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Sample Pages from [em]The Railway Children[/em] by E. Nesbit

CHAPTER 1

The Beginning of Things

They were not railway children to begin with. I don't suppose they had ever thought about railways except as a means of getting to Maskelyne and Cook's, the Pantomime, Zoological Gardens, and Madame Tussaud's. They were just ordinary suburban children, and they lived with their Father and Mother in an ordinary red-brick-fronted villa, with coloured glass in the front door, a tiled passage that was called a hall, a bath-room with hot and cold water, electric bells, french windows, and a good deal of white paint, and "every modem convenience", as the house-agents say.

There were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course, Mothers never have favourites, but if their Mother had had a favourite, it might have been Roberta. Next came Peter, who wished to be an Engineer when he grew up; and the youngest was Phyllis, who meant extremely well.

Mother did not spend all her time in paying dull calls to dull ladies, and sitting dully at home waiting for dull ladies to pay calls to her. She was almost always there, ready to play with the children, and read to them, and help them to do their home-lessons. Besides this she used to write stories for them while they were at school, and read them i aloud after tea, and she always made up funny pieces of poetry for their birthdays and for other great occasions, such as the christening of the new kittens, or the refurnishing of the dolls' house, or the time when they were getting over the mumps.

These three lucky children always had everything they needed: pretty clothes, good fires, a lovely nursery with heaps of toys, and a Mother Goose wall-paper. They had a kind and merry nursemaid, and a dog who was called James, and who was their very own. They also had a Father who was just perfect - never cross, never unjust, and always ready for a game--at least, if at any time he was not ready, he always had an excellent reason for it, and explained the reason to the children so interestingly and funnily that they felt sure he couldn't help himself.

You will think that they ought to have been very happy. And so they were, but they did not know how happy till the pretty life in Edgecombe Villa was over and done with, and they had to live a very different life indeed.

The dreadful change came quite suddenly. Peter had a birthday - his tenth. Among his other presents was a model engine more perfect than you could ever have dreamed of. The other presents were full of charm, but the Engine was fuller of charm than any of the others were.

Its charm lasted in its full perfection for exactly three days. Then, owing either to Peter's inexperience or Phyllis's good intentions, which had been rather pressing, or to some other cause, the Engine suddenly went off with a bang. James was so frightened that he went out and did not come back all day. All the Noah's Ark people who were in the tender were broken to bits, but nothing else was hurt except the poor little engine and the feelings of Peter. The others said he cried over it - but of course boys of ten do not cry, however terrible the tragedies may be which darken their lot. He said that his eyes were red because he had a cold. This turned out to be true, though Peter did not know it was when he said it; the next day he had to go to , bed and stay there. Mother began to be afraid that he might be sickening for measles, when suddenly he sat up in bed and said:

"I hate gruel! I hate barley water! I hate bread and milk. I want to get up and have something real to eat."

"What would you like?" Mother asked.

"A pigeon-pie," said Peter, eagerly, "a large pigeon -pie. A very large one."

So Mother asked the Cook to make a large pigeon-pie. The pie was made. And when the pie was made, it was cooked. And when it was cooked, Peter ate some of it. After that his cold was better. Mother made a piece of poetry to amuse him while the pie was being made. It began by saying what an unfortunate but worthy boy Peter was, then it went on:

He had an engine that he loved
With all his heart and soul,
And if he had a wish on earth
It was to keep it whole.
One day - my friends, prepare your minds,-
I'm coming to the worst-
Quite suddenly a screw went mad,
And then the boiler burst!
With gloomy face he picked it up
And took it to his Mother,
Though even he could not suppose
That she could make another,-
For those who perished on the line
He did not seem to care,
His engine being more to him
Than all the people there.
And now you see the reason why
Our Peter has been ill
He soothes his soul with pigeon-pie
His gnawing grief to kill-
He wraps himself in blankets warm
And sleeps in bed till late,
Determined thus to overcome
His miserable fate.
And if his eyes are rather red,
His cold must just excuse it:
Offer him pie, you may be sure
He never will refuse it.

Father had been away in the country for three or four days. All Peter's hopes for the curing of his afflicted Engine were now fixed on his Father, for Father was most wonderfully clever with his fingers. He could mend all sorts of things. He had often acted as veterinary surgeon to the wooden rocking-horse; once he had saved its life when all human aid was despaired of, and the poor creature was given up for lost, and even the carpenter said he didn't see his way to do anything. And it was Father who mended the doll's cradle when no one else could; and with a little glue and some bits of wood and a pen-knife made all the Noah's Ark beasts as strong on their pins as ever they were, if not stronger.

Peter, with heroic unselfishness, did not say anything about his Engine till after Father had had his dinner and his after-dinner cigar. The unselfishness was Mother's idea - but it was Peter who carried it out. And needed a good deal of patience, too.

At last Mother said to Father, "Now, dear, if you're quite rested, and quite comfy, we want to tell you about me great railway accident, and ask your advice."

: "All right," said Father, "fire away!"

So men Peter told me sad tale, and fetched what was left of me Engine.

"Hum," said Father, when he had looked me Engine over very carefully.

The children held their breaths.

"Is there no hope?" said Peter, in a low, unsteady voice.

"Hope? Rather! Tons of it," said Father, cheerfully; "but it'll want something besides hope - a bit of brazing say, or some solder, and a new valve. I think we'd better keep it for a rainy day. In other words, I'll give up Saturday afternoon to it, and you shall all help me."

"Can girls help to mend engines?" Peter asked doubtfully.

"Of course they can. Girls are just as clever as boys, and don't you forget it! How would you like to be an engine-driver, Phil?"

"My face would be always dirty, wouldn't it?" said Phyllis, in unemotional tones, "and I expect I should break something."

"I should just love it," said Roberta-"do you think I could when I'm grown up, Daddy? Or even a stoker?"

"You mean a fireman," said Daddy, pulling and twisting at the engine. "Well, if you still wish it, when you're grown up, we'll see about making you a fire-woman. I remember when I was a boy -"

Just then there was a knock at the front door .

"Who on earth!" said Father. "An Englishman's house is his castle, of course, but I do wish they built semi-detached villas with moats and draw-bridges."

Ruth - she was the parlour-maid and had red hair - came in and said that two gentlemen wanted to see the master .

"I've shown them into the library, Sir," said she.

"I expect it's the subscription to the Vicar's testimonial," said Mother, "or else it's the choir holiday fund. Get rid of them quickly, dear. It does break up an evening so, and it's nearly the children's bedtime."

But Father did not seem to be able to get rid of the gentlemen at all quickly.

"I wish we had got a moat and drawbridge," said Roberta; "then, when we didn't want people, we could just pull up the drawbridge and no one else could get in. I expect Father will have forgotten about when he was a boy if they stay much longer."

Mother tried to make the time pass by telling them a new fairy story about a Princess with green eyes, but it was difficult because they could hear the voices of Father and the gentlemen in the Library, and Father's voice sounded louder and different from the voice he generally used to people who came about testimonials and holiday funds.

Then the Library bell rang, and everyone heaved a breath of relief.

"They're going now," said Phyllis; "he's rung to have them shown out."

But instead of showing anybody out, Ruth showed herself in, and she looked queer, the children thought.

"Please'm," she said, "the Master wants you to just step into the study. He looks like the dead, mum; I think he's had bad news. You'd best prepare yourself for the worst, 'm - p'raps it's a death in the family or a bank busted or - "

"That'll do, Ruth," said Mother gently; "you can go."

Then Mother went into the Library .There was more talking. Then the bell rang again, and Ruth fetched a cab. The children heard boots go out and down the steps. The cab drove away, and the front door shut. Then Mother came in. Her dear face was as white as her lace collar, and her eyes looked very big and shining. Her mouth looked like just a line of pale red - her lips were thin and not their proper shape at all.

"It's bedtime," she said. "Ruth will put you to bed."

"But you promised we should sit up late tonight because Father's come home," said Phyllis.

"Father's been called away - on business," said Mother. "Come, darlings, go at once."

They kissed her and went. Roberta lingered to give Mother an extra hug and to whisper:

"It wasn't bad news, Mammy, was it? Is anyone dead-or-"

"Nobody's dead-no," said Mother, and she almost seemed to push Roberta away. "I can't tell you anything tonight, my pet. Go, dear, go now." So Roberta went.

Ruth brushed the girls' hair and helped them to undress. (Mother almost always did this herself.) When she had turned down the gas and left them she found Peter, still dressed, waiting on the stairs.

"I say, Ruth, what's up?" he asked.

"Don't ask me no questions and I won't tell you no lies," the red-headed Ruth replied. "You'll know soon enough."

Late that night Mother came up and kissed all three children as they lay asleep. But Roberta was the only one whom the kiss woke, and she lay mousey-still, and said nothing.

"If Mother doesn't want us to know she's been crying," she said to herself as she heard through the dark the catching ofher Mother's breath, "we won't know it. That's all."

When they came down to breakfast the next morning, Mother had already gone out.

"To London," Ruth said, and left them to their breakfast.

"There's something awful the matter," said Peter, breaking his egg. "Ruth told me last night we should know soon enough."

"Did you ask her?" said Roberta, with scorn.

"Yes, I did!" said Peter, angrily. "If you could go to bed without caring whether Mother was worried or not, I couldn't. So there."

"I don't think we ought to ask the servants things Mother doesn't tell us," said Roberta.

"That's right, Miss Goody-Goody," said Peter, "preach away."

"I'm not goody," said Phyllis, "but I think Bobbie's right this time."

"Of course. She always is. In her own opinion," said Peter.

"Oh, don'tl" cried Roberta, putting down her egg-spoon; "don't let's be horrid to each other. I'm sure some dire calamity is happening. Don't let's make it worse!"

"Who began, I should like to know?" said Peter.

Roberta made an effort, and answered: "I did I suppose but-"

"Well, then," said Peter, triumphantly. But before he went to school he thumped his sister between the shoulders and told her to cheer up. The children came home to one o'clock dinner, but Mother was not there. And she was not there at tea-time.

It was nearly seven before she came in, looking so ill and tired that the children felt they could not ask her any questions. She sank into an arm-chair. Phyllis took the long pins out of her hat, while Roberta took off her gloves, and Peter unfastened her walking-shoes and fetched her soft velvety slippers for her.

When she had had a cup of tea, and Roberta had put eau-de-Cologne on her poor head that ached, Mother said:

"Now, my darlings, I want to tell you something. Those men last night did bring very bad news, and Father will be away for some time. I am very worried about it, and I want you all to help me, and, not to make things harder for me."

"As if we would!" said Roberta, holding Mother's hand against her face.

"You can help me very much," said Mother, "by being good and happy and not quarrelling when I'm away" - Roberta and Peter exchanged guilty glances -"for I shall have to be away a good deal."

"We won't quarrel. Indeed we won't," said everybody. And meant it, too.

"Then," Mother went on, "I want you not to ask me any questions about this trouble; and not to ask anybody else any questions."

Peter cringed and shuffied his boots on the carpet. "

"You'll promise this, too, won't you?" said Mother.

"I did ask Ruth," said Peter, suddenly. "I'm very sorry, but I did."

" And what did she say?" .

"She said I should know soon enough."

"It isn't necessary for you to know anything about it," said Mother; "it's about business, and you never do understand business, do you?"

"No," said Roberta; "is it something to do with Government?" For Father was in a Government Office.

"Yes," said Mother. "Now it's bed-time, my darlings. And don't you worry. It'll all come right in the end."

"Then don't you worry either, Mother," said Phyllis, "and we'll all be as good as gold."

Mother sighed and kissed them.

"We'll begin being good the first thing tomorrow morning," said Peter, as they went upstairs.

"Why not now?' said Roberta.

"There's nothing to be good about now, silly," said Peter .

"We might begin to try to feel good," said Phyllis, "and not call names."

"Who's calling names?" said Peter. "Bobbie knows right enough that when I say 'silly', it's just the same as if l said Bobbie."

"Well," said Roberta.

"No, I don't mean what you mean. I mean it's just a - what is it Father calls it? -a term of endearment! Good night."

The girls folded up their clothes with more than usual neatness - which was the only way of being good that they could think of.

"I say," said Phyllis, smoothing out her pinafore, "you used to say it was so dull - nothing happening, like in books. Now something has happened."

"I never wanted things to happen to make Mother unhappy," said Roberta. "Everything's perfectly horrid. "

Everything continued to be perfectly horrid for some weeks.

Mother was nearly always out. Meals were dull and dirty. The between-maid was sent away, and Aunt Emma came on a visit. Aunt Emma was much older than Mother. She was going abroad to be a governess. She was very busy getting her clothes ready, and they were very ugly, dingy clothes, and she had them always littering about, and the sewing-machine seemed to whir-on and on all day and most of the night. Aunt Emma believed in keeping children in their proper places. And they more than returned the compliment. Their idea of Aunt Emma's proper place was anywhere where they were not. So they saw very little of her. They preferred the company of the servants, who were more amusing. Cook, if in a good temper, could sing comic songs, and the housemaid, if she happened not to be offended with you, could imitate a hen that has laid an egg, a bottle of champagne being opened, and could mew like two cats fighting. The servants never told the children what the bad news was that the gentlemen had brought to Father. But they kept hinting that they could tell a great deal if they chose - and this was not comfortable.

One day when Peter had made a booby trap over the bath-room door, and it had acted beautifully as Ruth passed through, that red-haired parlour-maid caught him and boxed his ears.

"You'll come to a bad end," she said furiously, "you nasty little limb, you! If you don't mend your ways, you'll go where your precious Father's gone, so I tell you straight!"

Roberta repeated this to her Mother, and next day Ruth was sent away.

Then came the time when Mother came home and went to bed and stayed there two days and the Doctor came, and the children crept wretchedly about the house and wondered if the world was coming to an end.

Mother came down one morning to breakfast, very pale and with lines on her face that used not to be there. And she smiled, as well as she could, and said: "Now, my pets, everything is settled. We're going to leave this house, and go and live in the country. Such a ducky dear little white house. I know you'll love it."

A whirling week of packing followed - not just packing clothes, like when you go to the seaside, but packing chairs and tables, covering their tops with sacking and their legs with straw.

All sorts of things were packed that you don't pack when you go to the seaside. Crockery, blankets, candlesticks, carpets, bedsteads, saucepans, and even fenders and fire-irons.

The house was like a furniture warehouse. I think the children enjoyed it very much. Mother was very busy, but not too busy now to talk to them, and read to them, and even to make a bit of poetry for Phyllis to cheer her up when she fell down with a screwdriver and ran it into her hand.

"Aren't you going to pack this, Mother?" Roberta asked, pointing to the beautiful cabinet inlaid with red turtleshell and brass.

"We can't take everything," said Mother.

"But we seem to be taking all the ugly things," said Roberta.

"We're taking the useful ones," said Mother; "we've got to play at being poor for a bit, my chick-a-biddy."

When all the ugly useful things had been packed up and taken away in a van by men in green-baize aprons, the two girls and Mother and Aunt Emma slept in the two spare rooms where the furniture was all pretty. All their beds had gone. A bed was made up for Peter on the drawing-room sofa.

"I say, this is larks," he said, wriggling joyously, as Mother tucked him up, "I do like moving! I wish we moved once a month."

Mother laughed.

"I don't!" she said. "Good night, Peterkin."

As she turned away Roberta saw her face. She never forgot it.

"Oh, Mother," she whispered all to herself as she got into bed, "how brave you are! How I love you! Fancy being brave enough to laugh when you're feeling like that!"

Next day boxes were filled, and boxes and more boxes; and then late in the afternoon a cab came to take them to the station.

Aunt Emma saw them off. They felt that they were seeing her off, and they were glad of it. "But, oh, those poor little foreign children that she's going to governess!" whispered Phyllis. "I wouldn't be them for anything!"

At first they enjoyed looking out of the window, but when it grew dusk they grew sleepier and sleepier, and no one knew how long they had been in the train when they were roused by Mother's shaking them gently and saying:

"Wake up, dears. We're there."

They woke up, cold and melancholy, and stood shivering on the draughty platform while the baggage was taken out of the train. Then the engine, puffing and blowing, set to work again, and dragged the train away. The children watched the tail-lights of the guard's van disappear into the darkness.

This was the first train the children saw on that railway which was in time to become so very dear to them. They did not guess then how they would grow to love the railway, and how soon it would become the centre of their new life nor what wonders and changes it would bring to them. They only shivered and sneezed and hoped the walk to the new house would not be long. Peter's nose was colder than he ever remembered it to have been before. Robena's hat was crooked, and the elastic seemed tighter than usual. Phyllis's shoe-laces had come undone.

"Come," said Mother, "we've got to walk. There aren't any cabs here."

The walk was dark and muddy. The children stumbled a little on the rough road, and once Phyllis absently fell into a puddle, and was picked up damp and unhappy. There were no gas-Iamps on the road and the road was uphill. The cart went at a slow pace and they followed the gritty crunch of its wheels. As their eyes got used to the darkness, they could see the mound of boxes swaying dimly in front of them. A long gate had to be opened for the cart to pass through, and after that the road seemed to go across fields - and now it went downhill. Presently a great dark lumpish thing showed over to the right. "

"There's the house," said Mother. "I wonder why she's shut the shutters."

"Who's she?" asked Roberta. "

"The woman I engaged to clean the place, and put the furniture straight and get supper. " There was a low wall, and trees inside.

"That's the garden," said Mother.

] "It looks more like a dripping-pan full of black cabbages," said Peter.

The cart went on along by the garden wall, and round to the back of the house, and here it clattered into a cobble-stoned yard and stopped at the back door.

There was no light in any of the windows. Everyone hammered at the door, but no one came.

The man who drove the cart said he expected Mrs Viney had gone home.

"You see your train was that late," said he.

"But she's got the key," said Mother: "What are we to do?"

"Oh, she'll have left that under the doorstep," said the cart man; "folks do hereabouts." He took the lantern off his cart and stooped.

"Ay, here it is, right enough," he said.

He unlocked the door and went in and set his lantern on the table.

"Got e'er a candle?" said he.

"I don't know where anything is." Mother spoke rather less cheerfully than usual.

He struck a match. There was a candle on the table, and he lighted it. By its thin little glimmer the children saw a large bare kitchen with a stone floor . There were no curtains, no hearth-rug. The kitchen table from home stood in the middle of the room. The chairs were in one comer, and the pots, pans, brooms, and crockery in another. There was no fire, and the black grate showed cold, dead ashes. As the cart man turned to go out after he had brought in the boxes, there was a rustling, scampering sound that seemed to come from inside the walls of the house.

"Oh, what's that?" cried the girls.

"It's only the rats," said the cart man. And he went away and shut the door, and the sudden draught of it blew out the candle.

"Oh, dear," said Phyllis, "I wish we hadn't come!" and she knocked a chair over.

"Only the rats!" said Peter, in the dark.
Excerpted from The Railway Children by E. Nesbit, Copyright 1900

Sample Pages from [em]The Reb and the Redcoats[/em] by Constance Savery

THE YOUNGEST REBEL

CHARLOTTE DARRINGTON was writing her copy when her brothers, Joseph and George, pounded up the stairs. They rushed into the schoolroom.

"Charlotte, come to the parlor this instant. Old Harry is back from the American war with a bullet wound in his chest. He has brought a box of gifts from Papa, which is going to be unpacked as soon as Mamma has read Papa’s long letters, sheaves of them. And Old Harry has a special gift from himself, for you. Lucky girl, you always were Old Harry’s favorite!"

Down went Charlotte’s pen, and scamper, scamper went Charlotte’s feet, with Joseph and George scurrying after.

There in the parlor sat Old Harry in his red coat, beaming all over his face. He was not really old, but after he went to the war, his place as gardener at Thorndale Hall was taken by his son, Young Harry. Now he was at home again, glad to be in England once more. The box of gifts stood on the table in front of him, and on his knees, in a wrapper of coarse canvas, lay the parcel containing the special gift for Charlotte.

Mrs. Darrington was asking Old Harry questions about his wound, and promising to send to the nearest town for medicines and comforts that could not be obtained in the country. Her eyes kept wandering to the packet of letters she held. Charlotte knew that she was counting the minutes until she was free to read what Papa had written.

Joseph and George began to drum on the box. Mamma said pleasantly:

"After all, we will open the box first. We know that dearest Papa was alive and well when he wrote the letters—and we couldn’t wish for better news than that! So you shall not be kept waiting, my dears."

"Thank you, Mamma," said Joseph, George and Kitty the youngest. Charlotte did not speak. She was thinking, Mamma is the kindest, most unselfish person in the world. She puts everybody before herself.

Old Harry made short work of the fastenings. Out of the box came treasures for everyone in Thorndale Hall, from little kitchenmaid, Sukey, to the governess, Miss Pipkin.

The gifts were of fine Indian workmanship: bows, arrows and headdresses for the boys; purses, mats, carved spoons, scarves, bead ornaments and basketry for the rest. Charlotte had a purple-and-white flower basket, with a necklace of purple and white stones to match.

At last the box was empty, and only Charlotte’s special present remained to be unpacked. With proud looks, Harry unpicked the stitches round the canvas wrapper. Beneath the canvas was a layer of wadding, and under that was a miniature patchwork quilt. Old Harry unrolled it.

A little waxen face looked up at Charlotte, a resolute little face with a sparkle of defiance about it, despite its dimples and laughter curves. The eyes were brown, and brown too was the straight silky hair that was cut in a fringe across the forehead. Harry drew out the owner of the face, and laid in Charlotte’s arms a doll with a small American painted paper flag pinned to the bodice of its brown dress. Its body was of pink kid, with beautifully fashioned hands and feet.

"Oh, Harry, thank you a thousand, thousand times!" exclaimed Charlotte. "This is by far the prettiest doll I ever saw. She’s as real as if she were alive. How I shall love her! And what fine shops they must have in America!"

"She didn’t come out of no shop," said Harry, grinning. "No, missy, that doll once belonged to a little rebel girl, as lived in Virginny in a big owd house summat like Thorndale Hall, as full of rebels as an egg is full of meat. The family, they had to skip when we British come that way. ‘Redcoats,’ they call us, or ‘Scarlet Lobsters’ when they want to be downright insulting. Well, arter we’d rushed the house, we took a look ’round, see? And fust thing I spied was this here little creature a-sitting on a chair staring at me as bold as brass. Oho! says I to myself, this young lady shall up and come along of us Redcoats. She’ll suit Miss Charlotte to a T, as the saying goes."

"Oh-h-h!" said Charlotte. She met her mother’s eyes, and saw that she too was distressed. Not knowing what next to say, Charlotte kissed the doll.

Harry was delighted. "That’s how that should be! I knowed what I wor about when I laid hands on that reb doll!"

At this moment the butler, Gregory, came to say that the rest of the household had assembled in the servants’ hall.

"Pooh! What a fuss about a trumpery doll!" scoffed George. "Now if Harry had given you the rebel ball that was dug out of his chest, that would have been worth having! He’s got it. He asked the surgeon to keep it for him. He’s going to have it mounted in crystal and silver, to be an heirloom for Young Harry. I wish it was mine, I do!"

If Charlotte had been able to pay attention to anything save the rebel doll, she would have said, "Ugh, how horrid!" But she was still looking sorrowfully into Mamma’s sorrowful face.

"I think, my dear Charlotte," her mother said, "that for the present at any rate you must keep the doll. Its poor little owner would prefer to know that her treasure was in loving hands. Perhaps we’ll find some way of sending the doll back when this dreadful war comes to an end, as we pray God it may. Carry her up to the schoolroom, my love, and make her acquainted with the other dolls."

"I do believe she understands what you say, Mamma!" said Charlotte. "She looks as if she did. I never saw a doll like her. I am glad her hair is the same color as mine. And she is every bit a rebel, for all she is so young."

"The youngest rebel in the world, I should say," said her mother, smiling.

Charlotte carried the rebel doll to the schoolroom, which was also the playroom.

"My dears," she said to her assembled dolls, "this is a young friend who has come all the way from America to see you. Friend, I said, Rosalba! Not enemy," Charlotte added with a stern glance at her biggest doll, who was flopping sideways with her face averted from the stranger.

Rosalba did not respond.

"This is Clarissa, that is Evelina, and here are Susanna and Laurence," said Charlotte. "Laurence is named for my Uncle Laurence, who was badly wounded in the war last autumn, in a skirmish. He was sent home to England, and since Christmas he has been living at the White Priory in Marton Green with Grandpapa and Grandmamma. The doctors say he will not be fit to rejoin his regiment before the summer. Laurence, how often must I tell you not to slouch? It is most unmilitary."

Charlotte bent forward to straighten Laurence. Then she began to undress the weary traveler.

"I wonder how you lost your shoes and stockings and cap, my dear," said Charlotte; "but I suppose I shall never know. And how could your mamma forget you when she and the others escaped from the house? Perhaps the alarm was so sudden that she was hurried away without being allowed a moment to run and fetch you. Oh, poor little girl!"

Charlotte did not like thinking about the American girl. Her eyes filled with tears, and she talked fast to keep herself from crying. "Oh, what’s this? I declare, there’s writing on the back of the flag, done by a person about as old as I am!"

Charlotte had unpinned the flag on the doll’s dress. It was painted only on the upper side. On the reverse, she read:

Go home, Redcoats!
I stand for my country.
Go home, Redcoats!
My name is Patty.
I am Patty’s dearest Patty.

"So you are Patty’s Patty," said Charlotte. "What a dear, little funny name! I like it."

The schoolroom windows looked east to the gray sea, foaming under a bitter late February wind. Charlotte turned from the windows to face the west.

"Patty in America," she said aloud, "I am sorry to say that I have your Patty. There’s nothing I can do about it, but I promise you that you shall have her again some day, if I can contrive it. In the meantime I will take great care of her."

After that, Charlotte brushed the doll’s hair. It was real hair, she noticed. She felt sure that it had once belonged to Patty across the sea.

"There you are, Patty dear," she said, as she tucked the rebel up in the bed that belonged to Rosalba. "All comfy, aren’t you? Have a good long rest after your journey." Rebel Patty looked up at Charlotte, a puckish smile on her face.

Charlotte had just gone down to join her mother in the parlor when a maid came bringing a letter from the Rector of Tumblesand Bay, to whom Joseph, George and about a dozen other boys went for lessons every day, as there was no school near Thorndale Hall. He had been ill for a week, unable to teach his pupils.

"Oh, this is frightful!" said Mamma, after she had read the letter. "Mr. Whittaker is so much worse that the doctor has ordered him perfect rest for the next six months. He is going away tomorrow, and in his absence the services will be taken by a clergyman who does not wish to teach boys!"

"Hurrah, hurrah!" shouted Joseph and George. "Holidays for six months! Hurrah!"

Mamma did not echo the "Hurrah!" She looked sober over the thought that the boys would miss so much school.

"I tell you what, Mamma!" said Joseph. "This is all that young rebel’s doing. She’s plotted it, nobody knows how, just to upset the house!"

That made Mamma laugh, in spite of her trouble.

"I shall ask Miss Pipkin to teach you and George for a few days until I can make other arrangements," she said.

Joseph and George looked glum. Miss Pipkin was Charlotte’s and Kitty’s governess. She was away for the day in Gippeswich, where she was choosing schoolbooks.

Before the boys had opened their mouths to protest, Gregory came in with a letter on a salver. "From Captain Templeton, madam. The messenger is waiting for an answer."

Captain Templeton was Uncle Laurence. Looking a little alarmed, Mamma opened the letter. The children knew why she was alarmed. No sooner were the Christmas holidays over than Grandpapa and Grandmamma had fallen ill. Though not yet recovered from his war wounds, Uncle Laurence had been nursing them, helped by another married sister, the children’s Aunt Sophy, who had left her own home to come to his aid.

"My dears," said Mamma, when she had read the letter, "Uncle Laurence has sent bad news. Aunt Sophy has had to leave the White Priory at a moment’s notice, for your poor Cousin Marcus has been thrown in the hunting field and will need his mother for a long while to come. Uncle Laurence cannot manage the nursing all by himself. He wants me. I shall have to go to the White Priory tomorrow, leaving you in Miss Pipkin’s care."

A dreadful howl went up. "Leave us with Miss Pipkin, Mamma! Mamma, you can’t!"

"I must," said Mamma.

"This is the rebel’s work again, I’ll be bound!" Joseph shouted, his fist in the air. "She’s a menace, that’s what she is! Oh, Mamma, tell Uncle Laurence you’re stopping here!"

Mamma shook her head and sat down to answer Uncle Laurence’s letter.

To lose Mamma for an unknown length of time was a terrible prospect. After they had recovered from the first shock, Kitty, and even George, began to think of the rebel doll with respect mingled with fear.

"I shouldn’t wonder," said George, "if there weren’t great goings-on in the schoolroom tonight, after the house is asleep. That rebel will get up and fight the other dolls, I’m sure she will. In the morning you’ll find legs and arms and flaxen wigs and sawdust and stuffing all over the floor!"

"Do you really think so, George?" asked little Kitty anxiously.

"It might be as well to build a barricade round her for the night," said George, "so that she can’t do any harm."

George built the barricade that evening, with help from Joseph, who happened to be at a loss for something to do. Rosalba’s bed was put on the floor by one of the windows. In front of it, Joseph and George built a stockade of chairs with legs pointing outward, upward and inward in such a way that the rebel doll would find much difficulty in climbing out to attack the English dolls, and even more difficulty in running for shelter if she should be defeated. For extra security, Joseph and George locked the doors of the clothespress in which the Darrington dolls had been hidden, and they balanced the schoolroom bell and a wooden basin on the top of it so that Patty could not shake the door without sounding an alarm and giving herself a cold bath.

Then they went to bed and to sleep. An hour later they were awakened by a crash, a noise of clattering and rumbling, accompanied by frantic yells.

Joseph and George jumped out of bed and ran to the schoolroom, whence the noise came. Charlotte and Kitty followed, trembling. Mrs. Darrington hurried up the stairs. Men and maids flocked after her, carrying candles and pokers.

A dire sight awaited them. Floundering in a sea of tangled chairs by a badly broken window lay Miss Pipkin, who had come into the room in the dark intending to put a parcel of newly purchased schoolbooks in the press. She was screaming at the top of her voice, and she went on screaming for some time after she had been picked out of the tangle, smoothed down, anointed with arnica, and plentifully supplied with burnt feathers, aromatic essences and glasses of water.

When she stopped screaming, she was so angry that she vowed she would leave the house by the London coach the next morning. Nothing would induce her to remain in a situation where she was so abominably treated. As for teaching and taking charge of those impudent practical jokers, Joseph and George, she would sooner jump over the moon.

The four Darringtons did their best to explain, but Miss Pipkin refused to listen to what they said. Mamma apologized, pleaded, remonstrated, all in vain. Miss Pipkin went to her room in a rage, and they could hear her pulling out boxes and drawers as she packed for going away.

Rebel Patty had not been injured when chairs, bell, basin and Pipkin tumbled around her brown head. Calm and unmoved she lay, with the impish smile still there.


Excerpted from The Reb and the Redcoats by Constance Savery Copyright 1961, Used with permission from Bethlehem Books

Sample Pages from [em]The Secret of Pooduck Island[/em] by Alfred Noyes

[Note from the Webmaster: Asterisked words are defined in the Vocabulary section at the back of the book.]

ONE

BLUEBERRY COTTAGE

I know a cottage on the coast of Maine...
Let a jack pine rustle, and I'm living there again,
In a clearing of the woods where the waves say 'woosh'
And the sea swallow nests in a wild-rose bush,
And the little wild strawberries redden under foot,
And the woodchuck nibbles at the rosemarie root,
And the fish hawk over the pine wood wheels,
And the cormorant cries to the barking seals,
Till the Red Man's ghost in a birch canoe
Dips his paddle and...

NOBODY WAS THERE. You might have thought that someone had been singing, and suddenly stopped. But there was nobody. Everything was quite still. There was only the sound of the long sea-wave washing peacefully against the red and gray rocks below.

Only a moment ago, it seemed, somebody had been standing there to listen; somebody standing there to breathe the scent of the sun-warmed pine needles and the salt smell of the tawny* seaweed as it rose and fell with the clear green water.

The deserted cottage looked as if it were waiting to be remembered. It was backed by a half circle of pine trees and silver birches. It stood on a little rock-bound meadow ledge, overlooking a broad reach* of deep-blue sea. In the distance it saw three small pine-tufted islands, where only sea gulls and other wild creatures lived. Beyond these was the Atlantic.

But Blueberry Cottage looked far too cheerful to be deserted so early in the fall. It was built of sturdy pine, with a rough-stone chimney and a roof of well-seasoned shingle. In the patch of long grass and ferns around it, the bees were still hovering over the wild Michaehnas daisies; and among the rocks there were all sorts of deliciously* scented little shrubs where the rambling foot-wide path went down to the beach. In front of the cottage the sun was flooding the wide veranda. On one of its sun-blistered green tables there was a book with a faded cover. Everything else had been put away. The windows had shutters; and these, apparently, were all made fast.

A song sparrow piped three plaintive* notes where the pines went down to the water. It was too delicious never to have been heard by someone who enjoyed it. It was not the time for bird song, but it was answered by a remote elfin* echo, dying away along the coast. Somebody had listened to that lonely cry , keen and sweet as a pine needle pricking your heart. But nobody was there now.

From above the cottage there came a soft thud, as though a pine cone had fallen on the shingled roof. It was followed by another; and then two more, rather lighter than the first two. If there had been any human there, he might have seen, on the ridge of the roof, two red squirrels sitting upright, with their bushy tails erect behind them, and their cocked ears and bright black eyes alert for danger. But they, too, seemed to be sure that everyone had gone away. One of them uttered a light chirrup, and immediately there were two smaller squirrels, one on either side of their parents, in the same attitude, ears cocked and eyes glancing round them with unmistakable delight in the absence of all humans.

There was another chirrup which, in their own language, undoubtedly meant "Now do be careful, Grandfather"; and larger squirrel, whose coat was turning gray, dropped somewhat more heavily onto the roof beside them.

It was no new adventure, for after making quite certain that they would not be disturbed, they all moved quickly to a sheltered corner near the chimney, where Mrs. Squirrel displaced* a loose bit of shingling and discovered their private entrance to the house. One more glance around them - to make quite sure that no human was there; and, one by one, they entered. The last to enter cunningly readjusted the loose bit of shingling, so that no hole could be seen even by a wandering sea gull overhead. Then all was as quiet as before; and, if the human owner of the cottage had returned and walked round the outside of his abode, he would have suspected nothing. Nor could he have imagined what was happening within.
Excerpted from The Secret of Pooduck Island by Alfred Noyes 1943, Catholic Authors Press, Used with permission of Neumann Press

Sample Pages from [em]The Spear[/em] by Louis de Wohl

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER I

THE LADY Claudia Procula was amused. Whirlwind courtships were not exactly new to her, but. this young man seemed to wish to make up within a few weeks for all the time he had spent at some impossible outpost of the empire. Otherwise there was nothing extraordinary about him. He was fairly tall, with good bone structure, eyes the color of black cherries, and rather heavy, dark eyebrows that made him seem serious even when he was laughing. He came from a good family; the Longini had been soldiers for many generations and his father was a retired general.

She had met Cassius Longinus first at a garden party in the house of Nerva Cocceius, and he would not leave her side even when a proconsul and two senators tried to get rid of him. A few days later she met him again in the house of Senator Pomponius and observed that he paid no attencion at all to his host's dazzlingly beautiful daughter, although she flirted with him quite shamelessly. And now he had turned up at Marcus Balbus' dinner party.

When the Lady Claudia found him sitting on a corner of her dining couch, she laughed. "You again! We seem to have a good many friends in common."

Cassius beamed at her. "I am doing my best to see to that, Domina. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have come here."

"You would have been wrong there. Balbus' parties are famous."

He laughed. "They say he's almost as rich as he is fat. If that's true he must be horribly rich."

She raised her eyebrows. "Careful! He is not fond of such remarks and he's not a man to be trifled with."

"The Chatts are bigger ."

"The-who?"

"The Chatts-Germans. None of them under six feet, some nearer seven. They're good fighters. I've had to deal with them these last four years. I can't see Balbus standing up to them."

He did not see the warning in her eyes.

"What's that about me?" asked Marcus Balbus softly. He liked to amble from one table to the other to see that his guests had everything they wanted and like many fat people he walked noiselessly. He was pot-bellied and almost bald, but the jutting chin spoke of energy and the small eyes were cold and hard.

"We were speaking about fighting," Cassius said.

"Ah, were you? Of course, you've just come back from the German frontier. The Twenty-first legion, I believe? I suppose he's been bragging a little about his military exploits, has he, Lady Claudia? Well, well. I bet you he's never seen a German near enough for real danger ."

Cassius was too young to detect the angry undertone of jealousy. He heard only the challenge.

"It would be a difficult bet to take, sir, unless you can reach my commander, the Legate Cinna. He could decide it very quickly."

Balbus smiled. "Perhaps it's lucky that old Cinna has left Rome for a couple of weeks. Never mind, young man, I'm sure you did very well. And of course everyone knows Cinna flies into a rage at a breath of criticism against his legion ...If I were a German I would probably be deathly afraid of you. How many did you kill?"

"Only two," Cassius said quietly.

"Really? How interesting." Balbus grinned broadly.

"With your own hand, too, I suppose. Strangled them, perhaps?"

"No." Cassius scowled. "I used my spear. You said something about bragging, didn't you? Well, I'll do just a little more bragging for you. I'll bet you I could hit you right in the middle of the stomach with a spear, at a distance of fifty yards."

"Could you now?", Balbus snorted. "I'm almost inclined to take you on, you know."

"By all means, do," Cassius said. "But it would be advisable to make your will first."

"Stop quarreling, you two," Claudia interposed. "Leave him alone, Balbus, he's only a child."

It was the worst thing she could have said.

"I'll bet anything you like," Cassius said hotly.

The fat man grinned. "I'm not accustomed to making an exhibition of myself. Will a small shield do, instead of your host's stomach?"

"By all means," Cassius shrugged.

"Very well, you have a bet," Balbus said. "But let's make it a real bet-nothing small. Say, twenty thousand sesterces. Agreed?"

Cassius hesitated. It was a large sum. If he lost, he would have to ask his father for the money. But since his return he had noticed, a little to his surprise, that his father seemed to be living in a far more luxurious style than Cassius remembered. And Claudia was looking at him...

"Agreed," he said.

Immediately Balbus produced his writing tablet and stilus. "Let's fix it up," he said crisply.

The bet was put in writing and they both signed the document.

Balbus gave a low chuckle. "Wouldn't be fair to have the little matter settled at the end of the dinner. My wine is good and might make your hand unsteady. Better do it immediately. The banquet hall is large enough for our purpose."

"Anywhere and any time you like," Cassius said haughtily.

Balbus nodded contentedly. "Here," he said. "And now."

The guests were beginning to notice that something unusual was afoot.

Balbus whispered instructions to his majordomo and soon two black slaves appeared with a small silver shield, a beautiful piece of work with the head of the Medusa in the center.

"Will that be satisfactory?" Balbus asked.

"Certainly," Cassius agreed. Under his breath he muttered to the girl, "It's not as big as his stomach, but it will " do."

Claudia bit her lip.

"Very well, my witty young friend." Balbus had sharp ears. "Now let's measure the fifty yards-right along the main table. Fifty large steps. From here.

They measured the distance.

"Stand here, you two," Balbus snapped at the two slaves.

"Hold this shield between you-yes, like that. And if you move an inch I'll have you whipped. Let's go back again, Cassius. I ordered a few spears to be brought up from the. armory. You may take your choice."

There were three and Cassius weighed each one very carefully before choosing a fairly heavy hunting spear.

"Ready," he said then and he smiled at Claudia.

Balbus glared at him. "Very well." He raised both arms. " Attention, friends. A little interlude for your pleasure. Young Cassius here has bet me twenty thousand sesterces that he can hit that shield with his spear from where he stands now. So keep your seats and don't move before he has thrown. Ready? Now! Throw, my boy!"

Cassius took a deep breath. He threw, and then stood immobile, his right arm stretched out as if it were a prolongation of the missile.

Most of the guests ducked instinctively; they could feel the sudden gust of wind on their flushed faces. The two tar black slaves held the silver shield between them with forced equanimity. There was a shattering crash and they both staggered and almost fell. The spear had gone right through the shield.

Everyone started shouting at once.

"Wonderful," gasped pretty little Nigidia.

The young lawyer Seneca on the couch beside her saw her nostrils flare. "The throw or the thrower?" he asked dryly.

"The man," was the frank reply. "Very handsome. Who is he?"

"By the biceps of Mars," interjected Tribune Caelius, he's hit dead center-right through the mouth of the Medusa. Like father. like son."

"He's Cassius Longinus," explained the lawyer. "His father is a retired army commander who used to be one of the Emperor's best men in the German war. Incidentally, I'm his legal adviser."

"You know him well, then," said Nigidia. "Will you introduce him to me?"

"Old Longinus is not here tonight," teased Seneca.

"I mean his son, of course, silly."

"Careful now:" Seneca smiled. "Can't you see that Claudia is taking a very lively interest in him?"

Nigidia gave the lady a cold, appraising stare. But there was nothing she could belittle. Claudia's figure was perfect, her face attractive in a provocative way, she was carefully made up, her jewelry matched her dress of peacock-blue silk, the new fashion, and her hair was sprinkled with gold dust.

"Who is she?"

"You mean to say that you don't know Claudia?"

Nigidia laughed a little harshly. "You forget that I've been away a long time."

Too late Seneca remembered that Nigidia's family had been exiled to some island in the Aegean Sea, because Nigidia's uncle had incurred imperial displeasure. "Claudia Procula," he said, tactfully glossing over the lady's remark, "is an orphan now, but related to the divine Emperor."

"Your friend Cassius looks as if he were trying to hit two targets with the same spear." Nigidia sniffed.

Seneca nodded. " And both of them at the expense of our noble host."

Balbus waddled up to Cassius Longinus, a silk bag in his shy hand. "Twenty thousand," he said. " And I must admit it wasn't only luck, although luck seems to be with you, too."

Cassius Longinus laughed. "I can do it as often as you like. Want me to try again?"

Balbus smiled wryly. "Never cross the way of one whom Fortuna favors." It was the ancient proverb of the gambling table. "Twenty thousand is enough. And even Fortuna's favorite should content himself with one victory at a time."

There was a hidden threat in the fat, suave voice.

Cassius bowed mockingly. " As you wish."

"Where did you acquire such skill?" asked Claudia Procula quickly.

"It's a family trait," said Cassius. "We've always been good at it. There's a spear on our crest."

"You'd do well in the arena," growled Balbus. "You're built like a gladiator, too."

"Sorry that I can't return the compliment." Cassius smiled. "I shall send you Euphorus tomorrow -h e's my masseur. He'll get you into shape."

A dull red rose in Balbus' massive face and darkened as Claudia laughed.

"He not only knows how to throw a spear," whispered Seneca to Nigidia, "but how to make enemies. ..."

"Athletes," said Balbus, "have their drawbacks too. They're notoriously bad lovers."

Again Claudia laughed and Cassius grinned broadly. Balbus lost his patience. "You're very sure of yourself, aren't you? Well, that's usual before one reaches maturity and therefore pardonable. But some people don't learn caution even in their old age. How is your dear father, Cassius?"

The young man frowned. "My father is quite well. What makes you think of him?"

"Quite well, eh?" This time Balbus grinned. "I hope you're right. And I hope he'll remain well." He turned to his guests. " After this interesting little interlude I have a special treat for you. The best dancing troupe of the empire - the twelve Gaditan Fireflies."

The guests broke into tumultuous applause. Gaditan dancers were world famous and the twelve Fireflies had taken Rome by storm.

Balbus clapped his hands. A curtain was drawn back and the dancers appeared in a mad whirl of rose-colored transparent dresses.

"Do you want to watch?" asked Claudia lightly.

"'Who wants the stars when the sun shines?" whispered Cassius.

"I feel tired," said Claudia, her eyes belying her words. "I think I shall order my litter ."

"You need an 'escort," expostulated Cassius. "The streets are full of all kinds of rabble at this time of night and. .."

". ..and your spear will give me protection, I suppose."

She smiled. "I have a strong guard indeed. But who will protect me against that guard?"

He raised his hands. "By the knees of Venus-"

"Definitely not a reliable goddess," she laughed.

"By Juno, then," swore Cassius.

She raised her beautifully penciled brows. "The goddess of marriage. Do you know what you are saying?"

"You're mocking me." He looked so hurt that she gave him her best smile. He was so young - twenty, perhaps twenty-one. She knew she could make him experience delight and despair between one breath and the next, and she felt touched - so much so that she seriously asked herself whether she was not in love with him. Perhaps she was. And anyway, it was ridiculous that people had started talking about her and Balbus, as if she could possibly care for the bloated toad, however rich he was.

She looked about her. All the others were concentrating on the dancers. "I'm going," she said. "Let's slip out this way - not through the atrium."
They passed a number of slaves, carrying heavy amphorae of snow-cooled wine and huge dishes of lark and nightingale tongues. Many thousands of the tiny birds had had to be caught to make a single one of these dishes.

"Balbus is rich," Claudia thought with a little sigh.

Cassius, his eyes fixed on the slender figure swaying gracefully ahead of him, bumped into one of the slaves who managed, by desperate contortions, to keep his precious dish from spilling all over the mosaic floor, but Cassius did not . even notice. They reached a small door leading to a court. Slave hands were raised in submissive salute.

"This is my litter," said Claudia, nodding toward one delicately designed of wood and ivory. The carriers were six Numidians, their bronze bodies gleaming in the torch- light, who jumped to their feet and bowed.

"My horse, quickly," ordered Cassius in a stentorian voice. What if Claudia decided to leave before they had brought his horse from the stables? Litters with their slaves were left here at the side door of the house, but horses had to be looked after and the stables were at some distance. He did not know where Claudia lived. These Numidians were fast and Rome was a rabbit warren. Once they were out of sight, it might well prove impossible to find them again.

He walked up to the litter. Claudia had just been helped in, he could see her profile, delicate and serene, in the dim light from the bronze torch on the wall. He ought now to say something amusing, but his brain was paralyzed. All he managed was a hoarse, "Wait for me, please."

Her smile reassured him a little and then he heard Pluto's hooves clatter on the pavement. He jumped into the saddle without using the ready hands of the stable slave and rode up to the litter, but Claudia had drawn the curtains and he could no longer see her face.

The Numidians ran swiftly past the Temple of Neptune and to the left, past the Circus Maximus and left again, toward the slopes of the Aventine Hill, and stopped in front of a small villa in the Greek style. Cassius sprang from his horse, ready to help Claudia from her litter, so that no slave would touch her arm.

A torchbearer came to lead her up the stairs to the entrance.

"Domina Claudia," said Cassius hoarsely, "I beg of you, don't make me go back into a world that has no meaning without you - let me come with you..."

"What, at this time of night?" She raised her brows in mock indignation.

"I assure you. ..."

"Almost all I know about you is your name and that you are a very courageous, determined and self-assured young man."

"If only you knew how little self-assured I feel..."

"And I have neither parents nor brothers. I live alone here, with my oId friend, the Lady Sabina."

"Remember, I swore by Juno ..."

" 'Many a girl has been sadly deceived when a man swore an oath by the gods.' " She quoted a fashionable poet's epigram with a low chuckle.

"I mean it," he protested fiercely. "And in our family we do not swear lightly. Let your friend be present, if you like."

"You look like an honorable man," Claudia murmured, with a sidelong glance that made his heart pound.

The majordomo was now coming down the stairs, bowing.

As she swept past him she said casually, "Tell the lady Sabina I would like her to meet my guest - let someone look after his horse and bring wine and fruit."


Excerpted from The Spear by Louis de Wohl Copyright 1955, Used with permission from Ignatius Press

Sample Pages from [em]The Story of Rolf and the Viking Bow[/em] by Allen French

I
OF THE LIGHTING OF THE BEACON

IN THE TIME after Iceland had become Christian, and after the burning of Njal, but before the deaths of Snorri the Priest and Grettir the Outlaw, there lived at Cragness above Broadfirth a man named Hiarandi, called the Unlucky. And well was he so named, for he got a poor inheritance from his father, but he left a poorer to his son.

Now the farm of Cragness was a fertile fell, standing above the land round about, and girt with crags. Below lay Broadfirth, great and wide, and Cragness jutted out into it, a danger to ships. It had no harbor, but a little cove among the rocks, where Hiarandi kept his boat; and many ships were wrecked on the headland, bringing fortune to the owners of Cragness, both in goods and firewood. And all the land about once belonged to the farm. Rich, therefore, would have been the dwellers at Cragness, but for the doings of Hiarandi's father.

He would always be striving at the law, and he was of ill judgment or ill luck, for what he gained at the farm he always lost. The older he grew, the more quarrelsome he became; and judgments heaped heavy on him, until at last he was so hard put that he must sell all his outlying lands. So the farm, from a wide estate, became only the land of Cragness itself, and another holding of a few acres, lying inland on the uplands, within sight of Cragness and the sea.

In the time when Hiarandi was young, Iceland was still heathen. He sought his fortune in a trading voyage, and sailed West-over-the-Sea, trading in the South Isles as a chapman, trafficking in goods of all kinds. And he made money there, so that at last when he sailed again for home he counted on a fair future. But the ship was wrecked in a storm, and few of the men came ashore; and Hiarandi himself was saved by means of a maid who dwelt at the place, who dragged him from the surf. So Hiarandi came home on foot, his clothes in tatters, having lost money rather than gained it. Then his father, whose losses pressed heavy on him, struggled no more with the world, but went to his bed and died. And in that summer when all Iceland took to the new faith, Hiarandi became master at Cragness.

Hiarandi was a silent man, not neighborly, but hard-working. An unworldly choice he made of a wife, for he took that woman who had saved him from the waves; she was the daughter of a small farmer and brought neither dowry nor kinship of any power. So men said that Hiarandi had no wish to rise in the world. He lived upon his farm, with two thralls and a bondservant; and husbanding his goods well, by little and little he made money which he put out at call, and so bade fair to do better than his father, for all his poor start in life. And a loving spouse he had in Asdis, his wife, who one day bore him a son.

They named the lad Rolf, and he grew to be well knit; he was not powerful, but straight and supple, and of great craft in his hands. And from delight in the boy Hiarandi changed his ways, and became more cheerful, going to fairs and meetings for the sake of Rolf. And Hiarandi taught the lad all he knew of weapon-craft, which was not a little. The lad was swift of foot; he was skilled in the use of the sword and javelin, but most he delighted in the use of the bow.

And that was natural, for upon the cliffs seabirds lived in thousands, hard to catch. The boy went down to their nests with ropes, and took eggs in their season, or the young before they could fly, and both for food. So skilled was he in this that he was called Craggeir, the Cragsman; and no man could surpass him, whether in daring or skill. But there were times when there were no eggs nor fledglings, and from his earliest boyhood Rolf practised in shooting with his bow at the birds, and he kept the larder ever full.

Happy was Hiarandi watching his son, and his pride in him was great. As the lad grew stronger, the father made for him stronger bows and heavier arrows, until at the age of fourteen Rolf used the bow of a man. Then one winter they went down together into the valley, father and son, and watched the sports and games on the frozen mere.

There the men of the place played at ball, and great was the laughter or deep was the feeling. Now Hiarandi would not let Rolf play, for often matters came to blows, and he would not have his son maimed. But when it came to shooting with the bow, Hiarandi put Rolf forward, and it was seen who was the best at that play. For though the men shot, Rolf surpassed them all, not in distance but in skill. He hit the smallest mark at the greatest distance; and when Hiarandi brought a pigeon and freed it, then Rolf brought it down. No one there had seen such shooting. Then those who were not envious named the lad Rolf the Bowman.

But a man named Einar stood by, and he lived on the land which Hiarandi's father had sold. He was rich but covetous, and fond of show, and fond of praise. There lived with him one named Ondott, an Eastfirther who had left his district and come west, a man without property. He stood with Einar and watched the games.

"See," said Einar, "how proud is Hiarandi of his son!"

"Thou hast a son as well," said Ondott. "How he will shine among these churls when he returns from his fostering in the South Isles!"

"Aye," answered Einar. "Like an Earl will he be, and no farmer of these parts will compare with him."

"And as for the shooting of this lad," remarked Ondott, "it is not so fine after all."

"In the Orkneys," said Einar aloud, so that others should hear him, "they are better bowmen than here, and the Earl will have my son taught everything."

Now some who stood by brought Hiarandi this tale. "Have a care," said they. "Thy neighbor Einar sets himself above thee."

"Then he must set himself high," answered Hiarandi with a laugh, "for his land lies far lower than mine."

Then others carried that tale to Einar, and he laid it up in his mind; but Hiarandi forgot all that had been said, nor did he remember to tell of it to Asdis when they had returned from the games.

Then the winter passed on with severe storms, and ships were wrecked on Cragness rocks, but no men reached shore. And Einar envied the more the riches that came to Hiarandi from the wrecks, in firewood, timber, and merchandise. And once a whale came ashore, and that was great fortune. But one evening, as those at Cragness sat within the hall, Asdis came and stood beside her husband, and said, "Listen to the wind."

"There is no need to listen," said Hiarandi. "The wind howls for a storm, and this night will be bad."

Then Thurid the bondservant, who sat by the fire, looked up and said, "Ships are off the land."

"Hearest thou that?" asked Asdis in a low voice. "The woman is strange, but she forecasts well."

"Aye," answered Hiarandi, "it is likely that ships will be on the rocks by morning."

"Now," asked Asdis, "dost thou remember the time thou camest ashore, these many years ago?"

"How should I forget it?" responded Hiarandi.

"But no one can rush into the water here," said Asdis, "to save those who are wrecked."

"That is true," quoth Hiarandi. "I am sorry for the mariners, yet how is one to help?"

Then the bondservant raised her head and sang this song:

"The sea brings money;
Money is bonny.
Bless then the sea
Which brings good to thee."

After that she sat silent and sunken as before.

"Hear the hag," said Asdis, shuddering. "But we prosper through the misfortunes of others."

"What is to be done?" asked Hiarandi.

"It is in my mind," said Asdis, "that if we made a fire-beacon, people could steer from shore and so into safe harbor farther up the firth."

"Now," quoth Hiarandi, "that might be done."

"Wilt thou do it?" asked Asdis.

Then the woman raised her head and sang again:

"He is a fool
Who leaves old rule.
Set heart 'gainst head,
How then butter thy bread?"

Then Hiarandi said to Asdis: "No man has ever yet set beacons against shipwreck. All men agree to take the fortune of the sea; and what is cast on a man's beaches, that is his by old custom."

"Thinkest thou that is right?" asked Asdis.

"Moreover," went on Hiarandi, "the sea is but giving me again what it took away."

"Never can the sea," answered Asdis, "give thee true happiness through other men's misfortunes."

"Remember the boy," said Hiarandi. "Shall I leave him with nothing to begin the world with? For my own earnings bring me at most a mark of silver in the year."

"For all that," replied Asdis, "it is in my mind that to do otherwise were to do better. How canst thou have the heart that men should die longer on our rocks, and we not do our best to save them?"

Then Hiarandi, answering nothing, rose and paced up and down before the fire. And the carline sang once more:

"Take what is given.
No man is wise
Who asketh twice
If earth or heaven
Sends him his prize."

But Asdis stood upright, and she sang:

"Suffer not wrong
To happen long,
Lest punishment
From heaven be sent."

Now in Iceland all men loved the singing of skalds; but though Hiarandi had heard the carline sing many times before, never had he heard rhymes from his wife. So he stood astonished.

Then the bondservant sang again:

"Ill will attend
The beacon's lighting.
Bad spirit's guiding
Will bring false friend."

But Asdis sang with great vehemence:

"Let God decide
What fate shall ride
Upon the wind.
Be thou not blind
To duty's hest.
My rede is best.
List to the storm!
Go! Save from harm
The mariner
Whose fate is near.
To others do
As I did once to you."

And it seemed to Hiarandi as if she commanded him. Moreover, as he listened, the storm roared louder. Then he seized his cloak, and cried to his thralls, "Up, and out with me to make a beacon!"

Though they dared not disobey, they grumbled, and they got their cloaks slowly. For they saw slipping away from them the fine pickings from the wreck, which brought them warm clothes and handsome. Out they went with Hiarandi into the storm, and kindled a great fire at the edge of the cliff. And Rolf toiled too; but Asdis did best of all, for she brought out in a kettle great strips of whale's blubber, and flung them on the fire. Then the flames flared high and wide, as bright as day. And Rolf sprang to the edge of the cliffs and gazed upon the water. Then, pointing, he cried, "Look!"

Down below was a ship; its sail flapped in rags, and the crew were laboring mightily at the oars to save themselves, looking with dread at the white breakers and the looming rocks. Now in the strength of their fear they held the vessel where she was; and by the broad light of the fire every man of them was visible to the Cragness-dwellers. To Rolf that was a dreadful sight. But the bit of a sail was set, and men ran to the steering-oar to hold the vessel stiff; and behold, she moved forward, staggered past the rocks, made clearer water, and wore slowly out into the firth. Even the thralls shouted at the sight.

Then Hiarandi left one of the thralls to keep the fire, and went back to the hall with those others. There the carline still sat.

"So he is safe past the rocks?" she asked, yet speaking as if she knew.

"Aye, safe," answered Hiarandi.

"Now," said she, "thou hast brought thy evil fortune on thyself, and it will be hard to avoid the extreme of it."

"I care not," answered Hiarandi, "even though I suffer for a good deed."

"Nevertheless," said the carline, "the future may be safe, though without riches, if thou wilt be guided by me. Wilt thou follow my redes?"

"No advices of thine do I follow," replied Hiarandi. "For methinks thou still servest the old gods, and canst work witchcraft. Speak no more of this matter in my house; and practise not thy sorcery before my eyes, for the law gives death as punishment."

"Now," answered the woman, "like a foolish man, thou rushest on thy fate. And I see clearly that thou art not he who was spoken of in the prophecy. Not a fortunate Soursop art thou."

"Since the slaying of Kol, who put the curse on all our stock," answered Hiarandi, "has but one of the Soursops prospered. How then should I be fortunate?"

"Two were to prosper," the woman replied. "And each was to put an end to the curse in his branch of thy race. Snorri the Priest is one of those two, as all men know. But thou art not the other; and I believe that thou art doomed to fail, even as thy father was."

"So I have long believed," said Hiarandi calmly.

Then the carline rose, and her eyes were strange, as if they saw beyond that upon which she looked. "More misfortune is coming than thou deemest," she said. "Outlawry. Mayhap even death. Be warned!"

"Thou art a heathen and a witch," said her master. "Be still!"

But she said: "I will not abide the curse. Hiarandi, I have worked long in thy house. Give me now my freedom and let me go."

"Thou hast long been free to go," he replied. "Take thy croaking to another man's board! But this little prophecy I give to thee, that no man will believe thine ill-speaking."

"No great foresight hast thou in that," she answered. "Never have I been believed." Then she drew on her cloak and hooded her face.

"Thou will not go in the storm?" asked Asdis.

"All times are alike," the woman said. "Heed thou this, Hiarandi. Beware the man who came in the ship thou didst save!"

"He is one," answered Hiarandi, "whom I fear not at all."

"Beware suits at law," said the carline again, and she turned to go.

"It needs no great wisdom to say that," retorted Hiarandi upon her. "But stay! I send not people from my door penniless. Nothing is owing from me to thee, yet I will give a piece of money."

"Soon," answered Thurid, "thou wilt need all thou hast." And she went out into the night.

 


Excerpted from The Story of Rolf and the Viking Bow by Allen French Copyright 1994, Used with permission from Bethlehem Books

Sample Pages from [em]The Winged Watchman[/em] by Hilda Van Stockum

CHAPTER ONE
FREYA

JORIS VERHAGEN was six years old when the Germans invaded Holland. At ten he could remember little of what it had been like before the war. Dirk Jan, his brother, who was four years older, could tell him more about it, but Joris suspected that he made things up. Surely there never could have been a time when people threw away potato parings and apple cores and fed their precious sugar beets to the pigs! But Dirk Jan said it was all true, and you did not have to walk to the farms to get your food either; people actually brought it to the door! And shops had shelves bulging with merchandise. "The most marvelous stuff!" said Dirk Jan. "For St. Nicholas there were animals made of sugar and great big spiced cakes, and chocolate letters."

"What does chocolate taste like?" asked Joris, but Dirk Jan didn't know how to explain a taste.

"Toys too," he said, "and clothes! You didn't need ration coupons then; you could buy anything you wanted and the shopkeeper bowed and said 'thank you' and asked you to come again!"

That made Joris laugh. Imagine Mrs. Jansen of the bare little grocery store in the village saying "Thank you!" She usually started to scream, "I'm all sold out!" before you could slip off your clogs and enter the store.

"I don't believe it," he cried.

But Dirk Jan nodded. "When I made my First Communion," he said, "Mother bought me new underclothes and a whole new suit, and Mr. Solomon, who had the clothing store before the Germans took him, kept smiling and showing her more.

"A whole new suit," whispered Joris enviously. For his own First Communion Mother had made him a new shirt out of an old sheet and had knitted stockings for him out of a black sweater of hers. He had been very proud of himself, too—but a whole suit! You could not get that now even if you saved your rations for years and years, he thought.

"You'll see. Once the war is over, those times will come back again," promised Dirk Jan.

Joris wondered. He could not even imagine what it would be like when the war was over. He'd got used to the regular drone of English bombers on their way to Berlin, and to the exploding shells of antiaircraft guns. He'd got used to the feel of danger, always threatening. These things were part of his life, like hail and thunder. But he did not like them. He hated any kind of strife. He'd walk a long way round not to pass two women shouting at each other across the street, and he seldom took part in school quarrels.

Yet once he started a fight himself. It was early in the summer vacation of 1944, and Joris was on his way to the village on an errand for his mother. He was crossing the highway when he saw two boys, wearing threadbare city clothes and patched leather shoes. They had hitched a collie pup, no more than three months old, to a homemade cart. One of the boys knelt in the cart and shouted to the pup to pull him. The pup tried hard, tongue out, eyes popping. It pulled the cart for a few paces and then sat down, whimpering. It looked around with pleading eyes, thumping its tail.

"Go on, stupid mutt!" the boys cried, and the one in the cart began to hit the pup over the head with a stick.

Joris never could remember afterwards exactly what happened. He only knew that he flew into a wild fury and charged at those boys, head down. It was two against one, but perhaps his head was harder than most, or perhaps anger gave him unusual strength. His wooden shoes were also excellent weapons which the boys could not match. At any rate, he chased them off long enough to be able to unhitch the pup. He grabbed the furry, squirming animal in his arms and ran—for the boys had recovered from their surprise and were after him. They threw stones at him. One hit his head, and he staggered for a moment but kept running.

"Thief!" the boys shouted. "Give us back our pup!" But their voices grew fainter. The stones stopped falling, and after a while Joris slackened his speed. His head throbbed and his nose bled. He wiped it with his sleeve and shifted the heavy pup, who was licking his ear.

It was quiet on the dike road between the lush green fields of the diked-in "polders." In the distance loomed the thatched body and whirling wings of the "Watchman," his father's windmill.

His mother gasped when she saw him come in. He had a big lump on his head where the stone had hit him. One eye was black and his clothes were spattered with blood.

"Whatever happened?" she cried. "Don't tell me you've been fighting!"

"I had to rescue this pup," said Joris, putting it on the floor, where it started to sniff around curiously.

"Merciful St. Joseph!" cried Mother. "And what about my message?"

"Oh, the buttons! I forgot—" stammered Joris.

"Well, you will have to wait for your jacket then," said Mother. "Never mind. Come to the pump and I'll clean you up, you poor child!" She bustled about, tending to her wounded warrior, while she listened to his tale.

"Many's the time I've had to do this for Dirk Jan," she said, placing a cold, wet cloth on Joris' swollen eye. "I never thought I'd have to do it for you! Still, you did right to defend a helpless creature, but you'll have to find out where it belongs and bring it back."

"Mother!" cried Joris in anguish, "I can't bring it back. Those boys will kill it!"

When Mother insisted, he began to sob wildly. Mother felt sorry for him.

"We'll ask Father," she said.

The Verhagen family discussed the pup during supper. Three-year-old Trixie, a tiny child with a headful of red curls, sat in her high chair, rubbing spinach over her face. Mother told Father what had happened while Joris stared at his plate. He was praying inside: "Dear God, please let me keep the pup! I'll never do anything wrong again . . . I promise. Please, God."

"I know where the pup belongs," said Dirk Jan. "It's the de Wits' pup. Hans and Habel de Wit showed it to me. They're from Amsterdam and they're staying at the Schenderhans' farm for the summer. I never thought Joris would dare take on anyone that big!"

"Yes, it is quite a feat for our Joris," said Father. When he smiled, little lines ran from the corners of his eyes in all directions like the rays of the sun. Father's face was broad and strong and peaceful.

"Well Joris," he said, "if I try to get this pup for you, will you pay me back in chores?"

"Oh, yes, Father, yes! I'll weed the garden, I'll chop wood, I'll mind Trixie—" Joris was stammering with happiness.

After dinner Father, Dirk Jan and Joris went together to the Schenderhans' farm. Joris carried the pup.

It was wonderful to be out with Father. It did not happen often, for he was a busy man. He was responsible for keeping the Rynsater polder dry. Each polder, a piece of reclaimed land, has its own mill to pump away the excess water that gathers between its dikes. When the mill wasn't working, Father was fishing or helping on a farm.

Farmer Schenderhans lived in the Noorderaar polder. Father and the boys took the short way: along the broad drainage canal which was cupped between two dikes, as it was much higher than the fields on either side. Cattle grazed below them, swishing their tails at dancing midges; frogs croaked in the ditches and birds twittered in the willow trees that lined the road. The Noorderaar polder was a large one. It had had two windmills. One, the far one at the other end of the polder, had been pulled down and replaced by an electric pump. This did the work of two, and the other windmill, the "Giant," stood wingless and idle. Father and the boys passed it on their way to the Schenderhans farm. Joris felt sorry for it, and Father seemed sad, too.

"It's a shame to let that mill go," he said. "Who knows when it might be needed? Too many windmills are scrapped in Holland. There are fewer and fewer boys now who want to be millwrights. After a while we won't know how to build windmills any more."

"I want to be a millwright, Father," cried Dirk Jan.

Father nodded. "I know, son, and I'm glad, but we need more than one to keep our windmills in repair. The trouble is that people think electricity is foolproof and easy. It certainly does not require much skill to run an electric pump. What they forget is that you have no control over your power that way. You make yourself dependent on a supply which is generated miles away in some central spot. If that fails, you are helpless. And can we afford to be helpless when it may mean drowning?"

Father stared into the distance where the Saterwoude church spire lifted itself like an exclamation point out of the hazy blue of the trees.

A dreadful thought came to Joris. "They won't scrap the Watchman, will they?" he asked.

Father sighed. "There are farmers in our polder who are envious of the modern Noorderaar pump. They imagine it is more efficient and costs less. There is talk of electrifying the mill after the war."

"But what will happen to us then?" asked Joris.

"I suppose we'd have to look for another mill," said Father.

"And leave our home?" cried Joris.

"That wouldn't be fair!" protested Dirk Jan. "Grandfather and Great-grandfather lived in our mill. It belongs to us!"

"Not really," explained Father. "It belongs to the Rynsater polder committee and they will decide whether to keep it or scrap it."

The boys were silent the rest of the way. They had never realized the danger that threatened their home.

The Schenderhans' farm was as wealthy as a farm could be in occupied territory. The Germans wanted a large share of the waving wheat and heavy cattle. All the same, Farmer Schenderhans lived comfortably enough in his long, rambling farmhouse with its thatched roof and small windows. Hay bulged high under a cap on stilts in the yard. Chickens scratched and clucked; pigs grunted in the shed. Nero, the Schenderhans' Alsatian, came bounding out of the house to greet the visitors. After him ran Hendrik, the younger son of the farmer and a classmate of Joris.

"I know what you've come for!" he shouted. "You've come to bring back the pup! Hans and Habel said you had stolen it, but I told them I knew you and you'd be sure to bring it back!" He sounded triumphant. "Hans and Habel aren't here. They've gone fishing. Come, I'll show you the farm. I've got to gather eggs for Mother," he added, waving a basket. But Joris shook his head and ran after Father and Dirk Jan, who had already entered the house. The puppy hid its head under Joris' arm as if it were scared. Joris felt scared too. He tightened his clasp on the dog and entered the house timidly.

The de Wit parents were at home, and so were Mr. and Mrs. Schenderhans. They were all sitting in the dark parlor with its heavy lace curtains, stiff red plush chairs and flowered wallpaper.

Mr. and Mrs. de Wit did not seem pleased to see the pup, and they were amazed that it was Joris who had attacked their sons.

"You're sure it wasn't this one?" they asked, pointing at Dirk Jan. But it was Joris who had the black eye, and that convinced them.

Father apologized for Joris' having taken the pup, and offered to buy it. Mr. and Mrs. de Wit looked at each other.

"As a matter of fact," said Mr. de Wit, "we don't want a dog. It's a nuisance in the city, and we're hard put to feed ourselves, let alone animals." Mrs. de Wit nodded at each word. She was a thin, nervous woman who looked underfed, in spite of the good farm food she had been getting.

"It was only because the boys begged for it that we bought the dog," Mr. de Wit continued, "but they haven't been kind to it, and I confess that I'll be relieved to sell it to you."

So Father got the pup for a few florins, and Mrs. Schenderhans, a thick-set patient woman, served freshly-made buttermilk and real wheat cookies to seal the bargain.

Joris and Dirk Jan were relishing every mouthful of this treat, Joris sharing his with the pup, and the grownups had started a polite conversation about the difficulties and scarcities of wartime, when a loud yelping outside startled them. The pup began to whimper and hid her head under Joris' arm again.

"Leendert, don't be mean. Nero wasn't doing anything. Stop it!" they heard Hendrick cry.

"Keep him out of my way then," came a gruff voice. "That wretched dog!"

A moment later a young man slouched into the room. His small eyes took in the company, but there was no smile on his face, nor did he utter a word of welcome. He just looked, and everyone in the room became uncomfortable.

"Hello, Leendert," said Mrs. Schenderhans with forced cheerfulness. "Do you want supper?"

"Of course," said Leendert, his mouth twisting up a little as if he were trying to smile, but it was too much trouble for the rest of his face. He was still staring at the company.

Mrs. de Wit got up. "Well, we'd better be going to our own room now, Bertus," she said nervously to her husband. Mr. de Wit got up too, but Mr. Schenderhans interfered.

"Stay!" he said. "I won't have you chased away by my son's bad manners." The de Wits sat down again awkwardly. Mr. Schenderhans glared at Leendert.

"Can't you greet our guests properly?" he asked. "If you can't behave, you'd better go."

Now a smile curved Leendert's mouth, a real smile that lit a triumphant green spark in his eyes. He stood a little straighter. "You'd better mind how you talk to me, Pa," he said. "I was made a landwatcher today."

Landwatchers were detested Dutchmen who enforced the laws of the Nazi occupation. Mr. Schenderhans jumped up, very red. He would have said something if Leendert had not thrown him an odd look through his pale eyelashes and added:

"I can have you arrested, you know, if I tell about your black market activities."

Mr. Schenderhans swallowed and stared and said nothing. A little muscle twitched in his cheek.

Leendert laughed softly and stretched himself. "Where's the food, Mom?" he asked insolently. His mother hurried to get it for him, and he followed her to the kitchen.

Mr. Schenderhans sat down heavily. Father tried to console him. "He's probably only boasting," he said. "He doesn't mean it."

Veins stood out on Mr. Schenderhans' forehead. "Mean it? Of course he means it," he growled. "He always was a good-for-nothing scamp. Eighteen he is, and never raised a finger to help me. But that he should become a traitor. . . ." Mr. Schenderhans put his head in his hands.

The de Wits made a sign to each other to leave. Father got up too. The farmer hardly noticed when they all said good-by.

When Father and the boys stepped outside, they saw Hendrick with his arms around his dog.

"What's the matter?" asked Joris.

"Leendert kicked him!" Hendrik was sniffling. "He kicked him for nothing!"

Joris was glad he didn't have a brother like Leendert. "Father bought the pup!" he said. "She's mine! I'm going to call her Freya."

"Why Freya?" asked Hendrick. Joris didn't know how to explain. He loved to read, was always taking out books from the school library, especially fairy tales and sagas. Freya, the Norse goddess for whom Friday is named, had always been a favorite of his. He had pictured her white and gold, like the pup. But he did not think Hendrik would understand, so he said:

"Oh, just because."

"You live in a windmill, don't you?" asked Hendrik. "Could I come and look at it sometime? Our Giant doesn't work any more. And anyway, I'm scared to go there." He let his voice drop into a mysterious whisper as he added, "It's haunted—honest! I saw ghosts there myself."

Joris would have liked to question him further, but the others had gone on.

"Come and see our mill then, and bring Nero," he shouted as he ran off.

The sun had gone down and mists were rising from the polders. Black bats fluttered drunkenly against the last turquoise glimmer of the day. The ruined mill loomed large and sinister.

"Is it haunted?" whispered Joris. Father squeezed his hand and laughed. It was true that every spring he repainted the white cross on the wall of the Watchman, which was supposed to ward off evil. His father had done it, and his grandfather before him. But with ghosts he did not hold.

"Good people need not fear ghosts," he said.

It was past curfew, and a German soldier or a landwatcher who saw them might shoot. They walked cautiously, keeping in the shadow of the willow trees that lined the dike.

Joris was glad when he saw the lighted windows of the Watchman. Mother was there, waiting to hear the news about the puppy! Joy flooded Joris' heart when he thought of it. He had longed so much for a dog of his own, and here she was, more lovely than he could have imagined! Freya!

He kissed the pup between her ears.


Excerpted from The Winged Watchman by Hilda Van Stockum Copyright 1962, Used with permission from Bethlehem Books

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