HOW CASSIE SAVED THE SPOONS. By Annie Howells Fréchette.

The last good-by had been said, and the comfortable country carriage, drawn by its two glossy bay horses, had disappeared around a knoll.

“They is do’rn,” remarked the baby, as if just in possession of a solemn fact.

“Torse they is do’rn, you blessed baby,” answered Florence, his fifteen-year-old sister, stooping down and lifting him in her strong arms and kissing him.

The baby, let me remark, was a sturdy boy of four, with bright brown eyes and red cheeks—cheeks so plump that when you had a side view of his face you could only see the tip of his little pug nose.

“Well, if ever anybody has earned a holiday, they are father and mother,” said Cassie.

“Cassie, dear, your sentiment is better than your grammar,” laughed Rose, the eldest of the three sisters.

“Never you mind my grammar, Miss Eglantine. I mayn’t have much ‘book larnin’,’ but I’ve got a head on my shoulders, as father frequently remarks—which is a good thing, for I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the glass if I hadn’t—and besides, how could I do my hair up so neatly, (Cassie’s hair was the joke of the family) if I hadn’t? And now I’m going up-stairs to cry, and I’ll be down in three minutes to help with the dishes,” and the giddy girl flew into the house and disappeared.

At the expiration of the three minutes which Cassie had set apart as sacred to her grief, she reappeared, sniffing audibly, but otherwise cheerful.

“Now, girls, I say let us buzz through the work like a swarm of industrious bumble-bees, and then go down to the creek lots and put in the day gathering nuts. Last night, as Ned and I came through them, the nuts were falling like hail, and we can pick up our winter’s supply in a few hours.”

This was favorably received, for they were all—even Rose—children enough to enjoy a long day in the autumn woods. We all know that willing hands make light work, and the morning’s task was quickly done; a basket of lunch was put up, and the girls, with the baby, were soon scampering through the meadow toward the little creek, whose borders for miles around were famous for their wealth of nuts.

The harvest was indeed bountiful, and they worked merrily and untiringly until bags and baskets were filled and deposited by a great log, where their brother would next day find them and cart them home. So busy and happy had they been that they could scarcely believe that the day had ended until the woods began to fill with shadows, and the baby declared he was sleepy and wanted his supper.

“Who would ever have believed it so late?” cried Rose, peering from under the low boughs toward the west, “and there are all those cows to milk and the chickens to feed! Come, come, girls, not another nut; we’ll have to go home at once if we want to get through before dark. Cassie, you are the quickest, do run ahead and let the bars down, and get the pails ready, and I’ll carry the baby—he’s so tired, poor little fellow, he can hardly stand. Florence can start the fire and begin the supper while you and I do the chores.”

Away sped the light-footed Cassie, while the others made such haste as they could with the tired baby, who wept in a self-pitying way upon Rose’s shoulder.

“Oo dirls is ’tarvin’ me an’ walkin’ me most to pieces, an’ I want my mover,” he wailed, as he finally dozed off.

Rose laid him upon the lounge in the cozy sitting-room, and, waiting for a moment to see Florence started with the supper, for which they were all ready, hurried away to the barn, where she could hear Cassie whistling, and talking to the cows as she milked.

Out from the kitchen’s open door appetizing odors of coffee and frying ham stole to greet the two girls, as they came towards the house with their brimming pails of frothy milk.

“It smells good,” said Cassie, “and I’m as hungry as a tramp——”

“Oh, Cassie! why did you say that? I’ve just been trying not to think about tramps. I always feel creepy when I’m about the barn after dark, anyway, and now——”

“Well, my saying that won’t bring any along.”

“They are positively the only things in the world that I’m afraid of.”

“Well, then, I’m not afraid of them. And suppose one should come? Surely three great stout girls ought to be able to take care of themselves.”

“Oh, Cassie, dear, please stop talking about them! I feel as if one were stepping on my heels. Let’s run.”

“And spill the milk? Not much.”

The kitchen looked so bright and cheery as they entered it that Rose seemed to leave her fears outside with the duskiness, and by the time she had strained the milk and put it away, she had forgotten that tramps existed.

Cassie had gone up-stairs to make some needed changes in her toilet, the baby had roused from a short nap and was taking a rather mournful interest in the preparations for supper, when Rose, who had just stopped to ask him whether he would rather have honey or preserves, heard a stealthy step upon the porch. A moment later, the door was pushed slowly open and a man walked in.

“Good evening, ladies. Is your pa at home?”

“N—no,” faltered Rose, trying to settle to her own satisfaction whether this dirty-looking stranger might be some new neighbor, who had come upon legitimate business, or whether he was her one horror—a tramp.

“Any of your big brothers in?” with rather a jocular manner.

“N—no, sir.”

“And I don’t see any bull-dog loafin’ round,” he added.

“Our dord, he is dead,” explained the baby solemnly.

“Well, that’s a good thing. Will the old gentleman be in soon?”

“I—I don’t know—yes—I—I hope so. Is there any message you would like to leave for him?”

Before the man could answer, the baby’s voice was again heard.

“My fahver he’s dorn orf.”

“Where’s he gone, sonny?”

“He’s dorn on the tars, so’s my mohver; and my bid brover he putted yem on, and he won’t be home ’til I’m asleep, and he’s doin’ to brin’ me a drum and put it in my bed.”

(Oh, how Rose longed to shake the baby!)

“Well, then, ladies, since you are likely to be alone, I think I’ll stay and keep you company; and since you press me, I will take tea and spend the evening. Don’t go to any extra work for me, though; it all looks very nice. I’m rather hungry, so you may dish up that ham at once, my dear”—this to poor Florence, who had shrunk almost into invisibility behind the stove-pipe, and who seemed glued to the spot—“I’ve usually a very fair appetite, and I am sure I will relish it.”

He tossed his hat down beside the chair which he drew up to the table.

With the light falling full upon his dirty, insolent face, Rose knew that her greatest dread was before her. With her knees almost sinking under her, she started toward the stairs, for she felt that she must let the intrepid Cassie know, and find out what she advised.

“Where are you going, my dear?” asked the tramp, suspiciously. “You’ve not got any big cousin or uncle or anything of that kind up-stairs that you are going to call to tea, have you?”

“Oh, no, there is no one up-stairs but my poor sister,” she managed to gasp. She could not have told why she said “poor sister,” unless it was from the sense of calamity which had overtaken them all.

“In that case be spry, for I’m hungry, and I want you to pour out my tea for me. I like to have a pretty face opposite me at table.”

Rose dragged herself up the narrow enclosed stairs and into Cassie’s room.

“Well, Rose, you must be about tuckered out. You come up-stairs as if you were eighty,” said Cassie, looking up from the shoe she was fastening. “Why, what ails you? You look as if you had seen a ghost!”

“Oh, Cassie, there is one of them down-stairs!” came in a whisper.

“What do you mean, Rose Bostwick? A ghost down-stairs!”

“No—no—a tramp.”

“Whew!” and Cassie gave a low whistle. “And I suppose you’re scared?”

“Oh, Cassie, I feel as if I were choking! Do hurry down, he may be killing poor little Florence and the baby. What shall we do? The baby has told him we are all alone.”

“The baby ought to be soundly spanked for that.”

“What can we do? Try to think.”

Cassie sat swinging the button-hook in her hand and thinking very hard and fast.

“Does he know I’m here?”

“Yes, I’ve told him.”

“Then it would be no use for me to pretend to be Ned,” thinking aloud.

“I’m afraid not.”

Another silence dedicated to thought.

“Rose?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to be crazy. I’m going to chase him off the farm.”

“Oh, Cassie, you can’t! He’s a great, big, impudent wretch. What folly to talk about chasing him off the farm!”

“It’s our only chance.”

“Don’t count on me. I can’t help you. My teeth are chattering with terror, and my legs are doubling up under me this very minute. I couldn’t help chase a fly.”

“You can scream, I s’pose?”

“Oh, yes, I can do that.”

“Well, you do the screaming and I’ll do the chasing. Rush down-stairs and scream and scream, and bang the door to, and just shriek: ‘She’s out—she’s out—she’s coming down stairs!’ And you’ll see what a perfectly beautiful lunatic I will be. It’s a good thing I have this old dress on, and only one shoe. Now make a rush, and scream.”

Rose’s over-strained nerves were her best allies, and as she flew down the stairs it was the easiest thing in the world for her to give one piercing shriek after another. They resounded from the narrow stairway through the kitchen, and for the moment seemed to paralyze its inmates. As she burst in upon them, Florence was transfixed midway of the table and the stove with the platter of ham in her hands, the baby had climbed upon a chair, and the tramp had arisen with a bewildered air from the table. As her skirts cleared the door, she turned and dashed it shut, and flung herself against it, shrieking, “She’s out—she’s out of her room!”

To the mystified Florence there came but one solution to her behavior—fright had overthrown her sister’s reason, and with a wail she rushed toward her, crying, “She’s crazy! Oh, she’s crazy!”

“Who’s crazy?” yelled the tramp.

The baby, now wildly terrified, set up a loud weeping, while from the stairway came a succession of blows and angry demands that the door be opened. A moment later it was forced ajar, and a head crowned with a mass of tossed hair was thrust out and quickly followed by a hand in which was clutched a gun.

“She’s got the gun! Oh, Florence, run to the baby!” cried Rose.

“Who’s that?” demanded the apparition, making a rush toward the tramp.

“Here, keep off! Leave me alone!” backing away and warding off an expected blow.

She stood before him, tall, strong, and agile.

“I won’t leave you alone. What do you mean by locking me in that room? I’m no more crazy than you are. What’s this?” as she stumbled over the hat which the tramp had put beside the chair, and into which he had deposited the silver spoons from the table. “Oh, I see, you are all in league to rob me of my gold and precious stones!” and catching the hat up on the muzzle of the gun she gave it a whirl which sent the spoons glittering in every direction; then, advancing upon him, she thrust hat and gun into the face of the horrified man. With a volley of oaths he sprang backwards, upsetting his chair and falling over it.

“Oh, don’t kill him, Cassie! don’t kill him!”

“We’ll have a merry time,” gaily dancing about him and prodding him sharply with the gun, as he tried to scramble to his feet.

“Keep off with that gun, can’t you!” he yelled. “Can’t you hold her, you screaming idiots?” and half crawling, half pushed, he gained the kitchen door, which had stood partly open since he had entered.

“Where are you going, my pretty maid? Don’t you try to get away,” shouted Cassie, as she lilted lightly after him. The tramp stayed not to answer her question nor to obey her command, but clearing the door fled wildly away through the dusk.

“Here’s your hat; I’ll fire it after you,” she called, and a sharp report rang out on the quiet evening air, then all was still.

The three girls stood for a moment in the door, watching the dim outline fleeing across the meadow in the direction of the highway.

“He’ll think twice before inviting himself to supper another time,” quietly remarked Cassie with a satisfied smile.

“Oh, Cassie, darling, you have saved our lives,” cried Florence, flinging her arms around her sister.

“I don’t know about that; but I’ve saved the spoons, anyway.”

“There, there, baby,” going to the still afflicted boy; “don’t cry any more. Sister Cassie was just making a dirty old tramp hop; she didn’t really shoot him, she was just playing shoot.”

“Oh, Cassie, you splendid, brave girl! How did you ever happen to think to go crazy?” asked Rose, as she looked over her shoulder from the door which she was barricading.

“Well, I knew something had to be done, and that just popped into my mind. I was doing ‘Ophelia’ the other day up in my room, so I was in practice; and didn’t I make a sweetly pensive maniac? Now I hope you girls will never again make disrespectful comments upon any little private theatricals of mine. If I had never cultivated my dramatic talents, what would have become of you, I’d like to know?”

It was some time before the tidal wave of excitement subsided sufficiently for the girls to settle down for the evening, or for the baby to go to sleep. Again and again they thought they heard footsteps, and, although the door was locked and double-locked, they drew up into battle line whenever the autumn wind shook down a shower of leaves upon the roof.

Just as the clock was on the stroke of eight, a pleasant sound came fitfully to them. It was a softly whistled tune, and the cheery cadence told of a mind free from unpleasant doubts of welcome.

“Surely that can’t be Ned back already; he wasn’t to start home until nine,” said Rose, going to the window and cautiously peeping from under the curtain.

“Right you are there, sister Rose,” assented Cassie. “It surely can’t be, especially as Ned could no more whistle ‘Marching through Georgia’ than you could have done the marching. It sounds uncommonly like young Farmer Dunscomb’s whistle to me.”

“Well, whoever it is, I am deeply thankful that somebody besides a tramp is coming,” interrupted Florence.

“And so am I,” demurely agreed Rose. “Do go to the door, Cassie, and peep out, and make sure that it isn’t that dreadful creature coming back.”

“Are you a dreadful creature coming to murder us all?” demanded Cassie of the whistler, setting the door slightly ajar, and thrusting her head out.

“Well, I don’t go round giving myself out as a dreadful creature,” responded a jolly voice from the porch. “Hello! What’s this I’m breaking my neck over?” as the owner of the voice tripped upon an old slouch hat.

“Bring that article of wearing apparel to me, if you please,” requested Cassie as she opened the door, letting a flood of light out upon the visitor. “That is a little token of remembrance which I wish to keep. There!” holding the hat out at arm’s length, “I have long wanted a gilt toasting-fork or rolling-pin, or something artistic, for my room; now I shall embroider these shot-holes and gild the brim and hang it up by long blue ribbons, just where my waking orbs can rest upon it as they open in the morning. Ah, this hat will ever have stirring memories for me, friend George,” eying the young man dramatically.

He looked at her a moment, then burst into a hearty laugh. “Is she crazy, Rose?”

“Yes, she’s the dearest and bravest lunatic in the world, George,” answered Rose.