"My name is-- But why do you ask, madame? and where am I? Oh, I know: I am on my way to see the old Indian squaw who lives up here in the mountains, and it is getting late. I was very weary, and I fell asleep."
"Your name, my child--tell me your name, that I may know if you are Julie Garnier"s child."
"Yes, madame, I am Julie Garnier." With that the little lady embraced her so warmly, and gave her so many kisses, that Julie strove to get away from her.
"Children," said the lady, "come here; this is your cousin, little Julie Garnier, whose mother is my dear sister, from whom I have long been separated. Max, we must take the child home."
"Where are you staying, little one?" asked the gentleman, in a heavy voice, which made Julie shrink toward the lady.
"I am staying with Quillie Coit at Mr. Brown"s," was Julie"s answer, for she dared not now urge her errand, and was much perplexed by all this agitation. The children were standing beside her, gazing curiously, but not unkindly; the little lady was wiping her eyes; the gentleman was holding a consultation with the driver. It ended by their all getting again into the vehicle, Madame Von Boden taking Julie in her arms, and pouring into her astonished ears sweet caressing words, in her own beloved language, about Julie"s own dear mother; their home in France; her marriage to a Prussian; the marriage of Julie"s mother to a Frenchman; the dreadful war; a separation; a long silence, in which they had heard nothing about Madame Garnier, who was so proud in her poverty; fears that she was dead; the certain knowledge that her husband, Julie"s father, was really dead; and now this happy discovery. It was almost too much for Julie, coming as it did in the midst of her own strange adventure, and she could hardly believe it to be all true; but she submitted with a good grace, stifling her regret at not accomplishing her purpose, since this kind little aunt seemed to be so overjoyed. The driver knew where Mr. Brown lived, and just as Mr. Brown"s tired horses were being harnessed, and nurse in weariful anxiety was listening to the comfort which Quillie was trying to whisper to her, this strange vehicle was heard coming down the lane. Every one rushed to the gate--Mr. and Mrs. Brown, the farm hands, the kitchen folk, nurse, and even Quillie in her night-gown; for there was Julie at last--poor tired little Julie--drooping, faint, and tearful.
No one scolded, not even nurse, who had been most sorely tried; and Madame Von Boden, with many mistakes in her use of English, and with much excitement, related her adventure. Of course it was considered wonderful, and the travellers were prevailed upon to remain at Mr.
Brown"s overnight.
[Ill.u.s.tration: A GOOD TIME IN THE BARN.]
You would not have supposed that following day, when all the children were having a good time in the barn--swinging, feeding the horses, gathering eggs, giving the hens a double supply of corn, and in every way making the most of a barn"s generous resources--that one little maiden among them was a heroine of romance, a very tired little heroine, quite contented to watch the swallows and pigeons, and gaze at the far-away mountain-tops. But so it was, and so it often is; for, as the French say, ""tis the unexpected that happens;" and when Madame Garnier heard that her little Julie had found her aunt Marie, and that the little cousins were all housed under one roof, and having much happiness together, her own joy was great.
Julie promised faithfully never to undertake any more expeditions without the consent of her guardians, and she begged Quillie never to say anything more about the squaw; but Fred was allowed, by special grace, to call her Miss Van Winkle; for Fred had a funny way peculiar to himself which seldom excited wrath.
Later in the season, when Madame Garnier was able to join Julie, and Mr.
and Mrs. Coit came up from the city, the Von Bodens gave a pretty _fete_ to all the children, and at the conclusion of it Quillie was invited to accompany Julie and her cousins, and spend the winter in Paris, which was so nice an opportunity for Quillie to acquire a good French accent that her father and mother felt obliged to accept.
Artie and Will had a great talk about this, and Fred said he wished Miss Van Winkle would just take another nap in the woods, to see what else might happen; possibly next time he would get an invitation from the Prince of Wales to go yachting.
But Miss Van Winkle took her naps at home after that, though she still thinks of the old squaw every time she looks at the moon.
THE END.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
[Ill.u.s.tration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
The following gratifying communication comes from the librarian of a large public library in Illinois:
May prosperity attend your most excellent YOUNG PEOPLE! I keep it on file in the reading-room, and it is pleasant to note the eagerness with which its pages are devoured by the boys and girls who daily throng our rooms. The paper is doing a n.o.ble work among them, not only in amusing them, but by giving them solid information upon a great variety of subjects in a most delightful way, thus giving them a taste for a cla.s.s of reading almost always p.r.o.nounced "dry" by the youngsters. It supplies a long-felt want in juvenile literature. Again I say, success to your n.o.ble enterprise!
SUNDERLAND, VERMONT.
I am eleven years old, and I live in the country. Papa has a very large farm.
I have three sisters. The oldest is in Philadelphia at school. I am next to the oldest. My sister Annie and I have the care of the chickens and turkeys. We have doves which are so tame they will fly and alight on our hands to get corn. We had a little pet crow, but it died last night. We are going to get another one. We have wild strawberries. They are very plenty this year.
JENNIE G.
THOMPSONVILLE, CONNECTICUT.
I take YOUNG PEOPLE. I think the engravings are so pretty. After I went to bed last night, I could hear the people down stairs talking. After a while papa began to read to mamma. I listened, and soon made out that he was reading from YOUNG PEOPLE about "The Boys and Uncle Josh." Papa laughed so that he had to stop reading several times. I am twelve years old.
MINNIE S.
SWEEt.w.a.tER, TENNESSEE.
I like YOUNG PEOPLE very much, and I read all the letters from the children. I have been going to school, but we have a vacation now.
I am not as well read as S. Ca.s.sius E----, but I am a year younger. I have read some poems of Tennyson and other poets, and the whole of Goodrich"s _History of Rome and Greece_. I have a crippled sister who has read a great deal, and she tries to make me read more, but I spend most of my leisure time in practicing music. I am learning to cook, and I am going to try some of the recipes sent to the cooking club. I am going to my grandma"s soon, and I expect to have a nice time. She lives in a shady dell, and we call it "Dell Delight."
SUSAN M.
CHAPEL HILL, GEORGIA.
I am a little boy eleven years old. My aunt in New York sends me YOUNG PEOPLE. I like the stories and the letter-box very much. I live twenty-five miles from the city of Atlanta. We have had whortleberries, plums, and mulberries this summer. I go to school, and I walk there every morning. It is a mile and a half away. I have but one pet, a dog named Rover. My sister Addie has three cats. One of them catches chickens, and my dog sucks eggs.
G. F. A. V.
EAST CAMBRIDGE, Ma.s.sACHUSETTS.
You can hardly imagine how much I like YOUNG PEOPLE, and how anxiously I wait till it comes. I have two canaries. d.i.c.k is yellow, and Bill is linnet green. d.i.c.k is tamer than Bill.
FRED L. Z.
NEWPORT, KENTUCKY.
I am eight years old. I go to school, and am in the Second Reader.
We have all the numbers of the YOUNG PEOPLE, and papa is going to have the first twenty-six bound. Mamma liked it so much that New-Year"s she took it for my cousins.
When we lived in Illinois papa was Adams Express agent, and we had a horse named Adam. When my brother Charlie was four years old he went to Sunday-school, and once when the teacher asked the cla.s.s who was the first man, Charlie yelled out, "Adams Express man!"
The first thing I read when my paper comes, are the little letters in the Post-office Box.