Short Stories for High Schools. Various

me that Morris was kindo’ aidgin’ up to’rds Annie—she was next to Marthy, you know, in pint of years and experience, but ever’body allus said ’a’t Annie was the purtiest one o’ the whole three of ’em. And so when mother told me ’a’t the signs pinted to’rds Annie, w’y, of course, I hedn’t no particular objections to that, ’cause Morris was of good fambly enough it turned out, and, in fact, was as stirrin’ a young feller as ever I’d want fer a son-in-law, and so I hed nothin’ more to say—ner they wasn’t no occasion to say nothin’, ’cause right along about then I begin to notice ’a’t Marthy quit comin’ home so much, and Morris kep’ a-comin’ more. Tel finally, one time he was out here all by hisself, ’long about dusk, come out here where I was feedin’, and ast me, all at onc’t, and in a straightfor’ard way, ef he couldn’t marry Annie; and, some-way-another, blame ef it didn’t make me as happy as him when I told him yes! You see that thing proved, pine-blank, ’a’t he wasn’t a-fishin’ round fer Marthy. Well-sir, as luck would hev it, Marthy got home about a half-hour later, and I’ll give you my word I was never so glad to see the girl in my life! It was foolish in me, I reckon, but when I see her drivin’ up the lane—it was purt’ nigh dark then, but I could see her through the open winder from where I was settin’ at the supper-table, and so I jest quietly excused myself, p’lite-like, as a feller will, you know, when they’s comp’ny round, and I slipped off and met her jest as she was about to git out to open the barn gate. ’Hold up, Marthy,’ says I; ’set right where you air; I’ll open the gate fer you, and I’ll do anything else fer you in the world ’a’t you want me to!’

      “ ‘W’y, what’s pleased you so?’ she says, laughin’, as she druv through slow-like and a-ticklin’ my nose with the cracker of the buggy-whip.—‘What’s pleased you?’

      “ ‘Guess,’ says I, jerkin’ the gate to, and turnin’ to lift her out.

      “ ‘The new peanner’s come?’ says she, eager-like.

      “ ‘Yer new peanner’s come,’ says I; ’but that’s not it.’

      “ ‘Strawberries fer supper?’ says she.

      “ ‘Strawberries fer supper,’ says I; ’but that ain’t it.’

      “Jest then Morris’s hoss whinnied in the barn, and she glanced up quick and smilin’ and says, ’Somebody come to see somebody?’

      “ ‘You’re a-gittin’ warm,’ says I.

      “ ‘Somebody come to see me?’ she says, anxious-like.

      “ ‘No,’ says I, ’a’nd I’m glad of it—fer this one ’a’t’s come wants to git married, and o’ course I wouldn’t harber in my house no young feller ’a’t was a-layin’ round fer a chance to steal away the “Nest-egg,’ ” says I, laughin’.

      “Marthy had riz up in the buggy by this time, but as I helt up my hands to her, she sorto’ drawed back a minute, and says, all serious-like and kindo’ whisperin’:

      “ ‘Is it Annie?’

      “I nodded. ’Yes,’ says I, ’a’nd what’s more, I’ve give my consent, and mother’s give hern—the thing’s all settled. Come, jump out and run in and be happy with the rest of us!’ and I helt out my hands ag’in, but she didn’t ’pear to take no heed. She was kindo’ pale, too, I thought, and swallered a time er two like as ef she couldn’t speak plain.

      “ ‘Who is the man?’ she ast.

      “ ‘Who—who’s the man?’ I says, a-gittin’ kindo’ out o’ patience with the girl.—‘W’y, you know who it is, o’ course.—It’s Morris,’ says I. ’Come, jump down! Don’t you see I’m waitin’ fer ye?’

      “ ‘Then take me,’ she says; and blame-don! ef the girl didn’t keel right over in my arms as limber as a rag! Clean fainted away! Honest! Jest the excitement, I reckon, o’ breakin’ it to her so suddent-like—‘cause she liked Annie, I’ve sometimes thought, better’n even she did her own mother. Didn’t go half so hard with her when her other sister married. Yes-sir!” said the old man, by way of sweeping conclusion, as he rose to his feet—“Marthy’s the on’y one of ’em ’a’t never married—both the others is gone—Morris went all through the army and got back safe and sound—‘s livin’ in Idyho, and doin’ fust-rate. Sends me a letter ever’ now and then. Got three little chunks o’ grandchildren out there, and I’ never laid eyes on one of ’em. You see, I’m a-gittin’ to be quite a middle-aged man—in fact, a very middle-aged man, you might say. Sence mother died, which has be’n—lem-me-see—mother’s be’n dead somers in the neighborhood o’ ten year.—Sence mother died I’ve be’n a-gittin’ more and more o’ Marthy’s notion—that is—you couldn’t ever hire me to marry nobody! and them has allus be’n and still is the ’Nest-egg’s’ views! Listen! That’s her a-callin’ fer us now. You must sorto’ overlook the freedom, but I told Marthy you’d promised to take dinner with us to-day, and it ’ud never do to disappint her now. Come on.” And, ah! it would have made the soul of you either rapturously glad or madly envious to see how meekly I consented.

      I am always thinking that I never tasted coffee till that day; I am always thinking of the crisp and steaming rolls, ored over with the molten gold that hinted of the clover-fields, and the bees that had not yet permitted the honey of the bloom and the white blood of the stalk to be divorced; I am always thinking that the young and tender pullet we happy three discussed was a near and dear relative of the gay patrician rooster that I first caught peering so inquisitively in at the kitchen door; and I am always—always thinking of “The Nest-egg.”

      WEE WILLIE WINKIE

       Table of Contents

      BY

      Rudyard Kipling

      As the sub-title, “An Officer and a Gentleman,” indicates, this is a story of character. Mr. Kipling, like Robert Louis Stevenson, James Whitcomb Riley, and Eugene Field, has carried into his maturity an imperishable youth of spirit which makes him an interpreter of children. Here he has shown what our Anglo-Saxon ideals—honor, obedience, and reverence for woman—mean to a little child.

      WEE WILLIE WINKIE[9]

      “An officer and a gentleman.”

      His full name was Percival William Williams, but he picked up the other name in a nursery-book, and that was the end of the christened titles. His mother’s ayah called him Willie-Baba, but as he never paid the faintest attention to anything that the ayah said, her wisdom did not help matters.

      His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon as Wee Willie Winkie was old enough to understand what Military Discipline meant, Colonel Williams put him under it. There was no other way of managing the child. When he was good for a week, he drew good-conduct pay; and when he was bad, he was deprived of his good-conduct stripe. Generally he was bad, for India offers many chances of going wrong to little six-year-olds.

      Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee Willie Winkie was a very particular child. Once he accepted an acquaintance, he was graciously pleased to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the 195th, on sight. Brandis was having tea at the Colonel’s, and Wee Willie Winkie entered strong in the possession of a good-conduct badge won for not chasing the hens round the compound. He regarded Brandis with gravity for at least ten minutes, and then delivered himself of his opinion.

      “I like you,” said he slowly, getting off his chair and coming over to Brandis. “I like you. I shall call you Coppy, because of your hair. Do you mind being called Coppy? It is because of ve hair, you know.”

      Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie Winkie’s peculiarities. He would look at a stranger for some time, and then,