OUT OF THE WOODS.

BY A. TEMPLE BELLEW.

In that rocky part of New York State called Sullivan County lived a poor widow and her little daughter.

The cold weather was approaching—the trees showed that; the maples were in flames, and the surrounding woods had such varied leafage that at a distance they looked like the border of an Indian shawl. Yes, cold weather was approaching, and the widow said one morning, as she came up from the cellar, "Well, Nannie, we have potatoes enough to last all winter, so we sha'n't starve; but what ever we shall have to wear I don't know. I can't buy any clothes, that is certain."

"We'll wear our old ones," said Nannie.

"They ain't fit for carpet-rags, child. We must stay in the house all winter, I guess, unless we want to freeze to death."

Nannie grew grave, and her brown eyes were full of trouble, as she listened. She had not thought of clothes all summer; she had trotted about in her little calico dress as happy as a sparrow; and now she felt very much like that same sparrow when he sees the first snow-flakes come drifting through the air.

What could she do to help her mother? If it were something to eat, it would not be so difficult; she could pick up nuts—lots of them; but something to wear: that was a great deal harder. So she sat on the door-step puzzling her little brains, until her eyes happened to fall upon a necklace she had that morning made of scarlet mountain-ash berries, and a brilliant idea occurred to her: she would make a dress of leaves—of bright red leaves.

"I can make it just as easy," she said to herself; "I won't say a word to mother till it's all done. Won't she be glad when she sees me dressed up so nice? And then I'll tell her I can make lots of things just like it."

She had a spool of thread in her pocket, and a needle carefully stuck in her frock, so she had only to run off to the woods, without bothering any one.

Once there Nannie had no trouble in finding leaves enough, bright red ones, too—so red that they made her blink when she held them out in the sunlight. She filled her apron with those scattered on the ground, and picked a huge bunch of long rush-like grasses that grew in a small clearing; then seated herself on a low stone, ready for work, surrounded by scarlet and gold like a little empress.

The tiny fingers proved very deft, and the tiny brain very ingenious. Leaf overlapping leaf, like the scales of a fish, they were sewn on the grass stems, until a garment was shaped resembling what is fashionably called a princesse dress. The sleeves Nannie could not manage, so instead she put shoulder-straps with epaulets of leaves. She could hardly keep from dancing, she felt so delighted at the success of her plan. On went the gay suit of armor gleefully, but slowly, lest it should be harmed.

"Don't I look pretty?" sighed Nannie, in perfect content, as she glanced down at her leafy skirt; "but I can't wear that old sun-bonnet. I must make a new hat too."

Again the thread and needle, grass and leaves, were called into service. This time a queer comical cap, like Robinson Crusoe's, placed jauntily on her head, turned her into a wood-sprite indeed.

She primly picked her way through the wood, avoiding every brier as if it were poison-ivy, until she reached the opening; here she stood suddenly still, rooted to the spot by wonder. A man, a stranger, was there, sitting on a funny crooked kind of bench, doing something to a big board fastened to three long sticks in front of him. He seemed nearly as wonder-struck as Nannie for a moment; then, as she was about to move, he called out, "Who in the world are you, little fairy, and who dressed you up like that?"

He looked so pleasant that Nannie gave him a laugh for his smile, and answered promptly, "I did it my own self; ain't it pretty?"

"Yes, indeed; and what made you think of such a pretty dress?"

Then Nannie's little tongue being loosened, she told him all about it—how poor they were that year, and how badly her mother felt; in fact, chattered over all her small history, some parts of which made the stranger's blue eyes misty, while others made him smile, whereat Nannie had always to laugh in return—she very seldom smiled.

"Now," said the stranger, "do you think you could stand still for a short time?"

Nannie at once became motionless, and the stranger began to work away at the big board before him with some very thin sticks. Once in a while he would say, "There, you may move now; sit down on that stone and rest." Then Nannie would sit down until he asked if she felt like standing again, when she would spring to her feet and take her former position. She was beginning to feel very tired—so tired that her little tongue was quiet—when he said, "That will do, little one; come and look at this."

And she came beside him. Why, there she was on the board, scarlet dress and all; her black curls ruffling about her head, her big brown eyes wide open, and her cheeks as pink as king apples.

"Why, that's me!" she cried.

"Of course it is," laughed the stranger.

"Why, ain't I pretty!—only I wish I had my shoes on. I've got a pair in the house, but I only wear 'em in winter."

"It looks prettier in the picture without shoes," said the artist.

Then he told her that she had been a very good little girl; and taking a piece of something like green paper from his pocket, put it in her hand, saying,

"Give this to your mother, and tell her to buy you a nice warm dress with it. I am coming to see you to-morrow; and now good-by, little maid."

Then he stooped down and kissed her, and she ran away up the hill-side, covered with red leaves, and holding a green leaf in her hand—a wonderful green leaf, as she afterward discovered.

She rushed into the cottage like a small cannon-ball, and startled her mother not a little, appearing in such strange attire, and too breathless to tell her story except in excited snatches that puzzled more than they explained, and for a short time the widow thought that a three-legged man had stolen Nannie's clothes, and was coming to-morrow to steal hers; but as soon as Nannie regained breath she made her understand the real state of the case.

"Wonder what he is?" said the mother, puzzled. "Three sticks—a big board."

After long cogitation she decided that he must be "one of them archertics from New York as took your photergraph."

"He's real kind, anyway," she added. "Why, child, he's give you ten dollars!"

"Ten dollars!" gasped Nannie, with an overwhelming sense of wealth.

Next morning the stranger appeared in good season, and won the widow's heart by his courtesy.

"Jest as polite as if I was the minister's wife," she afterward told Nannie.

He explained the mystery of the big board and three sticks, and showed how they were used, getting Nannie to stand for him again in her dress of leaves.

Nannie opened her eyes when he told her that her picture was going to New York to hang in "a great big room called the Academy." "At least I hope so," he added, laughing.

He came many following mornings, always to paint Nannie, getting more interested every time in the simple-hearted widow and her bright little child, while they in turn delighted in his visits, his stories, and his painting.

At last the day came when he had to go back to the city. Nannie cried her eyes as red as the maple leaves, and they all felt that "good-by" was a very miserable word.

So the stranger went away, and the widow tried to console herself and Nannie by making a journey to the nearest town, and laying out the wonderful ten dollars in warm clothing for Nannie; but though Nannie got very busy and happy over her shopping, she did not forget her stranger friend, and felt even bright red flannel a very poor substitute for kind blue eyes.

Nannie spent the long white months very merrily, romping by day and sleeping by night, only one thing happening to vary the quiet life: at Christmas came a letter and a box of goodies from the stranger, then all went on as before.

By-and-by winter turned to spring in town and country, the spring fashions of one doing duty for the spring leaves of the other; and among the pleasantest of spring fashions in New York is—the Exhibition of that "great big room called the Academy," about which the stranger had told Nannie so much. And this fair April upon its walls hung the picture of a bright-faced little girl, clad and capped with scarlet leaves, coming out of the dim gray woods.

Of all the many visitors there not one passed it by unnoticed; young ladies all beauty and old ladies all back-bone and eyeglasses, artists gray-headed and young fellows just from Paris, one and all, and many more, stopped to admire the brown-eyed child so quaintly garmented. The morning and the evening papers, too, did not overlook it, but patted the young artist kindly with their pens. Rich people talked about it, and the richest bought it for the sake of saying that "the gem of the Exhibition" was in his gallery.

A few days after this a letter, registered and stamped carefully enough to carry it to China, had that been its destination, came to Nannie and her mother—a letter from the stranger, telling all about it, and sending to his "little good genius" a check for fifty dollars.

What other wonderful things were the result of that queer dress of leaves may perhaps be told some day.