By Margaret Sidney.

CHAPTER I.

THE old house on Cherryfield high road, back of the row of stiff poplars, with its queer little gnarled apple-trees at the back, looked for all the world just as it did one hundred years ago. It had no more paint on it now than when the children’s grandfather took home his young bride who thought it the most beautiful place in all the world to begin housekeeping in. Then it was a dingy yellow, with faded green blinds; and now the same forlorn attempt at coloring greeted all passers-by. To be sure it had been painted many times in the interim, but always the same hue was chosen, so that to the oldest inhabitant it was the best known landmark for miles around.

The “Brimmer Place” was known too, for something else than its antiquity; it was the cheeriest, home-iest old house that ever stood on any road, overflowing with good-will to everybody, especially to sick people and to little children. If anybody were in trouble and could reach her, Mrs. Brimmer always found just the right word of cheer to speak, while she tried to help in many other ways—and what she didn’t do, why, there were Jack, and Cornelius, and Rosalie, to say nothing of Primrose, the baby—four little comforters who made everybody just happy to look at them. And yet every one who lived in the big, hundred-year-old house was poor.

“It’s most dreadful to be poor,” said Rosalie one morning, in a burst of confidence to the boys, out in the woodshed. Cornelius stopped hacking at an old log to flash her a convincing “no” out of his black eyes.

“And it’s so very unagreeable,” continued Rosalie, smoothing down her apron while she seated herself on one end of the bench.

“Disagreeable, you mean,” corrected Jack, picking up sticks over in the corner. “There, Corny, you let that old fellow alone; I’ll tackle him soon. He’s too tough for you.”

Corny, resenting the implication, let the hatchet fly on the back of the old log to show how strong he was in such a masterful style that the chips flew in every direction, and Rosalie paused to shake them from her apron, before she said,

“No; I’m quite sure it is unagreeable—I saw it in the dictionary.”

“Well, then, you didn’t see right,” said Jack. “It’s d-i-s; awful big letters too. Means hateful, and not nice.”

“Well, it’s not nice to be poor,” said Rosalie wisely waiving all further discussion as to the word; “that you must say anyway, Jack.”

But Jack’s lips were tight. Presently he straightened himself up, and gave his head a shake. “Well, what shall we do about it?”

“Do?” said Rosalie, in surprise, “why, I don’t know what you mean, Jack?”

“When things are not nice, there is no use in talking about them if you don’t do something to make them better,” said Jack philosophically. “Now I want to know what we are going to do to make ourselves rich.”

“To make ourselves rich—O Jack!” cried Rosalie and Cornelius together.

“If we can earn some money, I suppose we shall be rich sometime,” observed Jack; “everybody was poor once, but they worked and got money. Now, how can we?”

The children were so possessed with the idea of their ever being rich, that no words came to their aid; and Jack went on without interruption.

“I’ve been thinking over something that, if we can do it, will be perfectly splendid, and help mammy take care of baby. Poor, dear mammy!”

He turned away for a moment, and then showed his face again, the same old Jack with the laughing eyes, and pleasant, honest mouth.

“Tell on,” said Cornelius, who had dropped his hatchet, and drawn near. “Be quick and tell us,” he added breathlessly.

“Well, there is the tool-house,” said Jack. “Funny old hole, but just the thing for us. Now what’s to hinder our setting up a shop in it, and selling things?”

“Real true-as-you-live things,” cried Rosalie, “with counters, string, and brown paper bags?” “And five cent pieces, and cents and quarters?” screamed Cornelius on his highest key. “Whickets! why didn’t we think of it before? But where’d we get the things to sell with? Phoh! your news isn’t anything, after all; only just an old dried-up joke.” He was so disgusted, that he went back, picked up his hatchet, and fell to slowly hacking again. Jack flung himself up to Rosalie’s side on the bench.

“Now see here, both of you. The thing can be done, if we will all club together, and work hard. It’s not to be a success in a day, mind you, but we’ve got to pull hard, and at it all the time. Are you willing to do it for mammy’s sake?”

“Can’t we have any time for play?” asked Rosalie with a long face.

“Perhaps; but there won’t be much,” said Jack, “if we make a good thing of this.”

“Well, I s’pose you and I are the men of this family,” said Cornelius, over his log, “and so if you’ll just say how the money’s coming to begin with, why, I’ll give you my word, I’ll keep at it.”

“We want Rosalie,” said Jack, kindly; “we can’t do anything without her.”

“Why, she’s nothing but a girl,” said Cornelius, still pummeling; “it takes men to keep store and make money.”

“But there are ever so many things that a girl can do to help us,” said Jack, “so we must take her into partnership.”

“O Jack! how very fine and exquisite,” cried Rosalie, grasping his arm with excited little fingers. “I’ll wait on customers, and make change all alone, and help you fix up things and look nice.”

“She uses such terribly big words,” said Cornelius, in disfavor at the scheme, “and puts on airs, just like all the other girls. Jack, we can’t let her in; it’s no use to try.”

“Now, Corny,” cried Rosalie, slipping from her bench and standing quite tall. “I’m very big—nearly ten; and I know a great many things, and Jack says I may—so there.”

“Yes, she really ought,” said Jack, with a nod over at the smaller boy, “because you see it’s a family concern. We must make it Brimmer Brothers and Company.”

“Am I Company?” asked Rosalie, in subdued excitement.

“Yes,” said Jack. “Well, now I’ll tell you how we can make the money to buy the things that we are to sell. To begin with, Rosalie?”

“I?” cried the Company, with widened eyes.

“Yes,” Jack nodded at her very decidedly. “You can take care of Mrs. Prouty’s baby.”

“O Jack!” It was a tone of horror that came from the girl of the family, “you don’t ever mean that?”

“If we are really going to earn money to help mammy with, we must expect to do some disagreeable work,” said Jack gravely.

Rosalie hid her ashamed little face a moment, then said, “Very well, I’ll do it. But how do you know she wants me?”

“I heard her tell the cook when I carried the lettuce there this morning that she’d give fifty cents to any girl who would take care of the baby a week—just come in every day. Her cousin is going there to-morrow to visit, and she wants her time to herself. Just think, Rosalie, fifty bright new cents!”

The Company fairly clapped her hands. “Perhaps she’ll let me bring the baby over home, then I sha’n’t be away from Primrose.”

“She’d be only too glad to get him out of the way, I’ll be bound,” said Jack; “I sh’d be, if I owned that baby.”

“And Primrose is so sweet that any other baby would smile and be good, even if it was a great fat, big, crying, red-faced one like Mrs. Prouty’s,” said Rosalie, seeing some alleviation to her task of earning fifty cents. “Now what is Corny going to do?” she demanded, trying not to hope that his work was disagreeable also.

“Corny and I have to work together,” said Jack, with a little grimace he couldn’t help. “It’s to clean up Widow Brown’s pig-pen.”

“I sha’n’t clean up that old woman’s pig-pen, nor anybody’s pig-pen,” shouted Corny, with a vicious hack at the log; “no, sir!”

“Very well, sir,” cried Jack back again, “then I’ll do it alone.”

He didn’t say, “I would if I were you,” or anything of the persuasive sort, knowing that by no such ways could he manage Cornelius. He simply let him alone, as he always did, and did his own duty. The consequence was, the chubby young wood-chopper presently turned around, and said complacently, “When I get this log chipped up for mammy, I’ll join you.”

“If you don’t come till that log is done, I’ll have Widow Brown’s pig-pen in apple pie order,” cried Jack, in high good humor.