"The children think they'll climb a tree."
It was a very happy little Ted that trotted upstairs to the nursery with the "bootly boo boots" and the more modest little black shoes for tiny Narcissa.
"See what Ted has brought thoo," he said, kissing his baby sister with the pretty tenderness he always showed her, "and see what muzzer has gaveme," he went on, turning to nurse with another parcel. In his excitement he didn't know which to unfasten first, and baby had got hold of one of the black shoes, fortunately not the blue ones, and was sucking it vigorously before Ted and nurse saw what she was doing.
"Isn'tshe pleased?" said Ted, delightedly. Baby must be very pleased with her new possessions, to try toeatthem, he thought. And then he had time to examine and admire his own present. It was a delightful one—a book, a nice old-fashioned fat book of all the old nursery rhymes, and filled with pictures too. And Ted's pride was great when here and there he could make out a word or two. Thanks to the pictures, to his own good memory, and the patience of all the big people about him, it was not long before he could say nearly all of them. And so a new pleasure was added to these happy summer days, and to many a winter evening to come.
That night when Ted was going to bed he said his prayers as usual at his mother's knee.
"Make me a good little boy," he said, and then when he had ended he jumped up for his good-night kiss, with a beaming face.
"I sink Godhasmade me good, muzzer?" he said.
"Do you, dear? I hope He ismakingyou so," she answered. "But what makes you say so?"
"'Cos Ifeelso happy and so good," said Ted, "and thoo said I was good to-day when thoo kissed me. And oh,mayI take my sprendid hymn-book to bed wif me?"
And with the ancient legends of Jack and Jill and Little Boy Blue, and Margery Daw, safely under his pillow, happy Ted fell asleep. I wonder if he dreamt of them! What a pity that so much of the pretty fancies and visions of little childhood are lost to us! What quaint pictures they would make. What a heavy burdenshouldlie on the consciences of those who, by careless words or unconsidered tone, destroy the lovely tenderness of little children's dreams and conceits, rub off the bloom of baby poetry!
I could tell you, dear little friends, many pretty stories of Ted and his tiny sister during the first sunny year of little Narcissa's life, but I daresay it may be more interesting to you to hear more of these children as they grow older. The day-by-day life of simple happy little people is, I trust, familiar to you all, and as I want you toknowmy boy Ted, to think of him through your own childhood as a friend and companion, I must not take up too much of the little book, so quickly filled, with the first years only of his life. And these had now come to an end—a change, to Ted a great and wonderful change, happened about this time. Before little Cissy had learnt to run alone, before Ted had mastered the longest words in his precious "hymn-book," these little people had to leave their beautiful mountain home. One day when the world was looking pensive and sad in its autumn dress, the good-byes had to be said—good-bye to the garden and Ted's shaky bridge; good-bye to old David; and alas! good-bye to Cheviott's grave, all that was left of the faithful old collie to say good-bye to; good-bye to the far-off murmur of the sea and the silent mountain that little Ted had once been so afraid of; good-bye to all of the dear old home, where Ted's blue cart was left forgotten under a tree, where the birds went on singing and chirping as if there were no such things as good-byes in the world—and Ted and Cissy were driven away to a new home, and the oft-told stories of their first one were all that was left of it to their childish minds.
A good many hours' journey from the mountains and the sea near which these children had spent their first happy years, in quite another corner of England, there is to be found a beautiful, quiet old town. It is beautiful from its position, for it stands on rising ground; a fine old river flows round the feet of its castle rock, and on the other side are to be seen high cliffs with pleasant winding paths, sometimes descending close to the water's edge, and it is beautiful in itself. For the castle is such a castle as is not to be met with many times in one's life. It has taken centuries of repose after the stormy scenes it lived through in the long-ago days to make it what it now is—a venerable old giant among its fellows, grim and solemn yet with a dreamy peacefulness about it, that has a wonderful charm. As you cross the unused drawbridge and your footsteps sink in the mossy grass of the great courtyard, it would not be difficult to fancy you were about to enter the castle of the sleeping-beauty of the dear old fairy-tale—so still and dream-like it seems, so strange it is to picture to one's fancy the now grass-grown keep with the din and clang of horsemen and men-at-arms that it must once have known. And near by is a grand old church, solemn and silent too, but differently so from its twin-brother the castle. The one is like a warrior resting after his battles, thinking sadly of the wild scenes he has seen and taken part in; the other like a holy man of old, silent and solemn too, but with the weight of human sorrows and anxieties that have been confided to him, yet ever ready to sympathise and to point upwards with a hope that never fails.
These at least were the feelings that the sight of the old church and the old castle gaveme, children dear. I don't suppose Ted thought of them in this way when he first made their acquaintance, and yet I don't know. He might not have been able to say much of what he felt, he was such a little fellow. But hedidfeel, and in a way that was strange and new, and nearly took his breath away the first time he entered the beautiful old church, walking quietly up the aisle behind his father, his little hat in his hand, gazing up with his earnest eyes at the mysterious stretch of the lofty roof. "O mother," he said, when he went home, "when I am big I will always like thehighchurch best." And when the clear ringing chimes burst forth, as they did with ever-fresh beauty four times a day, sounding to the baby fancy as if they came straight down from heaven, it was all Ted could do not to burst into tears, as he had done that summer day when Mabel had sung "Home, sweet home" in the mountain-gorge.
For it was in this old town, with its church and castle and quaint streets, where some of the houses are still painted black and white, and others lean forward in the top stories as if they wanted to kiss each other; where the front doors mostly open right on to the street, and you come upon the dear old gardens as a sort of delicious surprise at the back; where each turn as you walk about these same old streets gives you a new peep, more delightful than the last, of the river or the cliffs or the far distant hills with their tender lights and shadows; where, on market days the country people come trooping in with their poultry and butter and eggs, with here and there a scarlet cloak among them, the coming and going giving the old High Street the look almost of a foreign town;—here in this dear old place little Ted took root again, and learned to love his new home so much that he forgot to pine for the mountains and the sea. And, here, some years after we said good-bye to them as they drove away from the pretty house in the garden, we find them again—Ted, a big boy of nine or ten, Cissy looking perhaps older than she really was, so bright and hearty and capable a little maiden had she become.
They are in the garden, the dear garden that was as delightful a playing place as children could have, though quite, quite different from the first one you saw Ted in. There it was all ups and downs, lying as it did on the side of a hill; here the paths are on flat ground, though some are zigzaggy of course, as the little paths in an interesting garden always should be; while besides these, some fine broad ones run straight from one end to another, making splendid highroads for drives in wheelbarrows or toy-carts. And in this garden too the trees are high and well grown, and plenty of them. It was just the place for hide and seek or "I spy."
Ted and Cissy have been working at their gardens.
"Oh dear," said the little girl, throwing down her tiny rake and hoe, "Cissyisso tired. And the f'owers won't grow if they isn't planted kick. Cissy is so fond of f'owers."
"So am I," said Ted, "but girls are so quickly tired. It's no good their trying to garden."
Cissy looked rather disconsolate.
"Boys shouldn't have all the f'owers," she said. "Zoo's not a summer child, Ted, zoo's a Kismas child. Zoo should have snow, and Cissy should have f'owers."
She looked at her brother rather mischievously as she said this.
"As it happens, Miss Cissy," said Ted, "there wasn't any snow the Christmas I was born. Mother told me so. And any way, if you liked snowballs I'd let you have them, so I don't see why I shouldn't have flowers."
Cissy threw her arms round Ted's neck and kissed him. "Poor Ted," she said, "zoo shall have f'owers. But Cissy won't have any in her garden if zey isn't planted kick."
"Well, never mind. I'll help you," said Ted; "as soon as I've done my lessons this evening, I'll work in your garden."
"Zank zoo,dearTed," said Cissy rapturously, and a new hugging ensued, which Ted submitted to with a good grace, though lately it had dawned on him that he was getting rather too big for kissing.
The children's "gardens" were just under the wall that skirted their father's real garden. On the other side of this wall ran the highroad, and the lively sights and sounds to be heard and seen from the top of this same wall made the position of their own bit of ground greatly to their liking. Only the getting on to the wall! There was the difficulty. For Ted it was not so tremendous.Hecould clamber up by the help of niches which he had managed to make for his feet here and there between the stones, and the consequent destruction to trousers and stockings had never as yet occurred to his boyish mind. But Cissy—poor Cissy! it was quite impossible to getherup on to the wall, and for some time an ambitious project had been taking shape in Ted's brain.
"Cissy," he said, when he was released, "it's no good beginning working at your garden now. We have to go in in ten minutes. I'm going up on the wall for a few minutes. You stay there, and I'll call down to you all I see."
"O Ted," said Cissy, "IwissI could climb up the wall too."
"I know you do," said Ted. "I've been thinking about that. Wait till I get up, and I'll tell you about it."
Full of faith in Ted's wisdom, little Cissy sat down by the roots of a great elm-tree which stood in her brother's domain. "My tree" Ted had always called it, and it was one of the charms of his property.Itwas not difficult to climb, even Cissy could be hoisted some way up—to the level of top of the wall indeed, without difficulty, but unfortunately between the tree and the wall there was a space, too wide to cross. And even when the right level was reached, it was too far back to see on to the road.
"If only the tree grew close to the wall," Ted had often said to himself; and now as Cissy sat down below wondering what Ted was going to do, his quick eyes were examining all about to see if a plan that had struck him would be possible.
"Cissy," he cried suddenly, and Cissy started to her feet. "Oh what, Ted?" she cried.
"I see how it could be done. If I had a plank of wood I could fasten it to the tree on one side, and—and—I could findsomeway if I tried, of fastening it to the wall on the other, and then I could pull the branches down a little—they're nearly down far enough, to make a sort of back to the seat, and oh, Cissy, it would be such a lovely place! We could both sit on it, and see all that passed. I'll tell you what I'm seeing now. There's a man with a wheelbarrow just passing, and such a queer little dog running beside, and farther off there's a boy with a basket, and two girls, and one of them's carrying a baby, and—yes there's a cart and horse coming—awfully fast. I do believe the horse is running away. No, he's pulled it up, and——"
"O Ted," said Cissy, clasping her hands, "howlovelyit must be! O Ted, do come down and be kick about making the place for me, for Cissy."
Just then the dinner-bell rang. Ted began his descent, Cissy eagerly awaiting him. She took his hand and trotted along beside him.
"Dozoo think zoo can do it, Ted?" she said.
"I must see about the wood first," said Ted, not without a little importance in his tone; "I think there's some pieces in the coach-house that would do."
At luncheon the big people, of whom there were several, for some uncles and aunts had been staying with the children's father and mother lately, noticed that Ted and Cissy looked very eager about something.
"What have you been doing with yourselves, you little people, this morning?" said one of the aunties kindly.
Cissy was about to answer, but a glance from Ted made her shut tight her little mouth again. There must be some reason for it—perhaps this delightful plan was to be a secret, for her faith in Ted was unbounded.
"We've been in the garden, inourgardens," Ted replied.
"Digging up the plants to see if they were growing—eh?" said an uncle who liked to tease a little sometimes.
Ted didn't mind teasing. He only laughed. Cissy looked a little, a very little offended. She didnotlike teasing, and she specially disliked any one teasing her dear Ted. Her face grew a little red.
"Ted knows about f'owers bootilly," she said; "Ted knows lots of things."
"Cissy!" said Ted, whose turn it was now to grow a little red, but Cissy maintained her ground.
"Ses," she said. "Ted does."
"Ted's to grow up a very clever man, isn't he, Cissy?" said her father encouragingly—"as clever asUncleTed here."
"Oh no," the little fellow replied, blushing still more, for Ted never put himself forward so as to be noticed; "I never could be that. Uncle Ted writes books with lots of counting and stick-sticks in them and——"
"Lots ofwhat?" asked his uncle.
"Stick-sticks," said Ted simply. "I don't know what it means, but mother told me it was a sort of counting—like how many days in a year were fine and how many rainy."
"Or how many old women with baskets, and how many without, passed down the road this morning—eh, Ted?" said his other uncle, laughing heartily.
"Yes, I suppose so," said Ted. "Are stick-sticks any good?" he inquired, consideringly.
"It's to be hoped so," said Uncle Ted.
A bright idea struck the little fellow. He must talk it over with Cissy. If only that delightful seat between the tree and the wall was arrangedtheymight make "stick-sticks"! What fun, and how pleased Uncle Ted would be! Already Ted's active brain began to plan it all. They should have a nice big ruled sheet of paper and divide it into rows, as for columns of sums: one row should be for horses alone, and one for horses with carts, and one for people, and one for children, and another for dogs, and another for wheelbarrows perhaps. And then sometimes donkeys passed, and now and then pigs even, on their way to market—yes, a lot of rows would be needed. And at the top of the paper he would write in nice big letters "stick"—no, mother would tell him how to write it nicely, he knew that wasn't quite the real word, mother would spell it for him: "St—something—of what passed the tree." It would be almost like writing a book.
He was so eager about it that he could hardly finish his dinner. For a great deal was involved in his plan, as you shall hear.
In the first place, it became evident to him after an examination of the bits of wood in the unused coach-house, that there was nothing there that would do. He could get a nice little plank, a plank that would not scratch poor Cissy's legs or tear her frocks, from the carpenter, but then it would cost money, for Ted had gained some worldly wisdom since the days when he thought the kind shopkeepers spread out their wares for everybody to help themselves as they liked. And Ted was rather short of money, and Ted was of rather an independent spirit. He would much prefer not asking mother for any. The seat in the tree would be twice as nice if he could manage it all his own self, as Cissy would say.
Ted thought it all over a great deal, and talked about it to Cissy. It was a good thing, they agreed, that it was holiday-time just now, even though Ted had every daysomelessons to do. And though Cissy was very little, it was, after all, she who thought of a plan for gaining some money, as you shall hear.
Some few times in their lives Ted and Cissy had seen Punch and Judy, and most delightful they thought it. Perhaps I am wrong in saying Cissy had seen it more than once, butTedhad, and he used to amuse Cissy by acting it over to please her. And I think it was from this that her idea came.
"Appose, Ted," she said the next day when they were out in the garden having a great consultation—"appose we make a show, and all the big people would give us pennies."
Ted considered for a minute. They were standing, Cissy and he, by the railing which at one side of their father's pretty garden divided it from some lovely fields, where sheep, with their dear little lambs skipping about beside them, were feeding. Far in the distance rose the soft blue outlines of a lofty hill, "our precious hill" Ted's mother used to call it, and indeed it was almost worthy of the name of mountain, and for this she valued it still more, as it seemed to her like a reminder of the mountain home she had loved so dearly. Ted's glance fell on it, and it carried back his thoughts to the mountain of his babyhood and the ogre stories mixed up with it in his mind. And then his thoughts went wandering away to his old "hymn book," still in a place of honour in his bookshelves, and to the fairy stories at the end of it—Cinderella and the others. He turned to Cissy with a beaming face.
"I'll tell you what we'll do, Cis," he said; "we'll have a show of Beauty and the Beast. What a good idea it was of yours, Cis, to have a show."
Cissy wasgreatlyflattered. Only she didn't quite like the idea of her dear Ted being the Beast. But when Ted reminded her that the Beast wasreallyso good and kind, she grew satisfied.
"And how awfully pleased Percy will be when he comes to see the seat,won'the?" said Ted. And this thought reconciled him to what hitherto had been rather a grief to him—that Percy's holidays were shorter and fell later in the season than his.
You can imagine, children, better than I could tell what a bustle and fuss Ted and Cissy were in all that day. They looked so important, Ted's eyes were so bright, and Cissy's little mouth shut close in such a dignified way, that the big people must have beenverystupid big people not to suspect something out of the common. But as they were very kind big people, and as they understood children and children's ways, they took care not to seem as if they did notice, and Mabel and her sister, who were also of the home party, even helped Cissy to stitch up an old muslin window curtain in a wonderful way for Beauty's dress, without making any indiscreet remarks. At which little Cissy greatly rejoiced. "Wasn'tI clever not to let zoo find out?" she said afterwards, with immense satisfaction.
Late that evening—late for the children that is to say—about seven o'clock, for Cissy had got leave to sit up an hour longer, there came a ring at the hall bell, and a very funny-looking letter was handed in, which a boy in a muffled voice told the servant was for the ladies and gentlemen, and that she was to tell them the "act" would begin in five minutes "in the theatre hall of the day nursery." The parlour maid, who (of course!) had not the least idea in the world that the messenger was Master Ted, gravely handed the letter to Miss Mabel, who was the first person she saw, and Mabel hastened to explain to the others that its contents, quarters of old calling-cards with numbers marked on them, were evidently meant to be tickets for the performance. The big people were all much amused, but all of course were quite ready to "assist" at the "act." They thought it better to wait a little more than five minutes before going upstairs to the theatre hall, to give Ted time to get ready before the spectators arrived, not understanding, you see, that all he had to do was to pin his father's rough brown railway rug on, to imitate the Beast. So when they at last all marched upstairs the actors were both ready awaiting them.
He's coming to eat me!"Oh dear, oh dear!" cries Beauty, jumping up in a fright,"he's coming to eat me."Click toENLARGE
There was a row of chairs arranged at one side of the nursery for the visitors, and the hearth-rug, pulled out of its place, with a couple of footstools at each side, served for the stage. Scene first was Miss Beauty sitting in a corner crying, after her father had left her in the Beast's garden.
"He'll eat me up! oh, he'll eat me up!" she sobs out; and then a low growl is heard, and from a corner behind a table where no one had noticed him, a very remarkable-looking shapeless sort of dark brown lump rolls or waddles along the floor.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" cries Beauty, jumping up in a fright, "he's coming to eat me."
"No, I'm not going to eat you, dear Beauty," the growly voice replies; "I'm not going to hurt you, dear Beauty. I've brought you something nice to eat for your tea. I'm sure you must be hungry;" and from somewhere or other the Beast produces a plate with some biscuits, which he humbly lays at her feet and then waddles off again. Beauty nibbles at the biscuits, then murmuring to herself, "He's a very kind Beast," she moves away, her window curtain train sweeping gracefully after her, behind the screen, which is supposed to represent the inside of the Beast's Castle, and where he himself has already disappeared. And this is the end of the first scene, the "act" being divided into two scenes.
The audience all clap their hands in applause.
"Capital!" and "Bravo!" they call out, so that Ted and Cissy feel their cheeks quite red, even behind the screen.
"Let's get it done quick, Cissy," said Ted; "it makes me feel so silly when they call out like that."
And the last scene is hurried on. It is not a very long one. Beauty has been away. She has gone, as everybody knows, on a visit to her old home, and on her return poor Beast is nowhere to be found. At last she discovers him lying quite still in a corner of the garden.
"Oh, poor Beast!" she exclaims, "Cis—Booty, I mean, is so sorry. Oh, poor Beast! I is afraid you is kite deaded, and I do love zoo, poor Beast," at which up jumps poor Beast, Beast no longer, for his rough skin rolls off as if by magic, and lo and behold there is Ted, got up ever so fine, with a scarlet scarf round his waist and an elegant old velvet smoking-cap with a long tassel on his head, and goodness knows what more.
"Oh, you bootiful P'ince," cries Beauty, and then they take hands and bow most politely to the audience, and then in a sudden fit of shamefacedness and shyness, they both scurry off behind the screen, Ted toppling over Cissy's long train on the way, at which there is renewed applause, and great laughter from the actors themselves. But the manager is quite up to his business. "That's all," calls out a little voice from behind the screen; "zoo may all go now, andpay at the door." And sure enough as the big people make their way out, there is Ted in his usual attire standing at the door, with a little basket in his hand, gracefully held out for contributions.
"Why, how did you get here already?" asks his father.
"I slipped round by the other side of the screen while you were all laughing and clapping," says Ted, looking up with a beaming face. And the pennies and sixpennies that find their way into the basket are several. When the actors count up their gains before they go to bed, they are the happy possessors of two shillings and sevenpence. Far more than enough to pay for the wood for the seat in the tree!
"Are they not busy?—the creatures!Wanting to go to their beds?—not they!"
How delightful it was to wake the next morning and to see sparkling in the early sunshine the neat little silver coins, and the big copper ones, laid out in a row on his table! Ted jumped out of bed, not quite so early as he had intended, for he had been up rather later than usual the night before, and by the time he had had his nice cold bath and was dressed, he heard the prayer bell ring, and was only ready to take his seat as usual on a little chair in a corner of the room not far from where his dear old nurse and the other servants were placed. He liked better to sit there, for it gave him somehow a little uncomfortable feeling to see the servants quite by themselves, as it were, so separated from the family, and he had got into the way of sitting between the two sets of seats, and though little Narcissa from her perch on her mother's knee would sometimes smile and nod and beckon to him to come nearer, Ted always kept to his own place. This morning many thoughts were dancing about his brain, and it was a little difficult for him to listen with his usual attention, even though it was one of the chapters he was very fond of, especially when his father read it in his nice clear voice. It was that one about the boy Jesus, staying behind His father and mother to talk with the learned doctors in the temple, and though some part of it puzzled Ted rather, yet he liked to listen and think about it. How frightened that father and mother must have been! How was it that Jesus knew that it was right for Him to stay behind—even though it was without His father's and mother's leave? For other little boys it would have been wrong, but then,—oh yes, of course, Jesus was not like other little boys. If only they, if only he, Ted, could learn to be more likeHim, the one perfect Christmas child! And even the puzzling part of it grew clearer as this unconscious prayer rose out of the innocent heart. For Ted's own father and mother, even if they were frightened for a little, would not bevexedif he did something without their leave that was good and right. Only it was difficult to tell, very difficult—on the whole Ted felt that he understood what his mother told him about being obedient, better than he used. That was what God had given little boys fathers and mothers for, for they, when they were good and wise, could not but know best. When they werenotgood and wise, like the fathers and mothers of some of the poor London street boys he had heard of—oh, how fearful that must be! And then as his own father's voice went on, it all came before Ted like a picture—he had once seen a picture of it, he thought—the first setting-out of old Joseph and the sweet-faced mother, the distress and fear, the delight of finding the Child again, and then the long walk home all together to the carpenter's shop in the narrow Eastern street. And, child-like, Ted's fancy turned again with the association to what was before him this morning.Hewas to go to the carpenter's to choose the wood for the seat in the tree, and oh, how delightful it would be to see it arranged, and how surprised Percy would be, and what beautiful rows of stick-sticks Cissy and he would be able to make to help Uncle Ted. All kinds of pleasant hopes and fancies were racing round Ted's brain again as he knelt down with the others to listen to the prayer that followed the reading. It was not till the murmured chorus of "Our Father," repeated all together at the end, caught his ear, that with a sudden start Ted realised that he had not been listening.
He did feel sorry and ashamed, but he was so happy that morning, the world outside was so bright and sunny, and the people inside so kind and cheerful, as they all sat round the breakfast table, that Ted's self-reproach did not last. And as soon as he had finished the short morning lessons he had to do in the holidays, he got leave from mother to go off to order the plank for the seat.
It turned out a little dearer than he had expected. Two and sevenpence were the funds in hand.
"I could give you a piece of wood for much less of course, sir," said the good-natured carpenter, who was a great ally of Ted's, "but as you explain it to me it needs something more than a bit of wood, else it wouldn't be safe for you and the young lady to sit on;" and then he showed the boy how it should be done, with a small iron bolt driven into the wall and another of a different kind fixed to the tree. "Then," said he, "it will be as safe as safe, and I'll plane you a neat little seat with no splinters or sharp edges to tear Missy's frocks."
Ted was delighted. His quick eye caught at once the carpenter's plan, and he saw how much more satisfactory and complete it would be than the rough idea he had had at first. But the price? Ted felt much afraid that here was to be the difficulty.
"How much will it cost, Mr. Newton?" he inquired anxiously.
The carpenter reflected a moment.
"Wood, so much; bolts, so much; nails; time;" Ted heard him half whispering to himself. Then he looked up.
"A matter of three shilling or so, sir," he replied. "I'll try that it shan't be more. But you see the bolts I have to buy, they're not things as we use every day. And for the time, sir, I'm not thinking much of that. The evenings are light now. I'll try and see to it myself after work's over."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Newton," said Ted. "I think it'll be all right. But I'd like first to tell my mother how much it will cost, and then I'll run back and settle about it."
"All right, sir," the carpenter replied; and after pausing a moment at the door to pat the great big gentle dog, that was lying there blinking in the sunshine, and thinking to himself that its eyes somehow reminded him of long ago Cheviott whom Ted still remembered, though Newton's dog wasn't at all the same kind, the boy ran off again, whistling as he went, with light dancing steps down the in-and-out zigzag streets of the old town, stopping a moment, eager as he was, to admire the peeps of lovely view he came upon now and then as he turned a corner, or crossed the open market-place.
He was in great spirits. Fivepence short he felt sure could easily be made up.
"Either mother will give it me," he thought, "or she'll find some way of my earning it. I'm sure she'd like it properly done, and there'll be no fear of Cissy or me hurting ourselves."
On he danced again, for now he was in more open ground, running along the country highroad where was his home. A few cottages stood not far from where he was passing—cottages of respectable people, with several of whom sociable Ted was on friendly terms, and just as he was nearing the first of these, a boy about his own age came out, a basket on his arm and in his hands something tied up in a cloth which he was carrying carefully. But boys will be boys!
"Good morning, Jamie," said Ted as they met, for he recognised the boy as the son of a man living farther down the road, who had sometimes worked for his father; "where have you been, and what's that you've got?" and in pure fun Ted tapped with a switch he was carrying on the mysterious bundle.
Jamie looked up laughingly.
"O Master Ted," he was just beginning, but somehow—howI cannot tell, and I feel pretty sure that neither Ted nor Jamie could have told either—Ted's friendly tap had either distracted his attention so that he trod on a stone and lost his balance, or else it had destroyed the equilibrium of the bundle itself, so that almost before he had time even to say "O Master Ted," the mischief was done. Down plumped the bundle, with a crash of broken crockery, and a brown liquid at once oozed out through the cloth, making a melancholy puddle on the road. Jamie's half-spoken words changed into a cry of despair. It was the Sunday's dinner which had come to grief, the pie which his poor mother had prepared so carefully, and which he was taking home from his grandmother's, in whose oven it had been baking.
"Oh dear, oh dear, what evershallI do?" cried the poor little boy. "What will mother say? Oh dear, oh dear!—O Master Ted, what shall I do?"
Jamie's tears and sobs were pitiful. Ted, with a pale concerned face stood beside him, speechless.
"It was all my fault, Jamie," he said at last. "It's me your mother must scold, not you. I must go home with you, and tell her it wasn't your fault."
"Oh but it were," sobbed the child. "Mother always tells me to look neither to right nor to left when I'm carrying anything like this here. Oh deary me, what ever shall I do?"
He stooped down and untied the knots of the large checked handkerchief in which the unfortunate pie had been enveloped. The dish was all in pieces, the gravy fast disappearing. Jamie gathered together, using the largest bit of the broken stoneware as a plate, some of the pieces of meat which might still be eaten, and Ted, stooping down too, helped him to the best of his ability. But it was very little that could be saved from the shipwreck. And then the two boys turned in the direction of Jamie's home, Jamie sobbing all the way, and Ted himself too appalled to know what to say to comfort him.
Jamie's mother was a busy, hard-working woman. She was kind to her children, but that is not to say that they never had a sharp word from her. And there were so many of them—more than enough to try the patience of a mother less worried by other cares. So poor Jamie had some reason to cry, and he did not attempt to prevent Ted's going home with him—alone he would hardly have dared to face the expected scolding.
She was at the door, or just inside it, as the boys made their appearance, with a big tub before her in which she was washing up some odds and ends, without which her numerous family could not have made their usual tidy appearance at church and Sunday school the next day. For it was Saturday, often a rather trying day to heads of households in every class. But Jim's mother was in pretty good spirits. She had got on with her work, Sunday's pie had been made early and sent on to granny's, and Jamie, who was a very careful messenger, would be back with it immediately, all ready to be eaten cold with hot potatoes the next day. So Sunday's dinner was off the good woman's mind, when suddenly a startling vision met her gaze. There was Jamie, red-eyed and tearful, coming down the road, and beside him the little Master from the Lawn House. What could be the matter? Jamie had not hurthimself, thus much was evident, but what was the small and shapeless bundle he was carrying in the handkerchief she had given him to cover the pie, and what had come over the nice clean handkerchief itself? The poor woman's heart gave a great throb of vexation.
"What ever have ye done with the pie, Jamie?" she exclaimed first in her anxiety, though she then turned in haste to bid the little master "good morning."
"O mother," Jamie began, his sobs bursting out afresh, but Ted put him gently aside.
"Let me tell," he said. "I came on purpose. If—if you please," he went on eagerly, though his fair face flushed a little, "it was all my fault. I gave Jim a little poke with my stick, quite in fun, and somehow it made him drop the pie. But it isn't his fault. You won't scoldhim, please, will you?"
Vexed as she was, Jamie's mother could not but feel softened. Ted's friendly ways were well known to his poorer neighbours, who with one voice pronounced him "a perfect little gentleman wherever he goes."
"It's not much use scolding," she said gently enough, but still with real distress in her tone which went to Ted's heart. "No use crying over spilt milk, as my master says. But still I do think Jamie might have been more careful. However, it can't be helped, but they'll have to do without a pie for dinner to-morrow. And thank you, Master Ted, for coming along of Jim for to tell me."
"But it wasn't Jim's fault. It wasallmine," repeated Ted sadly. And then he bade the poor woman good-bye, and nodding to Jim, who was still wiping his eyes, though looking a good deal less frightened, the boy set off towards home again.
But how different everything looked—the sun was as bright, the air as pleasant as ten minutes before, but Ted's heart was heavy, and when at the garden gate he met his mother, who greeted him with her kind smile and asked him if he had settled with Newton about the seat, it was all poor Ted could do not to burst into tears. He was running past his mother into the house, with a hasty "Yes, thank you, mother, I'll tell you about it afterwards," for he had not yet made up his mind what he should say or do; it was his own fault, and he must suffer for it, that was his first idea, but his mother stopped him. The momentary glance at his face had been sufficient to show her that something was the matter.
"What is it, Ted, dear?" she said kindly and anxiously.
Ted's answer was a question, and a very queer question.
"Mother," he said, "how much do pies cost?"
"Pies," repeated his mother, "what kind of pies do you mean? Big ones, little ones, meat ones, or what?"
"Big ones, mother, at leastabig one, and all made of meat, with crust at the top. And oh!" he exclaimed, "there was the dish! I daresay that cost a good deal," and his face grew sadder and sadder.
But his mother told him he really must explain, and so he did. "I didn't mean to tell you about it, mother," he said, "for it was my own fault, and telling you seems almost like asking for the money," and here poor Ted's face grew red again. "I thought the only thing to do was to take theactmoney, the two shillings and sevenpence, you know, mother, and give it to Jamie's mother, and just give up having the seat," and here Ted's repressed feelings were too much for him. He turned away his face and fairly burst into tears. Give up the seat! Think of all that meant to him, poor boy. The pleasure for Cissy as well as his own, the delightful surprise to Percy, the rows of stick-sticks for his uncle. I don't think it was wonderful that Ted burst into tears.
"My poor boy," said his mother, and then she thought it over to herself for a little. She did not begin talking to Ted about how careless he had been, and that it must be a lesson to him, and so on, as many even very kind mothers are sometimes tempted to do, when, asdoeshappen now and then in this rather contrary world, very small wrongdoings have very big results,—she could not feel that Ted had been much to blame, and she was quite sure itwouldbe "a lesson to him," without her saying any more about it. So she just thought it over quietly, and then said,
"No, Ted. I don't quite think that would be right. Your giving up the seat would be punishing others as well as yourself—Cissy particularly—and that would not be right. I will see that Jamie and his brothers and sisters have something for their dinner to-morrow that will please them as much as the pie, and you must tell Newton to go on with the seat, and——"
"But, mother," interrupted Ted, "I won't be happy unless I pay it myself, the dinner I mean. It wouldn't befair, if I didn't—would it, mother?" and he looked up with his honest, anxious blue eyes in his mother's face, so that she felt the same wish to stoop down and kiss him that had made her do so long ago in the street of the little country town near their old home.
"I was going on to speak about that," said his mother. "It will take all your money and a little more to pay Newton, you see, and you haven't any more."
"No, mother, but if I was to give up my library pennies?"—for Ted subscribed a penny a week to a children's library in the town, as he had long ago exhausted the home stores.
"That would take averylong time, and it would be a pity for you to lose your reading," said his mother. "But I'll tell you what—I will count the dinner as owing from you to me, and you will pay it as best you can, little by little. For every summer you get presents from your uncles or cousins when they are with us. I will count it two shillings and sixpence—the sixpence for the dish, and I know you will not forget to pay me."
"No indeed, mother, and thank yousomuch," said Ted, with a now really lightened heart. "Shall I tell Jamie about the dinner? I could go that way when I go back to Newton's. He will be so pleased. His mother didn't scold him, but yet I couldn't help beingverysorry for him. His face did look so unhappy."
And when, after dinner, Ted ran off again, I think the pleasure of the good news in store for poor Jamie was quite as much in his mind as his own errand to Newton's.
The seat was a great success. Newton came that very evening to measure it exactly, and Ted had the satisfaction of making some suggestions which the carpenter thought very good ones, as to the best way of fastening it firmly. And on Monday evening the work was accomplished. Never, surely, were two birds in a nest more happy than Ted and Cissy, when, for the first time, they mounted up on to their airy throne. Their mother, busy among her flowers, was surprised by a sound of soft singing over her head, coming from at first she could not tell where. She stood still to listen—she had, for the moment, forgotten about the perch in the tree. But the words and the tune soon told her who it was. It was Ted at his old favourite, "Home, sweet home." Sweetly and softly his boyish voice rang out. The tears came into his mother's eyes, but she moved away silently. She did not want the children to know she was there. It seemed to take away the simplicity of his pretty singing for him to know thatany one, even his mother, had been listening.
"He is very fond of music," she said to herself, "no doubt he has great taste for it," and the thought gave her pleasure. She pictured to herself happy future days when Ted and Cissy would be able to play and sing together—when as "big people," the brother and sister would continue the tender friendship that she liked so much to see.
Monday evening was too late to begin the important paper for Uncle Ted. But on Tuesday the children were up with the lark, armed with a long ruled sheet, divided by lines across the other way, into what Ted called several "compartments," a pencil or two, for though Cissy could not make figures, she could make little strokes, each of which stood for a onesomething. The words at the head of the "compartments" comprised everything which, with the slightest probability,couldbe expected to journey along the highroad. Men, women, boys, girls, babies in perambulators, babies in nurses' arms; old women with baskets were considered a separate genus, and had a row to themselves; carts with one horse, waggons with two, donkeys, dogs, pigs, cats, wheelbarrows. And at one side Ted carefully marked the hour at which began and ended the "observations." For, alas! the children could not beallday at their post, though they did gravely purpose that they should take it in turn to go in to dinner, so that no passers-by should be unrecorded. But that mother could not agree to. Dinner must be eaten, and with as much deliberation and propriety as usual, or else what was an interest and a pleasure would have to be discouraged. And after all it was rather nice to have the paper exhibited and commented upon as they all sat round the luncheon-table, though Cissy looked as if she were notquitesure that she should not take offence for Ted, when one of the big people inquired why there wasn't a row for elephants and another for dancing-bears.
The long summer afternoon was spent in the same way. Never surely had such a delightful occupation for two small people brimming over with life and energy, been discovered. Two birds busied with arranging their nest could not have been more completely content.
"If this goes on," said the children's mother, laughing, when they did condescend to come in to tea, "I think we had better send a mattress and a pillow up to your seat, and let you stay there all night."
Ted and Cissy smiled, and in their hearts I rather think they were of opinion that what their mother proposed would be very nice. But, eager as they were, they were both very hungry, and it was evident that living in a tree did not destroy their appetite, for the quantity of slices of bread and butter which disappeared would have alarmed any one unaccustomed to the feats of little people in that way.
And tea over, off they set again. It was almost as if they were away on a visit somewhere, the house seemed so quiet, and the garden, so often at that time of day the scene of tremendous romps in which even nurse herself was coaxed to join, quite deserted.Unless—that is to say—you had passed under a certain tree and stood still to listen to the clatter going on overhead, though, thanks to the leafy branches, there was nothing to beseen.
"Can there be magpies up in that tree?" would, I think, have been your first idea. And then, listening a little more attentively, you would have come to think that whether human or feathered they were very funny magpies indeed.
"Fifteen,sixteen, that makes. Hurrah, sixteen dogs since ten o'clock this morning. And, let's see, seven old women with baskets, and——"
"Them wasn't allold," corrects the small voice of magpie number two; "Jessie wif the eggs isn't old."
"Never mind; if they've got baskets theyshouldbe old," replies Ted. "An old woman with a basketsoundsright. Then there's five p'rambulators, oh, itisa long word to spell—it goes right out of its place into the other rows. I wish I'd just put 'babies in p'rams.' And then there's three pigs and horses, oh dear I can't count how many. It's getting too dark to see the strokes on the paper. I say, Cissy, just you get down and run in and ask for two or three dips. We can stick them up on the wall and have a beautiful lighting up, and then we can see everybody that passes."
Down clambered obedient Cissy—she was growing very alert by this time at making her way up and down—off she set to the house with her message.
"Dips, dips," she repeated to herself. "Ted says I'm to ask for two or three dips. I wonder what dips is."
She had not the slightest idea, but it never occurred to her to do otherwise than exactly what her brother had said. It was a funny little figure that presented itself to the children's mother, in the twilight, just as she was putting away her work and thinking it was really time for Ted and Cissy to come in, a shawl wrapped round and tied behind over her white pinafore, of which the part that could be seen was by no means as clean as it might have been, any more than the eager flushed little face, with its bright dark eyes and wavy hair tumbling over the forehead.
"My dear Cissy, what averydirty little girl you are," said her mother, laughing. "You really look more like a gipsy than anything else."
"Does dipsies live up trees?" inquired Cissy gravely. "Treesisrather dirty. But oh, mother, Ted wants me to ask you for two or three dips.P'easegive me zem."
"Dips," repeated her mother, "what in the world does he want dips for?"
"Cissy doesn't know," replied the little girl. "Cissy doesn't know what dips is. Cissy finks Ted said he would 'tick zem up on ze wall, to make it look pitty."
Her mother was very much amused.
"Dips are candles," she said. "I suppose Ted wants to light up the tree."
Her words made a light break over Cissy's face in the first place.
"Oh ses," said the little maiden, "it is getting so dark. Ohdogive Ted some dips,dearmother—do,do."
But not any number of "do's" would have made mother agree to so dangerous a proceeding.
"My dear little girl, you would certainly set yourselves on fire, and the tree too," she replied. "But never mind," she went on, seeing the corners of Cissy's mouth going down with the thought of Ted's disappointment, "I will go out with you and explain to Ted."
Mother put a shawl over her shoulders and went out with her little girl. Some way off, Ted heard them coming.
"O Cis, have you got the dips?" he cried. "I forgot to tell you to bring some matches too. I've had such hard work to see, and a lot of people passed. Ithinkthere was a woman and two boys. I'll have to mark them down, when——"
"I've come with Cissy, Ted," replied his mother's voice, to his surprise, "to tell you that it would really be too much of a good thing to go on with your observations all night. And, in the first place, you would certainly set yourself and Cissy and the tree on fire, if I let you have candles up there. Come down now, that's a good boy, and show me your paper, and we'll pack it up to send to your uncle by post."
"Very well, mother," said Ted, with his usual cheery good-nature. "I'm coming. Here goes," and in another minute he was beside her. "You don't know what a beautiful long paperful I've got. I don't want you to pack it upyet, mother. Cissy and I are going to keep it on ever so much longer, aren't we, Cis?"
And chattering merrily the children went in with their mother. But as she said to their father, it really is to be doubted if they would not have stayed in the tree all night, if Ted had got his wish and arranged a "dip" illumination on the top of the wall.
After all, that day in the tree was the last of their "stick-sticks." The weather changed, and there was nearly a week of rain, and by the time it was over, children-like, Ted and Cissy had grown tired of the rows of strokes representing old women and donkeys and horses, and all the rest of them; the "observations" had lost their attraction for them. Still the pleasure was not quite over, for there was the packing of the big paper to send to Uncle Ted by post, and his letter of thanks in return. And Percy came home for the holidays, and greatly approved of the nest in the tree. And what the children didnotdo up there—what games they played, how they were by turns Robinson Crusoe hiding from the savages, King Charles in the oak at Boscobel, or, quainter still, how they all sometimes suddenly turned into squirrels and manufactured for themselves the most wonderful tails of old brush handles, and goodness only knows what, which stuck straight up behind and made the climbing to the nest by no means an easy matter—yes indeed, what they didnotdo up in the tree would be difficult to tell.
But it comes into my mind just now that I have never told you anything of Ted's indoor life. Hitherto it has seemed all summer days and gardens, has it not? And no doubt the boy'sgreatesthappiness was in outdoor interests and employments. But of course it was not always summer and sunshine for Ted, any more than for any one else—and, Christmas child though he was, there were wintry days when evenhehad to stay in the house and find work and pleasures indoors. For winter does not mean nothing but bright frosty skies overhead, and crisp clean snow underfoot. There are dreary days of rain and mist and mud, when children are much better at home, and when mothers and nurses are more thankful than any onenota mother or nurse can imagine, to have to do with cheerful contented little people, who are "good at amusing themselves," and unselfish enough not to worry every one about them because it is a rainy day.