CHAPTER I.

HOW DOLLY ATTENDED THE CONVENTION.

"C'nvention? What's a c'nvention?"

"Oh, it's a lot o' men, 'n they meet and chew tobacco and scatter the votes all over the floor, till it looks _worse_ than a pigsty, Thankful says, 'n then they come over here 'n eat 'n eat till they're fit to burst. But it's fun! I shall be glad when I'm old enough to go to c'nvention."

"Do women go?" asked Dolly.

"No, indeed! 'tisn't fit for women and girls," replied Ned, emphatically.

The two speakers were sitting in the veranda of the old tavern at Byfield. One would have known at once that the long, rambling, veranda-shaded house was a tavern because of the tall sign-post standing at its north-west corner. The sign was a huge gilt ball attached to an arrow-shaped scroll of iron, and had it been an English inn it would doubtless have been called "The Orange and Arrow," and have had a story about it like the story of William Tell. As it was, there was no story at all, and it was known through the county simply as "Park's Tavern."

The stage-coach which ran between Boston and Plymouth stopped there daily, and it came dashing up to the door now, bringing the first comers to the "c'nvention." These came from Hingham, the remotest town in the county, and they would spend the night preceding and the night following the convention at the tavern. Railroads were unknown as yet, and almost everybody came to the convention, as they went everywhere else, in their own carriages. The coach was crowded inside and out. This was a Whig convention, and the stage-driver, who was a Whig, had tied red, white, and blue ribbons on the harnesses of his six horses, which gave to the turnout a gay and festive air.

"A fine day, an' a fine drive, gen'lemen," he said, as he tossed the reins to the hostler and clambered heavily down the steps of the stage-coach, for he was immensely fat.

Dolly had arrived by that same coach eight days before. It was her first visit to Cousin Ned at Byfield, and as her home was in Boston, and she had rarely been into the country except for short drives to Quincy and Cambridge, everything was new, and every experience fresh and delightful.

Well, the morning of the "c'nvention" came, and the household at Park's Tavern were astir early. Dolly heard the first twitter of the robins in the cherry-tree by her window and was wide awake in an instant, with her mind full of the "c'nvention." By the time she was dressed Ned had despatched the chores, which he did with such marvellous promptness that Thankful remarked, grimly, "'Twas a pity there wasn't a c'nvention every day in the year."

"Oh, come now, Thankful, you'll like it yourself next week--see 'f you don't! 'n won't you be spry!" replied Ned.

Thereat Thankful said she "hoped she knowed her duty," which meant that she should do her best, if _'twas_ a Whig convention. For Thankful was a Democrat, and the next week the Democrats would hold their convention in the meeting-house at Byfield, and would dine at the tavern. As to the Whig coachman, she was barely civil when he came into the kitchen to bring a hamper of turkeys he had fetched from Boston, and she sniffed scornfully when Ned called her attention to the beribboned horses.

The breakfast was quickly eaten, and then the business of the day began. The cook-stove was taken out by four men from the inner kitchen and set up in the outer kitchen. A fire was made in the brick ovens in both kitchens, and when they were hot the coals were raked out with a long pole with a crook at one end, the whole something like a shepherd's crook, and the ovens were filled, one with huge sirloins of beef and spare-ribs of pork, the other with loaves of rye and wheat bread and plummy pudding. The pies had been made previously--one hundred mince, apple, pumpkin, and cranberry pies--and were spread out on tables in the L chamber, imparting to the atmosphere thereof a deliciously spicy fragrance perfectly intoxicating to any properly constructed boy.

Perhaps you wonder why the cook-stove should have been taken out of the inner kitchen. So did Dolly.

"You wait and see," said Ned. "That's part of the fun."

There was a big fireplace in this kitchen, such as you sometimes see in pictures or in very old houses, big enough to roast an ox whole in. 'Zekle, assisted by Ned, who liked to have a finger in every pie, made a fire in this fireplace of hickory and oak, which roared up the chimney hilariously as if understanding that it, too, was a part of the fun. Then 'Zekle, still assisted by Ned and followed by Dolly, brought down from the attic six tin "kitchens," as they were called, which looked very much like tin caves, Dolly thought. These were arranged in a semicircle before the fireplace, with the mouth of the cave turned towards the fire. Within each cave, or tin kitchen, two fat turkeys, after being carefully stuffed and trussed, were spitted, _i.e._, the long iron spit which went through the tin kitchen from end to end was thrust through the turkeys, and on this rod they revolved and slowly roasted. Under instructions from Thankful, Dolly was permitted as a great privilege to assist in basting these turkeys. She was supplied with one of Thankful's blue-and-white check aprons, which enveloped her little figure from top to toe, and a long-handled iron spoon was put in her hand. Every few minutes she turned the spit of one of the tin kitchens, and dipping up the gravy from the bottom, allowed it to dribble slowly from the spoon over the crisp browning turkey. As there were six of the tin kitchens, this kept her busy, and her cheeks grew rosy, but oh it was delicious fun! and, "I say, Dolly," said Ned, "don't they smell prime! I do hope those greedy Whigs won't eat every bit, as they did last year. Such pigs! Nothing left but bones to suck. Going to c'nvention is awful hungry work, I guess."

From the six pots and kettles on the stove in the outer kitchen came a bubbling sound, a knocking as the onions and turnips bounced against the lids, and a fire was made under the huge iron wash-boiler in which the potatoes were to be cooked.

"I say, Dolly," put in Ned, tired at last of doing nothing but watch her at her basting, "let's go out and see 'em come; and bime-by, when the pudding-sauce is done, we'll have the kettle to scrape, you know."

But before going out they went up-stairs to view the tables which Thankful, assisted by a bouncing girl, the daughter of one of the neighbors, had already set. The dining-hall, for that day, was the dancing-hall proper. This was a long room running from side to side of the house, with many windows. It had a smooth, shiny floor of hard pine, like a skating-rink floor, though of course roller-skating had not then even been thought of. But Ned would have told you that it was "prime" for sliding, for he had tried it.

Two tables were set lengthwise of this room, tables made of boards upheld by cross-sticks and covered with snow-white cotton cloth. The dishes were of that deep, beautiful blue so rare to find nowadays, and which brings such a price when a bit is found; plates, tureens, platters, cups, all of the same color.

The pewter casters had been conscientiously polished by Thankful to the last degree of brilliancy, and were only rivalled by the glitter of the groups of glass tumblers. Down the centre of each table was a row of decanters filled with hard cider of a delicate amber color. The forks were two-pronged and of steel, and napkins seemed to have been looked upon as superfluous, for there were none on the table.

Before Ned and Dolly were fairly seated in their place of observation in the shade of the big cherry-tree, one or two carriages had arrived and the hostlers were taking out the horses. The vehicles were of all sizes and shapes. A pretty sulky drawn by a white-eyed racker came swiftly and silently into the yard, and from it stepped a slight, brown-eyed man, to whom Ned shouted, "Halloo, Doctor!" Then came the delegation from the north part of the county, in a hay-cart furnished with seats, shaded by branches of oak and pine fastened to the stakes. This was followed by a half-dozen dilapidated carry-alls with flapping curtains, drawn by horses in every stage of meagreness.

A light barouche, drawn by a pair of beautiful black horses, now came into the yard. The driver was a negro, and as he alighted and opened the carriage door a tall man stepped out. He was _very_ tall, his shoulders were very broad, and he was very dark. As he lifted his hat to Mrs. Park, who stood in the east door, he showed a head that looked like the State-house dome, so Dolly whispered to Ned. His eyes were black, deep set, and glowed like a smouldering fire, but a fire which may blaze out at any unexpected moment. He wore black trousers, a blue coat with brass buttons, and a buff waist-coat. He was a remarkable looking man, and it is not to be wondered at that Dolly and Ned viewed him with much curiosity.

"Who is he, anyway?" whispered Dolly.

"I don't know," replied Ned. "I never saw him before."

Faster and faster came the carriages, and the crowd grew, and by little groups, and singly, they made their way over the Green to the meeting-house where the business of the convention was to be transacted.

"I shouldn't wonder if the pudding-sauce was done," remarked Ned. "S'pose we go and see."

"I'll get it," said Dolly; "you wait here;" and she flew to the kitchen, where she found Thankful just in the act of pouring the sirupy, nutmeggy sauce into the sauce-bowls. Now, Thankful, with all her grimness, and she could be very grim, had a soft spot in her heart for children, and for these two especially; and so, though she conscientiously held the brass kettle inverted till all had run out that could easily, she did not scrape it, as Dolly observed, but handed it to her, with the remark, "There, don't go 'n make yourselves sick now. There's enough to do, in all conscience, 'thout havin' sick child'en to take care of."

Dolly started down the flight of five stone steps leading from the kitchen to the well-yard, caught her foot, and fell headlong, with a dreadful ringing of the brass kettle as it bounded down in advance, and there stood two of the "c'nventioners" not three yards off! Dolly's face was crimson as she got up none the worse for her fall, though the brass kettle, as she picked it up, showed a bad dent in the side. She glanced furtively at the "c'nventioners" to see if they were smiling over her mishap. Bless 'em! they had neither seen nor heard her, so deep were they in their political schemes. Dolly's respect for the "c'nventioners" increased.

"Politics must be very interesting," she said to Ned, as they scraped the kettle sociably together. "I wish women and girls went. Say, couldn't we just go over and peep and see what they are doing?"

"No, indeed, not you!" replied Ned, with his mouth full of sauce, greatly scandalized at the suggestion. "I might, 'cause I'm a boy, but 'twould never do for a girl, you know."

But Dolly did _not_ know any such thing; and then and there an idea popped into her head which she did not share with Ned as usual.

The meeting-house clock struck twelve, which was the dinner-hour. The doors of the meeting-house opened, and the convention moved out in long procession over the Green to the tavern, but Dolly and Ned, being well screened by the lilacs, did not move, but sat and watched them as they passed in.

"There he is again," whispered Dolly, "the big man with the head like the State-house dome. Who can he be?"

"I'll ask Doctor Stone, he'll know; he knows everybody," said Ned. And he accosted the brown-eyed doctor as he passed by,

"Say, doctor, who's that big fellow with the blue coat and brass buttons?"

"That," replied the doctor, smiling down on the two eager faces, "that is Daniel Webster. And look at him well, my boy, for some time you may be glad and proud to be able to say that you have even _seen_ Daniel Webster."

The convention passed into the dining-hall and a rattling of dishes ensued. "Oh dear!" said Ned, with a deep sigh from the region of his empty stomach, "I s'pose they'll be at it two hours."

But just at that moment an unexpected call came from Thankful, who was standing in the kitchen door. "Come, child'en, an' git some dinner," she said.

And there, as they went in, on a corner of the kitchen-table which she had cleared, they espied as delicious a little dinner of turkey as two starving human creatures could ask for. The drumstick and neck and plenty of crisp skin for Ned, and two wings and a generous supply of "breast" for Dolly, with unlimited cranberry sauce and onions, together with the privilege of calling for as much pudding and pie as they liked.

"Oh, goody, what a spread!" cried Ned. "You're a dear old Thankful, that's what you are, Thankful!"

"Well, it did seem too bad for you child'en to wait till all them grown folks had got through. I never could see no sense in alwa's makin' child'en wait," rejoined Thankful, with a wisdom that young folks at least appreciate.

While they were eating their dinner Ned's father came in. "Ned," said he, "as soon 's you've done dinner just take Bill and ride over to Torrey's Mills, and tell 'em to send me a couple o' bags of meal."

"And," added his mother, "you might as well take the gizzards along to Aunt Debby. It's on your way, and they'll like them for a stew."

"Oh, isn't that queer!" said Dolly, "stewed gizzards!"

"Horrid, ain't it?" rejoined Ned. "But they like 'em. Mother always sends 'em the gizzards when she has turkeys, and they always ask me to stay to dinner. But I don't accept, you bet! Say," he continued, "don't you want to ride over there with me?--it's only a mile, and old Bill can carry us both, and you can see the three old aunties. It's no end o' fun. They're awful jolly 'f they do eat gizzards. Aunt Patty's head goes so," shaking his curly pate in vain imitation of poor aunt Patty's palsy-stricken head.

But Dolly declined the tempting proposal, for, as elsewhere hinted, she was nursing a brilliant idea which Ned's absence would allow her to put into action.

So she bade him a cheerful "good-by," and after watching him well out of sight, with one sweeping glance to assure herself that no one was at door or window, she ran across the Green to the meeting-house door, and pausing just an instant to make sure again that no one saw her, she sprang through the open door, and, speeding like a frightened fawn up the central aisle, she never stopped to take breath till she was safely inside the pulpit. This was not a modern pulpit, but an old-fashioned, roomy one, which could hold comfortably a party of a dozen people. The sides were high, so high that Dolly could just peep over. The over-hanging sounding-board lent a cosey, shut-in feeling to the place which seemed pleasant to Dolly--wilful, inquisitive Dolly, who wanted to know what a "c'nvention" was like, and had taken this way to find out. She soon saw, however, that a more secure hiding-place was necessary, for any one chancing to go into the gallery could look directly down upon her.

Across the back of the pulpit was a broad, cushioned seat, down to and back of which fell the heavy damask window draperies. Here was the very place! and Dolly lay down upon the shabby velvet cushions and drew the heavy draperies about her.

By-and-by, after what seemed to her an interminable time, the convention began to straggle in. The president called the meeting to order and business was resumed. Dolly pulled aside the curtains a bit and looked out. She was relieved to find that the convention confined itself to the floor of the house and did not invade the galleries. She listened. Confused murmurs arose of which she could hear only an occasional word. Somebody made a long speech about free-trade and the tariff, and the listeners cried "Hear! hear!" and stamped.

"It's stupid!" thought Dolly. "I thought c'nventions would be more interesting." And she had a rather mournful dissolving view of Ned riding on old Bill and carrying the basket of gizzards, and almost wished she had gone. Almost, not quite; for it was something to be at a "c'nvention," even if one had to hide behind a curtain, and it _was_ stupid.

Soon a great clamor arose. Somebody had said something he oughtn't to, and somebody else shouted, "Mr. President, I rise to a point of order," and the clamor increased, and there was stamping and hissing, and the president brought down his gavel with a prodigious rap-rap, and then the clamor subsided and became a murmur again, which grew fainter and fainter till it ceased altogether; for, snug in her nest on the comfortable cushions, overcome with the fatigues of the long, exciting day, and heavy, too, with the amount of turkey and pudding she had eaten, Dolly fell fast asleep, and the convention had lost the ear of its hidden listener.

The convention finished its business and adjourned _sine die_. Those members who lived in the nearer towns ordered out their vehicles and drove rapidly off. Those from the more remote towns stayed to take supper, or "a bite," as Thankful phrased it, before starting. At last all who were going had gone. The sexton, looking in and seeing the meeting-house apparently empty, locked the doors and went home. The sun set and the twilight faded. Ned coming home, and not seeing Dolly about, said to his mother, "Dolly's gone to bed, and I'm going too, for I'm awful tired." All the inmates of the tavern, among whom were the delegates from Hingham and Rochester, weary with the fatigues of the day, went off to bed at an unusually early hour, and the lights were put out. And still Dolly slept on heavily and peacefully upon the cushions of the old pulpit, shrouded in the damask draperies.

About midnight she awoke; she awoke suddenly. As she drew aside the curtain and saw the great space about her, the blindless windows of the old meeting-house staring at her like so many wide-open eyes, she thought at first it was a part of her dreams. Then it all came to her--how she must have fallen asleep--the people had all gone--it was night, and she was alone in the building!

Her first impulse was to cry out. But Dolly was a brave girl. She suppressed the cry before it had passed her lips. She thought, "I know it's awful to be alone here, but then I _am_ alone. There's nobody to harm me. I must stay here till morning. I'll try to go to sleep if I can, again, and then I sha'n't know anything about it. It's really snug up here. But, oh, why didn't they miss me and find me?" Here she came very near crying, as she thought of them all asleep in their beds over there, only the one little white bed in her own room empty. But she choked down the cry as she had done the scream, lay down again and drew the curtains more closely about her, and was just beginning to say over softly her evening prayer, when she heard a movement and a suppressed voice:

"D'ye hear that, Ben?"

"What?" said another voice.

"That noise."

"Rats!" rejoined the other. "These old barracks are always full of 'em."

I cannot repeat all the conversation to which Dolly listened from behind the curtains, trembling very much at first, but getting back her courage as she began to comprehend what they were talking about.

"Yes, a pile," one of them said. "Fifty cents a head for the dinner, and two hundred he got from the bank t'other day to pay Wright--it'll be the biggest haul we've made for many a day."

"Where's he keep it?"

"In his chist, clost by his bed."

"Spos'en he sh'd wake up?"

"I'll tend t' that," replied the other, significantly.

Yes, it was her dear, good uncle of whom they were talking, and this was a plot to rob him of his money, and worse, perhaps, should he wake.

"It's time, come along," said the voice which belonged to Ben, and they made their way from the pews where they two had been sleeping to an open window in the rear of the meeting-house.

Dolly stood up carefully on the cushions, and, peeping out between the curtains, saw in the dim starlight, for the night was moonless, two burly men who climbed heavily out. She waited till their steps died away, then she ran noiselessly down the pulpit stairs, and cautiously through the aisles, lest she might hit an open pew-door and so shut it with a bang that would warn the thieves that they had left something besides rats behind them. She leaped lightly through the window and, going in an opposite direction from that taken by the men, crossed the road through a slight hollow north of the tavern, and so stole up to its rear through the garden, whose thick-growing quince-bushes and dwarf trees screened her from observation. She had made no plan of action--there had not been time to think much; it seemed to come to her, as she said afterwards, just what to do, and she only felt that it must be done quickly.

And now one of her accomplishments, of which she had sometimes felt a little ashamed, because it had won her the name of "tomboy"--the ability to climb lightly and swiftly--came into play. Thankful's wash-bench stood under the edge of the veranda, and springing upon this, with the help of the grape-vine she gained the veranda roof, ran lightly around the west and north sides of the house to the great cherry-tree that stood not far from her uncle's bedroom window. Up, up its branches she flew like a squirrel, even to the very top, and she had barely reached it when the feet of the thieves were heard upon the gravelly way which led into the yard. They crept cautiously up to the window, their hands were upon it, when suddenly out from the cherry-tree, almost directly above their heads, there burst such a volume of happy, rollicking song, such trills and warblings as of a multitude of song-birds, accompanied with a soft swaying of the branches, that, terrified beyond measure, they stood for a moment motionless and then turned and fled. Dolly listened to their fast-fleeing steps till they died in the distance, and with them died her song.

At that instant Thankful's window went up, and Thankful's nightcapped head was thrust out. "Bless us and save us!" she ejaculated. "What _is_ a-goin' on!"

"Oh, Thankful," cried a cheery voice out of the cherry-tree, and a white figure dropped upon the veranda roof. "I'm so glad it's you! Come and let me in."

"The little creetur is a-walkin' in her sleep," muttered Thankful as she pulled in her head. "She'll break her blessed neck!--unless it's a spook!" she added, under her breath; and to make sure it wasn't she looked into Dolly's room on her way down to the door. Sure enough, there was the little empty bed. No bonny bright head on its pillow! No sweet confusion of dainty clothes scattered about the room!

She unfastened the front door, and meanwhile the other inmates of the tavern, including the delegates, having been awakened, they now presented themselves in every stage of undress. They all crowded around Dolly, offering explanations. "She's walking in her sleep," they reiterated, one after the other. "And it's a marcy she didn't break her neck a-singin' up in that cherry-tree," added Thankful.

"Oh, Thankful, I'm not asleep. Please don't say so," entreated Dolly.

Aunt Anna, who by this time had come out of her bedroom, put her arm about Dolly and drew her to her side. She was shivering from head to foot, and her eyes shone as the star we call Venus shines in the April twilight. Aunt Anna touched her cheek with hers. It was aflame with fever. "The child is sick," she said. "She's out of her head."

"Oh, don't talk so, please don't talk so!" said Dolly, bursting into a passion of tears and sobs, which, happily, came as a relief to the severe nervous tension which might really have ended in delirium.

"Well, dear, tell us what it does mean, if you wish," said Aunt Anna, gently, when Dolly's sobs had ceased.

And Dolly told her story. It was heard in silence, only Thankful ejaculating, when Dolly reached the point when she first knew the thieves were in the meeting-house, "Dear little lamb! it's a marcy the wolves didn't get her!"

"And now come out, please," she added, "and you'll know it's all true, for they tramped right over auntie's 'none-so-pretties.'"

They went out, 'Zekle having fetched a lantern, and there in truth were the bright-faced flowers crushed and bruised under the footsteps of the thieves, and the pet of the flower-garden, a gorgeous root of tiger-lilies, was broken entirely off.

"And here's sunthin' else," said 'Zekle, picking up a huge pistol from out the "none-so-pretties." He pointed it upward and fired. "There! that'll let 'em know we're awake," he said.

Aunt Anna, who greatly feared the harmful effect of this adventure upon Dolly, undressed her herself, and after bathing her in the warm bath which Thankful had promptly prepared, sat by her till she fell asleep. She slept far into the morning, and Ned, who was the only one who had not wakened the night before, heard the whole story before she was out of her bedroom, and profound was his admiration for Dolly's "pluck."

"'Twas just like a girl to do that! You never know what a girl will do. Now I should 'a' just yelled."

"But why didn't you go straight to some door or window, and pound, instead of climbing into a tree?" said he to Dolly herself.

"I think I thought of it," said Dolly, "but I couldn't be sure but the thieves had got there, and I wanted to get right round to uncle's window as still as I could, and, too, I knew I couldn't knock loud enough to wake anybody sound asleep, and besides--well, I don't know just how it was."

"But what made you think about the singing, Dolly? that was the very queerest of all," he asked.

"I don't know," replied Dolly, "unless 'twas the wolf story. You know, Ned, when the man was followed by wolves he climbed up on a roof, and because the roof was low, and he was afraid they might climb up too, if they were very hungry, he played to them on his violin to entertain them, and they sat round and listened till somebody came and scared them off. They were just charmed, you see, and p'raps I thought I could charm the thieves. At any rate I didn't think much about it--I just did it."

"What did you sing, anyway?" asked Ned.

"Oh, that was the queerest!" replied Dolly. "I couldn't think of anything but just this fairy song. Nurse Lely taught it to me," and she sprang up and went dancing up and down the hall (for they were in the dancing-hall, the tables having been removed) singing:

"_Oh, dance, dance as the fairies dance, The fairies dance, the fairies dance; Oh, dance, dance as the fairies dance, Trip-trip in the magic ring._

"_Oh, sleep, sleep as the fairies sleep, The fairies sleep, the fairies sleep; Oh, sleep, sleep and the fairies sleep-- In the cowslip's bell they swing._

"_Oh, fly, fly as the fairies fly, The fairies fly, the fairies fly; Oh, fly, fly as the fairies fly On the black bat's dusky wing._"

And as she danced to and fro, keeping time to the rhythm, and gently swaying like the cowslips' bells, and then flew up and down the hall with her arms beating the air like wings, Ned found it difficult to give full expression to his delight.

"Did you really do all that--the dancing and flying, I mean--up in the tree?"

"What I could; but I had to hold on with one hand, you know."

"Say, let me see you do it up there some time, will you?" Ned asked.

"P'raps so," Dolly replied.

"But I say," continued Ned, after a moment's reflection, "what cowards those fellows were, to be scared by a girl singing a fairy song in a tree!"

"Ah, Ned," said his mother, who was sorting pies in the L chamber which opened out of the hall, "sin is always cowardly. It is only righteousness that is brave."