Kitabı oku: «Tell Me a Story», sayfa 6
“Your fingers seem to be all thumbs this morning,” she said testily. “You’ve not swep’ up a bit, nor made th’ fire, nor nothing. Go and fetch water now to fill th’ kettle, or father’ll be in afore it’s on the boil.”
Judy turned to the fireplace, and, with some difficulty, managed to lug the heavy old kettle as far as the front door. Just outside stood the pump, but try as she might she could not get the water to flow. She was ready to cry with vexation, pumping had always seemed such nice easy work; she had often watched the children of these very cottages filling their kettles and jugs, and had envied them the fun; but now when she had it to do she found it very different —very poor fun, if indeed fun at all! At last she got the water to begin to come, a poor miserable little trickle; at this rate the kettle would never be filled, and her tears were preparing to descend, when a rough hearty voice made her jump. It was Betsy’s father.
“Pump’s stiff this morning, is it, my lass?” he called out as he came up the path. “Let’s have a hand at it;” and with his vigorous pull the water quickly appeared. He lifted the kettle into the kitchen, greatly to Judy’s relief; but Betsy’s mother took a different view of the matter.
“I don’t know what’s come to Betsy this morning,” she said. “Lazy’s no word for her. The porridge is ready, but there’ll be no time to make thee a cup of coffee, father. She’s been close upon a quarter of an hour filling the kettle, and baby’s so cross this morning I can’t put her down.”
“I must make my breakfast of porridge then,” said the father; “but Betsy, girl, it’s new for thee to be lazy, my lass.”
Judy felt humbled and mortified, but she said nothing. Somehow she felt as if she could not defend herself, though she knew she had honestly done her best. The words “too bad” rose to her lips, but she did not utter them. She began to wonder how little Betsy managed to get through her daily tasks, easy as she had imagined them to be.
The porridge was not much to her taste, but she tried to eat it. Perhaps it was not so much the porridge itself, for it was good of its kind, which took away her appetite, as the want of the many little things to which she was so accustomed that their absence made her for the first time think of them at all. The nice white tablecloth and silver spoons on the nursery table, the neat, pretty room, and freshly dressed little brothers and sisters – all were very different from the rough board, and the pewter spoons, and Betsy’s father and big brothers hurriedly devouring the great bowls of porridge, while the three little ones cried or quarrelled incessantly. “After all,” thought Judy, “perhaps it is a good thing to have rather a strict nurse, even if she is very fussy about being neat and all that.”
But yet she felt very sorry for Betsy’s mother, when she looked at her thin, careworn face, and noticed how patient she was with the babies, and how cheerfully she answered all “father’s” remarks. And there began to dawn in the little girl’s mind a faint idea that perhaps there were troubles and difficulties in the world such as she had never dreamt of, that there are a good many “too bads” in other people’s lots as well as in Miss Judy’s.
Breakfast over, her troubles began again. It was washing-day, and just as she was looking forward to a ramble in the fields in glorious independence of nurse’s warnings about spoiling her frock, her dreams were put an end to by Betsy’s mother’s summoning her to take her place at the tub. And oh, my dears, real washing is very different work from the dolls’ laundressing – standing round a wash-hand basin placed on a nursery chair, and wasting ever so much beautiful honey-soap in nice clean hot water, and then when the little fat hands are all “crumply” and puffy “like real washerwomen’s,” rinsing out the miniature garments in still nicer clean cold water, and hanging them round the nursery guard to dry, and most likely ending up by coaxing nurse to clear away all the mess you have made, and to promise to let you iron dolly’s clean clothes the next wet afternoon – which you think so delightful. Judy’s arms ached sorely, sorely, and her head ached too, and she felt all steamy and hot and weary, when at last her share of it was over, and, “for a change,” she was instructed to take the two youngest out for a walk up the lane, while mother boiled the potatoes for dinner.
The babies were very tiresome, and though Judy was quite at liberty to manage them in her own way, and to punish them as she had never ventured to punish Lena and Harry at home, she did not find it of much use. She wondered “how ever the real Betsy did;” and I fancy the babies too wondered a good deal in their own way as to what had come over their big sister to-day. Altogether the walk was very far from a pleasure to any of the three, and when at last Judy managed to drag her weary self, and her two hot, cross little charges home again to the cottage, she was by no means in an amiable humour. She would have liked to sit down and rest, and she would have liked to wash her face and hands, and brush her hair – Judy who at home always grumbled at nurse’s summons to “come and be tidied” – but there was no time for anything of the kind. Dinner – the potatoes, that is to say – was ready, and the table must be set at once, ready for father and the boys, and Betsy’s mother told her to “look sharp and bustle about,” in a way that Judy felt to be really a great deal “too bad.” She was hungry, however, and ate her share of potatoes, flavoured with a little dripping and salt, with more appetite than she had sometimes felt for roast mutton and rice pudding, though all the same she would have been exceedingly glad of a little gravy, or even of a plateful of sago pudding, which generally was by no means a favourite dish of hers.
“Me and the boys won’t be home till late,” said the father, as he rose to go; “there’s a piece o’ work master wants done this week, and he’ll pay us extray to stay a couple of hours. Betsy must bring us our tea.”
Judy’s spirits rose. She would have a walk by herself any way, unplagued by babies, and the idea of it gave her some patience for the afternoon’s task of darning stockings, which she found was expected of her. Just at first the darning was rather amusing, but after a while she began to be sadly tired of it. It was very different from sitting still for a quarter of an hour, with nurse patiently instructing her, and praising her whenever she did well; these stockings were so very harsh and coarse, and the holes were so enormous, and the basketful so huge!
“I’ll never get them done,” she exclaimed at last. “I think it’s too bad to make a little girl like me or Betsy do such hard work; and I think her father and brothers must make holes in their horrid stockings on purpose, I do. I’ll not do any more.”
She shoved the basket into a corner, and looked about for amusement. The babies were asleep, and Jock was playing in a corner, and mother, poor body, was still busy in the wash-house – Judy could find nothing to play with. There were no books in the cottage, except an old Farmers’ Almanac, a Bible and Prayer-book, and one or two numbers of a People’s Miscellany, which Judy looked into, but found she could not understand. How she wished for some of her books at home! Even those she had read two or three times through, and was always grumbling at in consequence, would have been a great treasure; even a history or geography book would have been better than nothing.
Suddenly the clock struck, and Betsy’s mother called out from the wash-house, —
“It’s three o’clock – time for you to be going with the tea. Set the kettle on, Betsy, and I’ll come and make it and cut the bread. It’ll take you more nor half-an-hour to walk to Farmer Maxwell’s where they’re working this week.”
Judy was staring out of the window. “It’s beginning to rain,” she said dolefully.
“Well, what if it is,” replied Betsy’s mother, “Father and boys can’t want their tea because it’s raining. Get thy old cloak, child. My goodness me!” she went on, as she came into the kitchen, “she hasn’t got the kettle on yet? Betsy, it’s too bad of thee, it is for sure; there’s not a thing but what’s been wrong to-day.”
Judy’s conscience pricked her about the stockings, so, without attempting to defend herself, she fetched the old cloak she had seen hanging in Betsy’s room, and, drawing the hood over her head, stood meekly waiting, while the mother cut the great hunches of bread, made the tea, and poured it into the two tin cans, which the little girl was to carry to the farm.
It did not rain much when she first set off, so though it was a good two miles’ walk, she was only moderately wet when she got to the farm. One of the boys was on the look-out for her, or rather for their tea, which he at once took possession of and ran off with, advising Judy to make haste home, it was going to rain like blazes. But poor Judy found it no easy matter to follow his counsel; her arms were still aching with the weight of the baby in the morning, and her wrist was chafed with the handle of one of the tin pails, which she could not manage otherwise to carry, the old cloak was poor protection against the driving rain, and, worst of all, Betsy’s old boots had several holes in them, and a sharp stone had made its way through the sole of the left one, cutting and hurting her foot. She stumbled along for some way, feeling very miserable, till at last, quite unable to go farther, she sat down under the hedge, and burst into tears.
“So you haven’t found things quite so pleasant as you expected, eh, Miss Judy? You don’t find walking in Betsy’s shoes quite such an easy matter after all?” said a voice at her side; and, looking up, lo and behold! there, standing before her, Judy saw the old woman with the scarlet cloak.
“I don’t think it is kind of you to laugh at me,” she sobbed.
“It’s ‘too bad,’ is it, eh, Miss Judy?”
Judy sobbed more vigorously, but did not answer.
“Come, now,” said the old woman kindly. “Let’s talk it over quietly. Are you beginning to understand that other people’s lives have troubles and difficulties as well as yours – that little Betsy, for instance, might find things ‘too bad’ a good many times in the course of the day, if she was so inclined?”
“Yes,” said Judy humbly.
“And on the whole,” continued the fairy, “you would rather be yourself than any one else – eh, Miss Judy?”
“Oh yes, yes, a great deal rather,” said Judy eagerly. “Mayn’t I be myself again now this very minute, and go home to tea in the nursery? Oh, I would so like! It seems ever so long since I saw Lena and Harry and nurse, and you said yesterday I needn’t keep on being Betsy if I didn’t like.”
“Not quite so fast, my dear,” said the old woman. “It’s only four o’clock; you must finish the day’s work. Go back to the cottage and wait patiently till bed-time, and then – you know what to do – you haven’t lost your apple?”
“No,” said Judy, feeling in her pocket. “I have it safe.”
“That’s all right. Now jump up, my dear, and hasten home, or Betsy’s mother will be wondering what has become of you.”
Judy got up slowly. “I’m so wet,” she said, “and oh! my foot’s so sore. These horrible boots! I think it’s too – ”
“Hush!” said the fairy. “How would you like me to make you stay as you are, till you quite leave off that habit of grumbling. I’m not sure but what it would be a good thing for her,” she added, consideringly, as if thinking aloud.
“O no, please don’t,” said Judy, “please, please don’t. I do beg your pardon; I didn’t mean to say it, and I won’t say it any more.”
“Then off with you; your foot won’t be so bad as you think,” said the fairy.
“Thank you,” replied Judy, fancying already that it hurt her less. She had turned to go when she stopped.
“Well,” said the old woman, “what’s the matter now?”
“Nothing,” answered Judy, “but only I was thinking, if I am myself again to-morrow morning, and Betsy’s herself, what will they all think? nurse and all, I mean; and if I try to explain, I’m sure they’ll never believe me – they’ll say I’m talking nonsense. Nurse always says ‘rubbish’ if we make up fairy stories, or anything like that.”
The old woman smiled curiously.
“Many wiser people than nurse think that ‘rubbish’ settles whatever they don’t understand,” she said. “But never you mind, Judy. You needn’t trouble your head about what any one will think. No one ever will be the wiser but you and I. When Betsy wakes in her own little bed in the morning, she will only think she has had a curious dream – a dream, perhaps, which will do her no harm – and nurse will think nothing but that Miss Judy has been cured of grumbling in a wonderful way. For if you’re not cured it will be my turn to say it’s too bad! – will it not?”
“Yes,” said Judy, laughing. “Thank you so much, kind fairy. Won’t you come and see me again sometimes?”
But the last words were spoken to the air, for while Judy was uttering them the old woman had disappeared, and only the little field-mouse again, with bright sparkling eyes, ran across the path, looking up fearlessly at Judy as it passed her.
And Judy never did see the old woman again. She went back to the cottage, bearing bravely the pain of her wounded foot, which was not so very bad after all, and the discomfort of her wet clothes.
And though Betsy’s mother scolded her for having been so slow about her errand, she did not grumble or complain, but did her best to help the poor woman with the evening’s work. All the same, I can tell you, she was very glad to get to bed at night, and you may be sure she did not forget to take a great big bite of her apple.
“When I am myself again, I’ll spend the six shillings I have in my money-box to buy Betsy a nice new print frock instead of that ugly old one that got so soaked to-day,” was her last thought before she fell asleep.
And oh! my dears, can you imagine how delightful it was to find herself in the morning, her real own self again? She felt it was almost too good to be true. And, since then, it has been seldom if ever, that Miss Judy has been heard to grumble, or that anything has been declared to be “too bad.”
Chapter Seven.
Charlie’s Disappointment
“O sweet and blessed country That eager hearts expect.”
One cold winter’s evening about Christmas time, Charlie, a little boy of six years old, sat reading with his mother. It was Sunday evening, and he had been looking at the pictures in his “Children’s Bible,” till his mother put down her own book and began to read verses to him out of his real Bible, in explanation of some of the pictures. With one of these especially, Charlie was very much pleased. It represented a great many people, men and women and children, and animals of every kind, all together, looking very peaceful and happy in a beautiful garden. Charlie could not pronounce the word at the foot of the picture; it was so very long.
“The – what is it, mother?” he asked.
“The Millennium,” his mother told him, and then she went on to explain what this long word meant, and read him some strange, beautiful verses about it, out of the big Bible. Charlie sat with his blue eyes fixed on her, listening to every word, and thinking this the most wonderful story he had ever heard yet. “And it is not like a fairy story, is it mother, for it is in the Bible? Oh, I do so wish God would let the millennium come now – immediately – mother, while I am a little boy, and you, just like what you are! I should not care nearly so much for it if you were old, mother, or if I was a big man.”
“I hope, my darling, the bigger you get the more you will care for it,” said his mother. Charlie looked puzzled, but seeing that he was thinking so deeply, that she feared he would think away his sleep (as he sometimes did, and it was nearly bed-time), she went to the piano and sang his favourite hymn —
“Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest.”
Charlie listened with delight; and when it was over went and kissed his mother for good-night, and trotted off to bed, his mind full of the words he had been hearing.
It felt cold at first, in his little crib, and he began thinking how nice it would be if the summer were back again. But he soon fell asleep. It seemed to him that he woke almost in a minute, and he felt surprised to see that there was already broad daylight in the room. Indeed, he felt exceedingly surprised, for these dark winter mornings he always woke before dawn, and now the sun was shining brightly, as if it had been at work for some hours. It looked so pleasant and cheerful that he lay still to enjoy it. Now I must tell you that Charlie had a baby brother, and that both these little boys were taken care of by a good old woman who had been nurse to their mother when she was a little girl. Nurse was very good and kind and true, but I must say that sometimes she was very cross. Perhaps it was that she was getting old, and that little boys teased her, not being always able to remember about being gentle and good: that is to say, Charlie himself, for the baby was really too little either to remember or forget. Nurse’s worst time was first thing in the morning; she nearly always had a cross face on when she came to wake Charlie, and to tell him to get up. He once heard some of the servants saying that nurse very often got out of the wrong side of her bed; and that day he vexed her very much without knowing why, for, after thinking a long time about what it could mean, he went all round her bed to see if there could be any nails or sharp pieces of wood sticking out at one side, which perhaps hurt her feet as she stepped out. Nurse came in while he was examining her bed, and when he told her what he was doing, and what he had heard Anne say, she was really very angry indeed, though he could not see that he had done anything naughty.
But this morning I am telling you about that Charlie lay in bed thinking how pretty the sunlight was, he was quite surprised to see nurse’s face when she came to the bedside to wake him. She spoke so sweetly, and really looked quite pretty. Her face had such a nice smile and looked so kind, and nearly all the wrinkles were gone.
“Dear nurse,” he said, “how nice you look!” This seemed to please her still more, for she kissed him, and then washed and dressed him, without once pulling or pushing him the least little bit; just as if she had never felt cross in her life.
When he was dressed he ran out into the garden, and, to his surprise, it was quite changed from the night before. The grass was bright and green, the trees were all covered with leaves, and the whole garden was full of the loveliest flowers he had ever seen; and the singing of the birds was prettier than he could possibly describe. There were many butterflies and other summer insects flying about, and making a delicious sort of sweet humming, which seemed to join in with the birds’ singing. Indeed Charlie could almost have believed the flowers themselves were singing, for a lovely music filled the whole air, and all the musicians, even the grasshoppers, kept in tune together in a wonderful way. The song sounded to Charlie very like “Jerusalem the Golden,” only there were no words. He ran about the garden so much, that at last he thought he would like a drink of new milk, and he went into the yard to look for the dairy-maid. There was no one there; but he forgot all about the milk, in astonishment at what he saw. “Tiger,” the great fierce watch dog, whom his papa would never let him go near, was unchained, lying peacefully on his back in the sun, and Charlie’s two lovely kittens rolling over and over him, Tiger patting them gently with his paws, and looking so pleased that Charlie almost thought he was smiling. And more wonderful still, his mother’s pet canaries were also loose in the yard, one hopping about close to Tiger’s nose, and the other actually perched on the back of Muff, the tabby cat, whom, all her life, his mother had never succeeded in curing of her sad love of eating canary birds. Charlie’s first thought was to drive away Muff and rescue the birds; but as he ran forward to do so, Muff came and rubbed herself gently against him with a soft, sweet purr, and the canary flew off Muff’s back on to his shoulder, where it gave a little trill of pleasure, and then flew back again to its friend the cat. Suddenly some words flashed into Charlie’s mind: “They shall neither hurt nor destroy,” he said slowly, and then it all seemed plain to him. “The Millennium has come,” he cried, with inexpressible joy, “Oh! how glad I am; I must run and tell mother this minute,” and off he set. But as he ran towards the house, glancing up, thoughtful for others as was his habit, to the window of his mother’s room, he saw that the blind was still drawn down, and remembered that he must not disturb her yet, though his little heart was bursting with impatience to tell her the beautiful news. “I might, any way, run and tell Lily at once,” thought he, and he set off at full speed towards the farm where his little friend lived. But he had not gone half way when he recollected that to get to Lily’s home he must pass the smithy, a place he was frightened to go near even with his nurse, for Black Tom, the smith, was a very terrible person. He was often intoxicated, and used then to swear most awfully; and, indeed, Lily had once told Charlie in confidence that her nurse had said she felt pretty sure Black Tom would not think anything at all of eating little boys and girls. Dreadful as he thought him, Charlie could not believe that Black Tom was quite as wicked as this; but still he trembled as he drew near the smithy. But how amazed he felt, when he got within sight of it, to see Tom standing at the door, washed and brushed up to such an extent, that the child hardly recognised his old aversion!
Tom’s employment was more wonderful still. He was playing with Lily, who was sitting perched upon his shoulder, laughing and screaming with delight. As soon as she saw Charlie she slid down, and holding Tom’s great rough hand in her tiny one, pulled him along the lane towards her little friend.
“Tom is not exactly a bear or a lion,” thought Charlie, with a somewhat misty recollection of one of the verses his mother had read to him, running in his head; “but he’s quite as fierce, and it says ‘A little child shall lead them.’”
“O Charlie!” exclaimed Lily, when she drew near, “Tom is so good. I have been riding on his back up and down the lane ever so long, and do look what a nice, pretty clean face he has got!”
But Charlie felt so eager to explain to Lily what he knew to be the cause of this extraordinary transformation, that he could not wait to speak to Tom.
“Come along the lane with me Lily,” he said, “I have wonderful things to tell you.”
So the two trotted off together, Tom smiling after them. A little up the lane the music of the birds and insects, and flowers, which Charlie had been hearing all the morning, sounded clearer and fuller than ever; and somehow Lily seemed to know of herself, without his telling her, all about the Millennium having come, even though she was such a little girl, only five years old.
“Isn’t the music beautiful, Lily? Don’t you think it is ‘Jerusalem the Golden?’”
“I have been thinking all the morning that it was ‘There is a happy land,’” replied she, “but look, Charlie, at that great white thing coming along the road.” Just where they had got to, the lane ran into the highway, and looking where Lily pointed, Charlie saw the great white thing she spoke of, moving towards them. As it came nearer they saw that it was a crowd of children, of all ages and sizes, dressed alike in pure white, which shone in the sun as they marched along. They sang as they walked, and Charlie thought he heard the words —
“For ever and for ever, Are clad in robes of white.”
One little boy, somewhat in advance of the others, as soon as he caught sight of Charlie and Lily, ran forward to meet them, and Charlie saw that it was his friend, little Frank Grey, the miller’s son.
“O Charlie!” he exclaimed, “are you there already? We were coming to fetch you and Lily. You must come with us.”
“Where are you going to?” said Charlie.
“Don’t you know?” said Frank. “We are all going to meet the Prince, who is coming this morning to live among us.”
“The Prince of Wales, do you mean?” asked Charlie.
“O no!” replied his friend, “a greater Prince than he is. The Prince of the Golden City.”
“Is that the same as ‘Jerusalem the Golden,’ do you think?”
“I daresay it is,” said Frank, “but the Prince has a great many names, each more beautiful than the other. Some call him the ‘Prince of Peace.’”
“I know that name,” said little Lily, softly, “it is very pretty.”
“But,” said Charlie, “you are all so beautifully dressed. Lily and I must run home for our best frocks first.”
“O no!” said Frank, “you are just as nicely dressed as we are.” And Charlie looked down at his own clothes and Lily’s, and saw to his surprise that both their dresses were of pure shining white, like those of the other children. It puzzled him a good deal, for he felt sure he remembered his nurse putting on his little plaid stuff coat and brown holland pinafore that morning. But a new thought struck him. “Don’t you think, Frank, I had better run home and tell mother, for fear she should not like me to go?”
“O no!” again answered Frank; “she is sure to let you go, for all the boys and girls in the country are coming, and we have several more to call for still; besides the fathers and mothers themselves will soon be coming after us in another procession, so you will see your mother directly.”
Quite happy now, Charlie and Lily joined the children, marching all in twos and twos, keeping time to the music they were singing, which Charlie felt sure was “Jerusalem the Golden,” though Lily would sing “Happy Land,” for all he could say to her. However, it did not matter, for it seemed to do just as well, and all their voices suited beautifully. They went on as happily as could be, not feeling the least tired, though it was a good way. Charlie was turning to ask Frank some more questions about the Prince they were going to meet, when he was startled by some one calling him from behind, “Charlie! Charlie!” the voice sounding rather sharply, and seeming to jar against the sweet singing. He looked round, and there, hastening after him was nurse, with, alas! her old face on, not the pretty new one. She came on quickly, and soon reached him, catching him rather roughly by the arm. Charlie gave a cry of distress, and – woke! to find himself, poor little boy, in his crib on a dull gloomy winter morning, and nurse shaking him a little, to wake him, and speaking very crossly. It was too much. Six years could not bear the terrible contrast, and little Charlie sat up in bed and burst into tears.
“Oh, it’s not true, it’s not true,” he cried, and nurse looked crosser than before.
“The child’s going out of his mind!” exclaimed she, vainly endeavouring to stop his tears. His little heart bursting with sorrow, poor Charlie got slowly out of bed, and sitting down on the floor, shaking with sobs and cold, began to try to put on his socks. But just then a tap came to the door, and a voice said, “Is that my Charlie crying, first thing on a Monday morning?” And Charlie jumped up and ran, all shaking and shivering, to his nice warm mother, who took him in her arms and carried him off just as he was, to dress him in her own room, where there was a beautiful fire; and there poor Charlie told his story. He could not help crying again when he came to the end and tried to describe his bitter disappointment. His mother did not speak, and he began to fear she was displeased; but when he looked up in her face, and saw tears in her pretty kind eyes, he knew she was not vexed with him.
“My poor dear little boy,” she said, and then she comforted him so sweetly that the tears went away. And after breakfast she talked to Charlie again about the Millennium, and explained about it a little more, to him. She said he must not be unhappy because his dream was not true, for she thought it was a beautiful dream, and there was one way in which he might make it true. Little boy though he was, there need be no delay in his welcoming the Prince of Peace into the country of his own heart, and year by year devoting himself more and more earnestly to that blessed service, till in God’s own good time he should be one of the happy dwellers in the “Golden City” above.
So that, after all, Charlie’s wonderful dream did not remain the source of sorrow and disappointment to him. And I think it was one of the things that helped him to grow up a good man, for he never forgot it. One special good result it had, I know. It roused an interest in Black Tom, whom every one had feared and hated, and no one had ever tried to love, which never rested till gradually, and by slow degrees, the poor smith became a very different being from the fierce man who had been the terror of Charlie’s childhood.
