Lewie Part 5

Soon after dinner, cousin Betty, with a very short and very scanty skirt, was mounted on the back of Old Prancer. She felt quite timid at first at finding herself upon so lofty an elevation, (for Prancer was an immense animal;) but when she found how steadily and sedately he went on, and that neither encouragement nor blows could induce him to break into a trot, she lost all her fears, and began to enjoy her ride saving that the pace was rather a slow one.

But just as cousin Betty began to ascend the hill leading into the village, the sound of martial music burst upon her ear, and she remembered hearing the children say that this was "general training day." Cousin Betty did not know that Prancer had once belonged to a militia officer; and if she had, it would have made no difference, as all the fire of youth seemed to have died out with Prancer years ago.

But early a.s.sociations are strong; and as the "horse scenteth the battle afar off," so did Prancer p.r.i.c.k up his ears and quicken his pace at the spirit-stirring sounds of the fife and drum; and now he began to make an awkward attempt to dance sideways upon the points of his hoofs; and as he neared the brow of the hill, his excitement became more intense, and his curveting and prancing more animated. Cousin Betty was almost terrified to death. Throwing away her whip, and grasping the reins, she endeavored to stop him; but he only held in his head, and danced sideways up the street with more animation and spirit than ever. She thought of throwing herself off, but the immense height rendered such a feat utterly unsafe; she endeavored to rein the horse up to the side-walk; but now he had caught sight of the motley array of trainers, and of the gay horses and gayer uniforms of the officers, and, regardless alike of bit and rein, he started off at full speed, to join the long-forgotten but once familiar spectacle.

Cousin Betty had by this time dropped the reins, and was clinging with both arms to Old Prancer's neck; and as he turned his face to the company, and backed gallantly down the street, the sight was too irresistibly ludicrous. Shouts and laughter, and expressions of encouragement to poor cousin Betty, were heard on all sides; till at length a militia officer, taking pity upon her helpless condition, led the unwilling Prancer to the tavern, and a.s.sisted her to alight. Here cousin Betty remained till sun-down, and all was quiet; and then, requesting the tavern-keeper to lead the horse out of town while she walked, she again, with much fear and trembling, mounted when beyond the precincts of the village.

Prancer, however, walked slowly home, with his head drooping, as if thoroughly mortified at the excesses into which he had been betrayed; and cousin Betty, when she once got safely home, declared that she'd go without yarn another time, if it was a whole year, before she would mount such a "treacherous animal as that 'ere."

But, with all her oddities, cousin Betty was sometimes a very amusing companion. She had many stories of her youth stowed away in her memory, which, when wanted, could be found and brought to light much more readily than the articles she was so constantly missing now; and though these stories were not told in the purest English, they were none the less interesting to the children for that.

There came, early in February, some pleasant, mild days, which soon made a ruin of the boys' palace of snow; and though cousin Betty had been in a dying state for an hour or two the night before, she was so far revived that morning, that she was easily persuaded by the children to go over with them to the farm-house, and tell them the story of their great-grandfather, and his capture by the Indians; which same, though a very interesting story to the children, might not be so to my readers; and after changing my mind about it several times, I have concluded to leave it out, as having nothing to do with the rest of my story.

V

Home Again.

"Deal very, very gently with a young child's tender heart."

With a face beaming with joy, little Agnes took her place in the cutter by her uncle on Christmas morning, and nodded good-bye to her cousins, who were crowded at the window to see her off.

"Mind you come back to dinner!" screamed little Grace, knocking with her knuckles on the window pane.

Agnes nodded again, and they were gone. Many a time during the short ride did Agnes take out of her little m.u.f.f the paper in which her needle-case for her mother was rolled up, to see if it was all safe; and she never let go for a moment of the basket in which were some toys for Lewie, which she and her cousins had purchased at the village. As she drove up the road from the gate to her mother's house, it seemed to her so long since she had been away, that she expected to see great changes.

She had never been from home so long before, and a great deal had happened in that fort night.

Mrs. Elwyn was reading again; indeed, she had resumed that very yellow-covered book, the reading of which Lewie's sickness had interrupted; so she had not much time for a greeting for Agnes, though she did allow her to kiss her cheek, and of course laid aside her book, out of compliment to Mr. Wharton. But little Lewie, who was sitting in his cradle, surrounded by toys, was in perfect ecstasies at the return of Agnes.

He stretched his little arms towards her; and as she sprang towards him, and stooped to kiss him, he threw them around her neck, and clasped his little hands together, as if determined never to let her go again.

"Sister come! sister come!" he exclaimed over and over again, with the greatest glee; "sister stay with Lewie now."

"Sister will stay a little while," said Agnes, kissing over and over again her beautiful little brother.

"No, sister _stay_!--sister shall not go!" said Lewie, in the best manner in which he could express it; but exactly _how_, we must be excused from making known to the reader, having a great horror of _baby-talk_ in books.

"But I _must_ go, darling; all my things are at uncle's, and I want to get some books cousin Emily is going to give me; but I will come back very soon to stay with Lewie."

"No! sister _shall_ not go!" was still the cry; and Mrs. Elwyn settled the matter by saying:

"Agnes, if Lewie wants you here so much, you may as well take off your things; you cannot return to Brook Farm; besides, I want you to amuse Lewie." Agnes thought of some of the consequences of her endeavors to amuse Lewie, and sighed.

"If your mother insists upon your remaining, Agnes," said her uncle, "I will bring over your things, and Emily shall come with me, to bring the books, and tell you how to study."

"Oh, thank you, dear uncle!" said Agnes, her face brightening at once.

In the first scene in which our little hero is introduced to the reader, he certainly does not appear to advantage, as few persons would in the first stages of a fever. He was not always so hard to please, or so recklessly destructive, as he was that day; and had an intimation ever been conveyed to his mind, that it was a possible thing for any desire of his to remain ungratified, he might have grown up less supremely selfish than he did.

But the natural selfishness of his nature being constantly fed and ministered to by his doating mother, led the little fellow to understand very early that no wish of his was to be denied; and before he was two years old, he fully understood the power he held in his hands.

He was a beautiful boy; "as handsome as a picture," as Mammy said; but, for my part, I have seldom seen a picture of a child that could at all compare with Lewie Elwyn, with his golden curls, and deep blue eyes, and brilliant color. He was warm-hearted and affectionate, too, and might have been moulded by the hand of love into a glorious character. But selfishness is a deformity which early attention and care may remedy, and the grace of G.o.d alone may completely subdue; but, if allowed to take its own course, or worse, if encouraged and nurtured, it grows with wonderful rapidity, and makes a horrid shape of what might be the fairest.

Upon this text, or something very like it, Mr. Wharton spake to Mrs.

Elwyn, when Agnes had carried Lewie into the next room to spin his top for him.

"Lewie is a most beautiful little fellow, certainly," said he; "but, Harriet, take care; he is getting the upper hand of you already. It is time already--indeed, it has long been time--to make him understand that his will is to be _subservient_ to those who are older."

To which Mrs. Elwyn replied, "How absurd, Mr. Wharton, to talk of governing a child like that!"

"There are other ways of governing, Harriet, besides the whip and the lock and key, neither of which do I approve of, except in extreme cases.

Lewie could very easily be guided by the hand of love, and it rests with you now to make of him almost what you choose. A mother's gentle hand hath mighty power."

"Well, Mr. Wharton, to tell you the truth, nothing seems to me so absurd as all these ideas of nursery education; and the people who write books on the subject seem to think there is but one rule by which all children are to be governed."

"I perfectly agree with you, Harriet, that it is very ridiculous to suppose that one set of rules will answer for the education of all, except, of course, so far as the Bible rule is the foundation for all government. I think the methods adopted with children should be as numerous and different as the children themselves, each one, by their const.i.tution and disposition, requiring different treatment; but still there are some general rules, you must admit, which will serve for all.

One of these is a rule of very long standing; it is this--'Honor thy father and thy mother;' and another--'Children, obey your parents in the Lord.' Now, how can you expect your son, as he grows up, to honor, respect, or obey you, if you take the trouble to teach him, every day and hour, that _he_ is the master, and you only the slave of his will.

There is another saying in that same old book from which these rules are drawn, which tells you that 'A child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame.'"

Mrs. Elwyn, during this conversation, kept up a series of polite little bows, but could not altogether conceal an expression of weariness, and distaste at the turn the conversation had taken. She had a sincere respect, however, for Mr. Wharton, who always exercised over her the power which a strong mind exercises over a weak one, and she felt in her heart that he was a real friend to her, and one who had the interests of herself and her children at heart.

As Mr. Wharton rose to go she said, laughingly:

"I thank you for your kind advice with regard to Lewie, Mr. Wharton, but in spite of it, I do not think I shall put him in a straight-jacket before he is out of his frocks."

"No straight-jacket is needed, Harriet; you have often written in your copy-book at school, I suppose, 'Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.' You remember that strange apple-tree in my orchard, which the children use for a seat, it rises about a foot from the ground, and then turns and runs along for several feet horizontally, and then shoots up again to the sky. When that was a twig, your thumb and finger could have bent it straight; but now, what force could do it. If sufficient strength could be applied it might be _broken_, but never bent again.

Excuse my plain speaking, Harriet, but I see before you so much trouble, unless that little boy's strong will is controlled, that my conscience would not let me rest, unless I spoke honestly to you what is in my mind."

"I must say you are not a prophesier of '_smooth things_'" said Mrs.

Elwyn, "but still, I hope the dismal things you have hinted at may not come to pa.s.s."

"I hope not too, Harriet," said Mr. Wharton, "but G.o.d has now mercifully spared your little boy's life, and it rests with you whether he shall be trained for His service or not."

Then calling for Agnes and Lewie, Mr. Wharton kissed them for good-bye, telling Agnes that he would bring Emily over the next day.

Mrs. Elwyn looked infinitely relieved when Mr. Wharton drove off, and returned to her novel with as much interest as ever, and in the very exciting scene into which her heroine was now introduced, she soon forgot the unpleasant nature of Mr. Wharton's "lecture," as she called it.

Agnes was contriving in her mind all the morning, how she should present the needle-case to her mother, and wondering how it would be received. It was such a great affair to her, and had cost her so much time and labor, that she was quite sure it must be an acceptable gift, and yet natural timidity in approaching her mother, made her shrink from presenting it, and every time she thought of it her heart beat in her very throat.

At length the novel was finished and thrown aside, and Mrs. Elwyn sat with her feet on the low fender gazing abstractedly into the fire. Now was the time Agnes thought, and approaching her gently, she said:

"Mamma, here is a needle-case I made for you, all myself, for a Christmas present."

The _words_ could not have been heard by Mrs. Elwyn, she only knew that a voice _not_ Lewie's interrupted her in her reverie.

"Hush! hush! child," she said, waving her hand impatiently towards Agnes, "be quiet! don't disturb me!"