Grace and Horace Clifford lived in Indiana, and so were called “Hoosiers.”

Their home, with its charming grounds, was a little way out of town, and from the front windows of the house you could look out on the broad Ohio, a river which would be very beautiful, if its yellow waters were only once settled.  As far as the eye could see, the earth was one vast plain, and, in order to touch it, the sky seemed to stoop very low; whereas, in New England, the gray-headed mountains appear to go up part way to meet the sky.

One fine evening in May, brown-eyed Horace and blue-eyed Grace stood on the balcony, leaning against the iron railing, watching the stars, and chatting together.

One thing is very sure:  they never dreamed that from this evening their sayings and doings ­particularly Horace’s ­were to be printed in a book.  If any one had whispered such a thing, how dumb Horace would have grown, his chin snuggling down into a hollow place in his neck! and how nervously Grace would have laughed! walking about very fast, and saying, ­

“O, it’s too bad, to put Horace and me in a book!  I say it’s too bad!  Tell them to wait till my hair is curled, and I have my new pink dress on!  And tell them to make Horace talk better!  He plays so much with the Dutch boys.  O, Horace isn’t fit to print!”

This is what she might have said if she had thought of being “put in a book;” but as she knew nothing at all about it, she only stood very quietly leaning against the balcony-railing, and looking up at the evening sky, merry with stars.

“What a shiny night, Horace!  What do the stars look like?  Is it diamond rings?”

“I’ll tell you, Gracie; it’s cigars they look like ­just the ends of cigars when somebody is smoking.”

At that moment the cluster called the “Seven Sisters” was drowned in a soft, white cloud.

“Look,” said Grace; “there are some little twinkles gone to sleep, all tucked up in a coverlet.  I don’t see what makes you think of dirty cigars!  They look to me like little specks of gold harps ever so far off, so you can’t hear the music.  O, Horace, don’t you want to be an angel, and play on a beautiful harp?”

“I don’t know,” said her brother, knitting his brows, and thinking a moment; “when I can’t live any longer, you know, then I’d like to go up to heaven; but now, I’d a heap sooner be a soldier!”

“O, Horace, you’d ought to rather be an angel!  Besides, you’re too little for a soldier!”

“But I grow.  Just look at my hands; they’re bigger than yours, this minute!”

“Why, Horace Clifford, what makes them so black?”

“O, that’s no account!  I did it climbin’ trees.  Barby tried to scour it off, but it sticks.  I don’t care ­soldiers’ hands ain’t white, are they, Pincher?”

The pretty dog at Horace’s feet shook his ears, meaning to say, ­

“I should think not, little master; soldiers have very dirty hands, if you say so.”

“Come,” said Grace, who was tired of gazing at the far-off star-land; “let’s go down and see if Barbara hasn’t made that candy:  she said she’d be ready in half an hour.”

They went into the library, which opened upon the balcony, through the passage, down the front stairs, and into the kitchen, Pincher following close at their heels.

It was a very tidy kitchen, whose white floor was scoured every day with a scrubbing-brush.  Bright tin pans were shining upon the walls, and in one corner stood a highly polished cooking-stove, over which Barbara Kinckle, a rosy-cheeked German girl, was stooping to watch a kettle of boiling molasses.  Every now and then she raised the spoon with which she was stirring it, and let the half-made candy drip back into the kettle in ropy streams.  It looked very tempting, and gave out a delicious odor.  Perhaps it was not strange that the children thought they were kept waiting a long while.

“Look here, Grace,” muttered Horace, loud enough for Barbara to hear; “don’t you think she’s just the slowest kind?”

“It’ll sugar off,” said Grace, calmly, as if she had made up her mind for the worst; “don’t you know how it sugared off once when ma was making it, and let the fire go ’most out’?”

“Now just hear them childers,” said good-natured Barbara; “where’s the little boy and girl that wasn’t to speak to me one word, if I biled ’em some candies?”

“There, now, Barby, I wasn’t speaking to you,” said Horace; “I mean I wasn’t talking to her, Grace.  Look here:  I’ve heard you spell, but you didn’t ask me my Joggerphy.”

“Geography, you mean, Horace.”

“Well, Ge-ography, then.  Here’s the book:  we begin at the Mohammedans.”

Horace could pronounce that long name very well, though he had no idea what it meant.  He knew there was a book called the Koran, and would have told you Mr. Mohammed wrote it; but so had Mr. Colburn written an Arithmetic, and whether both these gentlemen were alive, or both dead, was more than he could say.

“Hold up your head,” said Grace, with dignity, and looking as much as possible like tall Miss Allen, her teacher.  “Please repeat your verse.”

The first sentence read, “They consider Moses and Christ as true prophets, but Mohammed as the greatest and last.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Horace:  “they think that Christ and Moses was good enough prophets, but Mohammed was a heap better.”

“Why, Horace, it doesn’t say any such think in the book!  It begins, ‘They consider.’”

“I don’t care,” said the boy, “Miss Jordan tells us to get the sense of it.  Ma, musn’t I get the sense of it?” he added, as Mrs. Clifford entered the kitchen.

“But, mamma,” broke in Grace, eagerly, “our teacher wants us to commit the verses:  she says a great deal about committing the verses.”

“If you would give me time to answer,” said Mrs. Clifford, smiling, “I should say both your teachers are quite right.  You should ’get the sense of it,’ as Horace says, and after that commit the verses.”

“But, ma, do you think Horace should say ‘heap,’ and ‘no account,’ and such words?”

“It would certainly please me,” said Mrs. Clifford, “if he would try to speak more correctly.  My little boy knows how much I dislike some of his expressions.”

“There, Horace,” cried Grace, triumphantly, “I always said you talked just like the Dutch boys; and it’s very, very improper!”

But just then it became evident that the molasses was boiled enough, for Barbara poured it into a large buttered platter, and set it out of doors to cool.  After this, the children could do nothing but watch the candy till it was ready to pull.

Then there was quite a bustle to find an apron for Horace, and to make sure that his little stained hands were “spandy clean,” and “fluffed” all over with flour, from his wrists to the tips of his fingers.  Grace said she wished it wasn’t so much trouble to attend to boys; and, after all, Horace only pulled a small piece of the candy, and dropped half of that on the nice white floor.

Barbara did the most of the pulling.  She was quite a sculptor when she had plastic candy in her hands.  Some of it she cut into sticks, and some she twisted into curious images, supposed to be boys and girls, horses and sheep.

After Grace and Horace had eaten several of the “boys and girls,” to say nothing of “handled baskets,” and “gentlemen’s slippers,” Barbara thought it high time they were “sound abed and asleep.”

So now, as they go up stairs, we will wish them a good night and pleasant dreams.