Joey was a country boy, Father's help and mother's joy; In the morning he rose early,-- That's what made his hair so curly; Early went to bed at night,-- That's what made his eyes so bright; Ruddy as a red-cheeked apple; Playful as his pony, Dapple; Even the nature of the rose Wasn't quite as sweet as Joe's.

Charley was a city boy, Father's pet and mother's joy; Always lay in bed till late; That's what made his hair so straight, Late he sat up every night,-- That's what made his cheeks so white; Always had whate'er he wanted, He but asked, and mother granted; Cakes and comfits made him snarly, Sweets but soured this poor Charley.

Charley, dressed quite like a beau, Went, one day, to visit Joe.

"Come," said Joey, "let's go walking; As we wander, we'll be talking; And, besides, there's something growing In the garden, worth your knowing."

"Ha!" said Charley, "I'm your guest; Therefore I must have the best.

All the _inner_ part I choose, And the _outer_ you can use."

Joey gave a little laugh; "Let's," said he, "go half and half."

"No, you don't!" was Charley's answer, "I look out for number one, sir."

But when they arrived, behold, On the tree a peach of gold, All without, fair, ripe and yellow, Fragrant, juicy, tempting, mellow, And, within, a gnarly stone.

"There," said Joey, "that's your own; As you choose, by right of guest, Keep your choice--I'll eat the rest."

[Ill.u.s.tration: {A PORTRAIT OF CHARLEY.}]

Charley looked as black as thunder, Scarce could keep his temper under.

"'Twas too bad, I think," said Joe; "Through the cornfield let us go, Something there, perhaps we'll see That will suit you to a T."

"Yes," said Charles, with accent nipping, "Twice you will not catch me tripping; Since I lost the fruit before, You now owe me ten times more.

Now the _outer_ part I choose, And the _inner_ you can use."

Joey gave another laugh; "Better call it half and half."

"No, indeed!" was Charley's answer, "I look out for number one, sir!

Well I know what I'm about,-- For you, what's in; for me what's out!"

On they went, and on a slope Lay a luscious cantaloupe, Rich and rare, with all the rays From the August suns that blaze; Quite _within_ its sweets you find, And _without_ the rugged rind.

Charley gazed in blank despair, Deeply vexed and shamed his air.

"Well," said Joey, "since you would Choose the bad and leave the good; Since you claimed the outer part, And disdained the juicy heart,-- Yours the rind, and mine the rest; But as you're my friend and guest, Charley, man, cheer up and laugh, And we'll share it half and half; Looking out for number one Doesn't always bring the fun."

[Ill.u.s.tration: {AT WORK IN THE STUDIO.}]

WOODCROFT.

Woodcroft to be sold!--like a knell of doom the words fell on our ears--it could not be! Our dear old home, the only one we children had ever known, to be taken from us. We sat in the bright little sitting-room, blankly looking at one another, in dumb astonishment.

Louise, who was always the thoughtful one, soon roused herself from the stupor which seemed to have come upon us all, and going over to the lounge, began comforting--as best she could, poor child--our gentle little mother, upon whom this blow had fallen most heavily.

Presently she sat up, and in trembling tones told us, as we cl.u.s.tered at her knee, the particulars of our misfortune.

There were three of us--Louise, Cal and I, who rejoiced in the quaint cognomen of Pen, named for a rich, eccentric, old aunt, who had never left me any money because she never died.

"Now, Marmo, out with all the trouble and let us share it," said matter-of-fact Cal. And then she told how, after papa's sudden death a year before, she had discovered a mortgage to be on the place, small, but now due and no money to meet it; the creditor was pressing, and the home to be sold. We felt sad, but cheered her up, and talked over ways and means as never before.

"Even though he consents to renew it, where would the yearly interest money come from," she wailed.

We urged her to lie down and rest, and, following Cal's beckoning finger, tip-toed out of the room.

"Now, girls," said she, "_something's_ got to be done, and _we've_ got to do it."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "A TRIBUTE TO YOUR GENIUS, LOU," SAID I. "LIKE THE FAMOUS ARTIST OF OLD, WHO PAINTED CHERRIES SO NATURALLY, THE BIRDS FLEW DOWN AND PECKED AT THE CANVAS."]

One thing after another was proposed and rejected; we knew, if the home were sold, after the demands were met, there would be but a mere pittance left for four females to live on. Finally I broke in:

"Girls, my brain is not usually fertile, but a thought has been growing--we are all well educated, but teaching is out of the question, the supply is greater than the demand, but Lou, here, is skilled with pencil and brush, and Cal has a genius for contrivance; now why could you not paint and decorate some of the dainty trifles you often make as gifts, and _sell_ them. _I_ always did have a notion for cookery, which I shall proceed to put in practice, dismissing the servants." Having delivered this little speech, I paused, breathless.

Cal clapped her hands, and Lou's brown eyes glowed. "Pen, you little duck," and Cal pounced on me in an excess of joy.

"But," faltered Lou, "the mortgage."

"I thought of that too--our lady-like Louise shall go to that crusty old creditor, and beg him to _renew_ it, and with what you girls earn and what we save from the rent of the farm land (for we must live economically) we will pay him the interest promptly." I will add, that she did that very thing, and completely won over the hard-hearted fellow with her sweet, earnest manner.

So to work we went, and the sitting-room was converted into a studio, littered with papers, books, gay ribbons and glue-pots. But some exquisite creations came out of that chaos. I had visited the aforesaid Aunt Pen the previous winter, in New York city, and at the American Specialty House had been enchanted with the many novel and beautiful pieces of decorated work. All would be entirely new in _this_ part of the world, and our idea was, to take orders from the near towns for their Holiday trade. It was now only May and we would have plenty of time. Cal, who, with her brusque, honest ways, determined face, and curly, short hair, was our man of business, took samples of our work in to the various towns, receiving large orders in almost every instance.

Happy and busy as bees we worked, and began to feel quite important, as the pile grew high, of white boxes, filled with delicate satin souvenirs for wedding and birthdays, Christmas tokens of lovely design, little poems with dainty painted covers, blotters and thought books, beautifully decorated, all of which found ready sale. The little mother's sad eyes began to brighten, and Cal would say:

"Marmo, we can take care of you almost as good as sons, can't we?"

"G.o.d bless my daughters," would be the reply.

Louise had established her studio under the old apple-tree one warm June day, and, running out to call her to lunch, I found she had gone down in the garden, but I saw the cutest, prettiest sight! I beckoned her to come softly. There, on her sketch-book, opened against the tree, and on which was a half-finished painting of birds, hopped around two brown sparrows, peeping and twittering as contentedly as possible. It was too cunning! as though they had recognized their portraits and felt at home.

"A tribute to your genius, Lou," said I. "Like the famous artist of old, who painted cherries so naturally, the birds flew down and pecked at the canvas."

"I fear I shall have to dispel the illusion, dear. I guess they were more eager to pick up some cake crumbs I left than to admire my work."

Readers, you will be glad to know that the girls' work continued successful, and that the "crusty old creditor" turned out a good friend, from sheer admiration of their pluck and courage.

[Ill.u.s.tration: {TWO LITTLE BIRDS.}]

[Ill.u.s.tration: {CLIMBING ROSES.}]

IN THE WOODS.

Merryvale was not a very lively place for any one except a couple of young colts, and as many calves, jumping around after their mothers.

The bees seemed to be making a good deal of fun for themselves, if stinging us children amused them, and buzzing into every pretty, bright flower, so that no one could pick it with safety.

The crows, too, collected in great gossiping parties, in the pines, over on the sh.o.r.e of the pond, and they always seemed to be congratulating themselves over something immensely satisfactory.

But we children, especially the girls, found it very dull after we had seen the few sights of the farm. The boys were trying to hunt and fish; but Lib and I talked that over, and we came to the conclusion, after much laughing and many caustic remarks, that the only amus.e.m.e.nt we had was, laughing at their failures.

We communicated that fact to them, but it didn't seem to make any difference; off they went on the same fruitless hunt, and left us to do what we might, to make ourselves happy.