by A. A. Milne
“What! going to desert in the face of the enemy?” queried Chester.
“Yes; I can’t fight against that flag,” pointing to it with uplifted hand. “Fire on the stars and stripes? Never! ’The flag of our Union forever!’”
“Oh is that all? Well, we’re not going to fight against it, my boy; it’s ours, and we’re going to take it from them and carry it in triumph at the head of our column.”
“No, sir; its ours,” retorted Harold, “and we stand ready to defend it to the last gasp. Come on; take it if you can! We dare you to do it?”
“Up then and at ’em, boys!” shouted Chester. “Go double quick and charge right over the breast works!”
The command was instantly obeyed, the works were vigorously assaulted, and as vigorously defended, snowballs flying thick and fast in both directions.
Max leaped over the breast works and seized the flag. Harold tore it from his hands, threw him over into the snow on the outside, and replanted the flag on the top of the breast work.
Max picked himself up, ran round to the other side of the fort, and finding Harold and the other large boys among the defenders, each engaged in a hand to hand scuffle with a besieger, so that only little Walter was left to oppose him, again leaped over the barrier, seized the flag, leaped back and sped away toward the house waving it in triumph and shouting, “Hurrah! victory is ours!”
“Not so fast young man!” shouted back Herbert, bounding over the breast works and giving chase, all the rest following, some to aid him in recovering the lost standard, the others to help Max to keep out of his reach.
Herbert was agile and fleet of foot, but so was Max. Back and forth, up and down he ran, now dodging his pursuers behind trees and shrubs, now taking a flying leap over some low obstacle, and speeding on, waving the flag above his head and shouting back derisively at those who were trying to catch him.
It was a long and exciting race, but at last he was caught; Herbert overtook him, seized him with one hand, the flag with the other.
Max wrenched himself free, but Herbert’s superior strength compelled him to yield the flag after a desperate struggle to retain his hold upon it.
Then with a wild hue and cry Chester’s party chased Herbert till after doubling and turning several times, he at length regained the fort and restored the flag to its place.
The next instant Harold and the rest of his command regained and reoccupied the fort, the attacking party following close at their heels, and the battle with the snowballs recommenced with redoubled fury.
All this was witnessed with intense interest by the spectators at the windows and on the veranda; at the beginning of the chase the band forgot to play and dropping their instruments employed themselves in encouraging pursuers or pursued with clapping of hands and shouts of exultation over their exploits.
The contest was kept up for a long time, the flag taken and retaken again and again till the fort was quite demolished by the repeated assaults, and the snow well trodden down all about the spot where it had stood.
The lads, too, found themselves ready to enjoy rest within doors after their continued violent exertion.
Some quiet games filled up the remainder of the morning and the afternoon. In the evening they were ready for another romp in which the girls might have a share; so Stage Coach, Blind-man’s Buff, and similar games were in vogue.
They had been very merry and entirely harmonious, but at length a slight dispute arose, and Capt. Raymond, sitting in an adjoining room conversing with the older guests and members of the family, yet not inattentive to what was going on among the young folks— heard Lulu’s voice raised to a higher than its ordinary key.
He rose, stepped to the communicating door, and called in a low tone, grave but kindly, “Lulu!”
“Sir,” she answered, turning her face in his direction.
“Come here, daughter,” he said; “I want you.”
She obeyed promptly, though evidently a trifle unwillingly.
He took her hand and led her out into the hall, and on into a small reception room, bright and cheery with light and fire, but quite deserted.
“What do you want me for, papa?” she asked. “Please don’t keep me long; because we were just going to begin a new game.”
He took possession of an easy chair, and drawing her into his arms, and touching his lips to her cheek, “Can you not spare a few minutes to your father when your mates have had you all day?” he asked.
“Why, yes, indeed, you dear papa!” she exclaimed with a sudden change of tone, putting her arms about his neck and looking up into his face with eyes full of ardent filial affection. “How nice in you to love me well enough to want to leave the company in the parlors to give a little time to petting me!”
“I love you full well enough for that, my darling,” he said, repeating his caresses, “but my call to you was because a tone in my little girl’s voice told me she needed her father just at that moment.”
She looked up inquiringly, then with sudden comprehension, “Oh! you thought I was in danger of getting into a passion, and I’m afraid I was. Papa, you are my good guardian angel, always on the watch to help me in my hard fight with my dreadful temper. Thank you very, very much!”
“You are entirely welcome, daughter,” he said, softly smoothing her hair; “it could hardly be a sadder thing to you than to me, should that enemy of yours succeed in overcoming you again. Try, dear child, to be constantly on the watch against it.
“‘Watch ye and pray, lest ye enter into temptation,’ Jesus said. The moment that you feel the rising of anger in your breast lift up your heart to him for strength to resist.”
“I do intend to always, papa,” she sighed, tightening her clasp of his neck and laying her cheek to his, “but oh it is so, so easy to forget!”
“I know it, dear child, but I can only encourage you to continue the fight with your evil nature, looking ever unto Jesus for help. Press forward in the heavenly way, and if you fall, get up again and go on with redoubled energy and determination; and you will win the victory at last; for ’in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.’
“Now, if you feel that you are safe in doing so, you may go back to your mates.”
There was a very sweet expression on Lulu’s face as she rejoined her mates, and her manner was gentle and subdued.
“So you’ve come back,” remarked Sydney. “What did your papa want with you?”
“O Syd,” exclaimed Rosie, “that’s private, you know!”
“Oh to be sure! I beg pardon, Lu,” said Sydney.
“You are quite excusable,” returned Lulu pleasantly. “Papa had something to say to me, that was all,” and she glanced up at him with such a loving look, as at that instant he entered the room, that no one could suspect the talk between them had been other than most pleasant.
“Well, you have come back just in time; we are going to play the game of Authors,” said Herbert, beginning to distribute the cards.
The words had hardly left his lips when a sharp tap at the window made them all jump. Then a woman’s voice spoke in piteous accents.
“Oh let me in, good people! my baby and I are starving to death, and freezing in this bitter winter wind.”
“Oh who is it? who is it?” cried several of the girls, sending frightened glances in the direction from which the voice had come.
“I’ll soon see,” said Harold, hurrying toward the window.
But a gruff voice spoke from the hall. “Don’t mind her, sir; she’s a gypsy liar and thief; she stole the baby from its mother.”
Harold paused, stood uncertainly in the middle of the floor for an instant, then turning quickly, retraced his steps, went to the hall door and glanced this way and that.
“There is no one here,” he said, then burst into a laugh as, turning round once more, he perceived Mr. Lilburn quietly seated near the open door into the adjoining parlor where the older people were. “Cousin Ronald, may I ask wh
at you know of that gypsy and the stolen child?”
“What do I ken about her, laddie?” queried the old gentleman in his turn. “Wad ye insinuate that I associate wi’ sic trash as that?”
“Oh she’s quite a harmless creature, I’ve no doubt,” laughed Harold.
“O Uncle Harold, please let her in,” pleaded Grace, with tears in her sweet blue eyes.
“Why, my dear little Gracie, there’s nobody there,” he answered.
“But how can we be sure if we don’t look, Uncle Harold? Her voice did sound so very real.”
“What is the matter, Gracie dear?” asked a sweet voice, as a beautiful lady came swiftly from the adjoining parlor and laid her soft white hand on the little girl’s head.
“O Grandma Elsie, we heard a woman begging to come in out of the cold, and— oh there don’t you hear her?”
“Oh let me in, dear good ladies and gentlemen! I’m freezing, freezing and starving to death!” wailed the voice again.
By this time all the occupants of the other parlor were crowding into this.
“Captain,” said Grandma Elsie, “will you please step to the window and open it?”
“Mother, Cousin Ronald is responsible for it all,” laughed Harold.
“We may as well let Gracie see for herself,” Mrs. Travilla replied in a kindly indulgent tone.
Harold at once stepped to the window, drew back the curtains, raised the sash and threw open the shutters, giving a full view of all the grounds on that side of the house;— for the clouds had cleared away and the moon was shining down on snowladen trees and shrubs and paths and parterres carpeted with the same; but no living creature was to be seen.
Grace holding fast to her father’s hand, ventured close to the window and sent searching glances from side to side, then with a sigh of relief, said, “Yes, I do believe it was only Cousin Ronald; and I’m ever so glad the woman and her baby are not freezing.”
At that everybody laughed, and timid, sensitive little Grace hid her blushing face on her father’s shoulder, as he sat down and drew her to his side.
“Never mind, darling,” he said soothingly, passing an arm affectionately about her and softly smoothing her curls with his other hand, “it is good natured amusement; we all know what you meant and love you all the better for your tenderness of heart toward the poor and suffering.”
“Yes, dear child, your papa is quite right, and I fear we were not very polite or kind to laugh at your innocent speech,” said Grandma Elsie.
At that instant the tap on the window was repeated, then the voice spoke again, but in cheerful tones. “Dinna fret ye, bit bonny lassie, I was but crackin’ me jokes. I’m neither cauld nor hungry, and my bairns grew to be men and women lang syne.”
“There now! I know it’s Cousin Ronald,” laughed Rosie, “and indeed I should hope he was neither cold nor hungry here in our house.”
“If he is,” said Grandma Elsie, giving the old gentleman a pleasant smile, “we will set him in the warmest corner of the ingleside and order refreshments.”
“I vote that those suggestions be carried out immediately,” said Edward. “Harold, if you will conduct our kinsman to the aforesaid seat, I will, with mamma’s permission, ring for the refreshments.”
Both Harold and Herbert stepped promptly forward, each offering an arm to the old gentleman.
“Thanks, laddies,” he said, “but I’m no’ so infirm that I canna cross the room wi’out the help o’ your strong young arms, and being particularly comfortable in the chair I now occupy, I shall bide here, by your leave.”
“Then, if you feel so strong would it tire you to tell us a story, Cousin Ronald?” asked Walter, insinuatingly. “We’d like one ever so much while we’re waiting for the refreshments.”
“The refreshments are ready and waiting in the dining room, and you are all invited to walk out there and partake of them,” said Grandma Elsie, as the servants drew back the sliding doors, showing a table glittering with china, cut-glass and silver, loaded with fruits, nuts, cakes, confectionery and ices, and adorned with a profusion of flowers from the conservatories and hothouses.
“Don’t you wish you were grown up enough to call for whatever you might fancy from that table?” whispered Rosie to Lulu as they followed their elders to its vicinity.
“Yes— no; I’m very willing to take whatever papa chooses to give me,” returned Lulu. “You see,” she added laughing at Rosie’s look of mingled surprise and incredulity, “there have been several times he has let me have my own way and I didn’t find it at all nice; so now I’ve really grown willing to be directed and controlled by him.”
“That’s a very good thing.”
“Yes; especially as I’d have to do it anyhow. Papa, may I have something?” she asked as at that moment he drew near.
“Are you hungry?” he queried in turn.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you may have some ice-cream, a little fruit, and a small piece of sponge cake.”
“Not any nuts or candies?”
“Not to-night, daughter; sometime to-morrow you may.”
“Thank you, sir; that will do nicely,” she responded in a cheerful, pleasant tone and with a loving look and smile up into his face.
She felt amply rewarded by the approving, affectionate look he gave her in return.
“I shall help you presently when I have waited upon Evelyn and Rosie,” he said. “What will you have, my dears?”
When the refreshments had been disposed of, it was time for the usual short evening service, then for the younger ones to go to their beds.
Capt. Raymond stepped out upon the veranda and paced it to and fro. Presently Max joined him. “I came to say good night, papa,” he said.
“Ah good night, my son,” returned the captain, pausing in his walk, taking the hand Max held out to him and clasping it affectionately in his. “You had a fine, exciting game this morning out there on the lawn. I was glad to hear my boy avow his attachment to the glorious old flag his father has sailed under for so many years. I trust he will always be ready to do so when such an avowal is called for, as long as he lives.”
“Yes, indeed, sir! It’s the most beautiful flag that waves, isn’t it?”
“None to compare to it in my esteem,” his father answered with a pleased laugh.
Chapter 9
Before morning the weather had moderated very much, a thaw had set in, and the snow was going rapidly.
“Well, what sports shall we contrive for to-day?” asked Herbert, at the breakfast table. “Certainly both skating and snow fights are entirely out of the question.”
“Entirely!” echoed Harold; “all other outdoor sports also; for a drizzling rain is beginning to fall, and the melting snow has covered roads and paths with several inches of water.”
“We have some games for the house which you have not tried yet,” said their mother; “‘Table croquet,’ ‘Parlor Quoits,’ ‘Parlor Ring Toss,’ Jack-straws and others.”
“And I have a new game that papa gave me this Christmas— ’The Flags of all Nations,’” remarked Lulu. “I brought it with me.”
“We will be glad to see it,” said Harold.
“It is probably improving as well as entertaining,” remarked Zoe. “I should judge so from the name.”
“I think you will find it both,” said the captain.
“So you would ‘Corn and Beans,’ too, Aunt Zoe,” said Max. “Papa gave it to me, and we tried it Christmas eve at home, and found it very funny.”
The morning and most of the afternoon were occupied with these games, which seemed to afford much enjoyment to the children and young people.
It was the winding up of their Christmas festivities at Ion, and all were in the mood for making it as gay and mirthful as possible. Some— the Raymonds among others— would leave shortly after tea, the rest by or before bedtime.
They finished the sports of the afternoon with two charades. The older people were the spectators, the y
ounger ones the actors.
Mendicant was the word chosen for the first.
A number of the boys and girls came trooping into the parlor, each carrying an old garment, thimble on finger, and needle and thread in hand. Seating themselves they fell to work.
Zoe was patching an old coat, Lulu an apron, Gracie a doll’s dress; Eva and Rosie each had a worn stocking drawn over her hand, and was busily engaged in darning it; the other girls were mending gloves, the boys old shoes; and as they worked they talked among themselves.
“Zoe,” said Maud, “I should mend that coat differently.”
“How would you mend it?” asked Zoe.
“With a patch much larger than that you are sewing on it.”
“I shouldn’t mend it that way,” remarked Sydney. “I’d darn it.”
“Thank you both for your very kind and disinterested advice,” sniffed Zoe. “But I learned how to mend before I ever saw you. And I should mend those gloves in a better way than you are taking.”
“If you know so well how to mend, Madam Zoe, will you please give me some instruction about mending this shoe?” said Herbert. “Cobbling is not in my line.”
“Neither is it in mine, Sir Herbert,” she returned, drawing herself up with a lofty air.
“Such silly pride! They should mend their ways if not their garments,” remarked Maud, in a scornful aside.
“One should think it beneath her to mend even a worn stocking,” said Rosie.
“No,” responded Eva, “and she should mend it well.”
“Your first syllable is not hard to guess, children,” said Mrs. Dinsmore; “evidently it is mend.”
With that the actors withdrew, and presently Chester Dinsmore returned alone, marching in and around the room with head erect and pompous air. His clothes were of fine material and fashionable cut, he wore handsome jewelry, sported a gold headed cane, and strutted to and fro, gazing about him with an air of lofty disdain as of one who felt himself superior to all upon whom his glances fell.
Harold presently followed him into the room. He was dressed as a country swain, came in with modest, diffident air, and for a while stood watching Chester curiously from the opposite side of the apartment, then crossing over, he stood before him, hat in hand, and bowing low.
