battle. We used to get tired of trying; but we kept making
resolutions, and working hard to keep ’em. I don’t think I got on
much; but Jimmy did, and every one loved him.”
“Did n’t you ever squabble, as we do?”
“Yes, indeed, sometimes; but we could n’t stay mad, and always
made it up again as soon as we could. Jimmy used to come round
first, and say, ‘All serene, Polly,’ so kind and jolly, that I could n’t
help laughing and being friends right away.”
“Did he not know a lot?”
“Yes, I think he did, for he liked to study, and wanted to get on, so
he could help father. People used to call him a fine boy, and I felt
so proud to hear it; but they did n’t know half how wise he was,
because he did n’t show off a bit. I suppose sisters always are grand
of their brothers; but I don’t believe many girls had as much right
to be as I had.”
“Most girls don’t care two pins about their brothers; so that shows
you don’t know much about it.”
“Well, they ought to, if they don’t; and they would if the boys were
as kind to them as Jimmy was to me.”
“Why, what did he do?”
“Loved me dearly, and was n’t ashamed to show it,” cried Polly,
with a sob in her voice, that made her answer very eloquent.
“What made him die, Polly?” asked Tom, soberly, after little
pause.
“He got hurt coasting, last winter; but he never told which boy did
it, and he only lived a week. I helped take care of him; and he was
so patient, I used to wonder at him, for he was in dreadful pain all
time. He gave me his books, and his dog, and his speckled hens,
and his big knife, and said, ‘Good-by, Polly,’ and kissed me the last
thing and then O Jimmy! Jimmy! If he only could come back!”
Poor Polly’s eyes had been getting fuller and fuller, lips trembling
more and more, as she went on; when she came to that “good-by,”
she could n’t get any further, but covered up her face, and cried as
her heart would break. Tom was full of sympathy, but did n’t know
how to show it; so he sat shaking up the camphor bottle, and trying
to think of something proper and comfortable to say, when Fanny
came to the rescue, and cuddled Polly in her arms, with soothing
little pats and whispers and kisses, till the tears stopped, and Polly
said, she “did n’t mean to, and would n’t any more. I ‘ve been
thinking about my dear boy all the evening, for Tom reminds me
of him,” she added, with a sigh.
“Me? How can I, when I ain’t a bit like him?” cried Tom, amazed.
“But you are in some ways.”
“Wish I was; but I can’t be, for he was good, you know.”
“So are you, when you choose. Has n’t he been good and patient,
and don’t we all like to pet him when he ‘s clever, Fan?”‘ said Polly,
whose heart was still aching for her brother, and ready for his sake
to find virtues even in tormenting Tom.
“Yes; I don’t know the boy lately; but he ‘ll be as bad as ever when
he ‘s well,” returned Fanny, who had n’t much faith in sick-bed
repentances.
“Much you know about it,” growled Tom, lying down again, for he
had sat bolt upright when Polly made the astounding declaration
that he was like the well-beloved Jimmy. That simple little history
had made a deep impression on Tom, and the tearful ending
touched the tender spot that most boys hide so carefully. It is very
pleasant to be loved and admired, very sweet to think we shall be
missed and mourned when we die; and Tom was seized with a
sudden desire to imitate this boy, who had n’t done anything
wonderful, yet was so dear to his sister, that she cried for him a
whole year after he was dead; so studious and clever, the people
called him “a fine fellow”; and so anxious to be good, that he kept