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diff --git a/5074-0.txt b/5074-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f01e0a5 --- /dev/null +++ b/5074-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5583 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Aunt Judy's Tales, by Mrs. Alfred Gatty, +Illustrated by Clara S. Lane + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Aunt Judy's Tales + + +Author: Mrs. Alfred Gatty + + + +Release Date: July 31, 2019 [eBook #5074] +[This file was first posted on April 14, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUNT JUDY'S TALES*** + + +1Transcribed from the 1859 Bell and Daldy edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + AUNT JUDY’S TALES + + + BY MRS. ALFRED GATTY, + AUTHOR OF “PARABLES FROM + NATURE,” ETC. + + ILLUSTRATED BY CLARA S. LANE. + + SECOND EDITION. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic of bells] + + LONDON: + + BELL AND DALDY, 186, FLEET STREET. + 1859. + + * * * * * + + _The Right of Translation is reserved_. + + * * * * * + + TO THE “LITTLE ONES” + IN MANY HOMES, + + THIS VOLUME + IS + DEDICATED. + + M. G. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + Page +THE LITTLE VICTIMS 1 +VEGETABLES OUT OF PLACE 26 +COOK STORIES 48 +RABBITS’ TAILS 77 +OUT OF THE WAY 104 +NOTHING TO DO 141 + + [Picture: Aunt Judy and the Little ones] + + + + +THE LITTLE VICTIMS. + + + “Save our blessings, Master, save, + From the blight of thankless eye.” + + _Lyra Innocentium_. + +THERE is not a more charming sight in the domestic world, than that of an +elder girl in a large family, amusing what are called the _little ones_. + +How could mamma have ventured upon that cosy nap in the arm-chair by the +fire, if she had been harassed by wondering what the children were about? +Whereas, as it was, she had overheard No. 8 begging the one they all +called “Aunt Judy,” to come and tell them a story, and she had beheld +Aunt Judy’s nod of consent; whereupon she had shut her eyes, and composed +herself to sleep quite complacently, under the pleasant conviction that +all things were sure to be in a state of peace and security, so long as +the children were listening to one of those curious stories of Aunt +Judy’s, in which, with so much drollery and amusement, there was sure to +be mixed up some odd scraps of information, or bits of good advice. + +So, mamma being asleep on one side of the fire, and papa reading the +newspaper on the other, Aunt Judy and No. 8 noiselessly left the room, +and repaired to the large red-curtained dining-room, where the former sat +down to concoct her story, while the latter ran off to collect the little +ones together. + +In less than five minutes’ time there was a stream of noise along the +passage—a bursting open of the door, and a crowding round the fire, by +which Aunt Judy sat. + +The “little ones” had arrived in full force and high expectation. We +will not venture to state their number. An order from Aunt Judy, that +they should take their seats quietly, was but imperfectly obeyed; and a +certain amount of hustling and grumbling ensued, which betrayed a rather +quarrelsome tendency. + +At last, however, the large circle was formed, and the bright firelight +danced over sunny curls and eager faces. Aunt Judy glanced her eye round +the group; but whatever her opinion as an artist might have been of its +general beauty, she was by no means satisfied with the result of her +inspection. + +“No. 6 and No. 7,” cried she, “you are not fit to listen to a story at +present. You have come with dirty hands.” + +No. 6 frowned, and No. 7 broke out at once into a howl; he had washed his +hands ever so short a time ago, and had done nothing since but play at +knuckle-bones on the floor! Surely people needn’t wash their hands every +ten minutes! It was very hard! + +Aunt Judy had rather a logical turn of mind, so she set about expounding +to the “little ones” in general, and to Nos. 6 and 7 in particular, that +the proper time for washing people’s hands was when their hands were +dirty; no matter how lately the operation had been performed before. +Such, at least, she said, was the custom in England, and everyone ought +to be proud of belonging to so clean and respectable a country. She, +therefore, insisted that Nos. 6 and 7 should retire up-stairs and perform +the necessary ablution, or otherwise they would be turned out, and not +allowed to listen to the story. + +Nos. 6 and 7 were rather restive. The truth was, it had been one of +those unlucky days which now and then will occur in families, in which +everything seemed to be perverse and go askew. It was a dark, cold, +rainy day in November, and going out had been impossible. The elder boys +had worried, and the younger ones had cried. It was Saturday too, and +the maids were scouring in all directions, waking every echo in the +back-premises by the grating of sand-stone on the flags; and they had +been a good deal discomposed by the family effort to play at “Wolf” in +the passages. Mamma had been at accounts all the morning, trying to find +out some magical corner in which expenses could be reduced between then +and the arrival of Christmas bills; and, moreover, it was a half-holiday, +and the children had, as they call it, nothing to do. + +So Nos. 6 and 7, who had been vexed about several other little matters +before, during the course of the day, broke out now on the subject of the +washing of their hands. + +Aunt Judy was inexorable however—inexorable though cool; and the rest got +impatient at the delay which the debate occasioned: so, partly by +coaxing, and partly by the threat of being shut out from hearing the +story, Nos. 6 and 7 were at last prevailed upon to go up-stairs and wash +their grim little paws into that delicate shell-like pink, which is the +characteristic of juvenile fingers when clean. + +As they went out, however, they murmured, in whimpered tones, that they +were sure it was _very hard_! + +After their departure, Aunt Judy requested the rest not to talk, and a +complete silence ensued, during which one or two of the youngest +evidently concluded that she was composing her story, for they stared at +her with all their might, as if to discover how she did it. + +Meantime the rain beat violently against the panes, and the red curtains +swayed to and fro from the effect of the wind, which, in spite of +tolerable woodwork, found its way through the divisions of the windows. +There was something very dreary in the sound, and very odd in the varying +shades of red which appeared upon the curtains as they swerved backwards +and forwards in the firelight. + +Several of the children observed it, but no one spoke until the footsteps +of Nos. 6 and 7 were heard approaching the door, on which a little girl +ventured to whisper, “I’m very glad I’m not out in the wind and rain;” +and a boy made answer, “Why, who would be so silly as to think of going +out in the wind and rain? Nobody, of course!” + +At that moment Nos. 6 and 7 entered, and took their places on two little +Derby chairs, having previously showed their pink hands in sombre silence +to Aunt Judy, whereupon Aunt Judy turned herself so as to face the whole +group, and then began her story as follows:— + +“There were once upon a time eight little Victims, who were shut up in a +large stone-building, where they were watched night and day by a set of +huge grown-up keepers, who made them do whatever they chose.” + +“Don’t make it _too_ sad, Aunt Judy,” murmured No. 8, half in a tremble +already. + +“You needn’t be frightened, No. 8,” was the answer; “my stories always +end well.” + +“I’m so glad,” chuckled No. 8 with a grin, as he clapped one little fat +hand down upon the other on his lap in complete satisfaction. “Go on, +please.” + +“Was the large stone-building a prison, Aunt Judy?” inquired No. 7. + +“That depends upon your ideas of a prison,” answered Aunt Judy. “What do +you suppose a prison is?” + +“Oh, a great big place with walls all round, where people are locked up, +and can’t go in and out as they choose.” + +“Very well. Then I think you may be allowed to call the place in which +the little Victims were kept a prison, for it certainly was a great big +place with walls all round, and they were locked up at night, and not +allowed to go in and out as they chose.” + +“Poor things,” murmured No. 8; but he consoled himself by recollecting +that the story was to end well. + +“Aunt Judy, before you go on, do tell us what _victims_ are? Are they +fairies, or what? I don’t know.” + +This was the request of No. 5, who was rather more thoughtful than the +rest, and was apt now and then to delay a story by his inquiring turn of +mind. + +No. 6 was in a hurry to hear some more, and nudged No. 5 to make him be +quiet; but Aunt Judy interposed; said she did not like to tell stories to +people who didn’t care to know what they meant, and declared that No. 5 +was quite right in asking what a victim was. + +“A victim,” said she, “was the creature which the old heathens used to +offer up as a sacrifice, after they had gained a victory in battle. You +all remember I dare say,” continued she, “what a sacrifice is, and have +heard about Abel’s sacrifice of the firstlings of his flock.” + +The children nodded assent, and Aunt Judy went on:— + +“No such sacrifices are ever offered up now by us Christians, and so +there are no more real _victims_ now. But we still use the word, and +call any creature a victim who is ill-used, or hurt, or destroyed by +somebody else. + +“If you, any of you, were to worry or kill the cat, for instance, then +the cat would be called _the victim of your cruelty_; and in the same +manner the eight little Victims I am going to tell you about were the +victims of the whims and cruel prejudices of those who had the charge of +them. + +“And now, before I proceed any further, I am going to establish a rule, +that whenever I tell you anything very sad about the little Victims, you +shall all of you groan aloud together. So groan here, if you please, now +that you quite understand what a victim is.” + +Aunt Judy glanced round the circle, and they all groaned together to +order, led off by Nos. 3 and 4, who did not, it must be owned, look in a +very mournful state while they performed the ceremony. + +It was wonderful what good that groan did them all! It seemed to clear +off half the troubles of the day, and at its conclusion a smile was +visible on every face. + +Aunt Judy then proceeded:— + +“I do not want to make you cry too much, but I will tell you of the +miseries the captive victims underwent in the course of one single day, +and then you will be able to judge for yourselves what a life they led +together. + +“One of their heaviest miseries happened every evening. It was the +misery of _going to bed_. Perhaps now you may think it sounds odd that +going to bed should be called a misery. But you shall hear how it was. + +“In the evening, when all the doors were safely locked and bolted, so +that no one could get away, the little Victims were summoned down-stairs, +and brought into a room where some of the keepers were sure to be sitting +in the greatest luxury. There was generally a warm fire on the hearth, +and a beautiful lamp on the table, which shed an agreeable light around, +and made everything look so pretty and gay, the hearts of the poor +innocent Victims always rose at the sight. + +“Sometimes there would be a huge visitor or two present, who would now +and then take the Victims on their knees, and say all manner of +entertaining things to them. Or there would be nice games for them to +play at. Or the keepers themselves would kiss them, and call them kind +names, as if they really loved them. How nice all this sounds, does it +not? And it would have been nice, if the keepers would but have let it +last for ever. But that was just the one thing they never would do, and +the consequence was, that, whatever pleasure they might have had, the +wretched Victims always ended by being dissatisfied and sad. + +“And how could it be otherwise? Just when they were at the height of +enjoyment, just when everything was most delightful, a horrible knock was +sure to be heard at the door, the meaning of which they all knew but too +well. It was the knock which summoned them to bed; and at such a moment +you cannot wonder that going to bed was felt to be a misfortune. + +“Had there been a single one among them who was sleepy, or tired, or +ready for bed, there would have been some excuse for the keepers; but as +it was, there was none, for the little Victims never knew what it was to +feel tired or weary on those occasions, and were always carried forcibly +away before that feeling came on. + +“Of course, when the knock was heard, they would begin to cry, and say +that it was very hard, and that they didn’t _want_ to go to bed, and one +went so far once as to add that she _wouldn’t_ go to bed. + +“But it was all in vain. The little Victims might as well have attempted +to melt a stone wall as those hard-hearted beings who had the charge of +them. + +“And now, my dears,” observed Aunt Judy, stopping in her account, “this +is of all others the exact moment at which you ought to show your +sympathy with the sufferers, and groan.” + +The little ones groaned accordingly, but in a very feeble manner. + +Aunt Judy shook her head. + +“That groan is not half hearty enough for such a misery. Don’t you +think, if you tried hard, you could groan a little louder?” + +They did try, and succeeded a little better, but cast furtive glances at +each other immediately after. + +“Were the beds very uncomfortable ones, Aunt Judy?” inquired No. 8, in a +subdued voice. + +“You shall judge for yourself,” was the answer. “They were raised off +the floor upon legs, so that no wind from under the door could get at +them; and on the flat bottom called the bed-stock, there was placed a +thick strong bag called a mattress, which was stuffed with some soft +material which made it springy and pleasant to touch or lie down upon. +The shape of it was a long square, or what may be called a rectangular +parallelogram. I strongly advise you all to learn that word, for it is +rather an amusing idea as one steps into bed, to think that one is going +to sleep upon a parallelogram.” + +Nos. 3 and 4 were here unable to contain themselves, but broke into a +peal of laughter. The little ones stared. + +“Well,” resumed Aunt Judy, “for my part, I think it’s a very nice thing +to learn the ins and outs of one’s own life; to consider how one’s bed is +made, and the why and wherefore of its shape and position. It is a great +pity to get so accustomed to things as not to know their value till we +lose them! But to proceed. + +“On the top of this parallelogramatic mattress was laid a soft blanket. +On the top of that blanket, two white sheets. On the top of the sheets, +two or more warm blankets, and on the top of the blankets, a spotted +cover called a counterpane. + +“Now it was between the sheets that each little Victim was laid, and such +were the receptacles to which they were unwillingly consigned, night +after night of their lives! + +“But I have not yet told you half the troubles of this dreadful ‘going to +bed.’ A good fire with a large tub before it, and towels hung over the +fender, was always the first sight which met the tearful eyes of the +little Victims as they entered the nursery after being torn from the joys +of the room down-stairs. And then, lo and behold! a new misery began, +for, whether owing to the fatigue of getting up-stairs, or that their +feelings had been so much hurt, they generally discovered at this moment +that they were one and all so excessively tired, they didn’t know what to +do;—of all things, did not choose to be washed—and insisted, each of +them, on being put to bed first! But let them say what they would, and +cry afresh as they pleased, and even snap and snarl at each other like so +many small terriers, those cruel keepers of theirs never would grant +their requests; never would put any of them to bed dirty, and always +declared that it was impossible to put each of them to bed first! + +“Imagine now the feelings of those who had to wait round the fire while +the others were attended to! Imagine the weariness, the disgust, before +the whole party was finished, and put by for the night!” + +Aunt Judy paused, but no one spoke. + +“What!” cried she suddenly, “will nobody groan? Then I must groan +myself!” which she did, and a most unearthly noise she made; so much so, +that two or three of the little ones turned round to look at the swelling +red curtains, just to make sure the howl did not proceed from thence. + +After which Aunt Judy continued her tale:— + +“So much for night and going to bed, about which there is nothing more to +relate, as the little Victims were uncommonly good sleepers, and seldom +awoke till long after daylight. + +“Well now, what do you think? By the time they had had a good night, +they felt so comfortable in their beds, that they were quite contented to +remain there; and then, of course, their tormentors never rested till +they had forced them to get up! Poor little things! Just think of their +being made to go to bed at night, when they most disliked it, and then +made to get up in the morning, when they wanted to stay in bed! It +certainly was, as they always said, ‘very, very hard.’ This was, of +course, a winter misery, when the air was so frosty and cold that it was +very unpleasant to jump out into it from a warm nest. Terrible scenes +took place on these occasions, I assure you, for sometimes the wretched +Victims would sit shivering on the floor, crying over their socks and +shoes instead of putting them on, (which they had no spirit for,) and +then the savage creatures who managed them would insult them by +irritating speeches. + +“‘Come, Miss So-and-So,’ one would say, ‘don’t sit fretting there; +there’s a warm fire, and a nice basin of bread-and-milk waiting for you, +if you will only be quick and get ready.’ + +“Get ready! a nice order indeed! It meant that they must wash themselves +and be dressed before they would be allowed to touch a morsel of food. + +“But it is of no use dwelling on the unfeelingness of those keepers. One +day one of them actually said:— + +“‘If you knew what it was to have to get up without a fire to come to, +and without a breakfast to eat, you would leave off grumbling at +nothing.’ + +“_Nothing_! they called it _nothing_ to have to get out of a warm bed +into the fresh morning air, and dress before breakfast! + +“Well, my dears,” pursued Aunt Judy, after waiting here a few seconds, to +see if anybody would groan, “I shall take it for granted you feel for the +_getting-up_ misery as well as the _going-to-bed_ one, although you have +not groaned as I expected. I will just add, in conclusion, that the +summer _getting-up_ misery was just the reverse of this winter one. Then +the poor little wretches were expected to wait till their nursery was +dusted and swept; so there they had to lie, sometimes for half-an-hour, +with the sun shining in upon them, not allowed to get up and come out +into the dirt and dust! + +“Of course, on those occasions they had nothing to do but squabble among +themselves and teaze; and I assure you they had every now and then a very +pleasant little revenge on their keepers, for they half worried them out +of their lives by disturbances and complaints, and at any rate that was +some comfort to them, although very often it hindered the nursery from +being done half as soon as it would have been if they had been quiet. + +“I shall not have time to tell of everything,” continued Aunt Judy, “so I +must hurry over the breakfast, although the keepers contrived to make +even that miserable, by doing all they could to prevent the little +Victims from spilling their food on the table and floor, and also by +insisting on the poor little things sitting tolerably upright on their +seats—_not_ lolling with both elbows on the table-cloth—_not_ making a +mess—not, in short, playing any of those innocent little pranks in which +young creatures take delight. + +“It was a pitiable spectacle, as you may suppose, to see reasonable +beings constrained against their inclinations to sit quietly while they +ate their hearty morning meal, which really, perhaps, they might have +enjoyed, had they been allowed to amuse themselves in their own fashion +at the same time. + +“But I must go on now to that great misery of the day, which I shall call +the _lesson_ misery. + +“Now you must know, the little Victims were all born, as young kids, +lambs, kittens, and puppy-dogs are, with a decided liking for jumping +about and playing all day long. Think, therefore, what their sufferings +were when they were placed in chairs round a table, and obliged to sit +and stare at queer looking characters in books until they had learned to +know them what was called _by heart_. It was a very odd way of +describing it, for I am sure they had often no heart in the matter, +unless it was a hearty dislike. + +“‘Tommy Brown in the village never learns any lessons,’ cried one of them +once to the creature who was teaching him, ‘why should I? He is always +playing at oyster-dishes in the gutter when I see him, and enjoying +himself. I wish _I_ might enjoy myself!’ + +“Poor Victim! He little thought what a tiresome lecture this clever +remark of his would bring on his devoted head! + +“Don’t ask me to repeat it. It amounted merely to this, that twenty +years hence he would he very glad he had learnt something else besides +making oyster-dishes in the streets. As if that signified to him now! +As if it took away the nuisance of having to learn at the present moment, +to be told it would be of use hereafter! What was the use of its being +of use by-and-by? + +“So thought the little Victim, young as he was; so, said he, in a +muttering voice:— + +“‘I don’t care about twenty years hence; I want to be happy now!’ + +“This was unanswerable, as you may suppose; so the puzzled teacher didn’t +attempt to make a reply, but said:— + +“‘Go on with your lessons, you foolish little boy!’ + +“See what it is to be obstinate,” pursued Aunt Judy. “See how it blinds +people’s eyes, and prevents them from knowing right from wrong! Pray +take warning, and never be obstinate yourselves; and meantime, let us +have a good hearty groan for the _lesson_ misery.” + +The little ones obeyed, and breathed out a groan that seemed to come from +the very depths of their hearts; but somehow or other, as the story +proceeded, the faces looked rather less amused, and rather more anxious, +than at first. + +What could the little ones be thinking about to make them grave? + +It was evidently quite a relief when Aunt Judy went on:— + +“You will be very much surprised, I dare say,” said she, “to hear of the +next misery I am going to tell you about. It may be called the _dinner_ +misery, and the little Victims underwent it every day.” + +“Did they give them nasty things to eat, Aunt Judy?” murmured No. 8, very +anxiously. + +“More likely not half enough,” suggested No. 5. + +“But you promised not to make the story _too_ sad, remember!” observed +No. 6. + +“I did,” replied Aunt Judy, “and the _dinner_ misery did not consist in +nasty food, or there not being enough. They had plenty to eat, I assure +you, and everything was good. But—” + +Aunt Judy stopped short, and glanced at each of the little ones in +succession. + +“Make haste, Aunt Judy!” cried No. 8. “But what?” + +“_But_,” resumed Aunt Judy, in her most impressive tone, “they had to +wait between the courses.” + +Again Aunt Judy paused, and there was a looking hither and thither among +the little ones, and a shuffling about on the small Derby chairs, while +one or two pairs of eyes were suddenly turned to the fire, as if watching +it relieved a certain degree of embarrassment which their owners began to +experience. + +“It is not every little boy or girl,” was Aunt Judy’s next remark, “who +knows what the courses of a dinner are.” + +“_I_ don’t,” interposed No. 8, in a distressed voice, as if he had been +deeply injured. + +“Oh, you think not? Well, not by name, perhaps,” answered Aunt Judy. +“But I will explain. The courses of a dinner are the different sorts of +food, which follow each other one after the other, till dinner is what +people call ‘over.’ Thus, supposing a dinner was to begin with pea-soup, +as you have sometimes seen it do, you would expect when it was taken away +to see some meat put upon the table, should you not?” + +The little ones nodded assent. + +“And after the meat was gone, you would expect pie or pudding, eh?” + +They nodded assent again, and with a smile. + +“And if after the pudding was carried away, you saw some cheese and +celery arrive, it would not startle you very much, would it?” + +The little ones did nothing but laugh. + +“Very well,” pursued Aunt Judy, “such a dinner as we have been talking +about consists of four courses. The soup course, the meat course, the +pudding course, and the cheese course. And it was while one course was +being carried out, and another fetched in, that the little Victims had to +wait; and that was the _dinner_ misery I spoke about, and a very grievous +affair it was. Sometimes they had actually to wait several minutes, with +nothing to do but to fidget on their chairs, lean backwards till they +toppled over, or forward till some accident occurred at the table. And +then, poor little things, if they ventured to get out their knuckle-bones +for a game, or took to a little boxing amusement among themselves, or to +throwing the salt in each other’s mugs, or pelting each other with bits +of bread, or anything nice and entertaining, down came those merciless +keepers on their innocent mirth, and the old stupid order went round for +sitting upright and quiet. Nothing that I can say about it would be half +as expressive as what the little Victims used to say themselves. They +said that it was ‘_so very hard_.’ + +“Now, then, a good groan for the _dinner_ misery,” exclaimed Aunt Judy in +conclusion. + +The order was obeyed, but somewhat reluctantly, and then Aunt Judy +proceeded with her tale. + +“On one occasion of the _dinner_ misery,” resumed she, “there happened to +be a stranger lady present, who seemed to be very much shocked by what +the Victims had to undergo, and to pity them very much; so she said she +would set them a nice little puzzle to amuse them till the second course +arrived. But now, what do you think the puzzle was? It was a question, +and this was it. ‘Which is the harder thing to bear—to have to wait for +your dinner, or to have no dinner to wait for?’ + +“I do not think the little Victims would have quite known what the +stranger lady meant, if she had not explained herself; for you see _they_ +had never gone without dinner in their lives, so they had not an idea +what sort of a feeling it was to have _no dinner to wait for_. But she +went on to tell them what it was like as well as she could. She +described to them little Tommy Brown, (whom they envied so much for +having no lessons to do,) eating his potatoe soaked in the dripping +begged at the squire’s back-door, without anything else to wait—or hope +for. She told them that _he_ was never teazed as to how he sat, or even +whether he sat or stood, and then she asked them if they did not think he +was a very happy little boy? He had no trouble or bother, but just ate +his rough morsel in any way he pleased, and then was off, hungry or not +hungry, into the streets again. + +“To tell you the truth,” pursued Aunt Judy, “the Victims did not know +what to say to the lady’s account of little Tommy Brown’s happiness; but +as the roast meat came in just as it concluded, perhaps that diverted +their attention. However, after they had all been helped, it was +suddenly observed that one of them would not begin to eat. He sat with +his head bent over his plate, and his cheeks growing redder and redder, +till at last some one asked what was amiss, and why he would not go on +with his dinner, on which he sobbed out that he had ‘much rather it was +taken to little Tommy Brown!’” + +“That was a very _good_ little Victim, wasn’t he?” asked No. 8. + +“But what did the keepers say?” inquired No. 5, rather anxiously. + +“Oh,” replied Aunt Judy, “it was soon settled that Tommy Brown was to +have the dinner, which made the little Victim so happy, he actually +jumped for joy. On which the stranger lady told them she hoped they +would henceforth always ask themselves her curious question whenever they +sat down to a good meal again. ‘For,’ said she, ‘my dears, it will teach +you to be thankful; and you may take my word for it, it is always the +ungrateful people who are the most miserable ones.’” + +“Oh, Aunt Judy!” here interposed No. 6, somewhat vehemently, “you need +not tell any more! I know you mean _us_ by the little Victims! But you +don’t think we really _mean_ to be ungrateful about the beds, or the +dinners, or anything, do you?” + +There was a melancholy earnestness in the tone of the inquiry, which +rather grieved Aunt Judy, for she knew it was not well to magnify +childish faults into too great importance: so she took No. 6 on her knee, +and assured her she never imagined such a thing as their being really +ungrateful, for a moment. If she had, she added, she should not have +turned their little ways into fun, as she had done in the story. + +No. 6 was comforted somewhat on hearing this, but still leant her head on +Aunt Judy’s shoulder in a rather pensive state. + +“I wonder what makes one so tiresome,” mused the meditative No. 5, trying +to view the matter quite abstractedly, as if he himself was in no way +concerned in it. + +“Thoughtlessness only,” replied Aunt Judy, smiling. “I have often heard +mamma say it is not ingratitude in _children_ when they don’t think about +the comforts they enjoy every day; because the comforts seem to them to +come, like air and sunshine, as a mere matter of course.” + +“Really?” exclaimed No. 6, in a quite hopeful tone. “Does mamma really +say that?” + +“Yes; but then you know,” continued Aunt Judy, “everybody has to be +taught to think by degrees, and then they get to know that no comforts +ever do really come to anybody as a matter of course. No, not even air +and sunshine; but every one of them as blessings permitted by God, and +which, therefore, we have to be thankful for. So you see we have to +_learn_ to be thankful as we have to learn everything else, and mamma +says it is a lesson that never ends, even for grown-up people. + +“And now you understand, No. 6, that you—oh! I beg pardon, I mean _the +little Victims_—were not really ungrateful, but only thoughtless; and the +wonderful stranger lady did something to cure them of that, and, in fact, +proved a sort of Aunt Judy to them; for she explained things in such a +very entertaining manner, that they actually began to think the matter +over; and then they left off being stupid and unthankful. + +“But this reminds me,” added Aunt Judy, “that you—tiresome No. 6—have +spoilt my story after all! I had not half got to the end of the +miseries. For instance, there was the _taking-care_ misery, in +consequence of which the little Victims were sent out to play on a fine +day, and kept in when it was stormy and wet, all because those stupid +keepers were more anxious to keep them well in health than to please them +at the moment. + +“And then there was—above all—” here Aunt Judy became very impressive, +“the _washing_ misery, which consisted in their being obliged to make +themselves clean and comfortable with soap and water whenever they +happened to be dirty, whether with playing at knuckle-bones on the floor, +or anything else, and which was considered _so hard_ that—” + +But here a small hand was laid on Aunt Judy’s mouth, and a gentle voice +said, “Stop, Aunt Judy, now!” on which the rest shouted, “Stop! stop! we +won’t hear any more,” in chorus, until all at once, in the midst of the +din, there sounded outside the door the ominous knocking, which announced +the hour of repose to the juvenile branches of the family. + +It was a well-known summons, but on this occasion produced rather an +unusual effect. First, there was a sudden profound silence, and pause of +several seconds; then an interchange of glances among the little ones; +then a breaking out of involuntary smiles upon several young faces; and +at last a universal “Good-night, Aunt Judy!” very quietly and demurely +spoken. + +“If the little Victims were only here to see how _you_ behave over the +_going-to-bed_ misery, what a lesson it would be!” suggested Aunt Judy, +with a mischievous smile. + +“Ah, yes, yes, we know, we know!” was the only reply, and it came from +No. 8, who took advantage of being the youngest to be more saucy than the +rest. + +Aunt Judy now led the little party into the drawing-room to bid their +father and mother good-night too. And certainly when the door was +opened, and they saw how bright and cosy everything looked, in the light +of the fire and the lamps, with mamma at the table, wide awake and +smiling, they underwent a fearful twinge of the _going-to-bed_ misery. +But they checked all expression of their feelings. Of course, mamma +asked what Aunt Judy’s story had been about, and heard; and heard, too, +No. 6’s little trouble lest she should have been guilty of the sin of +real ingratitude; and, of course, mamma applauded Aunt Judy’s explanation +about the want of thought, very much indeed. + +“But, mamma,” said No. 6 to her mother, “Aunt Judy said something about +grown-up people having to learn to be thankful. Surely you and papa +never cry for nonsense, and things you can’t have?” + +“Ah, my darling No. 6,” cried mamma earnestly, “grown-up people may not +_cry_ for what they want exactly, but they are just as apt to wish for +what they cannot have, as you little ones are. For instance, grown-up +people would constantly like to have life made easier and more agreeable +to them, than God chooses it to be. They would like to have a little +more wealth, perhaps, or a little more health, or a little more rest, or +that their children should always be good and clever, and well and happy. +And while they are thinking and fretting about the things they want, they +forget to be thankful for those they have. I am often tempted in this +way myself, dear No. 6; so you see Aunt Judy is right, and the lesson of +learning to be thankful never ends, even for grown-up people. + +“One other word before you go. I dare say you little ones think we +grown-up people are quite independent, and can do just as we like. But +it is not so. We have to learn to submit to the will of the great Keeper +of Heaven and earth, without understanding it, just as Aunt Judy’s little +Victims had to submit to their keepers without knowing why. So thank +Aunt Judy for her story, and let us all do our best to be obedient and +contented.” + +“When I am old enough, mother,” remarked No. 7, in his peculiarly mild +and deliberate way of speaking, and smiling all the time, “I think I +shall put Aunt Judy into a story. Don’t you think she would make a +capital Ogre’s wife, like the one in ‘Jack and the Bean-Stalk,’ who told +Jack how to behave, and gave him good advice?” + +It was a difficult question to say “No” to, so mamma kissed No. 7, +instead of answering him, and No. 7 smiled himself away, with his head +full of the bright idea. + + + + +VEGETABLES OUT OF PLACE. + + + “But any man that walks the mead, + In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, + According as his humours lead, + A meaning suited to his mind.” + + TENNYSON. + +IT was a fine May morning. Not one of those with an east wind and a +bright sun, which keep people in a puzzle all as day to whether it is hot +or cold, and cause endless nursery disputes about the keeping on of +comforters and warm coats, whenever a hoop-race, or some such active +exertion, has brought a universal puggyness over the juvenile frame—but +it was a really mild, sweet-scented day, when it is quite a treat to be +out of doors, whether in the gardens, the lanes, or the fields, and when +nothing but a holland jacket is thought necessary by even the most +tiresomely careful of mammas. + +It was not a day which anybody would have chosen to be poorly upon; but +people have no choice in such matters, and poor little No. 7, of our old +friends “the little ones,” was in bed ill of the measles. + +The wise old Bishop, Jeremy Taylor, told us long ago, how well children +generally bear sickness. “They bear it,” he says, “by a direct +sufferance;” that is to say, they submit to just what discomfort exists +at the moment, without fidgetting about either “a cause or a +consequence,” and decidedly without fretting about what is to come. + +For a grown-up person to attain to the same state of unanxious +resignation, is one of the high triumphs of Christian faith. It is that +“delivering one’s self up,” of which the poor speak so forcibly on their +sick-beds. + +No. 7 proved a charming instance of the truth of Jeremy Taylor’s remark. +He behaved in the most composed manner over his feelings, and even over +his physic. + +During the first day or two, when he sat shivering by the fire, reading +“Neill D’Arcy’s Life at Sea,” and was asked how he felt, he answered with +his usual smile; “Oh, all right; only a little cold now and then.” And +afterwards, when he was in bed in a darkened room, and the same question +was put, he replied almost as quietly, (though without the smile,) +“Oh—only a little too hot.” + +Then over the medicine, he contested nothing. He made, indeed, one or +two by no means injudicious suggestions, as to the best method of having +the disagreeable material, whether powdery or oleaginous, (I will not +particularize further!) conveyed down his throat: commonly said, “Thank +you,” even before he had swallowed it; and then shut his eyes, and kept +himself quiet. + +Fortunately No. 1, and Schoolboy No. 3, had had the complaint as well as +papa and mamma, so there were plenty to share in the nursing and house +matters. The only question was, what was to be done with the little ones +while Nurse was so busy; and Aunt Judy volunteered her services in their +behalf. + +Now it will easily be supposed, after what I have said, that the nursing +was not at all a difficult undertaking; but I am grieved to say that Aunt +Judy’s task was by no means so easy a one. + +The little ones were very sorry, it is true, that No. 7 was poorly; but, +unluckily, they forgot it every time they went either up-stairs or down. +They could not bear in their minds the fact, that when they encouraged +the poodle to bark after an India-rubber ball, he was pretty sure to wake +No. 7 out of a nap; and, in short, the day being so fine, and the little +ones so noisy, Aunt Judy packed them all off into their gardens to tidy +them up, she herself taking her station in a small study, the window of +which looked out upon the family play-ground. + +Her idea, perhaps, was, that she could in this way combine the +prosecution of her own studies, with enacting policeman over the young +gardeners, and “keeping the peace,” as she called it. But if so, she was +doomed to disappointment. + +The operation of “tidying up gardens,” as performed by a set of “little +ones,” scarcely needs description. + +It consists of a number of alterations being thought of, and set about, +not one of which is ever known to be finished by those who begin them. +It consists of everybody wanting the rake at the same moment, and of +nobody being willing to use the other tools, which they call stupid and +useless things. It consists of a great many plants being moved from one +place to another, when they are in full flower, and dying in consequence. +(But how, except when they are in flower, can anyone judge where they +will look best?) It consists of a great many seeds being prevented from +coming up at all, by an “alteration” cutting into the heart of the patch +just as they were bursting their shells for a sprout. It consists of an +unlimited and fatal application of the cold-water cure. + +And, finally, it results in such a confusion between foot-walks and +beds—such a mixture of earth and gravel, and thrown-down tools—that +anyone unused to the symptoms of the case, might imagine that the door of +the pigsty in the yard had been left open, and that its inhabitant had +been performing sundry uncouth gambols with his nose in the little ones’ +gardens. + +Aunt Judy was quite aware of these facts, and she had accordingly laid +down several rules, and given several instructions to prevent the usual +catastrophe; and all went very smoothly at first in consequence. The +little ones went out all hilarity and delight, and divided the tools with +considerable show of justice, while Aunt Judy nodded to them approvingly +out of her window, and then settled down to an interesting sum in that +most peculiar of all arithmetical rules, “_The Rule of False_,” the +principle of which is, that out of two errors, made by yourself from two +wrong guesses, you arrive at a discovery of the truth! + + [Picture: The rule of false] + +When Aunt Judy first caught sight of this rule, a few days before, at the +end of an old summing-book, it struck her fancy at once. The principle +of it was capable of a much more general application than to the “Rule of +False,” and she amused herself by studying it up. + +It is, no doubt, a clumsy substitute for algebra; but young folks who +have not learnt algebra, will find it a very entertaining method of +making out all such sums as the following old puzzler, over which Aunt +Judy was now poring: + +“There is a certain fish, whose head is 9 inches in length, his tail as +long as his head and half of his back, and his back as long as both head +and tail together. Query, the length of the fish?” + +But Aunt Judy was not left long in peace with her fish. While she was in +the thick of “suppositions” and “errors,” a tap came at the window. + +“Aunt Judy!” + +“Stop!” was the answer; and the hand of the speaker went up, with the +slate-pencil in it, enforcing silence while she pursued her calculations. + +“Say, back 42 inches; then tail (half back) 21, and head given, 9, that’s +30, and 30 and 9, 39 back.—Won’t do! Second error: three inches—What’s +the matter, No. 6? You surely have not begun to quarrel already?” + +“Oh, no,” answered No. 6, with her nose flattened against the +window-pane. “But please, Aunt Judy, No. 8 won’t have the oyster-shell +trimming round his garden any longer, he says; he says it looks so +rubbishy. But as my garden joins his down the middle, if he takes away +the oyster-shells all round his, then one of _my_ sides—the one in the +middle, I mean—will be left bare, don’t you see? and I want to keep the +oyster-shells all round may garden, because mamma says there are still +some zoophytes upon them. So how is it to be?” + +What a perplexity! The fish with his nine-inch head, and his tail as +long as his head and half of his back, was a mere nothing to it. + +Aunt Judy threw open the window. + +“My dear No. 6,” answered she, “yours is the great boundary-line question +about which nations never do agree, but go squabbling on till some one +has to give way first. There is but one plan for settling it, and that +is, for each of you to give up a piece of your gardens to make a road to +run between. Now if you’ll both give way at once, and consent to this, I +will come out to you myself, and leave my fish till the evening. It’s +much too fine to stay in doors, I feel; and I can give you all something +real to do.” + +“_I’ll_ give way, I’m sure, Aunt Judy,” cried No. 6, quite glad to be rid +of the dispute; “and so will you, won’t you, No. 8?” she added, appealing +to that young gentleman, who stood with his pinafore full of dirty +oyster-shells, not quite understanding the meaning of what was said. + +“I’ll _what_?” inquired he. + +“Oh, never mind! Only throw the oyster-shells down, and come with Aunt +Judy. It will be much better fun than staying here.” + +No. 8 lowered his pinafore at the word of command, and dropped the +discarded oyster-shells, one by one—where do you think?—why—right into +the middle of his little garden! an operation which seemed to be +particularly agreeable to him, if one might judge by his face. He was +not sorry either to be relieved from the weight. + +“You see, Aunt Judy,” continued No. 6 to her sister, who had now joined +them, “it doesn’t so much matter about the oyster-shell trimming; but No. +8’s garden is always in such a mess, that I must have a wall or something +between us!” + +“You shall have a wall or a path decidedly,” replied Aunt Judy: “a road +is the next best thing to a river for a boundary-line. But now, all of +you, pick up the tools and come with me, and you shall do some regular +work, and be paid for it at the rate of half-a-farthing for every half +hour. Think what a magnificent offer!” + +The little ones thought so in reality, and welcomed the arrangement with +delight, and trudged off behind Aunt Judy, calculating so hard among +themselves what their conjoint half-farthings would come to, for the +half-hours they all intended to work, and furthermore, what amount or +variety of “goodies” they would purchase, that Aunt Judy half fancied +herself back in the depths of the “Rule of False” again! + +She led them at last to a pretty shrubbery-walk, of which they were all +very fond. On one side of it was a quick-set hedge, in which the +honeysuckle was mixed so profusely with the thorn, that they grew and +were clipped together. + +It was the choicest spot for a quiet evening stroll in summer that could +possibly be imagined. The sweet scent from the honeysuckle flowers stole +around you with a welcome as you moved along, and set you a dreaming of +some far-off region where the delicious sensations produced by the odour +of flowers may not be as transient as they are here. + +There was an alcove in the middle of the walk—not one of the modern +mockeries of rusticity—but a real old-fashioned lath-and-plaster concern, +such as used to be erected in front of a bowling-green. It was roofed +in, was open only on the sunny side, and was supported by a couple of +little Ionic pillars, up which clematis and passion-flower were +studiously trained. + +There was a table as well as seats within; and the alcove was a very nice +place for either reading or drawing in, as it commanded a pretty view of +the distant country. It was also, and perhaps especially, suited to the +young people in their more poetical and fanciful moods. + +The little ones had no sooner reached the entrance of the favourite walk, +than they scampered past Aunt Judy to run a race; but No. 6 stopped +suddenly short. + +“Aunt Judy, look at these horrible weeds! Ah! I do believe this is what +you have brought us here for!” + +It was indeed; for some showers the evening before, had caused them to +flourish in a painfully prominent manner, and the favourite walk +presented a somewhat neglected appearance. + +So Aunt Judy marked it off for the little ones to weed, repeated the +exhilarating promise of the half-farthings, and seated herself in the +alcove to puzzle out the length of the fish. + +At first it was rather amusing to hear, how even in the midst of their +weeding, the little ones pursued their calculations of the anticipated +half-farthings, and discussed the niceness and prices of the various +descriptions of “goodies.” + +But by degrees, less and less was said; and at last, the half-farthings +and “goodies” seemed altogether forgotten, and a new idea to arise in +their place. + +The new idea was, that this weeding-task was uncommonly troublesome! + +“I’m sure there are many more weeds in my piece than in anybody else’s!” +remarked the tallest of the children, standing up to rest his rather +tired back, and contemplate the walk. “I don’t think Aunt Judy measured +it out fair!” + +“Well, but you’re the biggest, and ought to do the most,” responded No. +6. + +“A _little_ the most is all very well,” persisted No. 5; “but I’ve got +_too much_ the most rather—and it’s very tiresome work.” + +“What nonsense!” rejoined No. 6. “I don’t believe the weeds are any +thicker in your piece than in mine. Look at my big heap. And I’m sure +I’m quite as tired as you are.” + +No. 6 got up as she spoke, to see how matters were going on; not at all +sorry either, to change her position. + +“_I’ve_ got the most,” muttered No. 8 to himself, still kneeling over his +work. + +But this was, it is to be feared, a very unjustifiable bit of brag. + +“If you go on talking so much, you will not get any half-farthings at +all!” shouted No. 4, from the distance. + +A pause followed this warning, and the small party ducked down again to +their work. + +They no longer liked it, however; and very soon afterwards the jocose No. +5 observed, in subdued tones to the others:— + +“I wonder what _the little victims_ would have said to this kind of +thing?” + +“They’d have hated it,” answered No. 6, very decidedly. + +The fact was, the little ones were getting really tired, for the fine May +morning had turned into a hot day; and in a few minutes more, a still +further aggravation of feeling took place. + +No. 6 got up again, shook the gravel from her frock, blew it off her +hands, pushed back a heap of heavy curls from her face, set her hat as +far back on her head as she could, and exclaimed:— + +“I wish there were no such things as weeds in the world!” + +Everybody seemed struck with this impressive sentiment, for they all left +off weeding at once, and Aunt Judy came forward to the front of the +alcove. + +“Don’t you, Aunt Judy?” added No. 6, feeling sure her sister had heard. + +“Not I, indeed,” answered Aunt Judy, with a comical smile: “I’m too fond +of cream to my tea.” + +“Cream to your tea, Aunt Judy? What can that have to do with it?” + +The little ones were amazed. + +“Something,” at any rate, responded Aunt Judy; “and if you like to come +in here, and sit down, I will tell you how.” + +Away went hoes and weeding-knives at once, and into the alcove they +rushed; and never had garden-seats felt so thoroughly comfortable before. + +“If one begins to wish,” suggested No. 5, stretching his legs out to +their full extent, “one may as well wish oneself a grand person with a +lot of gardeners to clear away the weeds as fast as they come up, and +save one the trouble.” + +“Much better wish them away, and save everybody the trouble,” persisted +No. 6. + +“No: one wants them sometimes.” + +“What an idea! Who ever wants weeds?” + +“You yourself.” + +“I? What nonsense!” + +But the persevering No. 5 proceeded to explain. No. 6 had asked him a +few days before to bring her some groundsel for her canary, and he had +been quite disappointed at finding none in the garden. He had actually +to “trail” into the lanes to fetch a bit. + +This was a puzzling statement; so No. 6 contented herself with grumbling +out:— + +“Weeds are welcome to grow in the lanes.” + +“Weeds are not always weeds in the lanes,” persisted No. 5, with a grin: +“they’re sometimes wild-flowers.” + +“I don’t care what they are,” pouted No. 6. “I wish I lived in a place +where there were none.” + +“And I wish I was a great man, with lots of gardeners to take them up, +instead of me,” maintained No. 5, who was in a mood of lazy tiresomeness, +and kept rocking to and fro on the garden-chair, with his hands tucked +under his thighs. “A weed—a weed,” continued he; “what is a weed, I +wonder? Aunt Judy, what is a weed?” + +Aunt Judy had surely been either dreaming or cogitating during the last +few minutes, for she had taken no notice of what was said, but she roused +up now, and answered:— + +“A vegetable out of its place.” + +“A _vegetable_,” repeated No. 5, “why we don’t eat them, Aunt Judy.” + +“You kitchen-garden interpreter, who said we did?” replied she. “All +green herbs are _vegetables_, let me tell you, whether we eat them or +not.” + +“Oh, I see,” mused No. 5, quietly enough, but in another instant he broke +out again. + +“I’ll tell you what though, some of them are real vegetables, I mean +kitchen-garden vegetables, to other creatures, and that’s why they’re +wanted. Groundsel’s a vegetable, it’s the canary’s vegetable. I mean +his kitchen-garden vegetable, and if he had a kitchen-garden of his own, +he would grow it as we do peas. So I was right after all, No. 6!” + +That _twit_ at the end spoilt everything, otherwise this was really a +bright idea of No. 5’s. + +“Aunt Judy, do begin to talk yourself,” entreated No. 6. “I wish No. 5 +would be quiet, and not teaze.” + +“And he wishes the same of you,” replied Aunt Judy, “and I wish the same +of you all. What is to be done? Come, I will tell you a story, on one +positive understanding, namely, that whoever teazes, or even _twits_, +shall be turned out of the company.” + +No. 5 sat up in his chair like a dart in an instant, and vowed that he +would be the best of the good, till Aunt Judy had finished her story. + +“After which—” concluded he, with a wink and another grin. + +“After which, I shall expect you to be better still,” was Aunt Judy’s +emphatic rejoinder. And peace being now completely established, she +commenced: “There was once upon a time—what do you think?”—here she +paused and looked round in the children’s faces. + +“A giant!” exclaimed No. 8. + +“A beautiful princess!” suggested No. 6. + +“_Something_,” said Aunt Judy, “but I am not going to tell you what at +present. You must find out for yourselves. Meantime I shall call it +_something_, or merely make a grunting—hm—when I allude to it, as people +do to express a blank.” + +The little ones shuffled about in delighted impatience at the notion of +the mysterious “something” which they were to find out, and Aunt Judy +proceeded:— + +“This—hm—then, lived in a large meadow field, where it was the delight of +all beholders. The owner of the property was constantly boasting about +it to his friends, for he maintained that it was the richest, and most +beautiful, and most valuable—hm—in all the country round. Surely no +other thing in this world ever found itself more admired or prized than +this _something_ did. The commonest passer-by would notice it, and say +all manner of fine things in its praise, whether in the early spring, the +full summer, or the autumn, for at each of these seasons it put on a +fresh charm, and formed a subject of conversation. ‘Only look at that +lovely—hm—’ was quite a common exclamation at the sight of it. ‘What a +colour it has! How fresh and healthy it looks! How invaluable it must +be! Why, it must be worth at least—’ and then the speaker would go +calculating away at the number of pounds, shillings, and pence, +the—hm—would fetch, if put into the money-market, which is, I am sorry to +say, a very usual, although very degrading way of estimating worth. + +“To conclude, the mild-eyed Alderney cow, who pastured in the field +during the autumn months, would chew the cud of approbation over +the—hm—for hours together, and people said it was no wonder at all that +she gave such delicious milk and cream.” + +Here a shout of supposed discovery broke from No. 5. “I’ve guessed, I +know it!” + +But a “hush” from Aunt Judy stopped him short. + +“No. 5, nobody asked your opinion, keep it to yourself, if you please.” + +No. 5 was silenced, but rubbed his hands nevertheless. + +“Well,” continued Aunt Judy, “that ‘_something_’ ought surely to have +been the most contented thing in the world. Its merits were +acknowledged; its usefulness was undoubted; its beauty was the theme of +constant admiration; what had it left to wish for? Really nothing; but +by an unlucky accident it became dissatisfied with its situation in a +meadow field, and wished to get into a higher position in life, which, it +took for granted, would be more suited to its many exalted qualities. +The ‘_something_’ of the field wanted to inhabit a garden. The unlucky +accident that gave rise to this foolish idea, was as follows:— + +“A little boy was running across the beautiful meadow one morning, with a +tin-pot full of fishing bait in his hand, when suddenly he stumbled and +fell down. + +“The bait in the tin-pot was some lob-worms, which the little boy had +collected out of the garden adjoining the field, and they were spilt and +scattered about by his fall. + +“He picked up as many as he could find, however, and ran off again; but +one escaped his notice and was left behind. + +“This gentleman was insensible for a few seconds; but as soon as he came +to himself, and discovered that he was in a strange place, he began to +grumble and find fault. + +“‘What an uncouth neighbourhood!’ Such were his exclamations. ‘What +rough impracticable roads! Was ever lob-worm so unlucky before!’ It was +impossible to move an inch without bumping his sides against some piece +of uncultivated ground. + +“Judge for yourselves, my dears,” continued Aunt Judy, pathetically, +“what must have been the feelings of the ‘_something_’ which had lived +proudly and happily in the meadow field for so long, on hearing such +offensive remarks. + +“Its spirit was up in a minute, just as yours would have been, and it did +not hesitate to inform the intruder that travellers who find fault with a +country before they have taken the trouble to inquire into its merits, +are very ignorant and impertinent people. + +“This was blow for blow, as you perceive; and the _teaze-and-twit_ system +was now continued with great animation on both sides. + +“The lob-worm inquired, with a conceited wriggle, what could be the +merits of a country, where gentlemanly, gliding, thin-skinned creatures +like himself were unable to move about without personal annoyance? +Whereupon the amiable ‘_something_’ made no scruple of telling the +lob-worm that his _betters_ found no fault with the place, and instanced +its friend and admirer the Alderney cow. + +“On which the lob-worm affected forgetfulness, and exclaimed, ‘Cow? cow? +do I know the creature? Ah! Yes, I recollect now; clumsy legs, horny +feet, and that sort of thing,’ proceeding to hint that what was good +enough for a cow, might yet not be refined enough for his own more +delicate habits. + +“‘It is my misfortune, perhaps,’ concluded he, with mock humility, ‘to +have been accustomed to higher associations; but really, situated as I am +here, I could almost feel disposed to—why, positively, to wish myself a +cow, with clumsy legs and horny feet. What one may live to come to, to +be sure!’ + +“Well,” Aunt Judy proceeded, “will you believe it, the lob-worm went on +boasting till the poor deluded ‘_something_’ believed every word he said, +and at last ventured to ask in what favoured spot he had acquired his +superior tastes and knowledge. + +“And then, of course, the lob-worm had the opportunity of opening out in +a very magnificent bit of brag, and did not fail to do so. + +“Travellers can always boast with impunity to stationary folk, and the +lob-worm had no conscience about speaking the truth. + +“So on he chattered, giving the most splendid account of the garden in +which he lived. Gorgeous flowers, velvet lawns, polished gravel-walks, +along which he was wont to take his early morning stroll, before the +ruder creatures of the neighbourhood, such as dogs, cats, &c. were up and +about, were all his discourse; and he spoke of them as if they were his +own, and told of the nursing and tending of every plant in the lovely +spot, as if the gardeners did it all for his convenience and pleasure. + +“Of the little accidents to which he and his race have from time +immemorial been liable from awkward spades, or those very early birds, by +whom he ran a risk of being snapped up every time he emerged out of the +velvet lawns for the morning strolls, he said just nothing at all. + +“All was unmixed delight (according to his account) in the garden, and +having actually boasted himself into good humour with himself, and +therefore with everybody else, he concluded by expressing the +condescending wish, that the ‘_something_’ in the field should get itself +removed to the garden, to enjoy the life of which he spoke. + +“‘Undeniably beautiful as you are here,’ cried he, ‘your beauty will +increase a thousand fold, under the gardener’s fostering care. +Appreciated as you are now in your rustic life, the most prominent place +will be assigned to you when you get into more distinguished society; so +that everybody who passes by and sees you, will exclaim in delight, +‘Behold this exquisite—hm—!’” + +“Oh dear, Aunt Judy,” cried No. 6, “was the ‘hum,’ as you will call it, +so silly as to believe what he said?” + +“How could the poor simple-minded thing be expected to resist such +elegant compliments, my dear No. 6?” answered Aunt Judy. “But then came +the difficulty. The ‘_something_’ which lived in the field had no more +legs than the lob-worm himself, and, in fact, was incapable of +locomotion.” + +“Of course it was!” ejaculated No. 5. + +“Order!” cried Aunt Judy, and proceeded:— + +“So the—hm—hung down its graceful head in despair, but suddenly a bright +and loving thought struck it. It could not change its place and rise in +life itself, but its children might, and that would be some consolation. +It opened its heart on this point to the lob-worm, and although the +lob-worm had no heart to be touched, he had still a tongue to talk. + +“If the—hm—would send its children to the garden at the first +opportunity, he would be delighted, absolutely charmed, to introduce them +in the world. He would put them in the way of everything, and see that +they were properly attended to. There was nothing he couldn’t or +wouldn’t do. + +“This last pretentious brag seemed to have exhausted even the lob-worm’s +ingenuity, for, soon after he had uttered it, he shuffled away out of the +meadow in the best fashion that he could, leaving the ‘_something_’ in +the field in a state of wondering regret. But it recovered its spirits +again when the time came for sending its children to the favoured garden +abode. + +“‘My dears,’ it said, ‘you will soon have to begin life for yourselves, +and I hope you will do so with credit to your bringing up. I hope you +are now ambitious enough to despise the dull old plan of dropping +contentedly down, just where you happen to be, or waiting for some chance +traveller (who may never come) to give you a lift elsewhere. That +paradise of happiness, of which the lob-worm told us, is close at hand. +Come! it only wants a little extra exertion on your part, and you will be +carried thither by the wind, as easily as the wandering Dandelion +himself. Courage, my dears! nothing out of the common is ever gained +without an effort. See now! as soon as ever a strong breeze blows the +proper way, I shall shake my heads as hard as ever I can, that you may be +off. All the doors and windows are open now, you know, and you must +throw yourselves out upon the wind. Only remember one thing, when you +are settled down in the beautiful garden, mind you hold up your heads, +and do yourselves justice, my dears.’ + +“The children gave a ready assent, of course, as proud as possible at the +notion; and when the favourable breeze came, and the maternal heads were +shaken, out they all flew, and trusted themselves to its guidance, and in +a few minutes settled down all over the beautiful garden, some on the +beds, some on the lawn, some on the polished gravel-walks. And all I can +say is, happiest those who were least seen!” + +“Grass weeds! grass weeds!” shouted the incorrigible No. 5, jumping up +from his seat and performing two or three Dervish-like turns. + +“Oh, it’s too bad, isn’t it, Aunt Judy,” cried No. 6, “to stop your story +in the middle?” + +Whereupon Aunt Judy answered that he had not stopped the story in the +middle, but at the end, and she was glad he had found out the meaning of +her—_hm_—! + +But No. 6 would not be satisfied, she liked to hear the complete finish +up of everything. “Did the ‘_hum’s_’ children ever grow up in the +garden, and did they ever see the lob-worm again?” + +“The—hm’s—children did _spring_ up in the garden,” answered Aunt Judy, +“and did their best to exhibit their beauty on the polished gravel-walks, +where they were particularly delighted with their own appearance one May +morning after a shower of rain, which had made them more prominent than +usual. ‘Remember our mother’s advice,’ cried they to each other. ‘This +is the happy moment! Let us hold up our heads, and do ourselves justice, +my dears.’ + +“Scarcely were the words spoken, when a troop of rude creatures came +scampering into the walk, and a particularly unfeeling monster in curls, +pointed to the beautiful up-standing little—hms—and shouted, ‘Aunt Judy, +look at these _horrible weeds_!’ + +“I needn’t say any more,” concluded Aunt Judy. “You know how you’ve used +them; you know what you’ve done to them; you know how you’ve even wished +there were _no such things in the world_!” + +“Oh, Aunt Judy, how capital!” ejaculated No. 6, with a sigh, the sigh of +exhausted amusement. + +“‘The _hum_ was a weed too, then, was it?” said No. 8. He did not quite +see his way through the tale. + +“It was not a weed in the meadow,” answered Aunt Judy, “where it was +useful, and fed the Alderney cow. It was beautiful Grass there, and was +counted as such, because that was its proper place. But when it put its +nose into garden-walks, where it was not wanted, and had no business, +then everybody called the beautiful Grass a weed.” + +“So a weed is a vegetable out of its place, you see,” subjoined No. 5, +who felt the idea to be half his own, “and it won’t do to wish there were +none in the world.” + +“And a vegetable out of its place being nothing better than a weed, Mr. +No. 5,” added Aunt Judy, “it won’t do to be too anxious about what is so +often falsely called, bettering your condition in life. Come, the story +is done, and now we’ll go home, and all the patient listeners and weeders +may reckon upon getting one or more farthings apiece from mamma. And as +No. 6’s wish is not realized, and there are still weeds {47} in the +world, and among them Grass weeds, _I_ shall hope to have some cream to +my tea.” + + + + +COOK STORIES. + + + “Down too, down at your own fireside, + With the evil tongue and the evil ear, + For each is at war with mankind.” + + TENNYSON’S _Maud_. + +AUNT JUDY had gone to the nursery wardrobe to look over some clothes, and +the little ones were having a play to themselves. As she opened the +door, they were just coming to the end of an explosive burst of laughter, +in which all the five appeared to have joined, and which they had some +difficulty in stopping. No. 4, who was a biggish girl, had giggled till +the tears were running over her cheeks; and No. 8, in sympathy, was +leaning back in his tiny chair in a sort of ecstasy of amusement. + +The five little ones had certainly hit upon some very entertaining game. + +They were all (boys and girls alike) dressed up as elderly ladies, with +bits of rubbishy finery on their heads and round their shoulders, to +imitate caps and scarfs; the boys’ hair being neatly parted and brushed +down the middle; and they were seated in form round what was called “the +Doll’s Table,” a concern just large enough to allow of a small crockery +tea-service, with cups and saucers and little plates, being set out upon +it. + +“What have you got there?” was all Aunt Judy asked, as she went up to the +table to look at them. + +“Cowslip-tea,” was No. 4’s answer, laying her hand on the fat pink +tea-pot; and thereupon the laughing explosion went off nearly as loudly +as before, though for no accountable reason that Aunt Judy could divine. + +“It’s _so_ good, Aunt Judy, do taste it!” exclaimed No. 8, jumping up in +a great fuss, and holding up his little cup, full of a pale-buff fluid, +to Aunt Judy. + +“You’ll have everything over,” cried No. 4, calling him to order; and in +truth the table was not the steadiest in the world. + +So No. 8 sat down again, calling out, in an almost stuttering hurry, “You +may keep it all, Aunt Judy, I don’t want any more.” + +But neither did Aunt Judy, after she had given it one taste; so she put +the cup down, thanking No. 8 very much, but pulling such a funny face, +that it set the laugh going once more; in the middle of which No. 4 +dropped an additional lump of sugar into the rejected buff-coloured +mixture, a proceeding which evidently gave No. 8 a new relish for the +beverage. + +Aunt Judy had got beyond the age when cowslip-tea was looked upon as one +of the treats of life; and she had not, on the other hand, lived long +enough to love the taste of it for the memory’s sake of the enjoyment it +once afforded. + +Not but what we are obliged to admit that cowslip-tea is one of those +things which, even in the most enthusiastic days of youth, just falls +short of the absolute perfection one expects from it. + +Even under those most favourable circumstances of having had the +delightful gathering of the flowers in the sweet sunny fields—the picking +of them in the happy holiday afternoon—the permission to use the best +doll’s tea-service for the feast—the loan of a nice white table-cloth—and +the present of half-a-dozen pewter knives and forks to fancy-cut the +biscuits with—nay, even in spite of the addition of well-filled doll’s +sugar-pots and cream-jugs—cowslip-tea always seems to want either a +leetle more or a leetle less sugar—or a leetle more or a leetle less +cream—or to be a leetle more or a leetle less strong—to turn it into that +complete nectar which, of course, it really _is_. + +On the present occasion, however, the children had clearly got hold of +some other source of enjoyment over the annual cowslip-tea feast, besides +the beverage itself; and Aunt Judy, glad to see them so safely happy, +went off to her business at the wardrobe, while the little ones resumed +their game. + +“Very extraordinary, indeed, ma’am!” began one of the fancy old ladies, +in a completely fancy voice, a little affected, or so. “_Most_ +extraordinary, ma’am, I may say!” + +(Here there was a renewed giggle from No. 4, which she carefully +smothered in her handkerchief.) + +“But still I think I can tell you of something more extraordinary still!” + +The speaker having at this point refreshed his ideas by a sip of the +pale-coloured tea, and the other ladies having laughed heartily in +anticipation of the fun that was coming, one of them observed:— + +“You don’t _say_ so, ma’am—” then clicked astonishment with her tongue +against the roof of her mouth several times, and added impressively, +“_Pray_ let us hear!” + +“I shall be most happy, ma’am,” resumed the first speaker, with a +graceful inclination forwards. “Well!—you see—it was a party. I had +invited some of my most distinguished friends—really, ma’am, +_fashionable_ friends, I may say, to dinner; and, ahem! you see—some +little anxiety always attends such affairs—even—in the best regulated +families!” + +Here the speaker winked considerably at No. 4, and laughed very loudly +himself at his own joke. + +“Dear me, you must excuse me, ma’am,” he proceeded. “So, you see, I felt +a little fatigued by my morning’s exertions, (to tell you the truth, +there had been no end of bother about everything!) and I retired quietly +up-stairs to take a short nap before the dressing-bell rang. But I had +not been laid down quite half an hour, when there was a loud knock at the +door. Really, ma’am, I felt quite alarmed, but was just able to ask, +‘Who’s there?’ Before I had time to get an answer, however, the door was +burst open by the housemaid. Her face was absolute scarlet, and she +sobbed out:— + +“‘Oh, ma’am, what shall we do?’ + +“‘Good gracious, Hannah,’ cried I, ‘what can be the matter? Has the soot +come down the chimney? Speak!’ + +“‘It’s nothing of that sort, ma’am,’ answered Hannah, ‘it’s the cook!’ + +“‘The cook!’ I shouted. ‘I wish you would not be so foolish, Hannah, but +speak out at once. What about Cook?’ + +“‘Please, m’m, the cook’s lost!’ says Hannah. ‘We can’t find her!’ + +“‘Your wits are lost, Hannah, _I_ think,’ cried I, and sent her to tidy +the rooms while I slipt downstairs to look for the cook. + +“Fancy a lost cook, ma’am! Was there ever such a ridiculous idea? And +on the day of a dinner-party too! Did you ever hear of such a trial to a +lady’s feelings before?” + +“Never, I am sure,” responded the lady opposite. “Did _you_, ma’am?” +turning to her neighbour. + +But the other three ladies all shook their heads, bit their lips, and +declared that they “Never had, they were sure!” + +“I thought not!” ejaculated the narrator. “Well, ma’am, I went into the +kitchens, the larder, the pantries, the cellars, and all sorts of places, +and still no cook! Do you know, she really was nowhere! Actually, +ma’am, the cook was lost!” + +Shouts of laughter burst forth here; but the lady (who was No. 5) put up +his hand, and called out in his own natural tones:— + +“Stop! I haven’t got to the end yet!” + +“Order!” proclaimed No. 4 immediately, in a very commanding voice, and +thumping the table with the head of an old wooden doll to enforce +obedience. + +And then the sham lady proceeded in the same mincing voice as before:— + +“Well!—dear me, I’m quite put out. But however, you see—what was to be +done, that was the thing. It wanted only half an hour to dinner-time, +and there was the meat roasting away by itself, and the potatoe-pan +boiling over. You never heard such a fizzling as it made in your life—in +short, everything was in a mess, and there was no cook. + +“Well! I basted the meat for a few minutes, took the potatoe-pan off the +fire, and then ran up-stairs to put on my bonnet. Thought I, the best +thing I can do is to send somebody for the policeman, and let _him_ find +the cook. But while I was tying the strings of my bonnet, I fancied I +heard a mysterious noise coming out of the bottom drawer of my wardrobe. +Fancy that, ma’am, with my nerves in such a state from the cook being +lost!” + +No. 5 paused, and looked round for sympathy, which was most freely given +by the other ladies, in the shape of sighs and exclamations. + +“The drawer was a very deep drawer, ma’am, so I thought perhaps the cat +had crept in,” continued No. 5. “Well, I went to it to see, and there it +was, partly open, with a cotton gown in it that didn’t belong to me. +Imagine my feelings at _that_, ma’am! So I pulled at the handles to get +the drawer quite open, but it wouldn’t come, it was as heavy as lead. It +was really very alarming—one doesn’t like such odd things happening—but +at last I got it open, though I tumbled backwards as I did so; and what +do you think, ma’am—ladies—what _do_ you think was in it?” + +“The cook!” shrieked No. 4, convulsed with laughter; and the whole party +clapped their hands and roared applause. + +“The cook, ma’am, actually the cook!” pursued No. 5, “one of the fattest, +most _poonchy_ little women you ever saw. And what do you think was the +history of it? I kept my up-stairs Pickwick in the corner of that bottom +drawer. She had seen it there that very morning, when she was helping to +dust the room, and took the opportunity of a spare half-hour to slip up +and rest herself by reading it in the drawer. Unluckily, however, she +had fallen asleep, and when I got the drawer out, there she lay, and I +actually heard her snore. A shocking thing this education, ma’am, you +see, and teaching people to read. All the cooks in the country are +spoilt!” + +Peals of laughter greeted this wonderfully witty concoction of No. 5’s, +and the lemon-coloured tea and biscuits were partaken of during the pause +which followed. + +Aunt Judy meanwhile, who had been quite unable to resist joining in the +laugh herself, was seated on the floor, behind the open door of the +wardrobe, thinking to herself of certain passages in Wordsworth’s most +beautiful ode, in which he has described the play of children, + + “As if their whole vocation + Were endless imitation.” + +Truly they had got hold here of strange + + “Fragments from their dream of human life.” + +Where _could_ the children have picked up the original of such absurd +nonsense? + +Aunt Judy had no time to make it out, for now the mincing voices began +again, and she sat listening. + +“Have _you_ had no curious adventures with your maids, ma’am?” inquires +No. 5 of No. 4. + +No. 5 makes an attempt at a bewitching grin as he speaks, fanning himself +with a fan which he has had in his hand all the time he was telling his +story. + +“Well, ladies,” replied No. 4, only just able to compose herself to talk, +“I don’t think I _have_ been quite as fortunate as yourselves in having +so many extraordinary things to tell. My servants have been sadly +common-place, and done just as they ought. But still, _once_, +ladies—once, a curious little incident did occur to me.” + +“Oh, ma’am, I entreat you—pray let us hear it!” burst from all the ladies +at once. + +No. 4 had to bite her lip to preserve her gravity, and then she turned to +No. 5— + +“The fan, if you please, ma’am!” + +The rule was, that the one fan was placed at the disposal of the +story-teller for the time, so No. 5 handed it to No. 4, with a graceful +bow; and No. 4 waffed it to and fro immediately, and began her account:— + +“People are so unscrupulous you see, ladies, about giving characters. +It’s really shocking. For my part, I don’t know what the world will come +to at last. We shall all have to be our own servants, I suppose. People +say anything about anything, that’s the fact! Only fancy, ma’am, three +different ladies once recommended a cook to me as the best soup-maker in +the country. Now that sounded a very high recommendation, for, of +course, if a cook can make soups, she can do anything—sweetmeats and +those kind of things follow of themselves. So, ma am, I took her, and +had a dinner-party, and ordered two soups, entirely that I might show off +what a good cook I had got. Think what a compliment to her, and how much +obliged she ought to have been! Well, ma’am, I ordered the two soups, as +I said, one white, and the other brown; and everything appeared to be +going on in the best possible manner, when, as I was sitting in the +drawing-room entertaining the company, I was told I was wanted. + + [Picture: Playing at ladies] + +“When I got out of the room, there was the man I had hired to wait, and +says he:— + +“‘If you please, ma’am where are the knives? I can’t find any at all!’ + +“‘No knives!’ says I. ‘Dear me, don’t come to me about the knives. Ask +the cook, of course.’ + +“‘Please, ma’am, I have asked her, and she only laughed.’ + +“‘Then,’ said I, ‘ask the housemaid. It’s impossible for me to come out +and look for the knives.’ + +“Well, ladies,” continued No. 4, “would you believe it?—could anyone +believe it?—when I sat down to dinner, and began to help the soup, no +sooner had the silver ladle (_my_ ladle is silver, ladies) been plunged +into the tureen, than a most singular rattling was heard. + +“‘William,’ cried I, half in a whisper, to the waiter who was holding the +plate, ‘what in the world is this? Surely Cook has not left the bones +in?’ + +“‘Please, ma’am, I don’t know,’ was all the man could say. + +“Well—there was no remedy now, so I dipped the ladle in again, and lifted +out—oh! ma’am, I know if it was anybody but myself who told you, you +wouldn’t believe it—a ladleful of the lost knives! There they were, my +best beautiful ivory handles, all in the white soup! And while I was +discovering them, the gentleman at the other end of the table had found +all the kitchen-knives, with black handles, in the brown soup! + +“There never was anything so mortifying before. And what do you think +was Cook’s excuse, when I reproached her? + +“‘Please, ma’am,’ said she, ‘I read in the _Young Woman’s Vademecum of +Instructive Information_, page 150, that there was nothing in the world +so strengthening and wholesome as dissolved bones, and ivory-dust; and +so, ma’am, I always make a point of throwing in a few knives into every +soup I have the charge of, for the sake of the handles—ivory-handles for +white soups, ma’am, and black-handles for the browns!’” + +Thunders of applause interrupted Cook’s excuse at this point, and No. 7 +was so overcome that he pushed his chair back, and performed three +distinct somersets on the floor, to the complete disorganization of his +head-dress, which consisted of a turban, from beneath which hung a +cluster of false curls. + +Turban and wig being replaced, however, and No. 7 reseated and composed, +No. 4 proceeded:— + +“Cook generally takes them out, she informed me, ladies, before the +tureens come to table; ‘but,’ said she, ‘my back was turned for a minute +here, ma’am, and that stupid William carried them off without asking if +they were ready. It’s all William’s fault, ma’am; and I don’t mean to +stay, for I don’t like a place where the man who waits has no tact!’ + +“Now, ladies,” continued No. 4, “what do you think of that by way of a +speech from a cook? And I assure you that a medical man’s wife, to whom +I mentioned in the course of the evening what Cook had said about +dissolved bones, told me that her husband had only laughed, and said Cook +was quite right. So she hired the woman that night herself, and I have +been told in confidence since—you’ll not repeat it, therefore, of course, +ladies?” + +“Of course not!” came from all sides. + +“Well, then, I was told that, before the year was out, the family hadn’t +a knife that would cut anything, they were so cankered with rust. So +much for education and learning to read, as you justly observed, ma’am, +before!” + +When the emotions produced by this tale had a little subsided, No. 7 was +called upon for his experience of maids. + +No. 7, with the turban on his head, and a fine red necklace round his +throat, said he took very little notice of the maids, but that he once +had had a very tiresome little boy in buttons, who was extremely fond of +sugar, and always carried the sugar-shaker in his pocket, and ate up the +sugar that was in it, and when it was empty, filled it up with magnesia. + +“But _once_,” he added, “ladies, he actually put some soda in. It was at +a party, and we had our first rhubarb tart for the season, and the +company sprinkled it all over with the soda and began to eat, but they +were too polite to say how nasty it was. But, of course, when I was +helped I called out. And what do you think the boy in buttons said?” + +Nobody could guess, so No. 7 had to tell them. + +“He said he had put it in on purpose, because he thought it would correct +the acid of the pie. So I said he had best be apprenticed to a doctor; +so he went—I dare say, ma’am, it was the same doctor who took your +cook—but I never heard of him any more, and I’ve never dared to have a +boy in buttons again.” + +“A very wise decision, ma’am, I’m sure!” cried Aunt Judy, who came up to +the wonderful tea-table in the midst of the last mound of applause. “And +now may I ask what game this is that you are playing at?” + +“Oh, we’re telling _Cook Stories_, Aunt Judy,” cried No. 6, seizing her +by the arm; “they’re such capital fun! I wish you had heard mine; they +were laughing at it when you first came in!” + +“It must have been delicious, to judge by the delight it gave,” replied +Aunt Judy, smiling, and kissing No. 6’s oddly bedizened up-turned face. +“But what I want to know is, what put Cook Stories, as you call them, +into your head?” + +“Oh! don’t you remember—” and here followed a long account from No. 6 of +how, about a week before, the little ones had gone somewhere to spend the +day, and how it had turned out a very rainy day, so that they could not +have games out of doors with their young friends, as had been expected, +but were obliged to sit a great part of the time in the drawing-room, +putting Chinese puzzles together into stupid patterns, and playing at +fox-and-goose, while the ladies were talking “grown-up conversation,” as +No. 6 worded it, among themselves; and, of course, being on their own +good behaviour, and very quiet, they could not help hearing what was +said. “And, oh dear, Aunt Judy,” continued No. 6, now with both her arms +holding Aunt Judy, of whom she was very fond, (except at lesson times!) +round the waist, “it was so odd! No. 7 and I did nothing at last but +listen and watch them; for little Miss, who sat with us, was shy, and +wouldn’t talk, and it was so very funny to see the ladies nodding and +making faces at each other, and whispering, and exclaiming, how shocking! +how abominable! you don’t say so! and all that kind of thing!” + +“Well, but what was shocking, and abominable, and all that kind of +thing?” inquired Aunt Judy. + +“Oh, I don’t know—things the nurses, and cooks, and boys in buttons did. +Almost all the ladies had some story to tell—all the servants had done +something or other queer—but especially the cooks, Aunt Judy, there was +no end to the cooks. So one day after we came back, and we didn’t know +what to play at, I said: ‘Do let us play at telling Cook Stories, like +the ladies at —.’ So we’ve dressed up, and played at Cook Stories, ever +since. Dear Aunt Judy, I wish you would invent a Cook Story yourself!” +was the conclusion of No. 6’s account. + +So then the mystery was out. Aunt Judy’s wonderings were cut short. Out +of the real life of civilized intelligent society had come those + + “Fragments from their dream of human life,” + +which Aunt Judy had called absurd nonsense. And absurd nonsense, indeed, +it was; but Aunt Judy was seized by the idea that some good might be got +out of it. + +So, in answer to No. 6’s wish, she said, with a shy smile:— + +“I don’t think I could tell Cook Stories half as well as yourself. But +if, by way of a change, you would like a _Lady_ Story instead, perhaps I +might be able to accomplish that.” + +“A _Lady_ Story! Oh, but that would be so dull, wouldn’t it?” inquired +No. 6. “You can’t make anything funny out of them, surely! Surely they +never do half such odd things as cooks, and boys in buttons!” + +“The ladies themselves think not, of course,” was Aunt Judy’s reply. + +“Well, but what do you think, Aunt Judy?” + +“Oh, I don’t think it matters what I think. The question is, what do +cooks and boys in buttons think?” + +“But, Aunt Judy, ladies are never tiresome, and idle, and impertinent, +like cooks and boys in buttons. Oh! if you had but heard the _real_ Cook +Stories those ladies told! I say, let me tell you one or two—I do think +I can remember them, if I try.” + +“Then don’t try on any account, dear No. 6,” exclaimed Aunt Judy. “I +like make-believe Cook Stories much better than real ones.” + +“So do I!” cried No. 7, “they’re so much the more entertaining.” + +“And not a bit less useful,” subjoined Aunt Judy, with a sly smile. + +“Well, I didn’t see much good in the real ones,” pursued No. 7, in a sort +of muse. + +“Let us tell you another make-believe one, then,” cried No. 6, who saw +that Aunt Judy was moving off, and wanted to detain her. + +“Then it’s _my_ turn!” shouted No. 8, jumping up, and stretching out his +arm and hand like a young orator flushed to his work. And actually, +before the rest of the little ones could put him down or stop him, No. 8 +contrived to tumble out the Cook Story idea, which had probably been +brewing in his head all the time of Aunt Judy’s talk. + +It was very brief, and this was it, delivered in much haste, and with all +the earnestness of a maiden speech. + +“_I_ had a button boy too, and he was a—what d’ye call it—oh, a _rascal_, +that was it;—he was a rascal, and liked the currants in mince-pies, so he +took them all out, and ate them up, and put in glass beads instead. So +when the people began to ear, their teeth crunched against the beads! +Ah! bah! how nasty it was!” + +No. 8 accompanied this remark with a corresponding grimace of disgust, +and then observed in conclusion:— + +“Perhaps he found it in a book, but I don’t know where,” after which he +lowered his outstretched arm, smiled, and sat down. + +The company clapped applause, and No. 4 especially must have been very +fond of laughing, for the glass-bead anecdote set her off again as +heartily as ever, and the rest followed in her wake, and while so doing, +never noticed that Aunt Judy had slipped away. + +They soon discovered it, however, when their mirth began to subside; but +before they had time to wonder much, there appeared from behind the door +of the wardrobe a figure, which in their secret souls they knew to be +Aunt Judy herself, although it looked a great deal stouter, and had a +thick-filled cap on its head, a white linen apron over its gown, and a +pair of spectacles on its nose. At sight of it they showed signs of +clapping again, but stopped short when it spoke to them as a stranger, +and willingly received it as such. + +Ah! it is one of the sweet features of childhood that it yields itself up +so readily to any little surprise or delusion that is prepared for its +amusement. No nasty pride, no disinclination to be carried away, no +affected indifference, interfere with young children’s enjoyment of what +is offered them. They will even help themselves into the pleasant +visions by an effort of will; and perhaps, now and then, end by partly +believing what they at first received voluntarily as an agreeable +make-believe. + +If, therefore, after the cook figure of Aunt Judy had seated itself by +the doll’s table, and the little ones had looked and grinned at it for +some time, hazy sensations began to steal over one or two minds, that +this _was_ somehow really a cook, it was all in the natural course of +things, and nobody resisted the feeling. + +Aunt Judy’s altered voice, and odd, assumed manner, contributed, no +doubt, a good deal to the impression. + +“Dear, dear! what pretty little darlings you all are!” she began, looking +at them one after another. “As sweet as sugar-plums, when you have your +own way, and are pleased. Eh, dears? But you don’t think you can take +old Cooky in, do you? No, no, I know what ladies and gentlemen, and +ladies’ and gentlemen’s _young_ ladies and _young_ gentlemen are, pretty +well, dears, I can tell you! Don’t I know all about the shiny hair and +smiling faces of the little pets in the parlour, and how they leave +parlour-manners behind them sometimes, when they run to the kitchen to +Cook, and order her here and there, and want half-a-dozen things at once, +and must and will have what they want, and are for popping their fingers +into every pie! + +“Well, well,” she proceeded, “the parlour’s the parlour, and the +kitchen’s the kitchen, and I’m only a cook. But then I conduct myself +_as_ Cook, even when I’m in the scullery, and I only wish ladies, and +ladies’ _young_ ladies too, would conduct themselves as ladies, even when +they come into the kitchen; that’s what I call being honourable and +upright. Well, dears, I’ll tell you how I came to know all about it. +You see, I lived once in a family where there were no less than eight of +those precious little pets, and a precious time I had of it with them. +But, to be sure, now it’s past and gone—I can make plenty of excuses for +them, poor things! They were so coaxed and flattered, and made so much +of, what could be expected from them but tiresome, wilful ways, without +any sense? + +“‘If your mamma would but put _you_ into the scullery, young miss, to +learn to wash plates and scour the pans out, she’d make a woman of you,’ +used I to think to myself when a silly child, who thought itself very +clever to hinder other people’s work, would come hanging about in the +kitchen, doing nothing but teaze and find fault, for that’s what a girl +can always do. + +“It was very aggravating, you may be sure, dears, (you see I can talk to +you quite reasonably, because you’re so nicely behaved;)—it was very +aggravating, of course; but I used to make allowances for them. Says I +to myself, ‘Cook, you’ve had the blessing of being brought up to hard +work ever since you were a babby. You’ve had to earn your daily bread. +Nobody knows how that brings people to their senses till they’ve tried; +so don’t you go and be cocky, because ladies and gentlemen, and ladies’ +and gentlemen’s _young_ ladies and _young_ gentlemen, are not quite so +sensible as you are. Who knows but what, if you’d been born to do +nothing, you might have been no wiser than them! It’s lucky for you +you’re only a cook; but don’t you go and be cocky, that’s all! Make +allowances; it’s the secret of life!’ + +“So you see, dears, I _did_ make allowances; and after the eight little +pets was safe in bed till next morning, I used to feel quite composed, +and pitiful-like towards them, poor little dears! But certainly, when +morning came, and the oldest young master was home for the holidays, it +was a trying time for me, and I couldn’t think of the allowances any +longer. Either he wouldn’t get up and come down till everyone else had +had their breakfast, and so he wanted fresh water boiled, and fresh tea +made, and another muffin toasted, and more bacon fried; or else he was up +so outrageous early, that he was scolding because there was no hot water +before the fire was lit—bless you, he hadn’t a bit of sense in his head, +poor boy, not a bit! And how should he? Why, he went to school as soon +as he was out of petticoats, and was set to all that Latin and Greek +stuff that never puts anything useful into folks’ heads, but so much more +chatter and talk; so he came back as silly as he went, poor thing! Dear +me, on a wet day, after lesson-time, those boys were like so many crazy +creatures. ‘Cook, I must make a pie,’ says one. ‘There’s a pie in the +oven already, Master James,’ says I. ‘I don’t care about the pie in the +oven,’ says he, ‘I want a pie of my own. Bring me the flour, and the +water, and the butter, and all the things—and, above all, the +rolling-pin—and clear the decks, will you, I say, for my pie. Here +goes!’ And here used to go, my dears, for Master James had no sense, as +I told you; and so he’d shove all my pots and dishes away, one on the top +of the other; and let me be as busy as I would, and dinner ever so near +ready, the dresser must be cleared, and everything must give way to _his_ +pie! His pie, indeed—I wish I had had the management of his pie just +then! I’d have taught him what it was to come shaking the rolling-pin at +the head of a respectable cook, who wanted to get her business done +properly, as in duty bound! + +“But he wasn’t the only one. There was little Whipper-snapper, his +younger brother, squeaking out in another corner, ‘I shan’t make a pie, +James, I shall make toffey; it’s far better fun. You’d better come and +help me. Where’s the treacle pot, Cook? Cook! I say, Cook! where’s the +treacle-pot? And look at this stupid kettle and pan. What’s in the pan, +I wonder? Oh, kidney-beans! Who cares for kidney-beans? How can I make +toffey, when all these things are on the fire? Stay, I’ll hand them all +off!’ + +“And, sure enough, if I hadn’t rushed from Master James, who was drinking +away at my custard out of the bowl, to seize on Whipper-snapper, who had +got his hand on the vegetable-pan already, he would have pulled it and +the kettle, and the whole concern, off the fire, and perhaps scalded +himself to death. + +“Then, of course, there comes a scuffle, and Master Whipper-snapper +begins to roar, and out comes Missus, who, poor thing, had no more sense +in her head than her sons, though she’d never been to school to lose it +over Latin and Greek; and, says she, with all her ribbons streaming, and +her petticoats swelled out like a window-curtain in a draught—says she:— + +“‘Cook! I desire that you will not touch my children!’ + +“‘As you please, ma’am,’ says I, ‘if you’ll be so good as to stop the +young gentlemen from touching my pans, and—’ I was going to say +‘custard,’ but Master James shouts out quite quick:— + +“‘Why, I only wanted to make a pie, mamma.’ + +“‘And I only wanted to make some toffey!’ cries Whipper-snapper; and then +mamma answers, like a duchess at court:— + +“‘There can’t possibly be any objection, my dears; and I wish, Cook, you +would he a little more good-natured to the children;—your temper is sadly +against you!’ + +“And out she sails, ribbons and window-curtains and all; and, says I to +myself, as I cooled down, (for the young gentlemen luckily went away with +their dear mama,)—says I to myself, ‘It’s a very fine thing, no doubt, to +go about in ribbons, and petticoats, and grand clothes; but, if one must +needs carry such a poor, silly head inside them, as Missus does, I’d +rather stop as I am, and be a cook with some sense about me.’ + +“I don’t say, my dears,” continued the supposed cook, “that I spoke very +politely just then; but who could feel polite, when their dinner had been +put back at least half-an-hour over such nonsense as that? Missus used +to say the ‘dear boys’ came to the kitchen on a wet day, because they’d +got _nothing else to do_! Nothing else to do! and had learnt Latin and +Greek, and all sorts of schooling besides! So much for education, +thought I. Why, it would spoil the best lads that ever were born into +the world. For, of course, you know if these young gentlemen had been +put to decent trades, they’d have found something else to do with their +fingers besides mischief and waste. And, dear me, I talk about not +having been polite to Missus just then, but now you tell me, dears, what +Missus, with all her education, would have said if she’d been in my +place, when one young gentleman was drinking her custard, and another +young gentleman was pulling her pans on the floor! Do you think she’d +have been a bit more polite than I was? Wouldn’t she have called me all +the stupid creatures that ever were born, and told the story over and +over to all her friends and acquaintance to make them stare, and say +there were surely no such simpletons in the world as ladies and +gentlemen, and ladies’ and gentlemen’s young ladies and young gentlemen? + +“However, I did not go as far as that, because, you see, I had some sense +about me, and could make allowances for all the nonsense the poor things +are brought up to.” + +There was no resisting the twinkle in Aunt Judy’s eye when she came to +this point, though it shone through an old pair of Nurse’s spectacles; +and the little ones clapped their hands, and declared it was every bit as +good as a Cook story, _only a great deal better_! That twinkle had quite +brought Aunt Judy back to them again, in spite of her cook’s attire, and +No. 6 cried out:— + +“Oh! don’t stop, Aunt Judy! Do go on, Cooky dear! do tell some more! +Did you always live in that place, please?” + +“There now!” exclaimed Aunt Judy, throwing herself back in the chair, +“isn’t that a regular young lady’s question, out and out? Who but a +young lady, with no more sense in her head than a pin, would have thought +of asking such a thing? Why, miss, is there a joint in the world that +can bear basting for ever? No, no! a time comes when it must be taken +down, if any good’s to be left in it; and so at the end of three years my +basting-time was over, and the time for taking down was come. + +“‘Cook,’ says I to myself, ‘you must give in. If you go on with those +cherubs (that was their company name, you know) much longer, there won’t +be a bit of you left!’ And, sure enough, that very morning, dears, +they’d come down upon me with a fresh grievance, and I couldn’t stand it, +I really couldn’t! The sweeps had been by four o’clock to the kitchen +chimney, and I’d been up and toiling every minute since, and hadn’t had +time to eat my breakfast, when in they burst—the young ladies, not the +sweeps, dears, I mean:—and there they broke out at once—I hadn’t fed +their sea-gulls before breakfast—(a couple of dull-looking grey birds, +with big mouths, that had come in a hamper over night as a present to the +cherubs;) and it seems I ought to have been up before daylight almost, to +look for slugs for them in the garden till they’d got used to the place! + +“Oh, these ladies and gentlemen! they’d need know something of some sort +to make amends, for there are many things they never know all their life +long! + +“‘Young ladies,’ says I, ‘I didn’t come here to get meals ready for +sea-gulls, but Christian ladies and gentlemen. If the sea-gulls want a +cook, your mamma must hire them one on purpose. I’ve plenty to do for +her and the family, without looking after such nonsense as that!’ + +“‘That’s what you always say,’ whimpers the youngest Miss; ‘and you know +they don’t want any cooking, but only raw slugs! And you know you might +easily look for them, because you’ve got almost nothing to do, because +it’s such an easy place, mamma always says. But you’re always cross, +mamma says that too, and everybody knows you are, because she tells +everybody!’ + +“When little Miss had got that out, she thought she’d finished me up; and +so she had, for when I heard that Missus was so ungenteel as to go +talking of what I did, to all her acquaintance, and had nothing better to +talk about, I made up my mind that I’d give notice that very day. + +“‘Very well, miss,’ says I, ‘your mamma shall soon have something fresh +to talk about, and I hope she’ll find it a pleasant change.’ + +“There was some of them knew what I meant at once, for after they’d +scampered off I heard shouts up and down the stairs from one to the +other, ‘Cook’s going!’ ‘We shall have a new cook soon!’ ‘What a lark +we’ll have with the toffey and the pies! We’ll make her do just as we +choose!’ + +“‘There, now,’ thought I to myself, ‘there’ll be somebody else put down +to baste before long. Well, I’m glad my time’s over.’ And thereupon I +fell to wishing I was back again in father and mother’s ricketty old +cottage, that I’d once been so proud to leave, to go and live with +gentlefolks. But, you see, it was no use wishing, for I’d my bread to +earn, and must turn out somewhere, let it be as disagreeable as it would. +Father and mother were dead, and there was no ricketty cottage for me to +go back to, so I wiped my eyes, and told myself to make the best of what +had to be. + +“Well, dears,” pursued Cooky, after a short pause, during which the +little ones looked far more inclined to cry than laugh, “Missus was quite +taken aback when she heard I wouldn’t stay any longer. + +“‘Cook,’ she said, ‘I’m perfectly astonished at your want of sense in not +recognizing the value of such a situation as mine! and as to your +complaints about the children, anything more ridiculously unreasonable I +never heard! Such superior, well-taught young people, you are not very +likely to meet with again in a hurry!’ + +“‘Perhaps not, ma’am,’ says I, ‘in French, and crochet, and the piano, +and Latin, and things I don’t understand, being only a cook. But I know +what behaviour is, and that’s what I’m sure the young ladies and +gentlemen have never been taught; or if they have, they’re so slow at +taking it in, that I think I shall do better with a family where the +behaviour-lessons come first!’ + +“Missus was very angry, and so was I; but at last she said:— + +“‘Cook, I shall not argue with you any longer; you know no better, and I +suppose I must make allowances for you.’ + +“‘I’m much obliged to you, ma’am, I’m sure,’ was my answer; ‘it’s what +I’ve always done by you ever since I came to the house, and I’ll do it +still with pleasure, and think no more of what’s been said.’ + +“I spoke from my heart, I can tell you, dears, for I felt very sorry for +Missus, and thought she was but a lady after all, and perhaps I’d hardly +made allowances enough. I’d lost my temper, too, as I knew after she +went away. But, you see, while she was there, it was so mortifying to be +spoken to as if all the sense was on her side, when I knew it was all on +mine, wherever the French and crochet may have been. Well, but the day +before I left, I broke down with another of them, as it’s fair that you +should know. + +“I’d felt very lonely that day, busy as I was, and in the afternoon I +took myself into the scullery to give the pans a sort of good-bye +cleaning, and be out of everybody’s way. But there, in the midst of it, +comes the eldest young gentleman flinging into the kitchen, shouting, +‘Cook! Cook! Where’s Cook?’ as usual. I thought he was after some of +his old tricks, and I _had_ been fretting over those pans, thinking what +a sad job it was to have no home to go to in the world, so I gave him a +very short answer. + +“‘Master James,’ says I, ‘I’ve done with nonsense now, I can’t attend to +you. You must wait till the next cook comes.’ + +“But Master James came straight away to the scullery door, and says he, +‘Cook, I’m not coming to teaze. I’ve brought you a needle-book. There, +Cook! It’s full of needles. I put them all in myself. Keep it, +please.’ + +“Dear, dear, I can’t forget it yet,” pursued Cook, “how Master James +stood on the little stone step of the scullery, with his arm stretched +out, and the needle-book that he’d bought for me in his hand. I don’t +know how I thanked him, I’m sure; but I had to go back to the sink and +wash the dirt off my hands before I could touch the pretty little thing, +and then I told him I would keep it as long as ever I lived. + +“He laughed, and says he, ‘Now shake hands, Cooky,’ and so we shook +hands; and then off he ran, and I went back to my pans and fairly cried. +‘Why, Cook,’ says I to myself, ‘that lad’s got as good a heart as your +own, after all. And as to sense and behaviour, they haven’t been forced +upon him yet, as they have upon you. Latin’s Latin, and conduct’s +conduct, and one doesn’t teach the other; and it’s too bad to expect more +of people than what they’ve had opportunity for.’ + +“Well, dears, that was the rule I always went by, and I’ve been in many +situations since—with single ladies, and single gentlemen, and large +families, and all; and there was something to put up with in all of them; +and they always told me there was a good deal to put up with in me, and +perhaps there was. However, it doesn’t matter, so long as Missus and +servant go by one rule—_to make allowances_, _and not expect more from +people than what they’ve had opportunity for_; and, above all, never to +be cocky when all the advantage is on their own side. It’s a good rule, +dears, and will stop many a foolish word and idle tale, if you’ll go by +it.” + +Aunt Judy had finished at last, and she took off the old spectacles and +laid them on the doll’s table, and paused. + +“It _is_ a good rule,” observed No. 4, “and I shall go by it, and not +tell real Cook Stories when I grow up, I hope.” + +“I love old Cooky,” cried No. 6, getting up and hugging her round the +neck; “but is it wrong, Aunt Judy, to tell funny make-believe Cook +Stories, like ours?” + +“Not at all, No. 6,” replied Aunt Judy. “My private belief is, that if +you tell funny make-believe Cook Stories while you’re little, you will be +ashamed of telling stupid real ones when you’re grown up.” + + + + +RABBITS’ TAILS. + + + “Death and its two-fold aspect! wintry—one, + Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out; + The other, which the ray divine hath touch’d, + Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring.” + + WORDSWORTH. + +“WELL then; but you must remember that I have been ill, and cannot be +expected to invent anything very entertaining.” + +“Oh, we do remember, indeed, Aunt Judy; we have been so miserable,” was +the answer; and the speaker added, shoving her little chair close up to +her sister’s:— + +“I said if you were not to get better, I shouldn’t want to get better +either.” + +“Hush, hush, No. 6!” exclaimed Aunt Judy, quite startled by the +expression; “it was not right to say or think that.” + +“I couldn’t help it,” persisted No. 6. “We couldn’t do without you, I’m +sure.” + +“We can do without anything which God chooses to take away,” was Aunt +Judy’s very serious answer. + +“But I didn’t want to do without,” murmured No. 6, with her eyes fixed on +the floor. + +“Dear No. 6, I know,” replied Aunt Judy, kindly; “but that is just what +you must try not to feel.” + +“I can’t help feeling it,” reiterated No. 6, still looking down. + +“You have not tried, or thought about it yet,” suggested her sister; “but +do think. Think what poor ignorant infants we all are in the hands of +God, not knowing what is either good or bad for us; and then you will see +how glad and thankful you ought to be, to be chosen for by somebody wiser +than yourself. We must always be contented with God’s choice about +whatever happens.” + +No. 6 still looked down, as if she were studying the pattern of the rug, +but she saw nothing of it, for her eyes were swimming over with the tears +that had filled into them, and at last she said:— + +“I could, perhaps, about some things, but _only not that_ about you. +Aunt Judy, you know what I mean.” + +Aunt Judy leant back in her chair. “_Only not that_.” It was, as she +knew, the cry of the universal world, although it broke now from the lips +of a child. And it was painful, though touching, to feel herself the +treasure that could not be parted with. + +So there was a silence of some minutes, during which the hand of the +little sister lay in that of the elder one. + +But the latter soon roused up and spoke. + +“I’ll tell you what, No. 6, there’s nothing so foolish as talking of how +we shall feel, and what we shall do, if so-and-so happens. Perhaps it +never may happen, or, if it does, perhaps we may be helped to bear it +quite differently from what we have expected. So we won’t say anything +more about it now.” + +“I’m so glad!” exclaimed No. 6, completely reassured and made comfortable +by the cheerful tone of her sister’s remark, though she had but a very +imperfect idea of the meaning of it, as she forthwith proved by rambling +off into a sort of self-defence and self-justification. + +“And I’m not really a baby now, you know, Aunt Judy! And I do know a +great many things that are good and bad for us. I know that _you_ are +good for us, even when you scold over sums.” + +“That is a grand admission, I must own,” replied Aunt Judy, smiling; “I +shall remind you of it some day.” + +“Well, you may,” cried No. 6, earnestly; and added, “you see I’m not half +as silly as you thought.” + +Aunt Judy looked at her, wondering how she should get the child to +understand what was passing through her own mind; wondering, too whether +it was right to make the attempt; and she decided that on the whole it +was; so she answered:— + +“Ay, we grow wise enough among ourselves as we grow older, and get to +know a few more things. You are certainly a little wiser than a baby in +long petticoats, and I am a little wiser than you, and mamma wiser than +us both. But towards God we remain ignorant infants all our lives. That +was what I meant.” + +“But surely, Aunt Judy,” interrupted No. 6, “mamma and you know—” There +she stopped. + +“Nothing about God’s dealings,” pursued Aunt Judy, “but that they are +sure to be good for us, even when we like them least, and cannot +understand them at all. We know so little what we ought really to like +and dislike, dear No. 6, that we often fret and cry as foolishly as the +two children did, who, while they were in mourning for their mother, +broke their hearts over the loss of a set of rabbits’ tails.” + +No. 6 sprang up at the idea. She had never heard of those children +before. Who were they? Had Aunt Judy read of them in a book, or were +they real children? How could they have broken their hearts about +rabbits’ tails? It must be a very curious story, and No. 6 begged to +hear it. + +Aunt Judy had, however, a little hesitation about the matter. There was +something sad about the story; and there was no exact teaching to be got +out of it, though certainly if it helped to shake No. 6’s faith in her +own wisdom, a good effect would be produced by listening to it. Also it +was not a bad thing now and then to hear of other people having to bear +trials which have not fallen to our own lot. It must surely have a +tendency to soften the heart, and make us feel more dependent upon the +God who gives and takes away. On the whole, therefore, she would tell +the story, so she made No. 6 sit quietly down again, and began as +follows:— + +“There were once upon a time two little motherless girls.” + +No. 6’s excitement of expectation was hardly over, so she tightened her +hand over Aunt Judy’s, and ejaculated:— + +“Poor little things!” + +“You may well say so,” continued Aunt Judy. “It was just what everybody +said who saw them at the time. When they went about with their widowed +father in the country village where ‘they lived, even the poor women who +stood at their cottage door-steads, would look after them when they had +passed, and say with a sigh:— + +“‘Poor little things!’ + +“When they went up to London in the winter to stay with their grandmamma, +and walked about in the Square in their little black frocks and +crape-trimmed bonnets, the ladies who saw them,—even comparative +strangers,—would turn round arid say:— + +“‘Poor little things!’ + +“If visitors came to call at the house, and the children were sent for +into the room, there was sure to be a whispered exclamation directly +among the grown-up people of, ‘Poor little things!’ But oh, No. 6! the +children themselves did not think about it at all. What did they +know,—poor little things,—of the real misfortune which had befallen them! +They were sorry, of course, at first, when they did not see their mamma +as usual, and when she did not come back to them as soon as they +expected. But some separation had taken place during her illness; and +sometimes before, she had been poorly and got well again; and sometimes +she had gone out visiting, and they had had to do without her till she +returned; and so, although the days and weeks of her absence went on to +months, still it was only the same thing they had felt before, continued +rather longer; and meantime the little events of each day rose up to +distract their attention. They got up, and dined, and went to bed as +usual. They were sometimes merry, sometimes naughty, as usual. People +made them nice presents, or sent for them to pleasant treats, as +usual—perhaps more than usual; their father did all he could to supply +the place of the lost one, but never could name her name; and soon they +forgot that they had ever had a mamma at all. Soon? Ay, long before +friends and strangers lead left off saying ‘Poor little things’ at sight +of them, and long before the black frocks and crape-trimmed bonnets were +laid aside, which, indeed, they wore double the usual length of time.” + +“And how old were they?” asked No. 6, in a whisper. + +“Four and five,” replied Aunt Judy; “old enough to know what they liked +and disliked from hour to hour. Old enough to miss what had pleased +them, till something else pleased them as well. But not old enough to +look forward and know how much a mother is wanted in life; and, +therefore, what a terrible loss the loss of a mother is.” + +“It’s a very sad story I’m afraid,” remarked No. 6. + +“Not altogether,” said Aunt Judy, smiling, “as you shall hear. One day +the two little motherless girls went hand in hand across one of the +courts of the great Charity Institution in London, where their grandmamma +lived, into the old archway entrance, and there they stood still, looking +round them, as if waiting for something. The old archway entrance opened +into a square, and underneath its shelter there was a bench on one side, +and on the other the lodge of the porter, whose business it was to shut +up the great gates at night. + +“The porter had often before looked at the motherless children as they +passed into the shadow of his archway, and said to himself, ‘Poor little +things;’ for just so, during many years of his life, he had watched their +young mother pass through, and had exchanged words of friendly greeting +with her. + +“And even now, although it was at least a year and a half since her +death, when he saw the waiting children seat themselves on the bench +opposite his door, the old thought stole over his mind. How sad that she +should have been taken away so early from those little ones! How sad for +them to be left! No one—nothing—in this world, could supply the loss of +her protecting care.—_Poor little things_!—and not the less so because +they were altogether unconscious of their misfortune; and here, with the +mourning casting a gloom over their fair young faces, were looking with +the utmost eagerness and delight towards the doorway,—now and then +slipping down from their seats to take a peep into the Square, and see if +what they expected was coming,—now and then giggling to each other about +the grave face of the old man on the other side of the way. + +“At last, one, who had been peeping a bit as before, exclaimed, with a +smothered shout, ‘Here he is!’ and then the other joined her, and the two +rushed out together into the Square and stood on the pavement, stopping +the way in front of a lad, who held over his arm a basket containing +hares’ and rabbits’ skins, in which he carried on a small trade. + + [Picture: Here he is] + +“They looked up with their smiling faces into his, and he grinned at them +in return, and then they said, ‘Have you got any for us to-day?’ on which +he set down his basket before them, and told them they might have one or +two if they pleased, and down they knelt upon the pavement, examining the +contents of his basket, and talked in almost breathless whispers to each +other of the respective merits, the softness, colour, and prettiness, +of—what do you think?” + +At the first moment No. 6, being engrossed by the story, could not guess +at all; but in another instant she recollected, and exclaimed:— + +“Oh, Aunt Judy, do you mean those were the rabbits’ tails you told +about?” + +“They were indeed, No. 6,” replied Aunt Judy; “their grandmamma’s cook +had given them one or two sometime before, and there being but few +entertaining games which two children can play at alone, and these poor +little things being a good deal left to themselves, they invented a play +of their own out of the rabbits’ tails. I think the pleasant feel of the +fur, which was so nice to cuddle and kiss, helped them to this odd +liking; but whatever may have been the cause, certain it is they did get +quite fond of them—pretended that they could feel, and were real living +things, and talked of them, and to them, as if they were a party of +children. + +“They called them ‘Tods’ and ‘Toddies,’ but they had all sorts of names +besides, to distinguish one from the other. There was, ‘Whity,’ and +‘Browny,’ and ‘Softy,’ and ‘Snuggy,’ and ‘Stripy,’ and many others. They +knew almost every hair of each of them, and I believe could have told +which was which, in the dark, merely by their feel. + +“This sounds ridiculous enough, does it not, dear No. 6?” said Aunt Judy, +interrupting herself. + +No. 6 smiled, but she was too much interested to wish to talk; so the +story proceeded. + +“Now you must know that I have looked rather curiously at hares’ and +rabbits’ tails myself since I first heard the story; and there actually +is more variety in them than you would suppose. Some are nice little fat +things—almost round, with the hair close and fine; others longer and more +skinny, and with poor hair, although what there is may be of a handsome +colour. And as to colour, even in rabbits’ tails, which are white +underneath, there are all shades from grey to dark brown one the upper +side; and the patterns and markings differ, as you know they do on the +fur of a cat. In short, there really is a choice even in hares’ and +rabbits’ tails, and the more you look at them, the more delicate +distinctions you will see. + +“Well, the poor little girls knew all about this, and a great deal more, +I dare say, than I have noticed, for they had played at fancy-life with +them, till the Tods had become far more to them than any toys they +possessed; actually, in fact, things to love; and I dare say if we could +have watched them at night putting their Tods to bed, we should have seen +every one of them kissed. + +“It was a capital thing, as you may suppose, for keeping the children +quiet as well as happy in the nursery, at the top of the London house, in +one particular corner of which the basket of Tods was kept. But when +grandmamma’s bell rang, which it did day by day as a summons, after the +parlour breakfast was over, the Tods were put away; and it was dolls, or +reasonable toys of some description, which the motherless little girls +took down with them to the drawing-room; and I doubt whether either +grandmamma or aunt knew of the Tod family in the basket up-stairs. + +“After the affair had gone on for a little time, the children were +accidentally in the kitchen when the rabbit-skin dealer called, and the +cook begged him to give them a tail or two; and thenceforth, of course, +they looked upon him as one of their greatest friends; and if they wanted +fresh Tods, they would lie in wait for him in the archway entrance, for +fear he should go by without coming in to call at their grandmamma’s +house. And on the day I have described, two new brothers, ‘Furry’ and +‘Buffy,’ were introduced to the Tod establishment, and the talking and +delight that ensued, lasted for the whole afternoon. + +“Nobody knew, I believe; but certainly if anybody had known how the +hearts of those children were getting involved over the dead rabbits’ +tails, it would have been only right to have tried to lead their +affection into some better direction. What a waste of good emotions it +was, when they cuddled up their Tods in an evening; invented histories of +what they had said and done during the day, and put them by at last with +caresses something very nearly akin to human love!” + +“Oh, dear Aunt Judy,” exclaimed No. 6, “if their poor mamma had but been +there!” + +“All would have been right then, would it not, No. 6?” + +No. 6 said “Yes” from the very depths of her heart. + +“_As it seems to us_, you should say,” continued Aunt Judy; “but that is +all. It could not have seemed so to the God who took their mother away.” + +“Aunt Judy—” + +“No. 6, I am telling you a very serious truth. Had it indeed been right +for the children that their mother should have lived, she would _not_ +have been taken away. For some reason or other it was necessary that +they should be without the comfort, and help, and protection, of her +presence in this world. We cannot understand it, but a time may come +when we may see it all as clearly as we now see the folly of those +children who so doted upon senseless rabbits’ tails.” + +“Oh, Aunt Judy, but it was still very, very sad.” + +“Yes, about that there cannot be a doubt, and I am as much inclined as +anybody else to say, ‘Poor little things’ every time I mention them. But +now let me go on with the story, for it has a sort of end as well as +beginning. The Tod affair came at last to their grandmamma’s ears.” + +“I am so glad,” cried No. 6. + +“You will not say so when I tell you how it happened,” was Aunt Judy’s +rejoinder. “The fact was, that one unfortunate day one of the Tods +disappeared. Whether it lead been left out of the basket when +grandmamma’s bell rang, and so got swept away by the nurse and burnt, I +cannot say; but, at any rate, when the children went to their play one +morning, ‘Softy,’ their dear little ‘Softy,’ was gone. He was the +fattest-furred and finest-haired of all the Tod family, and the one about +whom they invented the prettiest stories; he was, in fact, the model, the +out-of-the-way-amiable pattern Tod. They could not believe at first that +he really was gone. They hunted for him in every hole and corner of +their nursery and bed-room; they looked for him all along the passages; +they tossed all the other Tods out of the basket to find him, as if they +really were—even in their eyes—nothing but rabbits’ tails; they asked all +the servants about him, till everybody’s patience was exhausted, and they +got angry; and then at last the children’s hope and temper were both +exhausted too, and they broke out into passionate crying. + +“This was vexatious to the nurse, of course; but her method of +consolation was not very judicious. + +“‘Why, bless my heart,’ was her beginning, ‘what nonsense! Didn’t the +children know as well as she did, that hares’ and rabbits’ tails were not +alive, and couldn’t feel? and what could it signify of one of them was +thrown away and lost? They’d a basket-full left besides, and it was +plenty of such rubbish as that! They were all very well to play with up +in the nursery, but they were worth nothing when all was said and done!’ + +“This was completely in vain, of course. The children sat on the nursery +floor and cried on just the same; and by-and-by went away to the corner +of the room where the Tod-basket was kept, and bewailed the loss of poor +‘Softy’ to his brothers and sisters inside. + +“As the time approached, however, for grandmamma’s summoning bell, the +nurse began to wonder what she could do to stop this fretting, and cool +the red eyes; so she tried the coaxing plan, by way of a change. + +“‘If she was such nice little girls with beautiful dolls and toys, she +never would fret so about a rabbit’s tail, to be sure! And, besides, the +boy was sure to be round again very soon with the hare and rabbit skins; +and if they would only be good, and dry their eyes, she would get him to +give them as many more as they pleased. Quite fresh new ones. She dared +say they would be as pretty again as the one that was lost.’ + +“If nurse had wished to hit upon an injudicious remark, she could not +have succeeded better. What did they care for ‘fresh new’ Tods instead +of their dear ‘Softy?’ And the mere suggestion that any others could be +prettier, turned their regretful love into a sort of passionate +indignation; yet the nurse had meant well, and was astonished when the +conclusion of what was intended to be a kind harangue, was followed by a +louder burst of crying than ever. + +“It must be owned that the little girls had by this time got out of grief +into naughtiness; and there was now quite as much petted temper as sorrow +in their tears; and lo! while they were in the midst of this fretful +condition, grandmamma’s summoning bell was heard, and they were obliged +to go down to her. + +“You can just imagine their appearance when they entered the drawing-room +with their eyes red and swelled, their cheeks flushed, and anything but a +pleasant expression over their faces. Of course, grandmamma and aunt +immediately made inquiries as to the reason of so much disturbance, but +the children were scarcely able to utter the usual ‘good morning;’ and +when called upon to tell their cause of trouble, did nothing but begin to +cry afresh. + +“Whereupon their aunt was dispatched up-stairs to find out what was +amiss; and then, for the first time, she heard from the nurse the history +of the Tod family, the children’s devotion to them, and their present +vexatious grief about the loss of a solitary one of what she called their +stupid bits of nonsense. + +“Foolish as the whole affair sounds in looking back upon it, it certainly +was one which required rather delicate handling, and I doubt whether +anybody but a mother could have handled it properly. Grandmamma and aunt +had every wish to do for the best, but they hardly took enough into +consideration, either the bereaved condition of those motherless little +ones, or their highly fanciful turn of mind. Yet nobody was to blame; +the children spent all the summer with their father in the country, and +all the winter with their grandmamma in London; and, therefore, no +continued knowledge of their characters was possible, for they were +always birds of passage everywhere. Certainly, however, it was a great +mistake, under such circumstances, for grandmamma and aunt to have broken +rudely into the one stronghold of childish comfort, which they had raised +up for themselves.” + +Aunt Judy paused, and No. 6 really looked frightened as to what was +coming next, and asked what Aunt Judy could mean that they did. “Were +they very angry?” + +“No, they were not very angry,” Aunt Judy said; “perhaps if they had been +only that, the whole thing would have passed over and been forgotten. + +“But they held grave consultation upon the subject, and made it too +serious, in my opinion, and I dare say you will think so too. Meantime +the naughty children were turned out of the room while they talked, and +the mystery of this, sobered their temper considerably; so that they made +no further disturbance, but wandered up and down the stairs, and about +the hall, in silent discomfort. + +“At one time they thought they heard the drawing-room door open, and +their aunt go up-stairs towards the nursery department again; but then +for a long while they heard no more; and at last, childlike, began to +amuse themselves by seeing how far along the oil-cloth pattern they could +each step, as they walked the length of the hall, the great object being +to stretch from one particular diamond to another, without touching any +intermediate mark. + +“In the midst of the excitement of this, they heard their aunt’s voice +calling to them from the middle of the last flight of stairs. There was +something in her face, composed as it was, which alarmed them directly, +and there they stood quite still, gazing at her. + +“‘Grandmamma and I,’ she began, ‘think you have been very silly indeed in +making such a fuss about those rabbits’ tails; and you have been very +naughty indeed to-day, _very naughty_, in crying so ridiculously, and +teazing all the servants, because of one being lost. You can’t play with +them rationally, nurse is sure, and so we think you will be very much +better without them. Grandmamma has sent me to tell you—_You will never +see the Tods_, _as you call them_, _any more_.’ + +“Aunt Judy, it was horrible!” cried No. 6; “savage and horrible!” she +repeated, and burst the next instant into a flood of tears. + +“Oh, my old darling No. 6,” cried Aunt Judy, covering the sobbing child +quite round with both her arms, “surely _you_ are not going into +hysterics about the rabbits’ tails too! I doubt if even their little +mammas did that. Come! you must cheer up, or mamma will leave to be sent +for to say that if you are so unreasonable, you must never listen to Aunt +Judy’s stories any more.” + +No. 6’s emotion began to subside under the comfortable embrace, and Aunt +Judy’s joke provoked a smile. + +“There now, that’s good!” cried Aunt Judy; “and now, if you won’t be +ridiculous, I will finish the story. I almost think the prettiest part +is to come.” + +This was consolation indeed; but No. 6 could not resist a remark. + +“But, Aunt Judy, wasn’t that aunt—” + +“Hush, hush,” interrupted Aunt Judy, “I apologized for both aunt and +grandmamma before I told you what they did. They meant to do for the +best, and + + ‘The best can do no more.’ + +They cured the evil too, though in what you and I think rather a rough +manner. And rough treatment is sometimes very effectual, however +unpleasant. It was but a preparation for the much harder disappointments +of older life.” + +“Poor little things!” ejaculated No. 6, once more. “Just tell me if they +cried dreadfully.” + +“I don’t think I care to talk much about that, dear No. 6,” answered her +sister. “They had cried almost as much as they could do in one day, and +were stupified by the new misfortune, besides which, they had a feeling +all the time of having brought it on themselves by being dreadfully +naughty. It was a sad muddle altogether, I must confess. The shock upon +the poor children’s minds at the time must have been very great, for the +memory of that bereavement clung to them through grown-up life, as a very +unpleasant recollection, when a thousand more important things had passed +away forgotten from their thoughts. In fact, as I said, the motherless +little girls really broke their hearts over a parcel of rabbits’ tails. +But I must go on with the story. After a day or two of dull desolation, +the children wearied even of their grief. And both grandmamma and aunt +became very sorry for them, although the fatal subject of the Tods was +never mentioned; but they bought them several beautiful toys which no +child could help looking at or being pleased with. Among these presents +was a brown fur dog, with a very nice face and a pair of bright black +eyes, and a curly tail hung over his back in a particularly graceful +manner; and this was, as you may suppose, in the children’s eyes, the gem +of all their new treasures. The feel of him reminded them of the lost +Tods; and in every respect he was, of course, superior. They named him +‘Carlo,’ and in a quiet manner established him as the favourite creature +of their play. And thus, by degrees, and as time went on, their grief +for the loss of the Tods abated somewhat; and at last they began to talk +about them to each other, which was a sure sign that their feelings were +softened. + +“But you will never guess what turn their conversation took. They did +not begin to say how sorry they had been, or were; nor did they make any +angry remarks about their aunt’s cruelty; but one day as they were +sitting playing with Carlo, in what may be called the Tod corner of the +nursery, the eldest child said suddenly to her sister, in a low voice + +“‘What do you think our aunt has _really_ done with the Tods?’ + +“A question which seemed not at all to surprise the other, for she +answered, in the same mysterious tone:— + +“‘I don’t know, but I don’t think she _could_ burn them.’ + +“‘And I don’t, either,’ was the rejoinder. ‘Perhaps she has only put +them somewhere where _we_ cannot get at them.’ + +“The next idea came from the younger child:— + +“‘Do you think she’ll ever let us have them back again?’ + +“But the answer to this was a long shake of the head from the wiser elder +sister. And then they began to play with Carlo again. + +“But after that day they used often to exchange a few words together on +the subject, although only to the same effect—their aunt _could_ not have +burnt them, they felt sure. She never said she had burnt them. She only +said, ‘_You will never see the Tods any more_.’ + +“Perhaps she had only put them by; perhaps she had put them by in some +comfortable place; perhaps they were in their little basket in some +closet, or corner of the house, quite as snug as up in the nursery. + +“And here the conversation would break off again. As to asking any +questions of their aunt, _that_ was a thing that never crossed their +minds. It was impossible; the subject was so fatally serious! . . . But +I believe there was an involuntary peeping about into closets and +out-of-the-way places whenever opportunity offered; yet no result +followed, and the Tods were not found. + +“One night, two or three months later, and just before the little things +were moved back from London to their country home; and when they were in +bed in their sleeping room, as usual, and the nurse had left them, and +had shut the door between them and the day nursery, where she sat at +work, the elder child called out in a whisper to the younger one:— + +“‘Sister, are you asleep?’ + +“‘No. Why?’ + +“‘I’ll tell you of a place where the Tods may be.’ + +“‘Where?’ + +“‘The cellar.’ + +“‘Do you think so?’ + +“‘Yes. I think we’ve looked everywhere else. And I think perhaps it’s +very nice down there with bits of sawdust here and there on the ground. +I saw some on the bottle to-day, and it was quite soft. Aunt would be +quite sure we should never see them there. I dare say it’s very snug +indeed all among the barrels and empty bottles in that cellar we once +peeped into.’ + +“The younger child here began to laugh in delighted amusement, but the +elder one bade her ‘hush,’ or the nurse would hear them; and then +proceeded whispering as before + +“‘It’s a great big place, and they could each have a house, and visit +each other, and hide, and make fun.’ + +“‘And I dare say Softy was put there first,’ interposed the younger +sister. + +“‘Ay, and how pleased the others would be to find him there! Only +think!’ + +“And they _did_ think. Poor little things, they lay and thought of that +meeting when ‘the others’ were put in the cellar where ‘Softy’ already +was, ready to welcome them to his new home; and they talked of all that +might have happened on such an occasion, and told each other that the +Tods were much happier altogether there, than if the others had remained +in the nursery separated from dear little Softy. In short, they talked +till the door opened, and the nurse, unsuspicious of the state of her +young charges, went to bed herself, and sleep fell on the whole party. + +“But a new world had now opened before them out of the very midst of +their sorrow itself. The fancy home of the Tods was almost a more +available source of amusement, than even playing with the real things had +been; and sometimes in the early morning, sometimes for the precious +half-hour at night, before sleep overtook them, the little wits went to +work with fresh details and suppositions, and they related to each other, +in turns, the imaginary events of the day in the cellar among the +barrels. Each morning, when they went down-stairs, Carlo was put in the +Tod corner of the nursery and instructed to slip away, as soon as he +could manage it, to the Tods in the cellar, and hear all that they had +been about. + +“And marvellous tales Mr. Carlo used to bring back, if the children’s +accounts to each other were to be trusted. Such running about, to be +sure, took place among those barrels and empty bottles. Such playing at +bo-peep. Such visits of ‘Furry’ and his family to ‘Buffy’ and _his_ +family, when the little ‘Furrys’ and ‘Buffys’ could not be kept in order, +but would go peeping into bungholes, and tumbling nearly through, and +having to be picked out by Carlo, drabbled and chilled, but ready for a +fresh frolic five minutes after! + +“Such comical disputes, too, they had, as to how far the grounds round +each Tod’s house extended; such funny adventures of getting into their +neighbour’s corner instead of their own, in the dim light that prevailed, +and being mistaken for a thief; when Carlo had to come and act as judge +among them, and make them kiss and be friends all round! + +“Such dinners, too, Carlo brought them, as he passed through the kitchen +on his road to the cellar, and watched his opportunity to carry off a few +un-missed little bits for his friends below. Dear me! his contrivances +on that score were endless, and the odd things he got hold of sometimes +by mistake, in his hurry, were enough to kill the Tods with laughing—to +say nothing of the children who were inventing the history! + +“Then the care they took to save the little drops at the bottom of the +bottles, for Carlo, in return for all the trouble he had, was most +praiseworthy; and sometimes, when there was a rather larger quantity than +usual, they would have _such_ a feast!—and drink the healths of their +dear little mistresses in the nursery up-stairs. + +“In short, it was as perfect a fancy as their love for the Tods, and +their ideas of enjoyment could make it. Nothing uncomfortable, nothing +sad, was ever heard of in that cellar-home of their lost pets. No +quarrelling, no crying, no naughtiness, no unkindness, were supposed to +trouble it. Nothing was known of, there, but comfort and fun, and +innocent blunders and jokes, which ended in fun and comfort again. One +thing, therefore, you see, was established as certain throughout the +whole of the childish dream:—the departed favourites were all perfectly +happy, as happy as it was possible to be; and they sent loving messages +by Carlo to their old friends to say so, and to beg them not to be sorry +for _them_, for, excepting that they would like some day to see those old +friends again, they had nothing left to wish for in their new home:— + +“And here the Tod story ends!” remarked Aunt Judy, in conclusion, “and I +beg you to observe, No. 6, that, like all my stories, it ends happily. +The children had now got hold of an amusement which was safe from +interference, and which lasted—I am really afraid to say how long; for +even after the fervour of their Tod love had abated, they found an +endless source of invention and enjoyment in the cellar-home romance, and +told each other anecdotes about it, from time to time, for more, I +believe, than a year.” + +When Aunt Judy paused here, as if expecting some remark, all that No. 6 +could say, was:— + +“Poor little things!” + +“Ay, they were still that,” exclaimed Aunt Judy, “even in the midst of +their new-found comfort. Oh, No. 6, when one thinks of the strange way +in which they first of all created a sorrow for themselves, and then +devised for themselves its consolation, what a pity it seems that no good +was got out of it!” + +It was not likely that No. 6 should guess what the good was which Aunt +Judy thought might have been got out of it; and so she said; whereupon +Aunt Judy explained:— + +“Did it not offer a quite natural opportunity,—if any kind friend had but +known of it,—of speaking to those children of some of the sacred hopes of +our Christian faith?—of leading them, through kind talk about their own +pretty fancies, to the subject of _what really becomes_ of the dear +friends who are taken away from us by death? + +“Had I been _their_ Aunt Judy,” she continued, “I should have thought it +no cruelty, but kindness then, to have spoken to them about their lost +mother, and told them that she was living now in a place where she was +much, much happier, than she had ever been before, and where one of the +very few things she had left to wish for, was, that one day she might see +them again: not in this world, where people are so often uncomfortable +and sad, but in that happy one where there is no more sorrow, or crying, +for God Himself wipes away the tears from all eyes. + +“I should have told them besides,” pursued Aunt Judy, “that it would not +please their dear mother at all for them to fret for her, and _fancy they +couldn’t do without her_, and be discontented because God had taken her +away, and think it would have been much better for them if He had not +done so—(as if He did not know a thousand times better than they could +do:)—but that it would please her very much for them to pray to God to +make them good, so that they might all meet together at last in that very +happy place. + +“In short, No. 6, I would have led them, if possible, to make a +comforting reality to themselves of the next world, as they had already +got a comforting fancy out of the cellar-dream of the Tods. And that is +the good, dear child, which I meant might have been got out of the Tod +adventure.” + +Aunt Judy ceased, but there was no chance of seeing the effect of what +she had said on No. 6’s face, for it was laid on her sister’s lap; +probably to hide the tears which would come into her eyes at Aunt Judy’s +allusion to what she had said about _her_. + +At last a rather husky voice spoke:— + +“You can’t expect people to like what is so very sad, even if it is—what +you call—right—and all that.” + +“No! neither does God expect it!” was Aunt Judy’s earnest reply. “We are +allowed to be sorry when trials come, for we feel the suffering, and +cannot at present understand the blessing or necessity of it. But we are +not allowed to ‘sorrow without hope;’ and we are not allowed, even when +we are most sorry, to be rebellious, and fancy we could choose better for +ourselves than God chooses for us.” + +Aunt Judy’s lesson, as well as story, was ended now, and she began +talking over the entertaining part of the Tod history, and then went on +to other things, till No. 6 was quite herself again, and wanted to know +how much was true about the motherless little girls; and when she found +from Aunt Judy’s answer that the account was by no means altogether an +invention, she went into a fever-fidget to know who the children were, +and what had become of them; and finally settled that the one thing in +the world she most wished for, was to see them. + +Nor would she be persuaded that this was a foolish idea, until Aunt Judy +asked her how she would like to be introduced to a couple of _very_ old +women, with huge hooked noses, and beardy, nut-cracker chins, and be told +that _those_ were the motherless little girls who had broken their hearts +over rabbits’ tails!—an inquiry which tickled No. 6’s fancy immensely, so +that she began to laugh, and suggest a few additions of her own to the +comical picture, in the course of doing which, she fortunately quite lost +sight of the “one thing” which a few minutes before she had “most wished +for in the world!” + + + + +“OUT OF THE WAY” + + + “Oh wonderful Son that can so astonish a Mother!” + + HAMLET. + +“WHAT a horrid nuisance you are, No. 8, brushing everything down as you +go by! Why can’t you keep out of the way?” + +“Oh, you mustn’t come here, No. 8. Aunt Judy, look! he’s sitting on my +doll’s best cloak. Do tell him to go away.” + +“I can’t have you bothering me, No. 8; don’t you see how busy I am, +packing? Get away somewhere else.” + +“You should squeeze yourself into less than nothing, and be nowhere, No. +8.” + +The suggestion, (uttered with a jocose grin,) came from a small boy who +had ensconced himself in the corner of a window, where he was sitting on +his heels, painting the Union Jack of a ship in the _Illustrated London +News_. He had certainly acted on the advice he gave, as nearly as was +possible. Surely no little boy of his age ever got into so small a +compass before, or in a position more effectually out of everybody’s +possible way. The window corner led nowhere, and there was nothing in it +for anybody to want. + +“No. 8, I never saw anything so tiresome as you are. Why will you poke +your nose in where you’re not wanted? You’re always in the way.” + + “‘He poked his flat nose into every place;’” + +sung, _sotto voce_, by the small boy in the window corner. + +No. 8 did not stop to dispute about it, though, in point of fact, his +nose was not flat, so at least in that respect he did not resemble the +duck in the song. + +He had not, however, been successful in gaining the attention of his +friends down-stairs, so he dawdled off to make an experiment in another +quarter. + +“Why, you’re not coming into the nursery now, Master No. 8, surely! I +can’t do with you fidgetting about among all the clothes and packing. +There isn’t a minute to spare. You might keep out of the way till I’ve +finished.” + +“Now, Master No. 8, you must be off. There’s no time or room for you in +the kitchen this morning. There’s ever so many things to get ready yet. +Run away as fast as you can.” + +“What _are_ you doing in the passages, No. 8? Don’t you see that you are +in everybody’s way? You had really better go to bed again.” + +But the speaker hurried forward, and No. 8 betook himself to the +staircase, and sat down exactly in the middle of the middle flight. And +there be amused himself by peeping through the banisters into the hall, +where people were passing backwards and forwards in a great fuss; or +listening to the talking and noise that were going on in the rooms above. + +But be was not “out of the way” there, as he soon learnt. Heavy steps +were presently heard along the landing, and heavy steps began to descend +the stairs. Two men were carrying down a heavy trunk. + +“You’ll have to move, young gentleman, if you please,” observed one; +“you’re right in the way just there!” + +No. 8 descended with all possible speed, and arrived on the mat at the +bottom. + +“There now, I told you, you were always in the way,” was the greeting he +received. “How stupid it is! Try under the table, for pity’s sake.” + +Under the table! it was not a bad idea; moreover, it was a new one—quite +a fresh plan. No. 8 grinned and obeyed. The hall table was no bad +asylum, after all, for a little boy who was always in the way everywhere +else; besides, he could see everything that was going on. No. 8 crept +under, and squatted himself on the cocoa-nut matting. He looked up, and +looked round, and felt rather as if he was in a tent, only with a very +substantial covering over his head. + +Presently the dog passed by, and was soon coaxed to lie down in the table +retreat by the little boy’s side, and the two amused themselves very +nicely together. The fact was, the family were going from home, and the +least the little ones could do during the troublesome preparation, was +not to be troublesome themselves; but this is sometimes rather a +difficult thing for little ones to accomplish. Nevertheless, No. 8 had +accomplished it at last. + +“Capital, No. 8! you and the dog are quite a picture. If I had time, I +would make a sketch of you.” + +That was the remark of the first person who went by afterwards, and No. 8 +grinned as he heard it. + +“Well done, No. 8! that’s the best contrivance I ever saw!” + +Remark the second, followed by a second grin. + +“Why, you don’t mean to say that you’re under the table, Master No. 8? +Well you _are_ a good boy! I’m sure I’ll tell your mamma.” + +Another grin. + +“You dear old fellow, to put yourself so nicely out of the way! You’re +worth I don’t know what.” + +Grin again. + +“Master No. 8 under the table, to be sure! Well, and a very nice place +it is, and quite suitable. Ever so much better than the hot kitchen, +when there’s baking and all sorts of things going on. Here, lovey! +here’s a little cake that was spared, that I was taking to the parlour; +but, as you’re there, you shall have it.” + +No. 8 grinned with all his heart this time. + +“I wish I’d thought of that! Why, I could have painted my ship there +without being squeezed!” + +It needs scarcely to be told that this was the observation of the small +boy who had watched an opportunity for emerging from the window corner +without fuss, and was now carrying his little paint-box up-stairs to be +packed away in the children’s bag. As he spoke, he stooped down to look +at No. 8 and the dog, and smiled his approbation, and No. 8 smiled in +return. + +“No. 8, how snug you do look!” + +Once more an answering grin. + +“No. 8, you’re the best boy in the world; and if you stay there till +Nurse is ready for you, you shall have a penny all to yourself.” + +No. 8’s grin was accompanied by a significant nod this time, to show that +he accepted the bargain. + +“My darling No. 8, you may come out now. There! give me a kiss, and get +dressed as fast as you can. The fly will be here directly. You’re a +very good boy indeed.” + +“No. 8, you’re the pattern boy of the family, and I shall come with you +in the fly, and tell you a story as we go along for a reward.” + +No. 8 liked both the praise, and the cake, and the penny, and the kiss, +and the promise of the rewarding story for going under the table; but the +why and wherefore of all these charming facts, was a complete mystery to +him. What did that matter, however? He ran up-stairs, and got dressed, +and was ready before anyone else; and, by a miracle of good fortune, was +on the steps, and not in the middle of the carriage-drive, when the fly +arrived, which was to take one batch of the large family party to the +railway station. + +No one was as fond of the fly conveyance as of the open carriage; for, in +the first place, it was usually very full and stuffy; and, in the second, +very little of the country could be seen from the windows. + +But, on the present occasion, Aunt Judy having offered her services to +accompany the fly detachment, there was a wonderful alteration of +sentiment, as to who should be included. Aunt Judy, however, had her own +ideas. The three little ones belonged to the fly, as it were by ancient +usage and custom, and more than five it would not hold. + +Five it would hold, however, and five accordingly got in, No. 4 having +pleaded her own cause to be “thrown in:” and at last, with nurses and +luggage and No. 5 outside, away they drove, leaving the open carriage and +the rest to follow. + +Nothing is perfect in this world. Those who had the airy drive missed +the story, and regretted it; but it was fair that the pleasure should be +divided. + +And, after all, although the fly might be a little stuffy and closely +packed, and although it cost some trouble to settle down without getting +crushed, and make footstools of carpet bags, and let down all the +windows,—the commotion was soon over; and it was a wonderful lull of +peace and quietness, after the confusion and worry of packing and running +about, to sit even in a rattling fly. And so for five minutes and more, +all the travellers felt it to be, and a soothing silence ensued; some +leaning back, others looking silently out at the retreating landscape, or +studying with earnestness the wonderful red plush lining of the vehicle +itself. + +But presently, after the rest had lasted sufficiently long to recruit all +the spirits, No. 7 remarked, not speaking to anybody in particular, “I +thought Aunt Judy was going to tell us a story.” + +No. 7 was a great smiler in a quiet way, and he smiled now, as he +addressed his remark to the general contents of the fly. + +Aunt Judy laughed, and inquired for whom the observation was meant, +adding her readiness to begin, if they would agree to sit quiet and +comfortable, without shuffling up and down, or disputing about space and +heat; and, these points being agreed to, she began her story as follows:— + +“There were once upon a time a man and his wife who had an only son. +They were Germans, I believe, for all the funny things that happen, +happen in Germany, as you know by Grimm’s fairy tales. + +“Well! this man, Franz, had been a watchmaker and mender in an +old-fashioned country town, and he had made such a comfortable fortune by +the business, that he was able to retire before he grew very old; and so +he bought a very pretty little villa in the outskirts of the town, had a +garden full of flowers with a fountain in the middle, and enjoyed himself +very much. + +“His wife enjoyed herself too, but never so much as when the neighbours, +as they passed by, peeped over the palings, and said, ‘What a pretty +place! What lucky people the watchmaker and his wife are! How they must +enjoy themselves!’ + +“On such occasions, Madame Franz would run to her husband, crying out, +‘Come here, my dear, as fast as you can! Come, and listen to the +neighbours, saying, how we must enjoy ourselves!’ + +“Franz was very apt to grunt when his wife summoned him in this manner, +and, at any rate, never would go as she requested; but little Franz, the +son, who was very like his mother, and had got exactly her turn-up nose +and sharp eyes, would scamper forward in a moment to hear what the +neighbours had to say, and at the end would exclaim:— + +“‘Isn’t it grand, mother, that everybody should think that?’ + +“To which his mother would reply:— + +“‘It is, Franz, dear! I’m so glad you feel for your mother!’ and then +the two would embrace each other very affectionately several times, and +Madame Franz would go to her household business, rejoicing to think that, +if her husband did not quite sympathize with her, her son did. + +“Young Franz had been somewhat spoilt in his childhood, as only children +generally are. As to his mother, from there being no brothers and +sisters to compare him with, she thought such a boy had never been seen +before; and she told old Franz so, so often, that at last he began to +believe it too. And then they got all sorts of masters for him, to teach +him everything they could think of, and qualify him, as his mother said, +for some rich young lady to fall in love with. That was her idea of the +way in which he was one day to make his fortune. + +“At last, a time came when his mother thought the young gentleman quite +finished and complete; fit for anything and anybody, and likely to create +a sensation in the world. So she begged old Franz to dismiss all his +masters, and give him a handsome allowance, that he might go off on his +travels and make his fortune, in the manner before mentioned. + +“Old Mr. Franz shook his head at first, and called it all a parcel of +nonsense. Moreover, he declared that Master Franz was a mere child yet, +and would get into a hundred foolish scrapes in less than a week; but +mamma expressed her opinion so positively, and repeated it so often, that +at last papa began to entertain it too, and gave his consent to the plan. + +“The fact was, though I am sorry to say it, Mr. Franz was henpecked. +That is, his wife was always trying to make him obey her, instead of +obeying him, as she ought to have done; and she had managed him so long, +that she knew she could persuade him, or talk him (which is much the same +thing) into anything, provided she went on long enough. + +“So she went on about Franz going off on his travels with a handsome +allowance, till Papa Franz consented, and settled an income upon him, +which, if they had been selfish parents, they would have said they could +not afford; but, as it was, they talked the matter over together, and +told each other that it was very little two old souls like themselves +would want when their gay son was away; and so they would draw in, and +live quite quietly, as they used to do in their early days before they +grew rich, and would let the lad have the money to spend upon his +amusements. + +“Young Franz either didn’t know, or didn’t choose to think about this. +Clever as he was about many things, he was not clever enough to take in +the full value of the sacrifices his parents were making for him; so he +thanked them lightly for the promised allowance, rattled the first +payment cheerfully into his purse, and smiled on papa and mamma with +almost condescending complacency. When he was equipped in his best suit, +and just ready for starting, his mother took him aside. + +“‘Franz, my dear,’ she said, ‘you know how much money and pains have been +spent on your education. You can play, and dance, and sing, and talk, +and make yourself heard wherever you go. Now mind you do make yourself +heard, or who is to find out your merits? Don’t be shy and downcast when +you come among strangers. All you have to think about, with your +advantages, is to make yourself agreeable. That’s the rule for you! +Make yourself agreeable wherever you go, and the wife and the fortune +will soon be at your feet. And, Franz,’ continued she, laying hold of +the button of his coat, ‘there is something else. You know, I have often +said that the one only thing I could wish different about you is, that +your nose should not turn up quite so much. But you see, my darling boy, +we can’t alter our noses. Nevertheless, look here! you can incline your +head in such a manner as almost to hide the little defect. See—this +way—there—let me put it as I mean—a little down and on one side. It was +the way I used to carry my head before I married, or I doubt very much +whether your father would have looked my way. Think of this when you’re +in company. It’s a graceful attitude too, and you will find it much +admired.’ + +“Franz embraced his mother, and promised obedience to all her commands; +but he was glad when her lecture ended, for he was not very fond of her +remarks upon his nose. Just then the door of his father’s room opened, +and he called out:— + +“‘Franz, my dear, I want to speak to you.’ + +“Franz entered the room, and ‘Now, my dear boy,’ said papa, ‘before you +go, let me give you one word of parting advice; but stop, we will shut +the door first, if you please. That’s right. Well, now, look here. I +know that no pains or expense have been spared over your education. You +can play, and dance, and sing, and talk, and make yourself heard wherever +you go.’ + +“‘My dear sir,’ interrupted Franz, ‘I don’t think you need trouble +yourself to go on. My mother has just been giving me the advice +beforehand.’ + +“‘No, has she though?’ cried old Franz, looking up in his son’s face; but +then he shook his head, and said:— + +“‘No, she hasn’t, Franz; no, she hasn’t; so listen to me. We’ve all made +a fuss about you, and praised whatever you’ve done, and you’ve been a +sort of idol and wonder among us. But, now you’re going among strangers, +you will find yourself Mr. Nobody, and the great thing is, you must be +contented to be Mr. Nobody at first. Keep yourself in the background, +till people have found out your merits for themselves; and never get into +anybody’s way. Keep _out_ of the way, in fact, that’s the safest rule. +It’s the secret of life for a young man—How impatient you look! but mark +my words:—all you have to attend to, with your advantages, is, to keep +out of the way.’ + +“After this bit of advice, the father bestowed his blessing on his dear +Franz, and unlocked the door, close to which they found Mrs. Franz, +waiting rather impatiently till the conference was over. + +“‘What a time you have been, Franz!’ she began; but there was no time to +talk about it, for they all knew that the coach, or post-wagon, as they +call it in Germany, was waiting. + +“Mrs. Franz wrung her son’s hand. + +“‘Remember what I’ve said, my dearest Franz!’ she cried. + +“‘Trust me!’ was Mr. Franz’s significant reply. + +“‘You’ll not forget my rule?’ whispered papa. + + [Picture: Mr. Franz leaves home] + +“‘Forget, sir? no, that’s not possible,’ answered Mr. Franz in a great +hurry, as he ran off to catch the post-wagon; for they could see it in +the distance beginning to move, though part of the young gentleman’s +luggage was on board. + +“Well! he was just in time; but what do you think was the next thing he +did, after keeping the people waiting? A sudden thought struck him, that +it would be as well for the driver and passengers to know how well +educated he had been, so he began to give the driver a few words of +geographical information about the roads they were going. + +“‘Jump in directly, sir, if you please,’ was the driver’s gruff reply. + +“‘Certainly not, till I’ve made you understand what I mean,’ says Master +Franz, quite facetiously. But, then, smack went the whip, and the horses +gave a jolt forwards, and over the tip of the learned young gentleman’s +foot went the front wheel. + +“It was a nasty squeeze, though it might have been worse, but Franz +called out very angrily, something or other about ‘disgraceful +carelessness,’ on which the driver smacked his whip again, and shouted:— + +“‘Gentlemen that won’t keep out of the way, must expect to have their +toes trodden on.’ Everybody laughed at this, but Franz was obliged to +spring inside, without taking any notice of the joke, as the coach was +now really going on; and if he had began to talk, he would have been left +behind. + +“And now,” continued Aunt Judy, stopping herself, “while Franz is jolting +along to the capital town of the country, you shall tell me whose advice +you think he followed when he got to the end of the journey, and began +life for himself—his father’s or his mother’s?” + +There was a universal cry, mixed with laughter, of “His mother’s!” + +“Quite right,” responded Aunt Judy. “His mother’s, of course. It was +far the most agreeable, no doubt. Keeping out of the way is a rather +difficult thing for young folks to manage.” + +A glance at No. 8 caused that young gentleman’s face to grin all over, +and Aunt Judy proceeded:— + +“After his arrival at the great hotel of the town, he found there was to +be a public dinner there that evening, which anybody might go to, who +chose to pay for it; and this he thought would be a capital opportunity +for him to begin life: so, accordingly, he went up-stairs to dress +himself out in his very best clothes for the occasion. + +“And then it was that, as he sat in front of the glass, looking at his +own face, while he was brushing his hair and whiskers, and brightening +them up with bear’s-grease, he began to think of his father and mother, +and what they had said, and what he had best do. + +“‘An excellent, well-meaning couple, of course, but as old-fashioned as +the clocks they used to mend,’ was his first thought. ‘As to papa, +indeed, the poor old gentleman thinks the world has stood still since he +was a young man, thirty years ago. His stiff notions were all very well +then, perhaps, but in these advanced times they are perfectly quizzical. +Keep out of the way, indeed! Why, any ignoramus can do that, I should +think! Well, well, he means well, all the same, so one must not be +severe. As to mamma now—poor thing—though she _is_ behindhand herself in +many ways, yet she _does_ know a good thing when she sees it, and that’s +a great point. She can appreciate the probable results of my very +superior education and appearance. To be sure, she’s a little silly over +that nose affair;—but women will always be silly about something.’ + +“Nevertheless, at this point in his meditations, Master Franz might have +been seen inclining his head down on one side, just as his mother had +recommended, and then giving a look at the mirror, to see whether the +vile turn-up did really disappear in that attitude. I suspect, however, +that he did not feel quite satisfied about it, for he got rather cross, +and finished his dressing in a great hurry, but not before he had settled +that there could be only one opinion as to whose advice he should be +guided by—dear mamma’s. + +“‘Should it fail,’ concluded he to himself, as he gave the last smile at +the looking-glass, ‘there will be poor papa’s old-world notion to fall +back upon, after all.’ + +“Now, you must know that Master Franz had never been at one of these +public dinners before, so there is no denying that when he entered the +large dining-hall, where there was a long table, set out with plates, and +which was filling fast with people, not one of whom he knew, he felt a +little confused. But he repeated his mother’s words softly to himself, +and took courage: ‘_Don’t be shy and downcast when you come among +strangers_. _All you have to think about_, _with your advantages_, _is +to make yourself agreeable_;’ and, on the strength of this, he passed by +the lower end of the table, where there were several unoccupied places, +and walked boldly forward to the upper end, where groups of people were +already seated, and were talking and laughing together. + +“In the midst of one of these groups, there was one unoccupied seat, and +in the one next to it sat a beautiful, well-dressed young lady. ‘Why, +this is the very thing,’ thought Mr. Franz to himself. ‘Who knows but +what this is the young lady who is to make my fortune?’ + +“There was a card, it is true, in the plate in front of the vacant seat, +but ‘as to that,’ thought Franz, ‘first come, first served, I suppose; I +shall sit down!’ + +“And sit down the young gentleman accordingly did in the chair by the +beautiful young lady, and even bowed and smiled to her as he did so. + +“But the next instant he was tapped on the shoulder by a waiter. + +“‘The place is engaged, sir!’ and the man pointed to the card in the +plate. + +“‘Oh, if that’s all,’ was Mr. Franz’s witty rejoinder, ‘here’s another to +match!’ and thereupon he drew one of his own cards from his pocket, threw +it into the plate, and handed the first one to the astonished waiter, +with the remark:— + +“‘The place is engaged, my good friend, you see!’ + +“The young goose actually thought this impudence clever, and glanced +across the table for applause as he spoke. But although Mamma +Watchmaker, if she had heard it, might have thought it a piece of +astonishing wit, the strangers at the public table were quite of a +different opinion, and there was a general cry of ‘Turn him out!’ + +“‘Turn me out!’ shouted Mr. Franz, jumping up from his chair, as if he +intended to fight them all round; and there is no knowing what more +nonsense he might not have talked, but that a very sonorous voice behind +him called out,—a hand laying hold of him by the shoulders at the same +time— + +“‘Young man, I’ll trouble you to get out of my chair, and’ (a little +louder) ‘out of my way, and’ (a little louder still) ‘to _keep_ out of my +way!’ + +“Franz felt himself like a child in the grasp of the man who spoke; and +one glimpse he caught of a pair of coal-black eyes, two frowning +eye-brows, and a moustachioed mouth, nearly frightened him out of his +wits, and he was half way down the room before he knew what was +happening; for, after the baron let him go, the waiter seized him and +hustled him along, till he came to the bottom of the table; where, +however, there was now no room for him, as all the vacant places had been +filled up; so he was pushed finally to a side-table in a corner, at which +sat two men in foreign dresses, not one word of whose language he could +understand. + +“These two fellows talked incessantly together too, which was all the +more mortifying, because they gesticulated and laughed as if at some +capital joke. Franz was very quiet at first, for the other adventure had +sobered him, but presently, with his mother’s advice running in his head, +he resolved to make himself agreeable, if possible. + +“So, at the next burst of merriment, he affected to have entered into the +joke, threw himself back in his chair and laughed as loudly as they did. +The men stared for a second, then frowned, and then one of them shouted +something to him very loudly, which he did not understand; so he placed +his hand on his heart, put on an expressive smile, and offered to shake +hands. Thought he, that will be irresistible! But he was mistaken. The +other man now called loudly to the waiter, and a moment after, Franz +found himself being conveyed by the said waiter through the doorway into +the hall, with the remark resounding in his ears:— + +“‘What a foolish young gentleman you must be! Why can’t you keep out of +people’s way?’ + +“‘My good friend,’ cried Mr. Franz, ‘that’s not my plan at present. I’m +trying to make myself agreeable.’ + +“‘Oh—pooh!—bother agreeable,’ cried the waiter. ‘What’s the use of +making yourself agreeable, if you’re always in the way? Here!—step back, +sir! don’t you see the tray coming?’ + +“Franz had not noticed it, and would probably have got a thump on the +head from it, if his friend the waiter had not pulled him back. The man +was a real good-natured, smiling German, and said:— + +“‘Come, young gentleman, here’s a candle;—you’ve a bed-room here, of +course. Now, you take my advice, and go to bed. You _will_ be out of +the way there, and perhaps you’ll get up wiser to-morrow.’ + +“Franz took the candlestick mechanically, but, said he:— + +“‘I understood there was to be dancing here tonight, and I can dance, +and—’ + +“‘Oh, pooh! bother dancing,’ interrupted the waiter. ‘What’s the use of +dancing, if you’re to be in everybody’s way, and I know you will; you +can’t help it. Here, be advised for once, and go to bed. I’ll bring you +up some coffee before long. Go quietly up now—mind. Good night.’ + +“Two minutes afterwards, Mr. Franz found himself walking up-stairs, as +the waiter had ordered him to do, though he muttered something about +‘officious fellow’ as he went along. + +“And positively he went to bed, as the officious fellow recommended; and +while he lay there waiting for the coffee, he began wondering what +_could_ be the cause of the failure of his attempts to make himself +agreeable. Surely his mother was right—surely there could be no doubt +that, with his advantages—but he did not go on with the sentence. + +“Well, after puzzling for some time, a bright thought struck him. It was +entirely owing to that stupid nose affair, which his mother was so silly +about. Of course that was it! He had done everything else she +recommended, but he could not keep his head down at the same time, so +people saw the snub! Well, he would practise the attitude now, at any +rate, till the coffee came! + +“No sooner said than done. Out of bed jumped Mr. Franz, and went groping +about for the table to find matches to light the candle. But, unluckily, +he had forgotten how the furniture stood, so he got to the door by a +mistake, and went stumbling up against it, just as the waiter with the +coffee opened it on the other side. + +“There was a plunge, a shout, a shuffling of feet, and then both were on +the floor, as was also the hot coffee, which scalded Franz’s bare legs +terribly. + +“The waiter got up first, and luckily it was the ‘officious fellow’ with +the smiling face. And said he:— + +“‘What a miserable young man you must be, to be sure! Why, you’re +_never_ out of the way, not even when you’re gone to bed!’” + +This last anecdote caused an uproar of delight in the fly, and so much +noise, that Aunt Judy had to call the party to order, and talk about the +horses being frightened, after which she proceeded:— + +“I am sorry to say Mr. Franz did not get up next morning as much wiser as +the waiter had expected, for he laid all the blame of his misfortunes on +his nose instead of his impertinence, and never thought of correcting +himself, and being less intrusive. + +“On the contrary, after practising holding his head down for ten minutes +before the glass, he went out to the day’s amusements, as saucy and +confident as ever. + +“Now there is no time,” continued Aunt Judy, “for my telling you all Mr. +Franz’s funny scrapes and adventures. When we get to the end of the +journey, you must invent some for yourselves, and sit together, and tell +them in turns, while we are busy unpacking. I will only just say, that +wherever he went, the same sort of things happened to him, because he was +always thrusting himself forward, and always getting pushed back in +consequence. + +“Out of the public gardens he got fairly turned at last, because he would +talk politics to some strange gentlemen on a bench. They got up and +walked away, but, five minutes afterwards, a very odd-looking man looked +over Franz’s shoulder, and said significantly, ‘I recommend you to leave +these gardens, sir, and walk elsewhere.’ And poor Franz, who had heard +of such things as prisons and dungeons for political offenders, felt a +cold shudder run through him, and took himself off with all possible +speed, not daring to look behind him, for fear he should see that +dreadful man at his heels. Indeed, he never felt safe till he was in his +bed-room again, and had got the waiter to come and talk to him. + +“‘Dear me,’ said the waiter, ‘what a very silly young gentleman you must +be, to go talking away without being asked!’ + +“‘But,’ said Franz, ‘you don’t consider what a superior education I have +had. I can talk and make myself heard—’ + +“‘Oh, pooh! bother talking,’ interrupted the waiter; ‘what’s the use of +talking when nobody wants to listen? Much better go to bed.’ + +“Franz would not give in yet, but was comforted to find the waiter did +not think he would be thrown into prisons and dungeons; so he dined, and +dressed, and went to the theatre to console himself, where however he +_made himself heard_ so effectually—first applauding, then hissing, and +even speaking his opinions to the people round him—that a set of young +college students combined together to get rid of him, and, I am sorry to +add, they made use of a little kicking as the surest plan; and so, before +half the play was over, Mr. Franz found himself in the street! + +“Now, then, I have told you enough of Mr. Franz’s follies, except the one +last adventure, which made him alter his whole plan of proceeding. + +“He had had two letters of introduction to take with him: one to an old +partner of his father’s, who had settled in the capital some years +before; another to some people of more consequence, very distant family +connections. And, of course, Mr. Franz went there first, as there seemed +a nice chance of making his fortune among such great folks. + +“And really the great folks would have been civil enough, but that he +soon spoilt everything by what _he_ called ‘making himself agreeable.’ +He was too polite, too affectionate, too talkative, too instructive, by +half! He assured the young ladies that he approved very highly of their +singing; trilled out a little song of his own, unasked, at his first +visit; fondled the pet lap-dog on his knee; congratulated papa on looking +wonderfully well for his age; asked mamma if she had tried the last new +spectacles; and, in short, gave his opinions, and advice, and +information, so freely, that as soon as he was gone the whole party +exclaimed:— + +“‘What an impertinent jackanapes!’ a jackanapes being nothing more nor +less than a human monkey. + +“This went on for some time, for he called very often, being too stupid, +in spite of his supposed cleverness, to take the hints that were thrown +out, that such repeated visits were not wanted. + +“At last, however, the family got desperate and one morning when he +arrived, (having teazed them the day before for a couple of hours,) he +saw nobody in the drawing-room when he was ushered in. + +“Never mind, thought he, they’ll be here directly when they know _I’m_ +come! And having brought a new song in his pocket, which he had been +practising to sing to them, he sat down to the piano, and began +performing alone, thinking how charmed they would be to hear such +beautiful sounds in the distance! + +“But, in the middle of his song, he heard a discordant shout, and jumping +up, discovered the youngest little Missy hid behind the curtain, and +crying tremendously. + +“Mr. Franz became quite theatrical. ‘Lovely little pet, where are your +sisters? Have they left my darling to weep alone?’ + +“‘They shut the door before I could get through,’ sobbed the lovely +little pet; ‘and I won’t be your darling a bit!’ + +“Mr. Franz laughed heartily, and said how clever she was, took her on his +knee, told her her sisters would be back again directly, and finished his +remark by a kiss. + +“Unfortunate Mr. Franz! The young lady immediately gave him an +unmistakable box on the ear with her small fist, and vociferated + +“No, they won’t, they won’t, they won’t! They’ll never come back till +you’re gone! They’ve gone away to get out of _your_ way, because you +won’t keep out of _theirs_. And you’re a forward puppy, papa says, and +can’t take a hint; and you’re always in everybody’s way, and _I’ll_ get +out of your way, too!’ + +“Here the little girl began to kick violently; but there was no occasion. +Mr. Franz set her down, and while she ran off to her sisters, he rushed +back to the hotel, and double-locked himself into his room. + +“After a time, however, he sent for his friend the waiter, for he felt +that a talk would do him good. + +“But the ‘officious fellow’ shook his head terribly. + +“‘How many more times am I to tell you what a foolish young gentleman you +are?’ cried he. ‘Will you never get up wiser any morning of the year?’ + +“‘I thought,’ murmured Franz, in broken, almost sobbing accents—‘I +thought—the young ladies—would have been delighted—with—my song;—you +see—I’ve been—so well taught—and I can sing—’ + +“‘Oh! pooh, pooh, pooh!’ interrupted the waiter once more. ‘Bother +singing and everything else, if you’ve not been asked! Much better go to +bed!’ + +“Poor Franz! It was hard work to give in, and he made a last effort. + +“‘Don’t you think—after all—that the prejudice—is owing to—what I told +you about:—people do so dislike a snub-nose?’ + +“‘Oh, pooh! bother a snub-nose,’ exclaimed the waiter; ‘what will your +nose signify, if you don’t poke it in everybody’s way?’ + +“And with this conclusion Mr. Franz was obliged to be content; and he +ordered his dinner up-stairs, and prepared himself for an evening of +tears and repentance. + +“But, before the waiter had been gone five minutes, he returned with a +letter in his hand. + +“‘Now, here’s somebody asking something at last,’ said he, for a servant +had brought it. + +“Franz trembled as he took it. It was sure to be either a scolding or a +summons to prison, he thought. But no such thing: it was an invitation +to dinner. Franz threw it on the floor, and kicked it from him—he would +go nowhere—see nobody any more! + +“The ‘officious fellow’ picked it up, and read it. ‘Mr. Franz,’ said he, +‘you mustn’t go to bed this time: you must go to this dinner instead. +It’s from your father’s old partner—he wishes you had called, but as you +haven’t called, he asks you to dine. Now you’re wanted, Mr. Franz, and +must go.’ + +“‘I shall get into another mess,’ cried Franz, despondingly. + +“‘Oh, pooh! you’ve only to keep out of everybody’s way, and all will be +right,’ insisted the waiter, as he left the room. + +“‘Only to keep out of everybody’s way, and all will be right,’ ejaculated +Mr. Franz, as he looked at his crest-fallen face in the glass. ‘It’s a +strange rule for getting on in life! However,’ continued he, cheering +up, ‘one plan has failed, and it’s only fair to give the other a chance!’ + +“And all the rest of dressing-time, and afterwards as he walked along the +streets, he kept repeating his father’s words softly to himself, which +was at first a very difficult thing to do, because he could not help +mixing them up with his mother’s. It was the funniest thing in the world +to hear him: ‘_All you have to attend to_, _with your advantages is +to_—_make yourself_—no, no! not to make myself agreeable—_is to_—_keep +out of the way_!—that’s it!’ (with a sigh.) + +“When Franz arrived at the house, he rang the bell so gently, that he had +to ring twice before he was heard; and then they concluded it was some +beggar, who was afraid of giving a good pull. + +“So, when he was ushered into the drawing-room, the old partner came +forward to meet him, took him by both hands, and, after one look into his +downcast face, said:— + +“‘My dear Mr. Franz, you must put on a bolder face, and ring a louder +peal, next time you come to the house of your father’s old friend!’ + +“Mr. Franz answered this warm greeting by a sickly smile, and while he +was being introduced to the family, kept bowing on, thinking of nothing +but how he was to keep out of everybody’s way!’ + +“He was tempted every five minutes, of course, to break out in his usual +style, and could have found it in his heart to chuck the whole party +under the chin, and take all the talk to himself. But he could be +determined enough when he chose; and having determined to give his +father’s rule a fair chance, he restrained himself to the utmost. + +“So, not even the hearty reception of the old partner and his wife, nor +the smiling faces of either daughters or sons, could lure him into +opening out. ‘Yes’ and ‘No;’ ‘Do you think so?’ ‘I dare say;’ ‘Perhaps;’ +‘No doubt you’re right;’ and other such unmeaning little phrases were all +he would utter when they talked to him. + +“‘How shy he is, poor fellow!’ thought the ladies, and then they talked +to him all the more. One tried to amuse him with one subject, another +with another. How did he like the public gardens? Were they not very +pretty?—He scarcely knew. No doubt they were, if _they_ thought so. +What did he think of the theatre?—It was very hot when he was there. Had +he any friends in the town?—He couldn’t say friends—he knew one or two +people a little. And the poor youth could hardly restrain a groan, as he +answered each of the questions. + +“Then they chatted of books, and music, and dancing, and pressed him hard +to discover what he knew, and could do, and liked best; and when it oozed +out even from his short answers, that he had read certain books in more +than one language, and could sing—just a little; and dance—just a little; +and do several other things—just a little, too, all sorts of nods and +winks passed through the family, and they said:— + +“‘Ah, when you know us better, and are not so shy of us as strangers, we +shall find out you are as clever again as you pretend to be, dear Mr. +Franz!’ + +“‘I’ll tell you what,’ added the old partner, coming up at this moment, +‘it’s a perfect treat to me, Mr. Franz, to have a young man like you in +my house! You’re your father over again, and I can’t praise you more. +He was the most modest, unobtrusive man in all our town, and yet knew +more of his business than all of us put together.’ + +“‘No, no, I can’t allow that,’ cried the motherly wife. + +“‘Nonsense!’ replied the old partner. ‘However, my dear boy—for I really +must call you so—it was that very thing that made your father’s fortune; +I mean that he was just as unpretending as he was clever. Everybody +trusts an unpretending man. And _you’ll_ make your fortune too in the +same manner, trust me, before long. Now, boys!’ added he, turning to his +sons, ‘you hear what I say, and mind you take the hint! As for the young +puppies of the present day, who fancy themselves fit to sit in the chair +of their elders as soon as ever they have learnt their alphabet, and are +for thrusting themselves forward in every company—Mr. Franz, I’ll own it +to you, because you will understand me—I have no patience with such rude, +impertinent Jackanapeses, and always long to kick them down-stairs.’ + +“The old partner stood in front of Mr. Franz as he spoke, and clenched +his fist in animation. Mr. Franz sat on thorns. He first went hot, and +then he went cold—he felt himself kicked down-stairs as he listened—he +was ready to cry—he was ready to fight—he was ready to run away—he was +ready to drop on his knees, and confess himself the very most impertinent +of all the impertinent Jackanapes’ race. + +“But he gulped, and swallowed, and shut his teeth close, and nobody found +him out; only he looked very pale, which the good mother soon noticed, +and said she to her husband:— + +“‘My dear love, don’t you see how fagged and weary it makes Mr. Franz +look, to hear you raving on about a parcel of silly lads with whom _he_ +has nothing in common? You will frighten him out of his wits.’ + +“‘Mr. Franz will forgive me, I know,’ cried the old partner, gently. +‘Jacintha, my dear, fetch the wine and cake!’ + +“The kind, careful souls feared he was delicate, and insisted on his +having some refreshment; and then papa ordered the young people to give +their guest some music; and Franz sat by while the sons and daughters +went through a beautiful opera chorus, which was so really charming, that +Mr. Franz did forget himself for a minute, clapped violently, and got +half-way through the word ‘encore’ in a very loud tone. But he checked +himself instantly, coloured, apologized for his rudeness, and retreated +further back from the piano. + +“Of course, this new symptom of modesty was met by more kindness, and +followed by a sly hint from the merry Jacintha, that Mr. Franz’s turn for +singing had come now! + +“Poor Mr. Franz! with the recollection of the morning’s adventure on his +mind, and his father’s rule ringing in his ears, he felt singing to be +out of the question, so he declined. On which they entreated, insisted, +and would listen to no refusal. And Jacintha went to him, and looked at +him with her sweetest smile, and said, ‘But you know, Mr. Franz, you said +you could sing a little; and if it’s ever so little, you should sing +_when you’re asked_!’ and with that Miss Jacintha offered him her hand, +and led him to the piano. + +“Franz was annoyed, though he ought to been pleased. + +“‘But how _am_ I to keep out of people’s way,’ thought he to himself, ‘if +they will pull me forward? It’s the oddest thing I ever knew. I can’t +do right either way.’ + +“Then a thought struck him:— + +“‘I have no music, Miss Jacintha,’ said he, ‘and I can’t sing without +music;’ and he was going back again to his chair in the corner. + +“‘But we have all the new music,’ was her answer, and she opened a +portfolio at once. ‘See, here’s the last new song!’ and she held one up +before the unfortunate youth, who at the sight of it coloured all over, +even to the tips of his ears. Whereupon Miss Jacintha, who was watching +him, laughed, and said she had felt sure he knew it; and down she sat, +and began to play the accompaniment, and in two minutes afterwards Mr. +Franz found himself—in spite of himself, as it were—exhibiting in _the_ +song, the fatal song of the morning’s adventure. + +“It was a song of tender sentiment, and the singer’s almost tremulous +voice added to the effect, and a warm clapping of hands greeted its +conclusion. + +“But by that time Mr. Franz was so completely exhausted with the +struggles of this first effort on the new plan, that he began to wish +them good-night, saying he would not intrude upon them any longer. + +“They would shake hands with him, though he tried to bow himself off +without; and the old partner followed him down-stairs into the hall. + +“‘Mr. Franz,’ said he, ‘we have been delighted to make your acquaintance, +but this has been only a quiet family party. Now we know your _sort_, +you must come again, and meet our friends. Wife will fix the day, and +send you word; and don’t you be afraid, young man! Mind you come, and +put your best foot forward among us all!’ + +“Franz was almost desperate. His conscience began to reproach him. +What! was he going to accept all this kindness, like a rogue receiving +money under false pretences? He was shocked, and began to protest:— + +“‘I assure you, dear sir, I don’t deserve—You are quite under a mistake—I +really am not—the fact is, you think a great deal better of me than—” + +“‘Nonsense!’ shouted the old partner, clapping him vigorously on the +back. ‘Why, you’re not going to teach me at my time of life, surely? +Not going to turn as conceited as that, after all, eh? Come, come, Mr. +Franz, no nonsense! And to-morrow,’ he added, ‘I’ll send you letters of +introduction to some of my friends, who will show you the lions, and make +much of you. You will be well received wherever you take them, first for +my sake, and afterwards for your own. There, there! I won’t hear a +word! No thanks—I hate them! Good night.’ + +“And the old partner fairly pushed Mr. Franz through the door. + +“‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ was the waiter’s exclamation when Franz reached the +hotel, and the light of the lamp shone on his white, worn-out face. ‘Oh +dear, oh dear! I fear you’ve been a silly young gentleman over again! +What _have_ you been doing this time?’ + +“‘I’ve been trying to keep out of everybody’s way all the evening,’ +growled Mr. Franz, ‘and they would pull me forward, in spite of myself.’ + +“‘No—really though?’ cried the waiter, as if it were scarcely possible. + +“‘Really,’ sighed poor Mr. Franz. + +“‘Then do me the honour, sir,’ exclaimed the waiter, with a sudden +deference of manner; and taking the tips of Franz’s fingers in his own, +he bent over them with a salute. ‘You’re a wise young gentleman now, +sir, and your fortune’s made. I’m glad you’ve hit it at last! + +“And Mr. Franz had hit it at last, indeed,” continued Aunt Judy, “as +appeared more plainly still by the letters of introduction which reached +him next morning. They were left open, and were to this effect:— + +“‘ . . . The bearer of this is the son of an old friend. One of the most +agreeable young men I ever saw. As modest as he is well educated, and I +can’t say more. Procure him some amusement, that a little of his shyness +may be rubbed off; and forward his fortunes, my dear friend, as far as +you can . . . ’ + +“Franz handed one of these letters to his friend the waiter, and the +‘officious fellow’ grinned from ear to ear. + +“‘There is only one more thing to fear,’ observed he. + +“‘And what?’ asked Franz. + +“‘Why, that now you’re comfortable, my dear young gentleman, your head +should be turned, and you should begin to make yourself agreeable again, +and spoil all.’ + +“‘Oh, pooh! bother agreeable; _I_ say now, as you did,’ cried Franz, +laughing. ‘No, no, my good friend, I’m not going to make myself +agreeable any more. I know better than that at last!’ + +“‘Then your fortune’s safe as well as made!’ was the waiter’s last +remark, as he was about to withdraw: but Franz followed him to the door. + +“‘I found out a rather curious thing this evening, do you know!’ + +“‘And that was?—’ inquired his humble friend. + +“‘Why, that I was sitting all the time in that very attitude my mother +recommended—with my head a little down, you know—so that I really don’t +think they noticed my snub.’ + +“The waiter got as far as, ‘Oh, pooh!’ but Franz was nervous, and +interrupted him. + +“‘Yes—yes! I don’t believe there’s anything in it myself; but it will be +a comfort to my mother to think it was her advice that made my fortune, +which she will do when I tell her that!’ + +“‘Ah!—the ladies will be romantic now and then!’ exclaimed the waiter, +with a flourish of his hand, ‘and you must trim the comfort to a person’s +taste.’ + +“And in due time,” pursued Aunt Judy, “that was exactly what Mr. Franz +did. Strictly adhering to his father’s rule, and encouraged by its +capital success that first night, he got so out of the habit of being +pert, and foolish, and inconsiderate, that he ended by never having any +wish to be so; so that he really became what the old partner had imagined +him to be at first. It was a great restraint for some time, but his +modest manners fitted him at last as easy as an old shoe, and he was +welcome at every house, because he was _never in the way_, and always +knew when to retire! + +“It was a jovial day for Papa and Mamma’s Watchmaker when, two years +afterwards, Mr. Franz returned home, a partner in the old partner’s +prosperous business, and with the smiling Jacintha for his bride. + +“And then, in telling his mother of that first evening of his good +fortune, he did not forget to mention that he had hung down his head all +the time, as she had advised; and, just as he expected, she jumped up in +the most extravagant delight. + +“‘I knew how it would be all along!’ cried she; ‘I told you so! I knew +if you could only hide that terrible snub all would be well; and I’m sure +our pretty Jacintha wouldn’t have looked your way if you hadn’t! See, +now! you have to thank your mother for it all!’ + +“Franz was quite happy himself, so he smiled, and let his mother be happy +her way too; but he opened his heart of hearts to poor old-fashioned +papa, and told him—well, in fact, all his follies and mistakes, and their +cure. And if mamma was happy in her bit of comfort, papa was not less so +in his, for there is not a more delightful thing in the world than for +father and son to understand each other as friends; and old Franz would +sometimes walk up and down in his room, listening to the cheerful young +voices up-stairs, and say to himself, that if Mother Franz—good soul as +she was—did not always quite enter into his feelings, it was his comfort +to be blessed with a son who did!” + + * * * + +What a long story it had been! Aunt Judy was actually tired out when she +got to the end, and could not talk about it, but the little ones did till +they arrived at the station, and had to get out. + +And in the evening, when they were all sitting together before they went +to bed, there was no small discussion about the story of Mr. Franz, and +how people were to know what was really good manners—when to come +forward, and when to hold back—and the children were a little startled at +first, when their mother told them that the best rules for good manners +were to be found in the Bible. + +But when she reminded them of that text, “When thou art bidden, go and +sit down in the lowest room,” &c. they saw in those words a very serious +reason for not pushing forward into the best place in company. And when +they recollected that every man was to do to others as he wished others +to do to him, it became clear to them that it was the duty of all people +to study their neighbours’ comfort and pleasure as well as their own; and +it was no hard matter to show how this rule applied to all the little ins +and outs of every-day life, whether at home, or in society. And there +were plenty of other texts, ordering deference to elders, and the modesty +which arises out of that humility of spirit which “vaunteth not itself,” +and “is not puffed up.” There was, moreover, the comfortable promise, +that “the meek” should “inherit the earth.” + +Of course, it was difficult to the little ones, just at first, to see how +such very serious words could apply to anybody’s manners, and especially +to their own. + +But it was a difficulty which mamma, with a little explanation, got over +very easily; and before the little ones went to bed, they quite +understood that in restraining themselves from teazing and being +troublesome, they were not only not being “tiresome,” but were actually +obeying several Gospel rules. + + + + +“NOTHING TO DO.” + + + “Had I a little son, I would christen him NOTHING-TO-DO.” + + CHARLES LAMB. + +THERE is a complaint which is not to be found in the doctor’s books, but +which is, nevertheless, such a common and troublesome one, that one +heartily wishes some physic could be discovered which would cure it. + +It may be called the _nothing-to-do_ complaint. + + [Picture: Nothing to do] + +Even quite little children are subject to it, but they never have it +badly. Parents and nurses have only to give them something to do, or +tell them of something to do, and the thing is put right. A puzzle or a +picture-book relieves the attack at once. + +But after the children have out-grown puzzles, and picture-books, and +nurses, and when even a parent’s advice is received with a little +impatience, then the _nothing-to-do_ complaint, if it seizes them at all, +is a serious disease, and often very difficult to cure; and, if not +cured, alas! then follows the melancholy spectacle of grown-up men and +women, who are a plague to their friends, and a weariness to themselves; +because, living under the notion that there is _nothing_ for them _to +do_, they want everybody else to do something to amuse them. + +Anyone can laugh at the old story of the gentleman who got into such a +fanciful state of mind—hypochondriacal, it is called—that he thought he +was his own umbrella; and so, on coming in from a walk, would go and lay +_it_ in the easy-chair by the fire, while he himself went and leant up +against the wall in a corner of the hall. + +But this gentleman was not a bit more fanciful and absurd than the +people, whether young or old, who look out of windows on rainy days and +groan because there is _nothing to do_; when, in reality, there is so +much for everybody to do, that most people leave half their share undone. + +The oddest part of the complaint is, that it generally comes on worst in +those who from being comfortably off in the world, and from having had a +great deal of education, have such a variety of things to do, that one +would fancy they could never be at a loss for a choice. + +But these are the very people who are most afflicted. It is always the +young people who have books, and leisure, and music, and drawing, and +gardens, and pleasure-grounds, and villagers to be kind to, who lounge to +the rain-bespattered windows on a dull morning, and groan because there +is _nothing to do_. + +In justice to girls in general, it should be here mentioned, that they +are on the whole less liable to the complaint than the young lords of the +creation, who are supposed to be their superiors in sense. Philosophers +may excuse this as they please, but the fact remains, that there are few +large families in England, whose sisterhoods have not at times been +teazed half out of their wits, by the growlings of its young gentlemen, +during paroxysms of the _nothing-to-do_ complaint; growling being one of +its most characteristic symptoms. + +Perhaps among all the suffering sisterhoods it would have been difficult +to find a young lady less liable to catch such a disorder herself, than +Aunt Judy; and perhaps that was the reason why she used to do such +tremendous battle with No. 3, whenever, after his return from school for +the holidays, he happened to have an attack. + +“What are you groaning at through the window, No. 3?” she inquired on one +such occasion; “is it raining?” + +A very gruff-sounding “No,” was the answer—No. 3 not condescending to +turn round as he spoke. He proceeded, however, to state that it had +rained when he got up, and he supposed it would rain again as a +matter-of-course, (for his especial annoyance being implied,) and he +concluded:— + +“It’s so horribly ‘slow’ here, with nothing to do.” + +No. 6, who was sitting opposite Aunt Judy, doing a French exercise, here +looked up at her sister, and perceiving a smile steal over her face, took +upon herself to think her brother’s remark very ridiculous, so, said she, +with a saucy giggle:— + +“I can find you plenty to do, No. 3, in a minute. Come and write my +French exercise for me. + +No. 3 turned sharply round at this, with a frown on his face which by no +means added to its beauty, and called out:— + +“Now, Miss Pert, I recommend you to hold your tongue. I don’t want any +advice from a conceited little minx like you.” + +Miss Pert was extinguished at once, and set to work at the French +exercise again most industriously, and a general silence ensued. + +But people in the nothing-to-do complaint are never quiet for long. +Teazing is quite as constant a symptom of it, as growling, so No. 3 soon +came lounging from the window to the table, and began:— + +“I say, Judy, I wish you would put those tiresome books, and drawings, +and rubbish away, and I think of something to do.” + +“But it’s the books, and the drawings, and the rubbish that give me +something to do,” cried Aunt Judy. “You surely don’t expect me to give +them up, and go arm and arm with you round the house, bemoaning the +slowness of our fate which gives us nothing to do. Or shall we? Come, I +don’t care; I will if you like. But which shall we complain to first, +mamma, or the maids?” + +While she was saying this, Aunt Judy shut up her drawing book, jumped up +from her chair, drew No. 3’s arm under her own, and repeated:— + +“Come! which? mamma, or the maids?” while Miss Pert opposite was +labouring with all her might to smother the laugh she dared not indulge +in. + +But No. 3 pushed Aunt Judy testily away. + +“‘Nonsense, Judy! what has that to do with it? It’s all very well for +you girls—now, Miss Pert, mind your own affairs, and don’t stare at +me!—to amuse yourself with all manner of—” + +“Follies, of course,” cried Aunt Judy, laughing, “don’t be afraid of +speaking out, No. 3. It’s all very well for us girls to amuse ourselves +with all manner of follies, and nonsense, and rubbish;” here Aunt Judy +chucked the drawing-book to the end of the table, tossed a dictionary +after it, and threw another book or two into the air, catching them as +they came down. + +“—while you, superior, sensible young man that you are, born to be the +comfort of your family—” + +“Be quiet!” interrupted No. 3, trying to stop her; but she ran round the +table and proceeded:— + +“—and the enlightener of mankind; can’t—no, no, No. 3, I won’t be +stopt!—can’t amuse yourself with anything, because everything is so +‘horribly slow, there’s nothing to do,’ so you want to tie yourself to +your foolish sister’s apron string.” + +“It’s too bad!” shouted No. 3; and a race round the table began between +them, but Aunt Judy dodged far too cleverly to be caught, so it ended in +their resting at opposite ends; No. 6 and her French exercises lying +between them. + +“No. 6, my dear,” cried Aunt Judy, in the lull of exertion, “I proclaim a +holiday from folly and rubbish. Put your books away, and put your +impertinence away too. Hold your tongue, and don’t be Miss Pest; and +vanish as soon as you can.” + +Miss Pert performed two or three putting-away evolutions with the +velocity of a sunbeam, and darted off through the door. + +“Now, then, we’ll be reasonable,” observed Aunt Judy; and carrying a +chair to the front of the fire she sat down, and motioned to No. 3 to do +the same, taking out from her pocket a little bit of embroidery work, +which she kept ready for chatting hours. + +No. 3 was always willing to listen to Aunt Judy. + +He desired nothing better than to get her undivided attention, and pour +out his groans in her ear; so he sat down with a very good grace, and +proceeded to insist that there never was anything so “slow” as “it was.” + +Aunt Judy wanted to know what _it_ was; the place or the people, +(including herself,) or what? + +No. 3 could explain it no other way than by declaring that _everything_ +was slow; there was nothing to do. + +Aunt Judy maintained that there was plenty to do. + +Whereupon No. 3 said:— + +“But nothing _worth_ doing.” + +Whereupon Aunt Judy told No. 3 that he was just like Dr. Faustus. On +which, of course, No. 3 wanted to know what Dr. Faustus was like, and +Aunt Judy answered, that he was just like _him_, only a great deal older +and very learned. + +“Only quite different, then,” suggested No. 3. + +“No,” said Aunt Judy, “not _quite_ different, for he came one day to the +same conclusion that you have done, namely, that there was nothing to do, +worth doing in the world.” + +“_I_ don’t say the world, I only say here,” observed No. 3; “there’s +plenty to do elsewhere, I dare say.” + +“So you think, because you have not tried else where,” answered Aunt +Judy. “But Dr. Faustus, who had tried elsewhere, thought everywhere +alike, and declared there was nothing worth doing anywhere, although he +had studied law, physic, divinity, and philosophy all through, and knew +pretty nearly everything.” + +“Then you see he did not get much good out of learning,” remarked No. 3. + +“I do see,” was the reply. + +“And what became of him?” + +“Ah, that’s the point,” replied Aunt Judy, “and a very remarkable point +too. As soon as he got into the state of fancying there was nothing to +do, worth doing, in God’s world, the evil spirit came to him, and found +him something to do in what I may, I am sure, call the devil’s world—I +mean, wickedness.” + +“Oh, that’s a story written upon Watts’s old hymn,” exclaimed No. 3, +contemptuously:— + + “‘For Satan finds some mischief still, + For idle hands to do.’ + +Judy! I call that a regular ‘_sell_.’” + +“Not a bit of it,” cried Aunt Judy, warmly; “I don’t suppose the man who +wrote the story ever saw Watts’s hymns, or intended to teach anything +half as good. It’s mamma’s moral. She told me she had screwed it out of +the story, though she doubted whether it was meant to be there.” + +“And what’s the rest of the story then?” inquired No. 3, whose curiosity +was aroused. + +“Well! when the old Doctor found the world as it was, so ‘_slow_,’ as you +very unmeaningly call it, he took to conjuring and talking with evil +spirits by way of amusement; and then they easily persuaded him to be +wicked, merely because it gave him something fresh and exciting to do.” + +“Watts’s hymn again! I told you so!” exclaimed No. 3. “But the story’s +all nonsense from beginning to end. Nobody can conjure, or talk to evil +spirits in reality, so the whole thing is impossible; and where you find +the moral, I don’t know.” + +No. 3 leant back and yawned as he concluded. + +He was rather disappointed that nothing more entertaining had come out of +the story of Dr. Faustus. + +But Aunt Judy had by no means done. + +“Impossible about conjuring and actually _talking_ to evil spirits, +certainly,” said she; “but spiritual influences, both bad and good, come +to us all, No. 3, without bodily communion; so for those who are inclined +to feel like Dr. Faustus, there is both a moral and a warning in his +fate.” + +“I don’t know what about,” cried No. 3. “I think he was uncommonly +stupid, after all he had learnt, to get into such a mess. Why, you +yourself are always trying to make out that the more people labour and +learn, the more sure they are to keep out of mischief. Now then, how do +you account for the story of your friend Dr. Faustus?” + +“Because, like King Solomon, he did not labour and learn in a right +spirit, or to a right end,” replied Aunt Judy. “Lord Bacon remarks that +when, after the Creation, God ‘looked upon everything He had made, behold +it was _very good_;’ whereas when man ‘turned him about,’ and took a view +of the world and his own labours in it, he found that ‘all’ was ‘vanity +and vexation of spirit.’ Why did he come to such a different conclusion, +do you think?” + +“I suppose because the world had got bad, before King Solomon’s time,” +suggested No. 3. + +“Its inhabitants had,” replied Aunt Judy. “They had become subject to +sin and misery; but the world was still God’s creation, and proofs of the +‘very good’ which He had pronounced over it were to be found in every +direction, and even in fallen man, if Solomon had had the sense, or +rather I should say, good feeling to look for them. Ah! No. 3, there +was plenty to be learnt and done that would _not_ have ended in ‘vanity +and vexation of spirit’ if Solomon had _learnt_ in order to trace out the +glory of God, instead of establishing his own; and if he had _worked_ to +create, as far as was in his power, a world of happiness for other +people, instead of seeking nothing but his own amusement. If he had +worked in the spirit of God, in short.” + +“But who can?—Nobody,” exclaimed No. 3. + +“Yes, everybody, who tries, can, to a certain extent,” said Aunt Judy. +“It only wants the right feeling; some of the good God-like feeling which +originated the creation of a beautiful world, and caused the +contemplation of it to produce the sublime complacency which is +described, ‘And God looked upon everything that He had made, and behold +it was very good.’” + +“It’s a sermon, Judy,” cried No. 3, half bored, yet half amused at the +notion of her preaching; “I’ll set up a pulpit for you at once, shall I?” + +“No, no, be quiet, No. 3,” exclaimed Aunt Judy, “I wish you would try and +understand what I say!” + +“Well, then,” said No. 3, “it appears to me that do what one might now +the world has grown bad, it would be impossible to pronounce that ‘_very +good_,’ as the result of one’s work. There would always be something +miserable and unsatisfactory at the end of everything; I mean even if one +really was to look into things closely, and work for other people’s good, +as you say.” + +“There might be _something_ miserable and unsatisfactory, in the result, +certainly,” answered Aunt Judy; “but that it would _all_ be ‘vanity and +vexation of spirit’ I deny. Our blessed Saviour came into the world +after it had grown bad, remember; and He worked solely for the +restoration of the ‘very good,’ which sin had defaced. It was +undoubtedly _miserable_ and _unsatisfactory_ that He should be rejected +by the very creatures He came to help; but when He uttered the words ‘It +is finished,’ the work which He had accomplished, He might well have +looked upon and called very good: very very good; even beyond the +creation, were that possible.” + +“There can be no comparison between our Saviour and us,” murmured No. 3. + +“No,” replied his sister; “but only let people work in the same +direction, and they will have more ‘profit’ of their ‘labour,’ than King +Solomon ever owned to, who had, one fears, only learnt, in order to be +learned, and worked, to please himself. No man who employs himself in +tracing out God’s footsteps _in_ the world, or in working in God’s spirit +_for_ the world, will ever find such labours end in ‘vanity and vexation +of spirit!’ Solomon, Dr. Faustus, and the grumblers, have only +themselves to thank for their disappointment.” + +“It’s very curious,” observed No. 3, getting up, and stretching himself +over the fire, “I mean about Solomon and Dr. Faustus. But what can one +do? What can you or I do? It’s absurd to be fancying one can do good to +one’s fellow-creatures.” + +“Nevertheless, there is one I want you to do good to, at the present +moment,” said Aunt Judy—“if it is not actually raining. Don’t you +remember what despair No. 1 was in this morning, when father sent her off +on the pony in such a hurry.” + +“Ah, that pony! That was just what I wanted myself,” interrupted No. 3. + +“Exactly, of course,” replied Aunt Judy. “But you were not the messenger +father wanted, so do not let us go all over that ground again, pray. The +fact was, No. 1 had just heard that her pet ‘Tawny Rachel’ was very ill, +and she wanted to go and see her, and give her some good advice, and I am +to go instead. Now No. 3, suppose you go instead of me, and save me a +wet walk?” + +No. 3, of course, began by protesting that it was not possible that he +could do any good to an old woman. Old women were not at all in his way. +He could only say, how do you do? and come away. + +Aunt Judy disputed this: she thought he could offer her some creature +comforts, and ask whether she had seen the Doctor, and what he said, as +No. 1 particularly wished to know. + +What an idea! No, no; he must decline inquiring what the Doctor said; it +would be absurd; but he could offer her something to eat. + +—And just ask if she had had the Doctor.—Well, just that, and come away. +It would not occupy many minutes. But he wished, while Aunt Judy was +about it, she had found him something rather _longer_ to do! + +Aunt Judy promised to see what could be devised on his return, and No. 3 +departed. And a very happily chosen errand it was; for it happened in +this case, as it so constantly does happen, that what was begun for other +people’s sake, ended in personal gratification. No. 3 went to see “Tawny +Rachel,” out of good-natured compliance with Aunt Judy’s request, but +found an interest and amusement in the visit itself, which he had not in +the least expected. + +Ten, twenty, thirty, minutes elapsed, and he had not returned; and when +he did so at last, he burst into the house far more like an avalanche +than a young gentleman who could find “nothing to do.” + +Coming in the back way, he ran into the kitchen, and told the servants to +get some hot water ready directly, for he was sure something would be +wanted. Then, passing forward, he shouted to know where his mother was, +and, having found her, entreated she would order some comfortable, +gruelly stuff or other, to be made for the sick old woman, particularly +insisting that it should have ale or wine, as well as spice and sugar in +it. + +He was positive that that was just what she ought to have! She had said +how cold she was, and how glad she should be of something to warm her +inside; and there was nobody to do anything for her at home. What a +shame it was for a poor old creature like that to be left with only two +dirty boys to look after her, and they always at play in the street! Her +daughter and husband were working out, and she sat moaning over the fire, +from pain, without anybody to care! + + * * * + +Tender-hearted and impulsive, if thoughtless, the spirit of No. 3 had +been moved within him at the spectacle of the gaunt old woman in this +hour of her lonely suffering. + +Poor “Tawny Rachel!” The children had called her so, from the heroine of +Mrs. Hannah More’s tale, because of those dark gipsy eyes of hers, which +had formerly given such a fine expression to her handsome but melancholy +face. Melancholy, because care-worn from the long life’s struggle for +daily bread, for a large indulged family, who scarcely knew, at the day +of her death, that she had worn herself out for their sakes. + +Poor “Tawny Rachel!” She was one day asked by a well-meaning shopkeeper, +of whom she had purchased a few goods, _where she thought she was going +to_? + +“Tawny Rachel” turned her sad eyes upon her interrogator, and made +answer:— + +“Going to? why where do you think I’m going to, but to Heaven?—‘Deed! +where do you think I’m going to, but to Heaven?” she repeated to herself +slowly, as if to recover breath; and then added, “I should like to know +who Heaven is for, if not for such as me, that have slaved all their +lives through, for other folk;” and so saying, Tawny Rachel turned round +again, and went away. + +Poor “Tawny Rachel!” The theology was imperfect enough; but so had been +her education and advantages. Yet as surely as her scrupulous, +never-failing honesty, and unmurmuring self-denial, must have been +inspired by something beyond human teaching; so surely did it prove no +difficult task to her spiritual guide, to lead her onwards to those +simple verities of the Christian Faith, which, in her case, seemed to +solve the riddle of a weary, unsatisfactory life, and, confiding in +which, the approach of death really became to her, the advent of the +Prince of Peace. + + * * * + +“But she had quite cheered up,” remarked No. 3, “at the notion of +something comforting and good,” and so—he had “come off at once.” + +“At once!”—the exclamation came from Aunt Judy, who had entered the room, +and was listening to the account. “Why, No. 3, you must have been there +an hour at least. And nevertheless I dare say you have forgotten about +the Doctor.” + +“The Doctor!” cried No. 3, laughing,—“It’s the Doctor who has kept me all +this time. You never heard such fun in your life,—only he’s an awful old +rascal, I must say!” + +Mamma and Aunt Judy gazed at No. 3 in bewilderment. The respectable old +village practitioner, who had superintended all the deceases in the place +for nearly half a century—to be called “an awful old rascal” at last! +What could No. 3 be thinking of? + +Certainly not of the respectable village practitioner, as he soon +explained, by describing the arrival at Tawny Rachel’s cottage of a +travelling quack with a long white beard. + +“My dear No. 3!” exclaimed mamma. + +“Mother, dear, I can’t help it!” cried No. 3, and proceeded to relate +that while he was sitting with the old woman, listening to the account of +her aches and pains, some one looked in at the door, and asked if she +wanted anything; but, before she could speak, remarked how ill she +seemed, and said he could give her something to do her good. “Judy!” +added No. 3, breaking suddenly off; “he looked just like Dr. Faustus, I’m +sure!” + +“Never mind about that,” cried Aunt Judy. “Tell us what Tawny Rachel +said.” + +“Oh, she called out that he _must give_ it, if she was to have it, for +she had nothing to pay for it with. I had a shilling in my pocket, and +was just going to offer it, when I recollected he would most likely do +her more harm than good. But the gentleman with the white beard walked +in immediately, set his pack down on the table, and said, ‘Then, my good +woman, I _shall_ give it you;’ and out he brought a bottle, tasted it +before he gave it to her, and promised her that it would cure her if she +took it all.” + +“My dear No. 3!” repeated mamma once more. + +“Yes, I know she can’t be cured, mother, and I think she knows it too; +but still she ‘_took it very kind_,’ as she called it, of him, and asked +him if he would like to ‘rest him’ a bit by the fire, and the gentleman +accepted the invitation; and there we all three sat, for really I quite +enjoyed seeing him, and he began to warm his hands, remarking that the +young gentleman—that was I, you know—looked very well. Oh, Judy, I very +nearly said ‘Thank you, Dr. Faustus,’ but I only laughed and nodded, and +really did hold my tongue; and then the two began to talk, and it was as +good as any story you ever invented, Aunt Judy. Tawny Rachel was very +inquisitive, and asked him:— + +“‘You’ve come a long way, sir, I suppose?’ + +“‘Yes, ma’am; I’m a great traveller, and have been so a many years.’ + +“‘It’s a wonder you have not settled before now.’ + +“‘I might have settled, ma’am, a many times.’ + +“‘Ah, when folks once begin wandering, they can’t settle down. You were, +maybe, brought up to it.’ + +“‘I was brought up to something a deal better than that, ma’am.’ + +“‘You was, sir? It’s a pity, I’m sure.’ + +“‘My father was physician to Queen Elizabeth, ma’am, a many years.’” + +When No. 3 arrived at this point of the dialogue, mamma and Aunt Judy +both exclaimed at once, and the former repeated once more the +expostulatory “My dear No. 3!” which delighted No. 3, who proceeded to +assure them that he had himself interrupted the travelling quack here, by +suggesting that it was Queen Charlotte he meant. + +“Old Queen Charlotte, you know, Judy, that No. 1 was telling the children +about the other day.” + +But the “gentleman,” as No. 3 called him, had turned very red at the +doubt thus thrown on his accuracy, and put a rather threatening croak +into his voice, as he said:— + +“Asking your pardon, young gentleman, I know what I’m saying, and it was +Queen Elizabeth, and not Charlotte nor anybody else!” + +No. 3 described that he felt it best, after this, to hold his tongue and +say no more, so Tawny Rachel put in her word, and remarked, it was a +wonder the queen hadn’t made their fortunes; on which the gentleman +turned rather red again, and said that the queen did make their fortune, +but wouldn’t let them keep it, for fear they should be too great and too +rich—that was it! This statement required a little explanation, but the +gentleman was ready with all particulars. The queen used to pay his +father by hundreds of pounds at a time, because that was due to him, but +being jealous of his having so much money, she always set some one to +take it away from him as he left the place! So that was the reason why +these was no fortune put by for him after his father died, and that was +the reason why he couldn’t very well settle at first, though everybody +wished him to stay, and _so_ he took to travelling; for his father had +left him all his secrets, and he was qualified to practise anywhere, and +had cured some thousands of sick folks up and down! + +No. 3 declared that he had not made the old man’s account of himself a +bit more unconnected than it really was, and, on the whole, it sounded +very imposing to poor Tawny Rachel, who watched his departure with a sort +of respectful awe. + +No. 3 added, that not liking to disturb her faith either in the man or +the bottle, he had himself helped her to the first dose, and had then +begun to talk about the creature comforts before described, the very +mention of which seemed to cheer the old lady’s heart, and to interest +her at least as much as the biography of the travelling quack. + +“So now, mother,” concluded he, “order the gruel, and we’ll give three +cheers for Queen Elizabeth, and Dr. Faustus—eh, Judy? But I do think the +poor old thing ought not to take that man’s poisonous rubbish; so here’s +my shilling, and welcome, if you’ll give some more, and let us send for a +real doctor.” + +The “nothing-to-do” morning had nearly slipped away, between the +conversation with Aunt Judy, and the visit to Tawny Rachel; and when, +soon after, a friend called to take No. 3 off on a fossil hunt, and he +had to snatch a hasty morsel before his departure, he declared he was +like the poor governess in the song, who was sure to + + “Find out, + With attention and zeal, + That she’d scarcely have time + To partake of a meal,” + +there was so much to do. “But you’re a capital fellow, Judy,” he added, +kissing her, “and you’ll tell me a story when I come back;” and off he +ran, shutting his ears to Aunt Judy’s declaration that she only told +stories to the “little ones.” + +Nor would she, on his return, and during the cozy evening “nothing-to-do” +hour, consent to devote herself to his especial amusement only. So, +after arguing the point for a time, he very wisely yielded, and declared +at last that he would be a “little one” too, and listen to a “little +one’s” story, if Aunt Judy would tell one. + +It was rather late when this was settled, and the little ones had stayed +up-stairs to play at a newly-invented game—bazaars—in the nursery; but +when No. 3 strode in with the announcement of the story, there was a +shout of delight, followed by the old noisy rush down-stairs to the +dining-room. + +It is not a bad thing to be a “little one” now and then in spirit. +People would do well to try and be so oftener. Who that has looked upon +a picture of himself as a “little one,” has not wished that he could be +restored to the “little one’s” spirit, the “little one’s” innocence, the +“little one’s” hopeful trust? “Of such is the kingdom of Heaven!” And +though none of us would like to live our lives over again, lest our +errors should be repeated, and so doubled in guilt, all of us, at the +sight of what we once were, would fain, very fain, if we could, lie down +to sleep, and awake a “little one” again. Never, perhaps, is the sweet +mercy of an early death brought so closely home to our apprehension, as +when the grown-up, care-worn man looks upon the image of himself as a +child. + +Happily, however—nay, more than happily, _mercifully_—the grown-up man, +if he do but put on the humility, may gain something of the peace of a +“little one’s” heart! + +Aunt Judy had twisted up a roll of muslin for a turban on her head by the +time they came down, “for,” said she, “this is to be an eastern tale, and +I shall not be inspired—that is to say, I shall not get on a bit—unless +there is a costume and manners to correspond, so you three little ones +squat yourselves down Turkish-fashion on the floor, with your legs tucked +under you. There now! that’s something like, and I begin to feel myself +in the East. Nevertheless, I am rather glad there is no critical Eastern +traveller at hand, listening through the key-hole to my blunders. + +“However, errors excepted, here is the wonderful story of + + + +‘The King of the Hills and his Four Sons.’ + + +“A great many years ago, in a country which cannot be traced upon the +maps, but which lies somewhere between the great rivers Indus and +Euphrates, lived Schelim, King of the Hills. + +“His riches were unlimited, his palaces magnificent, and his dresses and +jewels of the most costly description. He never condescended to wear a +diamond unless it was inconveniently large for his fingers, and the fiery +opals which adorned his turban (like those in the mineral-room at the +British Museum) shimmered and blazed in such a surprising manner, that +people were obliged to lower their eyes before the light of them. + +“Powerful as well as rich, King Schelim could have anything in the world +he wished for, but—such is the perversity of human nature—he cared very +little for anything except smoking his pipe; of which, to say the truth, +he was so fond, that he would have been well contented to have done +nothing else all day long. It seemed to him the nearest approach to the +sublimest of all ideas of human happiness—the having _nothing to do_. + +“He caused his four sons to be brought up in luxurious ease, his wish for +them being, that they should remain ignorant of pain and sorrow for as +long a period of their lives as was possible. So he built a palace for +them, at the summit of one of his beautiful hills, where nothing +disagreeable or distressing could ever meet their eyes, and he gave +orders to their attendants, that they should never be thwarted in +anything. + +“Every wish of their hearts, therefore, was gratified from their baby +days; but so far from being in consequence the happiest, they were the +most discontented children in his dominions. + +“From the first year of their birth, King Schelim had never been able to +smoke his pipe in peace. There were always messages coming from the +royal nursery to the smoking-room, asking for something fresh for the +four young princes, who were, owing to some mysterious cause, incapable +of enjoying any of their luxurious indulgences for more than a few hours +together. + +“At first these incessant demands for one thing or another for the +children, surprised and annoyed their papa considerably, but by degrees +he got used to it, and took the arrival of the messengers as a matter of +course. + +“The very nurses began it:— + +“‘May it please your Majesty, the young princes, your Majesty’s +incomparable sons—may their shadows never be less!—are tired of their +jewelled rattles, and have thrown them on the floor. Doubtless they +would like India-rubber rings with bells better.’ + +“‘Then get them India-rubber rings with bells,’ was all King Schelim +said, and turned to his pipe again. + +“And so it went on perpetually, until one day it came to,— + +“‘May it please your Majesty, the young princes, your Majesty’s +incomparable sons—may their shadows never be less!—have thrown their +hobbyhorses into the river, and want to have live ponies instead.’ + +“At the first moment the king gave his usual answer, ‘Then get them live +ponies instead,’ from a sort of mechanical habit, but the words were +scarcely uttered when he recalled them. This request awoke even his +sleepy soul out of its smoke-dream, and inquiring into the ages of his +sons, and finding that they were of years to learn as well as to ride, he +dismissed their nurses, placed them in the hands of tutors, and procured +for them the best masters of every description. + +“‘For,’ said he, ‘what saith the proverb? “Kings govern the earth, but +wise men govern kings.” My sons shall be wise as well as kingly, and +then they can govern themselves.’ + +“And after settling this so cleverly, King Schelim resumed his pipe, in +the confident hope, that now, at last, he should smoke it in peace. + +“‘For,’ said he, ‘when my sons shall become wise through learning, they +will be more moderate in their desires.’ + +“I do not know whether his Majesty’s incomparable sons relished this +change from nurses to tutors, but on that particular point they were +allowed no choice; so if they bemoaned themselves in their palace on the +hill, their father knew nothing of it. + +“And to soften the disagreeableness of the restraint which learning +imposes, King Schelim gave more strict orders than ever, that, provided +the young gentlemen only learnt their lessons well, every whim that came +into their heads should be complied with soon as expressed. + +“In spite of all his ingenious arrangements, however, the royal father +did not enjoy the amount of repose he expected. All was quiet enough +during lesson-hours, it is true; but as soon as ever that period had +elapsed, the young princes became as restless as ever. Nay—the older +they grew, the more they wanted, and the less pleased they became with +what was granted. + +“From very early days of the tutorship, the old story began:— + +“‘May it please your Majesty, the young princes, your Majesty’s +incomparable sons—may their shadows never be less!—are tired of their +ponies, and want horses instead.’ + +“The king was a little disappointed at this, and actually laid down his +pipe to talk. + +“‘Is anything the matter with the ponies?’ he asked. + +“‘May it please your Majesty, no; only that your incomparable sons call +them _slow_.’ + +“‘Spirited lads!’ thought the king, quite consoled, and gave the answer +as usual:— + +“‘Then get them horses instead.’ But when only a few days afterwards he +was informed that his incomparable sons had wearied of their horses, +because they also were ‘slow,’ and wished to ride on elephants instead, +his Majesty began to feel disturbed in mind, and wonder what would come +next, and how it was that the teaching of the tutors did not make his +sons more moderate in their desires. + +“‘Nevertheless,’ said he, ‘what saith the proverb, “Thou a man, and +lackest patience?” And again, + + “Early ripe, early rotten, + Early wise, soon forgotten.” + +My sons are but children yet.’ + +“After which reflection he returned to his pipe as before, and disturbed +himself as little as possible, when messenger after messenger arrived, to +announce the fresh vagaries of the young princes. + +“It is impossible to enumerate all the luxuries, amusements, and +delights, they asked for, obtained, and wearied of during several years. +But the longer it went on, the more hardened and indifferent their father +became. + +“‘For,’ said he, ‘what saith the proverb? “The longest lane turns at +last.” At last my sons will have everything man can wish for, and then +they will cease from asking, and I shall smoke my pipe in peace.’ + +“One day, however, the messenger entered the royal smoking-room in a +greater hurry than ever, and was about to commence his usual elaborate +peroration respecting the incomparable sons, when his Majesty held up his +hand to stop him, and called out:— + +“‘What is it now?’ + +“‘May it please your Majesty, your Majesty’s in—’ + +“‘What is it they _want_?’ cried the king, interrupting him. + +“‘May it please your Majesty, _something to do_.’ + +“‘Something to do?’ repeated the perplexed king of the hills; ‘something +to do, when half the riches of my empire have been expended upon +providing them with the means of doing everything in the world that was +delightful to the soul of man? + +“‘Surely, oh son of a dog, thou art laughing at my beard, to come to me +with such a message from my sons.’ + +“‘Nevertheless, may it please your Majesty, I have spoken but the truth. +Your Majesty’s in—’ + +“‘Hush with that nonsense,’ interrupted the king. + +“‘Your Majesty’s sons, in fact, then, have sickened and pined for three +mortal days, because they have got _nothing to do_.’ + +“‘Now, then, my sons are mad!’ exclaimed poor King Schelim, laying down +his pipe, and rising from his recumbent position; ‘and it is time that I +bestir myself.’ + +“And thereupon he summoned his attendants, and sent for the royal Hakim, +that is to say, physician; and the most learned and experienced Dervish, +that is to say, religious teacher of the neighbourhood. + +“‘For,’ said he, ‘who knows whether this sickness is of the body or the +soul?’ + +“And having explained to them how he had brought up his children, the +indulgences with which he had surrounded them, the learning which he had +had instilled into them, and the way in which he had preserved them from +every annoying sight and sound, he concluded:— + +“‘What more could I have done for the happiness of my children than I +have done, and how is it that their reason has departed from them, so +that they are at a loss for something to do? Speak one or other of you +and explain.’ + +“Then the Dervish stepped forward, and opening his mouth, began to make +answer. + +“‘And,’ said he, ‘oh King of the Hills, in the bringing up of thy sons, +surely thou hast forgotten the proverb which saith, “He that would know +good manners, let him learn them from him who hath them not.” For even +so may the wise man say of happiness, “He that would know he is happy, +must learn it from him who is not.” But again, doth not another proverb +say, “Will thy candle burn less brightly for lighting mine?” Wherefore +the happiness which a man has, when he has discovered it, he is bound to +impart to those that have it not. Have I spoken well?’ + +“Then King and the Hakim declared he had spoken remarkably well; +nevertheless I am by no means sure that King Schelim knew what he meant. +Whereupon the Dervish offered to go at once to the four incomparable +princes, and cure them of their madness in supposing they had nothing to +do, and King Schelim in great delight, and thoroughly glad to be rid of +the trouble, told him that he placed his sons entirely in his hands; then +taking him aside, he addressed to him a parting word in confidence. + +“‘Thou knowest, oh wise Dervish, that I have had no education myself, and +therefore, as the proverb hath it, “To say _I don’t know_, is the comfort +of my life,” yet what better is a learned man than a fool, if he comes +but to this conclusion at last? See thou restore wisdom and something to +do to the souls of my sons.’ + +“Which the Dervish promised to accomplish, accordingly in company with +the Hakim, he betook himself to the palace of the four princes, his +Majesty’s incomparable sons. + +“Well, in spite of all they had heard, both the Dervish and Hakim were +surprised at what they really found at the palace of the four princes. + +“It was as if everything that human ingenuity could devise for the +gratification, amusement, and occupation both of body and mind had been +here brought together. Horses, elephants, chariots, creatures of every +description, for hunting, riding, driving, and all sorts of sport were +there, countless in numbers, and perfect in kind. Gardens, +pleasure-grounds, woods, flowers, birds, and fountains, to delight the +eye and ear; while within the palace were sources of still deeper +enjoyment. The songs of the poets and the wisdom of the ancients reposed +there upon golden shelves. Musicians held themselves in readiness to +pour exquisite melodies upon the air; games, exercises, in-door sports in +every variety could be commanded in a moment, and attendants waited in +all directions to fulfil their young masters’ will. + +“The poor old Dervish and Hakim looked at each other in fresh amazement +at every step they took, and neither of them could find a proverb to fit +so extraordinary a case. + +“At last, after a long walk through chambers and anti-chambers without +end, hung round with mirrors and ornaments, they reached the apartment of +the young princes, where they found the four incomparable creatures +lounging on four ottomans, sighing their hearts out, because they had +‘nothing to do.’ + +“As the door opened, the eldest prince glanced languidly round, and +inquired if the messenger had returned from their father, and being +answered that the Dervish and Hakim, who now stood before him, were +messengers from their father, he called out to know if the old gentleman +had sent them anything to do! + +“‘The king, your father’s spirit is disturbed with anxiety,’ answered the +Dervish, ‘lest some sudden calamity should have deprived his sons of the +use of their limbs or their senses, or lest their attendants should have +failed to provide them with everything the earth affords delightful to +the soul of man.’ + +“‘The king, our father’s spirit is disturbed with smoke,’ replied the +eldest prince, ‘or he never would have sent such an old fellow as you +with such an answer as that. What’s the use of the use of one’s limbs, +or one’s senses, or all the earth affords delightful to the soul of man, +if we’re sick of it all? Just go back and tell him we’ve got everything, +and are sick of everything, and can do everything, and don’t care to do +anything, because everything is so ‘slow;’ so we will trouble him to find +us something fresh to do. There! is that clear enough, old gentleman?’ + +“‘The king, your father,’ answered the Dervish, ‘has provided against +even that emergency; I am come to tell you of something fresh to see and +to do.’ + +“No sooner had the Dervish uttered these words, than the four princes +jumped up from the ottoman in the most lively and vigorous manner, and +clamoured to know what it was, expressing their hope that it was a ‘jolly +lark.’ + +“In answer to which the Dervish, lifting himself up in a commanding +manner, stretched out his arm, and exclaimed, in a solemn voice:— + +“‘Young men, you have exhausted happiness. Nothing new remains in the +world for you, but misery and want. Follow me!’ + +“There was something so unusual about the tone of this address, and it +was uttered in so imposing a manner, that the young princes were, as it +were, taken by storm, and they followed the Dervish and Hakim, without a +word of inquiry or objection. + +“And he led them away from the palace on the beautiful hill—away from all +the sights and sounds that were collected together there to delight the +soul of man with both bodily and intellectual enjoyment—down into the +city in the valley, among the close-packed habitations of common men, +congregated there to labour, and just exist, and then die. + +“And presently the Dervish and the Hakim spoke together, and then the +Hakim led the way through a gloomy by-street, till he came to a +habitation into which he entered, and the rest followed without a word. +And there, stretched upon a pallet, wasted and worn with pain, lay a +youth scarcely older than the young princes themselves, the lower part of +whose body was wrapped round with bandages, and who was unable to move. + +“The Hakim proceeded at once to unloosen the fastenings, and to examine +the limbs of the sufferer. They had been crushed by a frightful +accident, while working for his daily bread, in the quarries of marble +near the palace on the hill. + +“‘Is there no hope, my father?’ he ejaculated in agony as the bruised +thighs were exposed to the light, revealing a spectacle from which the +princes turned horrified away. + +“But the Dervish stood between them and the door, and motioned them back. + +“‘Is there no hope?’ repeated the youth. ‘Shall I never again tread the +earth in the freedom of health and strength? never again climb the +mountain-side to taste the sweet breath of heaven? never again even step +across this narrow room, to look forth into the narrow street?’ + +“Sobs of distress here broke from the speaker; and, covering his face +with his hands, he awaited the Hakim’s reply. But while the latter bent +down to whisper his answer, the Dervish addressed himself to the +trembling princes:— + +“‘Learn here, at last,’ said he, ‘the value of those limbs, the power of +using which you look upon with such thankless indifference. As it is +with this youth to-day, so may it be with you to-morrow, if the decree +goes forth from on high. Bid me not again return to your father to tell +him you are weary of a blessing, the loss of which would overwhelm you +with despair.’ + +“The young princes,” continued Aunt Judy, were, as their father had said, +but children yet; that is to say, although they were fourteen or fifteen +years old, they were childish, in not having reflected or learnt to +reason. But they were not hard-hearted at bottom. Their tenderness for +others had never been called out during their life of self-indulgence, +but the sight of this young man’s condition, whom they personally knew as +one who had at times been permitted to come up and join in their games, +over-powered them with dismay. + +“They entreated the Hakim to say if nothing could be done, and when he +told them that a nurse, and better food, and the discourse of a wise +companion, were all essential for the recovery of the patient, there was +not, to say the truth, one among them who was not ready with promises of +assistance, and even offers of personal help. + +“And now, bidding adieu to this youthful sufferer, whose distress seemed +to receive a sudden calm from the sympathy the young princes betrayed, +the Hakim led the way to another part of the town, where he entered a +house of rather better description, in a small room of which they found a +pale, middle-aged man, who was engaged in making a coarse sort of netting +for trees. Hearing the noise of the entrance, he looked up, and asked +who it was, but with no change of countenance, or apparent recognition of +anyone there. But as soon as the Hakim had uttered the words ‘It is I,’ +a gleam of delight stole over the pale face, and the man, rising from his +chair, stretched out his arms to the Hakim, entreating him to approach. + +“And then the young princes saw that the pale man was blind. + +“‘Is there any change, oh Cassian?’ inquired the Hakim, kindly. + +“‘None, my father,’ answered the blind man, in a subdued tone. ‘But +shall I murmur at what is appointed? Surely not in vain was the +privilege granted me, of transcribing the manuscripts which repose on the +golden shelves in the palace of the royal princes. Surely not in vain +did I gather, from the treasures of ancient wisdom, and the divine songs +of the poets, sources of consolation for the suffering children of men.’ + +“‘And has anyone been of late to read to you?’ asked the Hakim. + +“But this inquiry the blind man seemed scarcely able to answer. Big +tears gathered into the sightless eyes, and folding his hands across his +bosom, he murmured out:— + +“‘None, oh my father. Not to everyone is it permitted to trace the +characters of light in which the wise have recorded their wisdom. I +alone of my family knew the secret. I alone suffer now. But shall I not +submit to this also with a cheerful spirit? It is written, and it +behoves me to submit.’ + +“And, with tears streaming over his cheeks, the blind man took up the +netting which he had laid aside, and forced himself to the work. + +“‘Seest thou!’ exclaimed the Dervish, turning to the prince who stood +next him, apparently absorbed in contemplating the scene. ‘Seest thou +how precious are the powers thou hast wearied of in the spring-time of +life? How dear are the opportunities thou hast not cared to delight in? +Bid me not again return to the king, your father, to tell him his sons +can find no pleasure in blessings, the deprivation of which they +themselves would feel to be the shutting out of the sun from the soul.’ + +“Then the young prince to whom the Dervish addressed himself, wept +bitterly, and begged to be allowed to visit the blind man from time to +time, and read to him out of the manuscripts that reposed on the golden +shelves in the palace on the hill; and which, he now learnt for the first +time, had been transcribed for his use, and that of his brothers, by the +skill of the sufferer before him. + +“And when the blind man clasped his hands over his head, and would have +prostrated himself on the ground, in gratitude to him who spoke, asking +who the charitable pitier of the afflicted could be, the prince embraced +him as if he had been his brother, forced him back gently into his seat, +and bidding him await him at that hour on the morrow, followed the Hakim +from the house. + +“And now the Dervish and Hakim spoke together once again, and the place +they visited next was of a very different description. + +“Enclosed within walls, and limited in extent, because in the outskirts +of a populous town, the garden into which they presently entered, +was—though but as a drop in comparison with the ocean—no unworthy rival +of the gorgeous pleasure-grounds of the palace. There, too, the roses +unfolded themselves in their glory to the sun, tiny fountains scattered +their cooling spray around, and singing-birds, suspended on overshadowing +trees, of this scene of miniature beauty a venerable was perceived, +seated under the shadow of an arbour, in front of a table on which were +scattered manuscripts, papers, parchments, and dried plants, and in one +corner of which were laid a set of tablets and writing materials. + +“Although the door by which they entered had fallen to, with a noise as +they passed through, the old man did not seem to be aware of it, nor did +he notice their presence until they came so near, that their shadows fell +on some of the papers on the table. Then, indeed, he looked suddenly up, +and with a smile and gesture of delight, bade them welcome. + +“It was not difficult to divine that the old man had lost the sense of +hearing, and the Dervish, taking up the tablets from the table, wrote +upon them the following words, which he showed to the young princes, +before presenting them to him for whom they were intended:— + +“‘Hast thou not wearied yet, oh brother, of thy narrow garden, and the +ever-recurring succession of flowers, and thy study of the secrets of +Nature?’ + +“Whereat the deaf man smiled again, and wrote upon the tablets:— + +“‘Can anyone weary of tracing out the skilful providence of the Divine +Mind? Is it not a world within a world, oh my brother, and inexhaustible +in itself?’ + +“The youngest prince pressed forward to read the answer, and having read +it, turned to the Dervish, and said, ‘Ask him why the singing-birds are +suspended in the garden, whose voices he cannot hear.’ + +“‘Write on the tablet, my son,’ said the Dervish; and when he had written +it, the old man answered, in the same manner as before:— + +“‘I would remember my infirmity, my son, lest my soul should be tied to +the beauties of the visible world, but now when I see the twittering +bills of the feathered songsters, I remember that one sense has departed, +and that the others must follow; and I prepare myself for death, trusting +that those who have rejoiced in the Divine Mind—however imperfectly—here, +may rejoice yet more hereafter, when no sense or power shall be wanting!’ + +“After this, the venerable old man led them to a secluded corner of the +garden, where his young son was instructing one portion of a class of +children from the secrets of his father’s manuscripts, while another set +of youngsters were engaged in cultivating flowers, by regular instruction +and rule. Many a bright, cheerful face looked up at the old man and his +visitors as they passed, but no one seemed to wish to leave his work, or +his lesson, or the kind young tutor who ruled among them. + +“‘We have wasted our lives, oh my father!’ exclaimed the young princes, +as they passed from this sight. ‘Tell us, may we not come back again +here, to learn true wisdom from this man and his son?’ + +“Having obtained the old man’s willing consent to his, the Hakim retiring +conducted his companions back into the streets; and the young princes, +whose eyes were now opened to the instruction they were receiving, came +up to the Dervish, and said:— + +“‘Oh, wise Dervish, we have learnt the lesson you would teach, and we +know now that it is but a folly, and a mockery, and a lie, when a man +says that he has nothing to do. There is enough to do for all men, if +their minds are directed right! Have I not spoken well?’ + +“‘Thou hast spoken well according to thy knowledge,’ answered the +Dervish, ‘but thou hast yet another lesson to learn.’ + +“The prince was silenced, and the Dervish and Hakim hurried forward to a +still different part of the city, where several trades were carried on, +and where in one place they came upon an open square, about which a +number of gaunt, wild-looking men, were lounging or sitting; unoccupied, +listless, and sad. + +“‘This is wrong, my father, is it not?’ inquired one of the princes; but +the Dervish, instead of answering him, addressed a man who was standing +somewhat apart from the others, and inquired why he was loitering there +in idleness, instead of occupying himself in some honest manner? + +“The man laughed a bitter mocking laugh, and turning to his companions, +shouted out, ‘Hear what the wise man asks! When trade has failed, and no +one wants our labour, he asks us why we stand idling here!’ Then, facing +the Dervish, he continued, ‘Do you not know, can you not see, oh teacher +of the blind, that we have got _nothing to do_?—_Nothing to do_!’ he +repeated with a loud cry—‘_Nothing to do_! with hearts willing to work, +and hands able to work,’—(here he stretched out his bared, muscular arm +to the Dervish,)—‘and wife and children calling out for food! Give us +_something to do_, thou preacher of virtue and industry,’ he concluded, +throwing himself on the ground in anguish; ‘or, at any rate, cease to +mock us with the solemn inquiry of a fool.’ + +“‘Oh, my father, my father,’ cried the young princes, pressing forward, +‘this is the worst, the very worst of all! All things can be borne, but +this dire reality of having _nothing to do_. Let us find them something +to do. Let us tear up our gardens, plough up our lawns, and +pleasure-grounds, so that we do but find work for these men, and save +their children and wives from hunger.’ + +“‘And themselves from crime,’ added the Dervish solemnly. Then quitting +his companions, he went into the crowd of men, and made known to them in +a few hurried words, that, by the order of their young princes, there +would, before another day had dawned, be something found to do for them +all. + +“The cheer of gratitude which followed this announcement, thrilled +through the heart of those who had been enabled to offer the boon, and so +overpowered them, that, after a liberal distribution of coin to the +necessitous labourers, they gladly hurried away. + +“‘Now my task is ended,’ cried the Dervish, as they retraced their steps +to the palace on the hill. ‘My sons, you have seen the sacred sorrow +which may attach to the bitter complaint of having _Nothing to do_. +Henceforth seal your lips over the words, for, in all other cases but +this, they are, as you yourselves have said, a folly, a mockery, and a +lie.’ + +“It is scarcely necessary to add,” continued Aunt Judy, “that the young +princes returned to the palace in a very different state of mind from +that in which they left it. They had now so many things to do in +prospect, so much to plan and inquire about, that when the night closed +upon them, they wondered how the day had gone, and grudged the necessary +hours of sleep. But on the morrow, just as they were eagerly +recommencing their left-off consultations, the Dervish appeared among +them, and suggested that their first duty still remained unthought of. + +“The incomparable sons were now really surprised, for they had been +flattering themselves they were most laudably employed. But the Dervish +reminded them, that, although their duty to mankind in general was great, +their duty to their father in particular was yet greater, and that it +behoved them to set his mind at rest, by assuring him, that henceforth +they would not prevent him from smoking his pipe in peace, by restless +discontent, and disturbing messages and wants. + +“To this the young princes readily agreed, and thoroughly ashamed, on +reflection, of the years of harass with which they, in their thoughtless +ingratitude, had worried poor King Schelim, they repaired to his +presence, and without entering into unnecessary explanations, (which he +would not have understood,) assured him that they were perfectly happy, +that they had got plenty to do, as well as everything to enjoy, that they +were very sorry they had tormented him for so long a period of his life, +but that they begged to be forgiven, and would never do so again! + +“King Schelim was uncommonly pleased with what they said, although he had +to lay down his pipe for a few minutes to receive their salutations, and +give his in return; after which they returned to their palace on the +hill, and led thenceforward useful, intelligent, and therefore happy +lives, reforming grievances, consoling sorrows, and taking particular +care that everybody had the opportunity of having _something to do_. + +“And as they never again disturbed their father King Schelim, with +foolish messages, he smoked his pipe in peace to the end of his days.” + +“Nice old Schelim!” observed No. 8, when Aunt Judy’s pause showed that +the story was done. A conclusion which made the other little ones laugh; +but now Aunt Judy spoke again. + +“You like the story, all of you?” + +Could there be a doubt about it? No! “Schelim, King of the Hills, and +his four sons,” was one of Aunt Judy’s very, very, very, best inventions. +But they had the happy knack of always thinking so of the last they +heard. + +“And yet there is a flaw in it,” said Aunt Judy. + +“Aunt Judy!” exclaimed several voices at once, in a tone of +expostulation. + +“Yes; I mean in the moral:” pursued she, “there is no Christianity in the +teaching, and therefore it is not perfect, although it is all very good +as far as it goes.” + +“But they were eastern people, and I suppose Mahometans or Brahmins,” +suggested No. 4. + +“Exactly; and, therefore, I could not give them Christian principles; +and, therefore, although I have made my four princes turn out very well, +and do what was right, for the rest of their lives (as I had a right to +do); yet it is only proper I should explain, that I do not believe any +people can be _depended upon_ for doing right, except when they live upon +Christian principles, and are helped by the grace of God, to fulfil His +will, as revealed to us by His Son Jesus Christ. + +“Certainly it is always more _reasonable_ to do right than wrong, even +when the wrong may seem most pleasant at the moment; because, as all +people of sense know, doing right is most for their own happiness, as +well as for everybody else’s, even in this world. + +“But although the knowledge of this may influence us when we are in a +sober enough state of mind to think about it calmly, the inducement is +not a sufficiently strong one to be relied upon as a safe-guard, when +storms of passion and strong temptations come upon us. In such cases it +very often goes for nothing, and then it is a perfect chance which way a +person acts. + +“Even in the matter of doing good to others, we need the Christian +principle as our motive, or we may be often tempted to give it up, or +even to be as cruel at some moments, as we are kind at others. It is +very pleasant, no doubt, to do good, and be charitable, when the feeling +comes into the heart, but the mere pleasure is apt to cease, if we find +people thankless or stupid, and that our labours seem to have been in +vain. And what a temptation there is, then, to turn away in disgust, +unless we are acting upon Christ’s commands, and can bear in mind, that +even when the pleasure ends, the duty remains. + +“And now,” said Aunt Judy in conclusion, “a kiss for the story-teller all +round, if you please. She has had an invitation, and is going from home +to-morrow.” + +“Oh, Aunt Judy!” ejaculated the little ones, in not the most cheerful of +tones. + +“Well,” cried Aunt Judy, looking at them and laughing, “you don’t mean to +say that you will not find _plenty to do_, and _plenty to enjoy_ while I +am away? Come, I mean to write to you all by turns, and I shall inquire +in my letters whether you have remembered, _to your edification_, the +story of Schelim, King of the Hills, and his four sons.” + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{47} “Weide,” pasture, grass. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUNT JUDY'S TALES*** + + +******* This file should be named 5074-0.txt or 5074-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/0/7/5074 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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