Child Life in Prose Part 15

Boots couldn't but feel with increased acuteness what a base deceiver he was, when they consulted him at breakfast (they had ordered sweet milk-and-water, and toast and currant jelly, over night) about the pony. It really was as much as he could do, he don't mind confessing to me, to look them two young things in the face, and think what a wicked old father of lies he had grown up to be. Howsomever, sir, I went on a lying like a Trojan about the pony. I told 'em that it did so unfort'nately happen that the pony was half clipped, you see, and that he couldn't be took out in that state, for fear it should strike to his inside. But that he'd be finished clipping in the course of the day, and that to-morrow morning at eight o'clock the pheayton would be ready. Boots's view of the whole case, looking back upon it in my room, is, that Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, was beginning to give in.

She hadn't had her hair curled when she went to bed, and she didn't seem quite up to brushing it herself, and its getting in her eyes put her out. But nothing put out Master Harry. He sat behind his breakfast-cup, a tearing away at the jelly, as if he had been his own father.

In the course of the morning, Master Harry rung the bell,--it was surprising how that there boy did carry on,--and said, in a sprightly way, "Cobbs, is there any good walks in this neighborhood?"

"Yes, sir. There's Love Lane."

"Get out with you, Cobbs!"--that was that there boy's expression,--"you're joking."

"Begging your pardon, sir, there really is Love Lane; and a pleasant walk it is, and proud shall I be to show it to yourself and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior."

"Norah, dear," says Master Harry, "this is curious. We really ought to see Love Lane. Put on your bonnet, my sweetest darling, and we will go there with Cobbs."

Boots leaves me to judge what a Beast he felt himself to be, when that young pair told him, as they all three jogged along together, that they had made up their minds to give him two thousand guineas a year as head gardener, on account of his being so true a friend to 'em.

Well, sir, I turned the conversation as well as I could, and I took 'em down Love Lane to the water-meadows, and there Master Harry would have drowned himself in a half a moment more, a getting out a water-lily for her,--but nothing daunted that boy. Well, sir, they was tired out. All being so new and strange to 'em, they was tired as tired could be. And they laid down on a bank of daisies, like the children in the wood, leastways meadows, and fell asleep.

I don't know, sir,--perhaps you do,--why it made a man fit to make a fool of himself, to see them two pretty babies a lying there in the clear still sunny day, not dreaming half so hard when they was asleep as they done when they was awake. But Lord! when you come to think of yourself, you know, and what a game you have been up to ever since you was in your own cradle, and what a poor sort of a chap you are, after all, that's where it is! Don't you see, sir?

Well, sir, they woke up at last, and then one thing was getting pretty clear to me, namely, that Mrs. Harry Walmerses, Junior's, temper was on the move. When Master Harry took her round the waist, she said he "teased her so"; and when he says, "Norah, my young May Moon, your Harry tease you?" she tells him, "Yes; and I want to go home!"

A billed fowl and baked bread-and-b.u.t.ter pudding brought Mrs. Walmers up a little; but I could have wished, I must privately own to you, sir, to have seen her more sensible of the voice of love, and less abandoning of herself to the currants in the pudding. However, Master Harry, he kep' up, and his n.o.ble heart was as fond as ever. Mrs.

Walmers turned very sleepy about dusk, and begun to cry. Therefore, Mrs. Walmers went off to bed as per yesterday; and Master Harry ditto repeated.

About eleven or twelve at night comes back the Governor in a chaise, along with Mr. Walmers and a elderly lady. Mr. Walmers says to our missis: "We are much indebted to you, ma'am, for your kind care of our little children, which we can never sufficiently acknowledge. Pray, ma'am, where is my boy?" Our missis says: "Cobbs has the dear child in charge, sir. Cobbs, show Forty!" Then Mr. Walmers, he says: "Ah, Cobbs! I am glad to see _you_. I understood you was here!" And I says: "Yes, sir. Your most obedient, sir."

"I beg your pardon, sir," I adds, while unlocking the door; "I hope you are not angry with Master Harry. For Master Harry is a fine boy, sir, and will do you credit and honor." And Boots signifies to me, that if the fine boy's father had contradicted him in the state of mind in which he then was, he thinks he should have "fetched him a crack," and took the consequences.

But Mr. Walmers only says, "No, Cobbs. No, my good fellow. Thank you!"

and, the door being opened, goes in, goes up to the bedside, bends gently down, and kisses the little sleeping face. Then he stands looking at it for a minute, looking wonderfully like it (they do say he ran away with Mrs. Walmers); and then he gently shakes the little shoulder.

"Harry, my dear boy! Harry!"

Master Harry starts up and looks at his pa. Looks at me too. Such is the honor of that mite, that he looks at me, to see whether he has brought me into trouble.

"I am not angry, my child. I only want you to dress yourself and come home."

"Yes, pa."

Master Harry dresses himself quick.

"Please may I"--the spirit of that little creatur,--"please, dear pa,--may I--kiss Norah, before I go?"

"You may, my child."

So he takes Master Harry in his hand, and I leads the way with the candle to that other bedroom, where the elderly lady is seated by the bed, and poor little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, is fast asleep. There the father lifts the boy up to the pillow, and he lays his little face down for an instant by the little warm face of poor little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, and gently draws it to him,--a sight so touching to the chambermaids who are a peeping through the door, that one of them calls out, "It's a shame to part 'em!"

Finally, Boots says, that's all about it. Mr. Walmers drove away in the chaise, having hold of Master Harry's hand. The elderly lady and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, that was never to be (she married a captain, long afterwards, and died in India), went off next day. In conclusion, Boots puts it to me whether I hold with him in two opinions: firstly, that there are not many couples on their way to be married who are half as innocent as them two children; secondly, that it would be a jolly good thing for a great many couples on their way to be married, if they could only be stopped in time and brought back separate.

_Charles d.i.c.kens._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

AMRIE AND THE GEESE.

Amrie tended the geese upon the Holder Green, as they called the pasture-ground upon the little height by Hungerbrook.

It was a pleasant but a troublesome occupation. Especially painful was it to Amrie, that she could do nothing to attach her charge to her.

Indeed, they were scarcely to be distinguished one from another. Was it not true what Brown Mariann had said to her as she came out of the Moosbrunnenwood?

"Creatures that live in herds are all and every one stupid."

"I think," said Amrie, "that this is what makes geese stupid; they can do too many things. They can swim and run and fly, but they can do neither well; they are not at home in the water, nor on the ground, nor in the air; and therefore they are stupid."

"I will stand by this," said Mariann; "in thee is concealed an old hermit."

Amrie was often borne into the kingdom of dreams. Freely rose her childish soul upward and cradled itself in unlimited ether. As the larks in the air sang and rejoiced without knowing the limits of their field, so would she soar away beyond the boundaries of the whole country. The soul of the child knew nothing of the limits placed upon the narrow life of reality. Whoever is accustomed to wonder will find a miracle in every day.

"Listen!" she would say; "the cuckoo calls! It is the living echo of the woods calling and answering itself. The bird sits over there in the service-tree. Look up, and he will fly away. How loud he cries, and how unceasingly! That little bird has a stronger voice than a man.

Place thyself upon the tree and imitate him; thou wilt not be heard so far as this bird, who is no larger than my hand. Listen! Perhaps he is an enchanted prince, and he may suddenly begin to speak to thee.

Yes," she continued, "only tell me thy riddle, and I will soon find the meaning of it; and then will I disenchant thee."

While Amrie's thoughts were wandering beyond all bounds, the geese also felt themselves at liberty to stray away and enjoy the good things of the neighboring clover or barley field. Awaking out of her dreams, she had great trouble in bringing the geese back; and when these freebooters returned in regiments, they had much to tell of the goodly land where they had fed so well. There seemed no end to their gossipping and chattering.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Again Amrie soared. "Look! there fly the birds! No bird in the air goes astray. Even the swallows, as they pa.s.s and repa.s.s, are always safe, always free! O, could we only fly! How must the world look above, where the larks soar! Hurrah! Always higher and higher, farther and farther! O, if I could but fly!"

Then she sang herself suddenly away from all the noise and from all her thoughts. Her breath, which with the idea of flying had grown deeper and quicker, as though she really hovered in the high ether, became again calm and measured.

Of the thousand-fold meanings that lived in Amrie's soul, Brown Mariann received only at times an intimation. Once, when she came from the forest with her load of wood, and with May-bugs and worms for Amrie's geese imprisoned in her sack, the latter said to her, "Aunt, do you know why the wind blows?"

"No, child. Do you?"

"Yes; I have observed that everything that grows must move about. The bird flies, the beetle creeps; the hare, the stag, the horse, and all animals must run. The fish swim, and so do the frogs. But there stand the trees, the corn, and the gra.s.s; they cannot go forth, and yet they must grow. Then comes the wind, and says, 'Only stand still, and I will do for you what others can do for themselves. See how I turn, and shake, and bend you! Be glad that I come! I do thee good, even if I make thee weary.'"

Brown Mariann only made her usual speech in reply, "I maintain it; in thee is concealed the soul of an old hermit."

The quail began to be heard in the high rye-fields; near Amrie, the field larks sang the whole day long. They wandered here and there and sang so tenderly, so into the deepest heart, it seemed as though they drew their inspiration from the source of life,--from the soul itself.

The tone was more beautiful than that of the skylark, which soars high in the air. Often one of the birds came so near to Amrie that she said, "Why cannot I tell thee that I will not hurt thee? Only stay!"

But the bird was timid, and flew farther off.

At noon, when Brown Mariann came to her, she said, "Could I only know what a bird finds to say, singing the whole day long! Even then he has not sung it all out!"

Mariann answered, "See here! A bird keeps nothing to himself, to ponder over. But within man there is always something speaking on, so softly! There are thoughts in us that talk, and weep, and sing so quietly we scarcely hear them ourselves. Not so with the bird; when his song is done, he only wants to eat or sleep."

As Mariann turned and went forth with her bundle of sticks, Amrie looked after her, smiling. "There goes a great singing bird!" she thought to herself.