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“You’re a beautiful creature, Tib,” said Eliza Beth. “You hunt out and pursue mischief, and put an end to it. I can tell by your contented purr that there is one thief less in the market since you have been away from me. Only keep on ferreting out evil, and destroying it, and you’ll be a blessing to your day and generation.”
Tib stretched her delicate limbs and sprang up into her mistress’ lap, and composed herself for the rest that was well earned. Now and then she licked the hand that lay near her, and it was a pleasant caress to the widowed and childless woman.
“I have but you in the world, Tib,” said Mrs. Beth. “We’ll stand by each other to the end, will we not?”
The cat blinked at her with its yellow eyes, as if to say, “There’s never a doubt of that,” and then fell asleep to dream of the two little mice over in Susan Mack’s stall; the two little mice that escaped an hour ago through a hole in the floor, and would come out at night to nibble at the crumbs of cheese that were scattered here and there.
People smiled to see the good-natured market-woman, with the sleeping cat upon her lap.
“That’s a soul to be trusted,” said a gentleman, as he passed the stall. “Any body who is tender to an animal, must have a good heart toward all mankind, it seems to me.”
THE summer advanced, the weeks came and went, came and went so swiftly. Ben and Sally and Gill had a constant succession of business, for Mrs. Beth plied them diligently. She must have green gooseberries and currants for tarts, and the little fingers were often among the shining round balls, and the long links with the beads upon them. And she wanted strawberries, and early-pears, and summer sweetings, and all sorts of melons. Whatever Gill could gather from orchard or garden, Mrs. Beth would find a market for.
The children called Gill’s lessons to them part of their regular school instruction, and Mr. and Mrs. Reed said, “It was worth more than the general school teaching, because it was so freely given, for the mere love of imparting.”
Ben wished to know where the currant-bushes came from, and Gill said, “They grow wild in woods or thickets, in various parts of Europe and America; and we cultivate them in our gardens because the fruit is so agreeable and healthful. The juice of the ripe currant is a useful remedy in obstructions of the bowels, and in fevers it furnishes a grateful and cooling drink.”
“I know that,” said little Sally. “I remember how delicious it tasted last summer when I was sick. Mamma made what she called ‘currantade,’ and nothing could have been nicer.”
“Then we can press out the juice, and add an equal weight of loaf sugar, and boil it down to a jelly and keep it for the winter; and it helps us when we have colds and coughs,” said Gill.
“Yes, and mother puts it between thin loaves of cake, to make jelly-cake,” said Sally; “and she pours boiling water on the jelly to make a syrup for the baked pudding, which Ben and I like so well; and she sends glasses of the jelly to the sick, whenever she hears of any body who wants it.”
“And father had some currants pressed for wine, don’t you remember?” said Ben. “He’s going to keep it as long as he can. He says it will be far better twenty years from this time, and it is not like the poisonous stuff which the distillers make, and which brings such sorrow and disgrace upon the people who drink it; though father says it is wiser and better to take no wine at all, except in sickness, and when the doctor orders it for old or feeble persons.”
“Even the currant-bushis good for something,” said Gill. “The inner bark is boiled in water, as a remedy for jaundice, and other diseases.”
Ben did not like the taste of the black currant. It is disagreeable to some people, but it is said to be useful in cases of sore throat. Indeed it has been called the “quinsy berry.” It grows to the size of a hazel-nut, in Siberia, and is made into wine and jelly, and “rob,” or syrup. The leaves are fragrant, and make a pleasant beverage, and the young roots furnish a medicine for eruptive fevers. Ben asked Gill about the dried currants that are sold at the grocer’s.
“These are small grapes,” said Gill.
“They are imported from the old country, and are known there as ‘Corinth raisins’.”
“Gooseberries are harder to pick than currants,” said Sally; “the bushes have so many thorns, they tear my hands.”
“Put your gloves on,” said Gill, “or be careful how you take hold. You can draw a branch away with one hand, and pick with the other.”
“I think people are very foolish to eat green gooseberry tarts,” said Ben. “The berries are so much nicer when they are fully ripe.”
Gill thought so to; but he said there was no accounting for tastes. For his own part, he would never eat snakes; but the savage Africans would devour them with a hearty relish. The children made a little expression of disgust; and, having finished their task, Gill put the berries in a cool place until the morning; and Ben and Sally went to give Jack a ride in the old cart. It was a great help to Lucy to have them look after and amuse the baby for an hour or two; and the little fellow was perfectly delighted when Sally appeared at the kitchen-door.
Children like the companionship of their kind. That is the reason why. the mother of a large family finds her task easier than when there is but one; for the little creatures depend upon each other, and are always diverted and contented.
Sally was like an old woman in her nursing,—she was so tender and thoughtful of Jack. She spread a worn shawl over the hay in the cart lest the child should get it in his eyes by the jolting, and she put cushions round him to prevent his being hurt by a sudden bump; for the little dumpling would roll and tumble about with every motion.
What a merry time they had in the lane that led from the barn to the field! Ben drew the vehicle, and Sally pushed, chirruping all the way that Jack might know how near she was; for the baby was quite shut off from a view of her and Ben by the deep sides of the cart.
That is often the way with us, some one drawing us, and some one pushing us,—invisible loved ones. If we can not see them, we seem to hear the voices, and we are passive in their hands, and glad to be as a little child, without care, or without responsibility.
Baby Jack liked best, however, to see Sally’s curly head, as she peeped over the back of the cart; and when she and Ben clambered up and got in to sit beside him on the cushions, and show him pictures from Mother Goose, or sing pretty songs, or bring their play down to his tiny capacity, he was forgetful even of mother, who came often to the kitchen door to listen and know whether he was crying for her.
Crying, indeed? Not he. In his fat fist he held a cracker to try his two pearly teeth upon, and Sally had a cup of milk in the “corner cupboard,” as she called one part of the cart, so the baby could not be hungry.
It was pretty to see how generous he was with his morsel, holding it up to Sally and to Ben, after every nibble of his own little mouth. There was no satisfying him unless they would put their lips down to make believe, and would say “good, good.”
Ah me! if only this free spirit would cling to us through life! Pleasures are always sweeter when we share them with others. Baby Jack made the right beginning when he pressed part of his cracker upon his young playmates.
When the evening drew nigh, and the old cart stood in its place with the thills upon the stone wall, the young turkeys made it their roost. It was in vain for them to try to fly to the high branches of the butternut tree, where their ancestors perched.
“I am glad to see that you aspire to the very topmost bough,” said their mother. “There’s nothing wrong in that, if you are willing to rest patiently in a more lowly place until you are fitted for this dignity. Many a one has broken his neck, by trying too lofty a flight before his wings were in a condition to sustain him. Be humble, my dear children, and you will be pretty sure to attain your proper station.”
The little things listened attentively, and watched to see what their parents would do; and, to set them an example, the old turkeys, both father and mother, hopped upon the cart, and composed themselves to sleep as contentedly as if they were at the very summit of the tree. Then there was such a fluttering and chirping among the young brood, and such emulation as to who should be the first to imitate the parents. Pretty soon, by dint of great perseverance on the part of the little turkeys, and encouragement on the part of the old, all were settled for the night, some on the thills, and some on the edge of the boards that formed the body of the cart, and the stars looked down upon a very happy and contented family.
WHILE the turkeys were having their night’s rest outside the farmhouse, and big people and little dreamed sweetly within, the strawberries lay in their broad bed, with their rosy faces upturned to the brilliant heavens. They were awaiting the coming of the dawn, and were whispering to each other, as they snuggled closely together, cheek to cheek, about the great event that was to happen in the morning.
“We are going to the city,” said the elder sisters, to the little ones that were half-hidden under the coverlet.
“We have to do our part in the world now that we are ready. Our kind Creator has given us wondrous opportunities for improvement, and we have made the most of his sunshine, and his showers. How we have drank in all his benefits! And now we, in our turn, are to bless others. We are to refresh the sick and fevered, and to make eye and heart brighten at our presence. You, dear little sisters, will stay at home for a while longer until you are perfected in the virtues that are needful to your success in an outside ministry. Think pleasantly and lovingly of us when we are gone, and try so to grow in goodness, that you may soon follow us on the mission that is appointed to all the worthy members of our family.”
The little ones were tearful in the darkness, but they did not break out into sobbing, for they knew that what God ordains is all right, and they were very glad that their sisters and themselves were to be sent on errands of cheer to mankind. Still it was natural enough, and by no means wrong to weep at the separation that must occur; so they clung to each other all the night, and the elders bent down and kissed them over and over again, and were so gentle and loving, and said such words of hope and cheer, that, when Gill and Ben and Sally came to the bed before the sun-rising, they said, “How bright and beautiful the strawberries look this morning! It makes one laugh to look at their glad faces.”
And, sure enough! the big ones were all ready for their journey, and the little ones seemed contented as they bade their sisters good-by, and crept under the coverlet to take one more nap before the sun should be up; for the very young need more sleep than the vigorous youth or maiden needs, we know.
“Aunt Maud can have nothing to do with strawberries; is it not a pity?” said Ben. “She says they make her skin prickle, and irritate her tongue and throat so that they itch dreadfully, and they give her a sort of fever, as the roses do,—that is very queer.”
“Not so very,” said Gill, when one understands that the strawberry belongs to the rose family.
“Does it?” said the children, in surprise, “we did not know that,—the leaves do look something like a rose-leaf.”
“Yes,” said the Scotchman. “Both the strawberry and the raspberry belong to the rose family, and people who are affected with the ‘rose cold’ are seldom able to eat these fruits. It must be a sad deprivation.”
“I should hate to be obliged to go without strawberries,” said Sally. “I think there is nothing so nice in all the world.”
“‘Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did,’”, said Gill, who was fond of quoting whatever he had read, if it happened to please him.
“I know from whom you got that,” said Ben. “I heard mamma read it from Isaac Walton the other day.”
“He did not say it, though,” said Gill. “He took it from Doctor Boteler, but it is true enough whoever said it; for never was there a better fruit than the strawberry.”
Gill held up a stem with a cluster of the scarlet berries, and looked at them with admiration.
“How luscious they are!” he said, “and how beautiful, too, in form and color! See how the little yellow seeds contrast with the red pulp, and what a pretty green cup holds the fruit, and how gracefully the berry hangs from the stem.”
Gill was always eloquent over the productions of the earth. “They are our heavenly Father’s handiwork,” he said. “No wonder there is so much glory and perfection!”
The Scotchman took great pains with the strawberry-bed. He planted the roots in rows and hills, and when the creeping shoots made new stocks, he transplanted these to another place, never letting them run thickly together and form a tangled mass. His strawberry-vines were large and fine, and the triple leaves were broad and green, upon their long foot-stalk and in the midst of them shot up silky stems, with pure white blossoms, like snowflakes, at the top, and, by and by, the snowflakes vanished, and the little pale-green berries appeared, and grew, and grew, and changed into the perfect scarlet fruit which is so delicious of itself, and yet is varied by being eaten with cream and sugar, and by being made into jam and short-cakes and other dishes. It seems almost an insult to this lovely berry to add any thing to it, as if we thought it capable of improvement. For my part, I think it never so delicious as when it is eaten off the vines while the dew is upon it. Only it makes one feel a trifle sorrowful, if one sees in the dew the tears of the little sisters and the big, as if they wept at the thought of the separation that was to come. But, then, we must not expect all joy and sweetness in the things of this world. We ought to be willing to take the evil with the good. I mean what we call evil; for there is no evil for any of us in what comes from God’s hand. It must be all good to us, whatever it may seem to our poor, half-blind hearts and eyes.
Gill and the children had so many little wooden baskets filled with the rich, ripe fruit! It shone through the side-slits right temptingly, and was covered at the top with fresh, green leaves. The gooseberries and currants were none the worse for being picked over night. It would be different, by and by, when they should be softened and made ruddy by the ripening sun.
The turkeys knew enough to vacate the old market-cart before Gill came along with Dobbin, though one had the impudence to hop up, when the Scotchman’s back was turned, and stick his bill under a green leaf, and get one of the very nicest of the scarlet berries. Gill drove him away, and there was a great scampering, for the berry shone red in his mouth, and all the brothers and sisters wanted it—ill-gotten gains, though it was—and, after all, he had to keep such watch, and was so worried before he could get away by himself into a sly corner, that he had poor enjoyment of it I am sure. But then we must not forget that he was only a turkey, and, of course, knew nothing of the wrong of picking and stealing.
YOU need not suppose that Mr. and Mrs. Reed lost sight of their children altogether, because I am telling you so much about their hours with Gill. Oh, no! It would be a singular father and mother that could trust such precious plants as a little son and daughter, to any other culture and training than their own.
“It is good for the children to be out a great deal with nature,” said these wise parents. “Their bodies need the sun and air to make them thrifty and vigorous, and their minds and souls will be all the more healthy for this vigor of body.”
But then, at a certain call from the tongue of the bell, the little people left verdure and flowers and birds, and ran to the study where mamma sat with books and work around her. They made themselves very nice before they came into her gentle presence, and, as they entered the room, there was such a sweet recognition as all well-bred children must show, whenever they come before father or mother.
There is nothing so beautiful to see in all the world, as this loving respect and reverence to parents. I know a little boy and three little girls, close at hand, who always show it, and I am so well pleased with them that I wish to put them here in this book, that is to go out among other little people.
“Only four children that pay a proper respect and deference to their parents! Are these all that you know?” I seem to hear you ask.
Oh, no, not all, thank God! There are others in my mind, but very few so pretty and gentle in their manners as these to whom I desire to do honor, and whom I wish you to imitate. Ben and Sally Reed were like them.
Mamma was carefully and well dressed, and was polite to the little son and daughter too. That need not surprise you. Mothers are sent to be an example to their children; and Mrs. Reed felt this responsibility.
Parents should be like brother and sister to their young brood, when they are mingling familiarly and playfully with them, and like the divine Friend and Teacher, (I speak this very reverently), when they have to govern and guide; and children should look up to father and mother, as they would look up to their heavenly parent and never dare to say a rebellious or disrespectful word. It must be so very sweet for son or daughter, when it can be said of them, “They have never given me a pang.” I have known a mother to say this of a grown-up son, and I looked upon the man with a sort of envy; for I am sorry to remember that I was not so gentle a little girl as I might have been, and I am afraid I shall have to stand beside the many thoughtless children, instead of with Ben and Sally Reed, and with the pleasant four, and the few other dear ones whom I have in my mind. However that may be, we that have not done quite as well as we ought heretofore can only be very sorry for the past, and begin at once to amend our ways. This is all that a gracious God requires for any fault,—that we repent sincerely for it, and do as well as we possibly can for the future.
Ben and Sally were deeply interested in their studies, and in the course of reading which their mother had marked out for them; for young as they were, there were juvenile histories, and books upon the natural sciences that were adapted to their tender minds; and Mrs. Reed chose these rather than the simple stories which had in them no useful facts. She said, “It is just as easy to give the children a taste for the right sort of knowledge, as to cultivate in them a desire for a light and trashy literature.” So she taught them about real characters who have lived in the world, and talked to them of the riches that are upon the earth, and in the seas, and they were as happy as could be during school hours, and were almost always sorry when the time was over.
Mr. Reed had his opportunity with them in the evening. That was a very joyous time. There was so much of the day’s events, to be gone over on both sides! Papa made the most of every incident from which he could draw a moral; and the little children had more than they could possibly tell, and generally left a good deal for the next day. Often, after they were in bed, Ben would call quietly from across the dim hall,—
“Are you awake, sister?”
“Yes, Ben.”
“Well, we forgot to tell father something.”
Then he would say what it was, and Sally would call back again, “We must be sure to think of it in the morning.”
Mamma did not object to their speaking softly to each other in the dimness. It was pleasant to her to hear the little loving voices up above, as she sat below engaged in some household work of mending or sewing. She said to papa one evening, as the music of her children’s prattle came floating down to her, “I wonder if mothers, who have put their little children in bed, and themselves are left up and doing here below, ever listen for the pleasant voices from above? There can be no doubt that the precious ones are talking happily together, and it seems to me that if all others are deaf to the sound, it must reach a mother’s ears, and make her heart very contented and blessed.”
Mr. Reed looked at his wife with some surprise. “What made you think of that just now?” asked he.
“I can not tell, except that whenever Ben and Sally are speaking together in the dark, it gives me a pleasant feeling about the night that must come to all, both little and big; and I think, perhaps, if my children should be called to their last sleep before us, we might be comforted by the conviction that they have sweet companionship and communion.”
“I hope God will spare our darlings to be the joy of our old age,” said Mr. Reed. “We will try to train them in his holy ways, however, and then, whether they stay here or are called up to him, we shall be blest and satisfied.”
Ben had a little room that looked out upon the orchard, and he could hear the twitter of the birds as they awoke from time to time, and asked their mothers to tuck the feathers closer around them,—for, summer though it was, the tender young creatures wanted a warm shelter from the night dews. Then, in the very early dawn, the flutter of their wings as they made their morning toilet sounded through the open casement, and when they were quite dressed, there was such a burst of song as started the lad to his feet, and made him hasten out where every thing that had breath seemed to be praising the Lord.
Sally’s bed was a cot beside father and mother. She was the baby still, and it was sweet to them to keep her under their wing as long as possible. But, like the little birds, she was awake at the peep of day, and poured forth thanksgiving to him who had watched over her through the darkness. Then she and Ben went out to help Gill, or to speak to Dobbin, or to play amid the green until Lucy’s bell called to them to make ready for breakfast.
Dobbin always expected a visit before sunrise. Animals and children are very happy companions, and seem to understand each other well. This “son of a jackass” was a noble fellow, and stood upon his own merits, whatever his father was before him. He had such a genial nature, that his eyes would brighten, and his ears prick up for joy, when the little people stepped over the threshold of the barn, and he would give a pleasant whinny that meant to them, “Good morning, I am very happy to see you. I hope you have passed a refreshing night, and that the day will be one of great blessedness and peace to you.”
And the children would say: “How d’ye do, Dobbin? What an early breakfast you are having all alone here! If we could only eat hay, we would share it with you. I suppose you have to go to town as usual, and carry something to Mrs. Beth. No doubt she sits by this time in her stall, waiting for you and Gill to bring the fresh fruit and vegetables.”
Then Ben would take the curry-comb, and smooth the shaggy coat, and Dobbin would seem as pleased as a little child at being made so nice and respectable for the jaunt to the city.
“You must hold up your head,” Sally would say, “and let the city horses see that you are well-bred, and have nothing to be ashamed of; and, whatever you do, Dobbin, try and keep a sure footing in the slimy streets. ‘Tis dreadful to fall down in such mud and mire! I should be sorry if you came home with your nice coat soiled, and maybe an inward hurt that would be harder to get over.”
Sally did not know what a fine moral there was to her little speech, for every body that goes from the freshness and purity of a country home to the slippery places of the great and wicked city.
LITTLE Sally stood in the midst of the tomato-vines, eating a great scarlet “love-apple,” as she would insist upon calling it.
“That is what it used to be called,” said Gill. “You can just as well say it, if you like.”
The child smacked her lips over the delicious fruit. “‘Tis better than an apple when one is thirsty,” she said. “The leaf looks like the potato-leaf, does it not, Gill?”
“And well it may,” the Scotchman answered; “it belongs to the same genus. The potato and the tomato and the eggplant, are near relations.”
Ben laughed. “How funny you are, Gill,” said he. “You speak of these things just as if they were people.”
“Well, God has set them in families, and they are kind and agree together, and seem almost like people to me,” returned Gill. “You know I live among them, and talk to them and they to me. They speak marvelous things to me sometimes.”
The children looked amused. “What does the tomato say to you?” asked Sally.
“It says—‘I have come from South America, in my beautiful scarlet and orange dress. I love my own country with its snow-capped mountains, and its great rivers, and its fertile lands; but I thought I might as well travel to other parts of the earth, and let other people know my worth. One has not always the most honor in one’s own land. I lose a little of my acid and brisk flavor by coming away from home; but I gain in size and beauty by the care that is taken of me.’”
Ben made a face as he touched the leaves. “They have a vile odor,” he said.
“Let the leaves go,” said Gill, “and think of the good fruit. Never speak of faults, if you can help it; but rather find out every good quality. I think the tomato-vine very beautiful, as I train it against the trellises, and watch the green leaves spreading broader and broader, and the yellow blossoms in thick bunches, and then the fruit with its bright, shining skin. In Italy, England, and America, and in many other parts of the world, it is now considered a great luxury. We can eat it as Sally does, as if it were an apple; or, we can slice it, and have only salt upon it, or vinegar, or sugar, just as people fancy; and we can stew it, or bake it, or use it as a sauce for fish and meats. There never was a vegetable that we can employ in so many ways.”
Gill picked the ripe fruit very carefully and put it into baskets. “Mrs. Beth’s mouth will water when she sees these,” he said. “They are nicer than ever, it seems to me.”
Then he picked some of the egg-plant. He had famous skill with this. The vines had come to great perfection. The children had watched them from the beginning, and had noticed their oval cottony leaves, and the large white and purple flowers, and the violet and yellow and white fruit, for Gill had every variety. He told the children that in India it is served up with sugar and wine, or simply sugared water, and in the south of France with olive oil.
Sally liked the white fruit which looked like a pullet’s egg, but Ben preferred the large violet-colored, that Lucy sliced and fried brown in butter.
Gill said, “One must be careful about the white, for there is a species resembling it, that is poisonous, and some people have confounded it with the harmless thing.”
The children followed the Scotchman as he left the egg-plant, and walked amid the rustling corn, and gathered the green ears.
“I feel as if I were in the cool woods, when I get here,” said Sally.
The tall plants were high above her head, and the broad leaves shaded her delightfully, and she liked to hear the crisp sound as Gill and Ben broke the ears from their stalks.
“I put the little grains into the hillocks myself, remember, Gill,” said the child.
“Yes, indeed, you were a great help to me, for I could cover it with my hoe as you dropped the corn, and we got on very fast indeed.”
“Don’t you know how we came out here every day, brother, to see if the grains had sprouted?”
“Yes.”
“And how pleased we were when the first tiny blade came through the earth?”
“Yes,” said Ben, “and we wondered how it could have strength enough to push off the brown coverlet and put its head out of bed.”
“After it saw the light it shot up fast enough,” said Gill, “and it put forth leaf after leaf, and now here we are in this great forest, we who stood upon the bare ground dropping the tiny kernels, and shutting them up in their prison houses,—oh, it is wonderful! so wonderful!” Gill lifted his hat reverently as he said this, and looked up to heaven, in grateful recognition of the Almighty Friend who maketh all things to grow for the use of man.
It impressed the children very sweetly, to see this devout spirit in the Scotchman. It was better to them than any words could have been, and they were sure not to forget it. By and by Gill spoke, as he stood by his full basket, and held a fine ear of corn in his hand. He had parted the husk, and the fresh, milky rows looked out upon Ben and Sally, and the silk tassel hung gracefully at the end.
“What riches in you!” said Gill, as if addressing the grain itself,—“johnny-cake, and hominy, and mush or hasty pudding, and farina, and hulled corn, and samp, and many another nice, palatable dish for the table.”
Then he touched the stalk, and the husks, and continued his speech,—“And you give us sugar, and potash, and writing-paper, and mattresses. Well is it that you have come from your wild home in Paraguay, since you make us so happy and comfortable.”
“I did not know that we could get all these things from corn,” said Ben.
“And I should never have known it, if I had been content to plant and eat, and never ask a question, or look into a book, as some people are satisfied to do,” said Gill. .
“Thank you for telling us,” said Sally. “I must go now and look after my baby; she may be in all sorts of mischief, though I left her asleep in the cart. She’s getting big enough now to stand, but the boards are too high for her to fall over,”—and away went the little girl to her matronly charge. She felt as much care for her doll, as Lucy did for Jack.
It is a beautiful virtue in these little women, that they have the mother love even when they are nursing their rag babies. A child that watches and yearns over her doll, smiling when she conceives it to be well and happy, and crying for its imaginary ills and sorrows, will make the truest and most tender of mothers when there is a living baby in her arms to call forth her joy or her pity.
“Coming, pet,” said Sally, with her arms stretched toward the cart where her “little Jennie lay kicking and crowing,” as she said to Lucy who stood at the wood-pile as she passed.
The child made quick steps, and, climbing into the old vehicle, held her baby to her bosom with as much delight as if she had been parted from it for an age.
“God bless her!” said Lucy. “One of these days I shall see her a good wife, I am sure, with as dear a pet as my little Jack, to care for and to love.”
“We shall have to move,” said Sally to her infant, as if it quite understood all “Gill will be here after this house in a minute, and I must look up another home. You needn’t cry, dearie, I know the prettiest little cottage by a brook, and I think we can get it. We’ll try, at any rate.‘Tisn’t pleasant to move; I should like one house always, but your grandmamma says people used to live in tents, and wander about a good deal oftener than you and I have had to.”
Sally’s cottage was the corn-crib, and the brook was the trough outside the door, where the cattle drank.
The water came from a spring, and was always fresh, and bubbling over with a sort of musical sound. The little girl loved to hear it. She called it her piano, and sang songs to its accompaniment as she rocked her baby, or held her quietly upon her lap.
When Gill came to harness Dobbin, she sat in the door of her cottage and called to him.
“We’re living over here now, Gill,” said she. “We shall want that house again, when you can spare it. This is very well, but we like that a great deal better. You and Ben must come and visit us here, and tell Lucy, if you please, to bring little Jack over. The baby and I are lonesome in our new house.”
Ben laughed. “How funny little girls are!” he said. “Sally acts as if her play were real life. I do believe she would cry her eyes out, if any thing should happen to that doll of hers.”
“I know somebody that makes as great a fuss over a whistle, or a kite, as any little girl over a rag-baby,” said Gill.
Ben perched himself upon the great rock in the corner of the barn-yard, and pulled a piece of willow from his pocket.
“I should not have thought of it, but for you, Gill,” he said. “I can make a very nice whistle indeed, now,—almost like a flute.”
The bell rang to call them to prayers. “I am late for market this morning,” said Gill; “but I shall reach town before nine o’clock. I shall be glad when the fall vegetables are ready, and I can take them a little more leisurely, and not be afraid of their wilting.”
MRS. BETH and Tib sat by the broken lantern, wondering what had become of Gill. The old woman had a gray gown on, and a blue checked apron; and Tib was in black silk, as usual, and her white satin slippers. The two little mice had been having a gala-time all night, while Tib slept, and now they were snug in their own bedroom, getting rest for another frolic; for, every night, when market-women and market-men had gone home, there was a merry party in the vacated stalls; and the treat was nuts and apples and raisins and figs and pie and cakes, and all sorts of goodies that were left behind, with nobody to look after them.
“Coffee-time is over,” said Mrs. Beth, as the Scotchman at last appeared. “Tib and I are tired of looking for you. Is there any thing wrong?”
“‘Tis always wrong, I think, to waste precious time by lying in bed when a body is not sick,” said Gill. “I overslept myself, and, of course, it makes the work crowd all day.”
“It doesn’t often happen, I am sure,” said the old woman; “this is the first time since I’ve known you.”
“And should be the last,” said Gill. “There’s too much to be done, before the long sleep, for one to be napping when he might be up and doing.
“How beautiful the tomatoes are!” said Mrs. Beth, “and the egg-plant, and the corn,—your people will be after them soon.”
She called them Gill’s people, because there were certain parties that knew what vegetables the Scotchman brought, and always purchased them.
Gill turned to go from the market, and slipped on a piece of orange-peel and hurt his left arm. He did not know but that it was broken. Mrs. Beth told him she would jump into the cart and drive to her home with him and bandage it. Some neighbor could attend to her stall meantime.
At first Gill said no; but the arm was so painful that it made him almost faint, and he was afraid to drive at once to the farm; so he consented to go with the old market-woman. Mrs. Holt watched the two stalls, and Mrs. Beth and Tib and Gill went along the narrow street, a half mile or more away, and there, on the very topmost floor, was the coziest place! Right under a French roof was Mrs. Beth’s home,—only one room with one window; but that room was full of comfort, and the window looked out upon a prospect that was fit for a king to feast his eyes upon.
Within was a bright carpet, and a covered lounge, and a little round table, and a rocking-chair, and two cane-seated chairs with cushions, and a wide shelf with one book upon it,—the Book that has leaves for the healing of the nations,—and a bit of a fireplace with a cooking-stove in it, and a green stand with a creeping vine and a flowering rose, and a cupboard with a famous bottle in it, which interested Gill very much indeed; for scarcely had its contents touched his arm before the pain began to go away, and when the bruised place was neatly bound up, he was so free from trouble that he could look about him and enjoy the prospect.
One thing puzzled Gill very much, and that was Tib’s bed; for the creature had crept into a pretty little cradle, and lay there sleeping as if she had been used to it all her life.
“It was my little Tibbie’s,” said Mrs. Beth. “She was my only darling, and died soon after her father; and she loved the kitten so dearly, and had it with her in the cradle so much, that I kept it for Tib after she had gone away.”
The old market-woman seemed to forget Gill altogether then; for she knelt down, and put her arms around the little bed, and cried out,—“Oh, my baby, my darling!” as if her heart would break; and she did not arouse from her grief until Tib got up and rubbed against her face and licked her hand. So you see that Mrs. Beth, who sat by the broken lantern with such a bright, cheerful face, had not been all her life free from sorrow; and that it is possible, by God’s grace, though we may have known bitter grief, to smile in the world’s face, and so to bless all who may see us.
“I am not sorry that she has gone up to be with God in the beautiful land,” said the old market-woman, as she remembered Gill, and arose from her knees; “but I miss her so!—sometimes I miss her so! She used to stretch her little hands from this window toward the sky, and God knew it was better to take her from my arms to his own,—I am glad now.”
She looked up as if she could see the little one on her heavenly Father’s breast, and Gill thought the old woman’s face almost angelic, as the glory of the upper world shone upon it.
Outside the window was the broad city, with the roofs and spires and distant water and the nearer hills,—nothing of the miserable lower stratum which poor people get when they live upon the ground-floor. All was pure and lovely and beautiful. It made Gill very happy to know what a pleasant home the old market-woman had. He was almost thankful to the orange-peel that had tripped him, since it had not broken any bones. He told the children all about the neat room under the sky, and the little cradle, and the Tibbie in the white robes, who had gone away for a while from her mother, and the Tib in the silk gown and satin slippers, which now occupied the departed Tibbie’s bed.