THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE

They were all sitting around the library fire; Polly under the pretext of holding Phronsie’s head in her lap, was sitting on the rug beside her, the boys on either hand; old Mr. King was marching up and down the long room, and looking at them.  The merriest of stories had been told, Polly urging on all the school records of jolly times, and those not so enjoyable; songs had been sung, and all sorts of nonsense aired.  At last Joel sprang up and ran over to pace by the old gentleman’s side.

“Christmas was good enough,” said the boy, by way of beginning conversation.

“Hey?” responded the old gentleman, looking down at him, I should think it was.  Well, and how about the wonderful play on the twenty-first?  And that was good enough, too, I dare say.”

“That was well enough,” said Joel indifferently, “I don’t care for such stuff, though.”

“Tut—­tut!” cried Mr. King in pretended anger, “now I won’t have anything said against that wonderful production.  Not a thing, sir, do you hear?”

Joel laughed, his chubby face twinkling all over in secret amusement.  “Well, I know something better, if you’ll only let us do it, sir, than a hundred old plays.”

“And pray what is it?” demanded Mr. King, “let’s have it at once.  But the idea of surpassing the play!  Oh, no, no, it can’t be done, sir!”

“It’s to go and see the little brown house,” said Joel, standing up on his tiptoes to a level with the old gentleman’s ear, and one eye looking backward to see that nobody heard.

Mr. King started, pulled his handsome moustache thoughtfully, looked at Joel sharply, and then over at the group in the firelight.

“They don’t know anything about it,” cried the boy in a whisper, “don’t tell them.  It’s my secret, and yours,” he added generously.  “Oh! if we might only go and look at it.”

“It’s winter,” observed the old gentleman, and stepping to the window he put aside the draperies, to peer out into the black evening.  “Yes, it really is winter,” he added with a shiver, to the boy who was close behind, and as if no longer in doubt about it, he added most emphatically, “it really is winter, Joel.”

“Well, but you never saw anything like it, how magnificent winter is in Badgertown,” cried Joel in an excited whisper.  “Such hills to coast down; the snow is always crisp there, sir, not like this dirty town mud.  And the air is as dry as punk,” he added artfully.  “Oh! ’twould be such a lark;” he actually clasped his hands.

“Badgertown isn’t so very far off,” said Mr. King thoughtfully, “I’ll think about it and see if we can manage it.”

“Ugh-ow!” squealed Joel, utterly forgetful of his caution of secrecy, “we can, we can; we can open the little brown house, and build great fires there, and”—­But he got no further.  Into the midst of Van’s liveliest sally, came the words “little brown house,” bringing all the young people to their feet, Phronsie running to the old gentleman’s side, with, “What is it, Grandpapa?  He said the little brown house.”