CHAPTER II.

“YES, dear.”

Mother Brimmer smiled and nodded, and Rosy ran off for a basket.

“What are you going to do?” cried Cornelius, seeing her turn over the turkey drumsticks in the platter, when the basket, lined neatly with brown paper, was all ready and waiting on a chair. So Mother Brimmer began to explain.

“Oh! now, I say that’s too bad,” cried Cornelius, “to give away a lot of things to those fellows who pitched into us in our shop, and egged me most to death, besides making me sprain my ankle. Don’t let her do it, ma,” he begged.

“But Mr. Plumtree made them sorry about fighting in the shop,” said Rosy, continuing her selection of pieces, “and they had to work awfully hard at the farmer’s where he bound them out; and now they’re all so poor, I don’t suppose they’ve had the least bit of a Thanksgiving dinner.”

“They don’t deserve any,” said Cornelius stoutly. Even Jack looked as if he thought Company’s sentiment wasted.

“I told her she might,” said Mrs. Brimmer quietly, the guests looking on with no words to offer.

“Look at her,—she’s putting in an awful lot,” shouted Cornelius, hanging over the turkey platter. “Rosy, don’t give ’em that.”

“That” was half of an apple tart, rich and red, and juicy.

“Probably the first they’ve ever tasted,” said the minister softly.

Jack rubbed the toe of his boot back and forth over the polished wooden floor, Miss Clorinda gave a mild sniff of disapproval of the way things were going on, but by pinching herself, she managed to keep still; Corny alone, keeping up the other side of the argument.

“It’s a perfect shame, when it’s the first time we’ve ever had a Thanksgiving,” he cried, with a red face and indignant eyes, “to pack off all those nice things to a lot of dirty, mean old Corner boys.”

Mother Brimmer still kept silent.

“Jack thinks so.” Corny whirled around and pointed to the senior partner triumphantly. “He knows; and you ought to do as he says, Rosy.”

Company’s little right hand dropped to the side of the basket, while her round face took on a pained expression as she looked at Jack.

The big boy flushed up to his dark hair, and he dropped his eyes to the floor to follow the working of his uneasy boot. He longed to say “I think it’s ridiculous, when we are all working so hard, to give away such things to those idle, good-for-nothing Corner boys,” but a verse from the Bible came ringing through his ears. For a moment, he thought the parson must be repeating it, and he glanced up quickly. No; there he sat in the high-backed chair looking at him silently. Then Jack remembered it was in church that very morning that he had heard the words “Do good to them that hate you.”

Here was the direct command from the Master. Jack in the past year of work and responsibility, had drawn very near to his Heavenly Father; at the last, glad to enroll himself as a member of the Church of Christ. And, yet, on this blessed day of thankfulness for the wealth of mercies that had been showered upon him, he was avariciously shutting his heart to the good impulse that would help some of God’s poor, needy ones, up into the range of human sympathy and love. They might be wicked; all the more reason that he should do what he could to bring them to love the good. Mean, contemptible fellow that he was to even look his disapproval to what Rosy was doing!

Jack threw back his head, and Cornelius gave a long breath of delight.

“Go on, Rose,” said the big boy of the family, “and I’ll help you.” Thereupon Jack sprang forward, and seized an orange and laid it in the basket, and followed with two or three handfuls of butternuts.

“Ow—ow!” cried Corny in despair.

“Come on, Corny,” cried Jack, his color deepening into a bloom to match that in Wild Rose’s cheeks, and his dark eyes dancing with delight, “if you want any hand in this basket; see, it’s almost full.”

And the next thing that Corny knew, he was tucking in the drumsticks of the chickens, that he had fondly hoped to pick clean on the morrow; and Jack had saved himself from being the one to pull down the sweet impulses of his younger brother and his little sister, into the mire where all was hateful and of evil growth.

“I suppose,” said the parson, when all the packing was done, even to the tying of the string across the cover, “that you don’t want my company on your walk over to the Corners—eh, Jack?”

“Don’t we, though,” cried the boy, never the least bit afraid of the minister; now, warmed up to self-forgetfulness, in a mood light-hearted enough for anything.

“Yes, sir, we do!” echoed Corny, whipping out his knife to cut off the string-end. “That’ll be just gay, if you’ll come.”

“Suppose we all accompany the basket party,” proposed Miss Peaseley slowly, and taking her feet away from the cheerful blaze of the snapping hickory; “that is, those who care to,” she added, with a thought in time for the widow and her daughter, and lame Joey Clark.

Joey looked wistfully across at his sister; but she shook her head, and he sat back obediently in the depths of his chair.

“Want to go, Joey?” asked Mr. Higginson.

“Yes, sir,” Joey’s thin cheek glowed at once, and his eyes sparkled.

“Now, I feel just like a ride on this cold afternoon,” declared Parson Higginson, jumping up, and swinging his arms. “I’m going over cross lots to ask Farmer Hooker to lend me his green wagon and Betty the mare. Want to go, Jack and Corny, and help harness?” Both boys signified without any hesitancy, that they did.

“Joey, you have the first invitation,” said the parson, nodding over at the lame boy; “get all bundled up in fine style,—and all you others,” waving his ministerial hands merrily toward the group; “follow suit, and we’ll pick you up in about ten minutes—oh! here’s my coat; thank you, Jack, and Rosy, for my hat. Come on, boys!”

And so, what was supposed to be rather a hard and unwelcome duty of trudging down to the Corners with a heavy basket containing some of the Thanksgiving goodies, turned out to be, under the minister’s management, the most royal frolic of the season, and one well suited to wind up a Thanksgiving party with.

And then came Christmas.

There was no party at the old Brimmer place, of course. Mother Brimmer would have held up her hands in amazement at such an idea. One festive occasion was quite enough to indulge in for a year, and the memory of it would follow each day of the twelvemonth, with inspiration to heartier work than ever.

“It’s Thanksgiving all the year,” said Corny one day, well along in December. “Didn’t we have a good time? I haven’t got the taste of those pies out of my mouth yet,” and he smacked his lips.

“Those were the most economical pies I ever made,” said Mrs. Brimmer, laughing, “they last so long.”

“I’m going to pretend,” said Corny, nailing away vigorously on his mother’s washboard, which a rainy day had allowed him to mend, “that we’re going to have some more on Christmas.”

“Better not,” said Mother Brimmer wisely, “for you’re not going to, and when the time comes you’ll be disappointed.”

“No, I sha’n’t, Mamsie,” said Cornelius decidedly, “’cause I know you aren’t going to make any. But I remember just how they tasted, and when I’m pretending we can have ’em all over again, it’s ’most as good as eating any.”

“It’s a very cheap way of getting a nice dish,” said Mrs. Brimmer, cutting up her meat for the stew, “but I don’t think sham pies are as good as the plain boiled dinner we’re going to have Christmas.”

Cornelius pounded away a few moments in silence; then he said, “I suppose we ought to do something for Christmas; that don’t take money, I mean,” with an anxious glance at his mother.

“Well, now, children,” said Mrs. Brimmer, neatly dividing an obdurate joint, “there, that’s done. I’ve been thinking about Christmas, and a plan has come to me.”

“Don’t tell till Jack comes,” cried Rosalie, over in the corner busy with her ironing holders. “O, Mamsie, do wait!” she begged in alarm.

“Jack knows about it,” said Mrs. Brimmer; “he and I talked it all over the night you two went to singing-school. And he wanted me to tell you both as soon as I could get a good chance. Now’s the time, I think, seeing Roly Poly is having her nap, and we three are all quiet together.”

“O, Mamsie! what is it?” cried Rosy breathlessly; and, dropping her sewing, she ran up to her mother’s side, Cornelius also deserting his washboard.

“Go right straight back,” said Mother Brimmer, clapping the potatoes into the kettle, “and pick up your work—dear me! can’t you hear just as well when your fingers are busy, pray tell?”

Thus reproved, they hurried back again. “Now tell, do, Mamsie,” they begged, once more in their places.

“Well,” said Mrs. Brimmer slowly, “it’s just this; Roly Poly must hang up her stocking the same as usual, of course.”

“But do let it be a better one this year,” cried Corny, “old turnip dolls, and such make-believe stuff as it was last Christmas!” he added contemptuously.

“Roly Poly had a beautiful time,” said Rosy, “she’s been talking of it most every day since. Don’t you remember what fun it was seeing her pull out the things?”

“And the doll, I’m sure, was a wonderful affair,” said Mother Brimmer, “and lasted much better than a store one would have done.”

“And when it wrinkled it looked just like an old woman,” said Corny, with a shout at the remembrance; “and how funny it was to hear Roly Poly call it her baby.”

“And wasn’t the molasses candy with the butternuts meats good,” observed Rosalie reflectively, “and the furniture you and Jack made for the dolly—oh! I think that was so pretty.”

“And the mittens Mamsie knit her; I forgot them,” said Corny. “Yes; it was pretty good, after all. But we’re richer now, and we ought to give her a better stocking this Christmas,” he added decidedly, with quite an air.

“I don’t know about being richer,” said Mother Brimmer cautiously, and giving a final stir to the several ingredients in the kettle, she put on the cover, took down her pans and set about moulding her bread; “our expenses increase every year as you children grow older; and it isn’t right to plan taking anything that isn’t actually necessary, out of the nest-egg. Roly Poly will need every bit we can give her toward her education by and by.”

“We aren’t being educated,” said Corny deliberately.

Mother Brimmer turned away from her bread-board, looked at him keenly, then sent a swift glance over to her one girl.

“And that’s just what I want to talk about this morning. You’re going to have a chance at it, if you both agree to the plan.”

It was impossible for the children to work now; and the needle and the hammer dropped, while Mother Brimmer went on.

“Mr. Thomas will come here every evening for an hour, for a dollar a week, and teach Jack and both of you; and I’m to have the chance of listening and asking questions, so you might as well call me a scholar, too.”

Neither of her auditors said a word, but stared into the strong face, out of whose mouth was issuing such wonderful words.

“There will have to be hard work on your part to make every minute tell,” said Mother Brimmer, “as you’ve got to keep your books by you and study when you get a chance. But the most important of all, is to keep saying the things you learn, over and over to yourself, so that you can’t forget them; I wouldn’t give a cent that any child of mine should get anything into his or her head, that can’t stay by them,” she added, with a scorn to match that of Cornelius’ own.

“We never’ll forget what we once learn,” cried both Corny and Rosalie in one breath. “But how are we going to pay for it, Mamsie?”

“Well, now to pay for the lessons, we shall all have to sacrifice something,” said Mrs. Brimmer, drawing herself up to her full height, and looking resolutely at them.

“We can give up our play—afternoons,” said Corny slowly, his black eye steadily on her.

“Never!” exclaimed Mrs. Brimmer, bringing her hand down on the table with emphasis, “those mustn’t be touched, whatever we do; that’s decided.”

“What can we give up?” cried Rosy, in astonishment.

“We’re saving everything as close as can be, now,” said Cornelius, with a decided nod. “Jack turns every penny twice over before he’ll begin to think of spending it, and then he claps it into the bank. What in the world can we save more, ma?”

“I said ‘sacrifice,’” replied Mrs. Brimmer, very distinctly. “We shall have to draw out some of the nest-egg. This will come hard, because all of us have been working diligently to put the little fund there, and every cent taken away from it reduces the interest.”

Cornelius began to look grave at once. Rail as he might at Jack’s regard for every penny, the accumulation of the deposit in the bank was is dear to the heart of the younger boy, who had no delight so great as an errand that took him past the large, red building, over whose door was the magical word—Bank. To stand here a moment and reflect that nearly one hundred dollars was recorded on the books to the credit of Brimmer Brothers and Company, repaid for many hours of toil and self-denial. Now, if they had a teacher, some of that slowly-accumulated money must be used.

It was to be a sacrifice, as the mother had said.

“But,” Mrs. Brimmer’s tone changed to a ringing one of hopefulness and courage, “the money thus taken out and used, will be the best investment possible; better than a ten per cent interest for all of us. Think of it, children; an education for you and for me!” and for one little moment, the barriers of a pent-up longing, that had possessed her heart for years, were dropped.

“Mother,” they cried, “let us have Mr. Thomas come just as soon as he can!”

“He can’t come till Christmas Eve,” said Mrs. Brimmer. “But he’ll begin then, and be glad to, for he’s too poor to go home for a vacation. So he told me yesterday, when I stopped into the District school.”

“Is that where you went, Mamsie, in the afternoon, when you put on your Sunday shawl and bonnet?” asked Rosy, who hadn’t recovered from the astonishment produced by seeing such preparations made for a visit about which there was no attending conversation.

“Yes, child; I asked Jack about it, first; and then he wanted, if Mr. Thomas could do it, to have me tell you and see if you would like to fall into the plan. If Mr. Thomas couldn’t do it, why, then, you two wouldn’t have any disappointment to bear. But he can. O, what a Christmas we will have!”