Little Prudy's Sister Susy Part 7

The many, many times that kind young lady crept shivering down stairs to humor Prudy's whims! Prudy could not have counted the times; and you may be sure aunt Madge never _would_.

Then the stories, both sensible and silly, which Prudy teased for, and always got! Aunt Madge poured them forth like water into the _sieve_ of Prudy's mind, which could not hold stories any better than secrets. No matter how many she told, Prudy insisted that she wanted "one more," and the "same one over again."

It touched Susy to the heart to see how much her little sister suffered, and she spent a great deal of time at first in trying to amuse her. Aunt Madge told stories in the night; but Susy told them in the daytime, till, as she expressed it, her "tongue ached." She cut out paper dolls when she wanted to read, and played go visiting, or dressed rag babies, when she longed to be out of doors. But while the novelty lasted, she was quite a Florence Nightingale.

Her Wednesday and Sat.u.r.day after-noons were no longer her own. Before Prudy's lameness, Susy had used her new skates a great deal, and could now skim over the ice quite gracefully, for a little girl of her age.

The reason she learned to skate so well, was because she was fearless.

Most children tremble when they try to stand on the ice, and for that very reason are nearly sure to fall; but Susy did not tremble in the face of danger: she had a strong will of her own, and never expected to fail in anything she undertook.

She had spent half of her short life out of doors, and almost considered it lost time when she was obliged to stay in the house for the rain.

Mrs. Parlin kept saying it was high time for her eldest daughter to begin to be womanly, and do long stints with her needle: she could not sew as well now as she sewed two years ago.

But Mr. Parlin laughed at his wife's anxiety, and said he loved Susy's red cheeks; he didn't care if she grew as brown as an Indian. She was never rude or coa.r.s.e, he thought; and she would be womanly enough one of these days, he was quite sure.

"Anything," said Mr. Parlin, "but these _womanly_ little girls, such as I have seen sitting in a row, sewing seams, without animation enough to tear rents in their own dresses! If Susy loves birds, and flowers, and s...o...b..nks, I am thankful, and perfectly willing she should have plenty of them for playthings."

Then, when Mrs. Parlin smiled mischievously, and said, "I should like to know what sort of a wild Arab you would make out of a little girl," Mr.

Parlin answered triumphantly,--"Look at my sister Margaret! I brought her up my own self! I always took her out in the woods with me, gunning and trouting. I taught her how to skate when she was a mere baby. I often said she was all the brother I had in the world! She can remember now how I used to wrap her in shawls, and prop her up on the woodpile, while I chopped wood."

"And how you hired her to drop ears of corn for you into the corn-sh.e.l.ler; and how, one day, her fingers were so benumbed, that one of them was clipped off before she knew it!"

"Well, so it was, that is true; but only the tip of it. Active children will meet with accidents. She was a regular little fly-away, and would sooner climb a tree or a ladder any time, than walk on solid ground.

_Now_ look at her!"

And Mr. Parlin repeated the words, "Now look at her," as if he was sure his wife must confess that she was a remarkable person.

Mrs. Parlin said, if Susy should ever become half as excellent and charming as Miss Margaret Parlin, she should be perfectly satisfied, for her part.

Thus Susy was allowed to romp to her heart's content; "fairly ran wild,"

as aunt Eastman declared, with a frown of disapproval. She gathered wild roses, and wore them in her cheeks, the very best place in the world for roses. She drank in sunshine with the fresh air of heaven, just as the flowers do, and thrived on it.

But there was one objection to this out-of-doors life: Susy did not love to stay in the house. Ainu days and evenings, to be sure, she made herself very happy with reading, for she loved to read, particularly fairy books, and Rollo's Travels.

But now, just as she had learned to skate on the basin with other little girls and young ladies, and could drive Wings anywhere and everywhere she pleased, it was a sore trial to give up these amus.e.m.e.nts for the sake of spending more hours with poor little Prudy. She was very self-denying at first, but it grew to be an "old story." She found it was not only pony and skates she must give up, but even her precious reading, for Prudy was jealous of books, and did not like to have Susy touch them. She thought Susy was lost to her when she opened a book, and might as well not be in the house, for she never heard a word that anybody said.

Now I know just what you will think: "O, I would have given up a great deal more than ponies and books for _my_ dear little sister! I would have told her stories, and never have complained that my 'tongue ached.'

It would not have wearied me to do anything and everything for such a patient sufferer as little Prudy!"

But now I shall be obliged to confess one thing, which I would have gladly concealed.

Prudy was not always patient. Some sweet little children become almost like the angels when sickness is laid upon them; but Prudy had been such a healthy, active child, that the change to perfect quiet was exceedingly tiresome. She was young, too,--too young to reason about the uses of suffering. She only knew she was dreadfully afflicted, and thought everybody ought to amuse her.

"O, dear me!" said Susy, sometimes, "I just believe the more anybody does for Prudy, the more she expects."

Now this was really the case. When Prudy first began to lie upon the sofa, everybody pitied her, and tried to say and do funny things, in order to take up her attention. It was not possible to keep on giving so much time to her; but Prudy expected it. She would lie very pleasant and happy for hours at a time, counting the things in the room, talking to herself, or humming little tunes; and then, again, everything would go wrong. Her playthings would keep falling to the floor, and, as she could not stoop at all, some one must come and pick them up that very minute, or they "didn't pity her a bit."

Every once in a while, she declared her knee was "broken in seven new places," and the doctor must come and take off the splint. She didn't want such a hard thing "right on there;" she wanted it "right off."

Her mother told her she must try to be patient, and be one of G.o.d's little girls. "But, mamma," said Prudy, "does G.o.d love me any? I should think, if he loved me, he'd be sorrier I was sick, and get me well."

Then, sometimes, when she had been more fretful than usual, she would close her eyes, and her mother would hear her say, in a low voice,--

"O, G.o.d, I didn't mean to. It's my _knee_ that's cross!"

Upon the whole, I think Prudy was as patient as most children of her age would have been under the same trial. Her father and mother, who had the most care of her, did not wonder in the least that her poor little nerves got tired out sometimes.

While Susy was at school, Prudy had a long time to think what she wanted her to do when she should come home. She would lie and watch the clock, for she had learned to tell the time quite well; and when the hour drew near for Susy to come, she moved her head on the pillow, and twisted her fingers together nervously.

If Susy was in good season, Prudy put up her little mouth for a kiss, and said,--

"O, how I do love you, Susy! Ain't I your dear little sister? Well, won't you make me a lady on the slate?"

Susy's ladies had no necks, and their heads were driven down on their shoulders, as if they were going to be packed into their chests; but, such as they were, Prudy wanted them over and over again.

But if Susy stopped to slide, or to play by the way, she would find little Prudy in tears, and hear her say, "O, what made you? Naughty, naughty old Susy! I'm goin' to die, and go to G.o.d's house, and then you'll be sorry you didn't 'tend to your little sister."

Susy could never bear to hear Prudy talk about going to G.o.d's house. Her conscience p.r.i.c.ked her when she saw that the poor child was grieved; and she resolved, every time she was late, that she would never be late again.

Prudy had a great many odd fancies now: among others, she had a fancy that she did not like the name of Prudy.

"Why; only think," said she, "you keep a-calling me Prudy, and Prudy, and Prudy. It makes my head ache, to have you say Prudy so much."

"But, my dear child," said Mr. Parlin, smiling, "it happens, unfortunately, that Prudy is your name; so I think you will have to try and bear it as well as you can."

"But I can't bear it any longer," said the child, bursting into tears.

"Prudy is all lame and sick, and I never shall walk any more while you call me Prudy, papa."

Mr. Parlin kissed his little daughters's pale cheek, and said, "Then we will call you pet names; will that do?"

Prudy smiled with delight.

"I've thought of a real beautiful, splendid name," said she. "It is Rosy Frances Eastman Mary; ain't it splendid?"

After this announcement, Prudy expected the family would be sure to call her Rosy Frances Eastman Mary; and, indeed, they were quite willing to please her, whenever they could remember the name. They all supposed it was a fancy she would forget in a day or two; but, instead of that, she clung to it more and more fondly. If any one offered her an orange, or roasted apple, and said, "Look, Prudy; here is something nice for you,"

she would turn her face over to one side on the pillow, and make no reply. If she wanted a thing very much, she would never accept it when she was addressed by the obnoxious name of Prudy. Even when her father wanted to take her in his arms to rest her, and happened to say, "Prudy, shall I hold you a little while?" she would say, "Who was you a-talkin'

to, papa? There isn't any Prudy here!" Then her father had to humble himself, and ask to be forgiven for being so forgetful.

The child had a delicate appet.i.te, and her mother tried to tempt it with little niceties; but, no matter what pains she took, Prudy relished nothing unless it was given to her as Rosy Frances, the little girl who was _not_ Prudy.

"O, here is a gla.s.s of lemonade for you, Prudy; made on purpose for you," Susy would say; "do drink it!"

"O, dear me, suz," cried Prudy, with tears falling over her cheeks; "O, Susy, you plague me, and I never done a thing to you! You called me Prudy, and I ain't Prudy, never again! Call me Rosy Frances Eastman Mary, and I'll drink the lemonade."

"You precious little sister," said Susy, bending over her gently, "you'll forgive me; won't you, darling?"

"I'll try to," replied Prudy, with a look of meek forbearance, as she sipped the lemonade.