THINGS went better after this visit of September’s. Cool nights began. The noons were still hot, but with a different heat. Something of life and freshness breathed in the air. Thekla’s wheel, set out under the spreading boughs of an oak-tree, hummed as it turned, like a great bumblebee. It had been silent of late, as if languid with August’s warmth. Now its voice came back, and it sang merrily as ever. Leaf-shadows fell from overhead, dappling the fair hair of the little spinner, and the fleece of the lamb which lay at her feet. “Lamb” it was still called, though fast getting into sheephood. Thekla had a real motherly feeling toward it; and, as parents go on calling their boys and girls “the children” when gray hairs and wrinkles have replaced the curls and roses of youth, so the lamb was likely to remain a lamb in her eyes for ever, should it live to become a patriarch of the flock.

One thing only marred the pleasure of this happy month,—the dear old Grandfather was poorly. Without disease or pain, patient always, gentle, even happy, his strength ebbed daily. Some days he would not rise from his bed at all; on others, he would have his oaken chair drawn out into the sunshine near Thekla’s wheel, and would sit there for hours basking in the warmth, and regarding the little girl with fond, wishful eyes. Thekla took tender care of him. Love showed her how. Love is a wise instructor, you know; and teaches in six lessons what Time, slow old pedagogue, takes a lifetime to impart.

As the end of September drew near, Grandfather seemed a little brighter; and, in her great wish to please and cheer him, a queer idea popped into Thekla’s head. It was nothing less than to tell him all about the Months and the moments, and let him join the story-listening group. She consulted Max; and he thought it a capital plan, provided October made no objections.

So Thekla told the tale in her pretty, soft voice; and Grandfather nodded his head a great deal, and smiled, and was well pleased. How much he understood is doubtful;—Old Age was singing its sweet lullabys to the weary brain, and it was fast going to sleep, though now and then it flashed again into wakefulness for a few moments. Thus much he comprehended,—that a visitor was coming, and he must be ready. So Thekla smoothed his white hair, and made him neat; and when October appeared at the door, there sat Grandfather between the children, like a snow-covered bough supported by two ripe roses.

Max and Thekla flew to meet the guest, and to whisper their request, to which he listened with a kindly face, pinching each round cheek gently meanwhile till it glowed with a fresher pink. When they ended, he smiled, well-pleased.

“Yes, indeed,” he said: “the Grandfather shall stay. He is my old friend. I knew him when he was no bigger than you, and he knew me. But then the time came, as it will to you, when he saw without seeing, and I was to him but a name. To the very young and the very old only am I visible; for they are children alike. He will know me at once, be sure of that.”

So saying, he walked in, sat down close by the oaken chair, and laid his hand on Grandfather’s arm. The old man turned slowly, and a look of recognition crept into his dim eyes.

“Catch! Carl, catch!” he murmured. “Where’s the basket? There never were so many beech-nuts on the tree before.”

“That was the other boy,” explained October, in a whisper. “They always went about together. But it’s a long time since I saw him.” The children stood silent, watching the strange smiles which chased each other over Grandfather’s lips. Now, too, they could look at October, and see what manner of person he was. He had the brown, bearded face of a man in his prime; but the hair was grizzled with gray. There was something fatherly in the eyes, which were blue and merry. His hunter’s dress—of scarlet, gold, russet, crimson, and orange—was so gay that it would have seemed fantastic except for the grace with which he wore it. A spray of purple leaves nodded in his cap; a horn swung at his side, and beneath it a great pouch of fur into which he now plunged his hand.

“Do you like chestnuts?” he said, throwing a double handful into Thekla’s lap. “Ah! I see you do. That’s right! I always carry them about with me for the children. And I always say, ‘Don’t crack nuts with your teeth;’ and they always do it, just the same as if I hadn’t spoken, as Max is doing now.”

“What is that in your bag?” asked Max, boldly, pointing to a great sack which October had thrown down on entering.

“Samples,” replied October, briskly. “You see, I belong to a firm of dyers,—a celebrated one,—‘Brown October & Co.’ These are our novelties for the season. Look!” And, seizing the bag by the bottom, he shook out upon the floor what seemed to be rainbows in confusion,—a vast heap of brilliant scraps, so vivid and so various that nobody could count the different tints.

“Two billion new shades,” went on October, triumphantly; “all patented, warranted to wash, and unlike any thing seen in the shop last year. Where is the mortal dyer, outside our firm, who can say that?” Then he began cramming the samples into the bag again. When order was restored, he turned toward Grandfather’s chair, and said in a gentle voice, “Would you like to hear one more story from me, old friend, before you and I part for ever?”

Grandfather nodded his head. “You used to tell nice ones to Carl and me,” he answered. “One more! one more!”

So October began:—

“It’s about squirrels. People generally don’t appreciate squirrels. They overlook them entirely, or else they make pies of them, which is unjust and disagreeable.

“I know them well, so they talk freely before me, and let out their secrets, which people never do until they are intimate. All the best circles of squirreldom are open to me; and the Nutcrackers, who are perhaps the most aristocratic family in the set, are my particular friends, and have been for generations.

“It is about Nippy Nutcracker that I am going to tell. It is a true story; and I hope it may be a warning to you, Thekla, and to other young females of your age.

“Nippy, in her earliest squirrelhood, was one of the prettiest creatures I ever saw. In those days she spelt the name ‘Nippie,’ and had it thus engraved in monogram on the birch-bark cards she was in the habit of leaving at the nests of her acquaintances. Later, she changed it again to plain ‘Nippy;’ and the other squirrels agreed it was just as well she should,—for reasons.

“A fashionable belle of the first water was Nippie,—slender, graceful, bewitching,—with a most beautiful long tail, which she put up in hot pine-needles every night, and fluffed out in the morning till it stood like a glory round her head when she waved it. And this she did very often, especially when desirable bachelor squirrels were about. All the Nutcrackers were beside themselves with pride over the possession of this lovely creature. Distinguished suitors came from far and near, bringing such gifts of beech-nuts, acorns, and toothsome walnut-meats all picked out of the shells, that Nippie’s bower used to look like a provision-market. But to none of her lovers did she give any encouragement; for her secret heart was set upon King Nutcracker, the chief of her tribe. “This mighty monarch was getting on in years; but he possessed great gallantry of manner, and had been heard to say that never within his experience did so lovely a vision as Miss Nutcracker alight on earthly bough. This speech fired Nippie’s ambitious heart: which was unlucky; for, as it happened, King Nutcracker already possessed a spouse, of his own age, to whom, in spite of his fine speeches, he was at bottom quite devoted. They lived in the top of a royal oak, their children occupying neighboring branches; and, as each year some eight or ten fresh princes and princesses entered the world, the family circle, as can be imagined, was a large one.

“The Queen was plain and old-fashioned. She never curled her tail, and thought hot pine-needles absolutely sinful. But she had a resolute character and great strength of constitution; and did not feel the least desire to die and make room for Nippie, if she could possibly help it. All things considered, therefore, the chance did not seem very good. But Nippie clung to hope. Queen Nutcracker, she reflected, must drop off some day; and the King would naturally look to the fairest as her successor. ‘Queen Nippie’ sounded well;—she would refurnish the royal nest, and astonish society. It was worth waiting for. So she waited.

“One year—two, three, four. Lovers came, and went; Nippie snubbing them all right royally. Still Queen Nutcracker lived and flourished; and still every spring eight or ten lovely princes and princesses appeared to swell the population of the royal oak. Five years—six. Nippie’s resplendent tail began to look thin, and a little worn. Hot pine-needles are very bad for tails, they say. She lost a front tooth; her nose grew sharp; and her figure, once so graceful, was now painfully thin. Suitors became weary of the Nutcracker beech, and the few who showed themselves were mere children, on the look-out for some younger Nutcrackers who were growing up. Nippie felt that her day was past; that the sun was ceasing to shine, and her hay not made; and, as the conviction forced itself upon her mind, her temper waxed horribly uneven. She took to shutting herself into her hole, and having nervous attacks; and when these were on, she would say the sharpest and most disagreeable things to her nearest relations.

“This of course did not add to the happiness of the family. Her nephews and nieces—full of spirits, and selfish, like all young creatures—pronounced her in private ‘a dreadful old cat,’ and took pleasure in teasing her, laughing at her little airs and graces, and alluding to her age in the most unfeeling way. Even her brothers and sisters, tired out by her tantrums, did not stand up for her as they ought. So life seemed pretty hard to poor Nippie; and there were moments when she wished herself made into pie, and an end put to every thing.

“But this was during the betwixt-and-between period which comes to everybody some time or other. For Nippie was not the sort of squirrel to settle down into insignificance without at least making a good fight for herself. She had failed as a beauty; but it was still possible to succeed as something else. She was not long in deciding what this should be. She would become ‘strong-minded.’

“Her first step was leaving off the ‘ie’ from her name. Nicknames, she declared, especially those ending in ie, were silly and affected. As she had been privately spoken of as ‘Nip’ for some time past among her young relations, no one made the least objection to the change. So Nippie the belle became plain Nippy; and soon after, to the astonishment of her friends, beech-leaves began to circulate about, bearing the name of ‘Dr. Nutcracker,’ and it was announced that Nippy had adopted the practice of medicine.

“This, however, was another failure, and did not last long. Nippy began in a small way with a remedy of her own invention, which she called ‘acorn-water,’ and which consisted of portions of a neighboring brook upon which the shadow of an acorn had been allowed to lie for two hours and twenty minutes by the sun. But most of the squirrels laughed at the new medicine, and declared that it did them no good; while the few who believed injured the water almost as much, by calling it dangerously strong. At last one very nervous old lady, Mrs. Hopper by name, was thrown into a fit by finding out, two days afterward, that she had by mistake swallowed half a drop more than the right dose; and after that nobody dared to try any more. So, upon the whole, Nippy decided not to be a Doctress, but something else. She took a week to think it over, and then startled the whole community by the following placard:—

Miss N. Nutcracker,
the Celebrated Philosopheress,
will lecture at Beech-tree Hall
on Thursday, at 5 P.M. precisely.

Subject:
“Why should not Squirrels lay Eggs?”
Admission, 25 beech-nuts.
Reserved seats, 2 acorns.
Children, half-price. “Nothing can describe the excitement caused by this announcement, which was inscribed on a huge moose-wood leaf, and pinned with thorns to the royal oak. No lady-squirrel had ever before appeared on a public platform, and all the old fogies felt that it was the beginning of great changes. Everybody wanted to go, however, especially when the King sent down a servant with both cheeks stuffed full of acorns, and engaged the best seats for himself and party. When the hour came, there was hardly standing-room left on the Nutcracker beech. Nippy took her station on the top bough, with the utmost dignity of manner. There was nothing left of the flirting, foolish ways of the ex-belle. Her poor thin tail was screwed tightly into a French twist. She wore a plain gray gown, and black gloves. She had practised speaking with her mouth full of nuts so long, that every word she uttered could be heard distinctly; and I assure you her audience listened with both eyes and ears. “I’m sorry that I cannot remember the lecture,” continued October; “for it was very fine. Nippy took the ground that as squirrels live in trees, and so do birds;—and as squirrels make nests, and so do birds;—and as squirrels have tails, and birds the same,—so it was the duty of squirrels to lay eggs, just as much as it was the duty of birds. Everybody applauded and agreed, but didn’t very well know how to do any thing more about it. So, after all, the lecture produced no practical result, except by making a great deal of talk.

“But this was precisely what Miss Nutcracker wished. She felt that her enterprise was succeeding, and that a glorious future lay before her. Other lectures followed. There was one on ‘Food;’ one on ‘What to do with the Shells?’ another on ‘Hygiene’ (which the average squirrel persisted in calling ‘High Jinks,’ and treating accordingly); and a fourth on ‘The New Departure,’ which meant the removal of the Nutcracker tribe to another tree, with more nuts on it. But the most famous lecture of all was announced to be ‘for ladies only’ and its subject was ‘The Wrongs of Squirrelesses.’

“Nippy told her audience (which they had not known before) that they had always been abused and unhappy. She reminded them with great eloquence how the largest nuts were apt to fall to the lot of the male squirrels, who were usually up and at work early of mornings, while their wives slept; how fathers of families were apt to go sky-larking off into the woods, leaving their partners at home with nests full of little ones; how they came back late at night and disturbed the house; and many other things. So pathetic was the picture that, before the lecture ended, most of the company were in tears. The gentlemen, who had been sitting in distant trees meanwhile, trying to look as if they didn’t know that any thing was going on, but secretly wild with curiosity, were confounded when, at the end of the discourse, all the squirrelesses came trooping home slowly and sadly, with tails in their eyes, and not a skip or bound among them. That night nothing but sobs and recriminations were heard among the boughs. Even the royal oak caught the infection. The princes and princesses were disputing and scolding right and left; and nobody kept their good humor except the sensible old Queen, who had refused to attend the lecture.

“‘Shut up, and go to sleep!’ she exclaimed at last. ‘You are a parcel of nonsensical fools. Since I became a squirrel I never heard of any thing so ridiculous; and if I had my way, that Nippy Nutcracker should be made into a fricassee by noon to-morrow, before she has time to do more mischief.’

“But vainly did the royal dame utter her homely wisdom. Nippy, sporting in unfricasseed freedom, with the whole range of social abuses before her, was more than a match for the aged Queen, to whom nobody listened for a moment. The next week the lecture was ‘Repeated by Request.’ Others followed, of a still more dangerous character; such as, ‘Frisk in Fetters,’ and ‘Why are Incisors granted to Both Sexes?’ A dreadful little ballad was composed, and sung by the strong-minded, whose number became daily larger and more formidable. I remember only a fragment, but it gives an idea of the whole:—

“The grammar,” said October, “is defective, you observe. But that is little. Grammar and all other rules are defied by the strong-minded,—when they happen to be squirrels.

“This was last autumn. Just as I left, a lecture was announced upon ‘The Royal Family an Excrescence!’ What the state of affairs may be now I do not know, and I dare not guess. I confess that it is with reluctance that I return to the grove. From what I know of Miss Nutcracker, it would not surprise me to find all the old pleasant state of things changed, the King and Queen in exile, a Republic proclaimed, and Nippy at the head of affairs as Provisional Governess!”

Grandfather had been as much entertained at the story as any one. Listening, his face grew young again, his laugh mingled with the merry peals from Max and Thekla, and was almost as gay in sound. But, as October drew to a close, he seemed to become weary; and, when the last words were spoken, they looked at him, and he was fast asleep.

“Better so,” whispered October. “He will miss me less.”

In silence he measured his moments from the can; silently bent over the white head, and touched it with his lips; and on tiptoe stole from the room.

The children followed noiselessly. “That story didn’t really have any end, did it?” said Thekla, when they were outside.

“No,” replied October, “there is no use trying to put ends to things which have Nippy Nutcrackers mixed up with them.”