Jessie Carlton Part 1

Jessie Carlton.

by Francis Forrester.

NOTE

TO PARENTS, GUARDIANS, AND TEACHERS.

The purpose of the "Glen Morris Stories" is to sow the seed of pure, n.o.ble, manly character in the mind of our great nation's childhood. They exhibit the virtues and vices of childhood, not in prosy, unreadable precepts, but in a series of characters which move before the imagination as living beings do before the senses. Thus access to the heart is won by way of the imagination. While the story charms, the truth sows itself in the conscience and in the affections. The child is thereby led to abhor the false and the vile, and to sympathize with the right, the beautiful, and the true. To every parent, teacher, and guardian, who has affinity with these high purposes, the "Glen Morris Stories" are most respectfully inscribed by their fellow-laborer in the field of childhood.

Francis Forrester.

JESSIE CARLTON

CHAPTER I

Jessie and the Wizard.

On a bright afternoon of a warm day in October, Jessie Carlton sat in the parlor of Glen Morris Cottage. Her elbows rested on the table, her face was held between her two plump little hands, and her eyes were feasting on some charming pictures which were spread out before her. A pretty little work-basket stood on a chair at her side. It contained several yards of rumpled patchwork, two pieces of broadcloth with figures partially worked on them as if they were intended for a pair of slippers, a watch-pocket half finished, and a small piece of silk composed of very little squares.

On the table close to her left elbow was a cambric handkerchief with some embroidery just begun in one of its corners. A needle carelessly stuck into it showed that Jessie had been working on it when her eyes were attracted by the pictures she was now studying with such close attention.

After a few minutes the little girl moved her right arm for the purpose of looking at another picture, when her thimble dropped from her finger to the table with a loud ringing sound. She started to pick it up, and in so doing pushed her scissors to the floor. The noise they made in falling led Jessie to glance towards the sofa, and to say in a very soft whisper--

"Oh dear! I'm afraid those naughty scissors have waked Uncle Morris out of his nap!"

Jessie was right. The noise had started Uncle Morris from a cozy little nap into which he had fallen after dinner. It was not often that the active old gentleman indulged himself in this way; but a long walk in the morning had made him weary, and he had quietly roamed into dreamland as he sat reading. He now opened his eyes, looked round the room, and seeing his niece looking askance at him, said--

"What's the matter, Jessie? I heard something fall with a great crash, what was it?"

Jessie laughed outright. It was not very polite, but she could not very well keep the fun out of her face. It seemed so queer that her uncle should call the noise made by the fall of a pair of scissors _a great crash_. At last she said--

"There was no great crash, Uncle. Only my scissors fell from the table."

"Was that all? Why it sounded to me just like the crash of a tray full of crockery ware. That was because I was half asleep, I suppose. Well, never mind, I'm not the first old gentleman who has magnified a little noise into a great one in his sleep--but what are you so busy about this afternoon, little puss!"

As Uncle Morris put this question he arose, walked up to the table and began to look at Jessie's work, for by this time she had begun st.i.tching on the cambric handkerchief again. Blus.h.i.+ng deeply, she said--

"I am embroidering a pocket-handkerchief, Uncle."

"Indeed! how fond you little ladies are of finery!" said Uncle Morris, smiling and patting Jessie's head.

"I'm not doing it for myself, Uncle," replied the child.

"Not for yourself, eh? Is it for papa, then?"

"No, Sir."

"For your brother Guy, perhaps?"

"No, Sir. Not for Guy," and looking slyly at her uncle, she added. "I guess that you are not Yankee enough to guess whom it is for."

"For your brother Hugh, maybe?"

"You must guess again, Uncle."

"Well, maybe it is for your hero, Richard Duncan."

"O Uncle! Do you think I would embroider a handkerchief for a young gentleman!" and Jessie pursed up her lips as though she was going to be very angry.

"Don't be angry with your old uncle, my little puss," said Mr. Morris with an air of mock penitence, "I had an idea that young ladies did such things for young gentlemen sometimes. But who is it for? I give it up."

"You give it up! Why, I thought you belonged to the 'never give up company.' Oh, fy! Uncle Morris, I'll get you turned out of the try company if you don't mind. So you had better guess again," and Jessie held up her fat finger and looked so funnily at Mr. Morris that the old gentleman's heart warmed towards her, and giving her a kiss of fond affection, he said--

"Then I guess it is for your poor old uncle."

"Beans are hot!" cried Jessie, clapping her hands. "You've guessed it at last. But see my work, Uncle! Isn't it beautiful?"

"Very pretty, indeed, my dear," replied the old man, who now put on a comical look, and added, "but I'm afraid I shall not live until it is finished."

"Not live----!" Jessie was going to be alarmed, but her uncle's laughing eyes checked her alarm, and catching his meaning from his expression, she pouted and was silent.

"Don't put on that frightful pout, my little puss, for, really, I should have to live as long a life as an ancient patriarch if I do not die before you are likely to _finish_ the handkerchief. There are the quilt, the slippers, the watch-pocket, the chair-cus.h.i.+on, and the handkerchief all _begun_ for me, but nothing finished. That little wizard--his name is Impulse, you know--which led you to drop the quilt that you might begin the slippers, and the slippers that you might begin the chair-cus.h.i.+on, will soon tempt you to drop the handkerchief for something else. I wish I could catch the jolly little imp. I'd cane him smartly, and then I would lead him to Parson Resolution's church, and marry him to that sweet little fairy, Miss Perseverance, who is breaking her heart for the love of him.

Were he once thus married, I think his bride would teach him to help you finish all the little gifts you have begun for me, and there would be some hope that I should live long enough to sleep under your quilt, sit on your cus.h.i.+on, walk in your slippers, put my watch in your pocket at night, and blow my venerable nose in your embroidered pocket-handkerchief."

The reproof so pleasantly given in these quaint words found its way to Jessie's heart. Her face became sober, she bit her lips, a stray tear or two hung, like dew-drops in the web of a gossamer, on her long eyelashes, she sighed and after a few moments of silent thought rose, planted her right foot firmly on the floor, and said--

"Uncle Morris, I _will_ conquer that little wizard! I will _finish_ your quilt right away, and then all the other things in their turn--see if I don't."

Jessie had made just such a promise at least _ten_ times, since Glen Morris Cottage had become her home. She had tried to keep it too, but, somehow, _her habit of yielding to every new impulse which came over her_, had hitherto led her to break it as often as it had been made. The little wizard, as Uncle Morris facetiously called her changeful impulses, was her tyrant. The jolly little rogue did, indeed, sadly stand in need of matrimony with the forlorn Miss Perseverance. For poor Jessie's sake, Uncle Morris was very anxious to see the wedding come off speedily.

Whether his wish was met or not, will appear hereafter.

To prove her sincerity Jessie put the cambric handkerchief in the bottom of her work-basket. The other articles she placed, in the order in which she had begun them, above it, and then sat resolutely down to her patchwork quilt. As her bright little needle began to fly with the swiftness of a weaver's shuttle, she said to herself--

"Now I _will_ finish Uncle Morris's quilt right off."

Uncle Morris had left the parlor, and Jessie had sewed steadily for at least fifteen minutes, when her brother Hugh bounded into the room, holding two letters in his hand, and said--

"Letters for Jessie Carlton and her mother. Postage one dollar, to be paid to the bearer on delivery. Give me your half-dollar, Miss Carlton, and I will give you your letter!"

"A letter for me!" cried Jessie, dropping her work and running to her brother, capsizing her work-basket as she ran. "Give it to me! Give it to me."

"Pay me the postage first," said Hugh, holding the letter over her head.

"There is no postage, you know there isn't, you naughty Hugh! Give me my letter," and Jessie pulled Hugh's arm in the vain attempt to bring the letter within her reach.