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THE LUCY BOOKS.

  BY THE
  Author of the Rollo Books.

  _New York_,
  CLARK AUSTIN & CO.
  205 BROADWAY.




COUSIN LUCY’S CONVERSATIONS.

  BY THE
  AUTHOR OF THE ROLLO BOOKS.

  A NEW EDITION,
  REVISED BY THE AUTHOR.

  NEW YORK:
  CLARK, AUSTIN & SMITH,
  3 PARK ROW AND 3 ANN-STREET,
  1854.




  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841,
  BY T. H. CARTER,
  In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.




NOTICE.


The simple delineations of the ordinary incidents and feelings which
characterize childhood, that are contained in the Rollo Books, having
been found to interest, and, as the author hopes, in some degree to
benefit the young readers for whom they were designed,--the plan is
herein extended to children of the other sex. The two first volumes
of the series are LUCY’S CONVERSATIONS and LUCY’S
STORIES. Lucy was Rollo’s cousin; and the author hopes that the
history of her life and adventures may be entertaining and useful to
the sisters of the boys who have honored the Rollo Books with their
approval.




CONTENTS.


                       Page.

  CONVERSATION I.
  THE TREASURY,            9

  CONVERSATION II.
  DEFINITIONS,            21

  CONVERSATION III.
  THE GLEN,               34

  CONVERSATION IV.
  A PRISONER,             43

  CONVERSATION V.
  TARGET PAINTING,        51

  CONVERSATION VI.
  MIDNIGHT,               60

  CONVERSATION VII.
  JOANNA,                 75

  CONVERSATION VIII.
  BUILDING,               88

  CONVERSATION IX.
  EQUIVOCATION,          103

  CONVERSATION X.
  JOHNNY,                118

  CONVERSATION XI.
  GETTING LOST,          132

  CONVERSATION XII.
  LUCY’S SCHOLAR,        146

  CONVERSATION XIII.
  SKETCHING,             159

  CONVERSATION XIV.
  DANGER,                170




LUCY’S CONVERSATIONS.

CONVERSATION I.

THE TREASURY.


One day in summer, when Lucy was a very little girl, she was sitting in
her rocking-chair, playing keep school. She had placed several crickets
and small chairs in a row for the children’s seats, and had been
talking, in dialogue, for some time, pretending to hold conversations
with her pupils. She heard one read and spell, and gave another
directions about her writing; and she had quite a long talk with a
third about the reason why she did not come to school earlier. At last
Lucy, seeing the kitten come into the room, and thinking that she
should like to go and play with her, told the children that she thought
it was time for school to be done.

Royal, Lucy’s brother, had been sitting upon the steps at the front
door, while Lucy was playing school; and just as she was thinking that
it was time to dismiss the children, he happened to get up and come
into the room. Royal was about eleven years old. When he found that
Lucy was playing school, he stopped at the door a moment to listen.

“Now, children,” said Lucy, “it is time for the school to be dismissed;
for I want to play with the kitten.”

Here Royal laughed aloud.

Lucy looked around, a little disturbed at Royal’s interruption.
Besides, she did not like to be laughed at. She, however, said nothing
in reply, but still continued to give her attention to her school.
Royal walked in, and stood somewhat nearer.

“We will sing a hymn,” said Lucy, gravely.

Here Royal laughed again.

“Royal, you must not laugh,” said Lucy. “They always sing a hymn at the
end of a school.” Then, making believe that she was speaking to her
scholars, she said, “You may all take out your hymn-books, children.”

Lucy had a little hymn-book in her hand, and she began turning over the
leaves, pretending to find a place.

“You may sing,” she said, at last, “the thirty-third hymn, long part,
second metre.”

At this sad mismating of the words in Lucy’s announcement of the hymn,
Royal found that he could contain himself no longer. He burst into loud
and incontrollable fits of laughter, staggering about the room, and
saying to himself, as he could catch a little breath, “_Long part!--O
dear me!--second metre!--O dear!_”

“Royal,” said Lucy, with all the sternness she could command, “you
_shall not_ laugh.”

Royal made no reply, but tumbled over upon the sofa, holding his sides,
and every minute repeating, at the intervals of the paroxysm, “_Long
part--second metre!_--O dear me!”

“Royal,” said Lucy again, stamping with her little foot upon the
carpet, “I tell you, you shall not laugh.”

Then suddenly she seized a little twig which she had by her side, and
which she had provided as a rod to punish her imaginary scholars with;
and, starting up, she ran towards Royal, saying, “I’ll soon make you
sober with my rod.”

Royal immediately jumped up from the sofa, and ran off,--Lucy in hot
pursuit. Royal turned into the back entry, and passed out through an
open door behind, which led into a little green yard back of the
house. There was a young lady, about seventeen years old, coming out of
the garden into the little yard, with a watering-pot in her hand, just
as Royal and Lucy came out of the house.

She stopped Lucy, and asked her what was the matter.

“Why, Miss Anne,” said Lucy, “Royal keeps laughing at me.”

Miss Anne looked around to see Royal. He had gone and seated himself
upon a bench under an apple-tree, and seemed entirely out of breath and
exhausted; though his face was still full of half-suppressed glee.

“What is the matter, Royal?” said Miss Anne.

“Why, he is laughing at my school,” said Lucy.

“No, I am not laughing at her school,” said Royal; “but she was going
to give out a hymn, and she said----”

Royal could not get any further. The fit of laughter came over him
again, and he lay down upon the bench, unable to give any further
account of it, except to get out the words, “_Long part!_ O dear me!
What shall I do?”

“Royal!” exclaimed Lucy.

“Never mind him,” said Miss Anne; “let him laugh if he will, and you,
come with me.”

“Why, where are you going?”

“Into my room. Come, go in with me, and I will talk with you.”

So Miss Anne took Lucy along with her into a little back bedroom. There
was a window at one side, and a table, with books, and an inkstand, and
a work-basket upon it. Miss Anne sat down at this window, and took her
work; and Lucy came and leaned against her, and said,

“Come, Miss Anne, you said you would talk with me.”

“Well,” said Miss Anne, “there is one thing which I do not like.”

“What is it?” said Lucy.

“Why, you do not keep your treasury in order.”

“Well, that,” said Lucy, “is because I have got so many things.”

“Then I would not have so many things;--at least I would not keep them
all in my treasury.”

“Well, Miss Anne, if you would only keep some of them for me,--then I
could keep the rest in order.”

“What sort of things should you wish me to keep?”

“Why, my best things,--my tea-set, I am sure, so that I shall not
lose any more of them; I have lost some of them now--one cup and two
saucers; and the handle of the pitcher is broken. Royal broke it. He
said he would pay me, but he never has.”

“How was he going to pay you?”

“Why, he said he would make a new nose for old Margaret. Her nose is
all worn off.”

“A new nose! How could he make a new nose?” asked Miss Anne.

“O, of putty. He said he could make it of putty, and stick it on.”

“Putty!” exclaimed Miss Anne. “What a boy!”

Old Margaret was an old doll that Lucy had. She was not big enough to
take very good care of a doll, and old Margaret had been tumbled about
the floors and carpets until she was pretty well worn out. Still,
however, Lucy always kept her, with her other playthings, in her
_treasury_.

The place which Lucy called her treasury was a part of a closet or
wardrobe, in a back entry, very near Miss Anne’s room. This closet
extended down to the floor, and upwards nearly to the wall. There were
two doors above, and two below. The lower part had been assigned to
Lucy, to keep her playthings and her various treasures in; and it was
called her _treasury_.

Her treasury was not kept in very good order. The upper shelf contained
books, and the two lower, playthings. But all three of the shelves were
in a state of sad disorder. And this was the reason why Miss Anne asked
her about it.

“Yes, Miss Anne,” said Lucy, “that is the very difficulty, I know. I
have got too many things in my treasury; and if you will keep my best
things for me, then I shall have room for the rest. I’ll run and get my
tea things.”

“But stop,” said Miss Anne. “It seems to me that you had better keep
your best things yourself, and put the others away somewhere.”

“But where shall I put them?” asked Lucy.

“Why, you might carry them up garret, and put them in a box. Take out
all the broken playthings, and the old papers, and the things of no
value, and put them in a box, and then we will get Royal to nail a
cover on it.”

“Well,--if I only had a box,” said Lucy.

“And then,” continued Miss Anne, “after a good while, when you have
forgotten all about the box, and have got tired of your playthings in
the treasury, I can say, ‘O Lucy, don’t you remember you have got a box
full of playthings up in the garret?’ And then you can go up there,
and Royal will draw out the nails, and take off the cover, and you can
look them all over, and they will be new again.”

“O aunt Anne, will they be really _new_ again?” said Lucy; “would old
Margaret be new again if I should nail her up in a box?”

Lucy thought that _new_ meant nice, and whole, and clean, like things
when they are first bought at the toy-shop or bookstore.

Miss Anne laughed at this mistake; for she meant that they would be
_new_ to her; that is, that she would have forgotten pretty much how
they looked, and that she would take a new and fresh interest in
looking at them.

Lucy looked a little disappointed when Anne explained that this was her
meaning; but she said that she would carry up some of the things to the
garret, if she only had a box to put them in.

Miss Anne said that she presumed that she could find some box or old
trunk up there; and she gave Lucy a basket to put the things into, that
were to be carried up.

So Lucy took the basket, and carried it into the entry; and she opened
the doors of her treasury, and placed the basket down upon the floor
before it.

Then she kneeled down herself upon the carpet, and began to take a
survey of the scene of confusion before her.

She took out several blocks, which were lying upon the lower shelf,
and also some large sheets of paper with great letters printed upon
them. Her father had given them to her to cut the letters out, and
paste them into little books. Next came a saucer, with patches of red,
blue, green, and yellow, all over it, made with water colors, from Miss
Anne’s paint-box. She put these things into the basket, and then sat
still for some minutes, not knowing what to take next. Not being able
to decide herself, she went back to ask Miss Anne.

“What things do you think I had better carry away, Miss Anne?” said
she. “I can’t tell very well.”

“I don’t know what things you have got there, exactly,” said Miss Anne;
“but I can tell you what _kind_ of things I should take away.”

“Well, what kind?” said Lucy.

“Why, I should take the bulky things.”

“Bulky things!” said Lucy; “what are bulky things?”

“Why, _big_ things--those that take up a great deal of room.”

“Well, what other kinds of things, Miss Anne?”

“The useless things.”

“Useless?” repeated Lucy.

“Yes, those that you do not use much.”

“Well, what others?”

“All the old, broken things.”

“Well, and what else?”

“Why, I think,” replied Miss Anne, “that if you take away all those,
you will then probably have room enough for the rest. At any rate, go
and get a basket full of such as I have told you, and we will see how
much room it makes.”

So Lucy went back, and began to take out some of the broken, and
useless, and large things, and at length filled her basket full. Then
she carried them in to show to Miss Anne. Miss Anne looked them over,
and took out some old papers which were of no value whatever, and then
told Lucy, that, if she would carry them up stairs, and put them down
upon the garret floor, she would herself come up by and by, and find a
box to put them in. Lucy did so, and then came down, intending to get
another basket full.

As she was descending the stairs, coming down carefully from step to
step, with one hand upon the banisters, and the other holding her
basket, singing a little song,--her mother, who was at work in the
parlor, heard her, and came out into the entry.

“Ah, my little Miss Lucy,” said she, “I’ve found you, have I? Just come
into the parlor a minute; I want to show you something.”

Lucy’s mother smiled when she said this; and Lucy could not imagine
what it was that she wanted to show her.

As soon, however, as she got into the room, her mother stopped by the
door, and pointed to the little chairs and crickets which Lucy had left
out upon the floor of the room, when she had dismissed her school. The
rule was, that she must always put away all the chairs and furniture
of every kind which she used in her play; and, when she forgot or
neglected this, her punishment was, to be imprisoned for ten minutes
upon a little cricket in the corner, with nothing to amuse herself with
but a book. And a book was not much amusement for her; for she could
not read; she only knew a few of her letters.

As soon, therefore, as she saw her mother pointing at the crickets and
chairs, she began at once to excuse herself by saying,

“Well, mother, that is because I was doing something for Miss
Anne.--No, it is because Royal made me go away from my school, before
it was done.”

“Royal made you go away! how?” asked her mother.

“Why, he laughed at me, and so I ran after him; and then Miss Anne took
me into her room and I forgot all about my chairs and crickets.”

“Well, I am sorry for you; but you must put them away, and then go to
prison.”

So Lucy put away her crickets and chairs, and then went and took her
seat in the corner where she could see the clock, and began to look
over her book to find such letters as she knew, until the minute-hand
had passed over two of the five-minute spaces upon the face of the
clock. Then she got up and went out; and, hearing Royal’s voice in the
yard, she went out to see what he was doing, and forgot all about the
work she had undertaken at her treasury. Miss Anne sat in her room two
hours, wondering what had become of Lucy; and finally, when she came
out of her room to see about getting tea, she shut the treasury doors,
and, seeing the basket upon the stairs, where Lucy had left it, she
took it and put it away in its place.




CONVERSATION II.

DEFINITIONS.


A few days after this, Lucy came into Miss Anne’s room, bringing a
little gray kitten in her arms. She asked Miss Anne if she would not
make her a rolling mouse, for her kitten to play with.

Miss Anne had a way of unwinding a ball of yarn a little, and then
fastening it with a pin, so that it would not unwind any farther. Then
Lucy could take hold of the end of the yarn, and roll the ball about
upon the floor, and let the kitten run after it. She called it her
rolling mouse.

Miss Anne made her a mouse, and Lucy played with it for some time. At
last the kitten scampered away, and Lucy could not find her. Then Anne
proposed to Lucy that she should finish the work of re-arranging her
treasury.

“Let me see,” said Miss Anne, “if you remember what I told you the
other day. What were the kinds of things that I advised you to carry
away?”

“Why, there were the _sulky_ things.”

“The what!” said Miss Anne.

“No, the big things,--the big things,” said Lucy.

“The bulky things,” said Miss Anne, “not the _sulky_ things!”

“Well, it sounded like _sulky_,” said Lucy; “but I thought it was not
exactly that.”

“No, not exactly,--but it was not a very great mistake. I said
_useless_ things, and _bulky_ things, and you got the sounds
confounded.”

“Con-- what?” said Lucy.

“Confounded,--that is, mixed together. You got the _s_ sound of
_useless_, instead of the _b_ sound of _bulky_; but _bulky_ and _sulky_
mean very different things.”

“What does _sulky_ mean? I know that _bulky_ means _big_.”

“Sulkiness is a kind of ill-humor.”

“What kind?”

“Why, it is the _silent_ kind. If a little girl, who is out of humor,
complains and cries, we say she is fretful or cross; but if she goes
away pouting and still, but yet plainly out of humor, they sometimes
say she is _sulky_. A good many of your playthings are bulky; but I
don’t think any of them are sulky, unless it be old Margaret. Does she
ever get out of humor?”

“Sometimes,” said Lucy, “and then I shut her up in a corner. Would you
carry old Margaret up garret?”

“Why, she takes up a good deal of room, does not she?” said Miss Anne.

“Yes,” said Lucy, “ever so much room. I cannot make her sit up, and she
lies down all over my cups and saucers.”

“Then I certainly would carry her up garret.”

“And would you carry up her bonnet and shawl too?”

“Yes, all that belongs to her.”

“Then,” said Lucy, “whenever I want to play with her, I shall have to
go away up garret, to get all her things.”

“Very well; you can do just as you think best.”

“Well, would you?” asked Lucy.

“I should, myself, if I were in your case; and only keep such things in
my treasury as are neat, and whole, and in good order.”

“But I play with old Margaret a great deal,--almost every day,” said
Lucy.

“Perhaps, then, you had better not carry her away. Do just which you
think you shall like best.”

Lucy began to walk towards the door. She moved quite slowly, because
she was uncertain whether to carry her old doll up stairs or not.
Presently she turned around again, and said,

“Well, Miss Anne, which would you do?”

“I have told you that _I_ should carry her up stairs; but I’ll tell you
what you can do. You can play that she has gone away on a visit; and so
let her stay up garret a few days, and then, if you find you cannot do
without her, you can make believe that you must send for her to come
home.”

“So I can,” said Lucy; “that will be a good plan.”

Lucy went immediately to the treasury, and took old Margaret out, and
everything that belonged to her. This almost made a basket full, and
she carried it off up stairs. Then she came back, and got another
basket full, and another, until at last she had removed nearly half of
the things; and then she thought that there would be plenty of room to
keep the rest in order. And every basket full which she had carried
up, she had always brought first to Miss Anne, to let her look over
the things, and see whether they had better all go. Sometimes Lucy had
got something in her basket which Miss Anne thought had better remain,
and be kept in the treasury; and some of the things Miss Anne said
were good for nothing at all, and had better be burnt, or thrown away,
such as old papers, and some shapeless blocks, and broken bits of china
ware. At last the work was all done, the basket put away, and Lucy came
and sat down by Miss Anne.

“Well, Lucy,” said Miss Anne, “you have been quite industrious and
persevering.”

Lucy did not know exactly what Miss Anne meant by these words; but she
knew by her countenance and her tone of voice, that it was something in
her praise.

“But perhaps you do not know what I mean, exactly,” she added.

“No, not exactly,” said Lucy.

“Why, a girl is industrious when she keeps steadily at work all the
time, until her work is done. If you had stopped when you had got your
basket half full, and had gone to playing with the things, you would
not have been industrious.”

“I did, a little,--with my guinea peas,” said Lucy.

“It is best,” said Miss Anne, “when you have anything like that to do,
to keep industriously at work until it is finished.”

“But I only wanted to look at my guinea peas a little.”

“O, I don’t think that was very wrong,” said Miss Anne. “Only it would
have been a little better if you had put them back upon the shelf, and
said, ‘Now, as soon as I have finished my work, then I’ll take out my
guinea peas and look at them.’ You would have enjoyed looking at them
more when your work was done.”

“You said that I was something else besides industrious.”

“Yes, persevering,” said Miss Anne.

“What is that?”

“Why, that is keeping on steadily at your work, and not giving it up
until it is entirely finished.”

“Why, Miss Anne,” said Lucy, “I thought that was _industrious_.”

Here Miss Anne began to laugh, and Lucy said,

“Now, what are you laughing at, Miss Anne?” She thought that she was
laughing at her.

“O, I am not laughing at you, but at my own definitions.”

“Definitions! What are definitions, Miss Anne?” said Lucy.

“Why, explanations of the meanings of words. You asked me what was the
meaning of _industrious_ and _persevering_; and I tried to explain them
to you; that is, to tell you the definition of them; but I gave pretty
much the same definition for both; when, in fact, they mean quite
different things.”

“Then why did not you give me different definitions, Miss Anne?” said
Lucy.

“It is very hard to give good definitions,” said she.

“I should not think it would be hard. I should think, if you knew what
the words meant, you could just tell me.”

“I can tell you in another way,” said Miss. Anne. “Suppose a boy should
be sent into the pasture to find the cow, and should look about a
little while, and then come home and say that he could not find her,
when he had only looked over a very small part of the pasture. He would
not be _persevering_. Perhaps there was a brook, and some woods that he
ought to go through and look beyond; but he gave up, we will suppose,
and thought he would not go over the brook, but would rather come home
and say that he could not find the cow. Now, a boy, in such a case,
would not be _persevering_.”

“_I_ should have liked to go over the brook,” said Lucy.

“Yes,” said Miss Anne, “no doubt; but we may suppose that he had been
over it so often, that he did not care about going again,--and so he
turned back and came home, without having finished his work.”

“His work?” said Lucy.

“Yes,--his duty, of looking for the cow until he found her. He was
sent to find the cow, but he did not do it. He became discouraged, and
gave up too easily. He did not _persevere_. Perhaps he kept looking
about all the time, while he was in the pasture; and went into all
the little groves and valleys where the cow might be hid: and so he
was _industrious_ while he was looking for the cow, but he did not
_persevere_.

“And so you see, Lucy,” continued Miss Anne, “a person might persevere
without being industrious. For once there was a girl named Julia. She
had a flower-garden. She went out one morning to weed it. She pulled
up some of the weeds, and then she went off to see a butterfly; and
after a time she came back, and worked a little longer. Then some
children came to see her; and she sat down upon a seat, and talked with
them some time, and left her work. In this way, she kept continually
stopping to play. She was not industrious.”

“And did she _persevere_?” asked Lucy.

“Yes,” said Miss Anne. “She persevered. For when the other children
wanted her to go away with them and play, she would not. She said she
did not mean to go out of the garden until she had finished weeding
her flowers. So after the children had gone away, she went back to
her work, and after a time she got it done. She was _persevering_;
that is, she would not give up what she had undertaken until it was
finished;--but she was not _industrious_; that is, she did not work all
the time steadily, while she was engaged in doing it. It would have
been better for her to have been industrious and persevering too, for
then she would have finished her work sooner.”

As Miss Anne said these words, she heard a voice out in the yard
calling to her,

“Miss Anne!”

Miss Anne looked out at the window to see who it was. It was Royal.

“Is Lucy in there with you?” asked Royal.

Miss Anne said that she was; and at the same time, Lucy, who heard
Royal’s voice, ran to another window, and climbed up into a chair, so
that she could look out.

“Lucy,” said Royal, “come out here.”

“O no,” said Lucy, “I can’t come now. Miss Anne is telling me stories.”

Royal was seated on a large, flat stone, which had been placed in a
corner of the yard, under some trees, for a seat; he was cutting a
stick with his knife. His cap was lying upon the stone, by his side.
When Lucy said that she could not come out, he put his hand down upon
his cap, and said,

“Come out and see what I’ve got under my cap.”

“What is it?” said Lucy.

“I can’t tell you; it is a secret. If you will come out, I will let you
see it.”

“Do tell me what it is.”

“No,” said Royal.

“Tell me something about it,” said Lucy, “at any rate.”

“Well,” said Royal, “I will tell you one thing. It is not a bird.”

Lucy concluded that it must be some curious animal or other, if it was
not a bird; and so she told Miss Anne that she believed she would go
out and see, and then she would come in again directly, and hear the
rest that she had to say. So she went out to see what Royal had got
under his cap.

[Illustration: “So she went out to see what Royal had got under his
cap.”