Grandmother Dear: A Book for Boys and Girls

ounts the fe

om

t brothers. Not all my own brothers: my father had married twice, you see. And always when the babies came they wanted a little girl, for in the family of my grandfather too, there were but three boys, my father and his two brothers, and never a sister. And so one can imagine how I was fêted when I came, and of all none was so pleased as the old 'bon papa,' my

nos, Marie?" in

Monsieur; nine kilomete

six miles? We must have passed it

came, of course, to live with us. He was a kind old man-I remember him well-and he must have had need of patience in a household of eight noisy boys. They were the talk of the country, such fine men, and I, when I came,

The first girl, and so long looked for. And, Eulalie,' he told my mother, 'this day, the day of her birth, I shall plant an apple-tree, a seedling of the best stock, a 'reinette,' in the best corner of the orchard, and it shall be her tree. They shall gro

that very day he planted the apple-tree in the sunniest corner of the orchard. And he gave it the best of his care; it was watered in dry weather, the earth

is world," she said, with a sigh. "There was my Louis, our eldest, I thought nothin

ain?" asked the children.

se little young ladies-to write for him, before he died of the yellow fever. And he asked me to forgive him all the sorrows he had caused me: it was a good letter, a

tell us more, Marie," sai

ple-tree. And the first words I could say were 'Mi pommier à Malie.' Before many years there were apples, not so fine at the first, of course, but every year they grew finer and fi

iner and finer too,

e sm

to say. But they all thought so, the father and mother and the eight brothers, and the b

apple-tre

, the bon papa hoped that 'le pommier de la petite' would do well, though nothing else did, but it was not so. There was a good show of blossom, but when it came to the apples, ever

xclaimed

head and say he might have known what was coming, by the apple-tree. And my mother would console him-she, poor thing, who so much needed consoling herself-by saying, 'Come, now, bon papa, the apple-tree lives still, and doubtless by next year it will again be covered with beautiful fruit. Let us hope we

e old woman's face now whether the terrible visitor had left its traces or not; she was so brown and weather worn-her skin so dried

s the curious part of it. There were some, my neigh

rie Larreya,'-I wrote it down the other day because I t

often many people of the same name in a nei

ced most of all the girls-there was my old friend Didier who wanted every dance, and glad enough I would have been to dance with him-so tall and straight he was-but for some new friends I made that day. They were the cousins of my brother's young wife-two of them from Chalet, one a maid in a family from Paris, and with them there came a young man who was a servant in the same family. They were pleasant, good-natured girls, and for the young man, there was no harm in him; but their talk quite turned my silly head. They talked of Chalet and how

to see my new friends, who were always full of some plan to amuse themselves and me, and my home where I had been so

to spend the afternoon, when, just as

his season's on thy pommier. I gathered it this morning-see, it is quite ripe-i

it car

, as I put it in my pocket.

she would even wish to leave him for ever; for thou knowest well, my child, I could not live with the thought of thee

my mother, who was ironing at the table-work in which I could have helped her-stooped to wipe away a tear with the corner of her apron. But I did not car

cies;' and I went quickly out of the cottage and shut the door. But as I went I saw my

he pommier de la petite. Thou wilt see, my da

ng meant to comfort him, but I

me. She did not care for that, she said. She wanted a nice pretty girl to amuse her little boy, and walk out with him. And of course the young man, the valet, told me he knew she could not find a girl so pretty as I anywhere! I would find when I got to Paris, he said, how I would be admired, and then I would rejoice tha

for thee? No, it is not to be thought of,' said my father with decision; and though he was a quiet man who seldom interfere

other sai

thou ask such a

at me with sad reproach

ple of the season-I was to go to Chalet to tell my friends i

if I were wicked and ungrateful? Why should my life be gi

s it was not to be, their regret and their d

hould be treated still like a bébé-you so tal

e. They would soon forgive thee when they found how well things

could I go

ad of returning to Stéfanos I should start with them for Paris. I had already seen the lady, a young creature who, pleased with my appearance, concerned herself little about anything else, and my friends would tell her I had accepted her offer. And for my clothe

be dressed. For the journey I can lend thee a hat. Thou could'st not trav

at myself. My poor foulard, I had thought it so pretty. It had been the 'nouvel an' of the bon papa! But I wo

u would hardly believe how one can remember things of fifty years ago and more, as if they were yesterda

but I was tired, and oh, so hot and thirsty. I put my hand in my pocke

be so exacting. I do not wish to make him unhappy, but wh

on, that I had said I would think it over. Paris was so far away; at home they might all be

ot often of late that we had spoken to each other. He had not looked with favour on my new friends, who on their side had made fun of him (though I had noticed the day of the wedding t

le storm. I came to meet thee, to tell thee to shelter at our hous

atching me, and going to the house to be told of

an take care of myself. I have no wish to rest at you

, and the look in hi

is true,

t is

y 'thou'-'that you wish to go away and l

gry, 'What is it to you what I do? Attend to your own affai

e I knew what he was doing

say what I had not wished to say yet for a long time. I am older than you, eight years older, and I know my own mind. Marie, you know how I care for you, how I have always cared for you, you know what I hope may be some day? Has my

hat if I went away he would leave off caring for me came to me like a great shock. I had never thought of it like that; I had always fancied that whatever I did I could keep Didier devoted to me; I had amused myself with picturing my return from Paris quite a grand lady, and how I would pretend to be changed to Did

interference,' I said. 'I shal

ttempt to stop me, but stood

d, and then he called afte

t yet I saw it was going to be a great storm-you do not know, my young ladies, what storms we have here sometimes-and I was so hot and so tired, and when the anger began to pass away I felt so miserable. I could not bear to go home and see them all with the knowledge in my h

this I entered the orchard and sat down on my own seat, a little bench that-now m

so hot and so unha

ld go,' I thought. 'Now if I

t I was killed-that a punishment had come to me for my disobedience. 'Oh! I will not go away. I will do what you all wish,' I called out, as if my parents could hear me. 'Bon papa, forgive me. Thy little girl wishes no longer to leave thee;' but no one answered, and I lay there in terror. Gradually I grew calmer-after that fearful crash the thunder claps seemed to grow less violent. I looked up at last. What did I see? The tree next

HE APPL

fessed all-my naughty intention of leaving them all, my discontent and pride, and all my bad feelings. And they forgave me-the good people-they forgave me all, and bon papa took me in his arms a

said. "He would not know me now if he saw me, the dear bon papa," she added. "I am as old as he was then! How it will be in heaven

a, after a little pause. "Did y

funny old brown wrinkled skin I a

to make friends again-and though we said nothing about it for a long time, not till I

-then that's how your nam

laughed

les, Marie," said Sylvia. "Long after, when f

me!" said Marie. "I had many troubles after my husband died. I told you my son Louis w

in Paris," said Mol

rried, long ago of course, but she died, and her husband died, and the friends were not good for her children, and it was these I had to provide for-my grand-daughters. But now they are very well off-each settled, and so good to me! The married one comes with her bébé every Sunday, and the other, in a good place, sends me always a part of her wages. And my son t

ogether. "Thank you, Marie, thank y