Story 2 -- Chapter 1.Faithful Moses—A Short Story.Those of you who live near any of the great high-roads that lead to London may remember to have been awake sometimes in the middle of the night, and to have heard the sound of horses’ feet, and of cart wheels rumbling slowly and heavily along.If it be winter, frosty and dry, you hear them very sharply and distinctly; and perhaps you wonder, drowsily, who it is that has business so late, and whither they are bound. “How cold it must be outside!” you think, and it is quite a pleasure to snuggle cosily down in your comfortable bed and feel how warm you are.Gradually, as the sounds grow less and less, and die away mysteriously in the distance, your eyes close; soon you are fast asleep again, and that is all you know about the cold, dark night outside.But Tim, the van-boy, knew a great deal more about it than this, for he had now been “on the road” between Roydon and London for more than a year. The carrier’s cart started at eleven o’clock in the morning, and having distributed and received parcels on the way the driver put up his horses at an inn called “The Magpie and Stump,” in a part of London named the Borough. So far it was all very well, and not at all hard work; but then came the return journey at night, which began just at the moment when a boy, after a good warm supper, naturally thinks of going to bed. This was trying, and at first Tim felt it a good deal, for he never got home until three o’clock in the morning; he was so anxious, too, to do his duty and fill his post well, that he would not have closed his eyes for the world, though he might well have taken a nap without anyone’s knowledge. His “mate” as he called him, whose name was Joshua, sat in front driving his two strong black horses, and Tim’s place was at the other open end of the van, so that he might keep his eye on the parcels and prevent their being stolen or lost.It was a responsible situation he felt for a boy of thirteen, and he meant to do his very best to keep it now that he had been lucky enough to get it; in the far-off future, too, he saw himself no longer the van-boy, but in the proud position now occupied by Joshua as driver, and this he considered, though a lofty, was by no means an unreasonable ambition.When Tim first began his work it was summertime, and the nights were so balmy, and soft, and light that it was not so very difficult to keep awake—there seemed so many other thing’s awake too. After they were well out of London, and the horses no longer clattered noisily over the stones, it was like getting into another world. The stars looked brightly down from the clear smokeless sky. Soft little winds blew a thousand flowery scents from over the fields, and sometimes, singing quite close to the road, Tim heard the nightingale. Even Joshua, a gruff man, was affected by the sweet influence of the season, for Tim noticed that he always sang one particular song on fine nights in summer. Joshua’s voice was hoarse from much exposure to weather, but Tim thought he sang with great expression. The words were not easy to follow, because the middle of the verse always became inaudible; but by degrees the boy made out that it was the description of a letter received by a rustic from his sweetheart. It began:“Allona summer’s dayAsIpursued my way.”Then came some lines impossible to hear, and then each verse ended with:“Com—mencing with ‘my dearest,’And con—cluding with her name—”Joshua’s song and the steady tramp, tramp of the horses were sometimes the only sounds disturbing the still night, and Tim, a small erect figure with widely opened eyes, would sit perched on a convenient packing-case at the back of the cart, and listen admiringly.But the winter! That was another matter. Joshua did not sing then, but kept his teeth clenched, and his head bent, before the sleet, or wind, or driving rain. Then the brightly lighted London streets seemed cheerful, and much to be preferred to the lonely open country, where the bitter wind swept across the wide fields, and, gathering strength as it came, rushed in among Tim and the parcels. That was hard to bear, but of all kinds of weather, and he knew them all pretty well now, he thought the very worst was a fog. It was not only that it penetrated everywhere, and laid its cold damp finger on everything; but it spread such a thick veil of dreadful mystery over well-known objects. Nothing looked the same. The houses in the streets towered up like giant castles, and if Tim had read fairy tales he might well have fancied them inhabited by ogres. But he had not. He only felt a dim sense of discomfort and fear, as though he were lost in a strange place. Then it was a comfort to know that Joshua was there, almost invisible indeed, but making himself evident by hoarse shouts, now of encouragement to his horses, and now of derision at some luckless driver. Out in the country, when the heavily laden market carts loomed slowly out of the fog as they passed, they had the appearance of being miles up in the air, and as if they must inevitably topple over. Joshua knew all the carters, not by sight, for he could not see them, but by the time and place he met them on his nightly journey. Tim could reckon pretty well that after he had heard his gruff salutation of “a dark night, mate,” repeated a certain number of times, that they must be nearing home, for they always met about the same number of Joshua’s friends; as he had no watch this was a comfort to him on the dark nights. Taught by experience, he learned to contrive for himself a sort of Robinson Crusoe but with the various hampers and boxes, and in this he lay curled round in tolerable comfort, covered with an old horse-cloth; nevertheless, it was often very cold, and then the only consolation was in thinking that Joshua must be cold also. It is always easier to bear things if there is some one to bear them with you—unless you are a hero.One December evening the carrier’s cart was just starting homewards from the door of the Magpie and Stump. Joshua, reins in hand, and closely buttoned up to the chin, stood ready to mount to his perch, saying a few last words to the landlord, who was a crony of his; Tim was already in his place. From where he sat he could see something which interested and excited him a good deal, and this was an old woman close by who was selling roasted chestnuts. They did look good! So beautifully done, with nice cracks in their brown skins showing just a little bit of the soft yellow nut inside. Tim looked and longed, and fingered a penny in his pocket. How jolly it would be to have a penn’orth of hot chestnuts to eat on his way home! They would keep his hands warm too. Joshua still talked, there was yet time, he would give himself a treat. He scrambled down from the cart and went up to the old woman, who sat crouched on a stool warming her hands over her little charcoal brazier. She looked a cross old thing, he thought, but she was not, for when he had paid for his chestnuts she picked out an extra fine one and gave it him “for luck,” with a kind grin on her wrinkled face. He was turning away with a warm pocketful, when he saw, sitting on the edge of the pavement near, a very poor thin dog, who trembled with cold or fear, and blinked his eyes sorrowfully at the glowing coals. He was not at all a pretty dog, and probably never had been, even in the days of his prosperity, and these were evidently gone by. He was long-legged and rough-coated, with coarse black hair mingled with yellowish brown, and his large bright eyes had a timid look in them as though he feared ill-treatment; he sat with his thin body drawn together as closely as possible, as if anxious to escape observation.Tim stood and looked at him, and felt sorry. He was such a very miserable dog, and yet so patient.“Is he your dog?” he asked the old woman.“Bless yer ’art, no,” she answered. “He’s a stray, he is; he’ll come and sit there often at nights, and I sometimes give him a mouthful o’ supper.”“I suppose he’s rare and ’ungry?” pursued Tim.“He’s starving, that’s what he is,” said the woman, “and he’s hurt his leg badly besides. The boys are allers ready to chuck stones at him when they see him prowlin’ round. He don’t belong to no one.”Tim felt still more sorry; if he had seen the dog before, he thought, he would have bought a “penn’orth” of liver for him instead of the chestnuts. Now he could do nothing for him. He looked round at the old woman, who was rocking herself to and fro with crossed arms, and said:“Shall you give him any supper to-night?”“Nay,” she said with a sort of chuckle; “he’s come too late to-night. I’ve had my supper. There’s many a one besides him as has to go supperless.”The dog during this conversation was evidently conscious that he was being noticed, for he trembled more than ever, and gazed up at Tim with his pleading eyes.“Pore feller, then,” said the boy.The kind voice woke some bygone memory in the animal; it reminded him perhaps of the days when he belonged to somebody, and was treated gently. He got up, slowly reared his poor stiff limbs into a begging attitude, and wagged his short tail. He soon dropped down again, for he was evidently weak, but he looked apologetically from the old woman to Tim, as much as to say:“I know it was a poor performance, but it was the best I could do. In old days it used to please.”“See there now,” said the woman, “someone must a taught him that. Maybe he’s bin a Punch’s dog.”Tim stood absorbed in thought. He had forgotten Joshua, and the cart, and his own important position as van-boy; one idea filled his mind. Could he, ought he, might he take the dog home with him and have him for his own?He was a prudent boy, and he considered that he would have to pay a tax for him and feed him out of his wages. “But he could have ’arf my dinner,” he reflected; “and how useful he’d be to look after the parcels. And he do look so thin and poor. I’ll ask Joshua.”He looked round. Fortunately for him, Joshua and the landlord had entered into a discussion as to the respective merits of warm mashes, and were still engaged upon it, so Tim had not been missed. He went up to the two men, and standing a little in front of them waited for a convenient moment to make his request. He was glad to see that Joshua looked good-tempered just now; he had evidently had the best of the argument which had been going on, for there was a gleam of triumph in his eye, and he repeating some assertion in a loud voice, while the landlord stood in a dejected attitude with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets.“That’swhere it is,” said Joshua as he concluded, and then his eye fell on Tim’s eager upturned face.“Dorg, eh?” he said, when the boy had made him understand what he wanted. “Where is he?”“There,” said Tim, pointing to where the dog still sat shivering near the old chestnut woman.Joshua gazed at the animal in silence, and sucked a straw which he had in his mouth reflectively. Tim looked anxiously up into his face. Would he take a fancy to him? The landlord had now drawn near, and also an inquisitive ostler. The old chestnut-seller ceased to rock herself to and fro, and turned her head towards the group, so that the dog, so lonely a few minutes ago, had suddenly become a centre of interest. He seemed to wonder at this, but he scarcely moved his eyes, with a mute appeal in them, from his first friend, Tim. At last, after what seemed an immense silence, Joshua spoke.“He ain’t a beauty—not to look at,” he said.This might have sounded discouraging to anyone who did not know Joshua, but it was rather the reverse to Tim.“He’d be werry useful in the cart,” he suggested, taking care not to appear too anxious.But now the landlord, feeling it time to offer his opinion, broke into the discussion.“There’s no doubt, as the boy says, that you’d find a dog useful, but I wouldn’t have a brute of a cur like that, if I was you. Now I could give you as pretty a pup to bring up to the business as you could wish to see. A real game un. Death to anything reasonable he’d be in a year’s time. Them nasty mongrels is never no good.”Now this adverse opinion was, strange to say, sufficient to make up Joshua’s mind in the dog’s favour; he always took a contrary view of things to the landlord on principle, because it encouraged conversation, and this habit was so strong that he at once began to see the special advantages of a mongrel.“He’s a werry faithful creetur, is a mongrel, if he’s properly trained,” he said slowly and solemnly; “and as togame, where’s the game he’d find in a carrier’s cart? You can bring him along, mate.”Leaving the landlord in a temporarily crushed condition, he walked off to his horses, which stamped impatiently at all this delay. The dog suffered Tim to take him in his arms without any resistance, though he winced a little as if in pain, and the cart presently drove away from the small knot of interested spectators gathered round the inn door. Then, gently examining his new comrade, the boy found that one of his hind-legs was injured, so that he could not put it to the ground, and moaned when it was touched, though he licked Tim’s hand immediately afterwards in apology.“But I don’t think it’s broke,” said the boy encouragingly; “and when we get home I’ll bathe it and tie it up, and I dessay I can find yer a bit o’ supper.”Soothed perhaps by this prospect, and evidently feeling a sense of comfort and protection, the dog stretched out his thin, weary limbs, and soon, sharing the warm shelter of Tim’s horse-cloth, slept profoundly.And thus the new friends made their first journey together.
Those of you who live near any of the great high-roads that lead to London may remember to have been awake sometimes in the middle of the night, and to have heard the sound of horses’ feet, and of cart wheels rumbling slowly and heavily along.
If it be winter, frosty and dry, you hear them very sharply and distinctly; and perhaps you wonder, drowsily, who it is that has business so late, and whither they are bound. “How cold it must be outside!” you think, and it is quite a pleasure to snuggle cosily down in your comfortable bed and feel how warm you are.
Gradually, as the sounds grow less and less, and die away mysteriously in the distance, your eyes close; soon you are fast asleep again, and that is all you know about the cold, dark night outside.
But Tim, the van-boy, knew a great deal more about it than this, for he had now been “on the road” between Roydon and London for more than a year. The carrier’s cart started at eleven o’clock in the morning, and having distributed and received parcels on the way the driver put up his horses at an inn called “The Magpie and Stump,” in a part of London named the Borough. So far it was all very well, and not at all hard work; but then came the return journey at night, which began just at the moment when a boy, after a good warm supper, naturally thinks of going to bed. This was trying, and at first Tim felt it a good deal, for he never got home until three o’clock in the morning; he was so anxious, too, to do his duty and fill his post well, that he would not have closed his eyes for the world, though he might well have taken a nap without anyone’s knowledge. His “mate” as he called him, whose name was Joshua, sat in front driving his two strong black horses, and Tim’s place was at the other open end of the van, so that he might keep his eye on the parcels and prevent their being stolen or lost.
It was a responsible situation he felt for a boy of thirteen, and he meant to do his very best to keep it now that he had been lucky enough to get it; in the far-off future, too, he saw himself no longer the van-boy, but in the proud position now occupied by Joshua as driver, and this he considered, though a lofty, was by no means an unreasonable ambition.
When Tim first began his work it was summertime, and the nights were so balmy, and soft, and light that it was not so very difficult to keep awake—there seemed so many other thing’s awake too. After they were well out of London, and the horses no longer clattered noisily over the stones, it was like getting into another world. The stars looked brightly down from the clear smokeless sky. Soft little winds blew a thousand flowery scents from over the fields, and sometimes, singing quite close to the road, Tim heard the nightingale. Even Joshua, a gruff man, was affected by the sweet influence of the season, for Tim noticed that he always sang one particular song on fine nights in summer. Joshua’s voice was hoarse from much exposure to weather, but Tim thought he sang with great expression. The words were not easy to follow, because the middle of the verse always became inaudible; but by degrees the boy made out that it was the description of a letter received by a rustic from his sweetheart. It began:
“Allona summer’s dayAsIpursued my way.”
“Allona summer’s dayAsIpursued my way.”
Then came some lines impossible to hear, and then each verse ended with:
“Com—mencing with ‘my dearest,’And con—cluding with her name—”
“Com—mencing with ‘my dearest,’And con—cluding with her name—”
Joshua’s song and the steady tramp, tramp of the horses were sometimes the only sounds disturbing the still night, and Tim, a small erect figure with widely opened eyes, would sit perched on a convenient packing-case at the back of the cart, and listen admiringly.
But the winter! That was another matter. Joshua did not sing then, but kept his teeth clenched, and his head bent, before the sleet, or wind, or driving rain. Then the brightly lighted London streets seemed cheerful, and much to be preferred to the lonely open country, where the bitter wind swept across the wide fields, and, gathering strength as it came, rushed in among Tim and the parcels. That was hard to bear, but of all kinds of weather, and he knew them all pretty well now, he thought the very worst was a fog. It was not only that it penetrated everywhere, and laid its cold damp finger on everything; but it spread such a thick veil of dreadful mystery over well-known objects. Nothing looked the same. The houses in the streets towered up like giant castles, and if Tim had read fairy tales he might well have fancied them inhabited by ogres. But he had not. He only felt a dim sense of discomfort and fear, as though he were lost in a strange place. Then it was a comfort to know that Joshua was there, almost invisible indeed, but making himself evident by hoarse shouts, now of encouragement to his horses, and now of derision at some luckless driver. Out in the country, when the heavily laden market carts loomed slowly out of the fog as they passed, they had the appearance of being miles up in the air, and as if they must inevitably topple over. Joshua knew all the carters, not by sight, for he could not see them, but by the time and place he met them on his nightly journey. Tim could reckon pretty well that after he had heard his gruff salutation of “a dark night, mate,” repeated a certain number of times, that they must be nearing home, for they always met about the same number of Joshua’s friends; as he had no watch this was a comfort to him on the dark nights. Taught by experience, he learned to contrive for himself a sort of Robinson Crusoe but with the various hampers and boxes, and in this he lay curled round in tolerable comfort, covered with an old horse-cloth; nevertheless, it was often very cold, and then the only consolation was in thinking that Joshua must be cold also. It is always easier to bear things if there is some one to bear them with you—unless you are a hero.
One December evening the carrier’s cart was just starting homewards from the door of the Magpie and Stump. Joshua, reins in hand, and closely buttoned up to the chin, stood ready to mount to his perch, saying a few last words to the landlord, who was a crony of his; Tim was already in his place. From where he sat he could see something which interested and excited him a good deal, and this was an old woman close by who was selling roasted chestnuts. They did look good! So beautifully done, with nice cracks in their brown skins showing just a little bit of the soft yellow nut inside. Tim looked and longed, and fingered a penny in his pocket. How jolly it would be to have a penn’orth of hot chestnuts to eat on his way home! They would keep his hands warm too. Joshua still talked, there was yet time, he would give himself a treat. He scrambled down from the cart and went up to the old woman, who sat crouched on a stool warming her hands over her little charcoal brazier. She looked a cross old thing, he thought, but she was not, for when he had paid for his chestnuts she picked out an extra fine one and gave it him “for luck,” with a kind grin on her wrinkled face. He was turning away with a warm pocketful, when he saw, sitting on the edge of the pavement near, a very poor thin dog, who trembled with cold or fear, and blinked his eyes sorrowfully at the glowing coals. He was not at all a pretty dog, and probably never had been, even in the days of his prosperity, and these were evidently gone by. He was long-legged and rough-coated, with coarse black hair mingled with yellowish brown, and his large bright eyes had a timid look in them as though he feared ill-treatment; he sat with his thin body drawn together as closely as possible, as if anxious to escape observation.
Tim stood and looked at him, and felt sorry. He was such a very miserable dog, and yet so patient.
“Is he your dog?” he asked the old woman.
“Bless yer ’art, no,” she answered. “He’s a stray, he is; he’ll come and sit there often at nights, and I sometimes give him a mouthful o’ supper.”
“I suppose he’s rare and ’ungry?” pursued Tim.
“He’s starving, that’s what he is,” said the woman, “and he’s hurt his leg badly besides. The boys are allers ready to chuck stones at him when they see him prowlin’ round. He don’t belong to no one.”
Tim felt still more sorry; if he had seen the dog before, he thought, he would have bought a “penn’orth” of liver for him instead of the chestnuts. Now he could do nothing for him. He looked round at the old woman, who was rocking herself to and fro with crossed arms, and said:
“Shall you give him any supper to-night?”
“Nay,” she said with a sort of chuckle; “he’s come too late to-night. I’ve had my supper. There’s many a one besides him as has to go supperless.”
The dog during this conversation was evidently conscious that he was being noticed, for he trembled more than ever, and gazed up at Tim with his pleading eyes.
“Pore feller, then,” said the boy.
The kind voice woke some bygone memory in the animal; it reminded him perhaps of the days when he belonged to somebody, and was treated gently. He got up, slowly reared his poor stiff limbs into a begging attitude, and wagged his short tail. He soon dropped down again, for he was evidently weak, but he looked apologetically from the old woman to Tim, as much as to say:
“I know it was a poor performance, but it was the best I could do. In old days it used to please.”
“See there now,” said the woman, “someone must a taught him that. Maybe he’s bin a Punch’s dog.”
Tim stood absorbed in thought. He had forgotten Joshua, and the cart, and his own important position as van-boy; one idea filled his mind. Could he, ought he, might he take the dog home with him and have him for his own?
He was a prudent boy, and he considered that he would have to pay a tax for him and feed him out of his wages. “But he could have ’arf my dinner,” he reflected; “and how useful he’d be to look after the parcels. And he do look so thin and poor. I’ll ask Joshua.”
He looked round. Fortunately for him, Joshua and the landlord had entered into a discussion as to the respective merits of warm mashes, and were still engaged upon it, so Tim had not been missed. He went up to the two men, and standing a little in front of them waited for a convenient moment to make his request. He was glad to see that Joshua looked good-tempered just now; he had evidently had the best of the argument which had been going on, for there was a gleam of triumph in his eye, and he repeating some assertion in a loud voice, while the landlord stood in a dejected attitude with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets.
“That’swhere it is,” said Joshua as he concluded, and then his eye fell on Tim’s eager upturned face.
“Dorg, eh?” he said, when the boy had made him understand what he wanted. “Where is he?”
“There,” said Tim, pointing to where the dog still sat shivering near the old chestnut woman.
Joshua gazed at the animal in silence, and sucked a straw which he had in his mouth reflectively. Tim looked anxiously up into his face. Would he take a fancy to him? The landlord had now drawn near, and also an inquisitive ostler. The old chestnut-seller ceased to rock herself to and fro, and turned her head towards the group, so that the dog, so lonely a few minutes ago, had suddenly become a centre of interest. He seemed to wonder at this, but he scarcely moved his eyes, with a mute appeal in them, from his first friend, Tim. At last, after what seemed an immense silence, Joshua spoke.
“He ain’t a beauty—not to look at,” he said.
This might have sounded discouraging to anyone who did not know Joshua, but it was rather the reverse to Tim.
“He’d be werry useful in the cart,” he suggested, taking care not to appear too anxious.
But now the landlord, feeling it time to offer his opinion, broke into the discussion.
“There’s no doubt, as the boy says, that you’d find a dog useful, but I wouldn’t have a brute of a cur like that, if I was you. Now I could give you as pretty a pup to bring up to the business as you could wish to see. A real game un. Death to anything reasonable he’d be in a year’s time. Them nasty mongrels is never no good.”
Now this adverse opinion was, strange to say, sufficient to make up Joshua’s mind in the dog’s favour; he always took a contrary view of things to the landlord on principle, because it encouraged conversation, and this habit was so strong that he at once began to see the special advantages of a mongrel.
“He’s a werry faithful creetur, is a mongrel, if he’s properly trained,” he said slowly and solemnly; “and as togame, where’s the game he’d find in a carrier’s cart? You can bring him along, mate.”
Leaving the landlord in a temporarily crushed condition, he walked off to his horses, which stamped impatiently at all this delay. The dog suffered Tim to take him in his arms without any resistance, though he winced a little as if in pain, and the cart presently drove away from the small knot of interested spectators gathered round the inn door. Then, gently examining his new comrade, the boy found that one of his hind-legs was injured, so that he could not put it to the ground, and moaned when it was touched, though he licked Tim’s hand immediately afterwards in apology.
“But I don’t think it’s broke,” said the boy encouragingly; “and when we get home I’ll bathe it and tie it up, and I dessay I can find yer a bit o’ supper.”
Soothed perhaps by this prospect, and evidently feeling a sense of comfort and protection, the dog stretched out his thin, weary limbs, and soon, sharing the warm shelter of Tim’s horse-cloth, slept profoundly.
And thus the new friends made their first journey together.
Story 2 -- Chapter 2.Faithful Moses—A Short Story—(contd).So from this time there was a van-dog as well as a van-boy; three “mates” travelling in the cart between Roydon and London—Joshua, Tim, and Moses, for after much consideration that was the name given to the dog.It was wonderful to see how, after a few weeks of food and kindness, he “plucked up a spirit,” as Joshua said. His whole aspect altered, for he now held his ears and tail valiantly erect, and quite a martial gleam appeared in his eye. He still, it is true, limped about on three legs, which is never a dignified attitude for a dog, but he already began to acquire distinct views concerning the parcels and the cart, and was ready to defend them, with hair bristling, and lips fiercely drawn back from glistening white teeth.“Not a beauty,” Joshua had said, and decidedly a mongrel according to the landlord. Nobody could doubt that; but to Tim’s eyes Moses wanted no attractions, he was perfect. Many and many a confidence was poured into his small, upright, attentive ear, as the two sat so close together at the back of the cart; Tim never considered whether he understood or not, but it was such a comfort to tell him about things. The cold nights were comparatively easy to bear, now that he could put his arm round Moses’ hairy form and feel that he was warm and comfortable; meals became more interesting though slighter than they used to be, now that they must be shared by Moses, who watched every morsel with bright expectant eyes. Then he must be taught, and this was not difficult, for ready intelligence and eager affection made him a good scholar; all he wanted was to know what was really required of him. This once understood and successfully performed, what an ecstasy of delight followed on the part of both master and pupil, shown by the former in caresses, and by the latter in excited barks, and short quick rushes among the parcels.As his education proceeded he learnt to distinguish all the different sounds of Tim’s voice, and would sit on guard for any length of time if once told to do so. When on duty in this way, a more conscientious dog could not have been found, for not even the urgent temptation of a cat-chase could lure him from his post—although, sometimes, a short cry of anguish would be wrung from him at being obliged to forego such a pleasure.Joshua he regarded with a distant respect, Tim with intense affection, and the landlord of the Magpie and Stump with ill-concealed growls of aversion, though the latter tried to ingratiate himself by savoury offerings of food. Moses would walk stiffly away from him with his tail held very high, and the landlord would laugh sarcastically. “You’re a nice sample, you are,” he would say, “and as ugly a mongrel as ever I see—”As time went on, Tim began to place great reliance on the dog’s trustworthiness, and to look upon him as quite equal to another boy. He knew that he had only to hold up his ringer and say, “Watch, Moses!” and the dog’s vigilant attention was secure; trusting in this, therefore, he felt it by no means so necessary as formerly to be very watchful himself, and began to take life much more easily. In the evening, when Joshua stopped to deliver a parcel, Tim would rouse himself from a comfortable nap, and just murmur, “Watch, Moses!” then woe to anyone who ventured too near Moses and his property.Now this division of labour, or rather this shifting of responsibility on to another’s shoulders, had its bad results, for while the dog improved every day in sharpness and conscientious performance of duty, the boy did the opposite. Tim became somewhat careless and lazy, and though Joshua knew nothing of it, he did not really fill his post half so well as before the dog came; he allowed things to get slack. Now, whether one is a van-boy or a lord-chancellor this is bad, for slackness leads to neglect, and neglect to worse things. You shall hear what happened in Tim’s case.One evening the carrier’s cart was standing in a little back street in the Borough waiting for Joshua; he had matters to settle, he told Tim, which might take him an hour or more, and he added:“Look alive, now, for it’s a nasty neighbourhood to be standing about in, and there’s some smallish parcels in the cart easy made off with. Don’t you let your eye off ’em.”Tim promised, and, taking his seat on the edge of the cart with his legs swinging, whistled to Moses, who was examining the neighbourhood in an interested manner; he at once jumped up beside his master and assumed a gravely watchful and responsible air.It was not an amusing street, but poor and squalid, full of small lodging-houses, and little dingy shops; very few people were about, and in spite of Joshua’s warning no one seemed even to notice the carrier’s cart.Presently there walked slowly by, whistling carelessly, a boy about Tim’s own age; he was quite respectably, though poorly dressed, and wore his cap very much on one side with an air of smartness which Tim thought becoming. He stopped and looked at the boy and the dog, and they looked at him, Moses ready to be suspicious, and Tim to be conversational if required.For some minutes the group remained in silent contemplation, then the new-comer said inquiringly:“Fer dog?”“Ah,” said Tim, nodding his head.“Up to snuff, ain’t he?” said the other boy.Tim nodded again, this time in a more friendly manner.“Wot’s his name?”“Moses.”“Yer give it him?”“Ah.”“Where’s yer boss?” (meaning master).“Yonder,” with a backward movement of the head.The boy leant his back against a lamp-post near, and seemed in no hurry to pursue his journey; Tim was not sorry, for a little conversation beguiled the time, and his remark about Moses showed this to be an intelligent and discerning youth.“Wot can he do?” he asked presently, still with his eye on the dog.Tim ran through a list of Moses’ acquirements eagerly, and finished up with: “And he can watch the parcels as well as a Christian—he wouldn’t let no one but me or Joshua come nigh ’em, not for anything.”“Wouldn’t he now?” said the boy admiringly.“You try,” suggested Tim, anxious to show off Moses’ talents.The stranger came a little nearer, and stretched out his hand as if to touch one of the parcels; he quickly withdrew it, however, for Moses’ bristling mane and angry growl were sufficient warnings of his further intentions. Both boys laughed, Tim triumphantly, and he patted the dog with an air of proud proprietorship.“There’s a Punch and Judy playin’ in the next street,” remarked the stranger, “and they’ve got a dorg some’at like yours, he’s a clever un he is—wouldn’t you like to see him?”“I’ve seen ’em—scores o’ times,” said Tim loftily.“Not such a good un as this, I lay. You come and see. It wouldn’t take you not two minutes, and your dog’ll watch the things.”“No,” said Tim very quickly and decidedly, “I can’t leave the cart.”“You don’t trust the dog much, then. You’ve bin humbuggin’ about him, I bet.”“That I haven’t,” said Tim angrily, “I could trust him not to stir for hours.”“I should just like to see yer,” sneered the boy—“I don’t b’lieve yer dare leave ’im a minute. Well, I wouldn’t keep a stupid cur like that!”The taunt was more than Tim could bear. He knew that Moses would come triumphantly out of the ordeal, and besides, he would really like to go and see the clever Punch’s dog in the next street; Joshua was safe for another half-hour, and the place looked so quiet and deserted. It must be safe. He would go.He jumped down from the cart, and spoke to Moses in a certain voice:“Watch, Moses!” he said, pointing to the parcels.The dog looked wistfully at his master, as though suspecting something wrong or unusual, but he did not attempt to follow him; he lay down with his nose between his paws, his short ears pricked, and his bright eyes keenly observant. Then the two boys set off running down the street together, and were soon out of his sight.Half an hour later, Joshua, his business over, turned into the street where he had left his cart. There it stood still, with the horses’ heads turned towards him; but what was that choking savage growl which met his ear? Surely that was Moses’ voice, though strangely stifled.With a hoarsely muttered oath Joshua quickened his pace to a run, stretched out his powerful arm, and seized hold of a boy about Tim’s size, who, with several parcels in his arms, was trying in vain to escape. In vain—because, hanging fast on to one leg, with resolute grip and starting fiery eyes, was the faithful Moses. Every separate hair of his rough coat bristled with excitement and rage, his head was bleeding from a wound made by a kick or a blow, and he uttered all the time the half-strangled growls which Joshua had heard.And where was Tim? Oh, sad falling off! Tim had deserted his post; he had proved less faithful than the dog Moses.When a few minutes later he came hurrying back breathless, there were no traces of what had happened, except on Joshua’s enraged red countenance and Moses’ bleeding head. The strange boy, who had so easily beguiled him, had been quickly handed over to a policeman. And there were no parcels missing—thanks to Moses, but not, alas, to Tim.Disgraced and miserable, he stood before the angry Joshua, silent in the midst of a torrent of wrathful words. He deserved every one of them. Instant dismissal without a character was all he had to expect, and he waited trembling for his fate. But, behold, an unlooked-for intercessor! Moses, seeing Joshua’s threatening attitude and his dear master’s downcast face, drew near to help him, and, as was his custom, stood up and put his paw on the boy’s arm. Joshua looked at the dog; his silent presence pleaded eloquently in Tim’s favour, and the angry tone was involuntarily softened.“If ever a boy deserved the sack, it’s you,” he said; “and, as sure as my name’s Joshua, you should have it if it wasn’t for that dog o’ yourn. He’s worth a score o’ boys, that dog is, for he does his dooty, as well as knows what it is.”Tim breathed again; he flung his arms round Moses’ neck, who licked his face eagerly.“Give us another chance,” he cried imploringly, “we’ll both work so hard, Moses and me, and I’ll never leave the cart again. If you only won’t turn us off I’ll work without wage ever so long, that I will.”“That, in course, you will,” said Joshua grimly, yet relenting, “and you’ll get a jolly good thrashing besides. And if you’re not turned off you’ve got the dog to thank.”He got up into his seat as he spoke, and Tim crept thankfully in at the back of the cart with Moses. He had, indeed, “got the dog to thank.” Moses had paid his debt of gratitude now; he and Tim were equal.You will be glad to hear that Tim was not dismissed, and that he used his other “chance” well, for no amount of sharp London boys could have tempted him from his duty again. As for Moses, he was respected and trusted by everyone on the road after this, and Joshua presented him with a collar, whereon were inscribed his name and the date of the memorable fray in which he acquitted himself so well. In spite of these honours, however, all the love of his faithful heart continued to be given to Tim; who, on his part, never forgot how it was and why it was that he had “got the dog to thank.”
So from this time there was a van-dog as well as a van-boy; three “mates” travelling in the cart between Roydon and London—Joshua, Tim, and Moses, for after much consideration that was the name given to the dog.
It was wonderful to see how, after a few weeks of food and kindness, he “plucked up a spirit,” as Joshua said. His whole aspect altered, for he now held his ears and tail valiantly erect, and quite a martial gleam appeared in his eye. He still, it is true, limped about on three legs, which is never a dignified attitude for a dog, but he already began to acquire distinct views concerning the parcels and the cart, and was ready to defend them, with hair bristling, and lips fiercely drawn back from glistening white teeth.
“Not a beauty,” Joshua had said, and decidedly a mongrel according to the landlord. Nobody could doubt that; but to Tim’s eyes Moses wanted no attractions, he was perfect. Many and many a confidence was poured into his small, upright, attentive ear, as the two sat so close together at the back of the cart; Tim never considered whether he understood or not, but it was such a comfort to tell him about things. The cold nights were comparatively easy to bear, now that he could put his arm round Moses’ hairy form and feel that he was warm and comfortable; meals became more interesting though slighter than they used to be, now that they must be shared by Moses, who watched every morsel with bright expectant eyes. Then he must be taught, and this was not difficult, for ready intelligence and eager affection made him a good scholar; all he wanted was to know what was really required of him. This once understood and successfully performed, what an ecstasy of delight followed on the part of both master and pupil, shown by the former in caresses, and by the latter in excited barks, and short quick rushes among the parcels.
As his education proceeded he learnt to distinguish all the different sounds of Tim’s voice, and would sit on guard for any length of time if once told to do so. When on duty in this way, a more conscientious dog could not have been found, for not even the urgent temptation of a cat-chase could lure him from his post—although, sometimes, a short cry of anguish would be wrung from him at being obliged to forego such a pleasure.
Joshua he regarded with a distant respect, Tim with intense affection, and the landlord of the Magpie and Stump with ill-concealed growls of aversion, though the latter tried to ingratiate himself by savoury offerings of food. Moses would walk stiffly away from him with his tail held very high, and the landlord would laugh sarcastically. “You’re a nice sample, you are,” he would say, “and as ugly a mongrel as ever I see—”
As time went on, Tim began to place great reliance on the dog’s trustworthiness, and to look upon him as quite equal to another boy. He knew that he had only to hold up his ringer and say, “Watch, Moses!” and the dog’s vigilant attention was secure; trusting in this, therefore, he felt it by no means so necessary as formerly to be very watchful himself, and began to take life much more easily. In the evening, when Joshua stopped to deliver a parcel, Tim would rouse himself from a comfortable nap, and just murmur, “Watch, Moses!” then woe to anyone who ventured too near Moses and his property.
Now this division of labour, or rather this shifting of responsibility on to another’s shoulders, had its bad results, for while the dog improved every day in sharpness and conscientious performance of duty, the boy did the opposite. Tim became somewhat careless and lazy, and though Joshua knew nothing of it, he did not really fill his post half so well as before the dog came; he allowed things to get slack. Now, whether one is a van-boy or a lord-chancellor this is bad, for slackness leads to neglect, and neglect to worse things. You shall hear what happened in Tim’s case.
One evening the carrier’s cart was standing in a little back street in the Borough waiting for Joshua; he had matters to settle, he told Tim, which might take him an hour or more, and he added:
“Look alive, now, for it’s a nasty neighbourhood to be standing about in, and there’s some smallish parcels in the cart easy made off with. Don’t you let your eye off ’em.”
Tim promised, and, taking his seat on the edge of the cart with his legs swinging, whistled to Moses, who was examining the neighbourhood in an interested manner; he at once jumped up beside his master and assumed a gravely watchful and responsible air.
It was not an amusing street, but poor and squalid, full of small lodging-houses, and little dingy shops; very few people were about, and in spite of Joshua’s warning no one seemed even to notice the carrier’s cart.
Presently there walked slowly by, whistling carelessly, a boy about Tim’s own age; he was quite respectably, though poorly dressed, and wore his cap very much on one side with an air of smartness which Tim thought becoming. He stopped and looked at the boy and the dog, and they looked at him, Moses ready to be suspicious, and Tim to be conversational if required.
For some minutes the group remained in silent contemplation, then the new-comer said inquiringly:
“Fer dog?”
“Ah,” said Tim, nodding his head.
“Up to snuff, ain’t he?” said the other boy.
Tim nodded again, this time in a more friendly manner.
“Wot’s his name?”
“Moses.”
“Yer give it him?”
“Ah.”
“Where’s yer boss?” (meaning master).
“Yonder,” with a backward movement of the head.
The boy leant his back against a lamp-post near, and seemed in no hurry to pursue his journey; Tim was not sorry, for a little conversation beguiled the time, and his remark about Moses showed this to be an intelligent and discerning youth.
“Wot can he do?” he asked presently, still with his eye on the dog.
Tim ran through a list of Moses’ acquirements eagerly, and finished up with: “And he can watch the parcels as well as a Christian—he wouldn’t let no one but me or Joshua come nigh ’em, not for anything.”
“Wouldn’t he now?” said the boy admiringly.
“You try,” suggested Tim, anxious to show off Moses’ talents.
The stranger came a little nearer, and stretched out his hand as if to touch one of the parcels; he quickly withdrew it, however, for Moses’ bristling mane and angry growl were sufficient warnings of his further intentions. Both boys laughed, Tim triumphantly, and he patted the dog with an air of proud proprietorship.
“There’s a Punch and Judy playin’ in the next street,” remarked the stranger, “and they’ve got a dorg some’at like yours, he’s a clever un he is—wouldn’t you like to see him?”
“I’ve seen ’em—scores o’ times,” said Tim loftily.
“Not such a good un as this, I lay. You come and see. It wouldn’t take you not two minutes, and your dog’ll watch the things.”
“No,” said Tim very quickly and decidedly, “I can’t leave the cart.”
“You don’t trust the dog much, then. You’ve bin humbuggin’ about him, I bet.”
“That I haven’t,” said Tim angrily, “I could trust him not to stir for hours.”
“I should just like to see yer,” sneered the boy—“I don’t b’lieve yer dare leave ’im a minute. Well, I wouldn’t keep a stupid cur like that!”
The taunt was more than Tim could bear. He knew that Moses would come triumphantly out of the ordeal, and besides, he would really like to go and see the clever Punch’s dog in the next street; Joshua was safe for another half-hour, and the place looked so quiet and deserted. It must be safe. He would go.
He jumped down from the cart, and spoke to Moses in a certain voice:
“Watch, Moses!” he said, pointing to the parcels.
The dog looked wistfully at his master, as though suspecting something wrong or unusual, but he did not attempt to follow him; he lay down with his nose between his paws, his short ears pricked, and his bright eyes keenly observant. Then the two boys set off running down the street together, and were soon out of his sight.
Half an hour later, Joshua, his business over, turned into the street where he had left his cart. There it stood still, with the horses’ heads turned towards him; but what was that choking savage growl which met his ear? Surely that was Moses’ voice, though strangely stifled.
With a hoarsely muttered oath Joshua quickened his pace to a run, stretched out his powerful arm, and seized hold of a boy about Tim’s size, who, with several parcels in his arms, was trying in vain to escape. In vain—because, hanging fast on to one leg, with resolute grip and starting fiery eyes, was the faithful Moses. Every separate hair of his rough coat bristled with excitement and rage, his head was bleeding from a wound made by a kick or a blow, and he uttered all the time the half-strangled growls which Joshua had heard.
And where was Tim? Oh, sad falling off! Tim had deserted his post; he had proved less faithful than the dog Moses.
When a few minutes later he came hurrying back breathless, there were no traces of what had happened, except on Joshua’s enraged red countenance and Moses’ bleeding head. The strange boy, who had so easily beguiled him, had been quickly handed over to a policeman. And there were no parcels missing—thanks to Moses, but not, alas, to Tim.
Disgraced and miserable, he stood before the angry Joshua, silent in the midst of a torrent of wrathful words. He deserved every one of them. Instant dismissal without a character was all he had to expect, and he waited trembling for his fate. But, behold, an unlooked-for intercessor! Moses, seeing Joshua’s threatening attitude and his dear master’s downcast face, drew near to help him, and, as was his custom, stood up and put his paw on the boy’s arm. Joshua looked at the dog; his silent presence pleaded eloquently in Tim’s favour, and the angry tone was involuntarily softened.
“If ever a boy deserved the sack, it’s you,” he said; “and, as sure as my name’s Joshua, you should have it if it wasn’t for that dog o’ yourn. He’s worth a score o’ boys, that dog is, for he does his dooty, as well as knows what it is.”
Tim breathed again; he flung his arms round Moses’ neck, who licked his face eagerly.
“Give us another chance,” he cried imploringly, “we’ll both work so hard, Moses and me, and I’ll never leave the cart again. If you only won’t turn us off I’ll work without wage ever so long, that I will.”
“That, in course, you will,” said Joshua grimly, yet relenting, “and you’ll get a jolly good thrashing besides. And if you’re not turned off you’ve got the dog to thank.”
He got up into his seat as he spoke, and Tim crept thankfully in at the back of the cart with Moses. He had, indeed, “got the dog to thank.” Moses had paid his debt of gratitude now; he and Tim were equal.
You will be glad to hear that Tim was not dismissed, and that he used his other “chance” well, for no amount of sharp London boys could have tempted him from his duty again. As for Moses, he was respected and trusted by everyone on the road after this, and Joshua presented him with a collar, whereon were inscribed his name and the date of the memorable fray in which he acquitted himself so well. In spite of these honours, however, all the love of his faithful heart continued to be given to Tim; who, on his part, never forgot how it was and why it was that he had “got the dog to thank.”
Story 3 -- Chapter 1.Like a Bean-Stalk—A Short Story.It had always been an uncontested fact in the Watson family that Bridget was plain. Even when she was a round toddling thing of five years old, with bright eyes and thick brown curls, aunts and other relations had often said in her presence:“Bridget is a dear little girl, but she will grow up plain.”Plain! Bridget was quite used to the sound of the word, and did not mind it at all, though she was conscious that it meant something to be regretted, because people always said “but” before it. “A good child, but plain.”“A sweet-tempered little thing, but plain.”However, it did not interfere with any pleasure or advantage that Bridget could see. She could run faster than most of her brothers and sisters, who werenotplain but pretty; she could climb a tree very well indeed, with her stout little legs, and she could say a great many verses of poetry by heart. Besides, she felt sure that Toto the black poodle, and Samson the great cat, and all the other pets, loved her as well as the rest, and perhaps even better. So she did not mind being plain at all, until she was about thirteen years old and the new governess came.Now about this time Bridget, who had hitherto been a compact sturdy child, short for her age, began to grow in the most alarming manner; the “Bean-stalk,” her brothers called her, and one really could almost believe she had shot up in a night, the growth was so sudden. Her arms and legs seemed to be everywhere, always sprawling about in a spider-like manner in unexpected places, so that she very often either swept things off the table or tripped somebody up. Her mother looking round on the children at their dinner hour would say:“MydearBridget, I believe you have grown an inch since yesterday! How very short those sleeves are for you!” and then there was a general chuckle at the poor “Bean-stalk.”Then visitors would come, and Bridget with the others would be sent for to the drawing-room; entering in gawky misery she well knew what sentence would first strike her ear, and would try furtively to shelter herself in the background. No use!“My dear Mrs Watson,” the lady would cry, with an expression of amused pity on her face, “how your daughter Bridget has grown! Why, she is as tall as my girl of eighteen;” etcetera, etcetera.Bridget got tired of it at last, and she very much dreaded the arrival of the new governess, because she felt sure that she should be so “bullied,” as the boys said, about her height and awkwardness. She would cheerfully have sacrificed several inches of her arms and legs to be comfortably short, but this could not be managed, so she must make the best of it.Miss Tasker arrived. Bobbie saw her first, from an advantageous post he had taken up for the purpose amongst the boughs of a large beech-tree in front of the house.He saw her cab drive up with boxes on the top, and Toto dancing round and round it on the tips of his toes barking loudly, which I am sorry to say was his reprehensible manner of receiving strangers. Bobbie parted the boughs a little more. It was a situation full of interest. Would she be frightened of Toto? He felt a good deal depended on this as a sign of her future behaviour.It appeared, however, that Miss Tasker was not afraid of dogs, for a tall thin figure presently descended from the cab in the midst of Toto’s wildest demonstrations. Bobbie felt an increased respect for the new governess, but meanwhile the “others” must at once be told the result of his observations, and as she entered the house he slipped down from his perch and scudded quickly away to find them.From this time Bridget’s troubles increased tenfold; Miss Tasker had severe views about deportment, and besides this her attention was specially directed by Mrs Watson to Bridget’s awkwardness.“I am particularly anxious,” she said, “about my daughter Bridget, and other lessons are really not of so much importance just now as that she should learn to hold herself properly. As it is, she is so clumsy in her movements that I almost tremble to see her enter the room.”Poor Bridget! Her usual manner of entering a room was with her head eagerly thrust forward, and her long arms swinging; that was when she was quite comfortable and unselfconscious, but all this must be changed now, and to achieve this Miss Tasker devised an ingenious method of torture, which was practised every morning. It was this. Lessons began at ten o’clock, at which time the children were expected to assemble in the school-room, but now, instead of running in any how, they had to go through the following scene.Miss Tasker sat at her desk ready to receive each pupil with a gracious smile and bow; then one by one they entered with a solemn bow or curtsy and said, “Good morning, Miss Tasker.”“I call it humbug,” remarked the outspoken Bobbie, “as if we hadn’t seen her once already at breakfast-time.”How Bridget hated this ordeal!To know that Miss Tasker was waiting there ready to fix a keen grey eye on her deficiencies, and that she would probably say when the curtsy was done:“Once again, Bridget, and remember toroundthe elbows.”How to round your elbows when they naturally stuck out like knitting-pins, Bridget could not conceive, and I am afraid that, pushed to desperation, she soon left off even trying, and so became more awkward than ever.But the ceremony once over, and lessons begun, Miss Tasker had no cause for complaint, for Bridget was a ready and ambitious pupil. She had a good memory, and being an imaginative child, it was a special pleasure to her to learn poetry, in repeating which she would quite forget herself and her awkwardness and pour forth page after page without a single mistake.At such times, Miss Tasker’s chill remarks of “Your shoulders, Bridget”—“Don’t poke, Bridget,” generally fell on unheeding ears, but there was one occasion on which Bridget did feel them to be especially trying and out of place.She had been learning one of the “Lays of Ancient Rome,” and was now repeating it all through. In proud consciousness of not having missed one word, and in full enjoyment of the swing of the poetry, she stood with her head thrust forward and her chin in the air:“So he spake, and speaking sheathedHis good sword by his side,And with his armour on his backPlunged headlong in the tide!No sound of—”“MydearBridget, draw in your chin,” said the cold voice, and poor Bridget, dropping suddenly down from the heights of heroic deeds to dreary commonplace, felt that this was hard indeed.She had said it all without a mistake, and the only thing that seemed to matter was how her chin, or her shoulders, or her arms looked. It was unkind. It was unfair. It was too bad. She could not help being awkward, and as they worried her so about it, she should not try to be any different.From this time forward she would be just herself—plain, awkward Bridget. So she resolved as she took the book back from Miss Tasker, and sat down sullenly in her place, and so she continued to resolve as several days went on. You know how, when one has once begun to be a little naughty, everything that happens seems to increase the feeling, and so it was with Bridget; everything Miss Tasker said, or did, or even looked after this, made her feel more and more ill-used and injured, till one unfortunate day brought matters to a climax.If there was one day in the week that Bridget disliked more than another at this time it was Thursday, for Thursday was “dancing-day.” It would be hard to give you an idea of how much misery that meant to her, or how fervently she used to pray for something to happen to prevent her going to the class, which was held at a friend’s house some miles away. A sprained ankle, or a slight earthquake, not bad enough to hurt anyone, were among her usual aspirations, but nothing of the kind ever occurred, and she was borne away with her brothers and sisters by the relentless Miss Tasker to the scene of torture; the suffering of martyrs, whom she had read about, were, in Bridget’s opinion, not worthy of mention beside those to be endured at a dancing-class.Everything seemed to go wrong on this particular day, perhaps because she did not try to make them go right, and at last, after the whole class had been practising a step together, the dancing-mistress said rather severely:“I wish Miss Bridget Watson to do the minuet steps alone: all the others may sit down.”With downcast eyes, and one shoulder pushed nervously up, Bridget stood alone in the middle of the room. She felt that thousands of eyes, like the little sharp pricks of so many needles, were transfixing her luckless figure, for there were a good many lady visitors present besides the children.“Now, if you please, Miss Watson. Straighten the shoulders. Take the dress gracefully between fingers and thumb. Raise the head. One—two—three—begin!”The music played. Bridget was intensely nervous, but through it all she felt a perverse pleasure in irritating Miss Tasker, so she performed some grotesquely uncouth steps which raised a smile on almost every face.“Again, if you please.”It was done again, and if possible worse than before.“You may return to your seat.”Which Bridget did with swift ungainly strides, feeling covered with disgrace, and as she passed, an unfortunate whisper from one of the visitors reached her ear:“What a windmill of a child to be sure!”She plunged into her seat, her eyes wet with tears of mortification, but no one saw them except Bobbie, who sat next her. He did not understand the full extent of her distress, but he looked up in her face and put his small hand in hers. It was a sympathetic but sticky clasp, for Bobbie always carried sweets in his pockets for solace at odd moments, yet it comforted Bridget a little, and she gave it a silent squeeze in return.But, hurt and sore and angry as she felt, the cup was not quite full until that evening, when Mrs Watson came into the school-room while the children were having tea. After her usual little chat with them she said just before going away:“I am sorry to hear from Miss Tasker that Bridget does not seem to think it worth while to take pains with her dancing, though she knows how anxious I am about it.”She looked at Bridget, who blushed hotly, but made no answer; and, indeed, she could not, for she felt as though Bobbie’s largest ball were sticking in her throat.“I know,” continued her mother, “that you cannot all do the same things equally well, but you can at least try to do your best, however much you may dislike any particular lesson. I should be more pleased to know that Bridget tried to hold herself upright and took pains with her dancing, than to hear that she had said all her lessons quite perfectly, because I know one is a difficulty to her and the other none.”Mother looked very grave, and she so seldom reproved any of the children, that they felt this to be a solemn occasion, and their little serious faces were all turned upon Bridget.She could not bear it. As her mother left the room she started up abruptly, upsetting her cup and saucer, and, heedless of Miss Tasker’s warning voice, rushed out into the garden blinded with her tears.She must go somewhere and cry alone, and her steps turned instinctively to the well-known refuge of “the barn,” an old out-building which the children had turned into a playground of their own; it was otherwise disused, excepting that now and then some trusses of hay or straw were put there, and it was a most splendid place to keep pets in.A numerous and motley family lived here in cages and hutches of all kinds, generally made out of old packing-cases. There was a large colony of white rats, two dormice named Paul and Silas, a jackdaw, rabbits, and a little yellow owl, not to mention the pigeons who fluttered in and out through the open door at will. They came whirling round Bridget now as she entered and settled on her shoulders and head, and pecked boldly at her shoes expecting to be fed. All the different little creatures in cages roused themselves too, and gave signs that they knew her in their various ways—by small scratching noises, by ruffling of feathers, and tiny squeaks. The jackdaw, who was free, at once came down from the rafters, and, standing before her in slim elegance, raised his blue-grey crest and said “Jark,” the only word he knew. They all gave their little welcome.But Bridget could not take any notice of them to-day, her heart was too full, though she felt with a dim sense of comfort that these were people to whom her awkwardness made no difference. Otherwise the world was all against her—Miss Tasker, the dancing-mistress, and now, to crown all, mother! She threw herself down on some trusses of straw at the end of the barn, and the tears which had made her eyes smart so all day flowed freely. It was so unjust! That was what hurt her so. If she had been naughty she would be sorry, that would be different. But she could not feel that she was in fault at all. It was just because she was plain and awkward that they were all unkind to her, so she whispered to herself, and cried on.The barn was very quiet, only Bridget’s sobs mingled with the cooing of the pigeons and the rustling noises in the cages round. One slanting ray from the setting sun lay on the floor, but the corner where Bridget had thrown herself was in dusky shadow.And presently a strange thing happened.“Bridget! Bridget!” said a little husky voice.Bridget raised herself on her elbow, and looked round astonished. She did not know the voice at all; and it sounded muffled, as though coming through a heap of feathers.“Bridget! Bridget!” it said again.This time it plainly came from the rafters over Bridget’s head. She looked up, but there was nothing there except the little yellow owl, who was sitting in his cage, with his eyes very round and bright.“How wise you look!” said Bridget aloud; “I wish you could help me.”What was her astonishment when the owl at once replied, in the same stifled voice:“What do you want?”Bridget paused. Whatdidshe want? Then she remembered that as the owl could talk, it must certainly be a fairy, and could do anything, so she said:“I want to be very graceful.”The owl did not answer immediately, and Bridget kept a watchful eye on her arms and legs, almost expecting them to be changed into models of grace at once. Nothing of the sort happened, however; and the owl sat as though in deep thought. At last it said:“I can tell you a way, but it is difficult.”“I don’t care how difficult it is,” cried Bridget, now very much excited, “if you will only tell me what it is I will do it.”“Try,” said the owl solemnly.“Try what?” asked Bridget anxiously.“Try,” repeated the owl, “nothing more; try.”Bridget’s face fell; she was very much disappointed. Every one had told her that till she was sick of the word. The owl could not be a fairy after all.“Is that all?” she said. “I always do that.”“Always?” asked the owl.Bridget was silent a moment as she thought of the past week.“Why, notquitealways.”“But it must be always,” said the owl, “that’s the secret of it. If atfirstyou don’t succeed, try, try, try again. You’ve heard that?”“Of course I have,” said Bridget sorrowfully; “I’ve heard it much too often.”The owl did not answer, perhaps it was offended.“Can it be possible,” thought Bridget, “that I really haven’t tried enough?”Just then something cold and moist was thrust into her hand, and she started up bewildered, hardly able for the moment to make out where she was. It was almost dark in the barn now, but presently she made out the form of Toto the poodle, who had come to look for his mistress, and now stood with his eager affectionate eyes fixed on her from under his frizzled black hair.Bridget stretched out her arms to him, and leaning forward, kissed his shaven nose; she felt wonderfully better, and looked up at the owl to thank it for its advice. It sat there blinking as though it had never spoken in its life.“But you did, you know,” she said nodding at it, and she got up and ran out of the barn with Toto springing round her.She thought a good deal afterwards of what the owl had said, and came to the conclusion that perhaps she had been a good deal in fault. At any rate she would “try again” and see how it answered. Bridget was a resolute little character, and she took the matter in hand at once; but I can best tell you how it “answered” by describing a scene which took place a month later, on the last dancing-day before the holidays.The lesson was over, and the mistress was taking leave of her pupils; the usual visitors sat round the room looking on.“And now,” she said, “before we part, I must say a few special words about one of my pupils, and that is, Miss Bridget Watson, whose marked improvement during the past month I have been pleased to notice. I have always felt that she had great difficulties to contend with, for when young people are growing fast, it is not easy to manage the limbs gracefully. I have to congratulate her upon her efforts, and to hope that you will all follow her example in trying to do your best.”There was a murmur of satisfaction, for Bridget was a general favourite among her companions and they were all pleased to hear her praised. Every one was pleased; Miss Tasker, who was fond of Bridget, beamed behind her spectacles, and carried home the good news to Mrs Watson, whose pleasure put a finishing touch to Bridget’s exultation. Indeed, for some minutes she was more like a windmill than ever, through excess of joy, but it was holiday time, and even Miss Tasker said nothing.You all know the story of the “Ugly Duckling,” and how, after all, it became a beautiful white swan. I cannot say whether, in like manner, Bridget grew up to be graceful and pretty, but one thing I am certain of, and that is, that she never regretted following the owl’s advice to “try again.”
It had always been an uncontested fact in the Watson family that Bridget was plain. Even when she was a round toddling thing of five years old, with bright eyes and thick brown curls, aunts and other relations had often said in her presence:
“Bridget is a dear little girl, but she will grow up plain.”
Plain! Bridget was quite used to the sound of the word, and did not mind it at all, though she was conscious that it meant something to be regretted, because people always said “but” before it. “A good child, but plain.”
“A sweet-tempered little thing, but plain.”
However, it did not interfere with any pleasure or advantage that Bridget could see. She could run faster than most of her brothers and sisters, who werenotplain but pretty; she could climb a tree very well indeed, with her stout little legs, and she could say a great many verses of poetry by heart. Besides, she felt sure that Toto the black poodle, and Samson the great cat, and all the other pets, loved her as well as the rest, and perhaps even better. So she did not mind being plain at all, until she was about thirteen years old and the new governess came.
Now about this time Bridget, who had hitherto been a compact sturdy child, short for her age, began to grow in the most alarming manner; the “Bean-stalk,” her brothers called her, and one really could almost believe she had shot up in a night, the growth was so sudden. Her arms and legs seemed to be everywhere, always sprawling about in a spider-like manner in unexpected places, so that she very often either swept things off the table or tripped somebody up. Her mother looking round on the children at their dinner hour would say:
“MydearBridget, I believe you have grown an inch since yesterday! How very short those sleeves are for you!” and then there was a general chuckle at the poor “Bean-stalk.”
Then visitors would come, and Bridget with the others would be sent for to the drawing-room; entering in gawky misery she well knew what sentence would first strike her ear, and would try furtively to shelter herself in the background. No use!
“My dear Mrs Watson,” the lady would cry, with an expression of amused pity on her face, “how your daughter Bridget has grown! Why, she is as tall as my girl of eighteen;” etcetera, etcetera.
Bridget got tired of it at last, and she very much dreaded the arrival of the new governess, because she felt sure that she should be so “bullied,” as the boys said, about her height and awkwardness. She would cheerfully have sacrificed several inches of her arms and legs to be comfortably short, but this could not be managed, so she must make the best of it.
Miss Tasker arrived. Bobbie saw her first, from an advantageous post he had taken up for the purpose amongst the boughs of a large beech-tree in front of the house.
He saw her cab drive up with boxes on the top, and Toto dancing round and round it on the tips of his toes barking loudly, which I am sorry to say was his reprehensible manner of receiving strangers. Bobbie parted the boughs a little more. It was a situation full of interest. Would she be frightened of Toto? He felt a good deal depended on this as a sign of her future behaviour.
It appeared, however, that Miss Tasker was not afraid of dogs, for a tall thin figure presently descended from the cab in the midst of Toto’s wildest demonstrations. Bobbie felt an increased respect for the new governess, but meanwhile the “others” must at once be told the result of his observations, and as she entered the house he slipped down from his perch and scudded quickly away to find them.
From this time Bridget’s troubles increased tenfold; Miss Tasker had severe views about deportment, and besides this her attention was specially directed by Mrs Watson to Bridget’s awkwardness.
“I am particularly anxious,” she said, “about my daughter Bridget, and other lessons are really not of so much importance just now as that she should learn to hold herself properly. As it is, she is so clumsy in her movements that I almost tremble to see her enter the room.”
Poor Bridget! Her usual manner of entering a room was with her head eagerly thrust forward, and her long arms swinging; that was when she was quite comfortable and unselfconscious, but all this must be changed now, and to achieve this Miss Tasker devised an ingenious method of torture, which was practised every morning. It was this. Lessons began at ten o’clock, at which time the children were expected to assemble in the school-room, but now, instead of running in any how, they had to go through the following scene.
Miss Tasker sat at her desk ready to receive each pupil with a gracious smile and bow; then one by one they entered with a solemn bow or curtsy and said, “Good morning, Miss Tasker.”
“I call it humbug,” remarked the outspoken Bobbie, “as if we hadn’t seen her once already at breakfast-time.”
How Bridget hated this ordeal!
To know that Miss Tasker was waiting there ready to fix a keen grey eye on her deficiencies, and that she would probably say when the curtsy was done:
“Once again, Bridget, and remember toroundthe elbows.”
How to round your elbows when they naturally stuck out like knitting-pins, Bridget could not conceive, and I am afraid that, pushed to desperation, she soon left off even trying, and so became more awkward than ever.
But the ceremony once over, and lessons begun, Miss Tasker had no cause for complaint, for Bridget was a ready and ambitious pupil. She had a good memory, and being an imaginative child, it was a special pleasure to her to learn poetry, in repeating which she would quite forget herself and her awkwardness and pour forth page after page without a single mistake.
At such times, Miss Tasker’s chill remarks of “Your shoulders, Bridget”—“Don’t poke, Bridget,” generally fell on unheeding ears, but there was one occasion on which Bridget did feel them to be especially trying and out of place.
She had been learning one of the “Lays of Ancient Rome,” and was now repeating it all through. In proud consciousness of not having missed one word, and in full enjoyment of the swing of the poetry, she stood with her head thrust forward and her chin in the air:
“So he spake, and speaking sheathedHis good sword by his side,And with his armour on his backPlunged headlong in the tide!No sound of—”
“So he spake, and speaking sheathedHis good sword by his side,And with his armour on his backPlunged headlong in the tide!No sound of—”
“MydearBridget, draw in your chin,” said the cold voice, and poor Bridget, dropping suddenly down from the heights of heroic deeds to dreary commonplace, felt that this was hard indeed.
She had said it all without a mistake, and the only thing that seemed to matter was how her chin, or her shoulders, or her arms looked. It was unkind. It was unfair. It was too bad. She could not help being awkward, and as they worried her so about it, she should not try to be any different.
From this time forward she would be just herself—plain, awkward Bridget. So she resolved as she took the book back from Miss Tasker, and sat down sullenly in her place, and so she continued to resolve as several days went on. You know how, when one has once begun to be a little naughty, everything that happens seems to increase the feeling, and so it was with Bridget; everything Miss Tasker said, or did, or even looked after this, made her feel more and more ill-used and injured, till one unfortunate day brought matters to a climax.
If there was one day in the week that Bridget disliked more than another at this time it was Thursday, for Thursday was “dancing-day.” It would be hard to give you an idea of how much misery that meant to her, or how fervently she used to pray for something to happen to prevent her going to the class, which was held at a friend’s house some miles away. A sprained ankle, or a slight earthquake, not bad enough to hurt anyone, were among her usual aspirations, but nothing of the kind ever occurred, and she was borne away with her brothers and sisters by the relentless Miss Tasker to the scene of torture; the suffering of martyrs, whom she had read about, were, in Bridget’s opinion, not worthy of mention beside those to be endured at a dancing-class.
Everything seemed to go wrong on this particular day, perhaps because she did not try to make them go right, and at last, after the whole class had been practising a step together, the dancing-mistress said rather severely:
“I wish Miss Bridget Watson to do the minuet steps alone: all the others may sit down.”
With downcast eyes, and one shoulder pushed nervously up, Bridget stood alone in the middle of the room. She felt that thousands of eyes, like the little sharp pricks of so many needles, were transfixing her luckless figure, for there were a good many lady visitors present besides the children.
“Now, if you please, Miss Watson. Straighten the shoulders. Take the dress gracefully between fingers and thumb. Raise the head. One—two—three—begin!”
The music played. Bridget was intensely nervous, but through it all she felt a perverse pleasure in irritating Miss Tasker, so she performed some grotesquely uncouth steps which raised a smile on almost every face.
“Again, if you please.”
It was done again, and if possible worse than before.
“You may return to your seat.”
Which Bridget did with swift ungainly strides, feeling covered with disgrace, and as she passed, an unfortunate whisper from one of the visitors reached her ear:
“What a windmill of a child to be sure!”
She plunged into her seat, her eyes wet with tears of mortification, but no one saw them except Bobbie, who sat next her. He did not understand the full extent of her distress, but he looked up in her face and put his small hand in hers. It was a sympathetic but sticky clasp, for Bobbie always carried sweets in his pockets for solace at odd moments, yet it comforted Bridget a little, and she gave it a silent squeeze in return.
But, hurt and sore and angry as she felt, the cup was not quite full until that evening, when Mrs Watson came into the school-room while the children were having tea. After her usual little chat with them she said just before going away:
“I am sorry to hear from Miss Tasker that Bridget does not seem to think it worth while to take pains with her dancing, though she knows how anxious I am about it.”
She looked at Bridget, who blushed hotly, but made no answer; and, indeed, she could not, for she felt as though Bobbie’s largest ball were sticking in her throat.
“I know,” continued her mother, “that you cannot all do the same things equally well, but you can at least try to do your best, however much you may dislike any particular lesson. I should be more pleased to know that Bridget tried to hold herself upright and took pains with her dancing, than to hear that she had said all her lessons quite perfectly, because I know one is a difficulty to her and the other none.”
Mother looked very grave, and she so seldom reproved any of the children, that they felt this to be a solemn occasion, and their little serious faces were all turned upon Bridget.
She could not bear it. As her mother left the room she started up abruptly, upsetting her cup and saucer, and, heedless of Miss Tasker’s warning voice, rushed out into the garden blinded with her tears.
She must go somewhere and cry alone, and her steps turned instinctively to the well-known refuge of “the barn,” an old out-building which the children had turned into a playground of their own; it was otherwise disused, excepting that now and then some trusses of hay or straw were put there, and it was a most splendid place to keep pets in.
A numerous and motley family lived here in cages and hutches of all kinds, generally made out of old packing-cases. There was a large colony of white rats, two dormice named Paul and Silas, a jackdaw, rabbits, and a little yellow owl, not to mention the pigeons who fluttered in and out through the open door at will. They came whirling round Bridget now as she entered and settled on her shoulders and head, and pecked boldly at her shoes expecting to be fed. All the different little creatures in cages roused themselves too, and gave signs that they knew her in their various ways—by small scratching noises, by ruffling of feathers, and tiny squeaks. The jackdaw, who was free, at once came down from the rafters, and, standing before her in slim elegance, raised his blue-grey crest and said “Jark,” the only word he knew. They all gave their little welcome.
But Bridget could not take any notice of them to-day, her heart was too full, though she felt with a dim sense of comfort that these were people to whom her awkwardness made no difference. Otherwise the world was all against her—Miss Tasker, the dancing-mistress, and now, to crown all, mother! She threw herself down on some trusses of straw at the end of the barn, and the tears which had made her eyes smart so all day flowed freely. It was so unjust! That was what hurt her so. If she had been naughty she would be sorry, that would be different. But she could not feel that she was in fault at all. It was just because she was plain and awkward that they were all unkind to her, so she whispered to herself, and cried on.
The barn was very quiet, only Bridget’s sobs mingled with the cooing of the pigeons and the rustling noises in the cages round. One slanting ray from the setting sun lay on the floor, but the corner where Bridget had thrown herself was in dusky shadow.
And presently a strange thing happened.
“Bridget! Bridget!” said a little husky voice.
Bridget raised herself on her elbow, and looked round astonished. She did not know the voice at all; and it sounded muffled, as though coming through a heap of feathers.
“Bridget! Bridget!” it said again.
This time it plainly came from the rafters over Bridget’s head. She looked up, but there was nothing there except the little yellow owl, who was sitting in his cage, with his eyes very round and bright.
“How wise you look!” said Bridget aloud; “I wish you could help me.”
What was her astonishment when the owl at once replied, in the same stifled voice:
“What do you want?”
Bridget paused. Whatdidshe want? Then she remembered that as the owl could talk, it must certainly be a fairy, and could do anything, so she said:
“I want to be very graceful.”
The owl did not answer immediately, and Bridget kept a watchful eye on her arms and legs, almost expecting them to be changed into models of grace at once. Nothing of the sort happened, however; and the owl sat as though in deep thought. At last it said:
“I can tell you a way, but it is difficult.”
“I don’t care how difficult it is,” cried Bridget, now very much excited, “if you will only tell me what it is I will do it.”
“Try,” said the owl solemnly.
“Try what?” asked Bridget anxiously.
“Try,” repeated the owl, “nothing more; try.”
Bridget’s face fell; she was very much disappointed. Every one had told her that till she was sick of the word. The owl could not be a fairy after all.
“Is that all?” she said. “I always do that.”
“Always?” asked the owl.
Bridget was silent a moment as she thought of the past week.
“Why, notquitealways.”
“But it must be always,” said the owl, “that’s the secret of it. If atfirstyou don’t succeed, try, try, try again. You’ve heard that?”
“Of course I have,” said Bridget sorrowfully; “I’ve heard it much too often.”
The owl did not answer, perhaps it was offended.
“Can it be possible,” thought Bridget, “that I really haven’t tried enough?”
Just then something cold and moist was thrust into her hand, and she started up bewildered, hardly able for the moment to make out where she was. It was almost dark in the barn now, but presently she made out the form of Toto the poodle, who had come to look for his mistress, and now stood with his eager affectionate eyes fixed on her from under his frizzled black hair.
Bridget stretched out her arms to him, and leaning forward, kissed his shaven nose; she felt wonderfully better, and looked up at the owl to thank it for its advice. It sat there blinking as though it had never spoken in its life.
“But you did, you know,” she said nodding at it, and she got up and ran out of the barn with Toto springing round her.
She thought a good deal afterwards of what the owl had said, and came to the conclusion that perhaps she had been a good deal in fault. At any rate she would “try again” and see how it answered. Bridget was a resolute little character, and she took the matter in hand at once; but I can best tell you how it “answered” by describing a scene which took place a month later, on the last dancing-day before the holidays.
The lesson was over, and the mistress was taking leave of her pupils; the usual visitors sat round the room looking on.
“And now,” she said, “before we part, I must say a few special words about one of my pupils, and that is, Miss Bridget Watson, whose marked improvement during the past month I have been pleased to notice. I have always felt that she had great difficulties to contend with, for when young people are growing fast, it is not easy to manage the limbs gracefully. I have to congratulate her upon her efforts, and to hope that you will all follow her example in trying to do your best.”
There was a murmur of satisfaction, for Bridget was a general favourite among her companions and they were all pleased to hear her praised. Every one was pleased; Miss Tasker, who was fond of Bridget, beamed behind her spectacles, and carried home the good news to Mrs Watson, whose pleasure put a finishing touch to Bridget’s exultation. Indeed, for some minutes she was more like a windmill than ever, through excess of joy, but it was holiday time, and even Miss Tasker said nothing.
You all know the story of the “Ugly Duckling,” and how, after all, it became a beautiful white swan. I cannot say whether, in like manner, Bridget grew up to be graceful and pretty, but one thing I am certain of, and that is, that she never regretted following the owl’s advice to “try again.”
Story 4 -- Chapter 1.All Alone—A Short Story.Nan was the youngest but one of the little Beresfords, and she was six years old when the baby came, so she was quite a responsible person and ready to be a great help to nurse. Her round face and form assumed airs of dignity, and she strove valiantly to put away all babyish weaknesses as things of the past.But some of them were too strong for Nan, struggle as she would, and she found to her dismay that though she was six years old, and “baby” no longer, she was still afraid of the dark.It had always been a dreadful moment to her when, leaving the cheerful nursery, she must be tucked up in her little bed and see nurse take away the candle. She would lie and stare with her bright round eyes into the thick blackness, and feel grateful if she could fix them on any little faint thread of light coming through chink or crevice. She could not have told you what it was she feared, and perhaps this was the reason why she never spoke of it to anyone—not even to mother. Besides, in the bright morning light she forgot her fears, and being naturally a cheerful and courageous child would have been ashamed to mention them. In a large family children are not encouraged to make too much of their troubles, for there is not time to attend to them; so no one knew that merry little Nan, who was afraid of nothing by daylight or candle-light, often lay awake at night long after she should have been asleep, and felt very much afraid indeed.And now I am going to tell you how on one occasion Nan conquered her fears all by herself, with no help from anyone on earth; and you must remember that it is a far braver thing to do what one is told in spite of being afraid, than not to be afraid at all.At Ripley, which was the next village to that in which Mr Beresford, Nan’s father, was rector, lived Squire Chorley, who had a large family of boys and girls. They were fond of getting up concerts, and theatricals, and readings for the poor people, and in all these things the Beresfords were always asked over to help. And one Christmas holidays there was to be an unusually grand entertainment given by the children, which included a display of “Mrs Jarley’s Wax-works.”Nan would listen with absorbing interest to the discussion about who should represent the different characters in wax-work, and she was allowed to be present at the rehearsals, but there was no question of such a little thing taking a part. She thought all the figures very beautiful, especially Joan of Arc, who was dressed in splendid tinsel armour and a crimson skirt, and was seated on a spotted rocking-horse. When she gracefully waved her sword Nan could hardly believe that it really was her own sister Sophy, and afterwards when she read about Joan of Arc in the history of England she always fancied her looking just like that, with long fair hair streaming down her back.There were a great many figures, as many as the stage would hold. And, as it was the first time the wax-works had been attempted, the children were particularly anxious that it should go off well, and that the dresses should be especially brilliant. So everyone worked hard, and Nan did her utmost to help, and was as excited about it as anyone.The evening before the performance there was to be a dress-rehearsal on the stage which the carpenter had put up in the school-room, and six excited little Beresfords were packed into the wagonette with the German governess, and driven over to Ripley. Fräulein was rather excited too, for she was to sing a song in an interval of the performance, and also to represent the Chinese giant in the wax-works.But when they reached the village school-room they found the other members of the company in low spirits, for they had received a blow. Johnnie Chorley, who was to have been “Jack-in-the-box,” had so bad a cold that he was not to play.“I knew how it would be,” said Agatha, the eldest girl, despondingly, “when Johnnie wouldn’t change his boots yesterday. And now there will be no Jack-in-the-box; and it was one of the best.”“Can’t someone else take it?” said Tom Beresford, looking round.“No one small enough for the tub,” was the answer; “Johnnie is such a mite, and made such good faces.”Nan’s heart beat fast. It was on her lips to say, “I am small enough,” but she did not dare. She only pushed herself a little in front, and stared up at Tom and Agatha with solemn, longing eyes.The former, a tall boy of fifteen, who was stage-manager on these occasions, stood whistling in a perplexed manner, and his eyes fell on the compact little figure in front of him.“Hallo!” he said suddenly, “I have it. Here’s your Jack!”He took Nan up and stood her on a form near.“What, Nan?” said all the voices in different tones, and everyone looked at her critically.Nan stood quite quietly, with her cheeks very red, and her eyes glistening, and her hands tucked into her little muff. She was so afraid that they would say she could not do it, and she felt so sure that she could. But it was settled that she might at least try; and, oh delightful moment! She was lifted into the barrel, which was very cold and smelt of beer, and told what was expected of her.“You know, Nan,” said Tom, “that you are not to show the least little bit of your head until you hear Mrs Jarley winding you up, and then you must pop up suddenly, and make a nice little funny face as you have seen Johnnie do.”Now, Nan was a most observant child, and had taken careful notes of Johnnie’s performance, which she very much admired; so, although her heart beat very quickly, she bobbed up just at the right minute with such a comical expression that there was a burst of applause, and “Well done, Nan!” from the company.Happy Nan! They put a scarlet cloak on her, very full in the neck, and a queer little tow wig with a top-knot, and painted a red patch on each cheek; and there she was, a member of the wax-works, and the happiest little soul in the county.She was to be a wax-work! The honour was almost too much, and the only drawback was poor Johnnie’s disappointment. She thought of that, driving home that evening, and was so quiet that Fräulein thought she was asleep, but she was only resolving that she would offer Johnnie her spotted guinea-pig to make up.So the eventful evening came, and everything was wonderfully successful; Mrs Jarley’s wax-works was considered the best thing that had been seen in the village for years, and everyone laughed very much. Nan did her very best to make a good Jack, and though she got very cramped in the tub, before her turn came to be exhibited, she made some most agile springs, and was heartily applauded. Then the Vicar of Ripley made a speech and thanked the performers, and all the people cheered, and then everyone, including the wax-works, sang “God save the Queen,” and the entertainment was over.There was a great bustling and chattering afterwards in the green-room, where the actors were trying to find cloaks and shawls and hats, for they were all to go to Mr Chorley’s to supper, and no one seemed able to get hold of the right things.Fräulein was fussing about her overshoes which she had lost, and there was a general struggle and confusion. Nan stood in a corner in her quaint little dress, waiting for someone to wrap her up, and at last her sister Sophy saw her.“Why! There you are, you quiet little Nan,” she said, “I will find your hood if I can. Here it is, and here is a shawl.” She bundled the child up warmly, and kissed her. “You were a jolly little Jack,” she went on, “and now you are to go home with cousin Annie and sleep at her house to-night. Run into the school-room and find her.”Cousin Annie was the Vicar of Ripley’s wife, and had a little girl of Nan’s own age, so it was a great treat to stay with her. Nan poked her way among the people who were still standing about in the school-room chatting together before they dispersed, but she could not see anyone she knew. Then she waited a long while at the door, but there was no cousin Annie, she had evidently gone home. Nan peeped out. Down the road which led to Mr Chorley’s she heard distant voices and laughter, and saw the twinkling light of lanterns, but in the opposite direction it was all quite dark and silent, and that was the way to cousin Annie’s. She knew it as well as possible, and it was not very far, quite a short distance, in thedaylight—you had only to go down the lane, and turn a little to the right, and go in at the white gate near the pond. A very simple matter in the daytime; but now! Nan stepped back into the room; she would go and tell them that cousin Annie had gone, and then someone would go with her. But to her dismay she found the green-room dark and silent; they had all gone out by the other door without coming through the school-room, and Nan was alone. She stood irresolute, clutching the heavy shawl which Sophy had wrapped round her, and feeling half inclined to cry. There was only one thing to do now, and that was to go down the dark lane all by herself. Nan had been brought up in habits of the most simple obedience, and it never occurred to her to question any order. “You are to go to cousin Annie’s,” Sophy had said, so of course she must go.She choked down a little sob, and pulled open the door again, and trotted out into the darkness. Her heavy shawl rather impeded her, so she could not go very fast, and the road was rough and uneven for her small feet. She looked up to see if she could find any comfortable twinkling star for a companion, but the sky was all black and overcast, and there was no moon. Then she said her evening prayer to herself, but it was very short and did not last long, and then all the hymns she knew, and then all the texts, and by that time she was nearly at the bottom of the lane, when, oh misfortune! She caught her foot in the dangling end of the big shawl and fell flat in the mud. It was very hard to keep back the tears after that; but she gathered herself up as well as she could and stumbled on, until at last she passed through the white gate, which stood open, and reached the front door of the Vicarage. But her troubles were not over yet, for she found that, even by standing on the very tips of her toes, she could reach neither bell nor knocker. She rapped as hard as she could with her soft little knuckles, but they made no more noise on the great door than a bird’s beak would have done; and then she tried some little kicks, but no one came.She felt very lonely and miserable with the black night all round her, and it seemed to make it worse to think of her brothers and sisters enjoying themselves so much at Mr Chorley’s. How sorry they would be for Nan if they knew! And then she felt so sorry for herself, that she was obliged to sit down on the stone steps and cry. She was hungry, as well as frightened and cold, for she had been much too excited to eat anything at tea-time, and now it was past ten o’clock. Oh to be in her little white bed at home! She cuddled herself up as close to the door as she could, and laid her cheek against it, shrinking back from the darkness which seemed to press against her, and presently, how it came to pass she never know, her head began to nod and she went fast to sleep.The next thing she remembered was hearing a voice say, quite close to her: “Why, it’s little Nan! How did the child get here?” And then someone took her up, and carried her with strong arms into a warm room with bright lights. And then she found herself on cousin Annie’s knee, and saw people standing round asking eager questions and looking very much amused. And no wonder, for Nan was a very funny-looking little bundle indeed, in spite of her woe-begone appearance; her round face was streaked with mud, and tears, and scarlet paint, and the odd little wig had fallen over one eye in a waggish manner. When the hood and shawl were taken off, a more disconsolate little Jack-in-the-box could hardly be imagined, for what with hunger, fatigue, and the comfort of feeling cousin Annie’s kind arms round her, Nan’s tears fell fast and she could not stop them.They could just make out between her sobs something about “Sophy” and “sleeping,” but that was all; and at last cousin Annie said, “Never mind, darling, you shall tell me all about it by and by.” And then poor little weary Nan was carried upstairs, and washed, and put to bed, and cousin Annie brought her some supper, and sat by her until she dropped gently off to sleep.It turned out afterwards that Fräulein in the excitement of the moment had forgotten to deliver the message about Nan, so that none expected her at the Vicarage. When she went home the next day Tom said she was quite a “little heroine.” Nan did not know what that meant, but she was sure it was something pleasant.And the best of it all was, that after this adventure Nan never felt so frightened of the dark again. But that she kept to herself.
Nan was the youngest but one of the little Beresfords, and she was six years old when the baby came, so she was quite a responsible person and ready to be a great help to nurse. Her round face and form assumed airs of dignity, and she strove valiantly to put away all babyish weaknesses as things of the past.
But some of them were too strong for Nan, struggle as she would, and she found to her dismay that though she was six years old, and “baby” no longer, she was still afraid of the dark.
It had always been a dreadful moment to her when, leaving the cheerful nursery, she must be tucked up in her little bed and see nurse take away the candle. She would lie and stare with her bright round eyes into the thick blackness, and feel grateful if she could fix them on any little faint thread of light coming through chink or crevice. She could not have told you what it was she feared, and perhaps this was the reason why she never spoke of it to anyone—not even to mother. Besides, in the bright morning light she forgot her fears, and being naturally a cheerful and courageous child would have been ashamed to mention them. In a large family children are not encouraged to make too much of their troubles, for there is not time to attend to them; so no one knew that merry little Nan, who was afraid of nothing by daylight or candle-light, often lay awake at night long after she should have been asleep, and felt very much afraid indeed.
And now I am going to tell you how on one occasion Nan conquered her fears all by herself, with no help from anyone on earth; and you must remember that it is a far braver thing to do what one is told in spite of being afraid, than not to be afraid at all.
At Ripley, which was the next village to that in which Mr Beresford, Nan’s father, was rector, lived Squire Chorley, who had a large family of boys and girls. They were fond of getting up concerts, and theatricals, and readings for the poor people, and in all these things the Beresfords were always asked over to help. And one Christmas holidays there was to be an unusually grand entertainment given by the children, which included a display of “Mrs Jarley’s Wax-works.”
Nan would listen with absorbing interest to the discussion about who should represent the different characters in wax-work, and she was allowed to be present at the rehearsals, but there was no question of such a little thing taking a part. She thought all the figures very beautiful, especially Joan of Arc, who was dressed in splendid tinsel armour and a crimson skirt, and was seated on a spotted rocking-horse. When she gracefully waved her sword Nan could hardly believe that it really was her own sister Sophy, and afterwards when she read about Joan of Arc in the history of England she always fancied her looking just like that, with long fair hair streaming down her back.
There were a great many figures, as many as the stage would hold. And, as it was the first time the wax-works had been attempted, the children were particularly anxious that it should go off well, and that the dresses should be especially brilliant. So everyone worked hard, and Nan did her utmost to help, and was as excited about it as anyone.
The evening before the performance there was to be a dress-rehearsal on the stage which the carpenter had put up in the school-room, and six excited little Beresfords were packed into the wagonette with the German governess, and driven over to Ripley. Fräulein was rather excited too, for she was to sing a song in an interval of the performance, and also to represent the Chinese giant in the wax-works.
But when they reached the village school-room they found the other members of the company in low spirits, for they had received a blow. Johnnie Chorley, who was to have been “Jack-in-the-box,” had so bad a cold that he was not to play.
“I knew how it would be,” said Agatha, the eldest girl, despondingly, “when Johnnie wouldn’t change his boots yesterday. And now there will be no Jack-in-the-box; and it was one of the best.”
“Can’t someone else take it?” said Tom Beresford, looking round.
“No one small enough for the tub,” was the answer; “Johnnie is such a mite, and made such good faces.”
Nan’s heart beat fast. It was on her lips to say, “I am small enough,” but she did not dare. She only pushed herself a little in front, and stared up at Tom and Agatha with solemn, longing eyes.
The former, a tall boy of fifteen, who was stage-manager on these occasions, stood whistling in a perplexed manner, and his eyes fell on the compact little figure in front of him.
“Hallo!” he said suddenly, “I have it. Here’s your Jack!”
He took Nan up and stood her on a form near.
“What, Nan?” said all the voices in different tones, and everyone looked at her critically.
Nan stood quite quietly, with her cheeks very red, and her eyes glistening, and her hands tucked into her little muff. She was so afraid that they would say she could not do it, and she felt so sure that she could. But it was settled that she might at least try; and, oh delightful moment! She was lifted into the barrel, which was very cold and smelt of beer, and told what was expected of her.
“You know, Nan,” said Tom, “that you are not to show the least little bit of your head until you hear Mrs Jarley winding you up, and then you must pop up suddenly, and make a nice little funny face as you have seen Johnnie do.”
Now, Nan was a most observant child, and had taken careful notes of Johnnie’s performance, which she very much admired; so, although her heart beat very quickly, she bobbed up just at the right minute with such a comical expression that there was a burst of applause, and “Well done, Nan!” from the company.
Happy Nan! They put a scarlet cloak on her, very full in the neck, and a queer little tow wig with a top-knot, and painted a red patch on each cheek; and there she was, a member of the wax-works, and the happiest little soul in the county.
She was to be a wax-work! The honour was almost too much, and the only drawback was poor Johnnie’s disappointment. She thought of that, driving home that evening, and was so quiet that Fräulein thought she was asleep, but she was only resolving that she would offer Johnnie her spotted guinea-pig to make up.
So the eventful evening came, and everything was wonderfully successful; Mrs Jarley’s wax-works was considered the best thing that had been seen in the village for years, and everyone laughed very much. Nan did her very best to make a good Jack, and though she got very cramped in the tub, before her turn came to be exhibited, she made some most agile springs, and was heartily applauded. Then the Vicar of Ripley made a speech and thanked the performers, and all the people cheered, and then everyone, including the wax-works, sang “God save the Queen,” and the entertainment was over.
There was a great bustling and chattering afterwards in the green-room, where the actors were trying to find cloaks and shawls and hats, for they were all to go to Mr Chorley’s to supper, and no one seemed able to get hold of the right things.
Fräulein was fussing about her overshoes which she had lost, and there was a general struggle and confusion. Nan stood in a corner in her quaint little dress, waiting for someone to wrap her up, and at last her sister Sophy saw her.
“Why! There you are, you quiet little Nan,” she said, “I will find your hood if I can. Here it is, and here is a shawl.” She bundled the child up warmly, and kissed her. “You were a jolly little Jack,” she went on, “and now you are to go home with cousin Annie and sleep at her house to-night. Run into the school-room and find her.”
Cousin Annie was the Vicar of Ripley’s wife, and had a little girl of Nan’s own age, so it was a great treat to stay with her. Nan poked her way among the people who were still standing about in the school-room chatting together before they dispersed, but she could not see anyone she knew. Then she waited a long while at the door, but there was no cousin Annie, she had evidently gone home. Nan peeped out. Down the road which led to Mr Chorley’s she heard distant voices and laughter, and saw the twinkling light of lanterns, but in the opposite direction it was all quite dark and silent, and that was the way to cousin Annie’s. She knew it as well as possible, and it was not very far, quite a short distance, in thedaylight—you had only to go down the lane, and turn a little to the right, and go in at the white gate near the pond. A very simple matter in the daytime; but now! Nan stepped back into the room; she would go and tell them that cousin Annie had gone, and then someone would go with her. But to her dismay she found the green-room dark and silent; they had all gone out by the other door without coming through the school-room, and Nan was alone. She stood irresolute, clutching the heavy shawl which Sophy had wrapped round her, and feeling half inclined to cry. There was only one thing to do now, and that was to go down the dark lane all by herself. Nan had been brought up in habits of the most simple obedience, and it never occurred to her to question any order. “You are to go to cousin Annie’s,” Sophy had said, so of course she must go.
She choked down a little sob, and pulled open the door again, and trotted out into the darkness. Her heavy shawl rather impeded her, so she could not go very fast, and the road was rough and uneven for her small feet. She looked up to see if she could find any comfortable twinkling star for a companion, but the sky was all black and overcast, and there was no moon. Then she said her evening prayer to herself, but it was very short and did not last long, and then all the hymns she knew, and then all the texts, and by that time she was nearly at the bottom of the lane, when, oh misfortune! She caught her foot in the dangling end of the big shawl and fell flat in the mud. It was very hard to keep back the tears after that; but she gathered herself up as well as she could and stumbled on, until at last she passed through the white gate, which stood open, and reached the front door of the Vicarage. But her troubles were not over yet, for she found that, even by standing on the very tips of her toes, she could reach neither bell nor knocker. She rapped as hard as she could with her soft little knuckles, but they made no more noise on the great door than a bird’s beak would have done; and then she tried some little kicks, but no one came.
She felt very lonely and miserable with the black night all round her, and it seemed to make it worse to think of her brothers and sisters enjoying themselves so much at Mr Chorley’s. How sorry they would be for Nan if they knew! And then she felt so sorry for herself, that she was obliged to sit down on the stone steps and cry. She was hungry, as well as frightened and cold, for she had been much too excited to eat anything at tea-time, and now it was past ten o’clock. Oh to be in her little white bed at home! She cuddled herself up as close to the door as she could, and laid her cheek against it, shrinking back from the darkness which seemed to press against her, and presently, how it came to pass she never know, her head began to nod and she went fast to sleep.
The next thing she remembered was hearing a voice say, quite close to her: “Why, it’s little Nan! How did the child get here?” And then someone took her up, and carried her with strong arms into a warm room with bright lights. And then she found herself on cousin Annie’s knee, and saw people standing round asking eager questions and looking very much amused. And no wonder, for Nan was a very funny-looking little bundle indeed, in spite of her woe-begone appearance; her round face was streaked with mud, and tears, and scarlet paint, and the odd little wig had fallen over one eye in a waggish manner. When the hood and shawl were taken off, a more disconsolate little Jack-in-the-box could hardly be imagined, for what with hunger, fatigue, and the comfort of feeling cousin Annie’s kind arms round her, Nan’s tears fell fast and she could not stop them.
They could just make out between her sobs something about “Sophy” and “sleeping,” but that was all; and at last cousin Annie said, “Never mind, darling, you shall tell me all about it by and by.” And then poor little weary Nan was carried upstairs, and washed, and put to bed, and cousin Annie brought her some supper, and sat by her until she dropped gently off to sleep.
It turned out afterwards that Fräulein in the excitement of the moment had forgotten to deliver the message about Nan, so that none expected her at the Vicarage. When she went home the next day Tom said she was quite a “little heroine.” Nan did not know what that meant, but she was sure it was something pleasant.
And the best of it all was, that after this adventure Nan never felt so frightened of the dark again. But that she kept to herself.