Pollio had just got a grass stain on the knees of his new “pair o’ clo’es;” so how could either of the boys be quite happy?

When they went in to breakfast, their mother and aunt Ann were talking about the Fantastics.

“Billy Barstow and a few other wild boys are to ride colts and mules,” said aunt Ann; “and I’m afraid somebody will get hurt.”

“Oh, no! everybody will keep out of the way,” returned uncle Rufus. “The Fantastics will pass by at eight o’clock, and then the danger will be over.”

“I want to see the ‘Finny-castics,’” said Pollio, flourishing his fork.

“Do you know what they are, General?”

“Yes, sir. Wigs on their faces, and things; but they won’t scare me a bit!”

“No, they won’t scare you if you stand close by Nunky or me,” said mamma; “but you must keep out of the streets.”

“Now, little ones,” added she, holding up a warning finger as they all left the table, “I have your father’s orders that you are not to go off the grounds to-day, or even out of the yard, without leave. You can see the Fantastics from the fence perfectly well; but remember you are not to go into the street, Pollio. Do you hear?”

“Yes, mamma.”

He rushed past her as he spoke, lest she should see his Sunday clothes. He had heard all she said, and fully intended to obey; but what he wanted just now was to teach Posy to fly her new balloon.

She was quite as pleased with it as he had expected.

“Which do you love best, Posy,—Nunky, or the thee-and-thou man?”

“Which gave me the b’loon?”

“Mr. Littlefield.”

“Then I love him best.”

As the gay toys rose higher and higher, she thought how her angel sister Alice would like them, and wondered if this wasn’t a good time to send her a present.

Pollio thought not. He didn’t believe they could find a string in town long enough to reach to heaven.

“Why Posy,” said he with some contempt for her ignorance, “heaven’s the other side the moon: it’s more’n twenty miles off.”

Posy gave it up then: twenty miles was too far. And she was rather glad she need not part with her balloon, even to the “heaven-folks.”

In talking, Pollio, who always flourished his arms a great deal, had let go the string; and now his balloon had flown up, up, out of reach. Oh, dear! It seemed so glad to go, like a bird let out of a cage! How far would it fly? Pollio forgot entirely that he was forbidden to leave the yard, and darted out, leaving little Posy gazing up, half hoping the baby would get a present, after all.

The balloon was a long time in coming down; but Pollio found it at last sticking fast to the top of the fence on the other side of the street, quarter of a mile from home. It was entirely ruined, of course.

“Well, I never!” sighed he, surveying it mournfully.

In climbing back over the sharp-pointed fence, he tore his new clothes badly; but by that time bugles and tin horns were sounding in the distance, and he could see a moving black mass, which he knew must be the Fantastics.

“Guess I’ll stay here and watch ’em come up,” thought he, rubbing the dirt off his knees. “Oh, but mamma said I mustn’t!” was his next thought.

“There! God spoke to me then!” whispered he to himself with a look of awe; for he had never forgotten Nunky’s talk about “God’s voice.” “He spoke to me then: I felt him speak!”

Pollio stood for a moment with his hand on his “jag-knife pocket.” So far, he had not meant to do wrong. He had run out of the yard and down the street without once thinking of his mother’s warning, and, if he would go back now, she was sure to forgive him. But would he go back?

He looked down the street. The Fantastics were so near by this time, that he could discern the horses. Wouldn’t it be fun to wait till they came in sight, and then throw up his cap and shout!

“Poh! anybody must be a baby to be afraid of the ‘Finny-castics’! Mamma fought I’d better stay side of her!” Then he remembered Mr. Littlefield’s words: “The child that won’t mind its mother won’t mind its God;” and there was another thump under the “jag-knife pocket.”

He knew very well he ought to run back to the house before the “Finny-castics” got any nearer; but the noise of the trumpets and tin pans was so lively, that it set his feet dancing, and his arms flying. He could see his mother and all the rest of the family in the front-yard; though they could not see him, for he was hidden by a clump of trees and a bend in the road.

“I won’t stop—yes, I will! I’ll go home—no, I won’t!”

Thus his thoughts swung back and forth; and, before he had made up his mind whether to stay or not, he had staid, and the “Finny-castics,” with their horses and mules, were close at hand.

Pollio had seen the same sight the year before, but not so near; oh, not half so near! And weren’t they awful?

They did not look like men, but like all sorts of horrid creatures that you dream of at night, after eating too much supper. Some wore coats and hats; and some wore gowns and bonnets, with paper flowers the size of dinner-plates, and bunches of feathers as big as brooms.

But it was not the dress Pollio minded, so much as the faces. How they did stare at him, and grin at him, those faces!—with mouths wide enough to take him right in, with monstrous noses, puffed cheeks, glaring eyes,—white faces, yellow faces, monkey’s faces, and faces as black as a shoe.

Pollio knew that these were all masks, or what he called “wigs,” and that they were worn by harmless Rosewood boys, who did it only for fun. Pollio knew this well enough. But you can’t always recollect all you know: you hardly ever can when you are taken by surprise. Before he stopped to think, he screamed; but, after he had screamed, he laughed to think how silly it was.

“Poh, nothing but wigs! Glad Posy isn’t here. Guess she’d be scared!”

While he stood trembling and gazing, he saw an object that fairly made his hair stand on end. It was Billy Barstow, with a wolf’s head on his shoulders, and on the head a big ruffled cap. It was the very image of the wolf that ate up Red Riding Hood.

Billy was seated on a frisky colt that wouldn’t walk soberly along with the horses and mules, but danced round and round on one side of the procession. Pollio never thought of being afraid of the colt; but the wolf with the frilled cap on was fearful.

“Rum te dum diddlety dum! Hullo, my little man! Get up here and ride?” cried the wolf, shaking his cap-strings, opening his jaws, and showing his long white teeth.

Pollio knew it wasn’t a wolf; for it drummed with its hands on a tin pan. But, oh, it did seem awful! It seemed exactly like the wolf that pretended to be Red Riding Hood’s grandmother; and, if poor Red Riding Hood felt much worse than Pollio, I am sorry for her.

“Oh, oh! lemme ’lone!” screamed the little fellow, running, or trying to run; for he was in such a panic that his legs hardly moved, except to tremble.

Instead of being sorry that he had frightened a poor little child, Billy Barstow thought it fine sport, and turned his colt round to chase Pollio. Cruel Billy! But no: he did not mean to be cruel; he was only thoughtless.