Free Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink

story about them, Mother. Do you know it?”
    Mrs. Woodlawn looked at her husband. He had taken one of the little shoes in his hand, and it scarcely covered his big palm. He turned it this way and that, smiling an odd, perplexed smile.
    â€œWell, well, well!” he said. “What a funny little shoe!”
    The impatient children crowded nearer, and little Minnie clambered onto his knee.
    â€œFather,” cried Caddie, “you know something about them! Tell us!”
    â€œTell us! Tell us!” echoed the others.
    â€œYes, Johnny, you had better tell them now,” said Mrs. Woodlawn.
    Mr. Woodlawn still hesitated, his eyes deep with thoughts of something far away, something beyond the warm room and the ring of bright, expectant faces; something less bright and warm and happy.
    Mrs. Woodlawn stirred impatiently. “Those are your father’s shoes, children,” she said. “He used to dance in them in England, and the little red breeches, too—long, long ago. Do tell them, Johnny. They’ve a right to know.”
    â€œYes, yes,” said Mr. Woodlawn, “they have a right to know and I have always meant to tell them. But it’s a long story, children, you had best go back to your hassocks and your nuts.”
    Eyes round with wonder and anticipation, the young Woodlawns did as they were told. To think of Father ever being small enough to wear those breeches and clogs, and dancing in them, too, in faraway England. How strange it was! They had heard so much of Boston, but nobody spoke of England where the strange little boy, who had grown to be Father, had danced in red breeches and clogs. Caddie thought ofwhat Father had said about England on the night when the circuit rider had been with them. How often she had wondered about that since then!
    â€œYou have grown up in a free country, children,” began Mr. Woodlawn. “Whatever happens I want you to think of yourselves as young Americans, and I want you to be proud of that. It is difficult to tell you about England, because there all men are not free to pursue their own lives in their own ways. Some men live like princes, while other men must beg for the very crusts that keep them alive.”
    â€œAnd your father’s father was one of those who live like princes, children,” cried Mrs. Woodlawn proudly.
    â€œMy father was the second son in a proud, old family,” said Mr. Woodlawn. He set the clock he was mending beside him on the table, and his hands, unaccustomed to idleness, rested awkwardly on his knees. “My father’s father was a lord of England, and the lands he owned rolled over hills and valleys and through woods.”
    â€œBigger than ours?” wondered Hetty.
    â€œMany times. Yes, many, many times. There was a great stone house with towers and turrets and a moat with swans, and there were peacocks on the lawn.”
    â€œPeacocks!” cried Clara, clasping her hands.
    â€œYes,” said the father gravely. “I saw them oncewhen I was a little boy. My mother held me by the hand and I stood on tiptoe to look between the bars of the great gate, and there they were, a dozen of them, stepping daintily, with arched necks, and spreading or trailing their great tails upon the grass.”
    â€œBut, Father,” said Caddie, “why were you outside?”
    â€œWell may you ask that question, Caddie!” cried Mrs. Woodlawn. Her earrings trembled with her indignation.
    â€œOld Lord Woodlawn was very proud,” said Father, “and he had planned a brilliant future for his second son. . . . Thomas, my father’s name was—that’s where you get your name, Tom. But Thomas Woodlawn wanted to live his own life, and he had fallen in love. His heart had overlooked all the fine young ladies of high degree, and had settled upon the little seamstress who embroidered and mended and stitched away all day in the sewing room of the great house.”
    â€œJust like