FullReads

“I know they couldn’t, though,” said a fair-haired little girl, who stood admiring the sight, evidently impressed with the utmost reverence for her brother’s ability; “and, Bill, I’ve been putting up all the playthings in the big chest, and I want you to come and turn the lock–the key hurts my fingers.”

“Poh! I can turn it easier than that,” said the boy, snapping his fingers; “have you got them all in?”

“Yes, all; only I left out the soft bales, and the string of red beads, and the great rag baby for Fanny to play with–you know mother says babies must have their playthings Sunday.”

“O, to be sure,” said the brother, very considerately; “babies can’t read, you know, as we can, nor hear Bible stories, nor look at pictures.” At this moment I stepped forward, for the spell of former times was so powerfully on me, that I was on the very point of springing forward with a “Halloo, there, Bill!” as I used to meet the father in old times; but the look of surprise that greeted my appearance brought me to myself.

“Is your father at home?” said I.

“Father and mother are both gone out; but I guess, sir, they will be home in a few moments: won’t you walk in?”

I accepted the invitation, and the little girl showed me into a small and very prettily furnished parlor. There was a piano with music books on one side of the room, some fine pictures hung about the walls, and a little, neat centre table was plentifully strewn with books. Besides this, the two recesses on each side of the fireplace contained each a bookcase with a glass locked door.

The little girl offered me a chair, and then lingered a moment, as if she felt some disposition to entertain me if she could only think of something to say; and at last, looking up in my face, she said, in a confidential tone, “Mother says she left Willie and me to keep house this afternoon while she was gone, and we are putting up all the things for Sunday, so as to get every thing done before she comes home. Willie has gone to put away the playthings, and I’m going to put up the books.” So saying, she opened the doors of one of the bookcases, and began busily carrying the books from the centre table to deposit them on the shelves, in which employment she was soon assisted by Willie, who took the matter in hand in a very masterly manner, showing his sister what were and what were not “Sunday books” with the air of a person entirely at home in the business. Robinson Crusoe and the many-volumed Peter Parley were put by without hesitation; there was, however, a short demurring over a North American Review, because Willie said he was sure his father read something one Sunday out of one of them, while Susan averred that he did not commonly read in it, and only read in it then because the piece was something about the Bible; but as nothing could be settled definitively on the point, the review was “laid on the table,” like knotty questions in Congress. Then followed a long discussion over an extract book, which, as usual, contained all sorts, both sacred, serious, comic, and profane; and at last Willie, with much gravity, decided to lock it up, on the principle that it was best to be on the safe side, in support of which he appealed to me. I was saved from deciding the question by the entrance of the father and mother. My old friend knew me at once, and presented his pretty wife to me with the same look of exultation with which he used to hold up a string of trout or an uncommonly fine perch of his own catching for my admiration, and then looking round on his fine family of children, two more of which he had brought home with him, seemed to say to me, “There! what do you think of that, now?”