Kitabı oku: «Bessie among the Mountains», sayfa 3
III.
A VISIT TO AUNT PATTY
MR. BRADFORD had brought from the city a famous rockaway, or carryall, large enough to hold all his own family and one or two persons beside; light but strong, and just the thing for these mountain roads. The first use to which it was to be put was to take them all for two visits that afternoon, one to Aunt Patty, the other to the homestead where Cousin Alexander lived. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, yet not too warm to be pleasant, the air was gay with the hum of bees and butterflies, the blue sky, dappled with fleecy clouds, was reflected in the clear water, mingled with the shadow of the rocks and trees; swallows skimmed over the surface of the lake, chasing the myriads of insects which hummed in the summer air; and as the carriage drove along the road which lay between the water and the great overhanging rocks, more than one fish was seen to dart swiftly away from the shady pool where he had been snugly lying till disturbed by the rumble of the wheels.
They did not go down the mountain by the road up which they had come the night before, but struck into another which led in an opposite direction. It ran through the forest for a long distance, and was not so steep, and more shady, which was no objection on this warm day.
"Stop at Todd's cottage, if you please, Mr. Porter," said Mr. Bradford, as they came out of the forest and saw before them a small farm-house, with half a dozen out-buildings about it.
"Who is Todd, papa?" asked Maggie.
But before Mr. Bradford could answer, all curiosity about Todd, or why they were to stop at his house, was set at rest. As they turned the corner they saw, standing in the porch of the farm-house, a woman with a baby in her arms; while hanging over the gate and whistling as he looked up the road, was a boy about the size of Fred. They were Mrs. Richards and Willie, no longer "blind Willie," the sightless little child whose sad face and patient, waiting manner, had so touched the hearts of all who looked upon him. A delicate looking boy Willie was still, though two weeks' stay in this fresh, pure, mountain air had done wonders for him. It was a pretty sight to see his delight in all about him, in the sunshine and clouds, in the blue sky and the bright water, in the grass and flowers, in birds and animals, and above all in the dear faces which had been shut out from his poor eyes for so many weary months.
A light flush mounted to his pale cheeks as he caught sight of his friends in the carriage, the good, kind friends to whom he owed so much; and calling to his mother, he sprang from the gate, as Mr. Porter drew in his horses, and hastened to open it.
"Never mind, Willie," said Mr. Bradford; "we cannot come in this afternoon. Some other day, perhaps; but now we only stopped to ask how you are coming on? How do you do, Mrs. Richards?"
"Bravely, sir," answered the smiling Mrs. Richards; "and as for Willie and the baby, they are improving wonderfully, thanks to your kindness."
"It is my little girls you must thank, Mrs. Richards," said Mr. Bradford.
"But we don't want to be thanked," said Bessie, quickly. "We quite liked to have you come up here, Mrs. Richards, and we felt very much thankful ourselves when Uncle Ruthven gave us the money to send you."
"Willie," said Maggie, "do you enjoy being disblinded just as much as you did at first?"
"Oh, yes," answered Willie, laughing at Maggie's new word; "and everything looks so much nicer than it did before I was blind. Somehow, I think the world did grow prettier while I could not see it, though mother says it only seems so to me."
"Ah, that is often the way, Willie," said Mr. Bradford. "God sometimes has to teach us the worth of the blessings He has given us by taking them from us."
After a little more talk with Willie and his mother, they bade good-by; kind Mr. Porter first saying he would send down for Willie some day and let him come up to his place.
They drove on till they came to the more open country, and saw before them Aunt Patty's house, and beyond that, the grand old homestead of which they had heard so much, and of which papa was so fond.
Aunt Patty's home was a pretty, snug cottage on the side of a hill; its front covered with a beautiful trumpet creeper, which went climbing up to the very top of the many-cornered old chimney, and wreathing itself over the little porch and the bow window of the sitting-room, until the house looked like a quiet green nest. A great white cat peeped out from behind the geraniums which filled the window; a greyhound lay upon the doormat, and beneath and about the porch hung several bird-cages, containing half a dozen canaries and two mocking-birds, while a donkey and a tame goat looked, the one over, the other between the bars of the fence which divided their little pasture ground from the neat garden. For Aunt Patty was very fond of dumb pets, and had collected about her a number, each one of which knew her voice, and would come at her call; and she was never sharp and short with them as she sometimes was with her own fellow creatures, for they never, even by accident, gave her offence.
The old lady herself came to the door to meet her guests, more pleased than she would have been willing to say, that they had come to visit her on the first day of their stay at Chalecoo. She seized Frankie in her arms and covered him with kisses; but that roguish young gentleman after exclaiming, "Hallo, Patty!" would have nothing more to say to her, and struggled to be set free that he might run and see "dat nanny-doat and dat pony wis long ears."
Maggie and Bessie were more polite than their little brother, and though they would have liked to follow him at once, waited quietly till Aunt Patty asked them if they did not wish to run about and make acquaintance with all her pets.
Glad of the permission, the little girls ran out, and turned to the paddock, where they found Frankie seated upon the donkey's back.
The boys had not gone into the house, but after shaking hands with Aunt Patty at the door, had remained without in search of what amusement they could find. The donkey was the first thing that had taken their attention as well as that of Frankie; and when the little fellow came out clamoring for a ride, they were quite ready to indulge him. Harry had been half doubtful if they had not better first ask Aunt Patty's permission, but Fred had said, —
"Pooh! what's the use? She would let Frankie dance on her own head, if he wanted to."
So Harry had allowed himself to be persuaded, and in another moment the donkey, much to his own astonishment, found Frankie seated upon his back.
Now this donkey was not at all accustomed to children; for those of Mr. Alexander Bradford, who lived at the homestead, seldom came to see Aunt Patty, and when they did so, they would as soon have thought of asking to ride upon her back as upon that of the donkey. To be harnessed in the little pony-carriage, and trot about with the old lady for her daily drive, was all the work to which Nonesuch was used; and when he found Frankie perched upon him, he was very much displeased, and began a series of antics and prancings which were more becoming some frisky pony than a sober, well-behaved donkey. But try as he would, he could not shake Frankie off. The bold little rogue was not at all frightened, and clung like a burr to his indignant steed. It was hard to tell which would come off victor. But at the side of the paddock ran one of the many streams in which this mountain country rejoiced, shadowed with a growth of elder, sumach, and other high bushes. Nonesuch had raced with Frankie to the very edge of this little rivulet, and then stood still for a moment as if considering what he would do next, when a hand, holding a long, thorny switch, was suddenly put forth from the clump of bushes, and Nonesuch received a stinging blow across his haunches. Down went the donkey's nose and up went his heels, as he sent Frankie flying directly over his head into the stream, and then tore away to the further side of the field.
Maggie and Bessie were very much startled, and screamed aloud, and even Harry and Fred were a good deal alarmed; but the child himself did not seem to be at all frightened, and when his brothers pulled him out of the water, did not cry, but looked after the donkey in great surprise, exclaiming, —
"Why, dat pony spilled me a little!"
Harry and Fred laughed at this, but Maggie and Bessie thought it no laughing matter; nor did mamma, when alarmed by their screams the grown people came running from the house. Frankie was drenched from head to foot, and had to be carried at once to the house, undressed and rubbed dry. Then he was wrapped in a blanket, while a messenger was sent to the homestead to borrow some clothes for him. The little fellow thought this rather hard, and a very poor ending to his afternoon's amusement, especially when no clothes could be found to fit him but those of little Katy Bradford.
Meanwhile Fred was off, no one knew where. At the moment Frankie had gone over the donkey's head a loud mocking laugh had resounded from behind the clump of bushes, as though the person who had given the blow were rejoicing in the mischief he had done.
Fred only waited to see Frankie safely out of the water, and then, leaving him to the care of his brother and sisters, darted across the stream and forced his way through the bushes in search of the guilty person. At a little distance from him stood two miserable looking objects, a boy about his own size, a girl rather younger; both dirty, ragged, and half-starved, hatless and shoeless. A wicked looking boy and girl they were too, and as Fred appeared they greeted him with grimaces and vulgar noises; then as he darted at the boy, turned and ran.
Fred gave chase, and in a moment had overtaken the girl. But hot-tempered and hasty though he was, Fred was not the boy to fight with one who was weaker than himself; and he passed her without notice, keeping on after her companion. But active as he was, he soon found he was no match for the young rascal in front of him, whose feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground, and who threw himself headlong over fences and hedges, as though he had forgotten he had a neck and limbs which might be broken.
So turning about, Fred went after the girl, and soon had his hand upon her arm, calling upon her to stop. She did so, at the same time cowering and raising the other arm to shield her head and face as if expecting a blow.
"You don't think I am going to strike you?" said Fred, "a nice kind of a chap I'd be to strike a girl. I say, what did you hit that donkey for?"
"I didn't," she replied sullenly, "it was him."
"What did he do it for? Nobody was doing anything to him. And I'll be bound you had the will to do it."
"He did it cos he had a mind to," she said, shaking herself free from Fred's hold, "and he'll do it agin if he has a mind to."
"He'd better not," said Fred, "if he does, I'll fix him."
"S'posin' you can catch him," she answered, growing bold and impudent, as she saw she need fear no violence from Fred. "'Taint none of your donkeys."
"It was my little brother he meant to plague though," said Fred. "He'd better look out how he troubles us again. Just you tell him that."
"He aint afraid of you," said the girl, "I jist hope the young un's fine clothes was spoiled. Good enough for him," and making up a hideous face at Fred she ran off a few steps, and then as if the spirit of mischief within her were too strong even for her fear of him, stooped, and picking up a large stone threw it with all her strength. It hit Fred upon the knee with such force that, brave as he was, he could scarcely help crying aloud, and was obliged to sit down upon the ground until the pain had somewhat passed. By the time he was on his feet again the girl was out of sight, and poor Fred limped back to Aunt Patty's cottage.
Here the bruised and swollen knee was bathed and bound up, but Fred was forced to keep still, not only this afternoon, but for several succeeding days.
It would be hard to tell with what horror the children looked upon the boy and girl whom Fred described, and who had done all this unprovoked mischief.
After the donkey and goat, the birds, kittens and other pets had been visited, there was not much to interest the children in Aunt Patty's house; and they were not very sorry when the visit came to an end, and they were all on their way to the homestead.
There was certainly enough to please them here. It was a grand old house, standing in the midst of a grove of maples, and behind it stretched an immense orchard, with its mossy old apple trees giving promise of the rich harvest they would furnish a few months later. There was the flower garden, delicious with all kinds of roses now in full bloom; the very swing where papa used to swing when he was a boy, the stream and pond where he used to sail his boats and set up his water-mills; and beyond all, the large farm-yard with its many outbuildings, looking almost like a village by itself; while from one of the great barns whose wide doors stood open came the cackling of poultry and cooing of pigeons, the lowing of cows and oxen, and bleating of calves, all the pleasant noises of a large and thrifty farm.
The children were all anxious to see the spot where the old burnt barn had stood, the place where Aunt Patty had saved Uncle Aleck from the fire; but all trace both of fire and barn had long since passed away, and a bright green pasture field, where a flock of sheep were feeding, took up the very ground where, as Maggie said, "the story had happened."
The children of the homestead, eight in number, of all ages and sizes, from cousin Ernest, a tall youth of eighteen, down to little Katy, the household darling and pet of four, were only too glad to welcome their city cousins and show them all the wonders of the place.
They had the most delightful summer play-room; one side of the verandah enclosed with a lattice work, covered with flowering vines, where they kept their bats and balls, graces, hoops, rocking horse and other toys. They had a little garden house too, where they kept their spades, rakes and other tools, for each child had a plot of ground for its own, and every fall they had a flower and fruit show, when their father and mother gave prizes, not only for the best flowers and fruit, but also to those whose gardens had been neatly kept during the summer.
Poor Fred with his lame knee could not run about with the others, and as he sat on the verandah with his cousin Ernest, who stayed with him lest he should be lonely, and heard all about the flower show, he began to wish that he and his brother could have something of the same kind.
"I dare say Mr. Porter would give us each a little piece of ground," he said, "but then it is too late to plant things, is it not?"
"Oh, no," replied his cousin, "it is only the middle of June, and there are several things which you might yet plant. Then you could join us and try for the prizes at our show, and I would ask father to have it a little earlier in the fall, before you go home. There are lots of seeds and plants that we will give you if you have a mind to try."
Fred was eager enough, as he always was for every thing new, and promised to ask his brother if he would like to have a garden, and also to speak to his father and Mr. Porter about it.
"And your sisters, too," said Ernest, "would they not like to try what they could do?"
"Oh! they are too little," said Fred. "What could such a mite as Bessie do with a garden of her own? She might dig and plant in it to be sure, but then she would not know how to take care of her flowers and things, and she would only be disappointed if she failed."
"You and Harry might help her," said Ernest, "and even if she did not have any fine flowers she might gain a prize if she had been industrious, and tried as well as she knew how. It is not so much for the worth and beauty of the flowers themselves, as for the pains we have taken with them and what we deserve, that father rewards us. Why, last year dear little Katy took a prize and for what do you think? Why, for a poor forlorn zinnia which she had nursed through the whole summer, and which bore but one scanty flower."
"I'll tell Maggie and Bessie then," said Fred, "and Harry and I will do all we can to help them with the work that is too hard for them. I am sure papa will be willing for us to try, if your father will allow us to join you."
"He is willing enough," said Ernest, "indeed he was saying the other day he should like it. You had better ask Mr. Porter for the ground and begin directly."
Fred was so anxious to talk over this new plan with his brother and sisters, and to ask his father and Mr. Porter what they thought of it, that he could scarcely wait to do so till it was time to go home.
IV.
LEM AND DOLLY
AS soon as they were all once more in the carriage, and the horses' heads turned homeward, Fred told what Ernest had proposed. Mr. Bradford willingly gave permission for his children to join their cousins in preparing for the flower show, and promised to furnish whatever seeds and plants it would be best for them to have, in case Mr. Porter could give them the ground.
"That I will," said the old man readily. "And, by the way, there's a plot in the lower part of the garden that will be just about the right thing for you. There's nothing planted there yet, for I only took it in this spring, but it has been all dug and raked over, and is ready for whatever is to go in it. I'll give you boys each ten feet square, and the girls six. I guess that's about as much as they can manage."
"More, I fear," said Mrs. Bradford, "at least such little hands as those of my Bessie, are scarcely strong enough for work that could raise any flowers fit to take a prize."
"But we will help her, mamma," said Fred "and if she tries, and cousin Alexander thinks she has done her best, that is all that is necessary." And he told the story of little Katy and her zinnia.
"I may try, mamma, may I not?" said Bessie earnestly, "Katy is a very little girl, only four years old; and I am quite old, you know, for I was six last month."
"Certainly you may try, my very old girl," said mamma, kissing the little, eager, upturned face; "and I will do all I can to help you; but then if you and Maggie do not take the prizes you must not be too much disappointed."
"Oh! no, and I can have satis – fac – tion in my garden any way, mamma," said Bessie, "in 'tending to it and watering it; and then I can give my flowers to you and Aunt May and every one else I love, and that will be enough of pleasure for me."
Mamma smiled and thanked her, and thought if her dear little girl were to give flowers to every one who loved her she would need a very large garden with a great many blossoms in it.
Mr. Porter knew that Frankie had been in the water, but he had not heard how the accident came about, nor of its after consequences; and now as he saw Fred moving restlessly to ease his aching knee, he asked him how he had been hurt.
Fred told the story of Frankie's ducking, of his own chase after the mischief-makers, and of what had happened to himself.
"Whew – ew – ew!" said Mr. Porter, as he finished, "I am sorry to hear this; sorry enough, sorry enough. Can you tell me what kind of looking boy and girl they were?"
Fred described the boy and girl, as nearly as he could, and Mr. Porter gave another long dismayed whistle.
"Yes, I thought so," he said, "there's no one here about but those two who would have been up to such an ugly trick as that. So, they're back again. I hoped we were rid of them for good and all."
"Who are they?" asked Mr. Bradford.
"Lem and Dolly Owen, sir; as bad a pair, and the children of as bad a father as one could find on a long summer day. Poor neglected creatures, they are to be pitied too; but it is useless to try to do anything for them, for all help is worse than thrown away. They live in a little tumble-down shanty back of the rocks at the lower end of the lake, and a terrible nuisance they are to me and every one in the neighborhood. The father is a drunkard of the worst sort, the mother long since dead, and these two children, liars, vagabonds and thieves, up to every sort of wicked mischief, and a terror to all the children in Chalecoo. They live as they can, by robbing orchards, hen-roosts, dairies and cornfields during the summer; picking up odd bits, and stealing whatever they can lay their fingers on in the winter, half starved and half frozen the most of the time."
"Can nothing be done for them?" asked Mr. Bradford.
"No, sir; as I say, it is not worth while to try to help them. All that the father can lay his hands on he spends in drink. My wife was distressed about the children, especially the girl, to think she should be growing up in such wickedness and misery; and last winter she fixed up a suit of warm clothes for her, and coaxing her into the house with a deal of trouble, for she is as wild as a hawk, she dressed her in them, and promised to give her and her brother a good meal every day if they would come quietly to the house and get it. My dear old woman hoped she might do them both some good if she could but keep a hold on them in this way. But the girl just took what she could get that day as sullenly as you please, never speaking a word of thanks, and making no promises, though she did look mighty proud of her new clothes, and hugged herself up in them as if she were glad to feel herself in something warm and comfortable. My wife, knowing what a thief she was, watched her all the time, and thought she could not possibly carry off anything; but somehow the sly creature got the better of her, and she had scarcely gone when a china plate was missed. Now my wife set a deal by that plate, for it had been hers when she was a little child, and the boys set out at once in search of Dolly. Well, will you believe it? no sooner did she catch sight of them, and guess what they were after, than she just dashed the plate down on the rocks, smashing it to atoms, and ran like a deer. They'd promised their mother not to hurt her, so they let her go; but the next day she was seen in all her old rags, and we found the new clothes had been sold by Owen at the next village. Of course they went for liquor, and that's the way everything goes. Kindness is all wasted on the children; they'll take what you give them with one hand, and steal from you with the other, and then abuse you for what you've done for them."
"Did Dolly and her brother come to get the nice meal kind Mrs. Porter promised them?" asked Bessie.
"No, indeed; they've kept clear enough of the family ever since; not that they are ashamed, but afraid."
"I should think they ought to be ashamed," said Maggie, indignantly. "I never heard of such ungratefulness, and Mrs. Porter ought to serve Dolly right, and never do another thing for her; she don't deserve it."
"Ah! my little girl, if we were all served right, and had nothing but what we deserve, where would we be?" said the old man. "But that did just discourage my wife, and she has left the wretched creatures to themselves since. She saw it was of no use. Owen won't leave his children a decent thing to their backs, a bed to sleep on, or a cup or plate to eat from. My old woman is not the first that has taken pity on them, and tried to make them a little comfortable; but whatever is given them just goes for drink, drink; and we have all given it up as a hopeless job. Besides, the children themselves are so lawless and thankless, that every kindness that is done for them they only turn into a means of mischief."
"Does the father ill-treat them?" asked Mrs. Bradford.
"Yes, he not only encourages them to steal and lie, but beats them when they bring nothing home which he can exchange for liquor. We often hear their cries away up at my house, but there's no way of stopping it, as I see."
"And must these poor children just be left to go to ruin?" asked Mrs. Bradford, sadly.
"There's no one can reach them to teach them better, I am afraid," said Mr. Porter. "You'll just get hard words and worse for your pains if you try it. Why, there was the clergyman from down in the village, came up to see them, and he brought along a bundle of good things and gave them to Dolly; and while he was talking kindly to her, he got a blow on the back with a big stone, and others came about him thick and fast. He knew it was Lem, but what could he do? He could not see the boy or fix it on him. And that's the way; they are both so sly and artful, they are seldom or never caught in the act; so though when a melon patch or hen-roost is robbed, or some fine young trees are hacked to pieces, every one feels sure it was Lem or Dolly who did the mischief, yet it is difficult to prove it on them. Lem has had more thrashings than any boy of his size that ever lived, I believe, but what's the use? It only makes him worse than ever. Farmer Grafton caught him once stealing clothes from the bleaching-ground, and handed him over to the constable for a few days; but that night his hay-ricks were burnt down. Folks first thought it was Owen that did it, but he was proved to have lain dead drunk all night in the liquor shop down in the village; and then everybody believed it was Doll, and with reason too, for she's just bad enough to do it, young as she is. Last March they all went off, father and children, and I did hope we should see no more of them; but here the young ones are back, it seems. I trust Owen is not with them. If you little ones come to me to-night, I'll tell you what old Sol here did for that fellow, and how the dumb beast showed himself the wisest of the two."
"I am very sorry for Lem and Dolly," said Bessie. "If their mother had not died maybe they would not have been so naughty. It's very sorrowful for children not to have any mamma to teach them better. Don't they have any one to love them, Mr. Porter?"
"Well, they seem to love one another after their own rude fashion," answered Mr. Porter. "It's about the only mark of good that's left in them."
"I wish we could do something to make them a little better," said Bessie.
"The Lord love you for the wish," said Mr. Porter, looking kindly around at her, "but you could never do anything, you little lamb. Why, they'd tease you out of your senses if you went to speak to them, and they're not fit for the like of you to notice either. Just you keep out of their way as much as you can, dearie, or they'll do you a mischief if they find the chance."
Mr. Bradford here began to talk of something else, and they all forgot Lem and Dolly for the time. But as they were about half way home, Fred, who was sitting in front with Mr. Porter, suddenly exclaimed, —
"There are those children!" and looking before them, they all saw the ragged, miserable boy and girl standing on a stone at a little distance from the road side.
As the carriage approached, they darted away into the woods, but soon after a shower of gravel and sand flying into the carriage, as it slowly toiled up a hill between two walls of rock, made it known in a very disagreeable manner that they had returned to annoy our party by further mischief. They kept out of sight behind the trees and rocks, however; and when Fred, who was furiously angry, begged Mr. Porter to go after them with his long whip, the loud, taunting laugh which rang from above told that their tormentors felt themselves secure from punishment.
The carriage was soon beyond this narrow pass, and they saw and heard no more of Lem and Dolly, and reached home without further mischief.
"Why, how long you stayed," said good Mrs. Porter, coming out as they drove up to the door. "I waited to feed the chickens, as I promised the dear little girls here; but I am afraid they want their supper badly. Come along, my darlings," and with a pan in each hand, and followed by Maggie, Bessie and Frankie, the kind old lady went out to feed the fowls.
"Margaret and Bessie, come here," said Mr. Stanton, calling his wife and sister to the door as they passed through the hall. "Is not that a picture?"
A picture it was indeed, and one which mamma thought so pretty that she had to call the rest of the family to enjoy it. Beneath a great spreading pear-tree sat the motherly old lady, the last golden rays of the setting sun falling over her ample figure, in her neat black gown, white apron, and snowy kerchief folded over her bosom, spectacles in hand, and in her lap the pan which held the corn and barley; while around her were the three little ones dipping their chubby hands into the measure, and scattering the contents among the noisy, scrambling crowd of fowls, themselves full of glee and happiness at this, to them, new pleasure.
There was one jealous old fellow, a pet rooster and a great beauty, who would take his supper from no hand but that of his mistress; and flying on the bench beside her, he courted her notice and a supper by himself. Mrs. Porter was about to indulge him, but Flossy, who was seated by her, watching with great satisfaction the feeding of the chickens, seemed to think it quite unfair that he should not take his chance with the others, and soon chased him from the bench. Upon which the rooster refused to eat at all, and after pecking one or two of the smaller chickens pretty severely, he strutted away with his neck stretched very straight, and expressing his displeasure in a loud and by no means pleasant voice. In vain did Mrs. Porter call him by his name, "Coxcomb," which he knew quite well; he only flapped his wings and walked farther away, screaming louder than ever.
"He is a very naughty bird, and now he must just go without any supper," said Maggie.
"Ah! my poor Coxcomb," said Mrs. Porter, "don't you think he is pretty?"
"Yes," said Maggie, "he is very pretty but he is not a bit good. He is not at all 'handsome is that handsome does – ' pecking that dear little yellow chicken! I'd rather be that brown guinea hen who is so nice and good, even if she is not so very pretty."
