The following are excerpts from Laura E. Richards' autobiography, When I Was Your Age, written for children.

Several of the activities described not only provide glimpses of 19th-century children's activities but also mirror situations in fictional children's books. For example, Chapter 1 (pp. 16-20) includes an example of Laura's sister's juvenile writings, a melodramatic play not unlike some of those found in Louisa May Alcott's Little Women or Susan Coolidge's What Katy Did. Another parallel with the latter occurs in chapter II (pp. 35-36), with the account of Pistachio, the footstool regarded as a favored doll (similar to Pikery, the little chair which John tied to the bedpost at night and so disastrously treated with Aunt Izzie's medicine in Katy).

Dolls, doll clothes, and doll disasters (including a doll blinding -- a catastrophe also found in Sophie May's Flaxie's Kittyleen, though with a different motivation) figure in the last half of Chapter 2; dressing up -- another favorite activity of children in books -- in Chapter 10 (albeit with an unusual twist for the Howe children, who actually had Byron's helmet among their dress-up gear). The Howe children's creativity at spinning stories is ever-present in the excerpts, evidenced with Flossy's tales of Patty the fairy, Julia's play, and Laura's composition, "Lost and Found," (a sample of her childhood writings -- the latter in Chapter 9, pp. 185-86).






WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE

BY

LAURA E. RICHARDS

BOSTON: ESTES AND LAURIAT

1894
[c1893]




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CHAPTER I.

OURSELVES.

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Julia wrote stories herself, too,-very wonderful stories, we all thought, and, indeed, I think so still. She began when she was a little girl, not more than six or seven years old. There lies beside me now on the table a small book, about five inches square, bound in faded pink and green, and filled from cover to cover with writing in a cramped, childish hand.. It is a book of novels and plays, written by our Julia before she was ten years old; and I often think that the beautiful and helpful things she wrote in her later years were hardly more remarkable than these queer little romances. They are very sentimental; no child of eight, save perhaps Marjorie Flem-


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ing, was ever so sentimental as Julia,-" Leonora Mayre; A Tale," " The Lost Suitor," " The Offers." I must quote a scene from the last-named play.

SCENE I.

Parlor at MRS. EVANS'S. FLORENCE EVANS alone.
Enter ANNIE.

A. Well, Florence, Bruin is going to make an offer, I suppose.

F. Why so ?

A. Here 's a pound of candy from him. He said he had bought it for you, but on arriving he was afraid it was too trifling a gift; but hoping you would not throw it away, he requested me to give it to that virtuous young lady, as he calls you.

F. Well, I am young, but I did not know that I was virtuous.

A. I think you are.

SCENE II.

Parlor. MR. BRUIN alone.

MR. B. Why doesn't she come? She doesn't usually keep me waiting.


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Enter FLORENCE.

F. How do you do? I am sorry to have kept you waiting.

MR. B. I have not been here more than a few minutes. Your parlor is so warm this cold day that I could wait. [Laughs.

F. You sent me some candy the other day which I liked very much.

MR. B. Well, you liked the candy; so I pleased you. Now you can please me. I don't care about presents; I had rather have something that can love me. You.

F. I do not love you. [Exit MR. BRUIN.

SCENE III.

FLORENCE alone. Enter MR. CAS.

F. How do you do?

MR. C. Very well.

F. It is a very pleasant day.

MR. C. Yes. It would be still pleasanter if you will be my bride. I want a respectful refusal, but prefer a cordial acception.

F. You can have the former. [Exit MR. CAS.

SCENE IV.

FLORENCE with MR. EMERSON.

MR. E. I love you, Florence. You may not love me, for I am inferior to you; but tell me


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whether you do or not. If my hopes are true, let me know it, and I shall not be doubtful any longer. If they are not, tell me, and I shall not expect any more.

F. They are. [Exit MR. EMERSON.

The fifth scene of this remarkable drama is laid in the church, and is very thrilling. The stage directions are brief, but it is evident from the text that as Mr. Emerson and his taciturn bride advance to the altar. Messrs. Cas and Bruin, " to gain some private ends," do the same. The Bishop is introduced without previous announcement.

SCENE V.

BISHOP. Are you ready?

MR. B. Yes.

BISHOP. Mr. Emerson, are you ready?

MR. C. Yes.

BISHOP. Mr. Emerson, I am waiting.

BRUIN and CAS [together]. So am I.

MR. E. I am ready. But what have these men to do with our marriage?

MR. B. Florence, I charge you with a breach of promise. You said you would be my bride.

F. I did not.


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MR. C. You promised me.

F. When?

MR. C. A month ago. You said you would marry me.

MR. B. A fortnight ago you promised me. You said we would be married to-day.

MR. C. Bishop, what does this mean? Florence Evans promised to marry me, and this very day was fixed upon. And see how false she has been ! She has, as you see, promised both of us, and now is going to wed this man.

BISHOP. But Mr. Emerson and Miss Evans made the arrangements with me; how is it that neither of you said anything of it beforehand?

MR. C. I forgot.

MR. B. So did I. [F. weeps.

Enter ANNIE.

A. I thought I should be too late to be your bridesmaid, but I find I am in time. But I thought you were to be married at half-past four, and it is five by the church clock.

MR. E. We should have been married by this time, but these men say that Florence has promised to marry them. Is it true, Florence?

F. No. [BESSY, her younger sister, supports her.


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A. It is n't true, for you know, Edward Bruin, that you and I are engaged; and Mr. Cas and Bessy have been for some time. And both engagements have been out for more than a week.

[BESSY looks reproachfully at CAS.

B. Why, Joseph Cas !

BISHOP. Come, Mr. Emerson! I see that Mr. Cas and Mr. Bruin have been trying to worry your bride. But their story can't be true, for these other young ladies say that they are engaged to them.

F. They each of them made me an offer, which I refused. [The BISHOP marries them.

F. [After they are married.] I shall never again be troubled with such offers [looks at CAS and BRUIN] as yours !

I meant to give one scene, and I have given the whole play, not knowing where to stop. There was nothing funny about it to Julia. The heroine, with her wonderful command of silence, was her ideal of maiden reserve and dignity; the deep-dyed villany of Bruin and Cas, the retiring manners of the fortunate Emerson, the singular sprightliness of the Bishop, were all perfectly natural, as her vivid mind saw them.


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So she was bitterly grieved one day when a dear friend of the family, to whom our mother had read the play, rushed up to her, and seizing her hand, cried, -

" 'Julia, will you have me?' 'No!' Exit Mr. Bruin."

Deeply grieved the little maiden was ; and it cannot have been very long after that time that she gave the little book to her dearest aunt, who has kept it carefully through all these years.

If Julia was like Milton's " Penseroso," Flossy was the " Allegro " in person, or like Wordsworth's maiden, -

" A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay"

She was very small as a child. One day a lady, not knowing that the little girl was within hearing, said to her mother, " What a pity Flossy is so small ! "

" I 'm big inside ! " cried a little angry voice at her elbow; and there was Flossy, swelling with rage, like an offended bantam. And she was big inside! her lively, active spirit seemed to break through the little body and carry it along in spite of itself. Sometimes


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it was an impish spirit; always it was an enterprising one.

She it was who invented the dances which seemed to us such wonderful performances. We danced every evening in the great parlor, our mother playing for us on the piano. There was the " Macbeth " dance, in which Flossy figured as Lady Macbeth. With a dagger in her hand, she crept and rushed and pounced and swooped about in a most terrifying manner, always graceful as a fairy. A sofa-pillow played the part of Duncan., and had a very hard time of it. The " Julius Caesar " dance was no less tragic; we all took part in it, and stabbed right and left with sticks of kindling-wood. One got the curling-stick and was happy, for it was the next thing to the dagger, which no one but Flossy could have. Then there was the dance of the " Four Seasons," which had four figures. In spring we sowed, in summer we reaped; in autumn we hunted the deer, and in winter there was much jingling of bells. The hunting figure was most exciting. It was. performed with knives (kindling-


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wood), as Flossy thought them more romantic than guns; they were held close to the side, with point projecting, and in this way we moved with a quick chasse step, which, coupled with a savage frown, was supposed to be peculiarly deadly.

Flossy invented many other amusements, too. There was the school-loan system. We had school in the little parlor at that time, and our desks had lids that lifted up. In her desk Flossy kept a number of precious things, which she lent to the younger children for so many pins an hour. The most valuable thing was a set of three colored worsted balls, red, green, and blue. You could set them twirling, and they would keep going for ever so long. It was a delightful sport; but they were very expensive, costing, I think, twenty pins an hour. It took a long time to collect twenty pins, for of course it was not fair to take them out of the pin-cushions.

Then there was a glass eye-cup without a foot; that cost ten pins, and was a great favorite with us. You stuck it in your eye,


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and tried to hold it there while you winked with the other. Of course all this was done behind the raised desk-lid, and I have sometimes wondered what the teacher was doing that she did not find us out sooner. She was not very observant, and I am quite sure she was afraid of Flossy. One sad day, however, she caught Laura with the precious glass in her eye, and it was taken away forever. It was a bitter thing to the child (I know all about it. for I was Laura) to be told that she could never have it again, even after school. She had paid her ten pins, and she could not see what right the teacher had to take the glass away. But after that the school-loan system was forbidden, and I have never known what became of the three worsted balls.

Flossy also told stories; or rather she told one story which had no end, and of which we never tired. Under the sea, she told us, lived a fairy named Patty, who was a most intimate friend of hers, and whom she visited every night. This fairy dwelt in a palace hollowed out of a single immense


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pearl. The rooms in it were countless, and were furnished in a singular and delightful manner. In one room the chairs and sofas were of chocolate; in another, of fresh strawberries; in another, of peaches,-and so on. The floors were paved with squares of chocolate and cream candy; the windows were of transparent barley-sugar, and when you broke off the arm of a chair and ate it, or took a square or two out of the pavement, they were immediately replaced, so that there was no trouble for any one. Patty had a ball every evening, and Flossy never failed to go. Sometimes, when we were good, she would take us; but the singular thing about it was that we never remembered what had happened. In the morning our infant minds were a cheerful blank, till Flossy told us what a glorious time we had had at Patty's the night before, how we had danced with Willie Winkle, and how much ice-cream we had eaten. We listened to the recital with unalloyed delight, and believed every word of it, till a sad day of awakening came. We were always made to understand that we could not


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bring away anything from Patty's, and were content with this arrangement; but on this occasion there was to be a ball of peculiar magnificence, and Flossy, in a fit of generosity, told Harry that he was to receive a pair of diamond trousers, which he would be allowed to bring home. Harry was a child with a taste for magnificence; and he went to bed full of joy, seeing already in anticipation the glittering of the jewelled garment, and the effects produced by it on the small boys of his acquaintance. Bitter was the disappointment when, on awakening in the morning, the chair by his bedside bore only the familiar brown knickerbockers, with a patch of a lighter shade on one knee. Harry wept, and would not be comforted ; and after that, though we still liked to hear the Patty stories, we felt that the magic of them was gone, - that they were only stories, like "Blue-beard" or "Jack and the Beanstalk."


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CHAPTER II.

MORE ABOUT OURSELVES.

JULIA and Flossy did not content themselves with writing plays and telling stories. They aspired to making a language, - a real language, which should be all their own, and should have grammars and dictionaries like any other famous tongue. It was called Patagonian, - whether with any idea of future missionary work among the people of that remote country, or merely because it sounded well, I cannot say. It was a singular language. I wish more of it had survived; but I can give only a few of its more familiar phrases.

MILLDAM - Yes.

PILLDAM - No.

MOUCHE-Mother.

BIS VON SNOUT?-Are you well?


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BRUNK TU TOUCHY SNOUT -I am very well.

CHING CHU STICK STUMPS?-Will you have some doughnuts?

These fragments will, I am sure, make my readers regret deeply the loss of this language, which has the merit of entire originality.

As to Flossy's talent for making paper-dolls, it is a thing not to be described. There were no such paper-dolls as those. Their figures might not be exactly like the human figure, but how infinitely more graceful! Their waists were so small that they sometimes broke in two when called upon to courtesy to a partner or a queen: that was the height of delicacy ! They had ringlets invariably, and very large eyes with amazing lashes ; they smiled with unchanging sweetness, filling our hearts with delight.

Many and wonderful were their dresses. The crinoline of the day was magnified into a sort of vast semi-circular cloud, adorned about the skirt with strange patterns; one small doll would sometimes wear a whole sheet of foolscap in an evening dress! That was


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extravagant, but our daughters must be in the fashion. There was one yellow dress belonging to my doll Parthenia (a lovely creature of Jewish aspect, whose waist was smaller than her legs), which is not even now to be remembered without emotion. We built houses for the paper-dolls with books from the parlor table, even borrowing some from the bookcase when we wanted an extra suite of rooms. I do not say it was good for the books, but it was very convenient for the dolls. I have reason to think that our mother did not know of this practice. In the matter of their taking exercise, however, she aided us materially, giving us sundry empty trinket-boxes lined with satin, which made the most charming carriages in the world. The state coach was a silver-gilt portemonnaie lined with red silk. It had seen better days, and the clasp was broken; but that did not make it less available as a coach. I wish you could have seen Parthenia in it!

I do not think we cared so much for other dolls, yet there were some that must be mentioned. Vashti Ann was named for a cook;


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she belonged to Julia, and I have an idea that she was of a very haughty and disagreeable temper, though I cannot remember her personal appearance. Still more shadowy is my recollection of Eliza Viddipock, - a name to be spoken with bated breath. What dark crime this wretched doll had committed to merit her fearful fate, I do not know; it was a thing not to be spoken of to the younger children, apparently. But I do know that she was hanged, with all solemnity of judge and hangman. It seems unjust that I should have forgotten the name of Julia's good doll, who died, and had the cover of the sugar-bowl buried with her, as a tribute to her virtues.

Sally Bradford and Clara both belonged to Laura. Sally was an india-rubber doll; Clara, a doll with a china head of the old-fashioned kind, smooth, shining black hair, brilliant rosy cheeks, and calm (very calm blue eyes. I prefer this kind of doll to any other. Clara's life was an uneventful one. on the whole, and I remember only one remarkable thing in it. A little girl in the


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neighborhood invited Laura to a dolls' party on a certain day: she was to bring Clara by special request. Great was the excitement, for Laura was very small, and had never yet gone to a party. A seamstress was in the house making the summer dresses, and our mother said that Clara should have a new frock for the party. It seemed a very wonderful thing to have a real new white muslin frock, made by a real seamstress, for one's beloved doll. Clara had a beautiful white neck, so the frock was made low and trimmed with lace. When the afternoon came, Laura brought some tiny yellow roses from the greenhouse, and the seamstress sewed them on down the front of the frock and round the neck and hem. It is not probable that any other doll ever looked so beautiful as Clara when her toilet was complete.

Then Laura put on her own best frock, which was not one half so fine, and tied on her gray felt bonnet, trimmed with quillings of pink and green satin ribbon, and started off, the proudest and happiest child in the whole world. She reached the house (it was


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very near) and climbed up the long flight of stone steps, and stood on tiptoe to ring the bell, - then waited with a beating heart. Would there be many other dolls ? Would any of them be half so lovely as Clara ? Would there - dreadful thought ! - would there be big girls there ?

The door opened. If any little girls read this they will now be very sorry for Laura. There was no dolls' party! Rosy's mother (the little girl's name was Rosy) had heard nothing at all about it; Rosy had gone to spend the afternoon with Sarah Crocker.

" Sorry, little girl ! What a pretty dolly ! Good-by, dear! " and then the door was shut again.

Laura toddled down the long stone steps, and went solemnly home. She did not cry, because it would not be nice to cry in the street; but she could not see very clearly, She never went to visit Rosy again, and never knew whether the dolls' party had been forgotten, or why it was given up.

Before leaving the subject of dolls, I must say a word about little Maud's first doll.


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Maud was a child of rare beauty, as beautiful as Julia, though very different. Her fair hair was of such color and quality that our mother used to call her Silk-and-silver, a name which suited her well; her eyes were like stars under their long black lashes. So brilliant, so vivid was the child's coloring that she seemed to flash with silver and rosy light as she moved about. She was so much younger than the others that in many of their reminiscences she has no share; yet she has her own stories, too. A friend of our father's, being much impressed with this starry beauty of the child, thought it would be pleasant to give her the prettiest doll that could be found; accordingly he appeared one day bringing a wonderful creature, with hair almost like Maud's own, and great blue eyes that opened and shut, and cheeks whose steadfast roses did not flash in and out, but bloomed always. I think the doll was dressed in blue and silver, but am not sure; she was certainly very magnificent.

Maud was enchanted, of course, and hugged her treasure, and went off with it.


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It happened that she had been taken only the day before to see the blind children at the Institution near by, where our father spent much of his time. It was the first time she had talked with the little blind girls, and they made a deep impression on her baby mind, though she said little at the time. As I said, she went off with her new doll, and no one saw her for some time. At length she returned, flushed and triumphant.

" My dolly is blind, now! " she cried; and she displayed the doll, over whose eyes she had tied a ribbon, in imitation of Laura Bridgman. " She is blind Polly! ain't got no eyes 't all ! "

Alas! it was even so. Maud had poked the beautiful blue glass eyes till they fell in, and only empty sockets were hidden by the green ribbon. There was a great outcry, of course; but it did not disturb Maud in the least. She wanted a blind doll, and she had one; and no pet could be more carefully tended than was poor blind Polly.

More precious than any doll could be, rises in my memory the majestic form of


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Pistachio. It was Flossy, ever fertile in invention, who discovered the true worth of Pistachio, and taught us to regard with awe and reverence this object of her affection. Pistachio was an oval mahogany footstool, covered with green cloth of the color of the nut whose name he bore. I have the impression that he had lost a leg, but am not positive on this point. He was considered an invalid, and every morning he was put in the baby-carriage and taken in solemn procession down to the brook for his morning bath. One child held a parasol over his sacred head (only he had no head!), two more propelled the carriage, while the other two went before as outriders. No mirth was allowed on this occasion, the solemnity of which was deeply impressed on us. Arrived at the brook, Pistachio was lifted from the carriage by his chief officer, Flossy herself, and set carefully down on the flat stone beside the brook. His sacred legs were dipped one by one into the clear water, and dried with a towel. Happy was the child who was allowed to perform this function!


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After the bath, he was walked gently up and down, and rubbed, to assist the circulation ; then he was put back in his carriage, and the procession started for home again, with the same gravity and decorum as before. The younger children felt sure there was some mystery about Pistachio. I cannot feel sure, even now, that he was nothing more than an ordinary oval cricket; but his secret, whatever it was, has perished with him.

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CHAPTER IX.

OUR FRIENDS.

WE had so many friends that I hardly know where to begin. First of all, perhaps, I should put the dear old Scotch lady whom we called " D. D." She had another name, but that is nobody's business but her own. D. D. was a thousand years old. She always said so when we asked her age, and she certainly ought to have known. No one would have thought it to look at her, for she had not a single gray hair, and her eyes were as bright and black as a young girl's. One of the pleasantest things about her was the way she dressed, in summer particularly. She wore a gown of white dimity, always spotlessly clean, made with a single plain skirt, and a jacket. The jacket was a little open in front, showing a handkerchief of white net fastened with a brooch of hair in the shape of a harp.


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Fashions made no difference to D. D. People might wear green or yellow or purple, as they pleased, - she wore her white dimity; and we children knew instinctively that it was the prettiest and most becoming dress that she could have chosen.

Another wonderful thing about D. D. was her store-closet. There never was such a closet as that! It was all full of glass jars, and the jars were full of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves and raisins, and all manner of good things. Yes, and they were not screwed down tight, as jars are likely to be nowadays; but one could take off the top, and see what was inside; and if it was cinnamon, one might take even a whole stick, and D. D. would not mind. Sometimes a friend of hers who lived at the South would send her a barrel of oranges (she called it a " bar'l of awnges," because she was Scotch, and we thought it sounded a great deal prettier than the common way), and then we had glorious times; for D. D. thought oranges were very good for us, and we thought so too. Then she had some very delightful and


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interesting drawers, full of old daguerreotypes and pieces of coral, and all kinds of alicurntweezies. Have I explained before that " alicurntweezies " are nearly the same as " picknickles " and " bucknickles " ?

D. D.'s son was a gallant young soldier, and it was his hair that she wore in the harp-shaped brooch. Many of the daguerreotypes were of him, and he certainly was as handsome a fellow as any mother could wish a son to be. When we went to take tea with D. D„ which was quite often, we always looked over her treasures, and asked the same questions over and over, the dear old lady never losing patience with us. And such jam as we had for tea! D. D.'s jams and jellies were famous, and she often made our whole provision of sweet things for the winter. Then we were sure of having the best quince marmalade and the clearest jelly; while as for the peach marmalade - no words can describe it!

D. D. was a wonderful nurse; and when we were ill she often came and helped our mother in taking care of us. Then she


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would sing us her song, - a song that no one but D. D. and the fortunate children who had her for a friend ever heard. It is such a good song that I must write it down, being very sure that D. D. would not care.

" There was an old man, and he was mad,
And he ran up the steeple ;
He took off his great big hat,
And waved it over the people."

To D. D. we owe the preservation of one of Laura's first compositions, written when she was ten years old. She gave it to the good lady, who kept it for many years in her treasure-drawer till Laura's own children were old enough to read it. It is a story, and is called-

LOST AND FOUND.

Marion Gray, a lovely girl of thirteen, one day tied on her gypsy hat, and, singing a merry song, bade good-by to her mother, and ran quickly toward the forest. She was the youngest daughter of Sir Edward Gray, a celebrated nobleman in great favor with the king, and consequently Marion had everything she wished for. When she reached


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the wood she set her basket down under a chest nut-tree, and climbing up into the branches she shook them till the ripe fruit came tumbling down. She then jumped down, and having filled her basket was proceeding to another tree, when all of a sudden a dark-looking man stepped out, who, when she attempted to fly, struck her severely with a stick, and she fell senseless to the ground.

Meanwhile all was in confusion at the manor- house. Marion's faithful dog Carlo had seen the man lurking in the thicket, and had tried to warn his mistress of the danger. But seeing she did not mind, the minute he saw the man prepare to spring out he had run to the house. He made them understand that some one had stolen Marion. " Who, Carlo, who?" exclaimed the agonized mother. Carlo instantly picked up some A-B-C blocks which lay on the floor, and putting together the letters that form the word " Gypsies," looked up at his master and wagged his tail. " The Gypsies !" exclaimed Sir Edward; " alas! if the gypsies have stolen our child, we shall never see her again," Nevertheless they searched and searched the wood, but no trace of her was to be found.

" Hush! here she is ! Is n't she a beauty?"

" Yes! but what is her name? "

" Marion Gray. I picked her up in the wood.


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A splendid addition to our train, for she can beg charity and a night's lodging; and then the easiest thing in the world is just to find out where they keep the key, and let us in. Hush! hush ! she 's coming to."

These words were spoken by a withered hag of seventy and the man who had stolen her. Slowly Marion opened her eyes, and what was her horror to find herself in a gypsy camp !

I will skip over the five long years of pain and suffering, and come to the end of my story. Five years have passed, and the new king sits on his royal throne, judging and condemning a band of gypsies. They are all condemned but one young girl, who stands with downcast eyes before him; but when she hears her doom, she raises her dark flashing eyes on the king. A piercing shriek is heard, the crown and sceptre roll down the steps of the throne, and Marion Gray is clasped in her father's arms!

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CHAPTER X.

OUR GUESTS.

MANY interesting visitors came and went, both at Green Peace and the Valley, - many more than I can recollect. The visit of Kossuth, the great Hungarian patriot, made no impression upon me, as I was only a year old when he came to this country; but there was a great reception for him at Green Peace, and many people assembled to do honor to the brave man who had tried so hard to free his country from the Austrian yoke, and had so nearly succeeded. I remember a certain hat, which we younger children firmly believed to have been his, though I have since been informed that we were mistaken. At all events, we used to play with the hat (I wonder whose it was!) under this impression, and it formed an


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important element in "dressing up," which was one of our chief delights.

One child would put on Kossuth's hat, another Lord Byron's helmet, - a superb affair of steel and gold, which had been given to our father in Greece, after Byron's death (we ought not to have been allowed to touch so precious a relic, far less to dress up in it!); while a third would appropriate a charming little square Polish cap of fine scarlet, which ought to have belonged to Thaddeus of Warsaw, but did not, I fear.

What pleasant things we had to dress up in! There was our father's wedding-coat, bright blue, with brass buttons; and the waistcoat he had worn with it, white satin with raised velvet flowers, - such a fine waistcoat! There were two embroidered crape gowns which had been our grand- mother's, with waists a few inches long, and long, skimp skirts ; and the striped blue and yellow moire, which our mother had worn in some private theatricals, - that was beyond description! And the white gauze with gold flounces - oh! and the peach-blossom silk with flowers all over it - ah !


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But this is a digression, and has nothing whatever to do with our guests, who never played "dressing up," that I can remember.

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