Kitabı oku: «Mary: A Nursery Story for Very Little Children», sayfa 2
Chapter Three.
A Wonderful Birthday Present
There was a room next to Mary’s mother’s room which was not often used. Mary was rather surprised when her father carried her straight to this room instead of to her mother’s. And when he lifted her down from his shoulder she was still more surprised to see that there was a nice little fire burning in the grate, and that the room looked quite cheerful and almost like another nursery, with a rocking-chair in front of the fire, and the blinds drawn up to let the pretty summer morning brightness in.
There was something in the corner of the room which Mary would have stared at a great deal if she had seen it. But just now she did not look that way, for she was surprised for the third time by seeing that a door stood open in the corner near the window, where she had never known before that there was a door.
“Where does that go to, papa?” she said, and she was running forward to look when her father stopped her.
“It goes into mamma’s room, my pet,” he said, “but I don’t want you to go in there yet. Perhaps mamma’s asleep.”
“It’s all dark,” said Mary; she had been peeping in. She felt rather strange, and a very tiny, weeny bit frightened. Everything seemed “funny” this birthday morning. She almost felt as if she was dreaming.
“Why is mamma’s room all dark?” she said again. “Is her asleep?”
“I’m not sure, dear. Wait here a minute and I’ll see,” and her father went into the next room, closing the door a little after him.
Mary and her brothers stood looking at each other. What was going to happen?
“It’s to be a surprise, I s’pose,” said Artie.
“It’s the guesses, I say,” said Leigh.
“It’s a birfday present for me. Papa said so,” said Mary.
“We’re speaking like the three bears,” said Artie laughing. “Let’s go on doing it. It’s rather fun. You say something, Leigh – say ‘somebody’s been in my bed’ – that’ll do quite well. Say it very growlily.”
“Somebody’s been in my bed,” said Leigh, as growlily as he could. Leigh was a very good-natured boy, you see.
“Now, it’s my turn,” said Artie, and he tried to make his voice into a kind of gruff squeak that he thought would do for the mamma bear’s talking. “Somebody’s been in my bed,” he said. “Come along, Mary, it’s you now.”
Mary was laughing by this time.
“Somebody,” she began in a queer little peepy tone, “somebody’s – ” but suddenly a voice from the other side of the door made them all jump.
“My dear three bears,” it said – it was papa, of course, “be so good as to shut your eyes tight till I tell you to open them, and then Mary can finish.” They did shut their eyes – they heard papa come into the room and cross over to the corner which they had not looked at. Then there was a little rustling – then he called out:
“All right. Open your eyes. Now, Mary, Tiny Bear, fire away. Somebody’s lying – ”
“In my bed,” said Mary, as she opened her eyes, thinking to herself how very funny papa was.
But when her eyes were quite open she did stare. For there he was beckoning to her from the corner where he was standing beside a dear little bed, all white lace or muslin – Mary called all sorts of stuff like that “lace” – and pink ribbons.
“Oh,” said Mary, running across the room, “that’s my bed. Mamma showed it me one day. It were my bed when I was a little girl.”
“Of course, it’s your bed,” said her father. “I told you to be Tiny Bear and say, ‘somebody’s lying in my bed.’ Somebody is lying in your bed. Look and see.”
Mary raised herself up on her tiptoes and peeped in. On the soft white pillow a little head was resting – a little head with dark fluffy curls all over it – Mary could not see all the curls, for there was a flannel shawl drawn round the little head, but she could see the face and the curls above the forehead. “It,” this wonderful new doll, seemed to be asleep – its eyes were shut, and its mouth was a tiny bit open, and it was breathing very softly. It had a dear little button of a nose, and it was rather pink all over. It looked very cosy and peaceful, and there seemed a sweet sort of lavendery scent all about the bed and the pretty new flannel blankets and the embroidered coverlet. That was pretty – white cashmere worked with tiny rosebuds. Mary remembered seeing her mamma working at it, and it was lined with pale pink silk. But just then, though Mary saw all these things and noticed them, yet, in another way, she did not see them. For all her real seeing and noticing went to the living thing in this dear little nest, the little, soft, sleeping, breathing face, that she gazed at as if she could never leave off. And behind her, gazing too, though Mary had the best place, of course, as it was her birthday and she was a girl – behind her stood her brothers. For a few seconds, which seemed longer to the children, there was perfect silence in the room. It was a strange wonderful silence. Mary never forgot it.
Her breath came fast, her heart seemed to beat in a different way, her little face, which was generally rather pale, grew flushed. And then at last she turned to her father who was waiting quietly. He did not want to interrupt them. “Like as if we were saying our prayers, wasn’t it?” Artie said afterwards. But when Mary turned she felt that he had been watching them all the time, and there was a very nice smile on his face.
“Papa,” she said. She seemed as if she could not get out another word, “papa – is it?”
“Yes, darling,” he replied, “it is. It’s a baby sister. Isn’t that the nicest present you ever had?”
Then there came back to Mary what she had often said about “not wanting a baby sister,” and she could scarcely believe she had ever felt like that. She was sorry to remember she had said it, only she knew she had not understood about it.
“I never thought her would be so pretty,” she said. “I never thought her would be so sweet. Oh papa, her is a lubly birfday present! When her wakes up, mayn’t I kiss her?”
“Of course you may, and hold her in your arms if you are very careful,” said her father, looking very pleased. He had been very anxious for Mary to love the baby a great deal, for sometimes “next-to-the-baby” children are rather jealous and cross at being no longer the pet and the youngest. It was a very good thing he and her mamma agreed that the baby had come as a birthday present to Mary.
The idea of holding her in her own arms was so delightful that again for a moment or two Mary felt as if she could not speak.
“And what do you two fellows think of your new sister?” said papa, turning to the boys. Leigh leant over the cradle and peered in very earnestly.
“She’s something like,” he said slowly, “something like those very tiny little ducklings,” and seeing a smile on his father’s face he went on to explain, though he grew rather red, “I don’t know what makes me think that. She looks so soft and cosy, I suppose. You know the little ducklings, papa? They’re like balls of fluffy down.”
“I don’t think she’s a bit like them,” said Artie, who in his turn had been having a good examination of the baby. “I think she’s more like a very little monkey. Do you remember that tiny monkey with a pink face, that sat on the organ in the street at grandmamma’s one day, Leigh? It was like her.”
He spoke quite gravely. He had admired the monkey very much. He did not at all mean that the new baby was not pretty, and his father’s smile grew rather comical.
“See how she scroozles up her face,” he went on; “she’s just like the monkey now. It was a very nice monkey, you know, papa.”
But Mary was not pleased. She had never seen a monkey, but there was a picture of one for the letter “M” in what she called her “animal book,” and she did not think it pretty at all.
“No,” she said, “no, Artie, her’s not a’ inch like a monkey. Her’s booful, just booful, and monkeys isn’t.”
Then suddenly she gave a little cry.
“Oh papa, dear, do look,” she called out, “her’s openin’ her eyes. I never ’amembered her could open her eyes,” and Mary nearly danced with delight.
Yes indeed, Miss Baby was opening her eyes and more than her eyes – her little round mouth opened too, and she began to cry – quite loud!
Mary had heard babies cry before now, of course, but somehow everything about this baby was too wonderful. She did not seem at all like the babies Mary saw sometimes when she was out walking; she was like herself and not anything else.
Mary’s face grew red again when she heard the baby cry.
“Oh papa, dear,” she said. “Has her hurt herself?”
“No, no, she’s all right,” said papa. But all the same he did not take baby out of her cot – papas are very fond of their babies of course, but I do not think they like them quite so much when they cry – instead of that, he turned towards the door leading into the next room.
“Nurse,” he said in a low voice, but nurse heard him.
“Yes, sir,” said a voice, in reply, and then came another surprise for Mary. The person who came quickly into the room was not “nurse” at all, but somebody quite different, though she had a nice face and was very neatly dressed. Who could she be? The world did seem very upside down this birthday morning to Mary!
“Nurse,” she repeated to her father, with a very puzzled look.
“Yes, dear,” said the stranger, “I’m come to be baby’s nurse. You see she needs so much taking care of just now while she’s still so very little – your nurse wouldn’t have time to do it all.”
“No,” said Mary, “I think it’s a good plan,” and she gave a little sigh of satisfaction. She loved the baby dearly already and she would have been quite ready to give her anything – any of her toys or pretty things, if they would have pleased her – but still she did feel it would have been rather hard for her nurse to be so busy all day that she could not take care of Artie and her as usual.
The strange nurse smiled. Mary was what people call an “old-fashioned” child, and one of her funny expressions was saying anything that she liked was “a good plan.” She stood staring with all her eyes as the nurse cleverly lifted baby out of the cot and laid her on her knee in a comfortable way, so that she left off crying. But her eyes were still open, and Mary came close to look at them.
“Is her going to stay awake now?” she said. “Perhaps she will, for a little while,” said the nurse. “But such very tiny babies like to sleep a great deal.”
Mary stood quite still. She felt as if she could stay there all day just looking at the baby – every moment she found out some new wonder about her.
“Her’s got ears,” she said at last.
“Of course she has,” said the strange nurse. “You wouldn’t like her to be deaf?”
“Baby,” said Mary, but baby took no notice.
“Her it deaf,” she went on, looking very disappointed. “Her doesn’t look at me when I call her.”
“No, my dear,” said the nurse. “She hasn’t learnt yet to understand. It will take a good while. You will have to be very patient. Little babies have a great, great deal to learn when they first come into this world. Just think what a great many things you have learnt yourself since you were a baby, Miss Mary.”
Mary looked at her. She had never thought of this.
“I wasn’t never so little, was I?” she said.
“Yes, quite as little. And you couldn’t speak, or stand, or walk, or do anything except what this little baby does.”
This was very strange to think of. Mary thought about it for a moment or two without speaking. Then she was just going to ask some more questions, when she heard her father’s voice.
“Mary,” he said, “mamma is awake and you may come in and get a birthday kiss. Leigh and Artie are waiting for you to have the first kiss as you’re the queen of the day.”
“I’d like there to be two queens,” said Mary, as she trotted across to her father. “’Cos of baby coming on my birfday. When will her have a birfday of hers own?” she went on, stopping short on her way when this thought came into her head.
Her father laughed as he picked her up.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a whole year for that,” he said. “Next year, if all’s well, your birthday and baby’s will come together.”
“Oh, that will be nice,” said Mary, but then for a minute or two she forgot all about baby, as her father lifted her on to her mother’s bed to get the birthday kiss waiting for her.
“My pet,” said her mother, “are you pleased with your presents, and are you having a happy day?” Mary put up her little hand and stroked her mother’s forehead, on which some little curls of pretty brown were falling.
“Mamma dear,” she said, “your hair isn’t very tidy. Shall I call Larkin to brush it smoove?” and she began to scramble off the bed to go to fetch the maid.
“What a little fidget you are,” said her mother. “Never mind about my hair. I want you to tell me what you think of your little sister.”
“I think her sweet,” said Mary. “And her curls is somefin like yours, mamma. But Leigh says hers like little ducks, and Artie says hers like a pink monkey.”
Mamma began to laugh at this, quite loud. But just then the nurse put her head in at the door.
“Baby’s opening her eyes so wide, Miss Mary,” she said. “Do come and look at her, and you, Master Leigh and Master Artie too. You shall come and see your mamma again in the afternoon.”
So they all three went back into the other room to have another look at baby.
“I say, children,” called their father after them. “We’ve got to fix what baby’s to be called. It’ll take a lot of thinking about, so you must set your wits to work, and tell me to-morrow what name you like best.”
Chapter Four.
Babies
There was plenty to think of all that day. Mary’s little head had never been so full, and before bedtime came she began to feel quite sleepy.
It had been a very happy day, even though everything seemed rather strange. Their father would have liked to stay with them, but he was obliged to go away. Nurse – I mean Artie’s and Mary’s own nurse – was very good to them, and so were cook and all the other servants. The birthday dinner was just what Mary liked – roast chicken and bread-sauce and little squirly rolls of bacon, and a sponge-cake pudding with strawberry jam. And there was a very nice tea, too; the only pity was that baby could not have any of the good things, because, as nurse explained, she had no teeth.
“She’ll have some by next birthday, won’t she?” asked Leigh.
“I hope so, poor dear,” said nurse, “though she’ll scarcely be able to eat roast chicken by then.”
“Why do you say ‘poor dear’?” asked Leigh.
“Because their teeth coming often hurts babies a good deal,” said nurse.
“It would be much better if they were all ready,” said Leigh. “I don’t see why they shouldn’t be. Baby’s got hands and eyes and everything else – why shouldn’t she have teeth?”
“I’m sure I can’t say, Master Leigh,” nurse answered. “There’s many things we can’t explain.”
Mary opened her mouth wide and began tugging at her own little white teeth.
“Them doesn’t hurt me,” she said.
“Ah but they did, Miss Mary,” said nurse. “Many a night you couldn’t sleep for crying with the pain of them, but you can’t remember it.”
“It’s very funny,” said Mary.
“What’s funny?” asked Leigh.
“About ’amembering,” answered Mary, and a puzzled look came into her face. “Can you ’amember when you was a tiny baby, nurse?”
“No, my dear, nobody can,” said nurse. “But don’t worry yourself about understanding things of that kind.”
“There’s somefin in my head now that I can’t ’amember,” said Mary, “somefin papa said. It’s that that’s teasing me, nurse. I don’t like to not ’amember what papa said.”
“You must ask him to-morrow, dearie,” nurse answered. “You’ll give yourself a headache if you go on trying too hard to remember.”
“Isn’t it funny how things go out of our minds like that?” said Leigh. “I’ll tell you what I think it is. I think our minds are like cupboards or chests of drawers, and some of the things get poked very far back so that we can’t get at them when we want them. You see the newest things are at the front, that’s how we can remember things that have just happened and not things long ago.”
“No,” said Artie, “’tisn’t quite like that, Leigh. For I can remember what we had for dinner on my birthday, and that was very long ago, before last winter, much better than what we had for dinner one day last week.”
“I can tell you how that is,” said nurse, “what you had for dinner on your birthday made a mark on your mind because it was your birthday. Everything makes marks on our minds, I suppose, but some go deeper than others. That’s how it’s always seemed to me about remembering and forgetting. And if there’s any name I want to remember very much I say it out loud to myself two or three times, and that seems to press it into my mind. Dear, dear, how well I remember doing that way at school when I was a little girl. There was the kings and queens, do what I would, I couldn’t remember how their names came, till I got that way of saying two or three together, like ‘William and Mary, Anne, George the First,’ over and over.”
The children listened with great interest to nurse’s recollections, the boys especially, that is to say; the talk was rather too difficult for Mary to understand. But her face looked very grave; she seemed to be listening to what nurse said, and yet thinking of something behind it. All at once her eyes grew bright and a smile broke out like a ray of sunshine.
“I ’amember,” she said joyfully. “Nursie said her couldn’t ’amember names. It was names papa said. He said us was to fink of a name for baby.”
“Oh, is that what you’ve been fussing about?” said Leigh. “I could have told you that long ago. I’ve fixed what I want her to be called. I’ve thought of a very pretty name.”
Mary looked rather sorry.
“I can’t fink of any names,” she said; “I can only fink of ‘Mary.’ Can’t her be called ‘Mary,’ ’cos it’s my birfday?”
Leigh and Artie both began to laugh.
“What a silly girl you are,” said Leigh; “how could you have two people in one family with the same name? Whenever we called ‘Mary,’ you’d never know if it was you or the baby we meant.”
“You could say ‘baby Mary,’” said Mary, who did not like to be called a silly girl.
“And when she was big,” said Leigh, “how would she like to be called ‘baby’?”
Mary had not thought of this, still she would not give in.
“Peoples has the same names,” she said. “Papa’s name’s ‘Leigh,’ and your name’s ‘Leigh,’ – there now – ” and as another idea struck her, “and us all is called Bertum. Papa’s Mr Bertum and mamma’s Mrs Bertum and – and – ”
“And you’re ‘Miss Bertum,’” said Leigh, laughing. “But that’s because Bertram is our family name, you see, Mary. We’ve each got a first name too. It doesn’t much matter papa and me being the same, except that sometimes I think mamma’s calling me when she means papa, but it would never do if Artie and I had the same name. Fancy, if we were both called ‘Artie,’ we’d never know which you meant.”
“No,” said Mary, laughing too, “it would be a very bad plan. I never thought of that. But I can’t think of a pitty name for dear little baby.”
“There’s lots,” said Artie, who had been sitting very silent – to tell the truth, he had forgotten all about choosing a name, but he did not want to say so. So he had been thinking of all the names he could, so that he might seem quite as ready as Leigh. “There’s Cowslip and Buttercup and Firefly and – ”
“Nonsense,” said Leigh, “considering you’re six years old, Artie, you’re sillier than Mary. Those are cows’ names, and – ”
“They’re not – not all of them,” said Artie, “Firefly’s a pony’s name. It’s little Ella Curry’s pony’s name, and I think it’s very pretty.”
“For a pony perhaps,” said nurse, “but then you see, Master Artie, your little sister isn’t a pony.”
“I wish she was,” said Leigh, and when nurse looked up astonished he looked rather ashamed. “Of course I don’t mean that it isn’t nice for her to be a little girl,” he went on, “but I do so wish we had a pony.”
“You may just be patient for a while, Master Leigh,” said nurse; “you know your papa’s promised you a pony when you’re ten years old, and by that time baby will be nearly two.”
“That won’t matter,” said Leigh, “even Mary won’t be able to ride my pony. It’s to be a real sensible one, not a stupid donkey sort of pony, with panniers or a basket on its back.”
“No,” said Artie, “it’s to be a galoppy-trot one! Won’t we make him go, Leigh.”
“I shall,” said Leigh; “you won’t have much to say to it. You’ll be too little too.”
Artie’s face fell. Mary, who was sitting beside him, slipped her little hand into his.
“Nebber mind, Artie,” she said. “We’ll ask papa to give us anoder pony. A very gentle one for you and me and baby.”
“A perambulator will be more in baby’s way,” said nurse. “Miss Mary’s old one is quite worn out and they do make such pretty ones nowadays. I hope your mamma will get her a very nice one.”
“And may we push it sometimes?” said Artie, brightening up again, “that would be nice.”
Leigh gave a little laugh.
“What a baby you are, Artie,” he was beginning, but nurse, who saw that he was in one of his teasing humours, looked up quickly.
“It’s such a fine evening,” she said, “and it’s scarcely five o’clock. How would you like to go out a little walk? We didn’t go very far to-day. We might go as far as the Lavender Cottages, I’ve something to take there from your mamma.”
The boys looked very pleased.
“Oh yes, nurse,” they said, “do let’s go out.”
“And mayn’t we stop and see the puppies at the smithy on the way?” Leigh went on.
“I’m f’ightened of those little barky dogs,” said Mary; “I don’t want to go out, nurse, I’m sleepy.”
“It’ll do you good, my dear, to have a little walk before you go to bed; you’ll sleep all the better for it and wake all the fresher in the morning,” and a few minutes afterwards, when the little party were walking down the drive, Mary looked quite bright again.
It was a very lovely evening. The way to the Lavender Cottages lay across the fields, and, as every one knows, there is nothing prettier than a long stretch of grass land with the tender spring green lighted up by late afternoon sunshine.
Mary trotted along contentedly, thinking to herself.
“My birfday’s going to bed soon,” she thought, “and to-morrow morning it’ll be gone – gone away for a long, long time,” and she gave a little sigh. “But somefins won’t be gone away, all my birfday presents will stay, and baby sister will stay, and when my birfday comes back again it will be hers too. Dear little baby sister! I wish her had comed out a walk wif us, the sun is so pitty.”
The smithy was at the foot of the road leading up to the cottages, just opposite the stile by which they left the fields. This stile had three steps up and three steps down, with a bar of wood to clamber across at the top. It was one of the children’s favourite stiles, as the boys always pretended that the bar was a pony on which they had a ride on the way over. To-day nurse and Mary waited patiently till they had ridden far enough. Then Artie hopped down the other side and Leigh stood at the top to help his sister over, for though he was a teasing boy sometimes, he never forgot that she was a little girl and that it was his place to take care of her.
“Leigh,” said Mary, as he was lifting her down, “I is so f’ightened of those little dogs! Please don’t go to see them.”
“How can you be frightened of them, Mary?” said Leigh. “It’s really very silly! They’re only baby dogs, don’t you understand; they couldn’t hurt anybody.”
This was quite a new idea to Mary, and she stopped short on the second step of the stile to think about it.
“Baby dogs,” she said, “I never thought little dogs was babies. Is there babies of everything, Leigh?”
“Of course there are. Don’t you remember the baby ducks? And the little lambs are baby sheep, and even the tiny buds are baby flowers.”
“And babies never hurts nobody, does they?” said Mary, as she got safely to the ground again with the help of her brother’s hand. “Then I won’t be f’ightened, Leigh, of the little doggies. You may take me to see them,” and as Leigh hurried on to the smithy, which he thought the most delightful place in the world, Mary trotted beside him as fast as her little legs could go, holding firmly to him while she said over to herself, though in rather a trembling voice —
“I never thought them was baby dogs, babies don’t hurt nobody.”
Yakeman the smith was standing in front of his forge, taking a rest after the day’s work.
“Good-evening, Master Leigh,” he said, as the children came up to him. “Come for a look at the puppies, sir? They’re getting on finely. Would Missie like to see them too?” and he turned to open a little gate leading into his garden.
Leigh looked down at Mary, not quite sure what she would feel about it. Her face was rather red, and she pinched his hand more tightly.
“Would you like to see them, Mary?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, I’m not f’ightened now,” she answered bravely.
“You’ve no call to be afear’d,” said Yakeman, as he led the way.
“No,” said Mary, “’cos them’s only babies.”
The puppies were all tumbling over each other in a comfortable nest of hay in the corner of a shed. There were four of them, brown curly balls, nearly as soft and fluffy as Leigh’s favourite ducklings.
Yakeman stooped down and picked one up with his big hand and held it close to Mary. She stroked it gently with the very tip of her fingers.
“It are sweet,” she said, with a rather shaky little laugh, and as no harm came of her touching it, she grew still braver.
“May I kiss its little head?” she said, looking up at the tall blacksmith, who smiled down on her.
“To be sure, Missie,” said he, so Mary buried her nose in the brown fur, suddenly giving a little cry as she felt something warm and wet on her cheek.
“He’s licking you,” said Leigh; “I dare say he means it for kissing though. I say, Mary, wouldn’t it be nice if papa would let us have a puppy for our very own.”
“A baby puppy and a baby sister,” said Mary. “Did you know us had got a baby sister?” she went on, to the smith. “Her comed to-day ’cos it were my birfday.”
“That was a fine birthday present,” said Yakeman, “and you’d be welcome to this puppy if your papa would allow you to have it. I’ve promised two and I’m keeping one myself, but this here I’d not settled about.”
Mary’s eyes sparkled, and so did Leigh’s. “We’d have him between us, Mary,” said Leigh. “We must ask papa. You’d better ask him because of its being your birthday, you know.”
Just then they heard nurse’s voice, she had been waiting for Artie while he had another ride on the stile.
“Master Leigh and Miss Mary, where are you?” she said. “We must be getting on.”
The children thanked the smith and ran after her, full of the offer which had been made to them.
“Oh, nurse,” said Mary, when they had told her of it. “Just fink of all my birfday presents! A baby sister and a baby dog, and all my nother things,” and she gave a great sigh of pleasure.
“Yes, indeed, Miss Mary,” said nurse. “I don’t think you’ll ever forget your fourth birthday.”
