o’-my-thumb – ” Then he stooped and took the Boy up, and set him on his left arm, which was as big as a table. “There, sir!” he said, “sit you there and be comfortable, as you deserve.”

The Boy sat very still; indeed, he was too frightened to move. Since the man had called him Hop-o’-my-thumb, he was quite sure that he must be an ogre; perhaps the very ogre from whom Hop and his brothers escaped. The book said he died, but books do not always tell the truth; Papa said so.

When the big man began to feel in the right-hand pockets of his gray coat, the child trembled so excessively that he shook the great arm on which he sat.

The man looked quickly at him. “What is the matter, my lad?” he asked; and his voice, though gruff, did not sound unkind. “You are not afraid of a big man, are you? Do you think I am an ogre?”

“Yes!” said the boy; and he gave one sob, and then stopped himself.

The gray man burst into a great roar of laughter, which made every one in the car jump in his seat.

Still laughing, he drew his hand from his pocket, and in it was – not a knife, but a beautiful, shining, golden pear. “Take that, young Hop-o’-my-thumb,” he said, putting it in the Boy’s hands. “If you will eat that, I promise not to eat you, – not even to take a single bite. Are you satisfied?”

The boy ventured to raise his eyes to the man’s face; and there he saw such a kind, funny, laughing look that before he knew it he was laughing, too.

“I don’t believe you are an ogre, after all!” he said.

“Don’t you?” said the big man. “Well, neither do I! But you may as well eat the pear, just the same.”

And the Boy did.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

(Air: “Es Regnet.”)Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! we sing and we say.We usher in joyful the joyfullest day.Bring cedar and hemlock,Bring holly and yew,To crown Father Christmas with majesty due.Chorus.– To crown Father Christmas with majesty due.Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! the snow-field lies white.The river’s a crystal to mirror delight.On skates and on snowshoes,In sledge and in sleigh,We’ll meet Father Christmas, and lead him our way.Cho.– We’ll meet Father Christmas, and lead him our way.Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! the hearth is piled high.The yellow tongues flicker, the fleet sparkles fly.Bring apples and chestnuts,And corn-popper here!We’ll pledge Father Christmas, and make him good cheer!Cho.– We’ll pledge Father Christmas, and make him good cheer!Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! we say and we sing.All honor and life to the winter’s glad king!Ring, bells in the steeple!Shout, maidens and men!To greet Father Christmas, and greet him again.Cho.– To greet Father Christmas, and greet him again.

RINKTUM

In the Land of Rinktum,(Riddle, riddle, rink,)All the happy people-weopleNever stop to think.Through the streets they laughing go,Courtesying to high and low,With a nod, and a wink,With a jig, and a jink,Happy land of Rinktum Rink!I will go there too, I think.In the land of Rinktum,(Riddle, riddle, rink!)Every little noisy-boysyLemonade may drink.In the street, all a-row,Lemon fountains fall and flowWith a splash, and a dash,With a gold and silver flash.Happy land of Rinktum Rink!I will go there too, I think.In the Land of Rinktum,(Riddle, riddle, rink,)Every bud’s a rosy-posy,Every weed’s a pink.Candy shops, lollipops,Barking dogs and humming-tops,Happy land of Rinktum Rink!I will go there, too, I think.

IN THE TUNNEL

Will was digging a tunnel in the long drift. It was the longest drift that Will had ever seen, and he had meant to have Harry help him, but now they had quarrelled, and were never going to speak to each other as long as they lived, so Will had to begin alone.

He dug and dug, taking up great solid blocks of snow on his shovel, and tossing them over his shoulder in a workman-like manner. As he dug, he kept saying to himself that Harry was the hatefullest boy he ever saw in his life, and that he was glad he shouldn’t see anything more of him. It would seem queer, to be sure, not to play with him every day, for they had always played together ever since they put on short clothes; but Will didn’t care. He wasn’t going to be “put upon,” and Master Harry would find that out.

It was a very long drift. Will had never made such a fine tunnel; it did seem a pity that there should be no one to play with him in it, when it was done. But there was not a soul; for that Weaver boy was so rude, he did not want to have anything to do with him, and there was no one else of his age except Harry, and he should never see Harry again, at least not to speak to.

Dig! dig! dig! How pleasant it would be if somebody were digging from the other end, so that they could meet in the middle, and then play robbers in a cave, or miners, or travellers lost in the snow. That would be the best, because Spot could be the faithful hound, and drag them out by the hair, and have a bottle of milk round his neck for them to drink. Spot was pretty small, but they could wriggle along themselves, and make believe he was dragging them. It would be fun! but he didn’t suppose he should have any fun now, since Harry had been so hateful, and they were never – no, never going to speak again, if it was ever so —

What was that noise? Could it be possible that he was getting to the end of the drift? It was as dark as ever, – the soft, white darkness of a snowdrift; but he certainly heard a noise close by, as if some one were digging very near him. What if —

Willy redoubled his efforts, and the noise grew louder and louder; presently a dog barked, and Will started, for he knew the sound of the bark. Just then the shovel sank into the snow and through it, and in the opening appeared Harry’s head, and the end of Spot’s nose. “Hullo, Will!” said Harry.

“Hullo, Harry!” said Will.

“Let’s play travellers in the snow!” said Harry. “This is just the middle of the drift, and we can be jolly and lost.”

“All right!” said Will, “let’s!”

They had a glorious play, and took turns in being the traveller and the pious monk of Saint Bernard; and they both felt so warm inside, they had no idea that the thermometer was at zero outside.

PRACTISING SONG

Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-tum!Here I must sit for an hour and strum:Practising is good for a good little girl,It makes her nose straight, and it makes her hair curl.Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-ti!Bang on the low notes and twiddle on the high.Whether it’s a jig or the Dead March in Saul,I sometimes often feel as if I didn’t care at all.Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-tee!I don’t mind the whole or the half-note, you see!It’s the sixteenth and the quarter that confuse my mother’s daughter,And the thirty-second, really, is too dreadful to be taught her.Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-to!I shall never, never, never learn the minor scale, I know.It’s gloomier and doomier than puppy dogs a-howling,And what’s the use of practising such melancholy yowling?But —ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-tum!Still I work away with my drum, drum, drum.For practising is good for a good little girl:It makes her nose straight and it makes her hair curl.1

QUEEN ELIZABETH’S DANCE

The Spanish ambassador came to seeQueen Bess, the great and glorious;He was an hidalgo of high degree,And she was a maid victorious.He bowed till he touched her gilded shoe,And he kissed the royal hand of her,And said if she’d marry King Philip the Two,He’d take charge of the troublesome land of her.Chorus.– Oh! she danced, she danced, she danced,And she pranced, she pranced, she pranced.Oh! high and disposedly,Tips-of-her-toesedly,Royal Elizabeth danced.The Queen replied with a courtesy low,“King Philip is courtly and kind, too!But my kingdom is smaller than his, you know,And rule it myself I’ve a mind to.Supreme is the honor, of him to be sought;Oblige him I’m sorry I can’t, oh!But lest you should think you’d come hither for nought,You shall see how I dance a coranto!”Cho.– Oh! she danced, she danced, she danced, etc.The Spanish ambassador hied him home,And told how he had been tried of her;And His Majesty swore by the Pope of Rome,He’d break the insular pride of her.But vain was his hope! He never could ope,In the land of that marvellous lass, a door;For she danced in the face of the King and the Pope,As she danced for the Spanish ambassador.Cho.– Oh! she danced, she danced, she danced, etc.

A STORMING PARTY

It was at Stirling Castle. People who did not know might have called it the shed, but that would show their ignorance. On the ramparts was mustered a gallant band, the flower of Scotland, armed with mangonels, catapults, and bows and arrows; below were the English, with their battering-rams and culverins and things. Ned was the English general, and led the storming party, and I was his staff, and Billy was the drummer, and drummed for the king. The Scottish general was Tom, and he had on Susie’s plaid skirt for a kilt, and his sporran was the rocking-horse’s tail that had come off.

Well, there was lots of snow on the roof, – I mean the ramparts, and they hurled it down on our heads, and we played ours was Greek fire, and hit them back like fun, I tell you. There was quite a mountain down below, where Andrew, the chore-man, had shovelled off the deep snow; and we stood on this, and it was up to my waist, and I played it was gore, because in Scott they are always wading knee-deep in gore, and I thought I would get ahead of them and go in up to my waist.

I hit General Montrose (that was Tom) with a splendid ball of Greek fire, and it was quite soft, and a lot of it got down his neck, and you ought to have seen him dance. He called me a dastardly Sassenach, and I thought at first he said “sausage,” and was as mad as hops, but afterward I didn’t care.

Then Ned called for volunteers to storm the castle, and we all ran to the ladder; but Ned climbed up the spout, ’cause he can shin like sixty, and he got up before we did. He took the warder by the throat, just like the Bold Buccleugh in “Kinmont Willie,” and chucked him right off the roo – ramparts into the gore. That made Montrose mad as a hornet, and he rushed on Ned, and they got each other round the waist, and went all over the roof, till at last they got too near the edge, and over they both went. Billy was scared at that and stopped drumming, but I drew my mangonel (Susie says that isn’t the right name, but I don’t believe she knows) and rushed on the Scottish troops, which were only Jimmy Weaver, now that Montrose and the warder were gone. I got Jimmy down, and put my knee on his chest and shouted, “Victory! the day is ours! Saint George for England!”

But then I heard somebody else yelling, and I looked over the ramparts, and there was Montrose with his knee on Ned’s chest, waving his culverin and shouting, “Victory! the day is ours! Saint Andrew for Scotland!”

I was perfectly sure that our side had beaten, and Tom was absolutely certain that he had won a great victory; but just then mother called us in to tea, so we could not fight it over again to decide. Anyhow, Montrose got so much Greek fire down his neck that he had to change everything he had on, and I didn’t have to change a thing except my stockings.

AT THE LITTLE BOY’S HOME

It was a very hot day, and the little boy was lying on his stomach under the big linden tree, reading the “Scottish Chiefs.”

“Little Boy,” said his mother, “will you please go out in the garden and bring me a head of lettuce?”

“Oh, I – can’t!” said the little boy. “I’m – too —hot!”

The little boy’s father happened to be close by, weeding the geranium bed; and when he heard this, he lifted the little boy gently by his waistband, and dipped him in the great tub of water that stood ready for watering the plants.

“There, my son!” said the father. “Now you are cool enough to go and get the lettuce; but remember next time that it will be easier to go at once when you are told as then you will not have to change your clothes.”

The little boy went drip, drip, dripping out into the garden and brought the lettuce; then he went drip, drip, dripping into the house and changed his clothes; but he said never a word, for he knew there was nothing to say.

That is the way they do things where the little boy lives. Would you like to live there? Perhaps not; yet he is a happy little boy, and he is learning the truth of the old saying, —

“Come when you’re called, do as you’re bid.Shut the door after you, and you’ll never be chid.”

THEN AND NOW

(A disquisition on the use of gunpowder, by Master Jack.)When they first invented gunpowder,They did most dreadful things with it;They blew up popes and parliaments,And emperors and kings with it.They put on funny hats and boots,And skulked about in cellars, oh!With shaking shoes they laid a fuse,And blew it with the bellows, oh!They wore great ruffs, the stupid muffs,(At least that’s my opinion) then;And said “What ho!” and “Sooth, ’tis so!”And called each other “minion!” then.But now, the world has turned aboutFive hundred years and more, you see;And folks have learned a thing or twoThey did not know before, you see.So nowadays the powder servesTo give the boys a jolly dayAnd try their Aunt Louisa’s nerves,And make a general holiday.In open day we blaze awayWith popguns and with crackers, oh!With rockets bright we crown the night,(And some of them are whackers, oh!)And “pop!” and “fizz!” and “bang!” and “whizz!”Sounds louder still and louder, oh!And that’s the way we use, to-day,The funny gunny-powder, oh!

PLEASANT WALK

“Where are you going, Miss Sophia?” asked Letty, looking over the gate.

“I am going to walk,” answered Miss Sophia. “Would you like to come with me, Letty?”

“Oh yes!” cried Letty, “I should like to go very much indeed! Only wait, please, while I get my bonnet!”

And Letty danced into the house, and danced out again with her brown poke bonnet over her sunny hair.

“Here I am, Miss Sophia!” she cried. “Now, where shall we go?”

“Down the lane!” said Miss Sophia, “and through the orchard into the fields. Perhaps we may find some strawberries.”

So away they went, the young lady walking demurely along, while the little girl frolicked and skipped about, now in front, now behind. It was pretty in the green lane. The ferns were soft and plumy, and the moss firm and springy under their feet. The trees bent down and talked to the ferns, and told them stories about the birds that were building in their branches; and the ferns had stories, too, about the black velvet mole who lived under their roots, and who had a star on the end of his nose.