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Birthday Party, A Story for Little Folks, The

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<h2>IV.</h2> When the children had done marching, Mrs. Lee took charge of the games. Several new plays, which none of them had heard of before, were introduced. The boys and girls all liked them very well, and the time passed away most rapidly. Just before they were going to supper, an old man, with a fiddle in his hand, tottered into the garden, and down the lawn. He was a very queer-looking old man. He had long white hair, and a long white beard. He was dressed in old, worn-out, soldier clothes, in part, and had a sailor’s hat upon his head, so that they could not tell whether he was a soldier or a sailor. As he approached the children, they began to laugh with all their might; and he certainly was a very funny old man. His long beard and hair, his tattered finery, and his hobbling walk, would have made almost any one laugh—much more a company of children as full of fun as those who were attending the birthday party. “Children,” said the old man, as he took off his hat and made a low bow, “I heard there was a party here, and I came to play the fiddle for you. All the boys and girls like a fiddle, because it is so merry.” “O mother! what did send that old man here?” cried Flora. “He came of himself, I suppose,” replied Mrs. Lee, laughing. “I think it is too bad to laugh at an old man like him,” added Flora. “It would be, if he were in distress; but don’t you see he is as merry as any of the children?” “Play us some tunes,” said the children. “I will, my little dears;” and the old man raised the fiddle. “Let’s see—I will play ‘Napoleon’s Grand March.’” The fiddler played, but he behaved so queerly that the children laughed so loud they could hardly hear the music. “Why, that’s ‘Yankee Doodle,’” said Henry Vernon; and they all shouted at the idea of calling that tune “Napoleon’s Grand March.” “Now I will play you the solo to the opera of ‘La Sonnambula,’” said the old man. “Whew!” said Henry. The old man fiddled again, with the same funny movements as before. “Why, that’s ‘Yankee Doodle’ too!” exclaimed Henry. “I guess he don’t know any other tune.” “You like that tune so well, I will play you ‘Washington’s March;’” and the funny old fiddler, with a great flourish, began to play again; but still it was “Yankee Doodle.” And so he went on saying he would play many different tunes, but he played nothing but “Yankee Doodle.” “Can’t you tell us a story now?” asked Charley Green. “O, yes, my little man, I can tell you a story. What shall it be?” “Are you a soldier or a sailor?” “Neither, my boy.” “The story! the story!” shouted the boys, very much excited. “Some years ago I was in New York,” the old man commenced. “Did you see me there?” demanded Tommy Woggs. “Well, my little man, I don’t remember that I saw you.” “O, I was there;” and Tommy thrust his hands down to the bottom of his pockets, and strutted up the space between the children and the comical old fiddler. “I did see a very nice-looking little gentleman——” “That was me,” pompously added Tommy. “He was stalking up Broadway. He thought every body was looking at and admiring him; but such was not the case. He looked just like—just like——” “Like me?” asked Tommy. “Like a sick monkey,” replied the fiddler. “Go on with your story.” “I will, children. Several years ago I was in New York. It is a great city; if you don’t believe it, ask Master Tommy Woggs.” “You tell the truth, Mr. Fiddler. It is a great city, and I have been all over it, and can speak from observation,” replied Master Woggs. “The story!” shouted the children. “I was walking up Broadway. This street is always crowded with people, as well as with carts and carriages.” “I have seen that street,” said Tommy. “Now you keep still a few minutes, Tommy, if you can,” interposed Mrs. Lee. “At the corner of Wall Street——” “I know where that is,” exclaimed Tommy. “At the corner of Wall Street there was a man with a kind of cart, loaded with apples and candy, which he was selling to the passers-by. Suddenly there came a stage down the street, and ran into the apple cart.” “I saw the very same thing done,” added Tommy, with his usual self-important air. “Keep still, Tom Woggs,” said Charley Green. “The apples were scattered all over the sidewalk; yet the man picked up all but one of them, though he was very angry with the driver of the stage for running against his cart.” “Why didn’t he pick up the other apple?” asked Henry. “A well-dressed man, with big black whiskers, picked that up. ‘Give it to me,’ said the apple man. ‘I will not,’ replied the man with whiskers. The apple merchant was as mad as he could be; and then the man with black whiskers put his hand in his pocket and drew out a knife. The blade was six inches long.” “O, dear me!” exclaimed Flora. “Raising the knife, he at once moved towards the angry apple merchant, and—and——” “Well, what?” asked several, eagerly. “And cut a piece out of the apple, and put it in his mouth.” The children all laughed heartily, for they were sure the man with the whiskers was going to stab the apple merchant. “He then took two cents from his pocket, paid for the apple, and went his way,” continued the old man. “Now, there is one thing more I can do. I want to run a race with these boys.” “Pooh! You run a race!” sneered Charley. “I can beat you.” “Try it, and see.” The old man and Charley took places, and were to start at the word from Henry. But when it was given, the fiddler hobbled off, leaving Charley to follow at his leisure. When the old man had got half way round the lawn, Charley started, sure he could catch him long before he reached the goal. But just as the boy was coming up with the man, the latter began to run, and poor Charley found, much to his surprise, that he ran very fast. He was unable to overtake him, and consequently lost the race. The children were much astonished when they saw the old man run so fast. He appeared to have grown young all at once. But he offered to race with any of the boys again; and half a dozen of them agreed to run with him. “I guess I will take my coat off this time,” said the fiddler. As he threw away the coat, he slipped off the wig and false beard he wore; and the children found, to their surprise, that the old man was Mr. Lee, who had dressed himself up in this disguise to please them. The supper was now ready, and all the children were invited to the tent. They had played so hard that all of them had excellent appetites, and the supper was just as nice as a supper could be. It was now nearly dark, and the children had to go home; but all of them declared the birthday party of Flora was the best they ever attended. “Only to think,” said Flora, when she went to bed that night, “the old fiddler was my father!” <hr /> <h1>LIZZIE.</h1> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/bar2.jpg" width-obs="212" height-obs="34" alt="Decorative divider bar 2" title="Decorative divider bar 2" /></div> <div class="cpoem"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Mother, what ails our Lizzie dear, So cold and still she lies? She does not speak a word to-day, And closed her soft blue eyes. Why won’t she look at me again, And laugh and play once more? I cannot make her look at me As she used to look before. </div> <div class="stanza"> Her face and neck as marble white, And, O, so very cold! Why don’t you warm her, mother dear, Your cloak around her fold? Her little hand is cold as ice, Upon her waveless breast,— So pure, I thought I could see through The little hand I pressed. </div> <div class="stanza"> Your darling sister’s dead, my child; She cannot see you now; The damps of death are gath’ring there Upon her marble brow. She cannot speak to you again, Her lips are sealed in death; That little hand will never move, Nor come that fleeting breath. </div> <div class="stanza"> All robed in white, and decked with flowers, We’ll lay her in the tomb; The flower that bloomed so sweetly here, No more on earth will bloom; But in our hearts we’ll lay her up, And love her all the more, Because she died in life’s spring time, Ere earth had won her o’er. </div> <div class="stanza"> Nay, nay, my child, she is not dead, Although she slumbers there, And cold and still her marble brow, And free from pain and care. She slept, and passed from earth to heaven, And won her early crown: An angel now she dwells above, And looks in triumph down. </div> <div class="stanza"> She is not dead, for Jesus died That she might live again. “Forbid them not,” the Saviour said, And blessed dear sister then. Her little lamp this morn went out On earth’s time-bounded shore; But angels bright in heaven this morn Relighted it once more. </div> <div class="stanza"> Some time we, too, shall fall asleep, To wake in heaven above, And meet our angel Lizzie there In realms of endless love. We’ll bear sweet sister in our hearts, And then there’ll ever be An angel there to keep our souls From sin and sorrow free. </div> </div></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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