"So the wind blew softly,And the sun shone bright."
Grandfather had fixed that it would be best to go straight through at once to the seaport, where, the next morning, they would find the 'normous boat waiting to take them over the sea. They had to pass through London on the way, and, by the time they got to the big London station, Baby was very tired—so white and quiet that mother was a little frightened.
"I almost wish," she said, "that we had fixed to stay all night in London. Baby has never had a long railway journey before, since he was arealBaby, you know, and he is not very strong."
She was speaking to auntie. It was just when they were getting near the big London station. Auntie looked at Baby. He was lying on Lisa's knee with his eyes shut, as if he were asleep, but he wasn't. He heard what they said, and he was rather pleased at them talking about him. Insomeways he was very fond of being made a fuss about.
"He does look a little white shrimp," said auntie. "But then you know, May, he is so fair. He looks more quickly white if he is tired than other children. And he has been such a good little man all day—not one bit of trouble. He is really a capital traveller—everso much quieter than the others."
She said these last few words in a low tone, not caring for the other children to hear; but if she had spoken quite loud I don't think they would have heard, and, indeed, it seemed as if they wanted to show that auntie's words were true; for just at that moment there came such a scream from Denny that everybody started up in a fright.
Whatcouldbe the matter? everybody asked.
"It's all Denny," said Fritz, in a great fuss.
"It's not; it's all Fritz and Celia," said Denny.
"It's both of them," said Celia. "Mother, I wish you wouldn't let them be near each other. Denny put her hand into the dormice's cage when Fritz wasn't looking, and she poked out Tim, who was just beginning to come awake for the night, and she as nearly ascouldbe got his tail pulled off, and then, when Fritz caught her, she screamed."
"Fritz snipped my hand in the little door of the cage," sobbed Denny. "And Celia always takes Fritz's part."
Celia was beginning; to "answer back," when auntie stopped her by a look—the children were sometimes rather afraid of auntie's "looks."
"Dear me, young people," said grandfather from his end of the carriage, "you might be peaceable for five minutes, and then we shall be in London, and you shall have a good tea before we go on again."
The children all grew quiet. They were glad to hear of tea, and they were a little ashamed of themselves. Auntie moved over to their end of the carriage.
"Him would like some tea too, p'ease," said Baby, as she passed him, and auntie patted his head.
"They are all tired, I suppose," said mother; "but it really is too silly, the way they quarrel about nothing."
"Auntie," said Celia softly, "I think it was partly my fault. Denny and Fritz asked me to tell them a story, and I wouldn't. It would have kept them quiet."
"Well, never mind now," said auntie. "You must all try and be very good to-morrow. This is only the first day, you know. You can't be expected to be very clever travellers yet. And the very first lesson to learn in travelling is—do you know what?"
"Not to lose your things?" said Celia.
"To be ready in time?" said Fritz.
"To sit still in the railway?" said Denny, rather meekly.
"All those are very good things," said auntie; "but they're notthething I was thinking of. It wasto keep your temper."
The children got rather red, but I don't think any one noticed, for already the train was slackening, and in another minute or two they all got out and were standing together on the bustling platform, dimly lighted up by the gas lamps, which looked yellow and strange in the foggy air of a London November evening.
"Is zit London?" said Baby, and when Celia said "yes," he added rather mournfully, "Him doesn't sink London's pitty at all."
FRITZ AND BABY ON THE STATION PLATFORM LOOKING DESOLATEPoor little boys, for after all, Fritz himself wasn't very big!They stood together hand in hand on the station platform,looking, and feeling, rather desolate.—P. 84.Click toENLARGE
Poor little boys, for, after all, Fritz himself wasn't very big! They stood together hand in hand on the station platform, looking, and feeling, rather desolate. Lisa was busy helping with the rugs and bags that had been in the carriage; mother and auntie, as well as grandfather and Peters and the maid, were all busy about the luggage.
"Stay there a moment, children," said somebody; but Denny had no idea of staying anywhere. Off she trotted to have a look at the luggage too, and Celia was half inclined to follow her, when her glance fell on her two little brothers.
"Celia," said Baby, catching hold of her, "don't go away too. Fritz is taking care of him, but wemightbe lostened."
He spoke rather timidly, and Celia's heart was touched. She was a good deal older than the others—nearly twelve—Fritz and Denny were very near in age, and sometimes Celia was a little cross at mother for not making difference enough, as she thought, and for keeping her still a good deal in the nursery. Mother had her own good reasons, and it is not always wise for big people to tell children their reasons, as Celia got to know when she grew wiser and bigger herself. She sometimes spoke rather crossly to the younger ones, and it made them a very little afraid of her, but in her heart she was kind. Just now she stooped down to kiss Baby.
"Don't be frightened, poor old man," she said, "you won't be lost. Fritz wouldn't let you be lost, would you, Fritz?"
Fritz brightened up at that, as Celia had meant he should. He, too, had been feeling a little strange and queer—the long journey and the sleeping in the day, all so different from their life at home, had rather upset him—but he would not have liked to say so! And now he was quite pleased at Celia telling Baby that, of course, Fritz was big enough to take care of him. It is so easy for children—bigger ones above all—to please each other and give nice feelings, when they really try to feelwitheach other andforeach other.
The little boys looked much happier a few minutes later, when they were seated at tea in a comfortable corner of the refreshment room. Grandfather had sent Peters on, as soon as they had got the luggage all safe, to see that a table was placed for them by themselves. He, himself, went off to get some real dinner, for, of course, it was not to be expected that a gentleman, and especially anoldgentleman, would be contented with tea, and bread and butter, and buns, however nice, but, to the children's great pleasure, mother and auntie saidtheywould far rather stay and have tea with the little people.
"It is a good thing, isn't it, for them to stay with us?" said Fritz to Celia, confidentially, "for we are none of usverybig, are we? And you know wemightget lost somehow, as Baby says, though I wouldn't say so to him for fear of frightening him, you know."
"No, of course not," said Celia, and looking up she was pleased to see mother smiling at her. Mother saw that Celia was trying to be kind and helpful, and she did so like to see the way the little ones clung to Celia when she was gentle. Mother must have been something like Baby in her mind, I think, for when she looked at the boys sitting there in the strange, big station-room, their little faces grave and rather tired looking, a sort of sorry feeling came overhertoo, as she thought of the snug, cosy nursery at home, and the neat nursery tea, with the pretty pink and white cups she had chosen, and the canaries and "Bully" twittering in the window. Poor "calanies" and poor Bully! they didn't know where they had got to! They had slept nearly all day, thinking, as they were meant to think, that it was night, I suppose, but now they must have given up thinking so, for they were fidgeting about in their cages in an unhappy, restless sort of way. They had plenty of seed, and Celia and Lisa took care that they should have fresh water, but still, poor little things, they were not very happy.
"Going away from their own home is really a trial for children," thought mother. She was a little tired herself, and being tired makeseverythingseem the wrong way.
But there was no help for it. They had all to make the best of things, and to set off again in another train and be rattled away to the sea. It was quite dark by now, of course, and it seemed very queer to start on another journey with so little rest between. I think, however, once they were all settled in the railway carriage, that the children slept the most of the way; Baby, at any rate, knew nothing more till he woke up to find himself in Lisa's arms, with a cold, fresh air—the air of the sea—blowing in his face, and making him lift up his head and look about him.
"Where is him?" he said. "Is him in the 'normous boat?"
"Not so, Herr Baby," said Lisa. "He shall first be undressed and have a nice sleep all night in bed, to rest him well. Lie still, mine child, and Lisa will keep you warm."
"Him likes the wind," said Baby. "It blowed his eyes open; him is quite awake now," and he tried to sit straight up in Lisa's arms.
"Oh, Herr Baby, I cannot hold you so," said Lisa.
"There is such a little way to go," said his mother, who was just behind, "lie still, dear, as Lisa tells you."
"Him would like to walk, him's legs is so 'tiff," said Baby. "P'ease let him walk if it's such a little way!"
His voice was so piteous that mother told Lisa to let him walk; they were going from the station to the hotel, a very little way, as mother had said. Lisa put Baby down on the ground; at first he really tumbled over, his legs felt so funny, but with Lisa's hand he soon got his balance again. It was a very dark night; they could not have seen their way but for the lights of the station and the town.
"What a dark countly zit is!" said Herr Baby. "Is there no moon in zit countly? Denny says in her hymn 'the moon to shine by night,' is there no moon 'cept in him's own countly?"
"What are you chattering about, little man?" said auntie.
"He's asking about the moon, auntie; he wants to know if there isn't any moon here. He thinks we've left it behind at home," said Denny.
A sort of roar from poor Baby interrupted her.
"Oh, Denny, don't,don'tsay that," he cried, "it makes him sink of the labbits, and Thomas, and Jones, and the trees, and the flowers, and him's dear little bed, and all the sings we'se leaved behind. Him doesn't like you to speak of leaved behind."
"PoorBaby," said Denny, "I'm so sorry." She stooped down to kiss him, but it was so dark it wasn't easy to find his mouth, and she only managed to kiss the tip of his nose, which was as cold as a little dog's. This made Herr Baby begin laughing, which was a good thing, wasn't it? And he was so taken up in explaining to Lisa how funny it felt when Denny kissed his nose, that he had not time to think of his sorrows again till they were at the foot of the large flight of steps leading up to the big hotel where they were to sleep.
"Nice big house," said Baby, looking round; and as he caught sight of some of the waiters running about, he asked Lisa if "them was new servants instead of Thomas and Jones."
"Him likes Thomas and Jones best," he went on, the corners of his mouth going down again, so that Lisa was obliged to assure him the servants were not going to beinsteadof Thomas and Jones, they were all only just going to stay one night at this big house, and to-morrow they would set off in the great ship to cross the sea.
The mention of the ship fortunately gave a new turn to Baby's thoughts; and he allowed Lisa to take him upstairs and warm him well before a good fire before she undressed him and put him to bed. The other children thought it great fun to sleep in strange rooms, in beds quite unlike those they had at home, and to have to hunt for their nightgowns and brushes and sponges in two or threewrongcarpet bags before they came to the right one; but Baby's spirits were rather depressed, and it was not easy to keep him from crying in the sad little way he had when his feelings were touched.
"He is tired, poor little chap," said auntie, as she kissed him for good-night. "It is ever so much later than he has ever been up before. It is nearly ten."
"Himwereup till ten o'clock on Kissmass," said Herr Baby, brightening up. "Him were updedfullate, till, till, p'raps till near twenty o'clock."
Auntie would have liked to laugh, but she took care not, for when Baby was in this sort of humour there was no telling whether other people's laughing might not make him take to crying, so she just said,
"Indeed! That must have beenverylate; well, go to sleep now, and sleep till twenty o'clock to-morrow morning, if you like. We don't need to start early," she added, turning to Lisa; and I think poor Lisa was not sorry to hear it!
If I were to go on telling you, bit by bit, all about the journey, and everything that happened big and little, it would take a good while, and I don't know that you would find it very interesting. Perhaps it is better to take a jump, as people do in real big story books, and to go on with Herr Baby's adventures a few days later, when he, and Denny, and Fritz, and Celia, and Lisa, and mother, and auntie, and grandfather, and the "bully," and the "calanies," and Tim, and Peepy-Snoozle, and Linley, mother's maid, and Peters, grandfather's man, and I forget if there was any one else, but I think not; and all the boxes and carpet-bags, and railway-rugs, were safely arrived at Santino, the pretty little town with mountains on one side and the sea on the other, where they were all going to spend the winter. I must not forget to tell you one thing, however, which, I daresay, some of you who may have crossed "over the sea," andnotfound it very delightful, may be anxious to know about. I mean about the voyage in the 'normous boat, which Baby had been so looking forward to, poor little fellow.
Well, wasn't it lucky, he was not at all disappointed? They had the loveliest day that ever was seen, and Baby thought 'normous boats far the nicest way of travelling, and he couldn't understand why grandfather couldn't make them go all the way to Santino in the nice boat, and when they explained to him that it couldn't be, because there was no sea for boats to go on all the way, he thought there must have been some great mistake in the way the world was made. And when they got to Santino, and the first thing he sawwasthe sea, blue and beautiful like a fairy dream, Baby was quite startled.
"Mother, auntie!" he said, reproachfully, "you toldened him there weren't no sea."
"We didn't mean that, Baby, dear," said mother; "we meant that there was no sea to come the shortest way; we would have had to come all round the land, and it would have been much longer. Look, it is like this," and mother traced with her parasol a sort of map on the sand, to show Baby that they had come a much nearer way. For they were standing by the sea-shore at the time.
"Yes," said Herr Baby, after looking on without speaking for a minute or two, "him under'tands now."
"So you've had your first lesson in geography," said auntie.
Baby stared up at her.
"Arethatjography?" he said. "Him thought jography were awful, dedful difficult. Denny is sowerryc'oss when her has jography to learn."
"Oh, because, of course, you know," said Denny, getting rather red, "myjography isrealjography, with books and maps and ever so long rows of names to learn. Baby's so stupid—he always takes up things so; he'll be thinking now that if he makes marks on the sand, he'll be learning jography."
Denny turned away with a very superior air. Baby looked much hurt.
ARE THAT JOGRAPHY?"Arethatjography?" he said.—P. 94.Click toENLARGE
"Him's not stupid,arehim?" he said; and in a moment Celia and Fritz were hugging him and calling Denny a naughty, unkind girl to tease him. Mother and auntie had walked on a little, so thingsmighthave gone on to a quarrel if Lisa hadn't stopped it.
"Mine children," she said, "it is too pity to be not friendly together. See what one beautifullest place this is—sky so blue and sea so blue, and all so bright and sunny. One should be nothing but happy here."
"Yes," said Celia, looking round, "it is an awfully pretty place."
Celia, you see, was just beginning to be old enough to notice really beautiful things in a way that when children areverylittle, they cannot quite understand, though some do much more than others.
"It is averypretty place," she said again, as if she were speaking to herself, for Fritz and Denny had taken it into their heads to run races, of which Lisa was very glad, and Celia stood still by herself, looking round at the lovely sea and sky, and the little white town perched up above, with the mountains rising behind. Suddenly a little hand was slipped into hers.
"Him would like to live here everways," said Baby's voice; "itareso pitty—somefin like Heaven, p'raps."
"I don't know," said Celia, "I suppose Heaven must be prettier than anything we could fancy."
"There's gold streets in Heaven, Lisa says," said Baby; "him sinks blue sky streets would be much pittier."
"So do I," said Celia.
Then they walked on a little, watching Fritz and Denny, already like two black specks in front—they had run on so far—and, somehow, in theverybright sunshine, one seemed to see less clearly. Mother and auntie were in front too, and when Fritz and Denny raced back again, quite hot and out of breath, mother said it was time for them all to go in; it was still rather too hot to be out much near the middle of the day, though it was already some way on in November, and next month would be the month that Christmas comes in!
"How funny it seems," said Celia. "Why, when we left home it was quite winter. Just think how we were wrapped up when we started on the journey, and now we're quite warm enough with nothing at all over our frocks."
"It may be cold enough before long," said mother, who was more accustomed to hot climates than the children; "sometimes the cold hereabouts comes quite suddenly, and it even seems colder from having been so warm before. I daresay you will be glad of your thick clothes before Christmas. But we must get on a little quicker, or else grandfather will be in a hurry for his breakfast."
"Ganfather's werry lazy not to have had him's breakfast yet," said Baby. "Him'shadhim'sbreakfast ever so long ago, hundreds of years ago."
"Oh, Baby," said Denny, "how you do 'saggerate! Itcouldn'thave been hundreds of years ago, because, you know, you weren't born then."
"Stupid girl!" said Baby, "how does you know? you wasn't there."
"Well,youweren't there," said Denny again.
"Children, don't contradict each other. It's not nice," said auntie.
"Him didn't begin," said Baby, "t'were Denny beginned."
"I didn't. I only saidoncethat Baby wasn't born hundreds of years ago," said Denny, "and then he——"
"Onst is as wurst as twicet," said Baby.
Mother turned round at this. There was a funny look on her face, but still she spoke rather gravely.
"Baby, I don't know what's coming over you," she said. "It isn't like you to speak like that."
Baby's face grew red, and he turned his head away.
"Him didn't meanzeallythat ganfather were lazy," he said, in a low voice.
"It wasn'tthatI was vexed with you for," said mother. "I know you were joking when you said that. I meant what you said to Denny."
"Him's werry sorry," said Baby, on the point of tears.
"Never mind. Don't cry about it," said mother, who really wanted the children to be very good and happy this first day. And she was a little afraid of Baby's beginning to cry, for,sometimes, once he had begun, it was not very easy to stop him.
"You don't understand about grandfather and his breakfast," said auntie. "Here nobody has big breakfast when they first get up except you children, who have the same that you have at home."
"No we don't," said Denny. "At home we have bread and milk every day except Sunday—on Sunday we have bacon or heggs, because that's the nothing-for-breakfast day."
Auntie stared at Denny.
"Really, Denny," she said, "it is sometimes a little difficult to be sure that you have got all your senses. How can you have 'nothing for breakfast' when you have bacon, and—who in the world ever taught you to say 'heggs'?"
"I meant to say 'neggs,'" said Denny very humbly. "Grandfather laughed at me because I didn't say 'hippotamus' right—I called it a 'nippotamus,' and he made me say 'hi-hi-hip,' and that's got me into the way of saying it to everything, like calling a negg, a hegg."
"Anegg," repeated auntie slowly. "Can't you hear any difference between 'a negg,' and 'an egg'? Spell, a-n an, e-g-g egg."
Denny repeated it.
"What dedful jography Denny's having," observed Baby; "I can saya negg, quiteright."
"And so you too call 'a negg' nothing for breakfast?" said auntie.
"Neggs and bacon is nothing for breakfast," answered Baby.
"Auntie," said Fritz, "you don't understand. We call it nothing for breakfast when there's not bread-and-milk, you know, for on bread-and-milk days we have just one little cup of tea and a bit of bread-and-butter after the bread-and-milk. But on Sundays, and birthdays, there's nothing for thefirst, and so we get better things, more like big people, and tea, and whatever there is, as soon as we begin. That's why we like 'nothing for breakfast,' do you see, auntie?"
"I see," said auntie, "but I certainly couldn't have guessed. I hope there'ssomethingfor breakfast to-day for us, for I'm very hungry, and look, there's grandfather coming out to meet us, which looks as if he were hungry too. And what have you to say to it, old man?" she added, as Herr Baby came up the steps, one foot at a time, of course, "aren't you hungry after your walk?"
"Him's hungry for him'sdinner, but not for him'sbreakfast; in course not," said Baby, with great dignity.
"Innocent face with the sad sweet eyes,Smiling on us through the centuries."
Baby and Fritz went out a walk that afternoon in the town with auntie and Lisa. Celia and Denny had gone for a drive with mother and grandfather, which the big people thought would make a good division. Grandfather was very fond of children, but in a carriage, he used to say,twosmall people were enough of a good thing. So Celia and Denny worried Lisa to get out their best hats and jackets—which were not unpacked, as grandfather had not yet decided whether they should stay at the hotel or get a house for themselves—and set off in great spirits on the back seat of the carriage.
Fritz and Baby were in very good spirits too. Fritz wanted to walk along the sort of front street of the town which faced the sea, for he was never tired of looking at boats and ships. Baby liked them too, but what he most wanted to see was the shops. Baby was very fond of shops. He was fond of buying things, but before he bought anything he used to like to be quite sure which was the best shop to get it at—I mean to say at which shop he could get it best—and he often asked the price two or three times before he fixed. And he had never before seen so many shops or such pretty and curious ones as there were at Santino, so he was quite delighted, though if you hadn't known him well you would hardly have guessed it, for he trotted along as grave as a little judge, only staring about him with all his eyes.
And indeed there were plenty of things to stare at. Fritz's tongue went very fast. He wanted auntie to stop every minute to look at something wonderful. The carts drawn by oxen pleased him and Baby very much.
"That's the working cows they told us about," said Fritz. "They're very nice, but I think I like horses best, don't you, Baby?"
"No, him likes cows best," said Baby, "when him's a man him will have a calliage wif hundreds of cows to pull it along, and wif lots and lots of gold bells all tinkling. Won't that be lubly?"
"Not half so nice as a lot of ponies, all with bells," said Fritz, "they'd make ever so much more jingling, 'cos they go so fast. Isn't it funny to see all the women with handkerchers on their heads and no bonnets, Baby?"
"When him's a man," said Baby again—he was growing more talkative now—"when him's a man, him's going to have auntie and Lisa," auntie and Lisa came first, of course, because they happened to be in his sight, "and mother, and Celia, and Dennyallfor his wifes, and them shall all wear most bootly hankerwifs on them's heads, red and blue and pink and every colour, and gold—lots of gold."
"Thank you," said auntie, "but by that time my hair, for one, will be quite gray; I shall be quite an old woman. I don't think such splendid trappings would suit me."
"Him saidhandkerwifs, not traps—him doesn't know what traps is," said Baby. "And him will be werry kind to you when you're old. Him will always let you come in and warm yourself, and give you halfpennies."
"Thank you, dear, I'm sure you will," said auntie. But she and Fritz looked at each other. That was one of Herr Baby's ideas, and they couldn't get him to understand, so mother settled it was better to leave it and he'd understand of himself when he grew bigger. He thought thateverybody, however rich and well off they might be, had to grow quite, quite poor, and to beg for pennies in the streets before they died. Wasn't it a funny fancy? It was not till a good while afterwards that mother found out that what had made him think so was the word "old." He couldn't understand that growing old could mean only growing old in years—he thought it meant as well, poor and worn-out, like his own little old shoes. Just now it would have been no good trying to explain, even if mother had quite understood what was in his mind, which she didn't till he told her himself long after. For it only made him cry when people tried to explain andhecouldn't explain what he meant. There was nothing vexed him so much! And I think there was something rather nice mixed up with this funny idea about getting old. It made Baby wish to be so kind to all poor old people. He would look at any poor old beggar in such a strange sad way, and he alwaysbeggedto be allowed to give them a penny. And, though no one knew of it, in his own mind he was thinking that his dear little mother or his kind auntie would be like that some day, and he would like rich little boys to be kind to them then, just as he was now to other poor old people. Of course, he said to himself, "Ifhimsees dear little mother and auntie when they get old,himwill take care of them and let them rest at his house every time they come past, butp'rapshim might be far away then."
And sometimes, when grandfather spoke about getting old and how white his hair was growing, Baby would look at him very gravely, for in his own mind he was wondering if the time was very soon coming for poor grandfather to be an old beggar-man. Baby thought ithadto be, you see, he thought it was just what must come to everybody.
Just as auntie and he had finished talking about getting old they turned a corner and went down a street which led them away from the view of the sea. This street had shops at both sides, and some of them were very pretty, but they were not the kind of shops that the little boys cared much for—they were mostly dressmakers' and milliners' and shawl shops. Lots of grand dresses and hats and bonnets were to be seen, which would have pleased Celia and Denny perhaps, but which Fritz said were very stupid. Auntie did not seem to care for them either—she was in a hurry to go to an office where she was going to ask about a house that might do for them. So she walked on quickly, as quickly at least as Baby's short legs could go, for she held him by the hand, and Fritz and Lisa came behind. They left this street in a minute and crossed through two or three others before auntie could find the one she wanted. Suddenly Baby gave her a tug.
"Oh auntie," he said, "p'ease 'top one minute. Him sees shiny glass jugs like dear little mother's. Oh, do 'top."
Auntie stopped. They were passing what is called an old curiosity shop; it was a funny looking place, seeming very crowded even though it was a large shop, for it was so very full of all sorts of queer things. Some among them were more queer than pretty, but some were very pretty too, and in one corner of the window there were several jugs, and cups, and bottles, and such things, of very fine glass, with the same sort of soft-coloured shine on it that Baby remembered in the two jugs that he had pulled down in the tiny trunk. Baby's eyes had spied them out at once.
SHINY GLASS JUGS LIKE DEAR MOTHER'S."Oh, auntie," he said, "p'ease 'top one minute. Him sees shiny glass jugs likedear little mother's. Oh, do 'top."—P. 106.Click toENLARGE
"Look, look, auntie," he said, again gently tugging her.
"Yes, Baby dear, very pretty," said auntie, but without paying much attention to the glass, for she was not thinking of Baby's adventure in the pantry at the moment, and did not know what jugs of his mother's he meant.
"There is twojustlike mother's," said Baby, but he spoke lower now, almost as if he were speaking to himself. An idea had come into his mind which he had hardly yet understood himself, and he did not want to speak of it to any one else. He just stood at the window staring in, his two eyes fixed on the glass jugs, and the great question he was saying to himself was, "How many pennies would they cost?"
"Them's a little smaller, him sinks," he murmured, "but p'raps mother wouldn't mind."
It was a mistake of his that they were smaller; they were really a little larger than the broken ones. Besides Baby had never seen the broken ones till theywerebroken. One of them had been much less smashed than the other, and mother had examined it to see if it could possibly be mended so as to look pretty as an ornament, even though it would never do to hold water, and, when she found nothing could be done, she had told Thomas to keep the top part of it as a sort of pattern, in case she ever had a chance of getting the same. I think I forgot to explain this to you before, and you may have wondered how Baby knew so well what the jugs had been like.
"Them is a little smaller," he said again to himself. He did not understand that things often look smaller when they are among a great many others of the same kind, and though there was not a very great deal of the shiny glass in the shop window, there was enough to make it rather a wonder that such a little boy as Baby had caught sight of the two jugs at all, for they were behind the rest. He had time to look at them well, for, though auntie had been rather in a hurry, she, too, stood still in front of the shop, for something had caught her eyes too.
"Howverypretty, how sweet!" she said to herself, "I wish I could copy it. It seems to me beautifully done," and when Fritz, who had not found the shop so interesting as the others had done, in his turn gave her a tug and said, "Auntie, aren't you coming?" she pointed out to him what it was she was so pleased with.
"Isn't it sweet, Fritz?" said auntie.
"Yes," said Fritz, "but it's rather dirty, auntie, isn't it?"
Fritz was very, what is called,practical. The "it" that auntie was speaking about was an old picture, hanging up on the wall at the side of the door. It was the portrait of a little girl, a very little girl, of not more than three or four years old. She had a dear little face, sweet and bright, and yet somehow a very little sad, or else it was the long-ago make of the dress, and the faded look of the picture itself, beside the baby-like face that made itseemsad. You couldn't help thinking the moment you saw it, "Dear me, that little girl must be a very old woman by now or most likely she must be dead!" I think it was that that made one feel sad on first looking at the picture, for, after all, the facewasbright and happy-looking: the rosy, roguish, little mouth was smiling, the soft blue eyes had a sort of twinkling fun in them, though they were so soft, and the fair hair, so fair that it almost seemed white, drawn up rather tight in an old-fashioned way, fell back again on one side as if little Blue-eyes had just been having a good run. And one fat, dimpled shoulder was poked out of the prim white frock in a way that, I daresay, had rather shocked the little girl's mother when the painter first showed her his work, for our little, old, great-great-grandfathers' and great-great-grandmothers', children, must have had to sit very, very still in their very best and stiffest frocks and suits when their pictures were painted, poor little things! They were not so lucky as you are nowadays, who have only to go to the photograph man's for half an hour, and keep your merry faces still for a quarter of a minute, if your mothers want to have a picture of you!
But Blue-eyes must have had some fun whenherpicture was painted, I think, or else that little shoulder wouldn't have got leave to poke itself out of its sleeve, and there wouldn't have been that mischievous look about the comers of her mouth.
"Isn'tit a little dirty, auntie?" said Fritz.
"Wouldn't your face look a little dirty if it had been hanging up in a frame for over a hundred years?" said auntie, laughing, at which Fritz looked rather puzzled.
Then auntie's eyes went back to the picture again.
"Itissweet," she said, "very, very sweet, and so perfectly natural."
All this time, as I told you, Herr Baby's whole mind had been given to the shiny glasses. Suddenly the sound of his aunt's voice caught his ear, and he looked up.
"What is it that is so 'weet, auntie?" he said.
"The picture over there, dear. Hanging up by the door. The little girl."
Baby looked up, and in a moment his eyes brightened.
"Oh, what adearlittle baby!" he said. "Oh, heris'weet! Auntie, him would so like to kiss her."
"You darling!" said auntie, her glance turning from the sweet picture face above to the sweet living face beside her. "I wonder if you will ever learn to paint like that, Baby.Ishould very much like to copy it if I could have the loan of it. It would be sure to be very dear to buy," she added to herself. "But we must hurry, my little boys," she went on. "I was tempted to waste time admiring the picture, but we must be quick."
Fritz and Lisa turned away with auntie, but Baby waited one moment behind. He pressed his face close against the shop window and whispered softly,
"Pitty little girl, him would like to kiss you. Him will come a 'nother day. P'ease, pitty little girl, don't let nobody take away the shiny glasses, for him wants to buy them for mother."
Then, quite satisfied, he trotted down the street after the others, who were waiting for him a few doors off.
"Were you saying good-bye to the picture, Baby?" said auntie, smiling.
"Yes," said Baby gravely.
Auntie soon found the office where she was to hear about the house they were thinking of taking. The little boys stood beside her and listened gravely while she asked questions about it, though they couldn't understand what was said.
"Him wishes the people in this countly wouldn't talk lubbish talk," said Herr Baby to Fritz with a sigh. "Him would so like to know what them says."
"Iwant to know if we're going to have a house with a garden," said Fritz. "That's allIcare about," and as soon as they were out in the street again, he asked auntie if "the man" had said there was a garden to the house.
"There are several houses that I have to tell your grandfather about," said auntie. "Some have gardens and some haven't, but the one we like the best has a garden, though not a very big one."
"Not as big as the one at home?" said Fritz.
"Oh dear no, of course not," said auntie. "It is quite different here from at home. People only come to stay a short time, they wouldn't care to be troubled with big gardens."
"I don't mind," said Fritz amiably, "if only it's big enough for us to have a corner to dig in, and somewhere to play in when Lisa's in a fussy humour."
"Mine child," said Lisa mildly. Poor Lisa, she was not a very fussy person! Indeed she was rather too easy for such lively young people as Fritz and Denny.
"And do you want a garden, too, very much, Baby?" said auntie.
Baby had hardly heard what they were saying. His mind was still running on the shiny jugs and the blue-eyed little girl.
"Him wants gate lots of pennies," he said, which didn't seem much of an answer to auntie's question.
"Lots of pennies, my little man," said auntie. "What do you want lots of pennies for?"
But Baby would not tell.
Just then they saw coming towards them in the street two very funny looking men. They had no hats or caps on their heads, so the children could see that they had no hair either, at least none on the top, where it was shaved quite off, and only a sort of fringe all round left. Then they had queer loose brown coats, with big capes, something like grandfather's Inverness cloak, Fritz thought, and silver chains hanging down at their sides, and, queerest of all, no stockings or proper boots or shoes, only things like thesolesof shoes strapped on to their bare feet. These were called sandals, auntie said, and she told the boys that these funny looking men were monks, "Franciscans," she said they were called. They all lived together, and they never kept any money, and people said—but auntie thought that was not quite true—that they never washed themselves.
"Nasty dirty men," said Fritz, making a face. "I shouldn't like to be a Franciscan."
"Not in winter, Fritz?" said Baby. "Him wouldn't mind in winter when the waterareso cold. Lisa," he went on, turning round to his nurse, "'member—when thewerrycold mornings comes, him's going to be a Frantisker—will you 'member, Lisa?"
"But what about the pennies?" said auntie, laughing. "If you are a Frantisker, Baby, you won't have any pennies, and you said just now you wanted a great lot of pennies."
Baby looked very grave.
"Then him won't be a Frantisker," he said decidedly.
After that he spoke very little all the way home. He had a great deal on his mind, you see. And his last thought that night as he was falling asleep was, "Him are so glad him asked the little pitty girl to take care of the shiny jugs."
Funny little Herr Baby! How much was fancy, how much was earnest in his busy baby mind, who can tell?
A few days after this, they all moved from the Hotel to the pretty house with a garden which auntie had gone to ask about. Itwasa pretty house. I wish I could show it to you, children! It had not only a garden but a terrace, and this terrace overlooked the sea, the blue sunny sea of the south. And from one side, or from a little farther down in the garden, one could see the white-capped mountains, rising, rising up into the sky, with sometimes a soft mist about their heads which made them seem even higher than they were, "high enough to peep into heaven," said Baby; and sometimes, on very clear days, standing out sharply against the blue behind, so that one could hardly believe it would take more than a few minutes to run to the top and down again.
There were many interesting things in this garden—things that the children had not had in the old garden at home, nice though it was. It was not so beautifully neat as the flower part of the garden at home, but I do not think the children liked it any the less for that. The trees and bushes grew so thickly that down at the lower end it was really like a wilderness, a most lovely place for hide-and-seek. Then there was a fountain, a real fountain, where the water actually danced and fell all day long; and all round the windows of the house and the trellised balcony there were the most lovely red shaded leaves, such as one never sees in such quantities in the north. And in among the stones of the terrace there lived lizards—the most delightful lizards. One in particular grew so friendly that he used to come out at meal-times to drink a little milk which the children spilt for him on purpose; for the day nursery, or school-room, as Celia liked it to be called, opened on to the terrace too, though at the other end from the two drawing-rooms and grandfather's "study," and the windows were long and low, opening like doors, so that Lisa had hard work to keep the children quiet at table the first few days, for every minute they were jumping up to see some new wonder that they caught sight of. Altogether it was a very pretty home to spend the winter in, and every one seemed very happy. Bully and the "calanies" were as merry as larks, if it is true that larks are merrier than other birds, and Peepy-Snoozle and Tim, mistaking the bright warm sunshine for another summer, I suppose, got in the habit of being quite lively about the middle of the day as well as in the middle of the night, instead of spending all the daylight hours curled up like two very sleepy fairy babies with brown fur coats on, in their nice white cotton-wool nests.
There was so much to do and to think of the first few days that I think Baby forgot a little about what he had seen in the old curiosity shop. Auntie, too, was too busy to give any thought to the picture which had so taken her fancy, though neither she nor Babyreallyforgot the dear little face with its loving, half-merry, half-sad blue eyes. But auntie had to help mother to get everything settled; and of course there was a good deal to explain to the strange servants, for neither Peters nor Linley the maid knew "lubbish talk," as Babywouldcall it, at all, and it was very funny indeed to hear Peters trying to make the cook understand how grandfather liked his cutlets, or Linley "pounding" at the housemaid, as Fritz called it, to get it into her head thatshedidn't call itcleaninga room to sweep all the dirt into a corner where it couldn't be seen! Peters was more patient than Linley. When Linley couldn't make herself understood she used to shout louder and louder, as if that would make the others know what she meant, and then she used to say to Celia that it really was "averyhodd thing that the people of this country seemed not to have all their senses." And however Celia explained to her, shecouldn'tbe got to see that she must seem just as stupid to them as they seemed to her! Peters was less put about. He had been in India with grandfather, so he said he was used to "furriners." He seemed to think everybody that wasn't English could be put together as "furriners"; but he had brought a dictionary and a book of little sentences in four languages, and he would sit on the kitchen table patiently trying one language after another on the poor cook, just as when one can't open a lock, one tries all the keys one can find, to see if by chance one will fit. The cook was a very mild, gentle man; he had a nice wife and two little children in the town, and he was inclined to be very fond of Herr Baby, and to pet him if ever he got a chance. But that wasn't for a good while, for Baby was at first terribly frightened of him. He had a black moustache and whiskers and very black eyes, and they looked blacker under his square white cook's cap, and the first time Baby saw him through the kitchen window, the cook happened to be standing with a large carving-knife in one hand, and a chicken which he was holding up by the legs, in the other. Off flew Herr Baby. A little way down the garden he ran against Denny, who was also busy examining their new quarters.
"Oh, Denny, Denny!" he cried, "this is a dedful place—there's a' ogre, a real tellable ogre in the house. Him's seen him in one of the windows under the dimey-room. Oh, Denny, Denny, p'raps him'll eaten us up."
Denny for the first moment was, to tell the truth, a little bit frightened herself. Common sense told her therewereno such things as ogres, not now-a-days any way, at least not in England, their own country. But a dreadful idea struck her that this wasnotEngland; this might be one of the countries where ogres, like wolves and bears, were still occasionally to be found. There was no telling, certainly; but not for a good deal would Miss Denise Aylmer, a young lady of nine years oldpast, have owned to being frightened as long as she could possibly help it.
She caught Baby by the hand.
"What sall we do?" he said; "sall we go and tell mother?"
Denny considered.
"We'd better go and see again," she said very bravely. "You must have made a mistake, I think, Baby dear. I don'tthinkthere can be any ogres here."
Baby was much struck by Denny's courage. His hand slipped back a very little out of hers.
"Willyougo and see, Denny?" he said. "Him will stay here till you comes back."
"Oh, no, you'd better come with me," said Denny, who felt that even Baby was better than nobody. "I shouldn't know where you saw the ogre," and she kept tight hold of his hand. "Which window was it?"
"It were at a tiny windowreallyunder the ground. Him was peeping to see if there was f'owers 'side of the wall," said Baby. "Him'll show you, Denny; himareso glad you isn't f'ightened."
They set off down the path, making their way rather cautiously as they got near the house. Suddenly Denny felt Baby squeeze her hand more tightly, and with a sort of scream he turned round and hid his face against her.
"There! There!" he cried. "Him sees the ogre coming."