Neal’s Moving Day by Hilda Richmond

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Dec 3, 1908

Neal’s Moving Day

By Hilda Richmond

“If I could only live in a tent or the barn,” grumbled Neal, “it would suit me lots better than here in the house.” Neal had been sent from the table to wash his hands, and he came back pouting. “I just wish I was an Indian.”

“It would be very nice in some ways to be an Indian or a tramp,” remarked papa, pleasantly. “I always enjoyed camping out when I was a boy.”

“I wish I could do that now,” said Neal, letting a little of the frown fade away. “The new corn-crib would be a dandy place.”

“Why don’t you try it?” asked papa, as if living in a corn-crib were an everyday affair with small boys. “We won’t put any corn in it till cold weather comes.”

“Mama wouldn’t let me,” said Neal. “Please let me do it, mama. It would be such fun.”

“Well, you might try it,” said his mother, easily. “When do you want to begin?”

“This very day,” cried Neal hurrying down his food. “I’ll have this for my moving day.”

No one seemed to notice that he hurried through with his dinner, or that he left without saying, “Excuse me.” He hurried to the play-room, and began selecting things to move to his new home. It took only a little while to get all the things out that Neal wanted. By one o’clock all were in the corn-crib.

“I—I guess I’m hungry,” said Neal to himself after he had tried the blanket in which he was to sleep, and had arranged his playthings to his liking. “I’ll go and see if Mary has some cookies.”

“So you are a tramp, are you?” asked Mary, looking him over as he rapped at the back door. “I never feed tramps unless they earn what they get. You can carry in all those kindlings, and I’ll see about something to eat.”

Neal had seen the real tramps splitting wood for Mary many a time before

she gave them anything to eat, but he did not know how they felt doing the work before eating. Long before the wood-box was filled, he thought he must take one of the nice fresh cookies; but, when the last stick was neatly piled in the box, Mary was ready with a tin of milk and some bread and butter.

“Sit on the step,” she said.

“Please, Mary, I’d like to have a cooky,” said Neal, timidly. “I’ll wash my hands before I take it, if you’ll only let me.”

“Beggars mustn’t be choosers,” said Mary, grimly. “If I fed cookies to every tramp that comes this way, I wouldn’t have any for my folks.”

Neal was very glad for the bread and milk, but he could not forget the smell of the warm cakes. Mary always saved the big corner cakes for him when he washed his hands particularly clean, but to-day he scrubbed and soaped to no purpose. After the little lunch he wandered forlornly to the new corn-crib, and wrapped himself in his blanket to cry. It was twilight when he awoke, and he went to the house to find the family eating supper, just as if they had forgotten all about him. He could stand it no longer, but rushed in, and sobbed out his troubles.

“I want to move back,” he wept. “I—I don’t like the new corn-crib a bit.”

“All right!” said papa and mama together. “Come right up to the table, now.” But Neal would not come until he had washed his hands and brushed his hair, and from that very day there was no more pouting about being clean. Two movings in one day have been all Neal has ever wanted.—Hilda Richmond.