I slept in a little room off my mother's, and till now I had been very proud of my own nest. But all that was past. I now shivered and shuddered at the thought of bed-time, and would have done anything to avoid it. No one understood me, the nurses called me "naughty"; evendear mamma thought my temper spoilt. And no wonder, for I toldnobodyof my secret trouble! I think it was my fear of being laughed at, and here I would beg of "big" brothers and sisters never to laugh at little ones' terrors however silly. Try to explain them away, to comfort the poor tiny sufferers, butneverlaugh at them.
At last, happily for my life and health, the secret came out, and it was in this way:—There was a recess in the wall near my bed; it had shelves and went up nearly to the ceiling; in fact, it was like a cupboard with the doors off. And on the top shelf stood a curious vase, about the size of a rather fat flower-pot, of dark blue and white old Dutch stoneware. I had never noticed it, for in the daytime very little light fell on this corner, and I was seldom in the room except at night.
One evening I was put to bed as usual, feeling rather less frightened, for there were friends dining at the castle, and the sound of the piano came up to my room and cheered me.
vase
"Leave the door open, please, I like the music," I said, and nurse did so, and thus with less shivering and heart-throbbing than usual I fell asleep. When I woke—quite suddenly—perhaps the shutting of the great door, or the guests' carriages driving away had wakened me—all was quite dark and silent. I shut my eyes, and tried to go to sleep again. But it was no use. I was quite awake, and unconsciously I opened my eyes. What was that? I have said it was quite dark, but up there, high up, there was a light that I had not seen till I turned my head. And there in the light—or did the light come from it?—was a round, staring, white face grinning down at me. I saw its eyes, its mouth, all its features—it seemed to me the goblin face by which a wicked man in one of old Effie's stories had been haunted. I stared at it like a bird at a serpent, though my heart had stopped from terror—then gradually I saw that it was moving, and that roused me. With a fearful shriek I dashed out of bed,getting by some instinct to the door, and knew nothing more till an hour or two later I opened my eyes to find myself in mamma's arms, for she was just coming into her room to go to bed when I fell into them!
It was all explained to me. There was a tiny window on to the stairs high up in that corner of the room, through which the light of mamma's candle had shone on to the old Delft vase, and even made it seem to move, as she stepped upwards. I was sensible enough for my age to understand and to believe it, but all the same I was ill for a long, long time. And the cloud over my childhood never entirely faded till childhood was left behind. Still good comes with ill. I might never, during the few years she was left with us, have learnt to know my darling mother as I did—her wonderful tenderness and "understandingness"—had it not been for my vision of the "Goblin Face."
The old vase now stands near my bedside, where night and morning I can see it and recall the memories connected with it, and there, I hope, it will stand till I die.
WHATis the matter, Linda? What are you looking for? It does so fidget me, dear, when I am sitting quietly reading, for you to keep moving about and pulling all the chairs and tables out of their places!" said Grandmamma, kindly of course—she always spoke kindly, but with a little vexation in her tone.
"It's my scissors, Grandmamma—my little beautiful new best scissors with the gilt ends," said Linda plaintively, "IknowI left them withmy work last night, and when I unfolded it they were gone. Some onemusthave taken them—I don't like that new housemaid, Grandmamma. I think she is pokey. I found her fiddling so among the books on the schoolroom table this morning."
"Trying to put them neat, I suppose—not very easy, judging by the state they were left in last night," said Grandmamma. "Linda, my dear, you must not let yourself grow suspicious. I am sure the girl is perfectly honest. I know all about her."
"But where can my scissors be, then?" said Linda. "They're not alive—they can't walk away by themselves."
"Sit down beside me for a few minutes and get cooler about it," said Grandmamma. "Something may come to your mind in a while to throw light on the disappearance. But never suspect others of anything so dreadful as even small thefts unless you areforcedto do so. I will tell you a little story which has often served as a warning to me in such a case."
"Oh, yes, do please, Grandmamma," said Linda, the clouds clearing off her face in a wonderful way.
"Years and years ago when I was young, only lately married," began Grandmamma, "a curious thing happened to me. We were living in the country—it was lovely summer weather, and numbers of our friends used to drive over to see us and spend the day. My house was pretty, and I was very proud of it; I had lots of pretty things of all kinds—my wedding presents in fact—with which to adorn both it and myself, and sometimes your Grandpapa used to laugh at me, and call me a little peacock. One of my prettiest ornaments was a small diamond brooch—shaped like a star. It was really meant to wear in the evening, but I was so fond of it, that I sometimes wore it in the day-time. One morning I got a letter to say that an old school-friend of mine wasstaying in the neighbourhood, and that she and her husband were coming over to spend the day with us. I was very pleased to hear it, and so was your Grandpapa, as he too knew these friends of mine.
"I hurried over my breakfast, and ran away to give orders to have everything very nice for them, and I think the old cook, whoknew a great deal more about luncheons and dinners than I did, was rather amused at all my charges.
"'It shall all be as nice as can be, Miss Lucy,' she said. She was always forgetting I was married, and calling me 'Miss Lucy'—'You shall see—it shall all be just as nice as it used to be at your dear Mamma's. I'm only sorry that Maria should be away to-day, she has so much taste in arranging the fruit and flowers for the table.'
"'I'll do them myself,' I said, 'and Sophy shall help me. She seems a nice handy girl, I think.'
"'Yes, ma'am,' said cook, 'I dare say she is. But of course it's difficult to judge of a complete stranger. She's a little bit forward for my liking—so very fond of laughing.'
"'But she's so young,' I said, 'and she's never left home before. I think Maria's rather too strict.'
"Maria, I must tell you, was my maid, and Sophy was a young girl whom I had chosen out of the village school to be under Maria. I called Sophy to help me, and very proud she was to do so. We made the table look so pretty, that even the butler condescended to admire it, and then I began to think of adorning myself.
"'You may come and help me to dress,' I said to Sophy graciously which pleased her even more than dressingthe table. I chose a white dress and blue ribbons, for it was very hot; and when I was all ready, I really did think I looked very nice, and I saw by Sophy's eyes that she thought so too.
"'Oh, ma'am,' she said, 'you would just be perfect if you'd put on your little brooch that sparkles so.'
"'My little diamond brooch,' I said doubtfully. 'It is rather too showy for the morning.'
"But I took it out of its case and tried it, and it did look so pretty that I was tempted to wear it, and Sophy looked very pleased.
"Our friends came and we had a most pleasant day. They were delighted with everything—house and garden were certainly looking their best in the lovely summer brightness. We spent most of the afternoon out-of-doors, where I showed them everything, even down to the kitchen garden with its tempting strawberry beds and rows of vegetables of every kind. And when they said good-bye, my old school-fellow whispered as she kissed me, that she thought I was a most fortunate girl. For she saw how kind and good your dear Grandpapa was. After they had left, he proposed that we should go a ride, as it was getting cooler. I ran up stairs and changed my dress for my riding habit, calling to Sophy to put everything tidy in my room. We came in just in time to dress for dinner, and the bell sounded before I was quite ready.
"'My brooch, Sophy,' I said, 'you put away my things.'
"Sophy looked about, but no brooch was to be seen.
"'It must be there,' I said, 'find it while I am at dinner.'
"But when I ran up after dinner, Sophy met me with a very red face and eyes that looked ready to cry, and told me it was nowhere to be found!
"I cannot tell you how we hunted. When Maria came home thenext day she was dreadfully vexed, and inclined to blame me for having let Sophy be so much in my room.
"'You don't think she has taken my brooch,' I said. But Maria would not answer decidedly. She only murmured something about not trusting strangers! Weeks went on—I tried not to think about my brooch any more, but it had made a talk in the house, and Sophy felt it painfully, and when at last she said she would rather go home, I could not but feel it might be better. The very day before she was to leave I was startled by a message from cook asking me to go to see something in the kitchen. It was afternoon—an unusual time for her to want to see me, but I went at once.
"There stood cook, her kind old face beaming with pleasure.
"'Just see here, Miss Lucy,' she said. On the dresser lay a cauliflower she was on the point of preparing for cooking. She pulled aside the big green leaves at the top, and there, nestling on the creamy-looking surface underneath, lay my diamond brooch! It had dropt from the front of my dress, no doubt, that day in the garden, and the baby cauliflower's leaves had grown over it!
"You can fancy my joy, Linda, and still more the joy of poor Sophy. Instead of leaving, she lived with me more than twenty years. But what's the matter now, Linda? Are you not listening?"
"Oh, dear, yes, Grandmamma, and I do so like the story. But I just saw something shining on the frill of my dress, and see here!" And Linda held out her scissors, which had caught in a flounce.
THISis not a story that I am going to tell you. It is just a little thing that happened one day when I was out walking, and which I have never forgotten.
It did not happen in London, but in Paris, where I was then living. Some of you may have been there, and if so you know better than I can tell you what a very pretty, bright and charming place it is. That is to say, the best parts of the town are pretty and bright-looking, especially in sunny summer weather. But there are poor parts of Paris too, though you are not likely to have seen them, and alas, there are many very poor people also!
I was walking that day in the long road, or avenue rather, which is called the Champs Elysées. It is very wide indeed, and bordered on both sides by beautiful trees, among which in the summer are to be seen quantities of well-dressed people walking about or seated, and enjoying the lively scene around them. Children by the score are there too—richly dressed and playing at all sorts of games, attended by their governesses or nurses, and all this, joined to the constantly passing brilliant carriages, makes eyes unaccustomed to the sparkle and glare soon get weary. Even I, used to Paris and its ways as I was, felt tired of the whirl and rush, and I thought to myself I would turn out of the wide thoroughfare and make my way home by some quieter side street.
I was standing at the edge of the pavement with this intention, waiting till there should come a safe moment to cross, when I caught sight of alittle group not far from me, and I could not help watching what was going on, with interest. A flower-cart was drawn up at the side of the road. Though it was scarcely yet full summer, there was a good display of flowers, and many of those passing stopped to buy. Among these were an old gentleman and a little boy. One could see without being told that they were grandfather and grandson. The child said a word or two to the gentleman, who let go his hand and walked on slowly. The little boy waited patiently for a minute or two, till those before him round the cart had been served, and then he came forward and made some inquiry of the flower-woman. I could not hear what he said, but he was no doubt asking what he could have for his money, for once ortwice a shade of disappointment crossed his bright face, and he looked doubtfully at something he held in his hand, which I afterwards saw must have been his few coins. I felt so sorry for him that if I had not been afraid of giving offence, I would have offered him the little sum he was evidently short of, but after half starting forward to do so, I drew back again. The boy, though simply, almost poorly clad, had too much the air of a gentleman, and so had the old grandfather, whose stooping figure I still perceived slowly walking on in front. At last the boy, after peering all over the flower-cart, caught sight of a little nest of violets—sweet-scented violets—in one corner, which had been almost hidden by the larger and more brilliant plants. His face lighted up joyfully, as he pointed them out to the flower-woman, and she, in turn, smiled and nodded pleasantly. Poor thing—she could not afford to lower her prices, but the working classes in France have great sympathy with small means and the economy they oblige, and I could see that she was glad for her little customer not to be altogether disappointed of his purchase.
She chose carefully the prettiest and freshest of the violet bunches, wrapped an extra leaf or two round the stalks to keep them cool, and handing the little bouquet to the boy, smilingly received from him the coppers till now tightly clasped in his hand.
And with all the brightness back in his face again, the little fellow boundedforward to rejoin his grandfather, as light-hearted and light-footed as a young chamois.
I crossed the road and walked on. The little incident had interested and pleased me. I could not help wondering for whom the flowers were intended—a sick mother or grandmother perhaps. The child was not improbably an orphan, seeing that he was in the care of a grandparent. And I went on picturing to myself the simple thrifty home to which the pair were by this time wending their way, little thinking that I should ever see either of them again.
I was by now in one of the handsome side streets, running parallel with the great avenue. It was quieter here; there were fewer carriages or foot passengers, so that on the wide road, even a small group wasplainly seen, and happening to glance backwards, I saw a sad little procession making its way slowly along. Two men, dressed in black, were carrying a little coffin—no heavy burden, it was plain—yet heavy was the sorrow of the two mourners following close behind. It was but the funeral of a tiny child, a baby, or scarce more than a baby to judge by the size of the coffin, "the only one" of the poor father and mother alone in their grief, who walked behind. They were of the very poor class of Paris working people, though decently clad, as is almost always the case in France, but too poor to have got mourning for themselves, even for the funeral of their child. The woman, it is true, had a black skirt, but over it she wore, perhaps to conceal its shabbiness, a clean checked cotton apron, and the poor father had no attempt at mourning, except a little band of rusty black fastened round the left sleeve of his blue working blouse. They were both weeping, the mother openly, her poor eyes swollen and red as if with many hours of tears, the husband trying to keep calm, as he from time to time wiped his weather beaten cheeks with his sleeve. Their poverty was shown in another way; there was not a single flower, much less a wreath or cross on the little black-draped coffin—so sad, so piteously desolate a funeral it has seldom been my lot to see in Paris. Yet poor as it was, it met with the outward marks of respect and sympathy which I often wish we could see in England, for every head was uncovered as it passed on its sorrowful way. I stood still for an instant to watch it; suddenly a small figure, rushing across the road, darting nimbly in front of a quickly advancing carriage, as if afraid of being too late, caught my eyes. It was my little friend of the violets! There was no mistaking him—and his grandfather's, it seemed to me, almost familiar figure, waiting and looking after the child from the other side of the road. What is the boy in such a hurry for? Ah—I see now, and my own eyes are not free from tears.
Breathless and eager he runs up to the poor little procession, with blushing face and gentle hands he lays on the tiny coffin his treasured violets—beautiful in themselves, doubly beautiful as the gift of a sweet and pitiful heart—and without waiting for the thanks ready to burst forth from the over-laden hearts of the two parents, hastens back again to his old grandfather, whose face I can distinguish lit up with a smile of tender approval.
"God bless him," the poor father murmurs. I am near enough to hear it—"God bless him," the weeping mother repeats.
"God bless him," I whisper to myself.
"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."
WHENI was a little girl—that is about three years ago—I am now thirteen—my own particular pets were a pair of canaries. We had lots of other pets; it would take me a very longtime merely to give you the list of them even without telling you anything about them, and all their adventures and funny ways. But a good many of them had in one way or another come to grief, poor things, and as my brothers grew older and had less time to take care of them, my mother said we must really give up having so many.
So one summer, just before the holidays, there was a regular flitting—the turtle-doves we gave to a little neighbour, a very gentle boy, who we knew would be kind to them; the old crow was taken to a house more in the country than ours, where there were plenty of nice, dark, crowy-looking trees; the rabbits were already all dead, and so was the tortoise, and as one of the dormice had got loose and gone off to live with the house-mice, we sent the other to a friend who had several. There remained only the dog, whomof coursewe couldn't give away and my canaries, whom I got leave to keep.
These canaries had a history of their own. One, we had reared ourselves from an egg, and as it was the only baby canary that had grown up of all we had had, we did think it very remarkable. Its name was "Frise-tête," which means "curly head," because it had a funny little tuft of yellow feathers right on the top of its head, and he was the cock canary, though Frise-tête sounds more like a girl's name, doesn't it? And the little hen canary was called "Coo-coo," because when she first came to us she really did make a sort of cooing noise. Where she came from we never knew—she flew in at the open window of the schoolroom one day, having evidently got out of her cage and lost her way. She was a sweet-tempered little bird, but not at all sharp or clever. She didn't seem to mind in the least that she had got into a strange place, but was quite content and happy to take up house, or "cage," with Frise-tête. This little couple made the last of our pet canaries, and they were always counted mine. I think we had had Frise-tête two years, andCoo-coo more than a year, when there came the clearing-out of pets that I told you of. But we never knew Coo-coo's age exactly, you see.
That summer we were going in different directions. My two big sisters were to spend it with our grandmother, and one of my brothers with them. The other brother and I were to go to Germany with Mamma. We were very proud of being chosen to go with her, and we had never been to Germany before, at least not to stay any length of time there, and we were in great spirits about it. There was only one thing that troubled me, and that was about the canaries. I was so afraid Mamma would not consent to take them, and yet I could not bear the idea of leaving them behind. I was sure that the person who was to take care of the house would forget to feed them, or let the cat get to them or something, and at last I told Mamma that I really would be too unhappy if I mightn't take them. Mamma was very kind—she didn't like the idea of the pretty little couple being starved or killed any more than I did, still she warned me that I should find them a good deal of trouble on the way, and that I mustn't grumble at it, which, of course, I promised I wouldn't.
So when we set off late one hot summer evening, on our long journey,I carried carefully, a queer-looking package in one hand. It was the cage, all covered up in a sort of brown holland bag, which contained my beloved Frise-tête and Coo-coo.
Theywerea great worry. I often wished I had left them at home, I can assure you. We had to travel two nights, and most part of two or three days before we got quite to our journey's end, though we stopped two or three times on the way, and it was so hot that we felt very tired and uncomfortable, and it was not easy to keep good-humoured even without the birds! Very often I had to sit with the cage on my knee if the railway carriage happened to be rather low, and there was not room for it up beside the cloaks and rugs. And then I had to have water in a bottle to keep the poor things supplied, and very often it spilt all over, and so did the seed, and our fellow passengers looked very cross at me. And sometimes at the stations, the guards and railway people wouldn't let me pass without undoing all the cover and everything to see what the wonderful bundle was. Oh, we were very glad when we found ourselves at last safe at the place we were to stay at! It was a very old-fashioned little town, but it was almost like being in the country. There were such beautiful walks all about, and from the end of every street one could see the fields and trees, so you see it wasn't a bit like a town.
We had rooms in a very nice funny old hotel. Mamma said it was quite like an old-fashioned English inn, such as they used to be in the coaching days. The ceilings were low, and the staircase very wide, and the furnituresoold-fashioned. We had a nice large sitting-room, and two bed-rooms out of it, and on the wide window-sill of our bedroom I established Friste-tête and Coo-coo. They were very sensible, poor things, they only fluttered and fussed about for a short time, and then settled down quite contentedly, which, I am sure, was very good behaviour after being so much covered up.
I could tell you lots of stories about our life in the old German town, but I must remember that this story is to be all about the canaries. It was beautiful sunny weather, and they spent nearly their whole time at the open window—I used only to bring them in at night. And every morning I cleaned the cage out nicely, and put fresh sand and water, and seed, and groundsel. The people at the opposite side of the street got to know me quite well by sight, and would smile and nod to me.And all was as happy as possible till one sad day which I will tell you about.
Mamma had two or three times said to me, "Take care, Sally, when you put the cage on the window-sill to see that it is quite steady. The sill is broad and even, inside, but outside the stone slopes downward," and Ihadalways taken care.
But this morning, just as I had finished cleaning and all, I saw a piece of sugar on the table, which, it suddenly struck me would be a nice treat for the canaries. I sprang across the room hastily to get the sugar, and was just turning back with it, when a smashing, crashing noise made me start. It was—no I can hardly tell it, even now I remember the horrible feeling—it was the cage falling,fallenout of the window, down into the street below. I screamed and rushed into the furthest corner of the room, shutting my eyes and clasping my hands over my ears. It was very silly I know, but I was really almost out of my mind.
"They are dead, they are killed!" I cried screaming again so loud that Mamma rushed in from the next room to see what was the matter. She saw it in an instant without my speaking, and indeed I was by this time choking with sobs.
"Stay there, Sally," said she, and down stairs she ran. I just took my fingers out of my ears for an instant, but I heard a hubbub in the street below, and I shuddered and put them back again. It wastoohorrible.
In a few minutes Mamma came up, carrying something in her hand, and looking very sad.
"Sally dear, I am very sorry for you," she said, "but it might have been still sadder. Coo-coo seems very little the worse—she has had a wonderful escape. But poor Frise-tête is dead. I have brought him up—I think he must have been killed at once, and not have suffered."
It was some time before she could persuade me to look at my poor pet.It was indeed a sad sight. Even the death of a little bird is sad, I still think. His pretty yellow feathers all rumpled and torn, his bright eyes glazed and filmy.
"Oh, my dear, sweet Frise-tête," I said. "To think that I should have brought you all the way from home for this."
And poor Mamma was so sorry for me that she actually cried too!
We made a little coffin out of some cardboard, and wrapped him in cotton-wool, and buried him in the old garden of the inn. That was the end of our canary nursling. I have a good deal more to tell you about Coo-coo, but for the present I will leave off with this piece of advice. "Never put bird-cages on the window-sill."
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ITOLDyou the sad end of poor Frise-tête, but the history of Coo-Coo is by no means finished yet. She had not escaped without any injury, though at first we thought she was not hurt. But as soon as she recovered a little from her dreadful fright we saw to our great sorrow that one of her wings hung down in a most sad and helpless manner. I turned away shuddering.
"Is it quite broked, Mamma?" asked my little brother Charley. He looked at it with the greatest interest and curiosity. "Horrid little boy, I said to myself! And it does seem sometimes as if boys had very little feeling, though I don't really think so of poor Charley.
"Oh, Mamma," I said, still shutting my eyes, "if she is so badly hurt, it would be better to put her out of her agony at once. Couldn't you give her chloroform or some stuff like what they kill horses with in the streets in Paris?"
"It's not so bad as all that," said Mamma cheerfully. "Sally, you mustn't be silly. Open your eyes—there is nothing dreadful to see."
I had to open my eyes then—Mamma was holding Coo-coo tenderly in her hand. I wondered how she had courage to do it. The poor little thing seemed to know her, and to nestle down confidingly.
"I don't think it hurts her except when she tries to stick it out," said Charley.
"No, I don't think it does," said Mamma, "but I'd like some one who understands little birds, to see her."
"If the gracious lady will excuse me saying so," said the landlord's daughter, who was standing close by full of sympathy, "there is a gentleman near here who makes it his business to bring up little canaries from eggs. He is very clever. We might go to see him, and ask him to look at the poor wing."
"Certainly," said Mamma, "that would be a very good idea. But I don't quite know how to take Coo-coo. I am afraid it is not good for her to hold her so long in my hand, and the cage is completely smashed."
"We have an empty cage—a very small one, that used to hang at the door with our old starling," said the good-natured Anna, and off she ran for it.
"The Canary-gentleman.""The Canary-gentleman."
We settled Coo-coo as well as we could with some cotton-wool for her to rest upon. But once in the cage, so long as she did not attempt to flutter about, she did not seem very bad, and my spirits rose a little. Still we must have seemed rather a doleful procession making our way along the street, for my face and eyes were swollen with crying, and Charley looked very grave, as we followed Mamma and Anna, Mamma carrying the starling's cage containing poor Coo-coo, as if it was the most wonderful treasure that ever was seen. And all the people came out of the shops and houses to look at us, for already the news had spread of the terrible misfortune that had happened to the little "foreign" lady, and several people whose shops we had sometimes been to nodded their heads, and said, "Poor little Miss," very sympathizingly, as we passed. I couldn't help feeling rather ashamed, and I wished my eyes were not quite so red.
It was such a funny place where the gentleman of the canaries, as Anna called him, lived. We went down a very narrow passage, and, across a little court-yard and down another passage and up a rickety stair and at last found ourselves in a room filled with birds—nothing but birds, and all canaries! There were cages and cages full of them—grown up ones and old ones, and baby ones justhatched. Some were singing brilliantly, so that we could scarcely hear ourselves speak, and the man who had come forward to meet us took us into another room, a little kitchen, where there were only one or two cages and no noise.
He was a shoemaker as well as a birdfancier—he had on a leather apron, and he had a half-made boot in his hand when we went in. But plainly, what he considered his real calling in life was canaries—I think indeed he thought the world was made for canaries, and he only looked at us with interest because "we belonged to Coo-coo," as Charley said.
"It is not broken," he said, after he had carefully examined the poor wing, stretching it out in a way that made me shiver to see; "it is only sprained. It will get better, but it will perhaps never be quite well. See—this is all that can be done," and he took a feather from a cup with some fine oil in it, standing on a table. "You must paint it with oil—so—two or three times a day. You see?" and Mamma nodded her head, and said, yes, she quite understood.
"She will get better," repeated the man, "she will not die of her wing, but she will die of loneliness. You must get her a companion."
I came forward eagerly.
"Mamma," I said, "would he sell us one? I have two marks." A mark is the same as a shilling.
Mamma asked him the question. He looked round his many cages doubtfully. "I did not want to sell any just now," he said, and I really don't think he did. "But it would be a shame for her to pine to death. Yes—I can let you have one of these young birds for three marks. Choose which you like," and he pointed to a cage containing three or four.
"I have only two marks," I whispered.
"And there is a new cage to get," said Charley. But Mamma was very kind.
"I will help you," she said. "Yes, sir, we will take one of these. You are sure they will be friends?"
"No fear," said the man in his queer, jerky way, "and this young bird will sing like a heavenly angel next spring. Will you take him now, or shall I bring him this evening?"
"We have to get a new cage," said Mamma; "I should be glad if you would bring him."
Then we set off again with Coo-coo in the starling's cage, and we had another procession down the street to the ironmonger's shop, where we chose a beautiful cage. It was awfully kind of Mamma, wasn't it?
And that evening after poor little Frise-tête was buried in the garden under a little rose-bush we made the new cage all ready, and Coo-coo andthe new bird, whom we fixed to call "Fritz," as he was a German, took up their quarters in it. They were very good friends—indeed Charley and I thought it rather horrid of Coo-coo to be so quickly consoled.
"I don't believe she has any heart at all," I said. "I don't believe a bit that she would have pined alone."
But the "canary-gentleman," every time he came—and he was really very good, he came every two or three days to see how the wing was and would not take any more money—assured us that if she had not had a companion she would have died.
And certainly I must say that Fritz deserved her to like him. He was so good to her. You could scarcely believe a little bird could have had so much sense. For some days she could only move about stiffly, and it was difficult for her to pick up seeds. And just fancy, Fritz used to bring her seeds in his beak and feed her! It was the prettiest sight possible.
Her wing never got quite well, though it left off hurting her. But she never could stretch it out quite evenly with the other. And about a year ago, after two years of peaceful life with Fritz, she died quite suddenly. She was perfectly well the evening before, and early the next morning she was lying in a little rumpled-up heap in a corner, dead! Poor Coo-coo—they thought she died of old age. I can't help wondering where birds go to when they die—they are so innocent!
Still they are very heartless. That very morning beside his poor little dead wife, Fritz was pecking away at his seeds and singing as if nothing were the matter. So we have not troubled to get a new companion for him, and when he dies I don't much think I shall care to keep any more pet birds. He is very alive at present however. He really sings so very loudly sometimes that we are obliged to cover him up with a dark cloth to pretend it is night.
I hear him carrolling away now as brilliantly as possible!
HARRY'S REWARD. By Mrs. Molesworth.
HATEthe sea, I hate bathing, and I don't want to learn to swim. What's the use of learning to swim? I'm not going to be a sailor. I don't like ships, and I don't want ever to go in one, and I just wish, oh, I do wish papa hadn't come here!"
"Harry! how can you?" said his sister Dora. "Papa who is so kind, and when we have all been looking forward so to his coming."
"I know—that's the worst of it," said Harry. "I've been looking forward as much as any one, and now it's all spoilt by his saying I must learn to swim."
"I only wishIcould learn!" sighed Dora. She was two years older than Harry, but she had lately had a bad fever. The family had come to the seaside to give her change of air, but not forsome weeks yet, if at all this summer, was poor Dora to be allowed to bathe. And she loved the sea, and bathing, and boating, and everything to do with the sea. She was like her father, who, though not a sailor, had travelled much and far, both by land and water; whereas Harry "took after," as the country people say, his mother, who had lived in her youth in a warm climate, and shivered at every breath of cold or even fresh air. It did not matter so much for a delicate lady to be afraid of the wind and the sea, but it was a great pity for a healthy boy to be fanciful or timid; and Harry's mother herself was very anxious that he should become more manly. She was very disappointed that she could not get him to bathe when they came to the seaside, but it was no use, and she and nurse and Dora all agreed that the only thing to do was to "wait till Papa came."
Papa had come now, and Harry had had his first "dip." It wasn't soverybad after all, but just when he was getting up his spirits again, and thinking ten minutes or so every morning were quickly over, all his fears and dislike grew worse than ever when his father told him that in a day or two he should begin to teach him to swim.
"Everybody, especially every English man and boy, should know how to swim," Papa had said. "There is never any knowing the use it may be of, both for one's self and others."
"Isn't it very hard to learn?" Harry asked, not venturing to say more.
"It takes some patience," his father said. "But by the time I have to go—in three weeks or so—you should be able to swim fairly well, if you have a lesson every day."
And Harry came home to tell Dora his troubles, which he worked himself up to think were very great ones indeed.
There was no shirking it however. Papa, though very kind, was veryfirm, and once he said a thing, it had to be done. So with a rather white face, and looking very solemn, poor Harry set off every day for his swimming lesson.
He was a quick and clever boy, and a strong boy, and this his father knew. He would not have forced Harry to do anything for which he was unfit, or that could have done him any harm. And after the first shivers of fear and tremulous clinging to his father's hand were got over, it went on better and faster than could have been expected. Harry didn't mind its being difficult once he had left off being afraid, and a day or two before his father had to leave them, Harry had the pleasure of hearing him say to his mother, "He swims already very nearly as well as I do myself."
Now I shall tell you why I have called this little story "Harry's Reward."
Seacliff, the place at which these children were spending the summer, was not a fashionable watering-place, with terraces and donkey-carriages and bathing-machines, but a little village, where one or two cottages were to be had for the season. There were also a few gentlemen's houses in the neighbourhood, so that in fine weather merry groups met at the little sheltered bay among the rocks, where the bathing was pleasantest.
One day, not very long before they were to leave Seacliff, Harry, having finished his own morning swim, set off to walk home at his ease, whistling as he went. He had chosen what was called the high path, a footpath up above the lane, which was the regular road from the village to the beach, but from which the lane could be seen all the way.
It was a lovely morning—bright and peaceful—and Harry, as he went, wished that poor Dora had got leave to bathe.