Kitabı oku: «Little Folks», sayfa 5
MASTER TOM'S "RAINY WEATHER."
"Ettie," said Master Tom, "do you like to be naughty or good?"
"Naughty," replied Ettie promptly.
Ettie was five years old, and Master Tom nine.
Ettie and Master Tom were at the far end of the kitchen-garden, going through the gate that led into a small paddock, when Ettie suddenly said—
"Pigs."
"Where?" exclaimed Master Tom.
"Poor pigs in pen all shut up," answered Ettie.
"What a shame!" said Master Tom. "I say, Mrs. Pig, wouldn't you like your little piggies to have a run this fine day?
"There's grass around in plenty
For the little ones to eat,
And in the kitchen-garden
There's cabbage for a treat.
Now, Ettie, get out of the way; I am going to open the door of the pigstye."
And Master Tom threw the door wide open, and out rushed not only the ten little pigs, but Mrs. Pig herself. They came with such a rush that Ettie, not getting out of the way quickly enough, was knocked down. But she did not cry; for she was used to falling in her expeditions with Tom.
Through the garden gate, into the garden, over the beds, went the pigs, and after them went Master Tom and Ettie, driving them until they went into the middle of the crisp early cabbages.
"Now then, eat to your hearts' content," said Master Tom. "Eat away, eat away! How they do enjoy themselves; there won't be a cabbage left. Won't Joseph be surprised. Let us get up into the great pear-tree and watch them. You can climb up if I push you."
"Yes," responded Ettie, grasping the trunk and putting her foot on a jutting-out knob.
"That's famous," said Master Tom, as he helped his little sister up until he landed her in one of the highest boughs.
"Isn't it nice?" said he.
And he began swaying the branches to and fro, whilst Ettie held on tightly and laughed with delight.
"Oh dear! oh dear! how can the pigs have got in?"
"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried Master Tom from the pear-tree, mimicking the gardener's voice.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried Ettie in her shrill voice.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Joseph in dismay; "the children up in the pear-tree such a height; they'll tumble down and break their necks. Oh, Master Tom, Master Tom, whatever did you go up there for, and take little Missy with you? What shall I do?—the pigs, the children, the children, the pigs! I daren't leave the children; and yet if I don't go after the pigs the garden will be ruined. Oh, my lettuces, my peas, my cauliflowers, my fine young cabbages!"
And then Joseph suddenly raised his voice and shouted as loud as he could—
"Help! help! help! Hallo! hallo! hallo!"
In a few seconds out came several of the servants, and amongst them was Nurse. "Oh! what is the matter?" she cried; "is it Master Tom again?"
"I should think it was," said Joseph; "he's in the pear-tree, and Miss Ettie's with him. Jack, get a ladder to get her out of the tree."
Jack, the boy, went off, and now the branches were seen to sway backwards and forwards, the two children chuckling with delight.
"And here I come first," said Master Tom, suddenly descending in so rapid a manner that he seemed to tumble down amongst the group, and, stumbling against Joseph, the gardener was tripped up and fell to the ground.
Nurse tried to seize upon Master Tom, who, however, shook himself free, leaving it to Joseph and the boy to get Ettie out of the pear-tree.
II
When Nurse returned to the house with Ettie the first thing she saw was the turf beneath the nursery window strewn with every possible thing that Master Tom could find. He himself was looking out of the nursery window with an armful of Ettie's frocks and sashes, which he aimed at Nurse and her charge as they came nearer the house.
"Oh dear! shan't I be glad when you go back to school, Master Tom. Here's an hour's good work for me in carrying back all these things."
And Nurse wrathfully ascended to the nursery, but Master Tom was not there.
"Well," said Nurse, "it's a good thing he's gone off by himself, and not got Miss Ettie with him. You stay here and play with your dolls, and I'll run down and pick up your frocks and shoes."
So Nurse, having settled Ettie with her playthings, departed.
But she had not been gone a minute before Master Tom put his head in at the door.
"Ettie," said he, "come down into the drawing-room, and we'll have the greatest fun in the world. I've got a large umbrella and water-bottles, so we'll play at rainy weather."
Up jumped Ettie.
"Hush! don't make a noise, or some one will hear us. Come very softly."
And Ettie, on tiptoes, followed Tom to the drawing-room, where, having locked the door, he provided Ettie with a large umbrella.
"Now sit down on the floor," said he, "and hold it over you. You must pretend that it is a rainy day, and that you are obliged to shelter under it."
Down went Ettie on the floor, and up went the umbrella.
"Now," continued Master Tom (who had borrowed a pair of high boots so that, at least, he should not get wet), "I shall pour water over the umbrella and it will splash down like rain. You must say, 'What a dreadful day! What a dreadful storm!'"
"Yes," answered Ettie. "Splash, splash, splash! what a storm! what a storm!"
And down came the water, splashing Ettie's velvet frock and wetting her shoes, and making pools on the drawing-room carpet. What fun it was! so Master Tom thought, and so did Ettie; and the more he emptied the water-bottles the more they both shouted with glee.
Guided by the noise, Nurse soon arrived at the door.
"Open the door! open the door!"
But Master Tom took no notice. Nurse might batter away as she liked; he was safe inside.
"What are you doing?"
"Playing at rain," cried Ettie; "my frock and my shoes all wet. It is rainy day, Nurse."
"The road is all of puddles," said Master Tom; "splash, splash; don't you hear it?"
Yes, Nurse did hear it, and wondered what it was.
"I've finished the bottles," said Master Tom; "now for the watering-can, it's quite full. It will come down like a shower-bath, Ettie."
"Oh! oh! oh!" gasped Ettie, for the umbrella slipped from her hand and she received the contents of the watering-can on her head, neck, and arms. Then Ettie, for the first time, began to cry.
"You bad boy," cried Nurse in a state of despair; "open the door or I will have it broken open."
Master Tom unlocked the door, and then making a rapid retreat to one of the windows, he leaped through it almost before Nurse had opened the door.
Nurse held up her hands in dismay. The beautiful drawing-room carpet was soaked with water, and in the midst, crouched on the floor, sat Ettie, with her hair and her fine velvet frock dripping.
"Tom poured water," sobbed Ettie, as Nurse lifted her off the ground.
Nurse rang the bell lustily, and the housemaid came running to see what was the matter.
"What will the mistress say?" said Jane as she looked at the carpet; "I shouldn't wonder if it is spoiled altogether."
"I know what I should say, and what I shall say!" said Nurse; "I shall tell the mistress that if something isn't done to curb Master Tom, he'll be such a plague, that no one will care to see him. I've had such a day with him to-day as I don't intend to have again!"
And Nurse carried Ettie off to the nursery, where she took off her wet clothes, and put her into a warm bed. For Ettie was shivering, though it was a hot day, and Nurse gave out that she thought Master Tom would make his sister quite ill.
Which opinion reached Tom's ears; so he crept upstairs cautiously.
"Nurse, nurse," he said, "is Ettie very bad?"
"She's got a shivering and a shaking, and it may be an inflammation," said Nurse severely, "and what shall you say if, by your mischievous doings, you have hurt your sister!"
Master Tom's soul was filled with terror.
"I don't know how it may end," continued Nurse, "but the best thing you can do is to go downstairs and sit in the dining-room till master and mistress come home. Go away from here."
And Nurse shut the door and bolted it; and Tom, feeling more miserable than he had ever felt in his life, went away, but not to the dining-room.
He went to his own little room, where, with a white face, he watched, till his mother came home. He would tell her everything, and he knew that she would let him just look at Ettie before he went to bed. And he said to himself—
"I will never get into mischief again."
It was a good resolve; let us hope that he kept it.
THE MAIDS AND THE MAGPIE
Three little maids and a magpie
Went out one day for a walk;
The little maids hunted for flowers,
The magpie did nothing but talk.
"I've three little maidens to care for,
Each one from dangers to save—
Wild dogs or runaway horses—
What a good thing I am brave!"
Soon they were laden with flowers—
Bunches of red, white, and blue;
Great ox-eyed, snowy-leaved daisies,
Harebells, and bright poppies too.
Then they turned homeward together,
Magpie still hopping before,
Passed through the wood and the village,
Came to the rectory door.
There stood a quiet grey pussy—
Magpie flew off in a fright.
So, after all his vain boasting,
Proved himself coward—not knight!
Frances Hay.
CHILDREN'S GAMES IN DAYS OF OLD
Both my little nieces had been unwell. They were not very ill, but they were shut up in one room for a time, and they found it rather difficult to amuse themselves all day long, without having their lessons to do or their brothers to play with. I told them a tale every afternoon, when the light was getting dim, and the fire was poked into a bright blaze; but I came to the end of my store at last.
"Oh, auntie! what shall we do now if you can't tell us any more stories?" said Maggie. "We read such a lot that we really don't want to be read to."
"Let us have a nice talk," I said.
"But what shall we talk about?" asked Edith, looking into the fire, as if she could read something there. "Oh, I know, auntie! tell us about the time when you were a little girl; tell us all about your pet toys."
"Auntie has told us that so often," said Maggie.
"Let us talk about something very old, and yet quite new to both of you," I said. "What do you think the children played with hundreds and hundreds of years ago?"
"Didn't they have dolls?" asked Maggie.
"Yes, they had dolls, but not like yours. They were small, and their arms and legs were fastened on with bits of wire or wood."
"What were they made of?" asked Edith.
"They were generally made of clay or terra-cotta, but sometimes of wood or wax. The hair was often ornamented with rows of beads, and sometimes the dolls were painted all over with very bright colours, to please the little ones to whom they were given. They used to make little toy animals, too, and in Greece they had those small dancing figures which we call marionets."
"Have they found anything besides dolls?"
"Yes; there are some little toys at the British Museum which were found in Greece and Turkey. One of them is a woman kneading bread; another is a black boy sitting on a pony, with a basket of fruit in front of him. If ever you see them, you will think you are very fortunate little children to have such beautiful toys."
"But I don't care about dolls," said Edith, blushing a little, for she had been grumbling because her mother would not buy her a new one. "I'd rather have a big ball. Did those old children play at ball, auntie?"
"Oh, yes! The very oldest we know of—the Egyptian children—had balls of leather and some of painted china."
"I shouldn't like that," remarked Edith. "Fancy Charlie with an earthenware ball! he'd break all the windows in the house."
"I don't suppose they let the children throw the hard balls about much. The Greeks in later times loved ball as much as you do, but they played it in a different way. They used to sing and dance at the same time. Can you think of any word that we have which means dancing, and yet sounds like a game?"
"Like a game of ball, auntie?" said Maggie.
"I know!" cried Edith clapping her hands; "you've just said it, Maggie—a ball. Don't you know people always dance at a ball."
The children were very much pleased to find out that the grown-up people's amusement took its name from one of their toys, and that the short songs, or ballads, which we sing came from the songs which the Greeks sang whilst they played ball.
"Did they play ball in any other way?" asked Maggie.
"Sometimes it was put on the middle line, between the two parties playing, and each party tried to seize it, and throw it over the adversary's goal-line."
"Why, that's like our own football, isn't it, auntie?"
"Yes; the Epikoinos, or common game of ball played by the Greek children, is really the great-great-great-grandfather of our football."
"Had those children any hoops?" asked Edith.
"The Romans had hoops, and even the same kind of hooked stick, but they played very differently from what we do. They tried to snatch the hoop from each other with the hook."
"I'm glad I am not a Roman, then," said Edith, "for I do love a good straight run with my hoop; and that must have been more like fighting than playing. But do tell us some more about those children's games. It seems so strange to think they had balls and hoops like us."
"They had whip-tops, too," I said. "And some people say that the great Emperor Augustus used to play at marbles when he was a boy. You have seen Charlie and Tom play with knucklebones; the Greek children had them too, and sometimes there were numbers on them, and each bone had a different name. Backgammon and draughts were played by the Greeks, and we see by some of the pictures on the tombs in Egypt that the game of draughts was very popular there."
"But hadn't they any nice romping games?" asked Maggie.
"Yes. Blind man's buff was a great favourite with the Greeks and Romans. And they were very fond of playing a game which was known as oyster-shell."
"Do you mean making grottoes? I don't call that romping."
"The children were divided into equal numbers on each side of a line drawn on the ground; one party would be called white, the other black. They then tossed an oyster-shell into the air, and whichever side came upwards, one of that party ran off. If it was the dark, one of the blacks ran away, and one of the whites dashed after him. As soon as Mr. Black was caught, he had to take Mr. White on his shoulders and carry him to the camp, where he remained till all the others were caught. This is the origin of our prisoner's base.'"
"But that is a boy's game," said Maggie. "I want to know about the girls'."
"They played blind man's buff, as I told you just now; then there was 'runaway,' or 'touch,' which was like our game. One girl would shut her eyes whilst the others hid. A place of refuge, or, as we call it, home, was fixed upon, and she had to try and touch some of the others before they could get safe there. Kiss-in-the-ring was very popular too, but the girl used to hold the boy by the ears as she kissed him, and this was called pitcher-fashion."
"Our pitchers have not two handles," remarked Edith.
"No, but they had a handle on each side in those days. Then the Greeks used to play a game like our follow-my-leader, called 'Commands,' and all sorts of funny things were ordered to be done by those who took part in it."
Just then the bell rang for me to go down to dinner.
"Oh, auntie, don't go yet!" cried both children; "we haven't heard half enough."
"I will just tell you one thing more, and then I must go," I said. "There was a very favourite game played hundreds of years ago in Asia, called 'Kings and Subjects.' One day a little boy named Cyrus was playing at it with the children of the village in which he lived. This little boy was about ten years old, and had been adopted by a shepherd. He was chosen king by the boys, and having appointed his ministers, he set each of his companions to do certain work. One boy refused, and Cyrus ordered him to be flogged. The boy was angry, and ran off to tell his father, who was one of the chief men in the place. This man was very indignant that his boy should be beaten by a common shepherd's son, and went to King Astyages to complain. The king sent for Cyrus, and asked him how he dared to treat the son of a great man in that way.
"Cyrus answered bravely that he had only done what was just; he had been chosen king, and he ought to have been obeyed. Astyages was very much surprised by this answer, and began to look more closely at the fearless boy; then he saw that he was very like himself. He sent for the shepherd, and after many questions, he found that this little Cyrus was his own grandson who was supposed to be dead. So the sham king really became the heir to the throne, and in time was a real king."
"Why, auntie, that's as good as a fairy tale!" said Edith.
"Better," I replied; "for it is true, and it teaches us that we ought always to try to do right, even in our games, and then we shall never be ashamed."
E. M. W.
THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE
THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS
By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c
CHAPTER IV.—A TERRIBLE SURPRISE
Mr. Gregory and Mr. Clair arrived at Riversdale early the next day, and Mr. Gregory at once took the management of everything into his own hands. The greater part of the afternoon he was shut up in the library with the lawyer, and when he found the boys in the dining-room, he looked very grave and anxious, and even reproved Mr. Clair for amusing the children by making caricatures, and illustrating some of their story-books. No two people could be more unlike than those two uncles, who would probably be the guardians of Edward and Bertie Rivers. Mr. Gregory was a tall, portly gentleman, with grey hair and keen eager eyes; his voice was loud, his manner always stern and abrupt. People usually feared and respected him more than they loved him; he was always very busy and fussy and important, and had an idea that nothing in London would go on quite right without him. However, Mrs. Rivers had been his only sister; the boys were her children, and he was their nearest relative and natural protector. On his way down he had arranged all his plans: the boys should go to school, and he would let Riversdale till Edward came of age; he knew some one in the City who was just in want of such a place. Mr. Clair, on the other hand, thought very little of the future; he was sorry to see the children look so sad, and did his best to cheer them up; but then, every one said Mr. Clair was the most unpractical person in the world. He was an artist by profession, and had married Mr. Rivers' sister Amy, an offence for which he was never pardoned, either by Mr. Rivers or Mr. Gregory. However, as the marriage proved a very happy one, Mr. Clair did not fret about that, neither was he in the least offended at the coldness and neglect of his wife's relatives. He loved his profession, he loved his wife, he loved his shabby roomy old house in Fitzroy Square: in fact, the chief characteristic of Mr. Harry Clair was that he loved everything and everybody, and now he was quite willing to take to his heart his wife's orphan nephews and niece. But Uncle Gregory was made of sterner stuff, and the young heir of Riversdale, he thought, was a person to be reverenced and treated with deference; besides, he was not either very affectionate or very demonstrative in his manner, therefore the children, who were hungry for love and sympathy, turned to Uncle Clair. The next day Aunt Amy arrived, and both the boys felt they had found a true and loving friend, while Agnes clung to her, trembling and sobbing, for since her uncle's death she had felt strangely alone in the house, just as if she belonged to nobody, and until it was known what provision had been made for her, no one could say what was to become of her. As the days passed Mr. Gregory looked more anxious and worried. A strange gentleman from London remained in the house, and spent several hours every day in the library examining letters and papers; lawyers were constantly coming and going, and at last it became clear, even to the boys, that something was wrong; the gloom deepened on every face, even the servants stood in little groups and talked in whispers; only Uncle Clair seemed unconcerned, though Aunt Amy's eyes often filled with tears as she looked at the boys. But none of them seemed quite prepared for the terrible tidings Mr. Gregory had to unfold. Mr. Rivers had been buried in the family vault at Riversdale very quietly, as his wish had always been. The boys, their uncles, the doctor and lawyer and the strange gentleman, whose name and real business no one seemed to know, attended as mourners, and when they returned to the house Mr. Gregory led the way to the library, and the family lawyer read the will. It was very simple: Riversdale to Edward; five thousand pounds to Bertie when he came of age, and the choice of a profession, the expenses of which were to be paid for out of the estate; and a few legacies to faithful servants and deserving charities; not a word of poor little Agnes, for the simple reason that the will was made several years before she came to Riversdale; not a single word of any person else, except that Mr. Frank Rivers, his brother, Mr. Gregory, his brother-in-law, and Mr. Harry Clair, his brother-in-law, were appointed executors and guardians. The boys' minority was to be spent according to their direction. Every one breathed a sigh of relief: they had all expected much worse; but Bertie, happening to glance at his Uncle Gregory's face, started, and cried suddenly, "There's something else, sir. I'm sure there's something you are keeping from us."
"Yes, my lad, unfortunately there is. When your father made this will his property was his own to bequeath how he liked; since then he has been unfortunate. He has speculated largely in mines that he hoped would prove a success: they have failed; a few days since the utter failure of a bank in which his whole private fortune was invested gave him a shock from which he never recovered. Riversdale is fully mortgaged; the income of the estate will barely pay the interest now, for your father has parted with most of his property. In a word, this is the state of affairs: you must either sell Riversdale, then this gentleman tells me there may be a few thousands to spare for you boys; or you may let the place stand, put your shoulders to the wheel, and work both of you to redeem your home. You are only boys, but some boys with energy, patience, perseverance, and, above all, a cherished object in view, can achieve much. This gentleman tells me that by careful management there may be a trifle saved every year, which should go towards lessening the principal, then every year will be making the interest less too. But the grave question is, what in the meantime is to become of you boys?"
"And Agnes?" Bertie cried; "we must not forget Agnes?"
Mr. Gregory looked rather coldly at the shrinking, timid little girl; she had not entered into his calculations at all. She was not his sister's child, and he really saw no way of helping her.
"I am, as you know, only a London merchant," Mr. Gregory continued, ignoring Bertie's earnest remark, "and I cannot do much for you, but this I can offer: you may both have a place in my office, and, believe me, many lads have found the humblest seat in a London counting-house the road to fortune. Once started in business under my protection, everything will depend on yourselves. Merit, industry, integrity must make their own way. What do you say, Edward? Mind, as your guardian, I have a right to command, but I want to hear what you think."
"I—I don't care for business, Uncle Gregory; I have no taste, no talent for it," Eddie replied humbly, though his eyes flashed. "I always wished to be an artist, and papa promised I should be one day."
"Unfortunately, many of your papa's promises are not easily fulfilled now," Mr. Gregory said coldly. "If you will not enter my office, may I ask what you intend to do, Edward?"
"I don't know, uncle. I had hoped to go to college, and then travel, and study abroad, and become an artist."
"Impossible!" Mr. Gregory interrupted sharply. "Where's the money to come from?"
"I don't know, uncle; I have not had time to think;" and Eddie cast an imploring glance at his Uncle Clair.
"Well, my lad," that gentleman said, laying his hand kindly on Eddie's shoulder, "if you really are determined to become an artist, I will do all I can to assist you on certain conditions, and subject to the approval of your other guardian. You can come and live with me, and I'll teach you the groundwork and details of art: inspiration, genius, success are not mine to bestow; nor shall I send you to a university. In the first place, I can't afford it; in the next, I don't think it necessary; but if I see you have a real love of and taste for art, I'll send you to study abroad for a few years, if possible; but first of all you must work. You can live with me; my house will be your home, your aunt will take care of you. Your mornings must be spent in my studio, your afternoons devoted to continuing your studies; but I want you clearly to understand, lad, that you are not coming to visit or to play, but to learn a profession—and an honourable profession. You will find many things irksome perhaps, and have to perform many unpleasant duties, but if you work with a single heart, and try to make the best of everything, you will find, taking the rough with the smooth of it, that art is a noble profession. But I cannot honestly call it the high road to fortune. Your Uncle Gregory has made his proposal; I have made mine. Think before you decide."
"I will go with you, Uncle Clair," Eddie answered, drawing nearer to the artist. "There is no need to think; I never could be a merchant; I must be a painter. My mind is thoroughly made up."
"As you will, boy. Your Uncle Clair has made you a liberal offer; according to his means, he offers you of his best freely and kindly. I hope you may prove worthy of his trust in you, but as I do not want my sister's son to be entirely dependent on a stranger–"
"Uncle Harry said I could work," Eddie said, drawing still nearer to his favourite relative.
"Yes, Mr. Gregory, the boy must be independent. If I find him useful, I'll pay him a small salary," Mr. Clair replied gently, no way ruffled by Mr. Gregory's cold, scornful tones. "That matter is decided: Edward is to come to us."
"And you?" Mr. Gregory continued, turning to Bertie. "Are you also anxious to become an artist?"
"No, uncle; I want to make my fortune and get back Riversdale."
"Well spoken, my lad. Then you decide to come with me?"
"Yes, please; I should like to be a great, rich, powerful merchant, and own ships and things. But, Uncle Gregory, who's to take care of dear little Cousin Agnes?"
"I am really quite at a loss to know," Mr. Gregory said, frowning. "Has she no friends of her mother's? The child has no claim on me."
"But she has on us," Bertie replied promptly. "She's our cousin; her papa was our Uncle Frank, and we must take care of her."
Mr. Gregory frowned and looked thoughtful, but Aunt Amy had stepped forward, and taken Agnes into her arms. "We'll take care of her," she said, with a loving look at Bertie, who had spoken so bravely for his little cousin, while Eddie had entirely forgotten her. "Don't be afraid, Bertie; while your Uncle Harry and I have a home Agnes shall share it."
"Thank you, aunt; and I hope Uncle Gregory will let me come and see you often. It is so nice to think that we shall all be in London together;" and then Bertie smothered a sigh as he remembered how he disliked cities and loved the country, how he would miss the dear delights of Riversdale, and how he dreaded the duties of an office. But he had plenty of courage, and he resolved not to begin by being unhappy or discontented; "besides, it mayn't be so bad," he said to himself; "and Dr. Mayson declares it's worth a thousand a year to be able to look at the bright side of everything."
Agnes was weeping silently with joy: no other arrangement could have given her half as much pleasure as going back with her Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair; she could surely pick up some crumbs of instruction in the studio, and then she would always be at hand to help Eddie, and little Agnes did not wish for any greater happiness than that. But Eddie did not seem altogether so well pleased by the arrangement. He did not like a rival, either in affection or talent, and he knew that both his Aunt and Uncle Clair loved Agnes, and also that she was a great deal cleverer with her pencil than himself, though she was very shy and nervous, and distrusted her own powers. However, the arrangement was the only one that seemed possible, and the very next day they all returned to London, Agnes and Eddie going in a four-wheeler with their aunt and uncle to Fitzroy Square, Bertie accompanying his Uncle Gregory to a splendid house in Kensington Gardens, where he was rather coldly received by his aunt and cousins, and informed that, for a time at least, it was to be his home.
