Nearly Bedtime Part 1

Nearly Bedtime.

by H. Mary Wilson.

PREFACE.

My motive in putting together these few short stories is twofold. I wish to help some elder sisters who have, like myself, occasionally found it difficult to keep the little ones happy when sleepiness is beginning to a.s.sert its claims--with pride in attendance to scorn any hint of weariness. For this reason the stories are quite short--of different lengths--and the time that they take in reading aloud is noted in the index. But I wish also, if I can, to add a little to the genuine happiness of that pleasant time when "big and little people" for a while are equals--before nurse comes to the door and says--

"If you please, miss, it is the children's bedtime."

Of course, when the summons does come, they all say "Good night" without any grumbling, and run away with bright faces, like my little Maggie, Dora, and Douglas.

KENLEY, 1888.

[Printer's decoration]

NEARLY BEDTIME.

_GENTLEMAN PHIL._

"He is gentil that doth gentil dedes."--CHAUCER.

The birds have been awake, chirping and twittering for more than an hour, and the sun has stolen the first cool freshness from the clear dewdrops, as a pair of small feet come scudding across the lawn and down the gravel path.

Phil is up betimes to-day. He had opened his eyes as he heard cook's heavy, deliberate tread on the stairs--she is stout and old, and he knows her step well--and then he knew that it must be quite early, about half-past five.

Very gaily he tumbled out of his bed, and struggled into his white summer suit.

He grew rather mixed over the b.u.t.tons. There seemed so many along the top of his small knickerbockers! What could be the use of them all?

_One_ was quite enough to hold the things together, and he made up his mind to ask nurse to cut off all the others.

Not _now_, though! Oh no! He only peeped into her room through the half-open door, with a mischievous smile on his sweet bonny face, and looked at her still sleeping figure, until she stirred a little. Then he promptly drew back his head, and s.n.a.t.c.hing up his garden shoes, ran noiselessly down the stairs.

He watched from behind the hall curtain until cook had opened the garden door, and gone to fetch her pail.

Now came his opportunity! Pulling on his shoes, he was quickly scuttling over the gra.s.s, looking very like a small white rabbit, as he disappeared among the trees and shrubs.

I don't think that my little motherless, six-year-old friend knew that he was doing anything naughty when he escaped in this way from the vigilance of his lawful guardians.

There was an honest, unselfish desire in his heart which had prompted this deeply laid plan, and he had been waiting for several days, with a patience rarely seen in a child his age, for an opportunity to carry it into effect.

As he trotted past his own strip of garden, at the further end of the Rose Walk, he was thinking to himself--

"Of course, n.o.body must see me do it. Gentlemen never do things because they want to be thanked. I should _hate_ it so if she said 'thank you,'

even once."

And away went the fat legs down the kitchen garden, and across the paddock, towards Farmer Greeson's corn field, where the golden grain stood helplessly in closely packed shocks.

Poor Farmer Greeson thought it very hard that Club Day should come just in the middle of his "harvesting;" that his precious wheat must stand a whole day waiting to be carried; and that another field must wait uncut while the club enjoyed itself. But, then, the old man was obliged to remind himself that the harvest was much later than usual this year.

Unsettled weather and frequent storms had upset so many farming operations.

Ah! But what was a lost day to Farmer Greeson was Phil's golden opportunity.

He had listened to the servants' talk about their holiday, and though he did not quite understand what "Club Day" meant, he was quite sure that he need not be afraid of intruders upon his darling scheme at this early hour, and so he climbed the farmer's gate, and dropped with a merry "hurrah" on to the stubbly ground.

An hour later still finds Phil alone in the field, stooping over the ground and moving slowly along. He looks like a tiny old man, with his bent form and his hat pushed to the back of his head.

Phil is gleaning.

Steadily and laboriously he gathers up the scattered ears of corn.

He finds it harder work than he thought, and he stops now and then to take out his handkerchief and wipe his hot face, with a quaint imitation of the labourers he has so often watched. Then he stands with his arms akimbo, to rest before setting to work again with determined energy.

There is quite a large bundle of gleanings lying on his outspread handkerchief. He has brought his best and largest to hold his gains; and now the heap of corn almost eclipses the border of kittens and puppies, with arched backs and bristling tails, that Phil thinks "so jolly."

Hark! What a delicious peal of laughter.

The little gleaner has stopped again to straighten his back, and is watching the merry gambols of two brown baby rabbits that, quite unconscious of Phil's nearness, are playing round one of the shocks, as if they thought it had been put there solely for their amus.e.m.e.nt.

Round and round, in and out, they scamper, until Phil's laughter breaks into a shout, and he claps his hands in keen delight.

This brings the entertainment to an abrupt end.

Off fly the terrified animals--their fun and frolic turned to fear by that very human and boyish cry; and the child's merriment dies too.

He begins his labours again, saying to himself, "Well, you bunnies are awfully easily scared! It's a good thing gentlemen can be braver than that."

And so the st.u.r.dy legs trudge backwards and forwards across the field.

The sun shines warmly, and Phil's face grows hot and red. Phil begins to feel hungry too.

"If I was a big man, I think I should have a nice lot of bread and cheese! I wish I _was_ a man. But I can be a gentleman _now_, father says so."

He stands with his head on one side and his hands in his pockets, looking down thoughtfully at his gleanings. He is sure that he has got enough now; but he is not quite so sure that he can carry them all at once. However, he boldly grasps the corner of his gay handkerchief lifts the bundle, and staggers under its weight across the uneven ground.

Through the little gate on the other side of the corn field, with his back turned to his own home, Phil pushes his way, and pa.s.ses into the cool shadows of the lane, just as a servant-maid enters the field by the other gate.

If you wanted to escape observation, you did not enter the lane a minute too soon, little Phil.

Look at the earnest purpose in his blue eyes, and the brave determination with which he sets his teeth and struggles on with his load. A little further and he reaches an old broken gate, standing open and leading to a neglected garden.