Kitabı oku: «Bessie in the City», sayfa 2

Bessie heard, and a new thought came into her little head.

"Mamma," she said a while after, when she could speak to her mother alone, – "mamma, you told Papa you would make a great many peach preserves for him."

"Yes, dear."

"And, mamma, you know he likes the inside of peach-stones in the preserves."

"The kernel, you mean."

"Yes'm, and last summer Harry kept all the peach-stones and cracked them for you, and you paid him for them. Could you let me do it this time?"

"My darling, you would crack those little fingers; it is too hard work for you."

Bessie looked very much disappointed, and her mother could not bear to see it, for she knew how anxious she was to earn money for the library.

"You may gather up the peach-stones, dear, and dry them, and Patrick shall crack them for you, and I will pay you five cents for every hundred."

"Oh! thank you, mamma; that is very nice, and I will put away every one I can find."

And from this day it was quite amusing to their papa and mamma to see how carefully Maggie and Bessie guarded every peach-stone they could find; and to hear them constantly talking over plans to gain a few pennies to add to their store.

"Margaret," said Mr. Bradford to his wife that evening, "would it not be better for you to lock up that money-box of the children?"

"I think not," said Mrs. Bradford. "They will want it half a dozen times a day. You know how such little things are, and they will always be counting their money. I believe every one we have in the house is quite honest, and the box cannot well be opened by one who does not know the secret of the spring."

So the box was not locked up; but the time came when Mrs. Bradford was very sorry she had not taken her husband's advice.

III.
THE MISER

"FRED," said Harry, as the little sisters came into the breakfast-room the next morning, – "Fred, what have you done with my new top?"

"I declare," said Fred, after thinking a moment, "I do not know."

"That's what a fellow gets for lending you his things," said Harry, crossly; "you never give them back, and never know where you leave them. I sha'n't let you have anything of mine again in a hurry."

"I know where it is, Harry," said Maggie. "I'll bring it to you. I saw it last night."

And away ran Maggie, always ready and willing to oblige; but as she reached the door, she stood still with the knob in her hand. "Harry, if I go for it, will you give me a penny?"

"Well," said Harry, "no, I will not."

"If you don't choose to go for it, tell me where it is, and I will go myself," said Fred.

But Maggie went without another word, and came back with the top in her hand.

"There's your penny," said Harry, throwing one on the table.

"That's as mean a thing as ever I knew," said Fred, "to want to be paid for going upstairs for a fellow who has a sprained leg and can't go for himself. You know mamma said he must not go up and down much till his ankle was well."

"I'd have thought anybody would have done such a thing sooner than you, Maggie," said Harry, reproachfully.

Maggie stood with crimson cheeks and a shaking lip. "I sha'n't have the penny!" she said, angrily. But just then papa and mamma came in and the bell was rung for morning prayers, which prevented any farther quarrelling.

But Maggie's troubles were not yet at an end for that morning. Breakfast was over, mamma gone to the nursery, papa to his library, and the children were alone in the breakfast-room.

"Midget," said Harry, "you know that pink fluted shell of yours?"

"Yes," answered Maggie.

"If you'll give it to me, I'll give you any two of mine you may choose."

"Oh, Harry, I can't! Aunt Annie gave me that shell, and I want to keep it for memory of her. Besides, it's my prettiest shell."

"Aunt Annie isn't dead," said Harry. "You don't keep a thing in memory of a person unless they're dead."

"She'll die one of these days," said Maggie; "every one has to die sometime, and I'll keep it till then. But I meant I wanted it because she gave it to me, Harry, and I can't let you have it." But presently, having forgotten about the penny, and thinking of the library box, Maggie added, "I'll give it to you for ten cents, Harry."

"Indeed, I shall not give ten cents for it!" said Harry. "It's not worth it and – why, Mag, you are growing as mean as, – as mean as – " Harry stopped, for he saw Maggie's color rising and the tears coming in her eyes, and he was not an unkind boy, who would willingly hurt or grieve his little sisters.

"She is a real miser," said Fred.

Poor Maggie! This was too much, and she burst into tears.

"Don't cry, Maggie," said Harry. "I did not mean to hurt you, but I do not know what to make of you."

"What's all this wonderful fuss about money, Bessie?" asked Fred.

"Ask me no lies, and I'll tell you no questions," said Bessie, holding up her head and looking at her brothers with a grave, reproving air, "You talk very unproperly to my Maggie."

At this, the boys shouted and laughed so loud and so long that Bessie felt as badly as her sister, and saying, "Let's go away, Maggie," they ran off.

When Mr. Bradford came out of his room, he saw his little girls sitting at the head of the stairs looking very unhappy. Maggie had been crying; Bessie had her arm around her waist, as though she were trying to comfort her, but looked as if she wanted comfort herself.

"Why, what ails my singing birdies this morning?" asked papa. "In trouble so early in the day?"

"Papa," said Bessie, in a grieved little voice, "we are having very misable times to-day."

"That is bad," said Mr. Bradford, sitting down on the stairs beside them; "but tell papa what it is, and see if he cannot help you into pleasanter times."

"People say things to us," said Bessie.

"And do you not wish people to speak to you?"

"Oh, yes, papa, if they say nice things; but first, nurse called our shells and sea-weed, 'truck.'"

"Very poor taste in nurse," said Mr. Bradford; "but I would not fret about that. Is there anything more?"

"Yes, papa," – Bessie hesitated, – "but I do not like to tell tales."

"But I want to know what the trouble is. I shall not think you are telling tales when I ask you."

"Harry called me 'mean,' and Fred said I was 'a miser,'" said Maggie, beginning to cry again. "And I wouldn't be such an ugly thing, now!"

"What is a miser, Maggie?" asked papa.

"An ugly old man, who makes believe he hasn't any money, when he has a whole lot in bags in a chest, and doesn't eat anything but crusts, with an ugly, thin cat who hunches up her back," said Maggie.

Maggie's idea of a miser was taken from a picture she had once seen.

"Then my rosebud does not look much like a miser," answered Mr. Bradford, patting Maggie's round, smooth cheek.

"But he meant I was like a miser, and they laughed at Bessie," said Maggie.

"But I quarrelled and said a cross thing to them, papa," said Bessie, who was always ready to own when she had done wrong.

"What did you say?"

Bessie repeated what she had said to the boys, making the same mistake she had done before, and her father could not wonder that they had laughed. He asked a question or two more, and soon knew the whole story of the penny and the shell.

"And it is very hard to have people say such things when it is a good purpose, papa," said Maggie, wiping her eyes as she finished.

"So it is, Maggie; but it is what we must all look for, more or less in this world. When we are trying to do good, other people will sometimes misunderstand us, think that we are doing the wrong thing, or perhaps doing the right thing in the wrong way; and they may tell us so, or make unkind remarks about us. But if we feel that we are doing right, and know that we are about the dear Saviour's work, we should not mind that. Yes, and we must bear to be laughed at too, my Bessie. I do not think though that your brothers have meant to grieve you so much. Fred, I know, will sometimes tease, but Harry is not apt to be unkind or provoking."

"No, papa," said Maggie. "Harry is a very good, kind brother."

"So I think," said papa. "Do the boys know why you are so anxious to earn money?"

"No, papa. I did not tell them, 'cause I thought maybe they would laugh at me."

"They shall not laugh at you, I will answer for that. But, although they were not very polite or kind in their way of telling you so, you can scarcely wonder that your brothers were surprised at your wish to be paid for any little favor you might do them. You are generally so obliging and willing, so ready to run and to do for the pleasure of helping others, that I myself might have thought you selfish and disobliging, had I heard you asking for pay without knowing your reason. And I would not do so again, dearie. Whatever you may be able to save by denying or taking any pains with yourselves, or may make by doing any little extra work for mamma or any one else, well and good; but I would not ask to be paid for such small things as you are in the habit of doing every day for those around you. You must not be too eager to gain money for any purpose."

"Not for a good one, papa?"

"No. Never do wrong that good may come of it."

"Do you think I was like a miser this morning, papa?"

"No. I do not think Fred quite understood the meaning of the word himself when he used it in that way. To be miserly, or like a miser, is to try to save and put by money only that we may look at it, and count it over, taking pleasure in the thought that we have it, not in using it for our good or pleasure, or that of others. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, papa. You mean if Bessie and I were to put all our money into that box of mamma's, and just count it and count it, and never take any out, or spend it for the library or anything else, we would be little misers even if we are not old men?"

"Papa," said Bessie, "yesterday morning at prayers, you yead about the lord who went away and gave his servants money to take care of, and how one of them put his money in a napkin, and dug a hole in the ground and hid it there; and when his lord came home, he was angry with him, and punished him. Was that man a miser?"

"Yes, dear, I think we may call him a miser; and I am glad my little girl remembers so well. We may be miserly with other things than money. If we do not use any of the gifts which God has given us as he intended we should do, for our own good and that of others, we are misers; and it is as wrong to do so as it would be to waste them, or throw them away. Suppose you were to say, 'These are very small hands and feet which God has given to me; they are not nearly as large as papa's or mamma's, or even as strong as my brothers; they cannot do much work, so they shall do none at all; I will not run up and down stairs, or go little errands: I will not rock the baby, or amuse Franky, or do any other thing which might save my mamma some trouble; I will not even play about, or go out to walk, but just sit still and do nothing all day long. Or, this is a very young mind of mine, it knows very little, and cannot understand everything, so I shall not try to learn and add more knowledge to that which I have. I cannot do much for the praise and glory of God who made me and gave me every good thing I have, so I shall not try to please him at all. I will take and keep all he gives me, but I will not use it or enjoy it, nor let others do so.' This would be like the poor foolish man who buried his talent, instead of making use of it for his lord. It would be like a miser."

"But, papa," said Maggie, "I don't think I could be a miser with my hands and feet. Why, I would think it was dreadful to sit still all day and do nothing. They will move sometimes even when I don't mean them to; and if I want them to keep still, they seem to forget and just move of themselves."

Mr. Bradford smiled as he remembered how true Maggie's words were. It did indeed seem impossible for those restless little hands and feet to keep still; they must always be busy about something, and he knew that she could scarcely have a greater punishment than to be forced to sit quiet for ten or fifteen minutes at a time.

"Papa must take his hands and feet away now," he said, "or they will be late at the office. The hands and the head, too, have a good deal to do to-day if they are to feel at liberty to go to Riverside to-morrow; so kiss me for good-by."

Mr. Bradford stopped in the breakfast-room, where the boys still were, and telling them of what their sisters were trying to do, and how earnest they were about it, said he hoped they would neither tease nor laugh at them, but would do all in their power to help them.

Harry and Fred were really sorry when they heard how distressed the little girls had been, and promised to do nothing more to trouble them.

"I cannot quite promise not to laugh at Bessie, papa," said Harry. "She says such droll things in such a droll way, or twists something about, and comes out with it with such a grand air for such a mite of a thing as she is, that a fellow can't help laughing."

"The greater the difficulty, the greater the kindness to your little sister, my son. I know it is hard, sometimes almost impossible, to help smiling, or even laughing outright, at some of Bessie's speeches; but you may avoid doing so in a loud, boisterous, mocking way. Put yourselves in her place, boys, and think how you would like it."

"I'm sure I do not mind being laughed at, papa; at least, not much," said Harry.

"No," said Fred, "that he don't; so he never is laughed at. The other fellows say it's no fun teasing him, he's so cool about it."

"But Bessie does mind it," said his father, "and so does Maggie; and we are not to judge that a thing is right and kind because it is not disagreeable to ourselves. You know your Aunt Annie is exceedingly afraid of a mouse."

"Indeed, she is," said Fred. "She'll squeal and jump on a chair, and turn as white as a sheet, if she only suspects there is one in the room."

"It is real honest fear, too," said Harry, "no make believe about it. I am real sorry for her, too; it must make her so uncomfortable."

"Yes," said his father. "She was frightened by one when a child, and cannot overcome her fear of them. Now I am not in the least afraid of mice; indeed, if they were not so mischievous, I should enjoy seeing them play about the house; but would you not think me cruel and unfeeling if I were to allow a mouse to be in the room with Annie, while I either amused myself with her fears or was quite careless of them? Would you think I was doing as I would be done by?"

"No, sir," said both the boys.

"Then you see the golden rule teaches us not only to avoid doing those things to others which are painful to ourselves, but also to put ourselves in their places, and to say, 'How should I wish to be done by if I felt as they do?' There, I have given two little lessons this morning, – one to my girls, and one to my boys, – and shall have to read a third to my self on the meaning of the word punctual if I do not hurry away. Good-by to you."

As soon as their father had left them, Maggie and Bessie ran away to mamma's room. Maggie, always eager for anything new, begged that she might have one of her towels to begin to hem it at once. But mamma said it was time for their walk, and they must go out first. They found not only Mr. Hall, but also their friend, Colonel Rush, in the park, and Bessie introduced them to each other, saying, gravely, "Mr. Hall, please to know Colonel Yush; Colonel Yush, please to know Mr. Hall."

The two gentlemen smiled, shook hands heartily, and certainly seemed well pleased to know each other. Perhaps it was partly because they were both so fond of the dear little girls who stood beside them.

When the children went home, mamma had a towel neatly folded and begun for Maggie. She sat down at once, sewing away in a great hurry, and saying to Bessie that she was going to finish it that day. Presently mamma, seeing that she was moving along the hem pretty fast, came and looked at her work.

"Oh, Maggie, Maggie!" she said, "this will not do, my dear child. Such long, crooked stitches! Why, you can sew much better than this."

"Yes, mamma, but then I am in such a hurry to finish it."

"But you must not be in such a hurry, dear, that you cannot take time to do it neatly. Suppose, when the towel is done, I were to hand you three cents and say, 'I am in such a hurry, Maggie, I shall only give you three cents.' Would you think that quite fair?"

Maggie laughed. "No, indeed, mamma; but you would not do such a thing."

"I hope not; and when you come to think about it, I am sure you will see that it is not fair for you to do my work poorly if I am to pay you for it."

"Must it all come out, mamma?" asked Maggie, as her mother took the work from her hand.

"I am afraid so, dear. See there, those stitches would not hold at all. I think we will take half of one side of a towel for each day's task. That will finish them in time, and you will soon tire of the work if you try to hurry through it in this way."

"Mamma," said Bessie, as her mother handed back the towel to Maggie to make a fresh beginning, "could not I learn to sew?"

"Yes, I think you are old enough to begin, if you will be patient."

"Oh, yes, mamma, I will be patient to learn, if you will be patient to teach me."

There was not much doubt about that, so the dear kind mother found a little piece of work and fixed it for Bessie. But she had no thimble of her own, and for that day had to use an old one of Maggie's with a piece of paper wrapped round her finger to make it stay in its place. Mamma promised to buy her one that very day, and after this, whenever Maggie hemmed her towels, Bessie would sit beside her learning to put in stiches that grew neater and neater every day.

IV.
FLOSSY

"AUNT HELEN! Aunt Helen!" said Maggie, almost as soon as they reached Riverside the next day, "may we run down in the garden and find Donald?"

Donald was the old Scotch gardener who lived at Riverside. He had been there for a great many years, long before Maggie and Bessie were born, long enough, as Maggie said, "to learn to talk American," if he had chosen to do so. But Donald loved the dear old Scotch brogue which reminded him of his fatherland so far away, and was at no pains to drop it; and our little girls liked him none the less that they sometimes found it hard work to understand him. And they had good reason to like him, for he was glad to see them when they came to Riverside, and tried all he could to make their visits pleasant to them. They were in a great hurry to find him this morning, and could scarcely rest till they had permission to do so.

"Well, well," said Grandpapa Duncan, "this is a nice thing. Have you grown so fond of Donald since you have been away that you have hardly time to speak to me before you run away to see him?"

"Oh, no, grandpapa," said Maggie, "we like Donald very much, but you know we like you a great deal more; but you see we are so anxious about the puppy."

"Oh, ho! then it is the puppy you like better than me? I do not see that that mends the matter."

"Now, grandpapa!" said Maggie.

"Couldn't you come with us, grandpapa?" asked Bessie, coaxingly.

"Yes, do," said Maggie, "it's such a nice, pleasant day. It will do you good."

"And it will do us good to have you," said Bessie.

Grandpapa was very much pleased, but though there was a smile on his lips and in his eye, he wrinkled up his brow and pretended to think it was very hard he should be asked to go out. Perhaps he wanted to be coaxed a little more.

"I have no hat or cane here," he said, gruffly.

Away ran Maggie and Bessie into the hall, and presently came back, the one with grandpapa's hat, the other with his cane. Maggie climbed on his chair and put his hat on his head, pretty well down over his nose too, while Bessie placed the cane in his hand.

"Now you are all ready," said Maggie.

"But I have a bone in my knee; how am I to get up?" said grandpapa.

Maggie took hold of one hand and Bessie of the other, and after a great deal of pulling, with some pretended scolding and grumbling from grandpapa, he was upon his feet.

"A nice thing, to be sure," said the old gentleman, "for two little city damsels to come out here to my quiet country home, to pull me out of my comfortable easy-chair and trot me around after puppy dogs and other nonsense!" and he frowned harder than ever, shaking his cane fiercely at the laughing children, who knew very well that this was only fun, and that he was really glad to go with them. They thought it a fine joke, and went skipping merrily along, one on each side of him. They had gone but a few steps from the house, when Bessie stood still, exclaiming, —

"Oh, how pretty, how pretty! Look, grandpapa! look, Maggie!"

It was indeed a pretty sight that she saw. Just in front of them stood two tall trees which grew straight upwards for some distance and then leaned a little towards each other, so that at the top their branches wove themselves together, making an arch. Over each tree ran a Virginia creeper, or grass vine, winding round and round the trunks, spreading over the branches, and when they could find nothing more to cling to, throwing out long sprays and tendrils, which waved gracefully about in the gentle breeze coming up from the river. Although it was only the middle of September, there had been several cool, frosty nights, and the leaves of the vine were already of a bright crimson. The trees were still quite green, and the contrast between their color and the red of the vine was very beautiful.

"Oh, who did it, grandpapa?" said Bessie. "Who painted those leaves? Did Donald?"

"No, darling, no hand of man could paint that. This is the Lord's doing, and it is indeed marvellous in our eyes."

"Do you mean our Father in heaven did it, grandpapa?"

"Yes, dear, it was the great and loving Father, who has not only made his earth to bring forth food and drink for all his creatures, but has also made it so beautiful that it may please and delight our eyes."

"But," said Maggie, in great astonishment, "that vine used to be all green just like the tree. How did it come red?"

"I will tell you," said grandpapa. "Do you know what the sap is?"

"No, sir."

Mr. Duncan looked around him, and then, taking his knife from his pocket, cut a slip from a tall plant which grew near. He pressed it with his thumb and finger, and a small whitish drop oozed slowly out from the end which had been cut.

"See there," he said, "that is the sap or juice of the plant. It is in every tree or bush, and goes running through the trunk, branches, and leaves much as the blood runs through the veins in your body. All through the summer it keeps the branches moist and the leaves fresh and green; but it does not like the cold, and when the frost comes, it runs away from the leaves. Then they begin to turn, some red, some yellow, some brown. Our pretty creepers here are among the first to feel the cold; and they turn sooner than the trees over which they grow. As the weather becomes colder, the sap goes farther and farther away, back through the branches and down through the trunk till it reaches the roots, where it lies snug and close in its winter home under the warm earth. Then the leaves shrivel up and lose their bright colors and fall to the ground. If you break a branch from a tree in winter, it will snap more easily than it will in the summer, because it is dry and brittle from the loss of its sap. All through the cold weather the sap keeps hidden quietly away in the roots; but in the spring when the air grows mild and pleasant, it begins to stir and move upward again. Up, up it goes through the trunk and branches, till, as the weather grows warmer and warmer, the little buds which hold the young leaves and blossoms begin to show themselves, and at last unfold. Then the small tender leaves peep out and gather strength and life from the soft air and bright sunshine and gentle rain, till the trees and bushes are covered with their beautiful green dress and make a pleasant shade for my Maggie and Bessie when they come out to see their old grandpapa at Riverside."

"And give us pretty flowers to smell and look at, and nice fruit to eat," said Bessie.

"Yes, and see how our Father thinks of us and cares for our comfort at every season. If we had not this pleasant shade in the summer, with the soft green for our eyes to rest upon, we could scarcely bear the heat and light of the sun. But in the winter we need all the heat and light we can have; and then, the leaves drop away and let the rays of the sun fall upon the earth to warm and cheer us."

While grandpapa was talking, they had been walking on; and now, as they turned a corner, they saw Donald. He was tying up some dahlias. The little girls ran forward.

"How do you do, Donald?" said Bessie.

"How is the puppy, Donald?" asked Maggie.

"And how's yersel'," said Donald. "Eh, but I'm blithe to see ye aince mair."

"We're well," said Bessie, "and I can yun about now, and my feet don't get so tired as they used to."

"That's gude news," said Donald; "an' noo ye'll be wantin' the wee doggie hame wi' ye. Weel, he's big eneuch; and I think ye may tak' him if yer mither's willin'."

The children understood enough of what Donald was saying to know that he meant they could take the puppy home if their mother would not object; and Maggie hastened to say, "Oh, yes! mamma will let us have him; she quite expects us to take him home, Donald. Could you let us see him now?"

Donald was quite ready, and they all went over to his cottage, where the first thing they saw was Flossy himself, playing on the grass with his two puppy brothers. They all came running up to Donald, as if they were glad to see him, and then went snuffing and smelling about the feet of the children, as if they wanted to find out who these little strangers could be.

In five minutes they were all the best of friends, and Maggie and Bessie were seated upon the grass with the three little dogs jumping, capering, and tumbling about them and over them. Such a frolic as they had, and how the children laughed, and how the puppies barked and yelped and frisked about, while it was hard to say who enjoyed it most, the little girls and the dogs, or grandpapa, Donald, and Alice, who watched them from the cottage steps.

The puppies were all pretty, but Flossy was certainly the prettiest of the three. He was beautifully marked in brown and white, and his coat was already becoming long, silken, and glossy. He was also the most playful and mischievous; and grandpapa told Maggie and Bessie he thought they would have their hands full to keep him out of harm. Once, in the midst of their play, Maggie's hat fell off, and in an instant Flossy had pounced upon it, and, when Maggie tried to take it from him, ran away, dragging it after him. Round and round the house he tore, and they had quite a race to get it from him. At last Donald caught him and took the hat from him; but, alas! it was none the better for its rough journey over the gravel walks. He was next at his own finery. Alice, Donald's wife, had tied about his neck the red ribbon which she kept to dress him with when his little mistresses came to Riverside, but his brothers seemed to think he had no right to be finer than they were, and were all the time pulling and snapping at the ribbon, till at last it came untied. But Flossy had no idea of letting another puppy have that which belonged to himself, and pretty quickly snatched it from them. Off he went again before the children could stop him, and running down in the cellar and behind some barrels, soon had the ribbon torn to bits. Alice was quite vexed when at last she pulled him from his hiding-place, and found the ribbon entirely destroyed; but the children thought him very smart, and did not see why he should not have his fun.

"Eh, but you're an ill beastie!" said Alice, giving Flossy a cuff on the ear.

Bessie's little tender heart was quite grieved. "Alice," she said, "I was 'fraid maybe you'd be sorry when we took Flossy away; but I guess you don't care much; do you?"

"Na, na!" said Alice. "I canna be fashed wi' the three o' them, an' this ane's the warst o' them a'. He's aye in mischief. Didna he lick a' the cream for my mon's breakfast?"

Scarce a word did the children understand, except that Flossy had drank the cream meant for Donald's breakfast, and that Alice was rather pleased to be rid of him.

"Perhaps he don't know any better," said Bessie. "He'll have to be teached."

"'Deed does he," said Alice, as if she were glad she was no longer to have the teaching of him.

"Grandpapa," said Maggie, "may we take Flossy up to the house now, so that he may be used to us before we go home?"

Grandpapa said they might, and Maggie told Bessie that she should carry him.

"I'll only carry him half the way," said Bessie, "and you can carry him the yest."

But Flossy had no mind to be carried at all. He liked to frisk about on his own four feet, and was quite ready to run after his little mistresses. Indeed, the puppies were all so well pleased with their new playmates that the other two wished to go also, and Donald had to shut them up to prevent them from following.

Grandpapa said they would not go directly home, but through the orchard, and so down to the river bank. In the orchard the men were picking the early apples and packing them in barrels, and grandpapa, going to one of them, chose two large rosy-cheeked apples and gave one to Maggie and one to Bessie. They stood a while watching the men, and then turned to go on.

Between the orchard and the river lay a broad green field, and in this field several cows and a large flock of sheep were feeding. Now Bessie, although she was not a timid child about many things, was afraid of cattle; and as Mr. Duncan opened the gate into the field, she drew back.

"Grandpa," she said, "bettern't we go the other way?"

"I think not," said grandpapa. "This way is the pleasantest, and I have something to show you down by the water."

"But if we should be bucked, what would our mamma say?" asked the little girl, still looking timidly at the cows.