Larry

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Preface

When the story of " Larry " went to try its luck among other competitors for one of the prizes offered by The Youth's Companion, it had been composed under limitations as to length, and was not to exceed six chapters. Some of the characters and incidents belonging to the original plan had been sacrificed in order to conform to the published conditions.

After the story had run its course in the columns of the Companion, and there was a general desire to have it in form for preservation, it was rewritten so as to include the portions which had been omitted, and is now offered to the public in a complete form.

The author hopes that those who followed " Larry " through the struggles and aspirations of his youth will once more give a cordial welcome to this fuller relation.

Contents

CHAP. PAGE

I. A Stranger in a Strange Land i

II. The Flowering of Love 18

Chapter I A Stranger In A Strange Land

" Not thet little runt ! " exclaimed Farmer Peck explosively, eying the small lad who stood hesitatingly before him. " Why, he don't look's though he could drive a muskeeter to water ! No, sir ! He ain't the kind I want. A good, stout, likely lad, that'll be of some use, an' kin take his chance right along. I've got three sons settled on gov'- ment farms of ther own, an' my last boy's turned seventeen. He'll soon be poundin' on the bars for freedom. I want some one to take his place and sorter grow up with the work. Ye can't git no sich poor, measly stock off' n me, now I tell

He laughed derisively as he said this. Mr. Peck was a large, burly, corn-and-pork-fed man, a Western farmer. He was not likely to starve any one who fell into his hands, but he would exact the full return of what he gave. The place was a railroad station in the northern part of Michigan, with a platform and a rough little office, opposite a country store. Two or three streets branched out, and a small cluster of houses that were hardly neighborly. Beyond this were wide stretches of farming country, rugged hills and woodlands.

The " little runt " was a slim, pale-faced lad, looking younger than his twelve years. He had large, wistful, blue-gray eyes, and a pinched nose that seemed 4o shrink as he heard the man's words, and the hope died out of his face. His hands too were small ; his slim fingers like a girl's. He worked them nervously now. The shrinking, shivering aspect rendered him less prepossessing.

He glanced from the farmer to the young man who was superintending the dispersion of some half a dozen city waifs, sent out by the Children's Aid Society. Mr. Harford smiled and passed his arm familiarly over the boy's shoulder, as he said pleasantly, —

"You'll find him a nice, honest, trusty lad. We have known him for more than a year. The boy we were going to bring you had a streak of luck at the last moment. Some well-to-do relatives came to hand and claimed him. As we had your order, and this little chap wanted to come, we thought we would try. There's a big country for him to grow in, and if he had a chance I haven't a doubt he'd grow."

The boy had edged closer and closer to Mr. Harford, as if he had no further desire for the bargain.

"Well, I ain't goin' to take him. Thet boy the Murrays had, now, — he's a real likely chap ! Thet's my style ! Ye can't work off none of yer milk-an'-water scrubs on me, skim-milk at thet ! "

Farmer Peck gave a loud laugh at his own wit, and winked at some of the bystanders, as if he had quite the best of the argument. There were a few stragglers about who always came down to see a train in.

As he turned with a snort which he meant for disdain, he faced a wagon in which sat a plain, grave, country-woman in a rough shawl and knitted hood, with one hand full of mail matter. A touch of curiosity had drawn her over to the group of children going to new homes among strangers. There was a smile of contempt on her lips as she glanced at Peck, who pompously addressed himself to her, —

"Here, now, Mat Corliss," he cried in a derisive tone, " here's a chance to trot out yer good feelin's. Here's an objec' for your charity. Come, now! You folks who hain't nothin' to do with yer money, an' ain't likely to get merried and hev fam'lies o| \ yer own, oughter be benev'lent. Here's a poor little scrawn come all the way from N' York, hardly stout 'nough to hold together 'thout bein , corded up. I ain't no time to nuss such poor shoats. But you folks who kin read novels and news, an* go canterin' round the country, oughter hev time to be charitable. Come, now," banteringly.

The little fellow wiped away some tears with his coat-sleeve as he listened to this unflattering description of himself.

" Never mind, my lad," said Mr. Harford cheerily ; " there'll be other chances. We may find one as we go back."

Martha Corliss leaned over a little with a shrewd smile crossing her lips. Then she said slowly, as the contrast between the two touched some latent sense of amusement, —

" Was'nt he brought for you ?"

" Well, he ain't 'cordin to contract, an' the bargain's off. I couldn't get rid of no sech stock 'er farmin' truck. Bring him round nex' year, fatted up, an' I'll see!"

He turned away surlily as the woman's steady eye seemed to pierce him.

Martha Corliss had been strangely moved ten minutes before by the little golden-haired girl Who had been lifted up in the Duffords' wagon,

;e land 7

could write to

ip to the face of ; glance. Somei warm and comr. Harford stood

ask them what

•r she'd be likely

and her face

c, as she nodded

the young man,

(1 his way.

us little fellow.

i' le's talk/' she

;st him. " I've

>'lin' round for

1' enough here,

.ch. Dare say

:ice. Nothing her ; it was too ul a humorous wd and showed, rather gens that children

" I'd try ; I'd do my very best. And I can work a good bit " —

" See here," Miss Corliss said to the young man, " I ain't had much 'pinion of strays, though I'm free to confess the Murrays' boy is turnin' out well. I don't need no help just now, but he looks so peaked I'm sorry for him ; I'll give him shelter for the winter, an' fat him up, unless he's one of Pharo's lean kine. Don' no's as I'll promise to keep him for good an' all, but by spring you might be comin' round, and something might open for him. By spring he might take some one's fancy."

Mr. Peck had settled himself in his wagon, and turned his horses' heads just in time to hear part of Miss Corliss's speech. Now he chimed in with a malicious sort of laugh, —

/' That's the talk! You jest fat him up by spring, an' I'll be 'round to take anuther look at him."

An angry flush suffused Miss Corliss's face, but she took no notice of the sneer. She did not really believe the child could be fattened. He looked more like dying than living. It wasn't altogether the city mark either. She had seen it in another face. So she attached no more importance to Mr. Peck's jeer than he did.

"Well," she said to Harford, "if so be you're willin' to let him stay with me, he sha'n't be hurt.

'Twould be like visiting an* he could write to you " — '

The boy glanced at her, then up to the face of his friend. Such an eager, asking glance. Something in the woman's voice seemed warm and comforting, and won him at once. Mr. Harford stood considering.

" Go over to Miller's store and ask them what they know of Mat Corliss ; whether she'd be likely to starve creeturs or humans ; " and her face softened to a queer ghost of a smile, as she nodded over to the store opposite, whither the young man, after considering a moment, wended his way.

She studied the shrinking, anxious little fellow. Then she threw open the fox robe.

" Jump up here an' get warm, an' le's talk," she said, holding out her hand to assist him. " I've read 'bout little fellows like you hus'lin' round for a livin'. Lord knows there's hus'lin' enough here, but you can do it on a full stomach. Dare say you've been hungry time an' again!"

A full smile brightened her face. Nothing could make a handsome woman of her ; it was too late for that ; but her brown eyes had a humorous glint in them, and her face, if shrewd and showing marks of exposure, was not hard, rather generous, indeed, and with the kindness that children and animals trust at once.

He winked very hard to keep from crying as he climbed up, and she tucked him in. Oh, how delightful the soft furry robe felt !

"What's your name ? " she asked.

" Larry, Larry Rivington."

" Like the country ? "

"I — I thought I would," timidly. " I coaxed Mr. Brace to let me come."

" Folks dead ? " in a softened tone.

" Yes, ma'am." The little chap swallowed over a very big lump in his effort to be manly. " Mother's been dead two years, and I've been looking out for myself. I don't mind it in the summer, but last winter" —

" Yes," abruptly. She was afraid he would cry in another moment. There was once a little lad, older than this one — what made her think of it now ?

" Like horses and creeturs of all kinds ?"

" Yes, ma'am ; I can drive a horse. A fellow in New York who drove an express wagon used to let me help. I was awful sorry when he went away. His folks bought a farm. My ! Wasn't he glad ! "

She laughed at that. A pleasant, jolly laugh it was, and showed her white even teeth. He laughed a little too, but his cheeks were so thin it only made wrinkles in his face.

Mr. Harford was coming across to them with an amused and satisfied expression.

"You sent me, you know," he began. " It was your own risk, Miss Corliss, and your own offer to fat him up. Well, Larry, have you been entering into a conspiracy with Miss Corliss ? "

Harford smiled up at the lad, who looked smaller and whiter amid the yellow fur.

" We don't often do things this way, Miss Corliss, but if you keep him till spring you may like him so well you will not want to give him up. You may hear of another home, or you might be able to fat him up to Mr. Peck's requirements. What do you say, Larry ? "

There had been a flash of humor in his face as he mentioned the burly farmer. Larry smiled shyly up at the woman, then with sudden alarm cuddled closer to her. The confidence touched her heart as he cried, —

"Oh, Fd so much rather go with you ! Do you think he would ever want me ? "

" Oh, he won't bother you ! " she said reassuringly. " He wants a big, stout fellow that can do a man's work. Don't you get a bit afraid ; I'll take care of you."

" He's a good, honest, straightforward boy. I am glad to know he will be well fed and housed. There are so many of them in the city, and they go to ruin so fast."

IO LARRY

" Well, you can find me any time, — Martha Corliss, Long Ridge Farm. I ain't likely to skip out with my flocks an* herds an* hay an* corn. An' he's at liberty to say whether I treat him well or not. I don't even b'lieve he'll skip out either," and she chuckled with a mellow sound.

Harford picked up a bundle from the platform and handed it into the wagon. Then he slipped two half-dollars into Larry's hand.

" That's for paper and postage. Since you are to be a sort of honorary guest, you must have a little money of your own. I know you will be a good boy, Larry."

Larry reached over and clasped his arms around Mr. Harford's neck, but his good-by was inarticulate. The young man shook hands with Miss Corliss, and thanked her for her kindly interest. Then he stepped back on the platform to wait for his train.

The stragglers had returned to the store ; the others gone about their business. Miss Corliss tucked Larry up closer, thinking of little motherless lambs she had nursed. Then she turned the heads of her horses — great strong creatures they were — toward home.

" York's a mighty big place, I s'pose," she began, partly to turn his attention.

" Yes'm," the boy said faintly.

A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND I I

"I've read about it. Great hotels an' houses of grand people an' Central Park an* Broadway an* great tenement-houses an* people goin* hungry every day. How'd you manage to get your bread, or did you live along with Mr. Harford?"

" Oh, no ; I only went to the Lodging House to sleep. And I did — most everything."

" Sold papers ? "

"Yes. And ran errands and swept sidewalks and put in coal."

" Where was your father ?"

She hated to ask the question, since he had not mentioned him.

" He died when I was a little bit of a chap. I can remember his long white hands as he used to sit and play " —

" Play what ? " as he paused.

"Play the piano. And, oh, he made such beautiful music ! I used to go to sleep with the sound in my mind, and it seemed like heaven. But he was ill a long, long while. And he had a dreadful cough."

" And afterward ? " she said in a grave tone.

" Mother gave music-lessons. We used to play duets and sing together. And I went to school. But after a while the piano went away, and we kept only one room. She grew white and thin, and we were just poorer and poorer."

The thin, plaintive voice faltered.

Miss Corliss took both lines in one hand, gave him another tuck of the robe, and drew him up closer.

" Then she was ill in bed. One day I came home from school and the neighbors were there. At first they wouldn't let me come in, but mamma told them to. I sat on the bed, and she kissed me and said she was going to see papa. And she begged me to be good and not tell lies nor steal nor drink beer. I wasn't really thinking about her dying just then. Mrs. Bergen gave me some supper and put me to bed with Frank and Jimmy. And in the morning "—

"Oh, you poor little mite!" How the simple story touched her ! " Yes ; in the morning you had no mother. And what did you do then ? "

" I lived with Mrs. Bergen, and helped her all I could. When the winter was almost over she married Mr. Teale, whose wife had died. He had two children, and he said he wouldn't have me 'round, that I must go to an asylum. I was afraid, and I ran away and lived with an old woman who took in washing. Another boy lived there, and we helped her and sold papers. The boys drove me off of beats and licked me, and laughed at me 'cause I didn't swear. They used to call me sissy. I didn't mind it so much in the summer, but last winter was just awful ! "

" Where were your folks — relations ? "

" I guess there wasn't any. Father had some I believe." Larry drew a long, sighing breath.

" And you found this man who brought you out here ? "

" I went to the Boys' Lodging-House and the Mission School because something happened to old Betty. It was about some shirt-studs, and they sent, her to Blackwell's Island. And when they told about good homes out West, I thought I'd like to come. I was tired of knockin' 'round and going cold and hungry."

" Well, you won't need to go cold and hungry with me," she said rather proudly.

" I'm willing to work." There was an honest ring in his voice that might have been sturdy with more strength. " I can do a good many things for your folks, if they'll only keep me."

" Folks ! " She gave the amused chuckle she had uttered before. "Like you, I haven't any folks."

Larry glanced at her, perplexed.

"Oh," she subjoined, " I've got hired help, and horses and cows and sheep and pigs and chickens, but my own folks are all dead. Maybe some time I'll tell you about my mother. You'll find a granny at my house, a queer old body, but she ain't my own granny either. She just stops with me."

" Are your children dead too ? " he asked in an awed tone.

" I never had any. I'm an old maid," and she gave a rather abrupt laugh.

" You don't look as old as Miss Clawson who taught in the Mission School. Her hair was white and her face all wrinkled, but she was awful sweet and nice."

Something in the boy's voice thrilled through her whole body. "Awful sweet and nice ! " There had never been any one to say it about her. Nothing had moved her so in a long while. The pale little lad snuggling up to her, telling his poor, simple story, without a real friend in the world, perhaps, but those faraway Mission people. And she had so much !

" I'll be real glad t<5 do your errands and anything. I could cut up kindlin's " —

" I'll find something. Don't you worry a mite."

He glanced up out of glad, thankful eyes. Why, she almost loved him ! How queer it was !

And then she thought of Granny, and the petty jealousy of old age that she so often evinced. She well knew she would not take kindly to this little stranger, if he were favored or made much of by herself. She grudged superannuated old Tige the place he sometimes insisted upon, her lap. Tige had been a famous mouser in his day, but there were so many frisky young cats about the barn and granary, that he had retired from active pursuits and settled in the chimney corner. He never cared to sit in any one's lap but Miss Mat's, and he generally stretched out on the opposite side of the hearth from Granny ; for she had a way of stepping on his paws or his tail, and then mumbling something about that " great lazy cat being always in the way."

Miss Mat had taken the homeless old woman in some years before, as no one seemed inclined to have her. It wasn't so much her " keep " as her crabbed temper, and at first her kindly hostess had found her quite a trial. Now matters had settled to comparatively smooth sailing. She hated bickering, " squabbling " she called it, and she wanted to make Granny comfortable to the end of her days.

" But she'll get her back up at once, for she won't like him if she thinks I've taken him just for — well, just because I wanted to." Miss Mat's thought had shaped the word "pleasure." It had been pity at first, sheer pity for the poor little lad in his evident disappointment, and now a queer feeling was stirring her very soul, as the child nestled so near, and seemed to have such perfect trust in her. All these years she had had nothing to do with children. And if she should want to " keep him right along " — Oh, what was she thinking about !

" There," she said suddenly, as if she gave herself a mental shake, " that's Long Ridge, my farm. Acres and acres, as far as you can see ; the best land about here," chuckling a little as she well knew what had made it the " best." " That big belt of timber yonder, and that long stretch of rocky ground. I've wished many a time they had it down in the sandy countries; but that's the way the Lord made it, even if it isn't a bit of good."

Larry stretched up and looked out of his furry tent. The November day was drawing to a close. The sun had dropped behind the Ridge, and a luminous light shot with orange and tawny scarlet flared up almost as if the nether world was in flames.

The boy's eyes wandered over great reaches of stubble field, acres of stacked cornstalks, and a wide immensity, then to the brilliant upper glow.

"It's beautiful !" he said with a sigh of longing. He had never seen such a great space of sky. " Don't you suppose that's all heaven beyond ? "

Heaven ! She seldom thought about it. Long time ago she used to think of her mother and little Joe in this sunset glory. Little Joe ! Perhaps that was why Larry so touched her heart.

"Ain't there any houses?" he asked timidly. The coming night and the strange silence gave him a sense of loneliness.

" Houses ! " with a queer little sound in her voice. "Well, we're coming to mine. We ain't noways crowded out here, hardly nebberly. Widder Piatt lives down below the Ridge there, and she's got two half-witted sons, men grown. And she ain't much s'ciety herself."

" Don't you ever get lonesome ? "

" Don't have no time. There's plenty of things comin' up an' growin'; trees a-bloomin' an' birds a-singin' an' lambs an' calves an' colts caperin' round ; crops to put in, and afore you get turned round it's ripenin' an' harvestin' an' sellin' an' gettin' fixed for winter, an', oh, land.! then gettin' ready for spring. Mebbe it seemed longer when I was as little as you."

She sighed unconsciously. She had no happy childhood to remember.

" Here we are," she said, turning into the lane. Twilight was filming the air, but through the window Larry saw a glow that warmed his heart, a great fire blazing and leaping in the wide chimney.

Chapter II

As Miss Corliss sprang out some one seemed to rise out of bushes near by and go around to the horses' heads.

"Ye'r late, Miss Mat," said a not unkindly, though rather rough voice.

" Yes ; I ain't hurried for once." She was taking out some bundles that she threw over on the doorstep. Then she lifted Larry down on the ground, gave the horses a pat, and had a soft whinny in return.

"Yes, you beauties," she answered them, "you shall have a nice rub and a good supper. There, Tim."

Tim looked askance at the something that stood there, but Miss Mat strode on, taking its hand and gathering her parcels with the other. "There, child, go in," as she opened the door. "This is my home."

Larry was a little dazed coming out of the dusk. He had the vague impression of a large room with a supper-table standing at one end. There was an odorous smell that suggested a grand newsboys' dinner. He walked straight to the immense fireplace, and stood there speechless, with shining eyes.

" It's so beautiful ! " There was a quiver in his voice like tears. "When my mother was a little girl they had a big fireplace like this, an' the children all b'lieved Santa Claus came down the chimney with their presents. I wish she could see it ! Oh, do you think she can know I'm right here in the light of this splendid fire? She'd be so glad ! "

The unfeigned joy touched her. She laid her hand softly on the fair head, and there was a strange emotion making a tumult in her whole large body and rendering her voice husky, as she replied, —

"Oh, I hope so. I'm so glad you like my fire."

He looked almost beautiful in the glow, at least to her eyes. Then there was a sudden stir. Tige, the big striped cat, who had been sleeping in the warmth, rose and stretched himself, took a look at the new-comer, came forward with a purr that half filled the room, and, arching his back, rubbed against the thin legs.

"Tige likes you," she said, with a gladness in her voice. " He doesn't often take to strangers. And he likes my fire too." #

She stooped and took the cat in her arms. Years ago his method of welcome was to run up her gown to her shoulder, and give her cheek a touch with his pink tongue. He still kept up the kind of cat-kissing. Larry laughed to see it.

"I like everything. I like you so much. It was awful good of you to let me come, and if you'll only give me some work to do" —

"There ! You're tired and excited. We'll have some supper first." She laughed a little nervously, to hide her emotion. "And here's Granny."

The door from the kitchen had opened, and there was a little thud of a cane, as well as a dragging, uneven step. Miss Corliss turned a trifle, and with the same motion Larry faced a queer, wrinkled old woman, who would have been tall if she had not bent in the shoulders. Her eyes were dark, sharp, and piercing. Her nose was long, her chin sharpened, which gave her the sort of nutcracker face that Larry had made many a time on the sidewalk or dry-goods box with a piece of chalk. He almost wanted to laugh, and yet he drew a little closer to Miss Mat with a sudden fear. Before she could utter another sentence the high, shrill voice rang out, —

"What's this? What's this?" and she pointed her stick towards Larry.

" This is my boy. Rained down out'n a clear sky. You an* Tige don't more'n half fill the chimney corner. I've brought some one to keep you company."

" Sakes alive ! What did possess ye, Mat Corliss ! I ain't dyin' fer no comp'ny. I'm one o' that kind who's sat'sfied to stay as they be, an' not forever hankerin' arter changes. An' that whitelivered thing ! Anybody kin see he's half gone with consum'tion. 'Fore you know it he'll die on yer han's. Sech a measlin' lookin' thing ! Warri't ther any one else to take him ? ' Chimbly corner/ says you ! Well, ther ain't no room fer him in the same chimbly corner with me ! "

Granny gave a snort and thumped angrily to her chair.

"Don't mind her just now," whispered Miss Mat.

"An' makin' folks wait till mos* midnight fer ther supper. Pot-pie crust's fell 'n '11 be heavy as lead," she flung out as soon as she caught her breath. " An' there you stan' nussing that young-un 's if ther wan't another soul in the universe."

" She'll be better natured after supper," whispered Miss Mat again, with a funny expression on her face that was a smile kept in, for she had learned that smiles sometimes anger people as easily as hard words. She disengaged the clinging hands gently, and sat him in a low chair, adding, " Don't mind ; I'll be back in a minnit."

"Granny turned and glared at him. He had seen fierce old women before, but he was frightened to find one here.

" Where'd yer come from ?"

" New York," ventured Larry timidly.

"N' York!" her voice seemed higher and shriller than before. " Well, York's a mighty big place ! There's hospitals an' 'stutions — I hear Miss Mat read about 'em. We do know a little if we do live way out in Michegan. An' if they wouldn't keep ye there, seems to me they might 'a dropped ye somewhere on the road, stidder givin folks the trouble of burryin' ye."

" I'm always well. I've never been real sick." Larry swallowed over a very big lump at the grewsome prospect of being buried.

" If that's the way well folks look, sick people in York would be enough to scare a ghost ! " Granny gave a shrill sort of cackle.

" It's jest like her ! always loadin' herself up with the halt, 'n the blind, 'n the useless. She took a half-silly girl last summer, but some of her folks come to hand. I hain't the slightest idea what she could see in ye ; but it's my solium 'pinion that some day she'll give shelter to some one that'll jest take her in orful, orful ! She'll have her house set afire, or we'll be murdered in our beds an* everything stole " —