As we were proceeding homewards in this melancholy manner a post-chaisedrove past us. Presently it stopped, and my father jumped out; he came towards us, much astonished at meeting with his children in such a pitiful condition. He first looked at Frank's bruised face, and William's dirty jacket; then at my foot, and James's bloody nose and tattered garments.
"Why, children," he said, "what do you all here so far from home? and who has been misusing you in this manner?"
We all lifted up our voices at once to reply; but nurse Hill contrived to make hers sound the loudest.
"Oh, Sir," she said, "the Captain would take us all to Hampstead fair; but as soon as we got there he left us, and we have met with so many mischances, that I thought I never should have brought the children alive out of the fair."
"So," said my father, "this is just like my mad-cap brother! What couldinduce their mother to trust so many children to such a hair-brained creature?"
We now complained how tired and hungry we all were; my father had us children put into the chaise, and, bidding the postillion drive at a foot-pace, walked by the side with Frank, hearing from him all our disasters; and indeed we had all contrived to get into some misfortune except our maid Ann, and quiet little Jane.
I hardly need tell you that we were all rejoiced when we arrived at home, and were fed and comforted after our fatigues.
Some days after Captain Richmond and his sons set off for Portsmouth, where his ship lay. It was a long time before I could laugh at our mishaps; indeed I would cry bitterly if any one afterwards proposed our spending anotherday at Hampstead Fair.
"I do not wonder at it, mamma," said Mary. "Oh, how vexed I shouldhave been! I am afraid that I should have fretted myself quite ill if such disagreeable things had happened to me."
"Therefore, Mary, such places are very improper for you, who cannot bear any little accident with temper. I was not fretful, but I really suffered severely from terror and fatigue. I see that Kate and William are laughing, as if they did not think it very frightful."
"Who can help laughing, mamma?" said William; "but I am sadly afraid, that if Kate and I had gone to the fair we might have got into some mischief, for we are both very careless."
"Your brother William is my father," said Kate to her aunt.
"Yes, my dear girl," said Mrs. Dormer, "and we often now laugh over our misfortunes at Hampstead fair."
The weather proved so wet all the week that it was impossible to go to the fair either of the two remaining days on which it was held; but after the firstdisappointment was over, the children regretted it very little; and they were made ample amends, by spending another happy, quiet day with Edward and George before they went to school.
The month of July passed away very delightfully. Kate's health was greatly improved by the kind attention and judicious management of her good aunt: the consumptive symptoms that had before threatened her entirely disappeared, and by the middle of August she was considered well enough to go back to school; but previously to that her father wished her to return home with her uncle, aunt, and cousins, to spend some days with him. This gentleman had recently purchased a landed estate in Surrey, which he cultivated himself; and as he had now been for some time comfortably settled in the farm, he came over to invite them into Surrey at thejoyous time of the harvest. The invitation was accepted by Mr. and Mrs. Dormer; and the next day the whole party set off for Mr. Richmond's estate. He drove Kate and William in his gig, and Mary and Lewis followed with their father and mother in a post-chaise. They enjoyed the ride greatly; and Kate strove to amuse her father, by relating to him some of the stories she had heard from her aunt.
It was past eight in the evening when they arrived at the farm. They drove round a lawn to a large handsome white house; which, though an old building, had a peculiar air of comfort and cheerfulness. Every thing within, also, appeared very neat; and the children, who had never been in a farm-house before, found plenty of objects to admire. The rows of pewter, which filled a long range of shelves over the dresser, and that rivalled silver itself in brightness, caught the attention of the youngstrangers; who had a thousand questions to ask of their uncle, for every thing they saw was entirely new to them.
William and Mary ran to the door to look at a fine litter of young pigs, which the dairy-maid was feeding with some milk.
"Look, Mary," said William, "how those little pigs are quarrelling for the milk! how greedy it seems of them, when there is plenty for all!"
"It is very naughty for them to fight," said Lewis, "they are such pretty little white creatures; what a pity it is that they are not good."
"They are indeed very pretty," said Kate; "but you know, Lewis, those things which are theprettiestare notalwaysthebest."
They were still amusing themselves by looking at the little pigs, when they were called into the parlour to supper. The children gazed with wonder at the profusion of victuals provided for them.An enormous hot apple-pie smoked in the middle of the table; on each side of it stood two large custards. At one end of the table were three roast chickens and a large ham, and at the other a huge plum-pudding. The journey had made them very hungry, and they did honour to the ample supper that Mrs. Harrison, the good old housekeeper, had provided for them.
The children's eyes were open by sunrise in the morning, and Mary and Kate jumped out of bed, and began dressing with great expedition, when Mary looking out of the window into a green meadow below, exclaimed in a tone of great surprise, "Oh, Kate, come and look at a beautiful creature that is walking about in the meadow below: I never saw any fowl like it before; it is prettier than mamma's stuffed humming-bird."
Kate left off washing her face, and ran to the window, for she could notthink what Mary was admiring so much.
"Oh, it is only the peacock," said she.
"How I should like to catch it," said Mary. "Kate, is it tame?"
"Not very, for it runs away and makes a noise if any one comes near it," said Kate; "it was once very tame, but John used to pull the long feathers out of its tail, and drive it about till it grew very cross, and has not suffered any one to catch it since."
"How cruel!" said Mary, "to pull out its nice feathers; what a pity John is not good!"
While Mary was tying her shoes, William and Lewis called out from an adjoining room for her to look at a large flock of sheep which were being driven into a field close by. Mary was astonished to see how carefully the shepherd's dog guided them along, andbrought back those which attempted to stray from the rest of the flock.
"How pretty and innocent they look! don't they, Kate?"
"Yes, Mary."
"But look, Kate, Mrs. Harrison is crossing the yard; we shall be too late to see the cows milked, and the calves suckled. Make haste and comb out your hair," said Mary, impatiently.
"We shall have plenty of time, dear Mary," replied Kate; "for, if you remember, Mrs. Harrison promised last night to call us when she was ready to show us the milking."
But Mary was so impatient to see the young calves, and to drink the new milk, that Kate led the way to the dairy, where the dairy-maid was busily employed in taking off the cream of the yesterday's milk. Kate was satisfying the curiosity of Mary respecting the various utensils, when Mrs. Harrison entered with William and Lewis, and theyall proceeded to the cowhouse, where all the cows stood fastened up, waiting to be milked.
The children were all delighted when the calves were let out of the adjoining crib, and came capering to suck.
"Look, madam," said Mary, "how ill-tempered that spotted cow seems towards her calf."
"And now see, Mary, how she is kicking it! What a cruel creature to hurt such a nice little calf?" exclaimed Lewis springing forward as he spoke, and before Mrs. Harrison had time to prevent him, he bestowed on the cow two or three hearty blows with an old shackle, which unfortunately for the poor beast happened to lay near, saying, "Now learn to use your calf so ill." But the cow, not being used to such rough treatment, began kicking at a great rate. Lewis ran back to Mrs. Harrison in a fright.
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"What ill-natured creatures cowsare," said Lewis, regarding the object of his wrath with great indignation.
"And yet, my dear, the cow was not so much to blame as you thought her, for see how the calf has bitten her."
"So it has, I declare," said Lewis, "for the blood is running quite fast. I wish I had not been so hasty in striking her, poor thing."
The cow was now quiet, and began eating her hay again. Lewis went up to her, and stroked her face and sides, which she did not seem to take at all amiss.
"Now, dear Mrs. Harrison, will you give us a little new milk?" said Kate; "here is the wooden cup."
"With pleasure," said the good old lady, and she filled the cup and sent it round; they each drank a good draught of the milk, and thought it delicious.
When the cows were all milked, they proceeded to the poultry-yard, and Mrs. Harrison filled her lap with barley anddross wheat. At the sound of her well known voice, all sorts of poultry came tumbling over each other, in their eagerness to get their morning repast; turkeys and their chicks, guinea-fowls, and a peahen with her brood. This last was examined with great attention by Mary.
"They are not prettier than chickens; nay, I do not like them so well," said she.
"No, my dear," returned Mrs. Harrison; "it is many months before the young peachicks show any marks of their beauty; and then it is only the male that is handsome, for you see the peahen is rather an ordinary bird.
"But where are all the geese?" said William; "for I see only two, under coops, with some nice little yellow goslings."
"All the geese, and large turkies, and ducks and hogs, are driven to the barley fields after the crops are cleared; and there they find an excellent living, by picking up the grains that have been scattered."
The little party now returned to the house; and on entering the parlour, they kissed their mamma, and bid their father and uncle good morning. They then took their seats at a side-table very orderly, and ate their breakfasts of brown bread and milk, with great relish, for rising so early had given them a keen appetite.
When the cloth was removed, the children got round Mrs. Dormer, and began to tell her all they had seen. Mr. Richmond seemed greatly diverted by the adventure of Lewis with the cow; but advised him not to be so ready in administering justice among the cattle, lest he should get severely hurt for his pains.
"And now," he said, "in about an hour I will return and take you to the harvest-field. In the mean time, Kate shall go with you into the garden, and there you will see the rabbits, and thebees at work, only take care that you are not stung."
When they had sufficiently admired the rabbits, and looked at the bees till they were tired, they walked up and down the garden with Mrs. Dormer, till they saw their father and Mr. Richmond coming to them.
The whole party now proceeded across the lawn; the giddy little Lewis running on before till he reached a stile, which led into a field of barley-stubble. In this field there were a large flock of geese and some turkies, together with the peacock which Mary had admired in the morning. Lewis, who was a careless fellow, got among them, and was assaulted by the great turkey-cock, who ran after him, trying to bite him.
Lewis took to his heels, and in his haste to escape from the wrath of the turkey, he disturbed a flock of goslings, which with the old grey goose, were quietly sitting on the ground, sunningthemselves among the stubble. The goose, seeing her brood in disorder, made such a lamentable outcry as brought the gander and several of his companions to her aid. Lewis was now in the greatest distress; he knew not which way to run. At last he boldly faced about, and taking up a handful of stones, flung them among the foremost of his enemies: the gander, enraged at this, flapped his wings, and gave Lewis several unmerciful pecks on the back of his leg.
It would be difficult to determine which made the most noise, the geese, or Lewis Dormer, for they screamed in concert, and were joined by the turkies; and though the peacock did not attempt to assist his neighbours, yet he added his note to increase the clamour.
The noise did not fail to reach the ears of the party in the meadow, who came quickly up to the barley-field. Mr. Richmond jumped over the stile,and drove the geese away with his stick, and they retired hissing and screaming to a little distance, while Lewis, with tears in his eyes, ran to his mother, and related the bad behaviour of the turkies and geese; declaring at the same time that he wished his uncle would not keep such ill-tempered creatures, for he hated them all.
"And yet, Lewis does not dislike roasted goose for dinner," said his father, "and I have seen him eat turkey at Christmas."
"Yes; but roasted geese neverhurtme," said Lewis, rubbing his leg.
"Will you go back, and wait till your leg is better?" said Mrs. Dormer.
"Do, dear Lewis," said his cousin Kate; "and I will stay with you, and we can look at the pictures in the great parlour."
But Lewis, who did not relish the thoughts of returning to the house at all, thanked his cousin, and said his leg wasgetting better; indeed, he was in a few minutes the foremost in a race that William and Mary were engaged in, and scampered along as if nothing had happened.
They soon reached the harvest-field, where the men were busily employed in loading and carrying the wheat. Here every thing was alive and bustling: the men all looked cheerful and gay; some whistled or sung as they worked, and others talked of the pleasures to be enjoyed at the expected harvest-home supper.
"Here is our good master coming, my boys," cried the men on the loaded waggon to those below.
"Well, my lads," said Mr. Richmond, as he drew near, "when am I to prepare this harvest-supper for you?"
"We expect, Sir, to bring home the last load to-morrow afternoon," said the head man, respectfully taking off his hat to his master.
In that part of the field which was cleared the wives and children of the labourers were permitted to begin gleaning. The children soon ran off to observe the gleaners at work; and Mary and Kate began gathering up the ears of corn, and presenting to those who appeared feeble, and not able to work so hard as the others.
"God bless your pretty faces, my little dears," said a poor old woman, to whom Mary and Kate had given a large handful of corn.
Lewis, hearing the benedictions which were so liberally bestowed on the girls, and determining not to be out-done in generosity, began to present large handfuls of the corn, which he pulled out of the standing sheaves, to the women and children; when, just as Lewis began to fill the lap of a little girl, his uncle touched him on the shoulder. "Aha! my little man, if you are so bountiful Ishall soon lose half the profits of my fields."
Lewis was quite in a fright, for he thought his uncle would be very angry: indeed he had never recollected that the wheat was none of his to give away; so he looked very penitent, and begged his uncle's pardon.
His uncle readily forgave him; but reminded him that when he next intended to be generous, at another person's expense, he must first ask permission.
Shortly after Mr. Richmond told them he was going to quit the field, as they should have dinner very soon.
The next day presented a scene of bustle and activity; every body was busy, and every countenance beamed with joy—it was Harvest Home—and there was not an individual on the farmbut what partook of the general rejoicing that the master's corn was got safely in.
The great oaken table was placed in the middle of the hall, and benches and forms were brought to accommodate the guests. The hall itself was decked with green boughs, and a sheaf of wheat was suspended over the table. A barrel of ale was tapped, and a noble batch of harvest cakes baked; and the gardener brought in a great basket full of apples and plums, to entertain the good folks after supper.
Mary and Kate were highly interested in the preparations for the approaching festival. Mrs. Harrison, taking each of the little girls by the hand, went from place to place, giving orders to the maids, and seeing that her commands were executed; she then proceeded to make the plum-puddings and apple-pies, Mary and Kate seating themselves by her side and attentively looking on.
Presently the butcher knocked at thekitchen door, and Mary's admiration was excited on seeing the enormous pieces of beef and suet which he took out of his basket.
"Mrs. Harrison," she exclaimed, "how is all that meat to be eaten?"
"I warrant you, my dear, there will not be a vast deal too much."
And in a few minutes a great fire was made, the plum-puddings were put into the copper, and two great pieces of beef laid down to roast.
Towards the evening Mrs. Harrison put on her green lute-string gown (which was never worn but on great occasions), her very best cap, and worked-muslin apron, and the maid-servants decked themselves out in their holiday-gowns.
A shout of "The last load! huzzah! here comes the last load!" brought the children to the window. They saw the last load of wheat coming home, crowned with green boughs, and followed by men, women and children, some before andsome behind, shouting joyfully as they advanced.
The little Dormers were in as high spirits as any of them; and William and Lewis rushed out to see it unloaded.
Mrs. Harrison hurried forwards with a large basket full of harvest cakes, just hot from the oven, followed by one of the maids with a stone pitcher of ale, to regale the harvest-men as soon as the waggon was unloaded. The men with their wives and children then went home to dress.
At length the supper hour arrived, and the pieces of beef which struck Mary with such astonishment were placed on the table, and two great plum-puddings at the head, and two at the foot, and a great apple-pie in the middle; a large piece of bread and a mug of ale were also placed to every plate. All had been arranged in the nicest order by Mrs. Harrison, who now took the head of the table.
Mr. Richmond walked through the hall with the children, to see that every thing was right, and that the people were comfortable. All the farming men were there, with their wives and children, who looked the pictures of health and joy: they were all standing round the table. When Mr. Richmond entered, the men bowed, the women curtsied, and the children followed the example of their parents.
"Is every thing ready, Mrs. Harrison?" asked Mr. Richmond.
"Yes, Sir; every thing," was the reply.
"Then say grace, and begin your supper," rejoined he.
Grace was accordingly said, and the company having taken their seats, Mrs. Harrison began carving. When Mr. Richmond had seen them all helped, he wished them a good appetite, and (that they might enjoy themselves without restraint) withdrew with his delighted little visitors.
Nor had the guests been forgotten; for when the children entered the dining parlour they found an excellent supper laid out for them.
And now the cloth being removed, Mr. Richmond once more entered the hall, and threw open the folding doors, that the children might see the people.
"Well, my good friends, how do you come on?" asked Mr. Richmond.
"God bless your honour, bravely," replied many voices at once, and again the head man rose and said grace, the cloth was taken away, and the fruit and pitchers of ale put on the table; a horn full of beer was then given to each. In a moment men, women and children burst into the chorus-song of "Here's a health to our good master, the founder of the feast." Certainly their voices were not very harmonious, and the words were rather homely, the song having been used by their fathers before them for manygenerations: but the children listened to it with great pleasure; they afterwards heard their own healths given, one by one; and Lewis seemed to think himself a person of great consequence when he was toasted in turn.
They staid up long after their usual time, and then retired to bed, greatly pleased at the scene they had beheld.
In a day or two after the jovial harvest-home Mr. and Mrs. Dormer took leave of their good brother and his family. The tears stood in Kate's eyes as she viewed the approach of the post-chaise which was to take her aunt away. "And now," she said, "I shall lose you. Oh, how often I shall think of your nice stories, and how happy I have been with my cousins, when I am at school at Guilford."
Mrs. Dormer stooped down and kissed away her tears, which now began tofall very fast. "Do not grieve, my dear Kate, for these happy times will soon come again, for your father has promised that you shall spend next Christmas with me, and I have other stories which you shall hear then; and I hope my little Kate will spend her Christmas holidays as pleasantly as she has the Midsummer." Kate wiped away her tears at hearing this joyful news, and summoned fortitude to bid her cousins good-bye, though it required all Mrs. Harrison's kindness to comfort her, when she could no longer see the carriage that bore them away.
The intervening months passed rapidly away; the long anticipated vacation arrived, and the little Dormers were once more gratified with the company and conversation of their cousin Kate. A thousand little occurrences were remembered and related with mutual satisfaction; and amidst all the festivities attendant on the season of Christmas, theintellectual enjoyment of hearing more tales was eagerly anticipated by the children. The very first evening after Kate's arrival, therefore, Mrs. Dormer was reminded of her kind promise: and as she was at all times willing to gratify her beloved family, she desired the young folks to form themselves into a comfortable circle round the fire whilst she related the story of
OR, LITTLE EMMA'S BIRTH-DAY.
It was a beautiful morning in the month of April, when Mr. and Mrs. Selwhyn arose somewhat earlier than their usual hour, on account of some expected visitors who had been invited on that day to Heathwood Park, for the purpose of celebrating the birth-day of little Emma, who, being an only child, was made a great pet of, and who had now completed her ninth year. Shewas, indeed, a most promising little creature of her age: but why was she so?—because she was good, and kind, obedient to her parents, and attentive to all the instructions of her teachers: therefore she might truly be called promising; because, my young readers, if children do well at this early age, they promise to do better when they grow older; and thus was Miss Emma Selwhyn at nine years of age considered a very promising young lady by all her numerous friends and acquaintance. It is no wonder, therefore, that her birth-day was commemorated with peculiar pleasure by her fond parents, because they hoped with the increase of years she would also increase in learning, humility, and virtue.
With this pleasing anticipation, Mrs. Selwhyn requested her husband to favour her with half an hour's conversation, as they walked towards the summer-house in the garden, which breathedthe delicious fragrance of the opening flowers!
"I have been thinking, my love," said Mrs. Selwhyn, "if you have no objection, of trying a little stratagem with Emma. As it is her birth-day, I should wish to know whether thankfulness for her own blessings would induce her to perform any act of kindness towards others on this particular day, that she may with more pleasure remember it on the next."
"With all my heart," rejoined Mr. Selwhyn. "Let us try the experiment, by presenting her, instead of personal ornaments as formerly, with a purse of money, and we shall then see what she will do with it."
"I shall be much disappointed if she does not make use of it in the way I should wish," said Mrs. Selwhyn, drawing out of her pocket a neat red morocco purse, containing two half-crown pieces, to which Mr. Selwhyn added two more, making inthe whole, the sum of ten shillings. Now this was certainly a very large sum for a little girl of Emma's age to be trusted with: for some children spend their money very foolishly, and throw it away on mere trifles. However, we shall see what use Emma will make of it, and I hope it will be a good one; for money is of little or no value, unless it be appropriated to good purposes.
"Now," said Mr. Selwhyn, "we will return; as by this time, I dare say, Emma is ready for her breakfast, and will no doubt be delighted with the unexpected present we are going to make her."
"Oh, you cannot think," cried Mrs. Selwhyn, "how careful she is of her money! I gave her two new shillings, and I should not be at all surprised if she has one of them laid by."
Mrs. Selwhyn now stopped a few moments, intending to gather some flowers, but suddenly directing her attentiontowards the summer-house, she perceived her amiable daughter in close conversation with a poor little girl, who, though almost clothed in rags, was yet very clean and modest in her appearance. She had no bonnet on her head, but a large basket, plentifully supplied with bunches of primroses; and though she had a smiling countenance, full of good-humour and sweetness, yet her rosy cheeks were wet with tears, which she brushed away with hands that were sun-burnt, but not dirty.
"Poor little girl!" cried Emma, "I am very sorry for you, indeed; and I am sure, if my mamma were here, she would let me buy a great many of your primroses. I would buy all you have got in your basket if I could afford it." With these words Emma, taking a bundle of primroses out of the basket gave the little girl a penny, exclaiming, "how sorry I am that I have no more than this penny; but if I had, you should be welcome to it, indeed you should."
"Bless you, Miss," cried the primrose girl; "it is more than anybody else has given me; and God will love you, because you are not proud, and are not ashamed of speaking to a poor girl like me!"
"Oh dear, I should be very wicked if I were ashamed of speaking to poor people," said Emma. "Papa and mamma would be much displeased with me; and they are so kind, that I should be sorry to do any thing to excite their displeasure."
The primrose girl now placed her basket on her head, and putting her penny into one corner of it, sighed mournfully as she bade Emma adieu, saying she would buy a penny roll, and carry it home to her sick mother.
"Oh dear," cried Emma, "if you have got a sick mother, I am sure my mamma would do something for her, for she is very kind to every body that is ill. Where do you live, little girl?pray tell me, and I will come and see you, if mamma pleases, and bring you something. I have got a nice basket, which will hold a great deal, you cannot think how much! This is my birth-day, and what do you think I will do? I will save all my plum-cake, and you shall have it for your sick mother, indeed you shall."
The primrose girl dropt a low curtsey, and informing her young benefactress that her mother lived by the side of the old barn in the forest, she tripped away in pursuit of more customers, and with a joyful heart, that she had already got one penny towards the homely meal which awaited her when the labours of the day should be over; while little Emma awaited a very different scene in the splendid breakfast parlour in the family mansion of Heathwood Park. Scarcely, however, could the transports of Mr. and Mrs. Selwhyn be concealed in the presence of their beloved child,the discovery of whose benevolent disposition towards the poor primrose girl had rendered her doubly dear to them.
"Well," cried Mrs. Selwhyn, "what do you think of Emma now?"
"Think!" exclaimed Mr. Selwhyn, "why I am of opinion that the red morocco purse cannot be better bestowed than on one who knows so well how to make a proper use of it. Here she comes, with cheeks as fresh as the blooming rose! But pray do not say a word of the primrose girl."
Emma now came into the room, and paid her respects to her papa and mamma, who kissing her ruby lips, reminded her that it was her birth-day.
"You are nine years old to-day, Emma," said Mrs. Selwhyn.
"Yes, mamma; and nine more will make eighteen, and I shall be a great woman, if I live till then; and my apple-tree, that papa said he planted the day I was born, will be a great tree,with plenty of apples on it; and you know, as it is mine, I may, when I am grown a woman, do what I like with it."
"Oh, certainly," exclaimed Mr. Selwhyn; "but pray, Emma, in that case, what would you do with it? I should like to know."
"Why, papa, I would gather all the apples I could find on it and make them all into apple-dumplings, for poor little girls who had sick mothers, and could not afford to buy any."
Mrs. Selwhyn could no longer refrain from pressing her darling girl to her maternal bosom, for at this moment a mother's heart was quite full; while Mr. Selwhyn, equally delighted, affectionately kissed his beloved daughter.
"Mrs. Selwhyn," said he, "I believe it is high time to produce the red morocco purse; it is really growing quite troublesome in my pocket."
"Then suppose you give it without further delay," rejoined Mrs. Selwhyn.
"Emma, your papa is going to present you with a birth-day gift; a little red morocco purse."
"With money in it?" inquired Emma.
"Yes, my love: a purse is of little use without there is money it."
Emma was silent, but her blushing cheeks and sparkling eyes evinced the secret pleasure which this intelligence conveyed.
Mr. Selwhyn, while presenting his daughter with her birth-day gift, said, "now Emma, place this carefully in your pocket; and though you need not now examine its contents, remember they are entirely your own, and you are at liberty to make use of them agreeable to your own inclinations."
"What, papa, may I do what I like with the money?" inquired Emma, regarding the purse with a wishful eye, while she deposited it carefully in her pocket.
"I have given it you for thatpurpose," answered her fond parent; "only remember, that if you live till next birth-day, you must inform me in what manner you disposed of it." Mr. Selwhyn then retired to his study, and his good lady was left alone with her daughter.
"I will spare you from your studies, this morning, my dear Emma," said Mrs. Selwhyn, "for we have company to dinner, because it is your birth-day. But look! as I live, here is Susannah, your old nurse, hobbling over the stile. She is coming, I suppose, to wish you many happy returns of this day. She was a kind nurse to you, Emma, when you was a helpless little baby, and could not take care of yourself; so I will leave you to make her as welcome as you please, while I attend to my domestic concerns."
Susannah had by this time arrived at the garden-gate, and Emma with a joyful countenance came out to meet her.
"How kind it is of you, dear Susannah," cried she, "to come and see me on my birth-day! But you have walked a great way, and must be extremely fatigued; pray sit down, and rest yourself."
Susannah seated herself in the first chair she could find, for she was very aged and infirm; and when Emma had taken off her cloak, and laid aside her walking-stick, she thus addressed her:
"There, Susannah, now you are seated, and may take as much rest as you please, and I will wait on you, and bring you any thing you may want: for mamma told me you was a kind nurse to me, when I was a little baby and could not help myself, so now I have got strength, I will help you, Susannah. Indeed, I should be very naughty if I did not. Will you take any refreshment after your walk? Suppose I fetch you some nice cake, and a little cream?"
"Heaven preserve and bless you, my darling!" cried Susannah; "there is no occasion for that: I see you, and I am happy; but I could not rest without coming to bless you on your birth-day! You was a tender lamb, and you are a tender lamb now. Heaven spare you to see many such days! But I shall never live to see them—I am growing old and feeble."
"Ah! but, Susannah, you do not know what I have got for you!" said Emma, throwing her arms affectionately round Susannah's neck, while she slyly drew from her pocket the red morocco purse. "Do you know, papa has given me this pretty purse full of money, and says, because it is my birth-day, I may do whatever I like with it. Let us see how much money there is in it." The delighted Emma now threw the whole contents on the table, exclaiming, "there, Susannah, four half-crown pieces, I declare! Only think what a kind papa Ihave got, and what a deal of money he has given me! Now, Susannah, I will give you two of these pieces, because you are my nurse, and the other two I will keep for somebody. Oh dear, what a charming thing it is to have plenty of money, to do whatever one likes with! I am so happy you cannot think, because I know somebody I am going to see, who will be quite happy too! It is a great pleasure to make other people happy, when we can do it so pleasantly, is it not, Susannah?"
"My dear child," rejoined Susannah, "I cannot accept of your kindness without the consent of your parents;" and with this remark she returned the money, much to the mortification of Emma; who, however, after many entreaties, at last prevailed on her visitor to put the two half-crowns into her pocket.
The maid now came in, to tell Emma that her mamma desired she would goand be dressed, and with an invitation to old Susannah that she would go into the housekeeper's room, where she would be made quite comfortable. Emma accordingly left Susannah, with a fresh kiss, and a fresh blessing from the affectionate nurse.
On being afterwards introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Selwhyn, from whom, on that day, she always received her accustomed present of a new gown and a guinea, Susannah pulled out the two half-crowns which Emma had given her, and while she dwelt with artless simplicity on the kindness and generosity of the young donor, she declared she could not receive her gift without consulting them on the occasion.
Mr. and Mrs. Selwhyn exchanged looks of evident satisfaction.
"The red morocco purse will not disgrace its owner," said Mr. Selwhyn. "You must certainly accept of Emma's present; so put the two half-crownsinto your pocket, for the money was given to her with an intimation that she might use it in any manner she liked best; and I am very well satisfied that she knows so well how to appreciate its value."
Before we proceed further, permit me to ask my young readers if it was not very praiseworthy and amiable in Emma, to present her poor old nurse with this mark of her bounty and affection? I am sure you will agree with me; and if you have had a poor old nurse who has taken care of you in your infancy, I have no doubt but you will be happy to imitate the example of Miss Emma Selwhyn.
At half-past three o'clock two carriages arrived at Heathwood Park, and a very happy and agreeable party of friends assembled together. Indeed, it was truly delightful to see with what marked attention little Emma was treated by all her numerous friends andacquaintances, several of whom had brought her some very pretty birth-day presents. As she was blessed with an excellent memory, her papa desired her to recite the "Beggar's Petition," and it was very pretty to hear her say,
"Pity the Sorrows of a poor old man,"Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,"Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span:"Oh, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store!"
"Pity the Sorrows of a poor old man,"Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,"Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span:"Oh, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store!"
"Pity the Sorrows of a poor old man,"Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,"Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span:"Oh, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store!"
"Pity the Sorrows of a poor old man,
"Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
"Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span:
"Oh, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store!"
When she had finished she received the praises of every body present; which would not have been the case had she not paid due attention to her learning, by which she retained all she had read, and could with ease repeat all her lessons on that account.
A very large and beautiful plum-cake was now put on the table; but though Emma was presented by her mamma with a double allowance, in honour of her birth-day, she contrived to eat but a small portion of it herself, reserving the rest for the benevolent purpose she hadintended: for the Primrose Girl and her sick mother were not forgotten, as will appear in the sequel of our tale.
The birth-day having closed in the most agreeable manner, Emma arose very early the next morning, and, taking the basket under her arm, she first of all deposited her large piece of plum-cake; she then ran down stairs to Betty the cook, whom she addressed in the following manner:
"Good morning, Betty; the weather is extremely pleasant; and as I am going out for a walk, who knows but I may happen to meet with somebody who is very poor, and very hungry? I shall take it very kind, Betty, if you will put into my basket a little stale bread, or a little meat, or any thing else you may have at hand. I shall be so much obliged to you; and so, I dare say, will somebody else; for you know, Betty, it is a sad thing to be hungry and poor!"
Betty lost not a moment in complyingwith Emma's request; but filled the little basket as full as she could with cold victuals and other trifling things: for not only Betty, but all the rest of the servants at Heathwood Park, were very fond of their young mistress, whose amiable disposition and gentle manners had rendered her a very deserving favourite amongst them. And this, my reader will allow, was a very commendable trait in Emma's character; for we must not look with contempt upon servants because they are our inferiors; for they are not only useful to us, but they are also our fellow-creatures, and sometimes prove our friends, and there is nothing more unbecoming in young persons than to speak uncivilly to those who are employed in their service. I hope you will remember this, my young reader, and never pout, or look cross at persons who do their duty towards you, in that humble station in which it has pleased Providence to place them.
Emma now pursued her way to the forest, with the basket hanging on her arm; but when she arrived there she was puzzled to find her way to the barn. At last she met with an old woman who was going the same way.
"Pray, Goody," cried Emma, "can you tell me where I can find an old barn? I shall be so much obliged to you!"
Now some old women are apt to be very inquisitive about what does not concern them, yet they are by no means to be answered rudely on that account.
"Why, yes, pretty miss," cried the old woman, dropping a low curtsey (for she soon saw that it was Miss Emma Selwhyn she was talking to), "it is close by; and, as I am going that way, I will shew you: but pray, miss, may I be so bold as to inquire who you may want? for, alack-a-day! nobody lives there but Margery Blackbourne, the woodman's widow, and her daughterFanny, who is nothing better than a poor primrose girl!"
"A poor primrose girl!" cried Emma. "Ah, Goody, you are right, it is that poor child I am going to see; and though she is nothing better than a primrose girl, yet I like her very much, because she is good to her mother who is sick; besides Fanny is altogether the nicest little girl I ever saw!"
"Fanny is much obliged to you, I am sure," rejoined the old woman; "and indeed, I cannot say but the poor thing has a hard life of it. To be forced to cry primroses from morning till night is no easy matter, when one is both hungry and thirsty. But there is her mother, Miss; do not you see her by yonder stile, picking up some dry sticks to light her fire, while Fanny, I suppose, is gone to try if she can get her a morsel of bread."
Emma did not wait to listen to any further conversation of the old woman,but she did not forget to reward her for the trouble she had taken in shewing her the way, and slipping six-pence into her hand, wished her good morning. She then went directly to the door of the poor primrose girl, and found, to her no small satisfaction, that she had not yet set out on her accustomed ramble, but was busily employed in boiling a little pottage, over a very little fire for her mother's breakfast. Emma immediately accosted her thus:
"Ah, little Fanny, (for I am told that is your name) how do you do? and how is your mother? I promised I would come, and I am so happy, you cannot think, to find you at home."
"Miss, will you be so good as to sit down?" asked the primrose girl; "here is mother's great chair; it is the best we have got."
"I do not mind where I sit, thank you, Fanny," said Emma, seating herself ona little wooden stool before the fire, and placing her basket on the table; "but I must not stay long, because my papa and mamma do not know where I am; so make haste, Fanny, if you please, and empty the basket which I have brought with me. I told you it would hold a great deal, and it is quite full."
The primrose girl did as she was desired; but when she saw the plum-cake at the bottom of the basket, the poor little creature was so overcome, that she burst into a flood of tears, and turning to Emma, clasped her little sun-burnt hands together with heartfelt gratitude!
"Oh, Miss!" she exclaimed, "this is too much for poor people like us to expect. That you should save your plum-cake on purpose that we might share it is so kind, so very kind, that indeed my heart is quite full, and so will mammy's be, when she sees you."
At this instant poor Margery came in: but could scarcely believe her senses, when she saw Miss Emma Selwhyn, the heiress of the rich Squire of Heathwood Park, sitting on the wooden stool before the fire, in familiar conversation with her daughter Fanny!
Emma very soon explained the nature of her errand, and drawing out her red morocco purse, presented Margery with the two remaining half-crowns that were in it. "There," cried she, "take this money; it will buy you some victuals when you are hungry. It is entirely my own, for my papa gave it to me to do whatever I liked with it, so I shall now go home quite contented and happy; and one day or other, when I am grown a great woman, I will have a garden full of primroses, and that will always make me remember Fanny."
With this observation Emma retired, taking with her the blessings of the poor widow, and the prayers of a fatherlesschild! and these, my young reader, are of great importance, and should never be lightly esteemed. They will make you happy when you have nothing else to make you so, because you cannot obtain these blessings except by the performance of kind and benevolent actions.
Emma, on returning from her visit of mercy, was rewarded by the warm approbation and fond endearments of her beloved parents; and I am happy to add, that she lived to witness the return of many joyful birth-days, on which occasions the red morocco purse was always replenished with the sum of four half crowns, with the same permission that she had hitherto obtained from her papa. Two of these pieces were regularly bestowed on Susannah her old nurse; and as there yet remained two at the bottom of the purse, my reader will probably guess what Emma did with them. They were, in fact, reserved as a present forher young favourite primrose girl, Fanny of the forest, who ever gratefully remembered the fortunate hour when she first beheld little Emma, to whom she sold a penny bunch of primroses on the morning of her birth-day.
THE END.
LONDON:PRINTED BY COX AND BAYLIS, GREAT QUEEN STREET.
Corner of St. Paul's Church-Yard.