THE NEIGHBORS' BOYS by Mrs. Harriet A. Cheever

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Apr 23, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 25.

THE NEIGHBORS' BOYS.

By Mrs. Harriet A. Cheever

WHEN we moved into the neighborhood, I told my husband there was one thing which evidently would prove an insufferable annoyance. The streets were full of boys—horrid boys.

I fancied I never did like boys, and, having none of my own, it seemed shameful to have to put up with such a tribe of other people's as there were about us.

Mr. Wilborn said, soothingly, with a kind of twinkle in his eye—I suppose the man remembered that he was once a "horrid boy" himself—"Oh, well, I wouldn't worry; perhaps the little chaps won't trouble you as much as you anticipate!"

And just at that moment with a whoop and a bound came half a dozen of them around our alley. We were at supper, and as I turned to see what was the matter, I was only just in time to see a half dozen heels flying over the back fence.

"Well, did you ever!" I gasped.

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Wilborn, "I've 'shined it' over the neighbor's fence more than a hundred times; my turn to take it now! That's all."

Well, it looked like a terrible trial. Of course, like every other woman, I wanted to be as popular with my neighbors as possible, so I resolved not to make any more fuss about it than I could help, but I had a guilty suspicion that poor Horace would hear fussing enough.

Well, they clattered and raced and whistled; they tooted and sung and climbed, and were veritable boys, I can assure you; yet at the end of three days I had not seen or heard anything absolutely objectionable, only the general racket and running fire of sport continually kept up.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, which happened to be Saturday, a perplexity occurred. I had just received a note saying some friends were coming to tea, and, as my girl had not yet arrived, there was no one to send on some necessary errands.

I went to the door and looked anxiously forth to see how far off a store might be, and if I could take four-year-old Addie with me. One neighbor's boy was perched on the railing separating our piazza from the next one. Another was sitting on the fence. Two or three others were lurking in the alley.

As my anxious face looked forth, the monkey on the fence actually took off his cap as he inquired respectfully:—

"Have you lost anything, Mrs. Wilborn?"

"Oh, no," I said pleasantly, "I was only thinking of going on an errand, and didn't know just how to!"

"Why, send us!" said the merry boy, with a bound off the fence and a nod toward the others.

"Will you really go?" I inquired, as railing, fence, and alley delivered up their phalanx.

"Why, bless you, yes, ma'am," said a boy with dimples—that 'horrid boy' actually had dimples—"why, that's what we're for! We hang around just to do errands and be useful. Mamma says that's what boys are made for."

I laughed a relieved laugh as I produced a basket and told of my wants, and in less than fifteen minutes those mimic locomotives came choo-chooing around the yard with everything I sent for, and the change all right.

I was proceeding to give a cent or two all around, when with a whistle off they bounded, one little chap lingering to say with mock dignity:—

"We young gentlemen never take pay till we do something."

Two or three days after, just as Horace was starting out to business, we missed little Addie. She had skipped off while we were eating breakfast and we thought she was with the girl, who came the day before. The child was nowhere to be found. With pale faces Horace and I rushed to the door.

Boys everywhere.

"O boys," I cried, "my little girl has run away! What shall I do?"

"Do? Why, find her of course!" was the uninterrupted chorus. "She hasn't run away from us, you better believe," said one consoling little fellow; "there isn't a corner in the city where sissy could hide and we not poke our noses in less time than you can say Jack Robinson."

"Oh, bless the dear boys!" I exclaimed. "How they do cheer me!"

Horace looked at me and said never a word.

I put on my bonnet to join the search, but before I reached the end of the long block two boys came round a distant corner carrying Addie "arm chair" on their clasped hands. A shrill whistle recalled the other scouts.

Horace produced a handful of small change, but a low bow from the boy with the dimples was accompanied with the remarkable speech: "We coves don't take change until folks know us, and then they never offer it."

But the time came when I broke down and cried, cried hard.

Horace came home from the city one day when we had been in our new home about a fortnight, very ill.

I was terrified at his appearance, he looked and seemed so sick.

When he got to the door, he declared afterwards, he could not manage his night key, he was so faint. But a ubiquitous boy unlocked the door for him, then two others helped him into the house, as deftly as if they had been men.

I met them in the hall and understood matters at a glance. A third boy had started with my message to the doctor in a trice. A fourth softly asked permission to take Addie up and down the sidewalk "for a little change." I blessed the boy's thoughtfulness in the midst of my care and anxiety.

The two who helped Horace in stayed with me, moving silently about assisting in little ways until Horace was in bed and the doctor came and reassured me. Then all at once there wasn't a boy to be seen, not a boy until about half an hour afterwards, when I happened to go to the back door, and there perched on the fence in solemn conclave were seven of my neighbors' boys, so silent I should never have suspected they were around unless I had seen them.

At my appearance one boy spoke up cheerily:—

"You see we are only prowling around in case we should be wanted."

That was when I broke down and cried, not because of my anxieties, those were greatly relieved, but because I had called those dear, quiet, helpful little fellows, "horrid boys."

Toward night, as a tap came at the outside door, I opened it to see a bright face look up into mine, while a roguish voice remarked:—

"The mourners are about to disperse for the night. Are there any errands?"

I kissed right into a dimple as I replied cheerfully:—

"No, my dear boy, nothing to-night, thank you."

Now they scamper freely around the yard, perch on and tumble over our fence, coddle Addie, and chat with me at the open window, and I think my neighbors' boys are splendid, just splendid! The merry boys!

And to my real delight I heard one confide to Addie the other day that the fellows all thought her papa was one of the nicest gentlemen they ever knew, and he added heartily: "And we all think you've got just the boss mamma!"—Mrs. Harriet A. Cheever.