Kitabı oku: «The Man with the Pan-Pipes, and Other Stories», sayfa 4

THE DORMOUSE'S MISTAKE

They lived at the corner of the common. Papa, Mamma, Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, their four children. It was a lovely place to live at, but as they had never seen any other part of the world, I am not sure that they thought it quite so delightful as they might otherwise have done. The children, that is to say – Papa and Mamma of course were wiser. They had heard of very different sorts of places where some poor dormice had to live; small cooped-up nests called cages, out of which they were never allowed to run about, or to enjoy the delightful summer sunshine, and go foraging for hazel nuts and haws, and other delicacies, for themselves. For an ancestor of theirs had once been taken prisoner and shut up in a cage, whence, wonderful to say, he had escaped and got back to the woods again, where he became a great personage among dormice, and was even occasionally requested to give lectures in public to the squirrels and water-rats, and moles and rabbits, and other forest-folk, describing the strange and marvellous things he had seen and heard during his captivity. He had learnt to understand human talk for one thing, and had taught it to his children; and his great-grandson, the Papa of Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, had begun to give them lessons in this foreign language in their turn, for, as he wisely remarked, there was no saying if it might not turn out useful some day.

The cold weather set in very early this year. Already, for some days, Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy had begun to feel a curious heaviness stealing over them now and then; they did not seem inclined to turn out in the morning, and were very glad when one evening their mother told them that the store cupboards being now quite full, they need none of them get up the next day at all unless they were inclined.

"For my part," she added, "I cannot keep awake any longer, nor can your Papa. We are going to roll ourselves up to-night. You young folk may keep awake a week or two longer perhaps, but if this frost continues, I doubt it. So good-night, my dears, for a month or two; the first mild day we shall all rouse up, never fear, and have a good meal before we snooze off again."

And sure enough next morning, when the young people turned out a good deal later than usual, Papa and Mamma were as fast asleep as the seven sleepers in the old story, which had given their name to the German branch of the dormouse family! Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy felt rather strange and lonely; two round furry balls seemed a very queer sort of exchange for their active, bright-eyed father and mother. But as there was plenty to eat they consoled themselves after a bit, and got through the next two or three weeks pretty comfortably, every day feeling more and more drowsy, till at last came a morning on which six neat little brown balls instead of two lay in a row – the dormouse family had begun their winter repose. And all was quiet and silent in the cosy nest among the twigs of the low-growing bushes at the corner of the common.

It seemed as if winter had really come. For three or four weeks there was but little sunshine even in the middle of the day, and in the mornings and evenings the air was piercingly cold.

"I suppose all the poor little wood-creatures have begun their winter sleep," said Cicely Gray one afternoon as she was hastening home from the village by a short cut through the trees. "I must say I rather envy them."

"I don't," said her brother, "I shouldn't like to lose half my life. Hush, Cicely, there's a rabbit. What a jolly little fellow! How he scuds along! There's another, two, three! Oh, Cis, I do hope I shall get some shooting when I come home at Christmas."

Cicely sighed. "I hate shooting," she said. "I'm sure it would be better to sleep half one's life than to stay awake to be shot."

But it was too cold to linger talking. The brother and sister set off running, so that their cheeks were glowing and their eyes sparkling by the time they got to the Hall gates.

Three days later Harry had gone off to school. Cicely missed him very much; especially as a most pleasant and unexpected change had come over the weather. A real "St. Martin's summer" had set in. What delightful walks and rambles Harry and she could have had, thought Cicely, if only it had come a little sooner!

The mild air found its way into the nest where the six little brown balls lay side by side, till at first one, then another, then all six slowly unrolled themselves, stretched their little paws, unclosed their eyes, and began to look about them.

"Time for our first winter dinner," said Mrs. Dormouse sleepily; "it's all ready over there in the corner under the oak leaves. Help yourselves my dears, eat as much as you can; you'll sleep all the better for it. And don't be long about it; it's as much as I can do to keep my eyes open."

Mr. Dormouse and the others followed her advice. For a few minutes nothing was heard but the little nibbling and cracking sounds which told that a raid had been made on the winter stores.

"Good-night again, my dears," said Papa, who was still sleepier than Mamma.

"Good-night" was repeated in various tones, but one little voice interrupted – it was that of Fuzz.

"I'm not sleepy, Papa and Mamma; I'm not a bit sleepy. I'm sure it's time to wake up, and that the summer's come back again. Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, won't you come out with me? Papa and Mamma can sleep a little longer if they like."

"Nonsense," Mrs. Dormouse said sleepily.

And "Nonsense, brother," repeated the others, "don't disturb us."

But Fuzz was obstinate and sure he knew best.

He trotted off, looking back contemptuously at the five balls already rolled up again.

"Dear, dear! how silly they are to be sure," he said, when he found himself out on the grass. "Why, it's certainly summer again! The sunshine's so bright and warm, the birds are chirping so merrily. I feel quite brisk. I think I'll take a ramble over the common to the wood where our cousins the squirrels live, and hear what they have to say about it."

He cocked his ears and peeped about with his little sparkling eyes. Suddenly he caught sight of something white at the foot of one of the old trees. It was Cicely Gray in her summer flannel, which had been pulled out of the wardrobe again to do honour to St. Martin.

"Good morning, little dormouse," she said in her pretty soft voice, "what are you doing out of your nest in late November? Do you think summer's come back again already, my little man? If so, you've made a great mistake. Take warning, and don't stray far from your home, or you may find yourself in a sad plight. This lovely weather can't last many days."

Fuzz looked at her.

"Thank you, miss," he replied, for, you see, he understood human talk, though it is to be doubted if Cicely understood him. "She must surely know," he reflected wisely, "and perhaps after all mamma was in the right."

So he scampered in to the nest again and rolled himself up beside the others.

That very evening the wind changed; the cold set in in earnest, and for three months it was really severe.

"I saw a little dormouse at the corner of the common yesterday," said Cicely the next morning. "I advised him to go home again; he had come out by mistake, thinking winter was over."

"You funny girl," said her mother. "I hope he understood you and followed your advice, poor little chap."

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST.
FROM A TRUE INCIDENT

She was a very poor little girl, very poor indeed; often – indeed almost always – hungry, and thinly-clad, and delicate, but yet not altogether miserable. No, far from it, for she had a loving mother who did her poor best for her children. There were three or four of them and Emmy was the eldest. She was only six, but she was looked upon as almost grown-up, for father had died last year, and Emmy had to help mother with "the little ones," as she always called them.

They lived in a single room in one of the poorest and most crowded parts of great London; in a street which was filled with houses of one-room homes like their own. There was much misery and much wickedness, I fear, too, in their neighbourhood; drinking, and swearing, and fighting, as well as hunger, and cold, and sickness. But compared with several years ago, when Emmy's mother herself had been a girl living in much such a home as she now strove "to keep together" for her fatherless babies, compared with that time, as she, and others too, used often to say, "it was a deal better." There was less drinking and bad language; there was less misery. For friends – friends able and earnestly anxious to help – had taken up their abode in the very next street to little Emmy's; the church had been "done up beautiful," and there there was always a welcome and a rest from the troubles and worries at home; and the clergyman, as well as the kind ladies who had come to live among their toiling, struggling brothers and sisters, knew all about everybody and everything, knew who was ill and who was out of work, knew who were "trying to be good" even among the children, knew even thetiniest tots by name , and had always a kind word and smile, however busy and hurried they were.

And, thanks greatly to these kind friends, Emmy's life was not without its pleasures. She loved the infant school on Sundays, she loved the "treats"; once last summer – and Emmy was old enough now to remember last summer well, though it seemed a very long time ago – there had been a treat into the country, a real day in the country, where, for the first time in her life, the child saw grass and trees.

But it was far from summer time now, it was midwinter. Christmas was close at hand, and winter had brought more than its usual troubles to the little family. There were worse things this year than cold and scant food, chapped hands and chilblained feet. Tiny, as they called the baby but one, was very ill with bronchitis, the doctor could not say if she would get better, and sometimes it seemed to the poor mother as if it was hardly to be wished that she should.

"She suffers so, poor dear, and seeing to her hinders me sadly with my work. I do feel as if I'd break down at last altogether," she said one evening – it was Christmas Eve – to a neighbour who had looked in to see how things were going on.

"And Emmy's looking pale," said the visitor, "she wants cheering up a bit too. Let her come to church with me for a change. I'm going to the evening service now."

Emmy brightened up at this. She had not been at church last Sunday, and, like most children, she was especially fond of going in the evening. It seemed grander and more solemn somehow, when all was dark outside. And the lights and warmth, and above all the music, were very pleasant to the little girl. So with a parting word of advice to the mother to keep up heart a bit longer – "things allus starts mending when they get to the worst" – the kind neighbour set off, holding Emmy by the hand.

It was beautiful in church, the Christmas "dressing up," as Emmy called it, had been completed that afternoon; to the child it seemed a sort of fairy-land, though of fairy-land she had never heard. But she had heard of heaven, which was better.

"It could scarce be finer there," she thought to herself dreamily, as she listened to the words of the service with a feeling that all was sweet and beautiful, though she could actually understand but little.

The sermon was short and simple. But Emmy was getting sleepy, and the thought of poor mother, and Tiny with her hacking cough, mingled with what she heard, till suddenly something caught her ear which startled her into attention. The preacher had been speaking of the first Christmas-day, concluding with some words about the morrow, when again the whole Christian world would join in welcoming their Lord. For "again He will come to us; again Jesus Himself will be here in the midst of us, ready as ever to listen to our prayers, to comfort and console."

Emmy was wide awake now. She scarcely heard the words of the carol, she was in a fever of eager hopefulness.

"What a good thing I came to-night," she said to herself, "else I mightn't ever have knowed it. I would like to see Him first of all. There'll be such a many, and He'll have such a deal to do. But it wouldn't take Him that long to come round with me to see Tiny, and if He does, like in the story, He'll cure her in 'alf a minute. I know what I'll do" – and a little scheme formed itself in the childish mind – "though I'll not tell mother," thought Emmy, "just for fear like, I should be too late to catch Him."

"'Twas a lovely sermon, and so touchin' too," said Emmy's friend to another woman as they walked home.

"It strengthens one up a bit, it do," agreed her companion. "I'll try my best to be round for the seven o'clock service in the morning."

"Seven o'clock in the morning!" said Emmy to herself. "I'll best be here soon after six."

Christmas morning was very cold. There was some frozen snow lying hard and still white in the streets, and there was moonlight, pale and clear. So it was light enough for one of the Sisters, entering the church betimes, to distinguish a little figure curled up darkly in the porch. A thrill of fear ran through her for a moment. Supposing it were some poor child turned out by a drunken father, as sometimes happened, frozen to death this bitter night? But no – the small creature started to its feet.

"Is it He? Has Jesus come?" she exclaimed. "Oh! do let me speak to Him first."

"My child!" exclaimed the sister, "what is it? Have you been dreaming? Why, it is little Emmy Day. Have you been here all night?"

"No, no," Emmy replied, her teeth chattering with cold, and the sob of a half-feared disappointment in her voice. "No, no; I slipped out while mother and all was still asleep. I'm waiting to ask Him to come to our Tiny;" and she went on to tell what she had heard last night, and what she had planned and hoped.

Her friend took her into her own room for a few minutes, and there gently and tenderly explained to Emmy her sweet mistake. And though her tears could not all at once be stopped, the little girl trotted back to her mother with comfort in her heart, and strange and wonderful, yet beautiful new thoughts in her mind.

"He is always near, I can always pray to Him," she whispered to herself.

And her prayers were answered. Tiny recovered, and thanks to the kind Sisters, that Christmas Day was the beginning of better things for the little family.