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Laura E. Richards

Five Minute Stories

TO JOHN AND BETTY

BETTY

When I sit and hold her little hand,My Betty,Then all the little troubles seem to shrink,Grow small and petty. It does not matter any moreThat ink is spilt on parlor floor,That gown is caught upon the latch,And not the smallest bit to match,That cook is going, housemaid gone,And coming guests to meet alone;It matters not at all, you see,For I have Betty, and Betty has me. When I sit and hold her little hand,My Betty,Then all the simple, foolish baby talkGrows wise and witty. I’m glad to know that Pussy MowWas frightened at the wooden cow,I weep for Dolly’s broken head,And for the sawdust she has shed;I take with joy the cups of teaFrom wooden teapot poured for me,And all goes well, because, you see,I play with Betty, and Betty with me. When I walk and hold her little hand,My Betty,Then every humble weed beside the wayGrows proud and pretty. The clover never was so red,Their purest white the daisies spread,The buttercups begin to dance,The reeds salute with lifted lance,The very tallest trees we passBend down to greet my little lass;And these things make my joy, you see,For I love Betty, and Betty loves me!

TWO CALLS

Beau Philip and Beau Bobby stood side by side on the doorstep of their father’s house. They were brothers, though you would hardly have thought it, for one was very big and one was very little.

Beau Philip was tall and slender, with handsome dark eyes, and a silky brown moustache which he was fond of curling at the ends. He wore a well-fitting overcoat, and a tall hat and pearl-gray kid gloves.

Beau Bobby was short and chubby, and ten years old, with blue eyes and yellow curls (not long ones, but funny little croppy locks that would curl, no matter how short he kept them). He wore a pea-jacket, and red leggings and red mittens.

There was one thing, however, about the two brothers that was just the same.

Each carried in his hand a great red rose, lovely and fragrant, with crimson leaves and a golden heart.

“Where are you going with your rose, Beau Bobby?” asked Beau Philip.

“I am going to make a New Year’s call,” replied Beau Bobby.

“So am I,” said Beau Philip, laughing. “We may meet again. Good-by, little Beau!”

“Good-by, big Beau!” said Bobby, seriously, and they walked off in different directions.

Beau Philip went to call on a beautiful young lady, to whom he wished to give his rose; but so many other people were calling on her at the same time that he could only say “good-morning!” to her, and then stand in a corner, pulling his moustache and wishing that the others would go. There were so many roses in the room, bowls and vases and jars of them, that he thought she would not care for his single blossom, so he put it in his buttonhole; but it gave him no pleasure whatever.

Beau Bobby trotted away on his short legs till he came to a poor street, full of tumble-down cottages.

He stopped before one of them and knocked at the door. It was opened by a motherly looking Irish woman, who looked as if she had just left the washtub, as, indeed, she had.