Flying From The Field. Page 54 .Flying From The Field.Page 54 .
You see the girls were trying to stifle that still, small voice, and they tried to believe they were having a good time.
Grace and Susy had got their baskets nearly half full, and Prudy had covered the bottom of hers with leaves, stems, and a few berries, when a man's voice was heard muttering, not far off.
"O Grace," whispered Susy, "that's Mr. Judkins!"
He carried a whetstone, on which he was sharpening his jackknife.
"Ah," said he, talking to himself, and not appearing to notice the girls, "I never would have thought that these little children—ah, would have come into my field—ah, and trampled down my grass! I shall hate—ah, to cut off their little ears—ah, and see the blood running down!"
I suppose it was not two minutes before the children had left that field, pulling the screaming Prudy through the bars as roughly as if she had been a sack of wool instead of flesh and blood,—their hair flying in the wind, and their poor little hearts pounding against their sides like trip-hammers. If the field had been on fire they could not have run faster, dragging helpless Prudy, who screamed all the way at the very top of her voice.
Susy and Prudy had thrown away their pretty little baskets. Grace had pushed hers up her arm, and her sleeve was soaking in the red juice of the bruised strawberries, while little streams of juice were trickling down her nice, buff-colored dress, ruining it entirely.
"You hadn't ought to have took me up there," sobbed Prudy, as soon as she couldfind her voice; and these were the first words spoken.
"O, hush, hush right up!" cried Susy, in terror. "He's after us, to take us to jail."
The family were really frightened when the panting children rushed into the house in such a plight.
"It was a crazy drunk man," cried Prudy, "and he had a axe——"
"No," said Grace, "it was that wicked Mr. Judkins, and it was his jackknife."
"And he snips off your ears and nose," broke in Prudy, "and blood comes a-runnin' down, and he kills you dead, and then he puts you in jail, and then he chased us—don't you hear him comin'?"
"What does all this mean?" cried grandma and aunt Madge in one breath."Have you been in that mowing-field, children?"
Grace and Susy hung their heads.
"Yes, they did," said Prudy, "and I wasn't well, and they shouldn't have gone and took me up there, and 'twas 'cause they were naughty."
"What shall I do with children that disobey me in this manner?" said grandma, much displeased.
"Worst of all," said aunt Madge, pulling off Prudy's shoes, "this child has got her feet wet, and is sure to be sick."
When aunt Madge went up stairs that night she found little Prudy hiding her head under the pillow, and screaming with fright.
"O, there I was!" cried the child, tossing up her arms, "all tumbled out of the window! And the man got me, and I begun to be dead!"
"Why no, darling!" said aunt Madge, "here is auntie close by you, and here you are in your pretty white bed;—don't you see?"
"No, no!" screamed Prudy, "I'm up in the Pines, I ain't here."
"Perhaps you'd like to have me sing to you," said aunt Madge; and she began, in a low voice, a little ditty Prudy loved:
"There was a little darlingI used to know,And they called her Prudy,Long time ago."
"There was a little darlingI used to know,And they called her Prudy,Long time ago."
"Stop, Nancy," said Prudy, "you put a toad in my mouth!—I must have a drink—dreffully!"
Aunt Madge brought some water, but her fingers were not steady, and the glass trembled against the child's hot lips. She watched till Prudy dozed again, and then stole softly down stairs to get a "night candle," and to tell her mother she was really afraid Prudy was going to be sick.
But Mrs. Parlin said aunt Madge mustn't be nervous; that children were very apt to be "out of their heads" in the night,and she was pretty sure Prudy would wake up bright in the morning.
Aunt Madge tried to hope so, but she hardly slept a wink, for Prudy tossed and twisted all night. Sometimes she thought she was picking berries on the tufted coverlet. Sometimes she cried out that "the crazy man was coming with a axe."
When grandma saw her purple cheeks by daylight she did not laugh at aunt Madge. She brushed the soft curls away from the little one's hot temples, and said softly,—
"How do you feel, Prudy, darling?"
A wild light burned in the child's eyes. "It isn't Prudy!" screamed she, "I ain't her! Go 'way! You're goin' to snip off my nose! O, go right off!"
You may be sure that Grace and Susy were far from happy that day. When they noticed that their grandmother grewmore and more uneasy, and when they saw the doctor's gig at the gate, their hearts were very heavy.
"O Grace," said Susy, sobbing, "Prudy thought we didn't love her! We kept saying she was always round. How much do you suppose she is sick?"
"O dear, I don't know," said Grace, wringing her hands; "but I'll tell you one thing—we ought to have seen to her, Susy!"
"O Grace," said Susy, "you don't begin to feel so bad as I do—you can't, because you haven't got any little sister. Only think of my scolding to such a darling little thing as she is!"
"Come, you go up stairs and see what the doctor says," said Grace; "you steal in easy."
"O, I don't dare to," whispered Susy,"I'm all of a tremble." But the moment their grandmother's step was heard in the passage they flew to her.
Mrs. Parlin set her vial down on the hall table. "I don't like to tell you," said she, shaking her head sadly; "the doctor calls her a very sick child, and says he is afraid of brain fever."
"Do they die with that?" cried Susy, seizing hold of her grandmother's dress. "O, stop a minute; is she going to die?"
"We hope not," said Mrs. Parlin, "but she is so sick that we shall send a despatch for your mother. I want you to try and keep the house still, girls, and coax Horace to stay out of doors."
"Keep the house still? I guess we will!" said Grace. "O grandma, will you forgive us for being so naughty yesterday?"
"Can you forgive us?" said Susy. "I tell you we feel awfully about it, grandma!"
Mrs. Parlin took off her spectacles to wipe them. "My dear children," said she, gravely, "I am ready to forgive you with all my heart; but I hope that before this you have asked pardon of your dear Father in heaven. That is the first thing, you know."
Susy stole off into the nursery, and threw herself on the lounge.
"O God," sobbed she, "I should think you would hate me, I have acted so bad! O, can you forgive me, and not take Prudy? I never will do so again! I didn't mean any thing when I said she was always round. O,don'tlet her die and be put in the ground! Please don't, dear God! Seems to me I love her the best ofany body. When we have any fuss, it's always me that's to blame."
Here Susy's prayer was drowned in sobs; but her heart felt a little lighter because she had told her kind Father just how she felt, and if it was best for Prudy to get well, she was sure he would save her.
Prudy's mother came in the cars that night, looking pale and troubled. Prudy did not know her.
"Why don't you bring my own mamma?" said she.
"Look at me, darling," said her mother, "here I am, right here. Mother won't leave her little Prudy again."
"I ain't Prudy!" screamed the child; "Prudy's gone to heaven. God came and helped her up the steps."
One of the first things Mrs. Parlin did was to cut off her little daughter's beautifulcurls, and lay them tenderly away in a drawer.
"Ah, sister Madge," said she, "you can't guess how it makes my heart ache to have my child take me for a stranger."
"Perhaps she may know you to-morrow," said aunt Madge; though in her heart she had very little hope of the child.
But Prudy did not know any body "to-morrow," nor the next day, nor the next. O, the long, weary time that they watched by her bed! The terrible disease seemed to be drinking up her life. Her cheeks looked as if fierce fires were hidden in them, and when she raved so wildly her eyes shone like flames.
A deep hush had fallen on the house. Grace and Susy would go and sit by the hour in their seat in the trees, and talkabout dear little Prudy. Horace had the heartache, too, and asked every day,—
"Doyou think she's going to die?"
Nobody could answer him, and he had to wait, like all the rest.
But God did not mean that Prudy should die. At last, after many days, the fever died out like a fire when it has burned the wood all down to cinders. Then there was a pale little girl left, who looked as if a breath would blow her away like white ashes. I think a little baby, that tips over if you touch it, could not be weaker than Prudy was when she began to get well.
Ah, but it was so joyful to see her own sweet smile once more, though never so faint! And every low word she spoke now dropped from her lips like a note of music.
Her father and mother, and the wholefamily, were full of joy, and Grace and Susy went to their cosy seat in the trees to talk over the pretty things they were going to make for Prudy when she should be well enough to enjoy them.
"Well, dear," said grandma, coming up stairs one morning, all out of breath, "what did you call me for? What do you want, little one?"
"I don't know," said Prudy, "but I guessI shallwant somethin' by and by."
"There, there, darling," said grandma, "don't cry."
"No, I won't," said Prudy, trying to stop. "I was a-talkin' to myself, and I said, 'I won't cry no more,' and then I cried. I don't like to stay in this country,grandma, 'thout I can have somethin' to eat!"
"Of all things," said grandma, "I don't believe there's a little girl any where that has so many nice things as you do. See the jelly, and oranges, and lemons, and——"
"Well, if I wasn't sick, grandma, and you should ask me to eat somesmashed potatoes, and somepie, I'd eat 'em," said Prudy, smiling through her tears.
"Bless your little heart," cried grandma, kissing Prudy's pale cheek. "Can't you think of something besides eating? What pretty thing shall I bring you to look at?"
"O, now I know what it is I want," replied Prudy, lifting her head from the pillow, "I want to eat up theold lady!"
Prudy was thinking of a little image aunt Madge had formed out of candy.
"O, that's made to be looked at," said grandma. "Let's see—where do you suppose your little Zip is nowadays? I guess he misses Prudy."
"I don' know—Iatea little dog once," said Prudy, wiping her eyes. "He was made out of a doughnut. Once when I lived to Portland—to my mother's Portland—I used to eat things."
Poor grandma herself could hardly keep from crying to see Prudy so hungry.
"Here is some nice arrow-root," said she. "You may have it all if you like. You are a darling little girl not to tease for things you ought not to have."
"I believe," she went on, looking at patient little Prudy, as she drained the bowl, "I should like to give such a good child a pretty present."
"O, dear me suz!" screamed Prudy,"I'm glad I didn't go to heaven yet.—Will it be a little wee doll that can live in a thimble?—made out of sugar?"
"Well," said grandma, "I don't know, You may be thinking all day what you would like best. Not toeat, dear, but tokeep, remember. Now I must go down stairs—but here come Grace and Susy, so you won't be lonesome."
It was pleasant to see how softly the little girls entered the room, and how the glad smiles came and went on Prudy's face when they tried to amuse her.
They were dressed in a very funny rig. Susy looked a great deal wiser than an owl, out of a pair of spectacles without any eyes, and a flaring cap. Grace had stuck some false hair on her head, and a bonnet that looked as if a wagon wheel had rolled over it.
"Fine day, Mrs. Prudy," said Grace; "how have you been, ma'am?"
"I've been a-thinkin'," said Prudy, smiling, "about my present."
"You see we've come a-visiting, Mrs. Prudy," said Grace. "Very sorry, ma'am, to see your doll looking so sick. Has she got the smallpox?"
"No, ma'am," answered Prudy, delighted, "she's got the measles!"
"Deary me," said Susy, pushing back her cap, and trying to look frightened, "how was she taken, ma'am?"
"Taken?" repeated Prudy, "takensick! She's got it all over her."
"Poor little creeter!" cried Grace, rolling up her eyes, "how she must suffer! I hope she's out of her head. Does she have her senses, ma'am?"
"Herwhat?" said Prudy. "O, yes'm,she's got 'em. I laid 'em up on the shelf, to keep 'em for her."
Here the two visitors turned away their heads to laugh. "What do you s'pose my present will be?" said Prudy, forgetting their play. "Look here, Susy, I could take that vase now, and smash it right down on the floor, and break it, and grandma wouldn't scold—'cause I'm sick, you know."
"But you wouldn't do it," said Grace. "O, here come Mr. Allen and aunt Madge. Now, Mrs. Prudy, you're going to have a ride."
Mr. Allen laughed to see aunt Madge bundle Prudy so much, and said the child would be so heavy that he could not carry her in his arms; but I think he found her only too light after all.
Prudy almost forgot how hungry shewas when she was seated in her little carriage and wheeled about the pleasant yard. She had an idea that the trees and the flowers in the garden were having good times, and the open windows of the house looked as if they were laughing. But she did not say much, and when aunt Madge asked her what made her so quiet, she said she was "a-thinkin'." And the most of her small thoughts were about her present.
"Now," said Mr. Allen, "I'm going to hold you up so you can peep over into the pig-pen. There, do you see that little mite of a white piggy?"
"O, dear, dear, dear!" cried Prudy, clapping her hands, "what a cunning little piggy-wiggy! He looks nice enough to eat right up! I never did see such a darling! O, he winks his eyes—see him! He ain't dead, is he? Not a mite?"
"No, my little dear, he's alive enough, if that's all," said Mr. Allen.
"O, my stars!" said Prudy, sighing with delight. "Don't you wish you had such a pretty pink nose, and such little bits of shiny eyes?"
Mr. Allen laughed.
"O, so white and nice!" added Prudy. "He hasn't got a speck of red cheeks, 'cept his nose and little toes. Mayn't he have one of my oranges? I never did see any thing look so much like a sugar pig."
It did Mr. Allen and aunt Madge a world of good to see the child so pleased.
"Do you know," said she, eagerly, "who that piggy b'longs to?"
"Why, to grandpa, I suppose."
"O," said Prudy, very sadly, while the bright color died out of her cheeks at once,"I didn't know but it b'longed to grandma."
"Well, you little pet," said aunt Madge, laughing, "what do you care who itb'longsto? You can look at it all the same, can't you?"
"But," said Prudy, "do you s'pose——"
"S'pose what?"
"Do you s'pose if grandpa thought I was a darlin'——" Prudy could get no farther.
"Of course heknowsyou're a darling!" said aunt Madge.
"Do you s'pose when I don't tease for things to eat, and grandma says I may think what I want for a present, he'd be willing I should have—she should give me that—piggy?"
"O, what a Prudy!" said aunt Madge, laughing till she cried. "Isn't there somethingnicer you would like for a present? You'd better think again."
"O, no, no," said Prudy, trembling with eagerness. "If grandma should give me a house full of dolls and candy all rolled up, and every single present in the world, I'd rather have that piggy."
"Well, well," said Mr. Allen, "I guess the folks that wouldn't give their pigs away to Prudy don't live here. Let's go and see."
They went into the house to see grandpa. Of course he said Yes.
"Of all the funny presents!" said grandma;—but Prudy was happy, and that was enough.
Grandpa was very kind, but there was one thing he would not consent to—he would not let the pig come into the house. But as he said he would be sure to takegood care of it, and give it sweet milk to drink, Prudy did not mind so much.
When she grew stronger she fed it herself, and the pretty creature knew her, and was glad to see her, Prudy thought. Now she had a great many presents that summer, but none that pleased her half so well as the little pet pig.
One morning, after Prudy was quite well, aunt Madge told her she might go into the garden and get some currants. While she was picking with all her might, and breathing very fast, she saw Horace close by, on the other side of the fence, with a pole in his hand.
"I thought you was to school!" cried Prudy.
"Well, I ain't," said Horace, pulling his hat over his eyes, and looking ashamed. "The teacher don't keep no order, and I won't go to such a school, so there!"
"They don't wantmeto go," said Prudy, "'cause I should know too much. I can say all my letters now, right down straight, 'thout looking on, either."
"O, ho!" cried Horace, trailing his long pole, "you can't say 'em skipping about, and I shouldn't care, if I was you. But you ought to know how to fish, Miss. Don't you wish you could drop in your line, and catch 'em the way I do?"
"Do they like to have you catch 'em?" said Prudy, dropping her little dipper, and going to the fence; "don't it hurt?"
"Hurt? Not as I know of. They needn't bite if they don't want to."
"No," returned Prudy, looking very wise, "I s'pose they want to get out, and that's why they bite. Of course when fishes stay in the water much it makes 'em drown."
"O, my stars!" cried Horace, laughing, "you ought to live 'out west,' you're such a cunning little spud. Come, now, here's another fish-pole for you. I'll show you how to catch one, and I bet 'twill be a pollywog—you're just big enough."
"But grandma didn't say I might go down to the river. Wait till I go ask her."
"Poh!" said Horace, "no you needn't; I have to hurry. Grandmaalwayslikes it when you go with me, Prudy, because you see I'm a boy, and she knows I can take care of you twice as well as Grace and Susy can."
"O," cried Prudy, clapping her little hands, "they won't any of 'em know I can fish, and how they'll laugh. But there, now, they don't let me climb the fence—I forgot."
"Well, give us your bonnet, and thenyou 'scooch' down, and I'll pull you through."
"There," said the naughty boy, when they had got down to the river, "now I've been and put a bait on the end of your hook, and I plump it in the water—so. You just hold on to the pole."
"But it jiggles—it tips me!" cried Prudy; and as she spoke she fell face downwards on the bank.
"Well, that's smart!" said Horace, picking her up. "There, you sit down next time, and I'll prop up the pole with a rock—this way. There, now, you hold it a little easy, and when you feel a nibble you let me know."
"What's a nibble?" asked Prudy, shaking the line.
"A nibble? Why, it's a bite."
They sat quite still for some minutes, thehot sun glaring on Prudy's bare head with its rings of soft golden hair.
"Now, now!" cried she suddenly, "I've got a nibble!"
Horace sprang to draw up her line.
"I feel it right here on my neck," said the child; "I s'pose it's a fly."
"Now, look here," said Horace, rather vexed, "you're a little too bad. You made me drop my line just when I was going to have a nibble. Wait till you feel the string wiggle, and then speak, but don't scream."
The children sat still for a few minutes longer, and no sound was heard but now and then a wagon going over the bridge. But they might as well have dropped their lines in the sand for all the fish they caught. Horace began to wish he had gone to school.
"O dear!" groaned Prudy, getting tired, "I never did see such fishes. I guess they don't want to be catched."
"There, now you've spoke again, and scared one away," said Horace. "If it hadn't been for you I should have got, I don't know how many, by this time."
Prudy's lip began to tremble, and two big round tears rose to her eyes.
"Poh! crying about that?" said Horace; "you're a nice little girl if you do talk too much, so don't you cry."
Horace rather enjoyed seeing Grace and Susy in tears, but could never bear to have Prudy cry.
"I'll tell you what it is," said Horace, when Prudy's eyes were clear again, "I don't think I make much playing hookey."
"I don't like playing 'hookey' neither,"returned Prudy, "'cause the hooks won't catch 'em."
"O, you don't know what I mean," laughed Horace. "When we boys 'out west' stay out of school, we callthatplaying hookey."
"O, do you? But I want to go home now, if we can't catch any nibbles."
"No, I'll tell you what we'll do—we'll walk out on that log, and try it there."
The river was quite high, and this was one of the logs that had drifted down from the "Rips." Prudy was really afraid to walk on it, because it was "so round," but not liking to be laughed at, she crept on her hands and knees to the very end of the log, trembling all the way.
Horace took the two poles and followed; but the moment he stepped on the log it rolled quite over, carrying Prudy under.
I do not know what Horace thought then, but he had to think fast. If he had been older he might have plunged in after Prudy, but he was only a little boy, seven years old, so he ran for the house. O, how he ran!
Aunt Madge was ironing in the back kitchen. She heard heavy breathing, and the quick pattering of feet, and the words gasped out, "Prudy's in the river!"
"Prudy!" screamed aunt Madge, looking wildly at the boy's face, which was as white as death.
"Run, tell grandpa!" cried she, and flew down the steps, and out across the field towards the river, as if she had wings on her slippers, though it seemed to her they were clogged with lead.
"Has she just been saved from death only to be drowned?" was one of the quickthoughts that rushed across aunt Madge's dizzy brain. "I shall be too late! too late! And her mother gone! God forgive me! It is I who should have watched her!"
Poor aunt Madge! as if any one was to blame but Horace.
There was a child crying down by the river.
"Not Prudy," thought aunt Madge. "It sounds like her voice, but it can't be. She has sunk by this time!"
"Don't be afraid, Prudy!" cried Mr. Allen, who was just behind aunt Madge, "we are running to you."
The cry came up louder: it was Prudy's voice.
Mr. Allen leaped the fence at a bound, and ran down the bank. The child was out of the water, struggling to climb thebank, but slipping back at every step. She was dripping wet, and covered with sand.
Mr. Allen lifted her in his arms, and there she lay, sobbing as if her heart would break, but not speaking a word.
When she was lying, clean and warm, in soft blankets, and had had a nap, she told them how she got out.
"The log kept jiggling," said she, "and I couldn't hold on, but I did. I thought my father would say I was a nice little girl not to get drowned, and let the fishes eat me up, and so I kept a-holdin' on."
"Only think," said grandma, shuddering, and looking at Horace, "if Prudy hadn't held on!"
Horace seemed very sad and humble, and was still quite pale.
"It makes you feel mortified, don't it,'Race?" said Prudy, smiling; "don't you feel as if you could cry?"
At these first words little Prudy had spoken to him since she fell into the water, the boy ran out of the room, and hid in the green chamber, for he never would let any one see him cry.
"O, won't you forgive him?" said Prudy, looking up into Mrs. Clifford's face; "won't you forgive him, aunt 'Ria? he feels so bad; and he didn't catch a fish, and he didn't mean to,—and—'twas the log that jiggled."
So Horace was forgiven for Prudy's sake.
One night the children clustered about their aunt Madge, begging for a story.
"Fairy, you know," said Susy.
"A fairy story?" repeated aunt Madge. "I don't know about that. I told a little boy a fairy story once, and he went right off and whispered to his mother that I was a very wicked lady, for that story wasn't true, not a bit; and if a baby six months old should hear it, he wouldn't believe a word of it!"
"Poh! he was a smart boy," cried Horace.
"So I am afraid to tell fairy stories since that, for I don't like to be called a wicked lady, you know."
"There, now, auntie," said Susy, "don't you s'pose we know they're only play-stories? Just as if we hadn't a speck of sense!"
"Well, let me see," said aunt Madge, covering her eyes with her fingers. "Once upon a time when the moon was full——"
"Full of what?" said Prudy, who was leaning on the arm of her auntie's chair, and peeping up into her face, "full of fairies?"
"When the moon was round, my child," said auntie, stroking the little one's hair. "But wait. I'll tell a story Prudy can understand—wouldn't you, my dears? When I was a little girl——"
Aunt Madge telling a Story. Page 90 .Aunt Madge telling a Story.Page 90 .
"That's right," cried the children. "O, tell about that."
"Was you about as big as me?" said Prudy, "and was your namelittle Madge?"
"Yes, they called me little Madge sometimes, and sometimes Maggie. When I was about as old as our Susy, I happened to go into the back-room one day, and saw uncle Edward's hatchet lying on the meat-block. I knew I had no right to touch it, but it came into my head that I would try to break open the clams. The hatchet, instead of cracking the shells, came down with full force on my foot! I had on thick boots, but it cut through my right boot deep into the bone. O, how I screamed!"
"I should have thought you would, auntie," cried Grace, fairly turning pale. "Did it bring the blood?"
"Yes, indeed! Why, when I went into the kitchen, my footsteps were tracked with little pools of blood, oozing out of my boot. Sister Maria screamed out,—'O, look at Maggie! She's cut her foot with that hatchet!'"
"'No, no, I haven't,' said I, for I was frightened almost to death, and afraid of being punished for disobedience. You see father had forbidden us little ones ever to touch the hatchet."
"Why, you told a right up and down——fib," said Susy, looking shocked.
"A real whopper," said Horace, shaking his head.
"So I did, children, and before my story is done you shall see what misery my sin caused me."
"Did Mr. 'Gustus Allen know about it?" asked little Prudy.
"I guess not," replied aunt Madge, blushing. "He lived ever so far off then."
"O dear," sighed Prudy, "I wish he hadn't gone to the wars. How it made you cry!"
"Hush up, please, can't you, Prudy?" said Susy. "Aunt Madge is telling a story."
"Well, they sent for the doctor in great haste, and then tried to pull off my boot; but my foot was so badly swollen, and bleeding so fast, that it took a great while. I can't tell how long, for I fainted. When the doctor saw the wound they said he looked very sober."
"'So, so, little girl,' said he (that was after I came to myself), 'you thought you'd make me a good job while you were about it. There's no half-way work aboutyou. You are the child that had the tip of a finger clipped off in the corn-sheller, hey?'"
"I was always afraid of Dr. Foster, so I only buried my face in my apron, and cried."
"'She must have brought the hatchet down with a great deal of force,' said the doctor. 'See, Mrs. Parlin, how deep it went into the bone.'"
"'I fell and hit my foot,' I sobbed out. 'I nevertouchedthe hatchet!'"
"I knew well enough that the doctor didn't believe me."
"'So, so,' said he. 'Very well, never mind how 'twas done, but keep your foot still, little one, and we'll talk about the hatchet another time. Mrs. Parlin, if it goes to bleeding again, be sure to send for me.'"
"It was ever so long before I could walk a step. Every time any body spoke of my hurt, I said, 'Why, I was just coming into the house with those clams, and my foot slipped, and I fell and hit me on something. I don't know whether it was a hatchet or a stick of wood; but I never touched the hatchet!'"
"There, I shouldn't have thought that ofyou, auntie," said Grace.
"Poh!" cried Horace, "they must have known you was a-foolin'; of course they did!"
"Well, every time the doctor came to see me, he laughed and asked me how I cut my foot."
"'Just the same as I did in the first place, you know,' said I. 'I don't know nothing about it, only I never touched the hatchet!'"
"'Well,' he would answer, 'you remember the old saying, A lie well stuck to, is better than the truth wavering.'"
"I didn't know what that meant, but he laughed so that I knew he was making sport of me. I knew nobody believed me. The hatchet had been found red with blood, and mother looked, O, so sad! but I had told that falsehood so many times that it did seem as if I hadn't any courage left to tell the truth. It had grown to be very easy to keep saying, I nevertouchedthe hatchet.'"
"Makes me think of that play, 'My father's lost his hatchet,'" whispered Susy to Grace.
"Every one tried to amuse me while I was sick, but there was always a thorn in my pillow."
"A thorn?" said Prudy.
"Not a real thorn, dear. I mean I hadtold a wrong story, and I couldn't feel happy."
Here Susy turned away her head and looked out of the window, though she saw nothing there but grandpa coming in from the garden with a watering-pot.
"Whenever father looked at me, I felt just as if he was thinking, 'Margaret doesn't tell the truth;' and when mother spoke my name quick, I was afraid she was going to say something about the hatchet."
"I got well, only I limped a little. Then it was almost time to think of making presents for the Christmas tree. I didn't like to have Christmas come while I was feeling so. People are so good that day, I thought. That is the time when every body loves you, and spends money for you. I wanted to confess, and feelclean; but then I hadtold that lie over so many times that I thought Icouldn'ttake it back."
"I talked it over with myself a great while though, and at last said I, 'Iwill; I'll do it!' First, I asked God to forgive me and help me, and when I had got as far as that, the thing was half done, children."
"I went into the parlor where your grandfather was—he wasn't deaf then. I thought I should choke; but I caught hold of one of the buttons on his coat, and spoke as fast as I could."
"'O father,' said I, 'I've told more than a hundred thousand lies. Ididtake that hatchet! Will you forgive me?'"
"Did he?" asked Susy.
"Forgive! I guess he did! My dear child, it was just what he had been waiting to do! And, O, I can tell you he talked to me in such a way about the awful sin oflying, that I never, never forgot it, and shan't, if I live to be a hundred years old."
"My father had forgiven me: I was sure God had forgiven me too; and after that, I felt as if I could look people in the face once more, and I had a splendid time Christmas.—I believe that's about all thestorythere is to it, children."
"Well," said Grace, "I'm much obliged to you, auntie; I think it's just as nice as a fairy story—don't you, Susy?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Susy, looking confused. "See here, auntie, I've lost your gold ring!"
"My ring?" said aunt Madge. "I forgot that I let you take it."
"Don't you know I asked you for it when you stood by the table making bread? and it slipped off my finger this afternoon into the water barrel!"
"Why, Susy!"
"And I was a coward, and didn't dare tell you, auntie. I thought maybe you'd forget I had it, and some time when you asked for it, I was going to say, 'Hadn't you better take a pair of tongs and see if it isn't in the water barrel?'"
"O, Susy!" said aunt Madge.
"She isn't any worse than me, auntie," said Grace. "Ma asked me how the mud came on my handkerchief, and I said Prudy wiped my boots with it. And so she did, auntie, but I told her to; and wasn't I such a coward for laying it off on little Prudy? I am ashamed—you may believe I am."
"I am glad you have told me the whole truth now," replied aunt Madge, "though it does make me feel sad, too, for it's too much like my hatchet story. O, do rememberfrom this time, children, and never, never,darebecowardsagain!"
Just then grandpa Parlin came to the door with a sad face, saying,—
"Margaret, please come up stairs, and see if you can soothe poor little Harry by singing. He is so restless that neither Maria nor I can do any thing with him."
This baby, Horace's brother, was sick all the time now, and once in a while Margaret's sweet voice would charm him to sleep when every thing else failed.
"I move we have some more stories," said Horace the next evening, as they were sitting in the twilight. "It's your turn, Gracie."
"Well, I don't know but I'd as soon tell a story as not," replied Grace, pushing back her curls; "I reckon Pincher wants to hear one, he begins to wag his tail. I can't make up any thing as I go along, but I can tell a sober, true story."
"Certain true, black and blue?" asked Prudy, who alwayswouldhave something to say, whether she knew what she was talking about or not.
"Didn't I ever tell you about our school-dog out West, aunt Madge? You see it was so queer. I don't know where in the world he came from. He had one of his eyes put out, and was 'most blind out of the other, and only a stump of a tail, and didn't know how to get his living like other dogs."
"O dear, it was so funny he should take it into his head to come to school, now wasn't it, auntie? He knew Miss All'n just as well as could be, and used to go with the rest of the scholars to meet her every morning; and when she patted him on the head, and said 'Good old doggie,' it did seem like he'd fly out of his wits."
"Then when she rang the bell he trotted in just as proud, hanging down his head as meek as could be. He thought she rang the bell for him as much as any of the restof the scholars. His seat was right by the stove on the floor—itwasn'ta seat, I mean; and he just lay there the whole living time, and slept and snored—you see he was so old, auntie! But then we all loved him, we just loved him so! O dear me, it's as much as I can do to keep from crying, and I don't know howany bodycould help it!"
"What was I talking about—O, he used to walk round under the seats just as sly sometimes, and put his nose into the dinner baskets. I tell you he liked cake, that dog did, and he liked meat and mince pie. You see he couldsmell, for his nose was as good as ever it was, and the girls used to cry sometimes when he picked out the nice things."
"But then we just loved him so, you know, auntie! Why, we thought he wasjust as good as any body. He never bit nor growled, that dog didn't, not a mite. There wasn't one of us but he loved,—'specially Miss All'n."
"Now wasn't it too bad Mrs. Snell made such a fuss? She didn't love that dog one speck,—I don't know as she ever saw him,—and she didn't care whether he was dead or alive. I just know she didn't."
"I'll tell you how it was. Sometimes he got locked up all night. He'd be asleep, you know, by the stove, or else under the seats, and Miss All'n would forget, and suppose he was gone with the rest of the scholars."
"Well, he was a darling old dog, if hedidchew up the books! I just about know he got hungry in the night, or he never would have thought of it. How didheknow it was wrong? he didn't know one letter from another. He spoiled Jenny Snell's spelling-book, I know, and lots of readers and things; but what if he did, auntie, now what of it?"
"I ain't crying any thing about that, I wouldn't have you to think! But you see Mrs. Snell made a great fuss, and went to her husband and told him he ought to be shot."
"That Mr. Snell ought to be shot?"
"Now, Susy, I shouldn't think you'd feel like laughing or making fun.—The dog, ofcourse; and they sent for the city marshal. You know Mr. Garvin, Horace?"
"Yes, the man that scowls so, with the scar on his nose, and a horse-whip in his hand."
"Miss All'n cried. She lifted up the lidof her desk, and hid her head, but we all knew she was crying. You see we had such a time about it. We thought he was going to carry the dog off to some place, and take care of him like he was his master, or may be shut him up, or something that way; but, do you believe, he justshotthat dog right in the yard!"
"How dreadful!"
"Yes, auntie, I reckon it was! We all cried like we should kill ourselves, and put our fingers in our ears; for we heard the man when he fired the gun,—I mean we heard the gun when the man fired it,—andthenit was of no use; but we stopped our ears, and Miss All'n hid her face, and cried—and cried—and cried!"
"O dear me, it did seem like we didn't any of us want to go to school any more, if we couldn't see our old dog coming to meetus, and rub his head against our dresses. And it was just as lonesome,—now it wasso, auntie."
"Poor old doggie!" sighed aunt Madge.
"It wasn't you, was it, Pincher," cried Horace, seizing his dog by both ears. "I reckon if they tried to shoot you they'd catch it."
"Now, Susy, it's your turn," said Grace.
"No, Horace's; he's the oldest."
"Pshaw!" returned Horace, who had been the very first one to propose stories, "I'd like to get shut of it. Pshaw! I can't think of nothin'."
"But you must, you know, Horace; so it's no use to grumble."
"O shucks! Has it got to be true?"
"Don't say 'shucks,' Horace," said Grace, gently. "You can tell a true story,or make it up as you go along.—Come, hurry."
"I know whatI'mgoin' to tell," whispered Prudy to Horace.
"Well," said the boy, thinking a moment, "I'll tell my story double quick, and be done with it."
"You'd ought to see my pa's horse out West, auntie; there ain't a Yankee horse can hold a candle to him; I'll leave it to Pincher. His name is Sancho, and my ma sends him to market mornings, early, with the basket, and puts some money in, and a note to the butcher, and that horse comes back, sir, just as fast as he can trot, sir, and he has the meat there all wrapped up, and just has the basket in his teeth, this way."
"Why, Horace Clifford!" cried Grace, in surprise; "why, what a story!"
"Of course it's a story. You wanted meto tell a story, didn't you? I was just a-blowin'."
"Well, there, tell something nice, can't you, please?"
"I've told all the story I'm a-goin' to," said Horace, firmly. "Now it's Susy's turn."
"You talk about something else a while," replied Susy, "and let me be a-thinkin'."
"I'll tell one," cried Prudy, "letme, now."
"Once there was goin' to be three balls, and Cindrilla didn't have no mother, and her father didn't have no wife, so he married him one. And there was goin' to be three great big balls, and Cindrilla asked her mother if she couldn't go, and her mother said, No, indeed; she hadn't nothin' to wear. And then they started off, andher grandma came,—O, I forgot, the woman was wicked, and she made her little girls sit in the parlor, all dressed up spandy clean, and she made Cindrilla sit in the coal-hod."
"And then she told her to get a great punkin, and it turned into a gold hack, and she went off into the back shed and got the rat-trap, and it turned into two footmens,—and the king's son—O, no——"
"And then there was some bugs round there, and they was six horses, and she got in and rode on to the ball, and her shoes come off, and then the king married her, and she had the other shoe in her pocket, and he married her right off, and they're all safe now."
"All safe?" said aunt Madge, laughing; "what do you mean by that?"
"O, now she'll have a good father and agood mother, and won't sit in the coal-hod no more.—Now it's your turn, Susy."
"O dear suz! I was going to tell a story, a fairy story. It was going to be a real good one, about 'The Bravest of Lion's Castle,' and I couldn't think of a thing to say, and now Prudy has drove it all out of my head."
"Well, children," said aunt Madge, "suppose we give Susy a little more time, and excuse her for to-night? It's time for pleasant dreams now, and kisses all 'round."
"Blessings on the blessed children!" said aunt Madge, one morning soon after this. "So we little folks are going out to spend the day, are we?"
"Yes'm," replied Grace, "all but Horace."
"Yes," said Prudy, dancing in high glee, "grandma wantsmeto go, and I'm goin'. I mean to do every single thing grandma wants me to."
"I wish you could go with us, aunt Madge," said Grace, almost pouting; "we don't have half so good times with aunt Louise."
"No, we don't," cried Prudy; "she wants us to 'take care' all the time. She don't love little girls when she has 'the nervous.'"
Almost while they were talking, their aunt Louise came into the room, looking prettier than ever in her new pink dress. She was a very young lady, hardly fifteen years old.
"Come, Prudy," said she, smiling, "please run up stairs and get my parasol—there's a darling."
But Prudy was picking a pebble out of her shoe, and did not start at once.
"Ah!" said aunt Louise, drawing on her gloves, "I see Prudy isn't going to mind me."
"Well, don't you see me getting up out of my chair?" said Prudy. "There now, don't you see me got clear to the door?"
"O dear," said poor aunt Louise to her sister, "what shall I do all this long day with three noisy children? I'm afraid some of them will get drowned, or run over, or break their necks. You see if something awful doesn't happen before we get back."
"O, I hope not," replied sister Madge, laughing. "I think there is nothing so very wicked about our little nieces."
"Here is your parasol, auntie," said Prudy, coming back. "I know who I love best of any body in this house, and it ain't the one that's got her bonnet on—it's a-r-n-t, aunt, M-i-g, Madge."
"Well, you ought to love your auntMig, all of you," said aunt Louise, laughing, "for I do believe she thinks you children are as lovely as little white rose-buds.—Come, are you all ready? Then run along, and I'll follow after."
"O, I'm so glad I'm alive!" cried little Prudy, hoping on one foot; "I do hope I shall never die!"
"I just mean to be careful, and not get a speck of dirt on my clean apron," whispered Susy to Grace. "Aunt Madge ironed it this morning."
They had such a pleasant walk through the streets of the beautiful village, in the "sunshine, calm and sweet!" Grace thought the trees met overhead just as if they were clasping hands, and playing a game of "King's Cruise" for every body to "march through."
When they had almost reached aunt Martha's house, aunt Louise stopped them, saying,—
"Now, tell me if you are going to begood children, so I shan't be ashamed of you?"
"Why, yes, auntie," said Grace, looking quite grieved and surprised.
"O, auntie," said Susy, "did you think we were going to be naughty?"
"No, you'll mean to be good, I dare say," answered aunt Louise, speaking more kindly,—"if you don't forget it. And you'll be a nice, dear little girl, won't you, Prudy?"
"I don't know," said Prudy, coolly.
"Don'tknow? Why, do you think I should have taken you visiting if I hadn't supposed you'd try to be good?"
"Well, I didn't say I wouldn't," said Prudy, with some dignity, "I said 'I don't know,' and when I say that, I mean 'yes.'"
"Well, I'm sure I hope you'll do thevery best you can," sighed aunt Louise, "and not make any body crazy."
By this time they had gone up the nice gravel walk, and aunt Martha had come to the door, opening her arms as if she wanted to embrace them all at once.
"Dear little souls," said she, "come right into the house, and let me take off your things. I've been looking for you these two hours. This is my little nephew, Lonnie Adams.—Shake hands with the little girls, my dear."
Lonnie was a fair-haired, sickly little boy, seven years old. The children very soon felt at ease with him.
It was so pleasant in aunt Martha's shaded parlor, and the children took such delight in looking at the books and pictures, that they were all sorry when auntLouise "got nervous," and thought it was time they went off somewhere to play.
"Very well," said dear aunt Martha; "they may go all over the house and grounds, if they like, with Lonnie."
So all over the house and grounds they went in a very few minutes, and at last came to a stand-still in Bridget's chamber over the kitchen, tired enough to sit down a while—all but Prudy, who "didn't have any kind oftirednessabout her."
"Look here, Prudy Parlin," said Grace, "you mustn't open that drawer."
"Who owns it?" said Prudy, putting in both hands.
"Why, Bridget does, of course."
"No, she doesn't," said Prudy, "God owns this drawer, and he's willing I should look into it as long as I'm a mind to."
"Well, I'll tell aunt Louise, you see if Idon't. That's the way little Paddy girls act that steal things."
"I ain't a stealer," cried Prudy. "Now, Gracie Clifford, I saw you once, and you was a-nippin' cream out of the cream-pot.You'rea Paddy!—O, here'sa ink-stand!"
"Put it right back," said Susy, "and come away."
"Let me take it," cried Lonnie, seizing it out of Prudy's hand, "I'm going to put it up at auction. I'm Mr. Nelson, riding horseback," said he, jumping up on a stand. "I'm ringin' a bell. 'O yes! O yes! O yes! Auction at two o'clock! Who'll buy my fine, fresh ink?'"
"Please give it to me," cried Grace; "it isn't yours."
"'Fresh ink, red as a lobster!'"
"This minute!" cried Grace.
"'As green as a pea! Who'll bid? Going! Going!'"
"Now, do give it to me, Lonnie," said Susy, climbing into a chair, and reaching after it; "you ain't fair a bit."
"'Do you say you bid abit? That's a ninepence, ma'am. It's yours; going, gone for a ninepence. Knocked off to Miss Parlin.'"
Somehow, in "knocking it off," out came the stopper, and over went the ink on Susy's fair white apron. Lonnie was dreadfully frightened.
"Don't tell that I did it!" cried he. "You know I didn't mean any harm. Won't you promise not to tell?"
"Yes, I will," said Susy; but she ought not to have promised any such thing.
"O, dear, O dear! What is to be done?"
Little black streams were trickling down the apron on to the dress. Grace pulled Susy to the washing-stand, and Prudy thought she meant to lift her into it, and tried to help.
"I guess this honey soap will take it out," said Susy; but with all their washing and rinsing they could not make black white any more than the poor negro who scoured his face.
"Stop a minute!" cried Grace. "Soap makes it worse—ma puts on milk."
"O dear! I wish we had some," said Susy; "how can we get it?"
"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Grace; "we'll send Prudy down stairs to Bridget, to ask for some milk to drink."
"I like milk and water the best," said Prudy, "with sugar in."
"Well, get that," said Grace, "it's just as good; and come right back with it, and don't tell about the ink."
Aunt Martha and Bridget were taking up the dinner when Prudy went down into the kitchen, calling out,—
"O, Bridget, may I have some white tea?"
"Whitetay!" said Bridget; "and what may that be now?"
"O, some white tea, in a cup, you know, with sugar. They let me have it every little once in a while."
"Milk and water, I suppose," said aunt Martha. "Can't you wait till dinner, my dear?"
"But the girlscan'twait," replied Prudy; "they want it now."
"O, it's for the girls, is it?"
"Yes, but when they've washed theapron I can drink the rest—with white sugar in."
"The apron!" said aunt Martha, "whatapron?"
"O, nothing but Susy's. I told grandma I'd be good, and I did be good; it wasn'tmespilled the ink."
"Ink spilled?" cried aunt Martha, and she stopped beating the turnip.
"O, I ain't goin' to tell!" cried Prudy, beginning to tremble; "I didn't, did I? they won't 'lowme to tell."
Aunt Louise, passing through the kitchen, caught some of the last words, and rushed up stairs, two steps at a time.
"O, Susy Parlin, you naughty, naughty child, whathaveyou been into? Who spilled that ink?"
"It got tipped over," answered Susy, in a fright, but not forgetting her promise.
"Of course it got tipped over—but not without hands, you careless girl! Do you get your shaker, and march home as quick as ever you can! I must go with you, I suppose."
Lonnie ought to have come forward now, like a little gentleman, and told the whole story; but he had run away.
"O, auntie," said Grace, "she wasn't to blame. It——"
"Don't say a word," said aunt Louise, briskly. "If she was my little girl I'd have her sent to bed. That dress and apron ought to be soaking this very minute."
Bridget listened at the foot of the stairs in a very angry mood, muttering,—
"It's not much like the child's mother she is. A mother can pass it by when the childers does such capers, and wait till they get more sinse."
Poor little Susy had to go home in the noonday sun, hanging down her head like a guilty child, and crying all the way. Some of the tears were for her soiled clothes, some for her auntie's sharp words, and some for the nice dinner she had left.
"O, aunt Madge," sobbed she, when they had got home, "I kept as far behind aunt Louise as I could, so nobody would think I was her little girl. She was ashamed of me, I looked so!"
"There, there! try not to cry," said aunt Madge, as she took off Susy's soiled clothes.
"But I can't stop crying, I feel so bad. If there's any body gets into a fuss it's alwaysme! I'm all the time making some kind of trouble. Sometimes I wish there wasn't any such girl as me!"
Tears came into aunt Madge's kind gray eyes, and she made up her mind that thepoor child should be comforted. So she quietly put away the silk dress she was so anxious to finish, and after dinner took the fresh, tidy, happy little Susy across the fields to aunt Martha's again, where the unlucky day was finished very happily after all.
"The truth is, Louise," said aunt Madge that night, after their return, "Lonniespilled that ink, and Susy was not at all to blame. You scolded her without mercy for being careless, and she bore it all because she would not break her promise to that cowardly boy."
"O, how unjust I have been!" said aunt Louise, who did not mean to be unkind, in spite of her hasty way of speaking.
"Youhavebeen unjust," said aunt Madge. "Only think what a trifling thingit is for a little child to soil her dress! and what a great thing to have her keep her word! Susy has a tender heart, and it grieves her to be unjustly scolded; but she would bear it all rather than tell a falsehood. For my part I am proud of such a noble, truthful little niece."