The Cobblers Children, from Any House Stories, Moral and Otherwise. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. Any House Stories, Moral and Otherwise, by Lucy Lane Clifford. The Cobblers Children. Long years ago, my children, all through a jerry afternoon, a child sat in a garret, working a sampler. Do you know what a sampler is? It is a bit of canvas, on which are worked in cross-stitch, some words, and now and then some little pictures. Long ago, children were always taught to make them, so that when they became women, they might know how to mark their tablecloths and pillowcases and all the linen of the house. For in those days, no tidy housewife had thought of writing her name in ink upon her belongings. The child's brother was busy at the other end of the garret, making a table. At Christmas time, a great lady sent him a box of tools. So with some bits of wood his uncle the carpenter had given him, he set to work to make her little table, just as a mark of his gratitude, and to show her how useful the tools would be, and how well he meant to work with them. And all the time he was cutting and fitting and measuring the little bit of wood, he was thinking of a book his father had once read to him. The book was written by a wise man, and the wise man had said that he who made the first perfect thing of its kind, no matter how small or simple the thing might be, had worked not merely for himself, but for the whole world. He left off for a moment to wonder how this might be, and to think how grand a thing it was to work for the world. It is a beautiful place, his father said on the day they had read the book together, and a grand thing to think we have all of us the making of its furniture. Then the boy looked up at the window, and at the shoemaker's bench that stood by it, and at an unfinished shoe, a little child's shoe that was on the bench. He often says that when one does well, one does some good to the whole world, for one helps to make it better, and that when one does badly or does wrong, one does it to the whole world, and helps to make it worse than one found it. But, he added, that cannot be so always. How, for instance, can the whole world know about a little shoe? Only he looked at his sister, and noticed that the tears were stealing down her face, though she tried to hide them, and went bravely on with the sampler, working the figures that made her name and age thus. Sarah short, aged seven years. He watched her, and wondered, if she works her sampler well, will it be good for the whole world? And then he saw her tears again, and in a moment it seemed as if of their own accord his arms had twined round her neck. What is the matter, he asked softly.  Daddy is so ill, she sobbed. He will never be well again. I will love you for him when he is gone. He said, I will take care of you just as he did.  Then, though her tears flowed faster, she was comforted. Oh, but I wish I could do something for him, because I love him, she cried. The boy was silent for a few minutes, and stood thinking of all that their father had been to them. Then he said, We can't do anything for him now, but we will do things all our lives for him. Then while the children stood still close together, a woman entered. You may come and see your father, she said. You must tread softly, he is very ill. She looked round the room and saw the chips of wood up on the floor. I put the room tidy, you needn't have made such a mess, she grumbled. I'm tired enough. But the boy only heard her as if in a dream, and as if in a dream thought, I will gather up all the bits by and by, and put the room neat and straight. And then, with soft steps and grave faces, the brother and sister went to their father. He was lying on their little bed in the back garret. The children looked round at the white-washed walls, then up at the little shelf of books above their father's head, then down at their father's face. My lass, is that you? The cobbler said. And what have you been doing? I've been making this, she answered, and held up the sampler. And I have been making the little table, the boy said, answering his father's look. It is a deal of trouble to get the bits to fit in, and lie flat. Never mind the trouble, dear lad, the cobbler said gently, looking up at his boy's face. It always told him what was in the boy's heart, just as the hands of a clock told him the time that ticked and ticked away behind it. Never mind the trouble, lad, he repeated. It's because you are sorry a bit today that you feel it. You must not think of trouble if you can only do a thing as well as it can be done. That is all the great men do. It is no use wasting his time over that table. It is sure to be covered by a cloth, the woman said. It would do just as well if he were quicker about it. And she left the room. She was a lodger in the same house with the cobbler, and was often puzzled at his ways. When she had gone, the cobbler turned to his son again. Don't heed her, lad, he said. Do your best. Do it, lad. Don't dream of doing it. Good work lives forever. It may go out of sight for a time. You may not see it or hear of it once it leaves her hand. You may get no honour by it, but that's no matter. Good work lives on. It doesn't matter what it is, it lives on. And then, tired out, the cobbler closed his eyes and slept. So sweet asleep, my children, that he never knew waking more. The children were wary of sitting alone in the twilight. They had nothing to say to each other. They could not see to work, and the sister's eyes ached with crying, and the boy's heart ached with a still sore pain. Let us go to the garden, he said, and hand in hand they went down the stairs, treading softly and slowly, lest they should wake the cobbler from asleep. They sat on the stone steps that led to the garden, an untidy little garden, in which nothing grew, save a little creeper planted in a painted wooden box. They looked at the creeper. They could dimly see the tendrils struggling to grow up and up, just a little way towards the guard window. They wondered if it would grow as high as the shoemaker's bench in the front room, and they thought of the little shoe their daddy had begun to make for the child whose name they did not know. The stars came out one by one. The little sister's eyes filled with tears when she saw them, for it seemed to her that they had changed since she'd seen them last, or else that she knew them better. They looked so soft and kind as if they saw her and were sorry, perhaps as if they loved her just a little bit. And oh, they looked so wise as if in that great far-off from which they shone, all things were known and understood. Dear brother, she whispered, I wonder if they see the little shoe and that his face and that his books just above his head. I can't tell, the boy answered softly, but I think they know about them. Perhaps they knew that he loved us, she whispered again. Perhaps they did, he answered, with a sigh, and then he said suddenly, we have so many things to do, we must make a great many things and send them into the world because he loved us. Wouldn't it have mattered about them if he had not loved us? She asked. Oh yes, it would have mattered, he answered, but I don't think we could have done them. Love makes one so strong. It helps one to do and to bear so many things. Yes, she said softly as they turned to leave the garden. We must make the world a great many things and tell it Daddy sent them. She saw the wind stir the creeper in the painted box and she said to herself, perhaps the little leaves can hear. And as she stood on the top of the steps looking up at the sky once more, before she followed her brother into the house, she thought, perhaps the dear stars know. End of The Cobblest Children. The New Mother. From Any House Stories, Moral and Otherwise, by Lucy Lane Clifford. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The New Mother. 1. The children were always called blue eyes and the turkey. The elder one was like her dear father, who was far away at sea, for the father had the bluest of blue eyes, and so gradually his little girl came to be called after them. The younger one had once, while she was still almost a baby, cried bitterly because a turkey that lived near the cottage suddenly vanished in the middle of the winter. And to console her she had been called by its name.  It was a long way to the village, nearly a mile and a half, and the mother had to work hard and had not time to go off on herself to see if there was a letter at the post office from the dear father. And so very often in the afternoon she used to send the two children. They were very proud of being able to go alone. When they came back tired with the long walk, there would be the mother waiting and watching for them, and the tea would be ready, and the baby crowing with delight. And if, by any chance, there was a letter from the sea, then they were happy indeed. The cottage room was so cozy. The walls were as white as snow inside as well as out. The baby's high chair stood in one corner and in another. There was a cupboard in which the mother kept all manner of surprises. Dear children, the mother said one afternoon late in the autumn, it is very chilly for you to go to the village, but you must walk quickly. And who knows but what you may bring back a letter saying that dear father is already on his way to England. Don't be long, the mother said, as she always did before they started. Go the nearest way, and don't look at any strangers you meet. And be sure you do not talk with them. No mother, they answered. And then she kissed them and called them dear good children, and they joyfully started on their way. The village was gayer than usual, for there had been a fair the day before. Oh, I do wish we had been here yesterday, Blue Eyes said, as they went to the grocers, which was also the post office. The postmistress was very busy, and just said, No letter for you today. Then Blue Eyes and the turkey turned away to go home. They had left the village and walked some way, and then they noticed, resting against a pile of stones by the wayside, a strange, wild-looking girl who seemed very unhappy. So they thought they would ask her if they could do anything to help her, for they were kind children and sorry indeed for anyone in distress. The girl seemed to be about fifteen years old. She was dressed in very ragged clothes. Round her shoulders there was an old brown shawl. She wore no bonnet. Her hair was cold black, and hung down uncombed and unfastened. She had something hidden under her shawl. On seeing them coming toward her, she carefully put it under her and sat upon it. She sat watching the children approach, and did not move or stir till they were within a yard of her. Then she wiped her eyes, just as if she had been crying bitterly and looked up.  Why are you crying, they asked, shyly? Perhaps you've lost yourself, they said gently. But the girl answered promptly, certainly not. Why, you've just found me. Besides, she added, I live in the village. The children were surprised at this, for they had never seen her before, and yet they thought they knew all the village folk by sight. Then the turkey, who had an inquiring mind, put a question. What are you sitting on, she asked? On a pear drum. The girl answered. What is a pear drum, they asked? I am surprised you're not knowing, the girl answered. Most people in good society have one. And then she pulled it out and showed it to them. It was a curious instrument. A good deal like a guitar in shape. It had three strings, but only two pegs with which to tune them. The strange thing about the pear drum was not the music it made, but a little square box attached to one side. Where did you get it, the children asked? I bought it, the girl answered. Didn't it cost a great deal of money, they asked? Yes, answered the girls, slowly nodding her head. It cost a great deal of money. I am very rich, she added. You don't look rich, they said, in as polite a voice as possible. Perhaps not, the girl answered cheerfully. At this the children gathered courage and ventured to remark, You look rather shabby. Indeed, said the girl in a voice of one who had heard a pleasant but surprising statement. A little shabbiness is very respectable, she added in a satisfied voice. I must really tell them this, she continued. And the children wondered what she meant. She opened the little box by the side of the pear drum and said, just as if she were speaking to someone who could hear her. They say I look rather shabby. It is quite lucky, isn't it? Why, you are not speaking to anyone, they said, more surprised than ever. Oh, dear, yes, I am speaking to them both. Both, they said, wondering. Yes, I have here a little man dressed as a peasant and a little woman to match. I put them on the lid of the box, and when I play they dance most beautifully. Oh, let us see! Do let us see! The children cried. Then the village girl looked at them doubtfully. Let you see! She said slowly. Well, I am not sure that I can. Tell me, are you good? Oh, yes, yes, they answered eagerly. We are very good. Then it is quite impossible, she answered, and resolutely closed the lid of the box. They stared at her in astonishment. But we are good, they cried, thinking she must have misunderstood them. We are very good.  Oh, dear, no, the girl answered. I only show them to naughty children. And the worse the children, the better the man and woman dance. She put the pair-drum carefully under her ragged cloak and prepared to go on her way. I really could not have believed that you were good, she said reproachfully, as if they accused themselves of some great crime. Well, good day. Oh, but we will be naughty! They said in despair. I am afraid you couldn't, she answered, shaking her head. It requires a great deal of skill to be naughty well. And swiftly she walked away, while the children felt their eyes filled with tears and their hearts ached with disappointment. If we had only been naughty, they said, we should have seen them dance. Suppose, said the turkey, we try to be naughty today. Perhaps she would let us see them tomorrow. But oh, said Blue Eyes, I don't know how to be naughty. No one ever taught me. The turkey thought for a few minutes in silence. I think I can be naughty if I try, she said. I'll try tonight.  It would be so unkind of you. You know I want to see the little man and woman just as much as you do. You are very, very unkind. And so, quarreling and crying, they reached their home. Now when their mother saw them, she was greatly astonished. And fearing they were hurt, ran to meet them. Oh, my children! Oh, my dear, dear children! She said, what is the matter? But they did not dare tell the mother about the village girl and the little man and woman. So they answered, nothing is the matter, and cried all the more. Poor children, the mother said to herself, they are tired and perhaps they are hungry. After tea they will be better. And she went back to the cottage and made the fire blaze. And she put the kettle on to boil and set the tea things on the table. Then she went to the little cupboard and took out some bread and cut it on the table, and said in a loving voice, dear little children, come and have your tea. And see, there is the baby waking from her sleep. She will crow at us while we eat. But the children made no answer to the dear mother. They only stood still by the window and said nothing. Come, children, the mother said again. Come, blue eyes, and come, my turkey. Here is nice, sweet bread for tea. Then suddenly she looked up and saw that the turkey's eyes were full of tears. Turkey, she exclaimed. My dear little turkey, what is the matter? Come to mother, my sweet. Putting the baby down, she held out her arms and the turkey ran swiftly into them. Oh, mother, she sobbed. Oh, dear mother, I do so want to be naughty. I do so want to be very, very naughty.  And so do I, mother. Oh, I'd give anything to be very, very naughty. But my dear children said the mother in astonishment, why do you want to be naughty? Because we do. Oh, what shall we do? They cried together. I should be very angry if you were naughty. But you could not be, for you love me, the mother answered. Why couldn't we? They asked. Then the mother thought a while before she answered. And she seemed to be speaking rather to herself than to them. Because if one loves well, she said gently, one's love is stronger than all bad feelings in one, and conquers them. We don't know what you mean, they cried. And we do love you, but we want to be naughty. Then I should know that you did not love me, the mother said. If we were very, very, very naughty, it wouldn't be good what then? Then said the mother sadly.  Good day, said the village girl, when she saw blue eyes in the turkey approach. She was again sitting by the heap of stones. And under her shawl, the pair drum was hidden. Are the little man and woman there? The children asked. Yes, thank you for inquiring after them, the girl answered. They are both here and quite well. The little woman has heard a secret. She tells it while she dances. Oh, do let us see, they entreated. Quite impossible, I assure you, the girl answered promptly. You see, you are good.  Indeed, said the girl, still speaking in the same unconcerned voice, that is what they all say. They all threaten that kind of thing. Of course, really, there are no mothers with glass eyes and wooden tails. They would be much too expensive to make. In the common sense of this remark, the children saw it once. We think you might let us see the little man and woman dance, the kind of thing you would think, remarked the village girl. But will you if we are naughty? They asked in despair. I fear you could not be naughty. That is really, even if you tried, she said scornfully. But if we are very naughty tonight, will you let us see them tomorrow? Questions asked today are always better answered tomorrow, the girl said blithely. I must really go and play a little to myself. For a few minutes the children stood looking after her, and then they broke down and cried. The turkey was the first to wipe away her tears. Let us go home and be very naughty, she said. Then perhaps you will let us see them tomorrow. And that afternoon the dear mother was solely distressed, for instead of sitting at their tea as usual with smiling happy faces, they broke their mugs and threw their bread and butter on the floor. And when the mother told them to do one thing, they carefully did another, and only stamped their feet with rage when she told them to go upstairs until they were good. Do you remember what I told you? I should do if you were very, very naughty, she asked sadly. Yes, we know, but it isn't true, they cried.  And if there were, we should just stick pins into her and send her away, but there is none.  But instead of crying and being sorry at her anger, they laughed for joy and sat up and sang merry songs at the top of their voices. The next morning, quite early, without asking leave from the mother, the children got up and ran off as fast as they could to look for the village girl. She was sitting as usual by the heap of stones with the pear drum under her shawl. Now please show us the little man and woman they cried and let us hear the pear drum. We were very naughty last night, but the girl kept the pear drum carefully hidden. So you say, she answered. You were not half naughty enough. As I remarked before, it requires a great deal of skill to be naughty well. But we broke our mugs. We threw our bread and butter on the floor. We did everything we could to be tiresome. Me, your trifles, answered the girl scornfully. Did you throw cold water on the fire? Did you break the clock? Did you pull all the tins down from the walls and throw them on the floor? No, the children exclaimed aghast. We did not do that. I thought not, the girl answered. So many people mistake a little noise and foolishness for real naughtiness. And before they could say another word, she vanished. We'll be much worse the children cried in despair. We'll go and do all the things she says. And then they went home and did all these things. And when the mothers saw all that they had done, she did not scold them as she had the day before, but she just broke down and cried and said sadly, unless you are good tomorrow, my poor blue eyes in Turkey, I shall indeed have to go away and come back no more. And the new mother I told you of will come to you. They did not believe her. Yet their hearts ached when they saw how unhappy she looked. And they thought within themselves that when they once had seen the little man and woman dance, they would be good to the dear mother forever afterwards. The next morning before the birds were stirring, the children crept out of the cottage and ran across the fields. They found the village girl sitting by the heap of stones, just as if it were her natural home. We've been very naughty, they cried. We've done all the things you told us. Now will you show us the little man and woman? The girl looked at them curiously. You really seem quite excited, she said in her usual voice. You should be calm. We've done all the things you told us, the children cried again, and we do so long to hear the secret. We have been so very naughty and mother says she will go away today and send home a new mother if we are not good. Indeed, said the girl. Well, let me see. When did your mother say she would go? But if she goes, what shall we do? They cried and despair. We don't want her to go. We love her very much. You had better go back and be good.  And the little woman's secret is very important. She never tells it for make-believe naughtiness. But we did all the things you told us, the children cried. You didn't throw the looking-glass out of the window or stand the baby on its head. No, we didn't do that, the children gasped. I thought not, the girl said triumphantly. Well, good day, I shall not be here tomorrow.  Do let us see them just once. Well, I shall go past your cottage at eleven o'clock this morning, she said. Perhaps I shall play the pair-drum as I go by. And will you show us the man and woman they asked? Quite impossible, unless you have really deserved it. Make-believe naughtiness is only spoiled goodness. Now if you break the looking-glass and do the things that are desired. Oh, we will, they cried. We will be very naughty till we hear you coming. Then again the children went home and were very naughty. Oh, so very, very naughty that the dear mother's heart ached, and her eyes filled with tears, and at last she went upstairs and slowly put on her best gown and her new sun-bonnet, and she dressed the baby all in its Sunday clothes, and then she came down and stood before blue eyes in the turkey. And just as she did, the turkey threw the looking-glass out at the window, and it fell with a loud crash upon the ground. Goodbye, my children, the mother said sadly, kissing them. The new mother will be home presently. Oh, my poor children. And then weeping bitterly the mother took the baby in her arms and turned to leave the house. But, mother, we will be good at half-pest eleven. Come back at half-pest eleven, they cried, and we'll both be good. We must be naughty till eleven o'clock.  Just beyond the corner of the fields she stopped and turned, and waved her handkerchief, all wet with tears, to the children at the window. She made the baby kiss its hand, and in a moment mother and baby had vanished from their sight. Then the children felt their hearts ache with sorrow, and they cried bitterly, and yet they could not believe that she had gone. And the broken clock struck eleven, and suddenly there was a sound, a quick, clanging, jangling sound, with a strange discordant note at intervals. They rushed to the open window, and there they saw the village girl dancing along and playing as she did so. We have done all you told us, the children called, come and see, and now show us the little man and woman. The girl did not cease her playing, or her dancing, but she called out in a voice that was half-speaking, half-singing. You did it all badly. You threw the water on the wrong side of the fire. The tin things were not quite in the middle of the room. The clock was not broken enough. She did not stand the baby on its head. She was already passing the cottage. She did not stop singing.  I am going to my own land, the girl sang, to the land where I was born.  Our dear mother, will she ever come back? No, sang the girl, she will never come back. She took a boat upon the river, she is sailing to the sea, she will meet your father once again, and they will go sailing on. Then the girl, her voice getting fainter and fainter in the distance, called out once more to them, your new mother is coming. She is already on her way. But she only walks slowly, for her tail is rather long, and her spectacles are left behind. But she is coming, she is coming, coming, coming. The last word died away. It was the last one they ever heard, the village girl utter. On she went, dancing on. Then the children turned and looked at each other, and at the little cottage home. Only a week before, had been so bright and happy, so cozy and spotless. The fire was out, the clock all broken and spoiled. And there was the baby's high chair, with no baby to sit in it. There was the cupboard on the wall, and never a sweet loaf on its shelf. And there were the broken mugs and the bits of bread tossed about, and the greasy boards which the mother had knelt down to scrub, until they were as white as snow. In the midst of all stood the children, looking at the wreck they had made, their eyes blinded with tears, and their poor little hands clasped in misery. I don't know what we shall do if the new mother comes, cried blue eyes. I shall never, never like any other mother! The turkeys stopped crying for a minute, to think what should be done. We will bolt the door and shut the window, and we won't take any notice when she knocks. All through the afternoon they sat watching and listening, for fear of the new mother. But they saw and heard nothing of her. And gradually they became less and less afraid, lest she should come. They fetched a pail of water and washed the floor. They found some rags, and rubbed the tins. They picked up the broken mugs, and made the room as neat as they could. There was no sweet loaf to put upon the table, but perhaps the mother would bring something from the village they thought. At last all was ready, and blue eyes and turkey washed their faces in their hands, then sat and waited, for of course they did not believe what the village girl had said about their mother sailing away. Finally while they were sitting by the fire, they heard a sound as if something heavy, being dragged along the ground outside. Then there was a loud and terrible knocking at the door. The children felt their hearts stand still. They knew it could not be their own mother, for she would have turned the handle and tried to come in without any knocking at all. Again there came a loud and terrible knocking. She'll break the door down if she knocks so hard, cried blue eyes. Go and put your back to it, whispered the turkey, and I'll peep out of the window, and try to see if it really is the new mother. So in fear and trembling blue eyes put her back against the door, and the turkey went to the window.  From beneath the bonnet there flashed a strange bright light, and turkey's heart sank, and her cheeks turned pale, for she knew it was the flashing of two glass eyes. She crept up to blue eyes. It is, it is, it is, she whispered, her voice shaking with fear. It is the new mother. Finally they stood with the two little backs against the door. There was a long pause. They thought perhaps the new mother had made up her mind that there was no one at home to let her in and would go away, but presently the two children heard through the thin wooden door the new mother move a little, and then say to herself, I must break the door open with my tail, for one terrible moment all was still, but in it the children could almost hear her lift up her tail, and then with a fearful blow the little painted door cracked and splintered, with a shriek the children darted from the spot and fled through the cottage and out at the back door into the forest beyond. All night long they stayed in the darkness and the cold, and all the next day and the next and all through the cold dreary days and the long dark nights that followed. They are there still my children, all through the long weeks and months they have been there, with only green rushes for their pillows and only the brown dead leaves to cover them, feeding on the wild strawberries in the summer, or on the nuts when they hang green, and on the blackberries when they are no longer sour in the autumn, and in the winter on the little red berries that ripen in the snow. They wander about among the tall dark furs or beneath the great trees beyond. Sometimes they stay to rest beside the little pool near the cops, and they long and long with a longing that is greater than words can say to see their own dear mother again just once again to tell her that they'll be good for evermore just once again. And still the new mother stays in the little cottage, but the windows are closed and the doors are shut and no one knows what the inside looks like. Now and then, when the darkness has fallen and the night is still, hand in hand blue eyes in the turkey creep up near the home in which they were once so happy, and with beating hearts they watch and listen. Sometimes a blinding flash comes through the window, and they know it is the light from the new mother's glass eyes, or they hear a strange muffled noise, and they know it is the sound of her wooden tail as she drags it along the floor. End of The New Mother by Lucy Lane Clifford. End by Charles Blakemore. Round the Rabbit Holes. From Any House Stories, Moral and Otherwise. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Corey Samuel. Any House Stories, Moral and Otherwise by Lucy Lane Clifford. Round the Rabbit Holes. The corn was growing up ever so high, and the poppies were red between. At the end of the cornfield there was a style, and the boy sat on it, watching the sun sink lower and lower into the west. It is looking down on some wonderful city, he thought. It sees the faces of the men and women glad to welcome it, and ready to work in the new light day, while for us there is only the night. It is a fine thing to be the sun, how grand it will be if one could journey on and on in front of it, with the day for ever before one, and the night for ever behind. He heard the children's voices in the distance calling to him, and he answered, I'm here, I'm here, come and sit by me. And they came, saying, tell us a story, tell us of the things you will someday do. Someday, he said with a sigh, Someday perhaps I shall journey to the strange city to which the sun goes at night. It must be a wonderful city, for when the great gates in the west open for the sun to pass in, all the sky reddens at the sight of its beauty. Someday when I journey there, I shall make all manner of things. I want to make them, he added, and sighed again, for my father's sake, and for my little sister, who is far away in the town, waiting for news of them. When do you mean to begin, the children asked. I do not know yet, I have to work all day now for my uncle, and when it is over my hands are tired, and I have so much to think about, besides, I can make nothing yet so well as I mean to make it. I like to sit and dream of the days that will come, they will all come, but it's long to wait. How long have you been waiting? Ever since Daddy died, he answered. Tell us about him, they said, though they had heard many times before. They were never tired of listening to the strange boy that had come to the carpenters. Tell us about him and about the little sister. And the children gathered closer round him, and the tall girl, with a pink apron, whose eyes seemed to know some strange language her lips had not yet learnt to speak, drew up closer than the rest, so that she might lose no word of what he said. Nurse me, the little one said. Then the girl gathered the little one of three years old upon her lap, and sat on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at the boy's face while he spoke. Daddy used to make shoes and mend them, the boy said, and he and the little sister and I lived in the garret, at the top of a house in the town. In the evening, when Daddy had done his work, he used to sit and tell us stories. He told us about all manner of things, of all we must do, and of how the great men were those who did things as best they could be done. It makes one long to do things well so much, I will never do them badly, that is why I am waiting, he added softly. But one has to try one's prentice hand, the mother said. She had come to seek her children, but the boy had not noticed her. One can but do one's best, she added sadly, or maybe one gets no time for anything, and goes away as useless as one came. But the boy did not heed her, and went on. The little sister used to sit and work, for a woman in the house taught her how to sew, and she kept all the place neat, and tried to do the things that would please Daddy, though she was only seven years old, and sometimes, while Daddy worked at the bench, he would sing songs to him. Ah! the little doers are better than the great dreamers, the mother said. And what did you do? The girl with the pink apron asked. I always had so much to think about, he answered, and then once my uncle came to see us, the same uncle with whom I am living now, and he saw the box of tools which the lady, for whose crippled child Daddy made shoes, had given me, and he sent me some bits of wood, and I set to work to make things. Daddy told me to be satisfied only when I had done my best, and to count all else as nothing, for when one did well, he said, one did it for all the world. But one can get one's hand in by working for those about, persisted the mother. Go on, said the children impatiently, tell us about the little sister. She is with the lady who sent me the tools, learning how to do many things.  It is in the great lady's drawing room, he answered with a smile. Some day I shall make a much better one, but I am waiting till I know more, and have thought of some grander way to work than I know now. The night that Daddy died, he went on suddenly. My sister and I went into the garden. We saw the stars come out, and we looked at a little creeper planted in a wooden box. It was growing up against the wall, and suddenly he stopped. Go on, they said. But that is all, he answered. The little sister went to the great lady, and I came here, and I'm working for my uncle the carpenter, and I'm waiting. The rest is in my heart. Tell us what is in your heart, they said. I do not know yet, he answered. One does not find out all at once. Now take us to see the rabbit-holes, the children said, and tell us all about the rabbits. So the boy rose to do as they wished, and the mother cried, Do not keep them out long, and see the little one does not fall, she added, speaking to the girl with the pink apron. I will carry the little one, the boy said, taking her in his arms. The girl with the pink apron walked beside him, and the rest followed, talking among themselves as they went along. All down the cornfield they went, and over the gate with a padlock on it into the wood. Then soon they turned aside from the pathway, and went in among the shadiest trees. The ground was thick with break and briar and underwood. The nuts hung green on the branches above them. The blackberries were almost ripe on the bushes as they passed by. They are here, he said, and he stopped by a tree that grew at the furthest side of the wood, close to the hedge that parted off the hay-field. They could see the school-house across the field, and the church, and they remembered the gate that stood close by the church and led to the village. The schoolmaster had stacked his hay, and the ricks were there right across the field, compact and well-shaped and comfortable-looking, ready for the winter. The children thought of the hay-making, but it was always nicer to be in the woods than in the fields. In the fields the green was only under their feet, but in the woods it was all about and above them, as if the sweet world wrapped them round and filled them with its beauty till their hearts brimmed over with content. The tree by which the boy had stopped was so tall and shady, it seemed as if the top that looked at the sky must be a long way off. Here they are, he said. I have never seen the rabbits, but I often think about them. The children went forward one by one and peeped into the holes, and the little one looked down at them, holding the boy tighter while she did so. Then they all stood in a group, waiting for the boy to speak. Tell us what they do when they come out of their holes, they said. I don't know, the boy answered. I have never seen them. What do you think they do? I think that when the wood is still, and not a sound or voice or footstep can be heard, they peep out, and if they hear and see no one, they come out gaily and play about among the ferns and grass until they are tired, and they give little short quick runs, stopping to nibble a leaf or to listen to some strange sound, or else they stay still a while just to drink in, without knowing anything about them. The sweetness of the air, and the brightness of the sun, and the silence of the shade, and the little cool breeze that steals among the leaves and passes on. And what do they do at night? Ah! At night they have fine fun. They scamper across the hay-field, running ever so swiftly, with their ears put back, and their little tails shaking, till they find their way into the schoolmaster's garden, and they eat the cool crisp lettuce-leaves, and play at hide-and-seek among the cabbages, and then they scamper back to the hay-field again, and wander by the hedge back to the wood, and there they play about till the long grey dawn grows lighter and lighter. Surely you would like to see them, the girl with the apron said. No, said the boy, I can think about them. I should not like them better if I saw them, and they might go and I should miss them. The things one thinks about stay, unless one sends them away, and they never change unless one's self changes first. How did you learn to think? The girl asked curiously. Daddy used to talk to me, he answered in surprise, and it's just as if he talked to me still, or had written things down in a book. All the people we love teach us to see and hear. Do you love the people you don't see? She asked.  Oh, yes, he said. I love all people. They are so good, he added. I've heard they're a bad people, but I never knew any. All people have hearts, and if one makes for them, one always finds them. But come, he said, we must go home. And the children, not understanding what the boy and girl were talking about, turned silently round towards the gate that led to the cornfield. The little one's head drooped on the boy's shoulder, for she was tired. You dear little one, he whispered, my sister was small like you once, and I used to carry her in my arms down to the garden, and sit on the stone steps with her, waiting for the stars. The stars are in the sky already, the girl said. Yes, answered the boy, and he whispered to the little one. The stars are coming out. They will all be out soon. They are shining down upon the little garden in the town, and the creeper is rowing up to meet them. It will touch the garret window on its way. End of round the rabbit holes. Chapter 4 of Any House Stories, Moral and Otherwise This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Tammy Sanders. Any House Stories, Moral and Otherwise By Lucy Lane Clifford Chapter 4 The Three Little Ragamuffins They all stood at the corner of the street looking at the stall with the pineapples, and at the man who was selling slices for a penny each. If I had a penny, I would have a bit. I would have the biggest bit there, said the first little ragamuffin. He was a greedy little ragamuffin, and liked big bits. It looks bad to take the biggest. I'd take the first that came, said the second little ragamuffin. I'd take the biggest, said the third little ragamuffin, for if I didn't, someone else would think me a fool for leaving it. And then they all went to the rail at the end of the court, and turned and whorled and twisted over it and under it and all round about it, until their legs ached and their heads felt dizzy and the palms of their hands tingled with excitement. Suddenly the third little ragamuffin stopped, and sitting astride on top of his rail was silent for a few minutes. Then he looked at his companions. There's Mary Lee been to the stall and bought a bit of pineapple, he said. Shall we go and ask her how she likes it? And in a moment they had all scampered up to her, but Mary Lee was afraid, and dropping her pineapple in the mud, began to cry, and ran home without it. An old gentleman who was watching them caught the first little ragamuffin and boxed his ears. The second little ragamuffin picked up the piece of pineapple and brushing the mud from it with his sleeve aided up, and thought how good it was. And the third little ragamuffin went back to the rail alone, and slowly and sadly whorled round it again. Meanwhile his friend was crying bitterly, for his ears had been boxed and he had no pineapple. Please, sir, he said to the old gentleman, we were not doing any harm, we were only going to ask her how she likes it. And the consequence was she dropped her pineapple into the mud. Yes, sir, but she ought to have held it tighter, and I didn't get any, though I am very hungry.  Yes, sir, sobbed the poor little ragamuffin. Mother likes us fat, but it takes a lot of keeping up. I dare say it does, the old gentleman said, and pulling a sixpence out of his pocket he gave it to the boy. Here, he said, take this, but let the lesson I have given you teach you experience. Do you know what experience is? No, sir, answered the ragamuffin. It is a thing that youth is eager for, and that age regrets, and that only a fool buys twice. Yours today bought you a box on the ear. And sixpence, please, sir, but the old gentleman turned away and did not hear him. Then the ragamuffin bought six bits of pineapple and carried them to his friends, and they all three sat in a row on the top of the rail in aid in silence, lest talk should spoil the flavor of a single mouthful. And when it was gone, the first little ragamuffin told his companions all that the old gentleman had said, while they, delighted at the feast they had, whirled round and round the rail for joy. But the first little ragamuffin sat up thoughtfully while he told his story, and pondered over it all. You see, Mary Lee, she lost her pineapple and you ate it, and the old gentleman he boxed your ears, and gave us sixpence. And then he said it was experience, said the thoughtful ragamuffin. Well, we say experience is excellent, answered the two little ragamuffins, whirling round faster and faster, for they had eaten the pineapple and found it good. But still their friend sat thinking. Yes, he said at last, experience is excellent, but it's best when another fellow buys it. Meanwhile the old gentleman was walking home, for he had given away his last sixpence, and Mary Lee was sitting in her mother's cottage, crying over her dropped pineapple. End of Chapter 4 THE THREE LITTLE RAGAMUFFINS From outside the world, from anywhere stories, moral and otherwise. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Eliza Horn. From outside the world, she wandered about in the sunshine all the day long, over the fields and in the woods, picking the flowers and the sinning to the birds, and singing strange songs to the river. Suddenly she sat down on a big stone and looked up at the mountain that was just a little too tall for the world, and had to hide its head in the clouds. I should like to climb that mountain, she thought. I want to know what there is on the other side. And the more she thought about it, the more did she long to climb. And last she jumped up and washed her feet in a little stream of clear water, and set off as fast as she could for the top of the mountain. It was a long way up, but she sang all the time, and amused herself by wondering if any had ever been lost on the great hills around her, the hills that stretched away and away as far as she could see, and if so, whether there had been wives and children watching for them at home, watching and waiting and weeping and listening for footsteps that would never come over the heather again, for the sound of voice that would never speak to them more. If I could only feel, she sighed. If I could only understand, oh, I would give the world to know what it is like. She went slowly down the other side of the mountain. At its foot there was a little town. It was just a very little town, with one street running down the middle of it, and a town hall in the marketplace, and a clock on the town hall that had lost its long hand. So it pointed to the hours with each short one, and never troubled itself about the minutes. There were not many people in the town, but they all knew one another, and talked about one another, and nobody ever minded his own business, but always some other bodies. She stood at one end of the street, and looked at the schoolhouse and the toll-bar in the distance, and she walked to the other end, and looked at the meadows, and at the old barn, and at the farmhouse, which was the last dwelling place she could see. It is just the same here as everywhere else, I suppose, she said to herself. The people laugh and cry, and love and hate, and play that queer game of theirs, which consists of one person gaining as much money as he can, and the rest getting as much of it away from him as they can. And the end is always the same. The man dies and is forgotten, and the next man goes on. It all means. She sat down by the wayside and rested. She watched the people in the streets, but no one noticed her. She saw two men pass by. She heard one say to the other, it is a fair price. That field is not worth more. And she said to herself, it's the same old story. They're talking about money. A man and a woman passed, the woman saying, as she did so. And I'm not going to do it for less, I can tell her. And again the girl said to herself, the old story. It is money forever, money, money forever. She got up and walked a little way, wondering if there were any children in the town. The children would be interesting, she thought. The old people were the world of yesterday. And the grown people were the world of today, where the children would be the world of tomorrow. A tomorrow that forever was on its way, forever held a promise. There was life in the very word, since only dead men ceased to think of it, and to plan for it. There is some clue to life I have missed. There is something I am longing for, but cannot grasp. I am forever feeling as if I ought to be paying myself, as in a tribute to some great hole which I cannot see because of the darkness before me, she thought. Who are you, girl? A voice asked suddenly. She looked up and saw a farmer beside her. I have come from a cottage over the mountain, the girl answered. What have you come for? Just to see him to think. She answered. It is a waste of time, said Gruffley, and turned away. Will you have a cup of milk? He asked suddenly. For maybe you're tired. Go to the house yonder and say I sent you. And he pointed to the farmhouse. She was hungry and thirsty and glad to do as she was told. Why do you offer me milk? She asked. I am a stranger. Strangers feel thirsty as well as friends, he answered. The girl went to the farmhouse, and when the good wife saw her, she made her sit down and fetched some fresh milk and homemade bread, and bade her rest well before she went on her way. I never gave anyone one cup of milk, or a welcome into my cottage in my whole life, the girl thought. There is some meaning in the world I have not found yet. It seems a little nearer as I sit and watch the farmer's wife. Then she rose, and coldly thinking her went on. I will go through the town now, she said to herself. A boy was sitting on the gate at the end of the field. He was gaily dressed. From his cap there hung a gold tassel, and on his finger he wore a ring. The girl stopped and looked at him. Where do you live? She asked. I live in the great house up there. He answered, nodding in the direction of the hill. You can see the flags waving from the tower. You must be rich, she said. For your house is very grand. How did you get all your money? My ancestors won it hundreds of years ago, he answered proudly. They were great men. And are you great? She asked. I am great, for I am rich, he answered. And so you have time to think, she said eagerly. Tell me, do you know all things? No, he said. I never travel about them. I'm content to live and enjoy my riches. I cannot understand it, she said. Men are content to work for those they will never see, and to heap up money purchases for fools to spend. Money doesn't make you great, she said scornfully to the boy. Any booby can inherit. She went down the street and looked at the faces of the people. On all of them there seemed to be written some history of past days, some record of joy and sorrow, but most of sorrow. I am very thankful, she thought, that I shall never know the things they know. I remember once overhearing some poet or dreamer say that in every heart there is a death chamber. There is none in mine. I have no heart to hold one. The town people were looking out at their doors, laughing and making merry when any two met. She wondered what it was all about, till suddenly she saw a bridal party go by. I see now, she said to herself, these are two people going to marry. They are rejoicing because they will be together henceforth. One will know when the other sorrows, and one will sit and watch at last by the other's dead face. Why do they rejoice? Oh, I shall never understand it all. She turned out of the street and went towards the fields again. A boy was loitering on his way from school, and farther on there set a man by an easel on which stood an untouched canvas. The boy looked at the girl. What do you learn at school? She asked. All kinds of things, he answered. I am very happy while I am learning, he added. And after the lessons come the games. What should you do when you are a man? She asked. I shall go on with the making of the world, he said, and began to sing. Why do you want to do that?  It was made for us. It is ours now, we have to make it for those to come. And to think of it makes one long to begin. But we shall not be here. Others will. He laughed and went on his way, still singing. Perhaps the artist will tell me something, she thought, and went up to him. Have you painted many pictures? She asked. No, he answered. I have painted none that are worth remembering yet, but I shall someday. How do you know? She asked curiously. Because I love the world so much. He answered. It is very beautiful, he said. I should despair of my own self, but that love makes one so strong. It helps one to do all things. Why do you want to paint pictures? She asked. Pictures are messages of light in dark places. He answered. I want to tell the story of the world's beauty to the cities so that some of those who live and work and have seldom time to rest and never time to journey may wander to its fairest places and know them in their hearts. The girl's face became eager as she listened. She felt some dim understanding, and yet why should he care for unknown people in unseen cities? And can you do it? Can you make pictures that will do this, and where did you get the power? I worked for it. I am working for it still, and someday I shall succeed, as all who love their work well must. Love? What has that to do with it? One must love one's work, he answered. For whatever man loves he can create, and the work of his hands is that in which his souls lighten. There is some use in love that makes the world prettier or better, she said. I understand that. But there is none in love, and end of which is parting and sorrow. The one is the outcome of the other, he said. As death is the consequence of life, so is sorrow the outcome of joy, the price we pay for it somehow or at some time. But if that is so, the girl said, surely you should bear your sorrows in silence, and not cry out, as if your happiness has been overdue. Ah! said the painter, taking up his brush. That is an easy thing to say, and a sorry one to hear. And then he began to work, and the girl went towards the hill. I will go home, she said to herself. I am no wiser than when I came. She passed a cottage at the foot of the hill. An old woman sat by the door knitting. Suddenly the girl stopped. May I come and rest a bit, mother? She asked. Yes, my child. The woman answered, and she took the girl into the cottage and made her sit down by the fire, and gave her food and drink, and watched her while she rested. Suddenly the girl looked up. Mother! She said, I have been wandering through the little town looking at the people, only at the outside of their lives, and hearing just their most careless words. Tell me, what does it all mean? Why do they go on, eager for life which is often a burden, and for money which none can hold long? Where have you come from that you ask these things? I came over the hill this morning from a cottage just outside the world. And so I have no share in the world. I am just a spectre. But what does it all mean? The hate and the love, the joy in the sorrow? The forever seeking of happiness that must forever turn to woe in the end? Surely we should be content to take our share of work and sorrow and pain. We that take the world's life and light and shelter and sunshine, shall we bear nothing in return? The woman said in surprise, And money? Does money bring you happiness, that you seek for it, and bear so much for it's sake? Sell them enough, dear, unless they find other things to keep it company. There is nothing so overrated in all the world as money. The woman said, Why do so many seek it? I cannot tell, dear lass. For I never had it, nor desired it. But some is necessary, and we should be willing to work for our share of it. But more than that I cannot understand. Why it is so precious and so difficult to win, where so many are willing to work for it, is one of the strange things one has to think about. There are many better things than money. It is a thousand pities, so much good time is wasted in seeking it. Why do people desire to work? Is it for honour? The best workers think only of their work. The woman answered, And whether it will be good for the world and in itself, or of what it will do for others, not what it will do for themselves. And love? The woman said quickly, Out of good love and good work has the world grown up. From them and through them we possess all good things. To love well and to work well are the two things to desire in life, for all other things are in their gift. To the lovers and the students we owe all things. But the world is not made up of those, dear mother. There are soldiers and law-givers and many others. They have been lovers and students first. The girl did not ask how this might be, for she thought of the words of the painter and quoted, For whatever a man loves he can create, And the work of his hands is that in which his soul delighted. And dimly she was beginning to understand. Why do people decide to do good work for the world which they hardly know and have scarce they see? She asked, The world is ourselves. The woman answered, It is the thing we make it. And we can all help to choose what manner of things we shall be for those who come after us. Then the least of us can help to root out sin and make unkindest strange, And some one life better because ours has been. Oh, my dear! She cried passionately, If I could but hope, That you and I may think this and know it before the day comes when our hands shall be folded, And only our work shall say that we have lived. But the girl looked on still wondering, How did you come to think and know all these things? She asked, I have been alone so long. The woman answered, Just sitting by the fire and thinking, But why are you going?  That's a long way over the hill. The girl answered, And I must go home to the cottage. As she spoke she looked back longingly at the little town and at the smoke rising up from the houses in which the people rejoiced and sorrowed and worked and lived out their simple lives. Then suddenly she looked up at the woman, Goodbye, dear mother, she said. It is a strange thing, but I would give the world to put my arms around your neck and kiss you just once. Why don't you? The woman asked gently. I cannot. The girl answered, Something holds me back. I am just a spectre, I have no part in the world, and cannot understand the things of which it cares so much. But why is that? Oh, mother, I have no heart, and I live outside the world and have no share or part in it. Its joys and sorrows alike pass me by and are never mine, and she started on her way. No heart? The woman said sadly, Poor Lassie, then the world must indeed be a riddle for which you have forever missed the answer. And of from outside the world, recorded by Eliza Horne. The Papership, from Any House Stories, Moral and Otherwise, by Lucy Lane Clifford. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Val Grimm. The Papership. I sailed away in a Papership.  I sailed away to an unknown land, beyond an unknown sea, where all the people were dolls, my dear, and all of them talked to me. The town was built of card and paint, the gardens were made of tin, and dolls looked out of the windows, my dear, and all of them asked me in. And dolls sat round in the chairs inside, they all were dressed so fine. They stared at a clock that never had ticked, and was ever at half past nine. What shall we do to be real, they cried? What shall we do to be real? We none of us feel, though we look so nice and talk of the vague ideal. And all of them seemed to know so much, and none of them laughed or sang. And none of the fires had ever ablaze, and none of the bells air rang. And people walked and talked of life, and all of them looked so grave. Yet none of them ever had life, my dear, or ever a soul to save. I fled away to the woods and fields, the trees were stuck with glue, and even the sky was false, my dear, and painted a lovely blue. And dogs and sheep and cows were there, and all of them stared at me, with large glass eyes that never had blinked, and never a one could see. I sailed away in a paper ship, away in an unknown sea, and all the fishes were hollow, my dear, and all of them swam at me. But on and on and on I sailed, I met a great wet seal. He looked at me with two dim eyes, and turned upon his heel. The strangest sail that never was sailed, and sight that never was seen, the sail I sailed in my paper ship, the land that never has been. The Papership by Lucy Lane Clifford, from Anyhow Stories. CHAPTER VII. The Babies' Legs Betsy's mother went out charring. All the day long she scrubbed and cleaned and rubbed at other people's goods and chattels, and at night, when she was tired out and could do no more, she went back to the two kitchens in which she and her children lived and sat by the fire and rested. It was just the same, day in and day out, all the year round, but the good woman never grumbled, only thought what a blessed thing it was that long since she had spent some happy years with her good man gone to rest, and that since then she had been able to work for the five little ones he had left her. Betsy was the eldest of them all, and eleven years old was Betsy, a thrifty little lass able to scrub and clean and mend and make and to buy a dinner and cook it. I never can think where she learned it all, her mother's side, many a time, when she sat down by the bright fire and clean hearth that awaited her in the evening, except she's learned it off her own heart. She's never been spoiled yet, and it's wonderful how much good people are born with. The way they come by the bad is rubbing about the world. True enough, neighbor, depend upon it, the stone-cutter's wife, who dropped in for a gossip one morning, answered, It's a wicked world, and the sooner we get out of it the better. It's a very good world, the charwoman said, if folks would only leave it alone. It's the people that spoil it, and mostly the grown-ups. The children are born good enough. It's the grown-up folk that prevent their keeping so. Maybe you are right, said the stone-cutter's wife. I always whipped my children well myself, and never stood any nonsense, and I'm very thankful to think it.  Meanwhile Betsy had gone upstairs for the other lodger's baby. She minded it all the day long, as well as her own little brothers and sisters, for the other lodger was as poor as the charwoman, and also went out to work. Betsy took the poor little baby in her arms, and went on her way to market all in the morning early, so that she might be indoors before her mother went out to work. Now Betsy had very few clothes, and those were ragged, and she had little time to mend them, for she had the children and the baby to take care of, and the place to keep clean, and errands to go on for odd people, who gave her pants in return, with which she helped towards the housekeeping expenses. Moreover poor little Betsy's clothes were many of them past-mending, and it was strange indeed with some of them that one part held by another. But Sarah Jones, the stonecutter's daughter, a tidy lass, and thrifty too in her way, and belonging to well-to-do parents, never considered all the trials of Betsy's lot, and was not slow to call her odds and ends, and rags and tags, and miscoming to pieces, and other descriptive names which Betsy neither coveted nor loved. The consequence was that these two, Betsy and Sarah Jones, generally met in better humor than they parted. It was very cold when Betsy started for market, and she thought of the poor little baby, and fancied she felt at shiver, and remembered how it had bronchitis in the autumn, and so she took off Mother's shawl which was round her own shoulders, and wrapped the baby well in it, and stopped at the corner of the street, and asked the woman who kept the apple stall to tie it round her and the baby together. When this was done, Betsy went on her way with satisfaction, and the baby, having only its round bald head exposed, snoodled down in the warm woolen wrap, evidently feeling as cozy as a cat when it sits and purrs on the rug before the fire, and hears the kettle singing. The market was only just opened for the day, but few customers arrived early, so Betsy was soon served with the little scraps of meat and the few vegetables that were all she had come to buy, and then, still cuddling up the baby close and tight, she turned to go home, and there, just beyond the market, was Sarah Jones. Good morning, Sarah, said Betsy, going up to her. Is there any news? Sarah Jones looked neat and tidy, and in her arms she carried her youngest brother, a pale little fellow, who sucked his thumb while his legs hung naked in the cold morning air. I have no time to trouble about news, Betsy, answered Sarah. Mrs. Blake, next door to us, is ill, and there's plenty to do in thinking about her, and then there's the Wild Beast show coming next week. I have no time to think about news. Is there now really? Well, if it's going to be on a Saturday afternoon, I'll get mother to mind the little ones and I'll go and see it. If I were you, Betsy, said Sarah Jones, I'd be careful how I carried that baby. You have got it huddled up so it won't know its legs from its arms soon. It's not particular, said Betsy, as long as it knows they are there all safe. Then Sarah Jones looked at Betsy well from top to toe. Well, I must say, she exclaimed, I wonder you like to let people see you come out like that, Betsy. Look at your arms and shoulders, nothing on them, and a bitter day like this. Well, look at your baby's legs, said Betsy, there's nothing on them. These are not arms and shoulders, Betsy, I shouldn't think of coming out without my jacket and I wonder you like to do it. I haven't got a jacket, said poor little Betsy, and I took off mother's shawl to put round the baby. Well, at any rate you might mend up your clothes a bit, Betsy, said Sarah Jones scornfully as she turned to go on her way. Maybe I might, said Betsy, and maybe you might do many things you don't do. I have my hands full, Sarah, and plenty to think of besides myself. I can always keep my things mended, said Sarah. You have time enough to do it in, cried Betsy. And yet there's a slit in your apron, and maybe your nice warm jacket covers holes, where I have no jacket to hide them. And yet, though you can cover up yourself, you can't cover up your baby. I'll tell you what it is Sarah Jones, Betsy called after her. If you thought less of yourself and more of your baby's legs it would be better for you. Then Sarah Jones went home and put the baby on the floor and took up her book and read for an hour or two, and was all the happier for knowing a little more today than she did yesterday. And the baby sneezed and coughed, and the next day it sneezed and coughed a little more. And in a week it had inflammation of the lungs and everyone said, Dear me, poor little fellow. And Betsy went home and her mother went out, and Betsy scrubbed the floor and cleaned all the things and took care of the children and thought of the wild beast show. The baby was well and warm enough and sang a little song to itself that nobody else understood, and at the end of the day untidy little Betsy, forgetting to mend her rags, sat down and thought of Sarah Jones, and said to herself, She's a nasty cat and I can't bear her, and I never shall like good people who give themselves heirs. Now the moral of this story is what you please, but I think it is well to be neat and tidy, but it's still better to take care of the baby's legs. End of Chapter 7 The Baby's Legs The Imitation Fish from Any House Stories, Moral and Otherwise This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Playing by Tammy Sanders Any House Stories Moral and Otherwise by Lucy Lane Clifford The Imitation Fish It lived with three or four imitation ducks in a cardboard box to which there was a glass lid. It was about an inch and a half long and made of tin. One side was painted a bright red, and the other a deep yellow. At the end of its nose was a very little bit of wire, and this bit of wire sadly puzzled the poor Imitation Fish. The ducks and the fish were all packed in soft cotton wool, and placed in a quiet corner of the toy shop. The fish would have had a comfortable sleepy time if its nose had not been always longing to touch a strange little stick at the other end of the box. The ducks had no such longing and aching, at which the fish wondered much, until it noticed that they had no tiny bit of wire at the end of their noses, and somehow it could not help connecting this fact with their placid peacefulness. One day the ducks and fish and the little stick, which with the exception of about a third of an inch at one end was painted a bright red, were all violently disturbed, and the next minute the lid of the box in which they had slept so long was quickly pulled open, and a fair little child with golden hair and large grave blue eyes stood looking at them. Oh, you pretty ducks, he cried, in a voice so sweet that the Imitation Fish longed for a heart to beat at its sound.  And the lid was gently closed, and the little child carried the box home to a tall house by the sea. Now you shall have a large bath to swim in, the child said, and you shall be as happy as the day is long. And then the gay little ducks and the red and yellow fish were placed in the cool clear water, and bravely swam upon its surface. Ah, how happy they were, going round and round as the fancy of the child directed, listening to the gleeful voice, and sometimes feeling themselves taken up by the careful fingers, looked at for a moment, and then tenderly placed in the water again. Mother, the child asked, what is the little stick for? It is a magnet, the mother answered, and then she showed the child how to hold it close to the little bit of wire at the end of the fish's nose. And lo, in a moment the whole of the Imitation Fish's being seemed satisfied, and it clung to the stick as if the gift of life were in it, or swam swiftly and recklessly after it, as if a whirlwind were behind. There is only one fish, mother, the child said presently, taking the stick out of the water, but there are three or four ducks.  And the child vanished, leaving the fish and the ducks aimlessly waiting in the bath. Presently the mother came, and lifted them all out, and put them once more into their box. The dear child, she said lovingly to herself, all things are real to him as yet. Even this foolish bit of painted tin he does not dream to be without life or feeling, for he knows nothing of things that are false. And she placed the box on a shelf, and left the fish wondering greatly at the words it had heard. The next morning the ducks and the little fish again swam about the bath, and chased the strange stick round and round, while the child laughed with glee and was happy. But the fish was not so bright as yesterday, for it remembered the words it had heard and wondered much. And yet the child loved the little fish far more than the placid and contented ducks that troubled themselves not at all about anything.  I will come and see you again tomorrow. One day the little fish heard the child ask, Do all the fish live in the sea, mother? In the great sea, which is before our windows? All real fish do, my darling, the mother answered. And when they are taken out, mother, what then? They die, the real fish do. And the poor imitation fish feared, lest its falseness should be betrayed to the one heart that knowing no falseness thought it must be real, but the mother said nothing more. And many times that day it was taken from its resting place and looked at long and lovingly and kissed. And once the soft voice said, Ah, dear fish, you shall not be lonely long. I will not let you die, because I love you. Tomorrow I will take you back to your great home, the sea. Then the little fish, having learned to love the child, humbled. For how could it bear to leave the one thing that cared for it? And when the morrow came, the child took the fish once more from its soft little home, and looked at it for a few minutes with sorrowful blue eyes, and then gently carried it away, away from the stick and the imitation ducks and the little cardboard box in which it had lived so long, and out of the house by the sea, which was the child's home. The sound of the waves came nearer and nearer, and on and on the child went, until at last he stopped at the end of a long pier beneath which the water rushed and foamed. Then the child looked at the imitation fish again, and kissed it for the last time, while his tears fell upon its red and yellow sides. Farewell, dear little fish, he said.  You shall go back to your home in the sea, and dwell among others like you. I love you, dear little fish, farewell, and the child dropped it into the deep water beneath. For one moment the poor little imitation fish dimly saw out of one painted eye the sweet face above, and then the waves tossed it away and away, farther and farther out to sea. Ah, dear child, it cried in terrible fear. Your purity has been the ruin of my false self. I was not made for things that were real. Now I am indeed lost. But no one took any notice of the poor toy. And the living fish swam past it with scarcely a glance. Even they knew it was a sham. And when the fisherman cast his line into the sea, the hook at the end did not touch or hurt the imitation fish. All around it was heedless of its presence. Only the waves went on tossing it day after day, week after week. Sometimes the sunlight came, and the real fish swam into the fisherman's net. But nothing pleased or hurt or harmed the imitation fish. Only the waves went on tossing and tossing. At last, after a long, long time, the waves seemed to be going on and on, always in one direction. And the fish went with them. Until at last it was thrown on the shore among the pebbles and seaweed, and the little pools of water that collected between great stones. And the little fish was thankful, for it had escaped from a great loneliness, and the quiet of the shore seemed a blessed thing after the ceaseless tossing of the waves. How long it lay there it never knew. But one day there was a sudden sound of a voice, and the little fish was lifted up by hands almost as tender as the child's.  He had a little fish that pleased him more than all his other toys, but he thought it was real, and threw it into the sea to make it happy. And she raised it to her lips, and kissed it passionately again and again, and bathed it in her tears. Then the little fish was sad, and yet thankful and glad to feel itself going back to the child. And the mother put it in a soft hiding place, and looked at it many a time kissing it tenderly, for the sound of the child's voice was hushed. And the blue eyes that had so lovingly watched the imitation fish watched it never again. Grave blue eyes that were closed for evermore. End of the Imitation Fish Buttercup Queen From any house stories, moral, and otherwise. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reporting by Rebecca. Any house stories, moral and otherwise. By Lucy Lane Clifford Buttercup Queen I'll sing a song of summertime, and crown my blue-eyed queen, the prettiest queen the buttercups, and I have ever seen. Now gather up your pinafore, and scamper over the grass, the daisies never looked up to see a happier lad in less. You'll build a throne upon the sand, a mist is out at sea. Perhaps beyond there is a land fresh made for you and me. If you are true and I am true, we'll have no doubts and fears. But laugh together all our lives, and live a thousand years. Then let us sail away, my sweet, before your crown shall fade. For lovers true, like me and you, the summertime was made. So buttercups can fade, my sweet, and summertime can pass. Yet just today we'll sail away, a happy lad in less. End of Buttercup Queen by Lucy Lane Clifford. The Beautiful Lady From Any House Stories, Moral and Otherwise. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Any House Stories, Moral and Otherwise by Lucy Lane Clifford. The Beautiful Lady The woods were all white with the blossom of April and green with the coming of May. The larks were flying higher and higher, watching for the swallows afar off. Surely it was the time they had started on their way. The children went into the woods, but they were not singing for joy as usual. They followed the tall girl down the pathway. Janet, the little one, said, See, that is where the rabbit holes used to be. But Janet only nodded and did not turn her head. We never saw the rabbits, the little one added. Do you think the lad ever saw them? I don't know, the tall girl answered, but I think he would have told me if he had. They filled their baskets with flowers and went out of the wood, and sorted along the lane that led to the village. Janet, the little one, asked, as they passed two cottages that had been built just a year before. Is it there the crazy woman lives? One of the boys laughed.  But before he could save more, Janet turned round quickly. It is only a bad heart that laughs, she said, and the boy was ashamed in a moment. Come, she added, Let us cover her window ledge with flowers. And eagerly the children stopped and piled up the flowers on the window sill. And then they tapped at the window pane. The fairies have been, they cried. See what they have left you, and went on their way. They heard the window opened, and the woman's voice singing.  For sweet my love is far away, and won't be home tomorrow, and won't be home tomorrow day, and won't be home. Then she stopped with a little cry of joy, and the children knew she had found the flowers. The tall girl's heart gave a leap when she heard the woman's cry, and she clasped with the little one's hand more tightly. Ah, poor dear, she thought. The lad at the carpenter's would have known how to comfort you with his talk of the strange lands your son's eyes never saw, and the lad knew only in his heart. All down the lane the children went, past the lilac trees just bursting into bloom, across the farmhouse they could hear the grunting of the pigs, and the rattle of the milking pans the dairymaid was washing as they passed by, and on towards the village. But when they came in sight of their mother's cottage they stopped suddenly, for there, waiting by the door, stood a grand carriage. Janet, they whispered, afraid to speak aloud, it must be the beautiful lady. They stood still, not liking to go on, and wondering what to do. But the little one looked up and said, I do want to see the beautiful lady. So they gathered courage and went slowly on to the cottage, and one by one they shyly entered in at the door, curtsying as they did so, for the beautiful lady sat by the fireplace talking to the mother. The little one was glad the china dog she won off the Christmas tree stood upon the mantelpiece, for half a dozen times did the beautiful lady look up at it, and forever afterwards it seemed to have remembrance of her, though it only told it to the little one. Janet had learnt all manner of things from the carpenter's lad, to love books and the histories of far off lands, and all manner of strange stories, and in the evening she talked to the children of all she knew. So when they saw the beautiful lady, they thought of the fairy queen who loved a mortal man and took him off to Fairyland, and they felt her wondering if this could be she. She had blue eyes and soft golden hair, which was twisted all round her head, till it looked just like a crown. She had surely listened while Thomas Rhymer played upon his harp, they thought, and perchance she knew where the three roads met, and one branched off to Elphinland.  Perhaps when she was tired of earth, they thought, she turned it round three times and found herself in Fairyland once more. And while they thought all this, and stood in a group staring at her, they heard the clicking of the harness on the horses, and knew that really she was no fairy at all, but just the beautiful lady who had come to live in the big house beyond the bridge. But of course she might have been the fairy queen. It seemed so odd that she was not. She turned and looked at the children with her sweet blue eyes, and then she said, it seemed a wonderful thing to hear her voice. I've come to ask your mother about a boy who lived in this village. He was a cobbler's son. I know his sister. Then all speaking together the children answered. The strange lad at the carpenter's. Did you know him, the lady asked? Yes, we all knew him, they answered. But Janet knew him best. He used to take us to the woods to show us the rabbit holes. They're not there now, and we never saw the rabbits. He used to tell us stories about the strange countries and of all the things he meant to do. And while he was thinking of all the great ends he would gain, he forgot to make any beginning. The mother said. She was a stern woman, but her voice was sad while she spoke. He was always dreaming, she added, and while he was dreaming his hands were folded. Then the beautiful lady sighed, but made no answer, for she thought how many of us are like the cobbler's son, longing to climb great heights, looking up at the far-off light, yet standing still the while. And as for the things we see and do in dreams, should we not most of us travel far and wide and achieve great things indeed if we could but tack our hands and feet onto our fancies? The tall girl who had known the boy so well went forward a step. He worked hard all day, she said gently. He did all that was given him to do. It was only in the evening that he read books and thought of the strange countries and told us of his dreams and of all he meant to do. Once he made a little table, she began, but before she could say more the beautiful lady interrupted her. I know, she said, it is in my brother's home far away in India. It was my mother's, and because it was made so well she once sent it down to the schoolhouse, so that all the village boys might see it and know how well a cobbler's little son could work. Yes, yes, the children cried, eagerly crowding up close round the beautiful lady, or go on and tell us more, we know he made a little table. And as it was coming back from the schoolhouse she went on, the man who carried it let it fall, and a little piece of wood that was not so firmly glued as a rest fell from the under part, and we saw that beneath it had been written. Daddy's lad made this table and sent it into the world with his love. And we all thought much about these words and how the cobbler's little son had put one thing at least that was well done into the world. And when my brother went away to India he asked my mother for the little table, and he took it with him, and in one of his letters he said it always seemed to him more like a living thing with a human voice than a bit of furniture. He was a clever lad, the mother sighed, her stern face relaxing a little. He used to tell us about all manner of things, the children said. We were never tired of hearing. But it was all waste of time, the mother said. No dear mother, the tall girl answered gently, I do not think so, for we all loved him, and somehow after he came we all loved each other more. Even the mother's eyes suddenly filled with tears. His heart was stronger than his hands, she said to the beautiful lady, and what the girl says is true. He taught us to love better, but he never knew it. And he loved the children, and the birds, and the bats, and the bees, and the sunshine, and the flowers that grew in the woods. It was wonderful how he loved them all. And they loved him back again, the tall girl said eagerly. Then the beautiful lady gently touched the mother's arm that was brown and bare, and said softly, He did not only dream, dear woman, and there are some dreams far better and sweeter than any waking. But the pity of it is that we live our lives awake, the woman said. But the poor lad, she added sadly, he sleeps on just by the pathway between the church and the schoolhouse. Come and see the little one cried. Oh, dear beautiful lady, come and see. And almost before she knew it, the beautiful lady had risen from her seat and taken the little one by the hand and left the cottage. The tall girl walked by her side, and the children followed in a group. So they went on to the place where the carpenter's lad slept well. It was close by the pathway, just as the mother had said, so that if he did not sleep too soundly, he could hear the children's voices singing in the schoolhouse, or the pat-a-pat-a of their feet when the church clock struck the hour at which the schoolhouse door opened wide, and they came joyfully forth and hurried away to their homes. He is here, said the children softly, and they stood still, while the beautiful lady looked down at the grass growing wild and tall above him. We told the man not to cut the grass often, they whispered. For when it grows up high, it seems like the woods, and he was always so happy in the woods. There are some wildflowers growing among the grass, the beautiful lady said. Ah, yes, the tall girl answered. We don't know how it is, but there are always flowers among the grass above him. We think sometimes that perhaps they are his little dreams coming through.