CHAPTER III.
Little Sunshinehad never yet beheld the sea. That wonderful delight, a sea-beach, with little waves running in and running back again, playing at bo-peep among shingle and rocks, or a long smooth sandy shore, where you may pick up shells and seaweed and pebbles, and all sorts of curious things, and build castles and dig moats, filled with real water,—all this was unknown to the little girl. So her mamma, going to spend a day with a dear old friend, who lived at a lovely seaside house, thought she would take the child with her. Also “the big child,” as her Sunny sometimes called Lizzie, who enjoyed going about and seeing new places as much as the little child.
They started directly after breakfast one morning, leaving behind them the parrot, the dogs, and everything except Franky, who escorted them in the carriage through four or five miles of ugly town streets, where all the little children who ran about (and there seemed no end of them) had very rough bare heads, and very dirty bare feet.
Sunny was greatly struck by them.
“Look, mamma, that little boy has got no shoes and stockings on! Shall Sunny take off hers and give them to that poor little boy?”
And she was proceeding to unbutton her shoes, when her mamma explained that—the boy being quite a big boy—Sunny’s shoes would certainly not fit him, and if they did, he would probably not put them on; since in Scotland little boys and girls often go barefooted, and like it. Had not papa once taken off Sunny’s shoes and stockings, and let her run about upon the soft warm grass of the lawn, calling her “his little Scotch girl?”
Sunny accepted the reasoning, but still looked perplexed at the bare feet. They were “so dirty,” and she cannot bear to have the least speck of dirt on feet or hands or clothes, or anywhere about her. Her Auntie Weirie, on whose lap she sat, and of whom she had taken entire possession,—children always do,—was very much amused.
She put them safely into the train, which soon started,—on a journey which mamma knew well, but which seemed altogether fresh when seen through her child’s eyes. Such wonderful things for Sunshine to look at! Mountains,—she thoroughly understood mountains now; and a broad river, gradually growing broader still, until it was almost sea. Ships, too—some with sails, andsome with chimneys smoking; “a puff-puff on the water,” Sunny called them. Every now and then there was a little “puff-puff” dragging a big ship after it, and going so fast, fast,—the big ship looking as proud as if it were sailing along all by its own self, and the little one puffing and blowing as busily as possible. Sunny watched them with much curiosity, and then started a brilliant idea.
“That’s a papa-boat and that’s a baby-boat, and the baby-boat pulls the papa-boat along! So funny!”
And she crumpled up her little face, and, tossing up her head, laughed her quite indescribable laugh, which makes everybody else laugh too.
There were various other curious things to be seen on the river, especially some things which mamma told her were called “buoys.” These of course she took to mean little “boys,” and looked puzzled, until mamma described them as “big red thimbles,” which she understood, and noticed each one with great interest ever afterward.
But it would be vain to tell all the things she saw, and all the delight she took in them. Occasionally her little face grew quite grave, such difficulty had she in understanding the wonders that increased more and more. And when at lastthe journey was ended and the train stopped, the little girl was rather troubled, and would not let go of her mamma for a single minute.
For the lovely autumn weather of yesterday had changed into an equinoctial gale. Inland, one did not so much perceive it, but at the seaside it was terrible. People living on that coast will long remember this particular day as one of the wildest of the season, or for several seasons. The wind blew, and the sea roared, as even mamma, who knew the place well, had seldom heard. Instead of tiny wavelets running after Sunny’s little feet, as had been promised her, there were huge “white horses” rising and falling in the middle of the river; while along the shore the waves kept pouring in, and dashing themselves in and out of the rocks, with force enough to knock any poor little girl down. Sunny could not go near them, and the wind was so high that her hat had to be tied on; and her cloak, a cape of violet wool, which Auntie Weirie had rushed to fetch at the last minute, in case of rain, was the greatest possible blessing. Still, fasten it as Lizzie would, the wind blew it loose again, and tossed her curls all over her face in a furious fashion, which the little girl could not understand at all.
“Sunny don’t like it,” said she, pitifully; and, forgetful of all the promised delights,—shells,and pebbles, and castles of sand,—took refuge gladly indoors.
However, this little girl is of such a happy nature in herself that she quickly grows happy anywhere. And the house she came to was such a beautiful house, with a conservatory full of flowers,—she is so fond of flowers,—and a large hall to play in besides. Her merry voice was soon heard in all directions, rather to her mamma’s distress, as the dear mistress of the house was not well. But Sunny comprehends that she must always speak in a whisper when people are not well; so she was presently quieted down, and came into the dining-room and ate her dinner by mamma’s side, as good as gold. She has always dined with mamma ever since she could sit up in a chair, so she behaves quite properly,—almost like a grown-up person. When she and mamma are alone, they converse all dinner-time; but when there are other people present, she is told that “little girls must be seen and not heard,”—a rule which she observes as far as she can. Not altogether, I am afraid, for she is very fond of talking.
Still, she was good, upon the whole, and enjoyed herself much, until she had her things put on again, ready to start once more, in a kind lady’s carriage, which was ordered to drive slowly along the shore, that Sunny might see as much as possible,without being exposed to the wind and spray. She was much interested, and a little awed. She ceased to chatter, and sat looking out of the carriage window on the curve of shore, over which the tide came pouring in long rollers, and sweeping back again in wide sheets of water mixed with white foam.
“Does Sunny like the waves?” asked the kind lady, who has a sweet way with children, and is very good to them, though she has none of her own.
“Yes, Sunny likes them,” said the little girl, after a pause, as if she were trying to make up her mind. “’Posing (supposing) Sunny were to go and swim upon them? If—if mamma would come too?”
“But wouldn’t Sunny be afraid?”
“No,” very decidedly this time. “Sunny would be quite safe if mamma came too.”
The lady smiled at mamma; who listened, scarcely smiling, and did not say a word.
It was a terrible day. The boats, and even big ships, were tossing about like cockle-shells on the gray, stormy sea; and the mountains, hiding themselves in mist, at last altogether disappeared. Then the rain began to fall in sheets, as it often does fall hereabouts,—soaking, blinding rain. At the station it was hardly possible to keep one’sfooting: the little girl, if she had not been in her Lizzie’s arms, would certainly have been blown down before she got into the railway-carriage.
Once there,—safely sheltered from the storm,—she did not mind it in the least. She jumped about, and played endless tricks, to the great amusement of two ladies,—evidently a mamma and a grandmamma,—who compared her with their own little people, and were very kind to her,—as indeed everybody is when she travels. Still, even they might have got tired out, if Sunny had not fortunately grown tired herself, and began to yawn in the midst of her fun in a droll way.
Then mamma slyly produced out of her pocket the child’s best travelling companion,—the little Maymie’s apron. Sunny seized it with a scream of delight, cuddled down, sucking it, in her mamma’s arms, and in three minutes was sound asleep. Nor did she once wake up till the train stopped, and Lizzie carried her, so muffled up that nobody could have told whether it was a little girl or a brown paper parcel, to the carriage where faithful Franky waited for her, and had waited ever so long.
Fun and Franky always came together. Sunny shook herself wide awake at once,—fresh as a rose, and lively as a kitten. Oh, the games that began, and lasted all the four miles that the carriagedrove through the pelting rain! Never was a big boy kinder to a little girl; so patient, so considerate; letting her do anything she liked with him; never cross, and never rough,—in short, a thorough gentleman, as all boys should be to all girls, and all men to all women, whether old or young. And when home was reached, the fire, like the welcome, was so warm and bright that Sunny seemed to have lost all memory of her day at the seaside,—the stormy waves, the dreary shore, the wild wind, and pouring rain. She was such a contented little girl that she never heeded the weather outside. But her mamma did a little, and thought of sailors at sea, and soldiers fighting abroad, and many other things.
The happy visit was now drawing to a close. Perhaps as well, lest, as some people foretold, Sunny might get “quite spoiled,”—if love spoils anybody, which I do not believe. Certainly this child’s felicities were endless. Everybody played with her; everybody was kind to her. Franky and Franky’s mamma, her two aunties, the parrot, the dogs Bob and Jack, were her companions by turns. There was another dog, Wallace by name, but she did not play with him, as he was an older and graver and bigger animal,—much bigger than herself indeed. She once faintly suggested riding him, “as if he was a pony,” but the idea was notcaught at, and fell to the ground, as, doubtless, Sunny would have done immediately, had she carried out her wish.
Wallace, though big, was the gentlest dog imaginable. He was a black retriever, belonging to Franky’s elder brother, a grown-up young gentleman; and his devotion to his master was entire. The rest of the family he just condescended to notice, but Mr. John he followed everywhere with a quiet persistency, the more touching because poor Wallace was nearly blind. He had lost the sight of one eye by an accident, and could see out of the other very little. They knew how little, by the near chance he had often had of being run over by other carriages in following theirs; so that now Franky’s mamma never ventured to take him out with her at all. He was kept away from streets, but allowed to run up and down in the country, where his wonderful sense of smell preserved him from any great danger.
This sense of smell, common to all retrievers, seemed to have been doubled by Wallace’s blindness. He could track his master for miles and miles, and find anything that his master had touched. Once, just to try him, Mr. John showed him a halfpenny, and then hid it under a tuft of grass, and walked on across the country for half a mile or more. Of course the dog could notseewherehe hid it, and had been galloping about in all directions ever since; yet when his master said, “Wallace, fetch that halfpenny,” showing him another one, Wallace instantly turned back, smelling cautiously about for twenty yards or so; then, having caught the right scent, bounding on faster and faster, till out of sight. In half an hour more he came back, and ran direct to his master with the halfpenny in his mouth.
Since, Mr. John had sent the dog for his stick, his cap, or his handkerchief, often considerable distances; but Wallace always brought the thing safe back, whatever it was, and laid it at his master’s feet. Mr. John was very proud of Wallace, and very fond of him.
Sunny was not old enough to understand these clevernesses of the creature, but she fully appreciated one trick of his. He would hold a bit of biscuit or sugar on his nose, quite steady, for several minutes, while his master said “Trust,” not attempting to eat it; but when Mr. John said “Paid for!” Wallace gobbled it up at once. This he did several times, to Sunshine’s great delight, but always with a sort of hesitation, as if he considered it a little below the dignity of such a very superior animal. And the minute they were gone he would march away with his slow, blind step, following his beloved master.
But all pleasures come to an end, and so did these of Little Sunshine’s. First, Franky went off to school, and she missed him out of the house very much. Then one day, instead of the regular morning amusements, she had to be dressed quickly, to eat her breakfast twice as fast as usual, and have her “things” put on all in a hurry, “to go by the puff-puff.” Her only consolation was that Dolly should have her things put on too,—poor Dolly! who, from constant combing, was growing balder and balder every day, and whose clothes were slowly disappearing, so that it required all Lizzie’s ingenuity to dress her decently for the journey.
This done, Sunny took her in her arms, and became so absorbed in her as hardly to notice the affectionate adieux of her kind friends, some of whom went with her to the station: so she scarcely understood that it was good-bye. And besides, it is only elder folks who understand good-byes, not little people. All the better, too.
Sunshine was delighted to be in a puff-puff again, and to see more mountains. She watched them till she was tired, and then went comfortably to sleep, having first made Dolly comfortable too, lying as snug in her arms as she did in her mamma’s. But she and Dolly woke up at the journey’s end; when, indeed, Sunny became soenergetic and lively, that, seeing her mamma and Lizzie carrying each a bag, she insisted on carrying something too. Seizing upon a large luncheon basket which the pretty lady had filled with no end of good things, she actually lifted it, and bore it, tottering under its weight, for several yards.
“See, mamma, Sunnycancarry it,” said she in triumph, and her mamma never hinders the little girl from doing everything shecando; wishing to make her a useful and helpful woman, who will never ask anybody else to do for her what she can do for herself.
The place they were going to was quite different from that they had left. It was only lodgings,—in a house on the top of a hill,—but they were nice lodgings, and it was a bright breezy hill, sloping down to a beautiful glen, through which ran an equally beautiful stream. Thence, the country sloped up again, through woods and pasture-lands, to a dim range of mountains, far in the horizon. A very pretty place outside, and not bad inside, only the little girl’s “nursery” was not so large and cheerful as the one she was used to, and she missed the full house and the merry companions. However, being told that papa was coming to-morrow, she brightened up, and informed everybody,whether interested or not in the fact, that “Sunny was going to see papa jump out of a puff-puff, to-morrow.” “To-morrow” being still to her a very indefinite thing; but “papa jumping out of a puff-puff” has long been one of the great features of her existence.
Still, to-day she would have been rather dull, if, when she went out into the garden, there had not come timidly forward, to look at her, a little girl, whose name mamma inquired, and found that it was Nelly.
Nellie and Sunny on the stepsNellie and Sunny on the steps.
Nellie and Sunny on the steps.
Nellie and Sunny on the steps.
Here a word or two ought to be said about Nelly, for she turned out the greatest comfort to solitary little Sunny, in this strange place. Nelly was not exactly “a young lady;” indeed, at first she hung back in a sweet, shy way, as doubtful whether Sunny’s mamma would allow the child to play with her. But Nelly was such a good little girl, so well brought-up, and sensible, though only ten years old, that a princess might have had her for a playfellow without any disadvantage. And as soon as mamma felt sure that Sunny would learn nothing bad from her,—which is the only real objection to playfellows,—she allowed the children to be together as much as ever they liked.
Nelly called Sunshine “a bonnie wee lassie,”—words which, not understanding what theymeant, had already offended her several times since she came to Scotland.
“I’m not a bonnie wee lassie,—I’m Sunny; mamma’s little Sunny, I am!” cried she, almost in tears. But this was the only annoyance that Nelly ever gave her.
Very soon the two children were sitting together in a most charming play-place,—some tumble-down, moss-grown stone steps leading down to the garden. From thence you could see the country for miles, and watch the railway trains winding along like big serpents, with long feathers of steam and smoke streaming from their heads in the daylight, and great red fiery eyes gleaming through the dark.
Nelly had several stories to tell about them: how once a train caught fire, and blazed up,—they saw the blaze from these steps,—and very dreadful it was to look at; also, she wanted to know if Sunny had seen the river below; such a beautiful little river, only sometimes people were drowned in it,—two young ladies who were bathing, and also a schoolmaster, who had fallen into a deep hole, which was now called the Dominie’s Hole.
Nelly spoke broad Scotch, but her words were well chosen, and her manner very simple and gentle and sweet. She had evidently been carefullyeducated, as almost all Scotch children are. She went to school, she said, every morning, so that she could only play with Sunny of afternoons; but to-morrow afternoon, if the lady allowed,—there was still that pretty, polite hesitation at anything that looked like intrusiveness,—she would take Sunny and her Lizzie a walk, and show them all that was to be seen.
Sunny’s mamma not only allowed this, but was glad of it. Little Nelly seemed a rather grave and lonely child. She had no brothers and sisters, she said, but lived with her aunts, who were evidently careful over her. She was a useful little body; went many a message to the village, and did various things about the house, as a girl of ten can often do; but she was always neatly dressed, her hands and face quite clean, and her pretty brown hair, the chief prettiness she had, well combed and brushed. And, above all, she never said a rude or ugly word.
It was curious to see how Little Sunshine, who, though not shy or repellent, is never affectionate to strangers, and always declines caresses, saying “she only kisses papa and mamma,” accepted Nelly’s kiss almost immediately, and allowed her to make friends at once. Nay, when bedtime arrived, she even invited her to “come and see Sunny in her bath,” a compliment she only paysoccasionally to her chief favourites. Soon the two solitary children were frolicking together, and the gloomy little nursery—made up extempore out of a back bedroom—ringing with their laughter.
At last, fairly tired with her day’s doings, Sunny condescended to go to sleep. Her mamma sat up for an hour or two longer, writing letters, and listening to the child’s soft breathing through the open door, to the equally soft soughing of the wind outside, and the faint murmur of the stream, deep below in the glen. Then she also went to rest.