Laura Richards
Five Minute Stories

PRACTISING SONG

 
Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-tum!
Here I must sit for an hour and strum:
Practising is good for a good little girl,
It makes her nose straight, and it makes her hair curl.
 
 
Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-ti!
Bang on the low notes and twiddle on the high.
Whether it’s a jig or the Dead March in Saul,
I sometimes often feel as if I didn’t care at all.
 
 
Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-tee!
I don’t mind the whole or the half-note, you see!
It’s the sixteenth and the quarter that confuse my mother’s daughter,
And the thirty-second, really, is too dreadful to be taught her.
 
 
Ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-to!
I shall never, never, never learn the minor scale, I know.
It’s gloomier and doomier than puppy dogs a-howling,
And what’s the use of practising such melancholy yowling?
 
 
But —ri-tum tiddy-iddy, ri-tum-tum!
Still I work away with my drum, drum, drum.
For practising is good for a good little girl:
It makes her nose straight and it makes her hair curl.¹
 

QUEEN ELIZABETH’S DANCE

 
The Spanish ambassador came to see
Queen Bess, the great and glorious;
He was an hidalgo of high degree,
And she was a maid victorious.
 
 
He bowed till he touched her gilded shoe,
And he kissed the royal hand of her,
And said if she’d marry King Philip the Two,
He’d take charge of the troublesome land of her.
 
 
Chorus.– Oh! she danced, she danced, she danced,
And she pranced, she pranced, she pranced.
Oh! high and disposedly,
Tips-of-her-toesedly,
Royal Elizabeth danced.
 
 
The Queen replied with a courtesy low,
“King Philip is courtly and kind, too!
But my kingdom is smaller than his, you know,
And rule it myself I’ve a mind to.
Supreme is the honor, of him to be sought;
Oblige him I’m sorry I can’t, oh!
But lest you should think you’d come hither for nought,
You shall see how I dance a coranto!”
 
 
Cho.– Oh! she danced, she danced, she danced, etc.
 
 
The Spanish ambassador hied him home,
And told how he had been tried of her;
And His Majesty swore by the Pope of Rome,
He’d break the insular pride of her.
But vain was his hope! He never could ope,
In the land of that marvellous lass, a door;
For she danced in the face of the King and the Pope,
As she danced for the Spanish ambassador.
 
 
Cho.– Oh! she danced, she danced, she danced, etc.
 

A STORMING PARTY

It was at Stirling Castle. People who did not know might have called it the shed, but that would show their ignorance. On the ramparts was mustered a gallant band, the flower of Scotland, armed with mangonels, catapults, and bows and arrows; below were the English, with their battering-rams and culverins and things. Ned was the English general, and led the storming party, and I was his staff, and Billy was the drummer, and drummed for the king. The Scottish general was Tom, and he had on Susie’s plaid skirt for a kilt, and his sporran was the rocking-horse’s tail that had come off.

Well, there was lots of snow on the roof, – I mean the ramparts, and they hurled it down on our heads, and we played ours was Greek fire, and hit them back like fun, I tell you. There was quite a mountain down below, where Andrew, the chore-man, had shovelled off the deep snow; and we stood on this, and it was up to my waist, and I played it was gore, because in Scott they are always wading knee-deep in gore, and I thought I would get ahead of them and go in up to my waist.

I hit General Montrose (that was Tom) with a splendid ball of Greek fire, and it was quite soft, and a lot of it got down his neck, and you ought to have seen him dance. He called me a dastardly Sassenach, and I thought at first he said “sausage,” and was as mad as hops, but afterward I didn’t care.

Then Ned called for volunteers to storm the castle, and we all ran to the ladder; but Ned climbed up the spout, ’cause he can shin like sixty, and he got up before we did. He took the warder by the throat, just like the Bold Buccleugh in “Kinmont Willie,” and chucked him right off the roo – ramparts into the gore. That made Montrose mad as a hornet, and he rushed on Ned, and they got each other round the waist, and went all over the roof, till at last they got too near the edge, and over they both went. Billy was scared at that and stopped drumming, but I drew my mangonel (Susie says that isn’t the right name, but I don’t believe she knows) and rushed on the Scottish troops, which were only Jimmy Weaver, now that Montrose and the warder were gone. I got Jimmy down, and put my knee on his chest and shouted, “Victory! the day is ours! Saint George for England!”

But then I heard somebody else yelling, and I looked over the ramparts, and there was Montrose with his knee on Ned’s chest, waving his culverin and shouting, “Victory! the day is ours! Saint Andrew for Scotland!”

I was perfectly sure that our side had beaten, and Tom was absolutely certain that he had won a great victory; but just then mother called us in to tea, so we could not fight it over again to decide. Anyhow, Montrose got so much Greek fire down his neck that he had to change everything he had on, and I didn’t have to change a thing except my stockings.

AT THE LITTLE BOY’S HOME

It was a very hot day, and the little boy was lying on his stomach under the big linden tree, reading the “Scottish Chiefs.”

“Little Boy,” said his mother, “will you please go out in the garden and bring me a head of lettuce?”

“Oh, I – can’t!” said the little boy. “I’m – too —hot!”

The little boy’s father happened to be close by, weeding the geranium bed; and when he heard this, he lifted the little boy gently by his waistband, and dipped him in the great tub of water that stood ready for watering the plants.

“There, my son!” said the father. “Now you are cool enough to go and get the lettuce; but remember next time that it will be easier to go at once when you are told as then you will not have to change your clothes.”

The little boy went drip, drip, dripping out into the garden and brought the lettuce; then he went drip, drip, dripping into the house and changed his clothes; but he said never a word, for he knew there was nothing to say.

That is the way they do things where the little boy lives. Would you like to live there? Perhaps not; yet he is a happy little boy, and he is learning the truth of the old saying, —

 
“Come when you’re called, do as you’re bid.
Shut the door after you, and you’ll never be chid.”
 

THEN AND NOW

(A disquisition on the use of gunpowder, by Master Jack.)

 
When they first invented gunpowder,
They did most dreadful things with it;
They blew up popes and parliaments,
And emperors and kings with it.
 
 
They put on funny hats and boots,
And skulked about in cellars, oh!
With shaking shoes they laid a fuse,
And blew it with the bellows, oh!
 
 
They wore great ruffs, the stupid muffs,
(At least that’s my opinion) then;
And said “What ho!” and “Sooth, ’tis so!”
And called each other “minion!” then.
 
 
But now, the world has turned about
Five hundred years and more, you see;
And folks have learned a thing or two
They did not know before, you see.
 
 
So nowadays the powder serves
To give the boys a jolly day
And try their Aunt Louisa’s nerves,
And make a general holiday.
 
 
In open day we blaze away
With popguns and with crackers, oh!
With rockets bright we crown the night,
(And some of them are whackers, oh!)
 
 
And “pop!” and “fizz!” and “bang!” and “whizz!”
Sounds louder still and louder, oh!
And that’s the way we use, to-day,
The funny gunny-powder, oh!
 

PLEASANT WALK

“Where are you going, Miss Sophia?” asked Letty, looking over the gate.

“I am going to walk,” answered Miss Sophia. “Would you like to come with me, Letty?”

“Oh yes!” cried Letty, “I should like to go very much indeed! Only wait, please, while I get my bonnet!”

And Letty danced into the house, and danced out again with her brown poke bonnet over her sunny hair.

“Here I am, Miss Sophia!” she cried. “Now, where shall we go?”

“Down the lane!” said Miss Sophia, “and through the orchard into the fields. Perhaps we may find some strawberries.”

So away they went, the young lady walking demurely along, while the little girl frolicked and skipped about, now in front, now behind. It was pretty in the green lane. The ferns were soft and plumy, and the moss firm and springy under their feet. The trees bent down and talked to the ferns, and told them stories about the birds that were building in their branches; and the ferns had stories, too, about the black velvet mole who lived under their roots, and who had a star on the end of his nose.

But Letty and Miss Sophia did not hear all this; they only heard a soft whispering, and never thought what it meant.

Presently they came out of the lane, and passed through the orchard, and then came out into the broad, sunny meadow.

“Now, Letty,” said Miss Sophia, “use your bright eyes, and see if you can find any strawberries! I will sit under a tree and rest a little.”

Away danced Letty, and soon she was peeping and peering under every leaf and grass blade; but no gleam of scarlet, no pretty clusters of red and white could she see. Evidently it was not a strawberry meadow. She came back to the tree, and said, —

“There are no strawberries, at all, Miss Sophia, not even one. But I have found something else. Wouldn’t you like to see it? Something very pretty.”

“What is it, dear?” asked Miss Sophia. “A flower? I should like to see it, certainly.”

“No, it is not a flower,” said Letty; “it’s a cow.”

“What?” cried Miss Sophia, springing to her feet.

“A cow,” said Letty, “a pretty, spotted cow. She’s coming after me, I think.”

Miss Sophia looked in the direction which Letty pointed, and there, to be sure, was a cow, moving slowly toward them. She gave a shriek of terror; then, controlling herself, she threw her arms around Letty.

“Be calm, my child!” she said, “I will save you! Be calm!”

“Why, what is the matter, Miss Sophia?” cried Letty in alarm.

Miss Sophia’s face was very pale, and she trembled; but she seized Letty’s arm, and bade her walk as fast as she could.

“If we should run,” she said, in a quivering voice, “it would run after us, and then we could not possibly escape. Walk fast, my child! Don’t scream! Try to keep calm!”

“Why, Miss Sophia!” cried the astonished child, “you don’t think I’m afraid of that cow, do you? Why, it’s – ”

“Hush! hush!” whispered Miss Sophia, dragging her along, “you will only enrage the creature by speaking aloud. I will save you, dear, if I can! See! we are getting near the fence. Can’t you walk a little faster?”

“Moo-oo-ooo!” said the cow, which was now following them at a quicker pace.

“Oh! oh!” cried Miss Sophia. “I shall faint, I know I shall! Letty, don’t faint too, dear. Let one of us escape. Courage, child! Be calm! Oh! there is the fence. Run, now, run for your life!”

The next minute they were both over the fence. Letty stood panting, with eyes and wide mouth open; but Miss Sophia clasped her in her arms and burst into tears.

“Safe!” she sobbed. “My dear, dear child, we are safe!”

“Yes, I suppose we are safe,” said the bewildered Letty. “But what was the matter? It was Uncle George’s cow, and she was coming home to be milked!”

“Moo-oo-oo!” said Uncle George’s cow, looking over the fence.

A GREAT DAY

“Children,” asked Miss Mary, the teacher, “do you know what day this is?”

“Yes, ma’am!” cried Bobby Wilkins, looking up with sparkling eyes.

“Does any one else know?” asked Miss Mary.

No one spoke. The boy John knew very well what day it was, but he was off in the clouds, thinking of William the Conqueror, and did not hear a word Miss Mary said. Billy Green knew, too, but he had been reproved for chewing gum in class, and was in the sulks, and would not speak. Of course Joe did not know, for he never knew anything of that kind; and none of the girls were going to answer when the boys were reciting. So Bobby Wilkins was the only one who spoke.

“It is a day,” said Miss Mary, looking round rather severely, “which ought to waken joy in the heart of every American, young or old.”

Bobby felt his cheeks glow, and his heart swell. He thought Miss Mary was very kind.

“It is a day,” she went on, “to be celebrated with feelings of pride and delight.”

Bobby felt of the bright new half-dollar in his pocket, and thought of the splendid kite at home, and of the cake that mother was making when he came away. He had not wanted to come to school to-day, but now he was glad he had come. He had no idea that Miss Mary would feel this way about it. He looked round to see how the others took it, but they all looked blank, except the boy John, who was standing on the field of Hastings, and whose countenance was illumined with the joy of victory.

“It is a day,” said Miss Mary, with kindling eyes (for the children were really very trying to-day), “which will be remembered in America as long as freedom and patriotism shall endure.”

Bobby felt as if he were growing taller. He saw himself in the President’s chair, or mounted on a great horse, like the statues of Washington, holding out a truncheon.

“One hundred and eighteen years ago to-day,” cried Miss Mary —

“Oh! oh my, it ain’t!” cried Bobby Wilkins, springing up. “It’s only seven.”

“Bobby, what do you mean?” asked Miss Mary, looking at him severely. “You are very rude to interrupt me. What do you mean by ‘seven?’”

“My birthday,” faltered Bobby. “I ain’t a hundred anything, I’m only seven.”

“Come here, dear!” said Miss Mary, holding out her hand very kindly. “Come here, my little boy. I wish you very many happy returns, Bobby dear! but – but I was speaking of the battle of Bunker Hill.”

Poor Bobby! Miss Mary shook her head at the children over his shoulder, as he sat in her lap, as a sign not to laugh, but I suppose they could not help it. They did laugh a good deal, – all except the boy John, who was watching Harold die, and feeling rather sober in consequence.

A PASTORAL

 
The sun was shining calm and bright,
The meadow grass was deep;
The daisies and the buttercups
Were nodding, half-asleep.
And overhead the sparrows sat
And crooned upon the bough,
And all the world was sleepy then,
When Johnny drove the cow.
 
 
The sun was like a flaming beast,
The field was like the sea;
The grass like angry snakes did hiss
And wriggle at his knee.
The sparrows turned to goblin imps
That yelled, and fluttered on,
As through a world, gone raving mad,
The cow was driving John!
 

RICHES

“Mamma,” said Mabel, “I am very glad we are rich!”

Mamma looked up with a little smile; she was patching Freddy’s trousers, and had just been wondering whether they would last till spring, and if not, how she was to get him another pair.

“Yes, Mabel dear,” she said. “We are very rich in some things. What were you thinking about when you spoke?”

“I was thinking how dreadful it would be to be hungry,” replied Mabel, thoughtfully. “I mean terribly hungry, like people in a shipwreck. Why, just to be a little hungry, the way Freddy and I get sometimes, makes me feel all queer inside; and besides, it makes me cross and horrid. So then I wondered how it would feel to be really hungry, and not to be sure that you were going to have good bread and milk for supper; and that made me feel so glad that we were rich.”

Mamma was silent for a few minutes. She was thinking of a house to which she took some work the day before. She had passed through the dining-room, and there, at the carved table, sat a little girl with her supper before her, – delicate rolls, and cold chicken, and raspberry jam, and hot cocoa in a china cup all covered with roses, and creamy milk in a great silver mug.

The child was about Mabel’s age, but her face wore a very different expression. She had pushed her chair back, and was crying out that she would not eat cold chicken. She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t! so there now! The nurse might just as well take it away, and she was a horrid cross old thing! Mamma was going to have partridge for dinner, and she wanted some of that, and she would have it.

Then, when the nurse shook her white-capped head and said, “No miss! your Mamma said you were to have the chicken; so now eat it, like a good girl, and you shall have some jam,” the child flew at her like a little fury, and slapped and pinched her. That was all that Mabel’s Mamma saw, but as she thought of it, and then looked at her little maiden, with a sweet face smiling over her blue pinafore, she smiled again, very tenderly, and said, —

“Yes, dear, it is a very good thing to be rich, if it is the right kind of riches. Go now, darling, and get the bread and milk; set the table, and then call Freddy in to supper.”

POVERTY

It was a lovely day in June, and the poor little girl was going out. She was so poor that she had to go in a great big carriage, with two fat, slow horses and a sleepy driver, who got very angry if you asked him to drive a little faster. She was dressed in a white frock, frilled and flounced, and she had a fashionable little hat on her head, which stuck up in front, so that the wind was always catching it and blowing it off. She had tight kid gloves on her little hands, and beautiful little bronze kid boots on her feet; so you see she was very poor indeed.

The carriage rolled slowly along through the park, and the little girl saw many other poor children, also sitting in carriages, with tight kid gloves and kid boots; she nodded to them, and they to her, but it was not very interesting. By and by they left the park, and drove out into the country, where there were green fields, with no signs to keep people off the grass. The grass was full of buttercups, and in one field were two little girls, running about, with their hands full of the lovely golden blossoms, laughing and shouting to each other. One had a pink calico dress on, and the other a brown gingham, and they were barefooted, and their sunbonnets were lying on the grass. The poor little girl looked at them with sparkling eyes.

“Oh, Mademoiselle!” she cried, “may I get out and run about a little? See what a good time those children are having! Do let me jump out, please!”

“Fi donc, Claire!” said the lady who sat beside her. She was a thin, dark lady, with sharp, eager black eyes, and not a pleasant face. “Fi donc! What would madame, your mother, say, if she heard you desiring to run in the fields like the beggar children? Those children – dirty little wretches! – are barefooted, and it is evident that their hair has never known the brush. Do not look at them, child! Look at the prospect!”

“I don’t care about the prospect!” said the poor child. “I want some buttercups. We never have buttercups at our house, Mademoiselle. I wish I might pick just a few!”

“Assuredly not!” cried Mademoiselle, her eyes growing blacker and sharper. “Let you leave the carriage and run about in the mire, for the sake of a few common, vulgar flowers? Look at your dress, Claire! Look at your delicate shoes, and your new pearl-colored gloves! Are these the things to run in the dirt with? I will not be responsible for such conduct. Sit still, and when we reach home the gardener shall pick you some roses.”

“I don’t want roses!” said the poor little girl, sighing wearily. “I am tired of roses. I want buttercups!”

She sighed again, and leaned back on the velvet cushions; the carriage rolled on. The barefoot children gazed after it with wondering eyes.

“My!” said one, “wasn’t she dressed fine, though!”

“Yes,” said the other; “but she looked as if she was having a horrid time, poor thing.”

“Poor thing!” echoed the first child.

THE BEST OF ALL

“I mean to have the best time this Fourth of July that I ever had in my life,” said the Big Boy. Then all the other big boys clustered round him to hear what the good time was to be, and the little boy sighed and wished he were big, too. The big boys did not tell him what they were going to do, but I know all about it, so I can tell. They made a camp in the Big Boy’s room, which is out in the barn. One boy brought a comforter, and another brought a pair of blankets; and there was an old spring mattress up in the loft, so that with the Big Boy’s own bed, which could hold two (if you kept very still and didn’t kick the other fellow out), they did very well indeed. The Big Boy’s mother, knowing something of boys, had set out a lunch for them, crackers and cheese, and gingerbread and milk, so there was no danger of starvation.

Of course they were busy in the early part of the evening, buying their firecrackers and torpedoes, their fish-horns and all their noisy horrors (for you must understand that this was the night before the Glorious Fourth); but by nine o’clock they were all assembled in the barn, ready to have the very best time in the world. First they ate some lunch, and that was good; then they thought they would take a nap, just for an hour or so, that they might not be sleepy when the time came. Two of them lay down on the Big Boy’s bed, and two on the old spring mattress, and two on the floor; but it did not make much difference where they began their nap, for when the boys’ mother took a peep at them about ten o’clock, she found them all lying in a heap on the floor, sound asleep, though the Thin Boy was groaning in his sleep because the Fat Boy was lying across his neck.

Suddenly the Big Boy awoke with a start, and looking at his watch, found that it was half past eleven. Hastily he roused the sleepers, and there was a hurrying and scurrying, a hunting for caps, a snatching up of horns and slow-match. Then softly they stole down the barn stairs, and away they went to the old church, and up they climbed into the belfry. The sexton had left the door unlocked, having been a boy himself once; so there they waited till twelve o’clock came. Ah! what a grand time they had then, “ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple;” but it only lasted an hour, and then there was all the rest of the night. They went here and they went there, and when they grew hungry they went back to the barn and finished the lunch; and then they tried to go to sleep again, but they kept falling about so, it was no use, so they waited till they thought their own houses would be open, and then they went home, and the Big Boy crept into his bed and slept till noon.

But the Little Boy woke up at six o’clock, and jumped up like a lark, and got his torpedoes and firecrackers, and was very cheerful, though he did sigh just once when he thought of the big boys. He turned the gravel-sweep into a battle-field, and made forts and mines for the firecrackers, and then he cracked and snapped and fizzed and blazed – at least the firecrackers did – all the morning. He only burned his fingers twice and his trousers five times, and that was doing very well. He had a glorious day; and his mother thought – but neither the Little Boy nor the Big Boy agreed with her – that the best part of all was the good night’s sleep beforehand.