Holiday Tales   By: Florence Wilford (1836-)

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HOLIDAY TALES.

BY FLORENCE WILFORD,

AUTHOR OF 'NIGEL BARTRAM'S IDEAL,' 'AN AUTHOR'S CHILDREN,' ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.

[Illustration: Emblem]

GRIFFITH, FARRAN, OKEDEN & WELSH,

SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERY AND HARRIS,

WEST CORNER OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, LONDON. E. P. DUTTON & CO., NEW YORK.

The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved.

CONTENTS

SEVEN CAMPBELLS I. MOTHER AND SONS 5 II. JOHNNIE'S PROTEGE 29 III. WHAT SEVEN CAMPBELLS CAN DO 56

CECIL'S MEMORABLE WEEK I. CECIL'S MEMORABLE WEEK 73 II. A BACHELOR'S LUNCH 98 III. GOOD NEWS 123 IV. IT'S ALL RIGHT! 139

[Illustration]

SEVEN CAMPBELLS.

CHAPTER I.

MOTHER AND SONS.

'MAMMA, there's such a fine poem here about "seven lovely Campbells" whose father's name was Archibald; it must mean us, don't you think so?' And a very pretty boy about ten years of age, who had been poring for some time over Wordsworth's Poems, lifted his roguish face to his mother's with a look of pretended conviction.

'Not exactly, Willie, seeing that the poem begins, "Seven daughters had Lord Archibald!"'

'Ah, mamma, you are not to be caught. I do believe you have read everything that ever was written! But now, mamma, which would you rather have seven daughters or seven sons?'

'I would rather have just what I've got, Willie.'

'Seven sons, then. Oh! mamma, I'm glad you said that; and you know we shall be of much more use to you than a lot of girls. Why, if the French were to come, you needn't be a bit afraid, with all of us to defend you.'

'Baby at the head, armed cap à pie , I suppose,' smiled the mother, dancing in her arms her youngest son, a little fellow of about two years old; but she soon set him down in her lap again, for she had been ill, and was still so weak that the least effort tired her.

'Mamma, I think you'd better let me ring for nurse to take Georgie, and then you can lie upon your sofa again and have a nap; and I'll go and ask my brothers to play in the rough ground, where you won't hear their noise,' said thoughtful Willie.

The mother assented to all these proposals; but when, after ringing the bell, the boy turned to go, she beckoned him back to her side. 'Tell my darling Johnnie that I hope he'll come and sit with me this afternoon; only he must be wise and quiet, and not get into one of his harum scarum moods, or papa won't let me have him.'

Willie nodded sagaciously. 'I'll keep guard over him, mamma, so that he shall behave like a mouse all dinner time, and then papa won't be afraid to trust him. Now let me give Georgie one kiss.' His mother watched him fondly as he caressed the little brother, whose baby mind took small cognizance of such affectionate demonstrations, and then, drawing his curly head down to her, she gave him a true mother's kiss, and whispered, 'Mamma's own good boy.' Willie tripped lightly down the stairs and into the garden, where three little boys, of the respective ages of eight, six, and five, were playing at the well known game which Charles Dickens terms 'an invasion of the imaginary domains of Mr. Thomas Tytler.'