valeriodistefano.com - The Mirrored Project Gutenberg eBook of Aunt Judy's Tales, by Mrs Alfred Gatty (#1 in our series by Mrs Alfred Gatty) Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: Aunt Judy's Tales Author: Mrs Alfred Gatty Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5074] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on April 14, 2002] [Most recently updated: April 14, 2002] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII
Transcribed from the 1859 Bell and Daldy edition by David Price, email
ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
AUNT JUDY’S TALES
TO THE “LITTLE ONES” IN MANY HOMES,
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED.
M. G.
Contents:
The Little Victims
Vegetables out of Place
Cook Stories
Rabbits’ Tails
Out of the Way
Nothing to do
THE LITTLE VICTIMS.
“Save our blessings, Master, save,
From the blight of thankless eye.”
Lyra Innocentium.
There is not a more charming sight in the domestic world, than that
of an elder girl in a large family, amusing what are called the little
ones.
How could mamma have ventured upon that cosy nap in the arm-chair
by the fire, if she had been harassed by wondering what the children
were about? Whereas, as it was, she had overheard No. 8 begging
the one they all called “Aunt Judy,” to come and tell them
a story, and she had beheld Aunt Judy’s nod of consent; whereupon
she had shut her eyes, and composed herself to sleep quite complacently,
under the pleasant conviction that all things were sure to be in a state
of peace and security, so long as the children were listening to one
of those curious stories of Aunt Judy’s, in which, with so much
drollery and amusement, there was sure to be mixed up some odd scraps
of information, or bits of good advice.
So, mamma being asleep on one side of the fire, and papa reading the
newspaper on the other, Aunt Judy and No. 8 noiselessly left the room,
and repaired to the large red-curtained dining-room, where the former
sat down to concoct her story, while the latter ran off to collect the
little ones together.
In less than five minutes’ time there was a stream of noise along
the passage - a bursting open of the door, and a crowding round the
fire, by which Aunt Judy sat.
The “little ones” had arrived in full force and high expectation.
We will not venture to state their number. An order from Aunt
Judy, that they should take their seats quietly, was but imperfectly
obeyed; and a certain amount of hustling and grumbling ensued, which
betrayed a rather quarrelsome tendency.
At last, however, the large circle was formed, and the bright firelight
danced over sunny curls and eager faces. Aunt Judy glanced her
eye round the group; but whatever her opinion as an artist might have
been of its general beauty, she was by no means satisfied with the result
of her inspection.
“No. 6 and No. 7,” cried she, “you are not fit to
listen to a story at present. You have come with dirty hands.”
No. 6 frowned, and No. 7 broke out at once into a howl; he had washed
his hands ever so short a time ago, and had done nothing since but play
at knuckle-bones on the floor! Surely people needn’t wash
their hands every ten minutes! It was very hard!
Aunt Judy had rather a logical turn of mind, so she set about expounding
to the “little ones” in general, and to Nos. 6 and 7 in
particular, that the proper time for washing people’s hands was
when their hands were dirty; no matter how lately the operation had
been performed before. Such, at least, she said, was the custom
in England, and everyone ought to be proud of belonging to so clean
and respectable a country. She, therefore, insisted that Nos.
6 and 7 should retire up-stairs and perform the necessary ablution,
or otherwise they would be turned out, and not allowed to listen to
the story.
Nos. 6 and 7 were rather restive. The truth was, it had been one
of those unlucky days which now and then will occur in families, in
which everything seemed to be perverse and go askew. It was a
dark, cold, rainy day in November, and going out had been impossible.
The elder boys had worried, and the younger ones had cried. It
was Saturday too, and the maids were scouring in all directions, waking
every echo in the back-premises by the grating of sand-stone on the
flags; and they had been a good deal discomposed by the family effort
to play at “Wolf” in the passages. Mamma had been
at accounts all the morning, trying to find out some magical corner
in which expenses could be reduced between then and the arrival of Christmas
bills; and, moreover, it was a half-holiday, and the children had, as
they call it, nothing to do.
So Nos. 6 and 7, who had been vexed about several other little matters
before, during the course of the day, broke out now on the subject of
the washing of their hands.
Aunt Judy was inexorable however - inexorable though cool; and the rest
got impatient at the delay which the debate occasioned: so, partly by
coaxing, and partly by the threat of being shut out from hearing the
story, Nos. 6 and 7 were at last prevailed upon to go up-stairs and
wash their grim little paws into that delicate shell-like pink, which
is the characteristic of juvenile fingers when clean.
As they went out, however, they murmured, in whimpered tones, that they
were sure it was very hard!
After their departure, Aunt Judy requested the rest not to talk, and
a complete silence ensued, during which one or two of the youngest evidently
concluded that she was composing her story, for they stared at her with
all their might, as if to discover how she did it.
Meantime the rain beat violently against the panes, and the red curtains
swayed to and fro from the effect of the wind, which, in spite of tolerable
woodwork, found its way through the divisions of the windows.
There was something very dreary in the sound, and very odd in the varying
shades of red which appeared upon the curtains as they swerved backwards
and forwards in the firelight.
Several of the children observed it, but no one spoke until the footsteps
of Nos. 6 and 7 were heard approaching the door, on which a little girl
ventured to whisper, “I’m very glad I’m not out in
the wind and rain;” and a boy made answer, “Why, who would
be so silly as to think of going out in the wind and rain? Nobody,
of course!”
At that moment Nos. 6 and 7 entered, and took their places on two little
Derby chairs, having previously showed their pink hands in sombre silence
to Aunt Judy, whereupon Aunt Judy turned herself so as to face the whole
group, and then began her story as follows:-
“There were once upon a time eight little Victims, who were shut
up in a large stone-building, where they were watched night and day
by a set of huge grown-up keepers, who made them do whatever they chose.”
“Don’t make it too sad, Aunt Judy,” murmured
No. 8, half in a tremble already.
“You needn’t be frightened, No. 8,” was the answer;
“my stories always end well.”
“I’m so glad,” chuckled No. 8 with a grin, as he clapped
one little fat hand down upon the other on his lap in complete satisfaction.
“Go on, please.”
“Was the large stone-building a prison, Aunt Judy?” inquired
No. 7.
“That depends upon your ideas of a prison,” answered Aunt
Judy. “What do you suppose a prison is?”
“Oh, a great big place with walls all round, where people are
locked up, and can’t go in and out as they choose.”
“Very well. Then I think you may be allowed to call the
place in which the little Victims were kept a prison, for it certainly
was a great big place with walls all round, and they were locked up
at night, and not allowed to go in and out as they chose.”
“Poor things,” murmured No. 8; but he consoled himself by
recollecting that the story was to end well.
“Aunt Judy, before you go on, do tell us what victims are?
Are they fairies, or what? I don’t know.”
This was the request of No. 5, who was rather more thoughtful than the
rest, and was apt now and then to delay a story by his inquiring turn
of mind.
No. 6 was in a hurry to hear some more, and nudged No. 5 to make him
be quiet; but Aunt Judy interposed; said she did not like to tell stories
to people who didn’t care to know what they meant, and declared
that No. 5 was quite right in asking what a victim was.
“A victim,” said she, “was the creature which the
old heathens used to offer up as a sacrifice, after they had gained
a victory in battle. You all remember I dare say,” continued
she, “what a sacrifice is, and have heard about Abel’s sacrifice
of the firstlings of his flock.”
The children nodded assent, and Aunt Judy went on:-
“No such sacrifices are ever offered up now by us Christians,
and so there are no more real victims now. But we still
use the word, and call any creature a victim who is ill-used, or hurt,
or destroyed by somebody else.
“If you, any of you, were to worry or kill the cat, for instance,
then the cat would be called the victim of your cruelty; and
in the same manner the eight little Victims I am going to tell you about
were the victims of the whims and cruel prejudices of those who had
the charge of them.
“And now, before I proceed any further, I am going to establish
a rule, that whenever I tell you anything very sad about the little
Victims, you shall all of you groan aloud together. So groan here,
if you please, now that you quite understand what a victim is.”
Aunt Judy glanced round the circle, and they all groaned together to
order, led off by Nos. 3 and 4, who did not, it must be owned, look
in a very mournful state while they performed the ceremony.
It was wonderful what good that groan did them all! It seemed
to clear off half the troubles of the day, and at its conclusion a smile
was visible on every face.
Aunt Judy then proceeded:-
“I do not want to make you cry too much, but I will tell you of
the miseries the captive victims underwent in the course of one single
day, and then you will be able to judge for yourselves what a life they
led together.
“One of their heaviest miseries happened every evening.
It was the misery of going to bed. Perhaps now you may
think it sounds odd that going to bed should be called a misery.
But you shall hear how it was.
“In the evening, when all the doors were safely locked and bolted,
so that no one could get away, the little Victims were summoned down-stairs,
and brought into a room where some of the keepers were sure to be sitting
in the greatest luxury. There was generally a warm fire on the
hearth, and a beautiful lamp on the table, which shed an agreeable light
around, and made everything look so pretty and gay, the hearts of the
poor innocent Victims always rose at the sight.
“Sometimes there would be a huge visitor or two present, who would
now and then take the Victims on their knees, and say all manner of
entertaining things to them. Or there would be nice games for
them to play at. Or the keepers themselves would kiss them, and
call them kind names, as if they really loved them. How nice all
this sounds, does it not? And it would have been nice, if the
keepers would but have let it last for ever. But that was just
the one thing they never would do, and the consequence was, that, whatever
pleasure they might have had, the wretched Victims always ended by being
dissatisfied and sad.
“And how could it be otherwise? Just when they were at the
height of enjoyment, just when everything was most delightful, a horrible
knock was sure to be heard at the door, the meaning of which they all
knew but too well. It was the knock which summoned them to bed;
and at such a moment you cannot wonder that going to bed was felt to
be a misfortune.
“Had there been a single one among them who was sleepy, or tired,
or ready for bed, there would have been some excuse for the keepers;
but as it was, there was none, for the little Victims never knew what
it was to feel tired or weary on those occasions, and were always carried
forcibly away before that feeling came on.
“Of course, when the knock was heard, they would begin to cry,
and say that it was very hard, and that they didn’t want to
go to bed, and one went so far once as to add that she wouldn’t
go to bed.
“But it was all in vain. The little Victims might as well
have attempted to melt a stone wall as those hard-hearted beings who
had the charge of them.
“And now, my dears,” observed Aunt Judy, stopping in her
account, “this is of all others the exact moment at which you
ought to show your sympathy with the sufferers, and groan.”
The little ones groaned accordingly, but in a very feeble manner.
Aunt Judy shook her head.
“That groan is not half hearty enough for such a misery.
Don’t you think, if you tried hard, you could groan a little louder?”
They did try, and succeeded a little better, but cast furtive glances
at each other immediately after.
“Were the beds very uncomfortable ones, Aunt Judy?” inquired
No. 8, in a subdued voice.
“You shall judge for yourself,” was the answer. “They
were raised off the floor upon legs, so that no wind from under the
door could get at them; and on the flat bottom called the bed-stock,
there was placed a thick strong bag called a mattress, which was stuffed
with some soft material which made it springy and pleasant to touch
or lie down upon. The shape of it was a long square, or what may
be called a rectangular parallelogram. I strongly advise you all
to learn that word, for it is rather an amusing idea as one steps into
bed, to think that one is going to sleep upon a parallelogram.”
Nos. 3 and 4 were here unable to contain themselves, but broke into
a peal of laughter. The little ones stared.
“Well,” resumed Aunt Judy, “for my part, I think it’s
a very nice thing to learn the ins and outs of one’s own life;
to consider how one’s bed is made, and the why and wherefore of
its shape and position. It is a great pity to get so accustomed
to things as not to know their value till we lose them! But to
proceed.
“On the top of this parallelogramatic mattress was laid a soft
blanket. On the top of that blanket, two white sheets. On
the top of the sheets, two or more warm blankets, and on the top of
the blankets, a spotted cover called a counterpane.
“Now it was between the sheets that each little Victim was laid,
and such were the receptacles to which they were unwillingly consigned,
night after night of their lives!
“But I have not yet told you half the troubles of this dreadful
‘going to bed.’ A good fire with a large tub before
it, and towels hung over the fender, was always the first sight which
met the tearful eyes of the little Victims as they entered the nursery
after being torn from the joys of the room down-stairs. And then,
lo and behold! a new misery began, for, whether owing to the fatigue
of getting up-stairs, or that their feelings had been so much hurt,
they generally discovered at this moment that they were one and all
so excessively tired, they didn’t know what to do; - of all things,
did not choose to be washed - and insisted, each of them, on being put
to bed first! But let them say what they would, and cry afresh
as they pleased, and even snap and snarl at each other like so many
small terriers, those cruel keepers of theirs never would grant their
requests; never would put any of them to bed dirty, and always declared
that it was impossible to put each of them to bed first!
Imagine now the feelings of those who had to wait round the fire while
the others were attended to! Imagine the weariness, the disgust,
before the whole party was finished, and put by for the night!”
Aunt Judy paused, but no one spoke.
“What!” cried she suddenly, “will nobody groan?
Then I must groan myself!” which she did, and a most unearthly
noise she made; so much so, that two or three of the little ones turned
round to look at the swelling red curtains, just to make sure the howl
did not proceed from thence.
After which Aunt Judy continued her tale:-
“So much for night and going to bed, about which there is nothing
more to relate, as the little Victims were uncommonly good sleepers,
and seldom awoke till long after daylight.
“Well now, what do you think? By the time they had had a
good night, they felt so comfortable in their beds, that they were quite
contented to remain there; and then, of course, their tormentors never
rested till they had forced them to get up! Poor little things!
Just think of their being made to go to bed at night, when they most
disliked it, and then made to get up in the morning, when they wanted
to stay in bed! It certainly was, as they always said, ‘very,
very hard.’ This was, of course, a winter misery, when the
air was so frosty and cold that it was very unpleasant to jump out into
it from a warm nest. Terrible scenes took place on these occasions,
I assure you, for sometimes the wretched Victims would sit shivering
on the floor, crying over their socks and shoes instead of putting them
on, (which they had no spirit for,) and then the savage creatures who
managed them would insult them by irritating speeches.
“‘Come, Miss So-and-So,’ one would say, ‘don’t
sit fretting there; there’s a warm fire, and a nice basin of bread-and-milk
waiting for you, if you will only be quick and get ready.’
“Get ready! a nice order indeed! It meant that they must
wash themselves and be dressed before they would be allowed to touch
a morsel of food.
“But it is of no use dwelling on the unfeelingness of those keepers.
One day one of them actually said:-
“‘If you knew what it was to have to get up without a fire
to come to, and without a breakfast to eat, you would leave off grumbling
at nothing.’
“Nothing! they called it nothing to have to get
out of a warm bed into the fresh morning air, and dress before breakfast!
“Well, my dears,” pursued Aunt Judy, after waiting here
a few seconds, to see if anybody would groan, “I shall take it
for granted you feel for the getting-up misery as well as the
going-to-bed one, although you have not groaned as I expected.
I will just add, in conclusion, that the summer getting-up misery
was just the reverse of this winter one. Then the poor little
wretches were expected to wait till their nursery was dusted and swept;
so there they had to lie, sometimes for half-an-hour, with the sun shining
in upon them, not allowed to get up and come out into the dirt and dust!
“Of course, on those occasions they had nothing to do but squabble
among themselves and teaze; and I assure you they had every now and
then a very pleasant little revenge on their keepers, for they half
worried them out of their lives by disturbances and complaints, and
at any rate that was some comfort to them, although very often it hindered
the nursery from being done half as soon as it would have been if they
had been quiet.
“I shall not have time to tell of everything,” continued
Aunt Judy, “so I must hurry over the breakfast, although the keepers
contrived to make even that miserable, by doing all they could to prevent
the little Victims from spilling their food on the table and floor,
and also by insisting on the poor little things sitting tolerably upright
on their seats - not lolling with both elbows on the table-cloth
- not making a mess - not, in short, playing any of those innocent
little pranks in which young creatures take delight.
“It was a pitiable spectacle, as you may suppose, to see reasonable
beings constrained against their inclinations to sit quietly while they
ate their hearty morning meal, which really, perhaps, they might have
enjoyed, had they been allowed to amuse themselves in their own fashion
at the same time.
“But I must go on now to that great misery of the day, which I
shall call the lesson misery.
“Now you must know, the little Victims were all born, as young
kids, lambs, kittens, and puppy-dogs are, with a decided liking for
jumping about and playing all day long. Think, therefore, what
their sufferings were when they were placed in chairs round a table,
and obliged to sit and stare at queer looking characters in books until
they had learned to know them what was called by heart.
It was a very odd way of describing it, for I am sure they had often
no heart in the matter, unless it was a hearty dislike.
“‘Tommy Brown in the village never learns any lessons,’
cried one of them once to the creature who was teaching him, ‘why
should I? He is always playing at oyster-dishes in the gutter
when I see him, and enjoying himself. I wish I might enjoy
myself!’
“Poor Victim! He little thought what a tiresome lecture
this clever remark of his would bring on his devoted head!
“Don’t ask me to repeat it. It amounted merely to
this, that twenty years hence he would he very glad he had learnt something
else besides making oyster-dishes in the streets. As if that signified
to him now! As if it took away the nuisance of having to learn
at the present moment, to be told it would be of use hereafter!
What was the use of its being of use by-and-by?
“So thought the little Victim, young as he was; so, said he, in
a muttering voice:-
“‘I don’t care about twenty years hence; I want to
be happy now!’
“This was unanswerable, as you may suppose; so the puzzled teacher
didn’t attempt to make a reply, but said:-
“‘Go on with your lessons, you foolish little boy!’
“See what it is to be obstinate,” pursued Aunt Judy.
“See how it blinds people’s eyes, and prevents them from
knowing right from wrong! Pray take warning, and never be obstinate
yourselves; and meantime, let us have a good hearty groan for the lesson
misery.”
The little ones obeyed, and breathed out a groan that seemed to come
from the very depths of their hearts; but somehow or other, as the story
proceeded, the faces looked rather less amused, and rather more anxious,
than at first.
What could the little ones be thinking about to make them grave?
It was evidently quite a relief when Aunt Judy went on:-
“You will be very much surprised, I dare say,” said she,
“to hear of the next misery I am going to tell you about.
It may be called the dinner misery, and the little Victims underwent
it every day.”
“Did they give them nasty things to eat, Aunt Judy?” murmured
No. 8, very anxiously.
“More likely not half enough,” suggested No. 5.
“But you promised not to make the story too sad, remember!”
observed No. 6.
“I did,” replied Aunt Judy, “and the dinner misery
did not consist in nasty food, or there not being enough. They
had plenty to eat, I assure you, and everything was good. But
- ”
Aunt Judy stopped short, and glanced at each of the little ones in succession.
“Make haste, Aunt Judy!” cried No. 8. “But what?”
“But,” resumed Aunt Judy, in her most impressive
tone, “they had to wait between the courses.”
Again Aunt Judy paused, and there was a looking hither and thither among
the little ones, and a shuffling about on the small Derby chairs, while
one or two pairs of eyes were suddenly turned to the fire, as if watching
it relieved a certain degree of embarrassment which their owners began
to experience.
“It is not every little boy or girl,” was Aunt Judy’s
next remark, “who knows what the courses of a dinner are.”
“I don’t,” interposed No. 8, in a distressed
voice, as if he had been deeply injured.
“Oh, you think not? Well, not by name, perhaps,” answered
Aunt Judy. “But I will explain. The courses of a dinner
are the different sorts of food, which follow each other one after the
other, till dinner is what people call ‘over.’ Thus,
supposing a dinner was to begin with pea-soup, as you have sometimes
seen it do, you would expect when it was taken away to see some meat
put upon the table, should you not?”
The little ones nodded assent.
“And after the meat was gone, you would expect pie or pudding,
eh?”
They nodded assent again, and with a smile.
“And if after the pudding was carried away, you saw some cheese
and celery arrive, it would not startle you very much, would it?”
The little ones did nothing but laugh.
“Very well,” pursued Aunt Judy, “such a dinner as
we have been talking about consists of four courses. The soup
course, the meat course, the pudding course, and the cheese course.
And it was while one course was being carried out, and another fetched
in, that the little Victims had to wait; and that was the dinner
misery I spoke about, and a very grievous affair it was. Sometimes
they had actually to wait several minutes, with nothing to do but to
fidget on their chairs, lean backwards till they toppled over, or forward
till some accident occurred at the table. And then, poor little
things, if they ventured to get out their knuckle-bones for a game,
or took to a little boxing amusement among themselves, or to throwing
the salt in each other’s mugs, or pelting each other with bits
of bread, or anything nice and entertaining, down came those merciless
keepers on their innocent mirth, and the old stupid order went round
for sitting upright and quiet. Nothing that I can say about it
would be half as expressive as what the little Victims used to say themselves.
They said that it was ‘so very hard.’
“Now, then, a good groan for the dinner misery,”
exclaimed Aunt Judy in conclusion.
The order was obeyed, but somewhat reluctantly, and then Aunt Judy proceeded
with her tale.
“On one occasion of the dinner misery,” resumed she,
“there happened to be a stranger lady present, who seemed to be
very much shocked by what the Victims had to undergo, and to pity them
very much; so she said she would set them a nice little puzzle to amuse
them till the second course arrived. But now, what do you think
the puzzle was? It was a question, and this was it. ‘Which
is the harder thing to bear - to have to wait for your dinner, or to
have no dinner to wait for?’
“I do not think the little Victims would have quite known what
the stranger lady meant, if she had not explained herself; for you see
they had never gone without dinner in their lives, so they had
not an idea what sort of a feeling it was to have no dinner to wait
for. But she went on to tell them what it was like as well
as she could. She described to them little Tommy Brown, (whom
they envied so much for having no lessons to do,) eating his potatoe
soaked in the dripping begged at the squire’s back-door, without
anything else to wait - or hope for. She told them that he
was never teazed as to how he sat, or even whether he sat or stood,
and then she asked them if they did not think he was a very happy little
boy? He had no trouble or bother, but just ate his rough morsel
in any way he pleased, and then was off, hungry or not hungry, into
the streets again.
“To tell you the truth,” pursued Aunt Judy, “the Victims
did not know what to say to the lady’s account of little Tommy
Brown’s happiness; but as the roast meat came in just as it concluded,
perhaps that diverted their attention. However, after they had
all been helped, it was suddenly observed that one of them would not
begin to eat. He sat with his head bent over his plate, and his
cheeks growing redder and redder, till at last some one asked what was
amiss, and why he would not go on with his dinner, on which he sobbed
out that he had ‘much rather it was taken to little Tommy Brown!’”
“That was a very good little Victim, wasn’t he?”
asked No. 8.
“But what did the keepers say?” inquired No. 5, rather anxiously.
“Oh,” replied Aunt Judy, “it was soon settled that
Tommy Brown was to have the dinner, which made the little Victim so
happy, he actually jumped for joy. On which the stranger lady
told them she hoped they would henceforth always ask themselves her
curious question whenever they sat down to a good meal again.
‘For,’ said she, ‘my dears, it will teach you to be
thankful; and you may take my word for it, it is always the ungrateful
people who are the most miserable ones.’”
“Oh, Aunt Judy!” here interposed No. 6, somewhat vehemently,
“you need not tell any more! I know you mean us by
the little Victims! But you don’t think we really mean
to be ungrateful about the beds, or the dinners, or anything, do
you?”
There was a melancholy earnestness in the tone of the inquiry, which
rather grieved Aunt Judy, for she knew it was not well to magnify childish
faults into too great importance: so she took No. 6 on her knee, and
assured her she never imagined such a thing as their being really ungrateful,
for a moment. If she had, she added, she should not have turned
their little ways into fun, as she had done in the story.
No. 6 was comforted somewhat on hearing this, but still leant her head
on Aunt Judy’s shoulder in a rather pensive state.
“I wonder what makes one so tiresome,” mused the meditative
No. 5, trying to view the matter quite abstractedly, as if he himself
was in no way concerned in it.
“Thoughtlessness only,” replied Aunt Judy, smiling.
“I have often heard mamma say it is not ingratitude in children
when they don’t think about the comforts they enjoy every
day; because the comforts seem to them to come, like air and sunshine,
as a mere matter of course.”
“Really?” exclaimed No. 6, in a quite hopeful tone.
“Does mamma really say that?”
Yes; but then you know,” continued Aunt Judy, “everybody
has to be taught to think by degrees, and then they get to know that
no comforts ever do really come to anybody as a matter of course.
No, not even air and sunshine; but every one of them as blessings permitted
by God, and which, therefore, we have to be thankful for. So you
see we have to learn to be thankful as we have to learn everything
else, and mamma says it is a lesson that never ends, even for grown-up
people.
“And now you understand, No. 6, that you - oh! I beg pardon,
I mean the little Victims - were not really ungrateful, but only
thoughtless; and the wonderful stranger lady did something to cure them
of that, and, in fact, proved a sort of Aunt Judy to them; for she explained
things in such a very entertaining manner, that they actually began
to think the matter over; and then they left off being stupid and unthankful.
“But this reminds me,” added Aunt Judy, “that you
- tiresome No. 6 - have spoilt my story after all! I had not half
got to the end of the miseries. For instance, there was the taking-care
misery, in consequence of which the little Victims were sent out
to play on a fine day, and kept in when it was stormy and wet, all because
those stupid keepers were more anxious to keep them well in health than
to please them at the moment.
“And then there was - above all - ” here Aunt Judy became
very impressive, “the washing misery, which consisted in
their being obliged to make themselves clean and comfortable with soap
and water whenever they happened to be dirty, whether with playing at
knuckle-bones on the floor, or anything else, and which was considered
so hard that - ”
But here a small hand was laid on Aunt Judy’s mouth, and a gentle
voice said, “Stop, Aunt Judy, now!” on which the rest shouted,
“Stop! stop! we won’t hear any more,” in chorus, until
all at once, in the midst of the din, there sounded outside the door
the ominous knocking, which announced the hour of repose to the juvenile
branches of the family.
It was a well-known summons, but on this occasion produced rather an
unusual effect. First, there was a sudden profound silence, and
pause of several seconds; then an interchange of glances among the little
ones; then a breaking out of involuntary smiles upon several young faces;
and at last a universal “Good-night, Aunt Judy!” very quietly
and demurely spoken.
“If the little Victims were only here to see how you behave
over the going-to-bed misery, what a lesson it would be!”
suggested Aunt Judy, with a mischievous smile.
“Ah, yes, yes, we know, we know!” was the only reply, and
it came from No. 8, who took advantage of being the youngest to be more
saucy than the rest.
Aunt Judy now led the little party into the drawing-room to bid their
father and mother good-night too. And certainly when the door
was opened, and they saw how bright and cosy everything looked, in the
light of the fire and the lamps, with mamma at the table, wide awake
and smiling, they underwent a fearful twinge of the going-to-bed
misery. But they checked all expression of their feelings.
Of course, mamma asked what Aunt Judy’s story had been about,
and heard; and heard, too, No. 6’s little trouble lest she should
have been guilty of the sin of real ingratitude; and, of course, mamma
applauded Aunt Judy’s explanation about the want of thought, very
much indeed.
“But, mamma,” said No. 6 to her mother, “Aunt Judy
said something about grown-up people having to learn to be thankful.
Surely you and papa never cry for nonsense, and things you can’t
have?”
“Ah, my darling No. 6,” cried mamma earnestly, “grown-up
people may not cry for what they want exactly, but they are just
as apt to wish for what they cannot have, as you little ones are.
For instance, grown-up people would constantly like to have life made
easier and more agreeable to them, than God chooses it to be.
They would like to have a little more wealth, perhaps, or a little more
health, or a little more rest, or that their children should always
be good and clever, and well and happy. And while they are thinking
and fretting about the things they want, they forget to be thankful
for those they have. I am often tempted in this way myself, dear
No. 6; so you see Aunt Judy is right, and the lesson of learning to
be thankful never ends, even for grown-up people.
“One other word before you go. I dare say you little ones
think we grown-up people are quite independent, and can do just as we
like. But it is not so. We have to learn to submit to the
will of the great Keeper of Heaven and earth, without understanding
it, just as Aunt Judy’s little Victims had to submit to their
keepers without knowing why. So thank Aunt Judy for her story,
and let us all do our best to be obedient and contented.”
“When I am old enough, mother,” remarked No. 7, in his peculiarly
mild and deliberate way of speaking, and smiling all the time, “I
think I shall put Aunt Judy into a story. Don’t you think
she would make a capital Ogre’s wife, like the one in ‘Jack
and the Bean-Stalk,’ who told Jack how to behave, and gave him
good advice?”
It was a difficult question to say “No” to, so mamma kissed
No. 7, instead of answering him, and No. 7 smiled himself away, with
his head full of the bright idea.
VEGETABLES OUT OF PLACE.
“But any man that walks the mead,
In bud or blade, or bloom, may find,
According as his humours lead,
A meaning suited to his mind.”
TENNYSON.
It was a fine May morning. Not one of those with an east wind
and a bright sun, which keep people in a puzzle all as day to whether
it is hot or cold, and cause endless nursery disputes about the keeping
on of comforters and warm coats, whenever a hoop-race, or some such
active exertion, has brought a universal puggyness over the juvenile
frame - but it was a really mild, sweet-scented day, when it is quite
a treat to be out of doors, whether in the gardens, the lanes, or the
fields, and when nothing but a holland jacket is thought necessary by
even the most tiresomely careful of mammas.
It was not a day which anybody would have chosen to be poorly upon;
but people have no choice in such matters, and poor little No. 7, of
our old friends “the little ones,” was in bed ill of the
measles.
The wise old Bishop, Jeremy Taylor, told us long ago, how well children
generally bear sickness. “They bear it,” he says,
“by a direct sufferance;” that is to say, they submit to
just what discomfort exists at the moment, without fidgetting about
either a cause or a consequence,” and decidedly without fretting
about what is to come.
For a grown-up person to attain to the same state of unanxious resignation,
is one of the high triumphs of Christian faith. It is that “delivering
one’s self up,” of which the poor speak so forcibly on their
sick-beds.
No. 7 proved a charming instance of the truth of Jeremy Taylor’s
remark. He behaved in the most composed manner over his feelings,
and even over his physic.
During the first day or two, when he sat shivering by the fire, reading
“Neill D’Arcy’s Life at Sea,” and was asked
how he felt, he answered with his usual smile; “Oh, all right;
only a little cold now and then.” And afterwards, when he
was in bed in a darkened room, and the same question was put, he replied
almost as quietly, (though without the smile,) “Oh - only a little
too hot.”
Then over the medicine, he contested nothing. He made, indeed,
one or two by no means injudicious suggestions, as to the best method
of having the disagreeable material, whether powdery or oleaginous,
(I will not particularize further!) conveyed down his throat: commonly
said, “Thank you,” even before he had swallowed it; and
then shut his eyes, and kept himself quiet.
Fortunately No. 1, and Schoolboy No. 3, had had the complaint as well
as papa and mamma, so there were plenty to share in the nursing and
house matters. The only question was, what was to be done with
the little ones while Nurse was so busy; and Aunt Judy volunteered her
services in their behalf.
Now it will easily be supposed, after what I have said, that the nursing
was not at all a difficult undertaking; but I am grieved to say that
Aunt Judy’s task was by no means so easy a one.
The little ones were very sorry, it is true, that No. 7 was poorly;
but, unluckily, they forgot it every time they went either up-stairs
or down. They could not bear in their minds the fact, that when
they encouraged the poodle to bark after an India-rubber ball, he was
pretty sure to wake No. 7 out of a nap; and, in short, the day being
so fine, and the little ones so noisy, Aunt Judy packed them all off
into their gardens to tidy them up, she herself taking her station in
a small study, the window of which looked out upon the family play-ground.
Her idea, perhaps, was, that she could in this way combine the prosecution
of her own studies, with enacting policeman over the young gardeners,
and “keeping the peace,” as she called it. But if
so, she was doomed to disappointment.
The operation of “tidying up gardens,” as performed by a
set of “little ones,” scarcely needs description.
It consists of a number of alterations being thought of, and set about,
not one of which is ever known to be finished by those who begin them.
It consists of everybody wanting the rake at the same moment, and of
nobody being willing to use the other tools, which they call stupid
and useless things. It consists of a great many plants being moved
from one place to another, when they are in full flower, and dying in
consequence. (But how, except when they are in flower, can anyone
judge where they will look best?) It consists of a great many
seeds being prevented from coming up at all, by an “alteration”
cutting into the heart of the patch just as they were bursting their
shells for a sprout. It consists of an unlimited and fatal application
of the cold-water cure.
And, finally, it results in such a confusion between foot-walks and
beds - such a mixture of earth and gravel, and thrown-down tools - that
anyone unused to the symptoms of the case, might imagine that the door
of the pigsty in the yard had been left open, and that its inhabitant
had been performing sundry uncouth gambols with his nose in the little
ones’ gardens.
Aunt Judy was quite aware of these facts, and she had accordingly laid
down several rules, and given several instructions to prevent the usual
catastrophe; and all went very smoothly at first in consequence.
The little ones went out all hilarity and delight, and divided the tools
with considerable show of justice, while Aunt Judy nodded to them approvingly
out of her window, and then settled down to an interesting sum in that
most peculiar of all arithmetical rules, “The Rule of False,”
the principle of which is, that out of two errors, made by yourself
from two wrong guesses, you arrive at a discovery of the truth!
When Aunt Judy first caught sight of this rule, a few days before, at
the end of an old summing-book, it struck her fancy at once. The
principle of it was capable of a much more general application than
to the “Rule of False,” and she amused herself by studying
it up.
It is, no doubt, a clumsy substitute for algebra; but young folks who
have not learnt algebra, will find it a very entertaining method of
making out all such sums as the following old puzzler, over which Aunt
Judy was now poring:
“There is a certain fish, whose head is 9 inches in length, his
tail as long as his head and half of his back, and his back as long
as both head and tail together. Query, the length of the fish?”
But Aunt Judy was not left long in peace with her fish. While
she was in the thick of “suppositions” and “errors,”
a tap came at the window.
“Aunt Judy!”
“Stop!” was the answer; and the hand of the speaker went
up, with the slate-pencil in it, enforcing silence while she pursued
her calculations.
“Say, back 42 inches; then tail (half back) 21, and head given,
9, that’s 30, and 30 and 9, 39 back. - Won’t do! Second
error: three inches - What’s the matter, No. 6? You surely
have not begun to quarrel already?”
“Oh, no,” answered No. 6, with her nose flattened against
the window-pane. “But please, Aunt Judy, No. 8 won’t
have the oyster-shell trimming round his garden any longer, he says;
he says it looks so rubbishy. But as my garden joins his down
the middle, if he takes away the oyster-shells all round his, then one
of my sides - the one in the middle, I mean - will be left bare,
don’t you see? and I want to keep the oyster-shells all round
may garden, because mamma says there are still some zoophytes upon them.
So how is it to be?”
What a perplexity! The fish with his nine-inch head, and his tail
as long as his head and half of his back, was a mere nothing to it.
Aunt Judy threw open the window.
“My dear No. 6,” answered she, “yours is the great
boundary-line question about which nations never do agree, but go squabbling
on till some one has to give way first. There is but one plan
for settling it, and that is, for each of you to give up a piece of
your gardens to make a road to run between. Now if you’ll
both give way at once, and consent to this, I will come out to you myself,
and leave my fish till the evening. It’s much too fine to
stay in doors, I feel; and I can give you all something real to do.”
“I’ll give way, I’m sure, Aunt Judy,”
cried No. 6, quite glad to be rid of the dispute; “and so will
you, won’t you, No. 8?” she added, appealing to that young
gentleman, who stood with his pinafore full of dirty oyster-shells,
not quite understanding the meaning of what was said.
“I’ll what?” inquired he.
“Oh, never mind! Only throw the oyster-shells down, and
come with Aunt Judy. It will be much better fun than staying here.”
No. 8 lowered his pinafore at the word of command, and dropped the discarded
oyster-shells, one by one - where do you think? - why - right into the
middle of his little garden! an operation which seemed to be particularly
agreeable to him, if one might judge by his face. He was not sorry
either to be relieved from the weight.
“You see, Aunt Judy,” continued No. 6 to her sister, who
had now joined them, “it doesn’t so much matter about the
oyster-shell trimming; but No. 8’s garden is always in such a
mess, that I must have a wall or something between us!”
“You shall have a wall or a path decidedly,” replied Aunt
Judy: “a road is the next best thing to a river for a boundary-line.
But now, all of you, pick up the tools and come with me, and you shall
do some regular work, and be paid for it at the rate of half-a-farthing
for every half hour. Think what a magnificent offer!”
The little ones thought so in reality, and welcomed the arrangement
with delight, and trudged off behind Aunt Judy, calculating so hard
among themselves what their conjoint half-farthings would come to, for
the half-hours they all intended to work, and furthermore, what amount
or variety of “goodies” they would purchase, that Aunt Judy
half fancied herself back in the depths of the “Rule of False”
again!
She led them at last to a pretty shrubbery-walk, of which they were
all very fond. On one side of it was a quick-set hedge, in which
the honeysuckle was mixed so profusely with the thorn, that they grew
and were clipped together.
It was the choicest spot for a quiet evening stroll in summer that could
possibly be imagined. The sweet scent from the honeysuckle flowers
stole around you with a welcome as you moved along, and set you a dreaming
of some far-off region where the delicious sensations produced by the
odour of flowers may not be as transient as they are here.
There was an alcove in the middle of the walk - not one of the modern
mockeries of rusticity - but a real old-fashioned lath-and-plaster concern,
such as used to be erected in front of a bowling-green. It was
roofed in, was open only on the sunny side, and was supported by a couple
of little Ionic pillars, up which clematis and passion-flower were studiously
trained.
There was a table as well as seats within; and the alcove was a very
nice place for either reading or drawing in, as it commanded a pretty
view of the distant country. It was also, and perhaps especially,
suited to the young people in their more poetical and fanciful moods.
The little ones had no sooner reached the entrance of the favourite
walk, than they scampered past Aunt Judy to run a race; but No. 6 stopped
suddenly short.
“Aunt Judy, look at these horrible weeds! Ah! I do believe
this is what you have brought us here for!”
It was indeed; for some showers the evening before, had caused them
to flourish in a painfully prominent manner, and the favourite walk
presented a somewhat neglected appearance.
So Aunt Judy marked it off for the little ones to weed, repeated the
exhilarating promise of the half-farthings, and seated herself in the
alcove to puzzle out the length of the fish.
At first it was rather amusing to hear, how even in the midst of their
weeding, the little ones pursued their calculations of the anticipated
half-farthings, and discussed the niceness and prices of the various
descriptions of “goodies.”
But by degrees, less and less was said; and at last, the half-farthings
and “goodies” seemed altogether forgotten, and a new idea
to arise in their place.
The new idea was, that this weeding-task was uncommonly troublesome!
“I’m sure there are many more weeds in my piece than in
anybody else’s!” remarked the tallest of the children, standing
up to rest his rather tired back, and contemplate the walk. “I
don’t think Aunt Judy measured it out fair!”
“Well, but you’re the biggest, and ought to do the most,”
responded No. 6.
“A little the most is all very well,” persisted No.
5; “but I’ve got too much the most rather - and it’s
very tiresome work.”
“What nonsense!” rejoined No. 6. “I don’t
believe the weeds are any thicker in your piece than in mine.
Look at my big heap. And I’m sure I’m quite as tired
as you are.”
No. 6 got up as she spoke, to see how matters were going on; not at
all sorry either, to change her position.
“I’ve got the most,” muttered No. 8
to himself, still kneeling over his work.
But this was, it is to be feared, a very unjustifiable bit of brag.
“If you go on talking so much, you will not get any half-farthings
at all!” shouted No. 4, from the distance.
A pause followed this warning, and the small party ducked down again
to their work.
They no longer liked it, however; and very soon afterwards the jocose
No. 5 observed, in subdued tones to the others:-
“I wonder what the little victims would have said to this
kind of thing?”
“They’d have hated it,” answered No. 6, very decidedly.
The fact was, the little ones were getting really tired, for the fine
May morning had turned into a hot day; and in a few minutes more, a
still further aggravation of feeling took place.
No. 6 got up again, shook the gravel from her frock, blew it off her
hands, pushed back a heap of heavy curls from her face, set her hat
as far back on her head as she could, and exclaimed:-
“I wish there were no such things as weeds in the world!”
Everybody seemed struck with this impressive sentiment, for they all
left off weeding at once, and Aunt Judy came forward to the front of
the alcove.
“Don’t you, Aunt Judy?” added No. 6, feeling sure
her sister had heard.
“Not I, indeed,” answered Aunt Judy, with a comical smile:
“I’m too fond of cream to my tea.”
“Cream to your tea, Aunt Judy? What can that have to do
with it?”
The little ones were amazed.
“Something,” at any rate, responded Aunt Judy; “and
if you like to come in here, and sit down, I will tell you how.”
Away went hoes and weeding-knives at once, and into the alcove they
rushed; and never had garden-seats felt so thoroughly comfortable before.
“If one begins to wish,” suggested No. 5, stretching his
legs out to their full extent, “one may as well wish oneself a
grand person with a lot of gardeners to clear away the weeds as fast
as they come up, and save one the trouble.”
“Much better wish them away, and save everybody the trouble,”
persisted No. 6.
“No: one wants them sometimes.”
“What an idea! Who ever wants weeds?”
“You yourself.”
“I? What nonsense!”
But the persevering No. 5 proceeded to explain. No. 6 had asked
him a few days before to bring her some groundsel for her canary, and
he had been quite disappointed at finding none in the garden.
He had actually to “trail” into the lanes to fetch a bit.
This was a puzzling statement; so No. 6 contented herself with grumbling
out:-
“Weeds are welcome to grow in the lanes.”
“Weeds are not always weeds in the lanes,” persisted No.
5, with a grin: “they’re sometimes wild-flowers.”
“I don’t care what they are,” pouted No. 6.
“I wish I lived in a place where there were none.”
“And I wish I was a great man, with lots of gardeners to take
them up, instead of me,” maintained No. 5, who was in a mood of
lazy tiresomeness, and kept rocking to and fro on the garden-chair,
with his hands tucked under his thighs. “A weed - a weed,”
continued he; “what is a weed, I wonder? Aunt Judy, what
is a weed?”
Aunt Judy had surely been either dreaming or cogitating during the last
few minutes, for she had taken no notice of what was said, but she roused
up now, and answered:-
“A vegetable out of its place.”
“A vegetable,” repeated No. 5, “why we don’t
eat them, Aunt Judy.”
“You kitchen-garden interpreter, who said we did?” replied
she. “All green herbs are vegetables, let me tell
you, whether we eat them or not.”
“Oh, I see,” mused No. 5, quietly enough, but in another
instant he broke out again.
“I’ll tell you what though, some of them are real vegetables,
I mean kitchen-garden vegetables, to other creatures, and that’s
why they’re wanted. Groundsel’s a vegetable, it’s
the canary’s vegetable. I mean his kitchen-garden vegetable,
and if he had a kitchen-garden of his own, he would grow it as we do
peas. So I was right after all, No. 6!”
That twit at the end spoilt everything, otherwise this was really
a bright idea of No. 5’s.
“Aunt Judy, do begin to talk yourself,” entreated No. 6.
“I wish No. 5 would be quiet, and not teaze.”
“And he wishes the same of you,” replied Aunt Judy, “and
I wish the same of you all. What is to be done? Come, I
will tell you a story, on one positive understanding, namely, that whoever
teazes, or even twits, shall be turned out of the company.”
No. 5 sat up in his chair like a dart in an instant, and vowed that
he would be the best of the good, till Aunt Judy had finished her story.
“After which - ” concluded he, with a wink and another grin.
“After which, I shall expect you to be better still,” was
Aunt Judy’s emphatic rejoinder. And peace being now completely
established, she commenced: “There was once upon a time - what
do you think?” - here she paused and looked round in the children’s
faces.
“A giant!” exclaimed No. 8.
“A beautiful princess!” suggested No. 6.
“Something,” said Aunt Judy, “but I am not
going to tell you what at present. You must find out for yourselves.
Meantime I shall call it something, or merely make a grunting
- hm - when I allude to it, as people do to express a blank.”
The little ones shuffled about in delighted impatience at the notion
of the mysterious “something” which they were to find out,
and Aunt Judy proceeded:-
“This - hm - then, lived in a large meadow field, where it was
the delight of all beholders. The owner of the property was constantly
boasting about it to his friends, for he maintained that it was the
richest, and most beautiful, and most valuable - hm - in all the country
round. Surely no other thing in this world ever found itself more
admired or prized than this something did. The commonest
passer-by would notice it, and say all manner of fine things in its
praise, whether in the early spring, the full summer, or the autumn,
for at each of these seasons it put on a fresh charm, and formed a subject
of conversation. ‘Only look at that lovely - hm - ’
was quite a common exclamation at the sight of it. ‘What
a colour it has! How fresh and healthy it looks! How invaluable
it must be! Why, it must be worth at least - ’ and then
the speaker would go calculating away at the number of pounds, shillings,
and pence, the - hm - would fetch, if put into the money-market, which
is, I am sorry to say, a very usual, although very degrading way of
estimating worth.
“To conclude, the mild-eyed Alderney cow, who pastured in the
field during the autumn months, would chew the cud of approbation over
the - hm - for hours together, and people said it was no wonder at all
that she gave such delicious milk and cream.”
Here a shout of supposed discovery broke from No. 5. “I’ve
guessed, I know it!”
But a “hush” from Aunt Judy stopped him short.
“No. 5, nobody asked your opinion, keep it to yourself, if you
please.”
No. 5 was silenced, but rubbed his hands nevertheless.
“Well,” continued Aunt Judy, “that ‘something’
ought surely to have been the most contented thing in the world.
Its merits were acknowledged; its usefulness was undoubted; its beauty
was the theme of constant admiration; what had it left to wish for?
Really nothing; but by an unlucky accident it became dissatisfied with
its situation in a meadow field, and wished to get into a higher position
in life, which, it took for granted, would be more suited to its many
exalted qualities. The ‘something’
of the field wanted to inhabit a garden. The unlucky accident
that gave rise to this foolish idea, was as follows:-
“A little boy was running across the beautiful meadow one morning,
with a tin-pot full of fishing bait in his hand, when suddenly he stumbled
and fell down.
“The bait in the tin-pot was some lob-worms, which the little
boy had collected out of the garden adjoining the field, and they were
spilt and scattered about by his fall.
“He picked up as many as he could find, however, and ran off again;
but one escaped his notice and was left behind.
“This gentleman was insensible for a few seconds; but as soon
as he came to himself, and discovered that he was in a strange place,
he began to grumble and find fault.
“‘What an uncouth neighbourhood!’ Such were
his exclamations. ‘What rough impracticable roads!
Was ever lob-worm so unlucky before!’ It was impossible
to move an inch without bumping his sides against some piece of uncultivated
ground.
“Judge for yourselves, my dears,” continued Aunt Judy, pathetically,
“what must have been the feelings of the ‘something’
which had lived proudly and happily in the meadow field for so long,
on hearing such offensive remarks.
“Its spirit was up in a minute, just as yours would have been,
and it did not hesitate to inform the intruder that travellers who find
fault with a country before they have taken the trouble to inquire into
its merits, are very ignorant and impertinent people.
“This was blow for blow, as you perceive; and the teaze-and-twit
system was now continued with great animation on both sides.
“The lob-worm inquired, with a conceited wriggle, what could be
the merits of a country, where gentlemanly, gliding, thin-skinned creatures
like himself were unable to move about without personal annoyance?
Whereupon the amiable ‘something’ made no
scruple of telling the lob-worm that his betters found no fault
with the place, and instanced its friend and admirer the Alderney cow.
“On which the lob-worm affected forgetfulness, and exclaimed,
‘Cow? cow? do I know the creature? Ah! Yes, I recollect
now; clumsy legs, horny feet, and that sort of thing,’ proceeding
to hint that what was good enough for a cow, might yet not be refined
enough for his own more delicate habits.
“‘It is my misfortune, perhaps,’ concluded he, with
mock humility, ‘to have been accustomed to higher associations;
but really, situated as I am here, I could almost feel disposed to -
why, positively, to wish myself a cow, with clumsy legs and horny feet.
What one may live to come to, to be sure!’
“Well,” Aunt Judy proceeded, “will you believe it,
the lob-worm went on boasting till the poor deluded ‘something’
believed every word he said, and at last ventured to ask in what
favoured spot he had acquired his superior tastes and knowledge.
“And then, of course, the lob-worm had the opportunity of opening
out in a very magnificent bit of brag, and did not fail to do so.
“Travellers can always boast with impunity to stationary folk,
and the lob-worm had no conscience about speaking the truth.
So on he chattered, giving the most splendid account of the garden in
which he lived. Gorgeous flowers, velvet lawns, polished gravel-walks,
along which he was wont to take his early morning stroll, before the
ruder creatures of the neighbourhood, such as dogs, cats, &c. were
up and about, were all his discourse; and he spoke of them as if they
were his own, and told of the nursing and tending of every plant in
the lovely spot, as if the gardeners did it all for his convenience
and pleasure.
“Of the little accidents to which he and his race have from time
immemorial been liable from awkward spades, or those very early birds,
by whom he ran a risk of being snapped up every time he emerged out
of the velvet lawns for the morning strolls, he said just nothing at
all.
“All was unmixed delight (according to his account) in the garden,
and having actually boasted himself into good humour with himself, and
therefore with everybody else, he concluded by expressing the condescending
wish, that the ‘something’ in the field should
get itself removed to the garden, to enjoy the life of which he spoke.
“‘Undeniably beautiful as you are here,’ cried he,
‘your beauty will increase a thousand fold, under the gardener’s
fostering care. Appreciated as you are now in your rustic life,
the most prominent place will be assigned to you when you get into more
distinguished society; so that everybody who passes by and sees you,
will exclaim in delight, ‘Behold this exquisite - hm - !’”
“Oh dear, Aunt Judy,” cried No. 6, “was the ‘hum,’
as you will call it, so silly as to believe what he said?”
“How could the poor simple-minded thing be expected to resist
such elegant compliments, my dear No. 6?” answered Aunt Judy.
“But then came the difficulty. The ‘something’
which lived in the field had no more legs than the lob-worm himself,
and, in fact, was incapable of locomotion.”
“Of course it was!” ejaculated No. 5.
“Order!” cried Aunt Judy, and proceeded:-
“So the - hm - hung down its graceful head in despair, but suddenly
a bright and loving thought struck it. It could not change its
place and rise in life itself, but its children might, and that would
be some consolation. It opened its heart on this point to the
lob-worm, and although the lob-worm had no heart to be touched, he had
still a tongue to talk.
“If the - hm - would send its children to the garden at the first
opportunity, he would be delighted, absolutely charmed, to introduce
them in the world. He would put them in the way of everything,
and see that they were properly attended to. There was nothing
he couldn’t or wouldn’t do.
“This last pretentious brag seemed to have exhausted even the
lob-worm’s ingenuity, for, soon after he had uttered it, he shuffled
away out of the meadow in the best fashion that he could, leaving the
‘something’ in the field in a state of wondering
regret. But it recovered its spirits again when the time came
for sending its children to the favoured garden abode.
“‘My dears,’ it said, ‘you will soon have to
begin life for yourselves, and I hope you will do so with credit to
your bringing up. I hope you are now ambitious enough to despise
the dull old plan of dropping contentedly down, just where you happen
to be, or waiting for some chance traveller (who may never come) to
give you a lift elsewhere. That paradise of happiness, of which
the lob-worm told us, is close at hand. Come! it only wants a
little extra exertion on your part, and you will be carried thither
by the wind, as easily as the wandering Dandelion himself. Courage,
my dears! nothing out of the common is ever gained without an effort.
See now! as soon as ever a strong breeze blows the proper way, I shall
shake my heads as hard as ever I can, that you may be off. All
the doors and windows are open now, you know, and you must throw yourselves
out upon the wind. Only remember one thing, when you are settled
down in the beautiful garden, mind you hold up your heads, and do yourselves
justice, my dears.’
“The children gave a ready assent, of course, as proud as possible
at the notion; and when the favourable breeze came, and the maternal
heads were shaken, out they all flew, and trusted themselves to its
guidance, and in a few minutes settled down all over the beautiful garden,
some on the beds, some on the lawn, some on the polished gravel-walks.
And all I can say is, happiest those who were least seen!”
“Grass weeds! grass weeds!” shouted the incorrigible No.
5, jumping up from his seat and performing two or three Dervish-like
turns.
“Oh, it’s too bad, isn’t it, Aunt Judy,” cried
No. 6, “to stop your story in the middle?”
Whereupon Aunt Judy answered that he had not stopped the story in the
middle, but at the end, and she was glad he had found out the meaning
of her - hm - !
But No. 6 would not be satisfied, she liked to hear the complete finish
up of everything. “Did the ‘hum’s’
children ever grow up in the garden, and did they ever see the lob-worm
again?”
“The - hm’s - children did spring up in the garden,”
answered Aunt Judy, “and did their best to exhibit their beauty
on the polished gravel-walks, where they were particularly delighted
with their own appearance one May morning after a shower of rain, which
had made them more prominent than usual. ‘Remember our mother’s
advice,’ cried they to each other. ‘This is the happy
moment! Let us hold up our heads, and do ourselves justice, my
dears.’
“Scarcely were the words spoken, when a troop of rude creatures
came scampering into the walk, and a particularly unfeeling monster
in curls, pointed to the beautiful up-standing little - hms - and shouted,
‘Aunt Judy, look at these horrible weeds!’
“I needn’t say any more,” concluded Aunt Judy.
“You know how you’ve used them; you know what you’ve
done to them; you know how you’ve even wished there were no
such things in the world!”
“Oh, Aunt Judy, how capital!” ejaculated No. 6, with a sigh,
the sigh of exhausted amusement.
“‘The hum was a weed too, then, was it?” said
No. 8. He did not quite see his way through the tale.
“It was not a weed in the meadow,” answered Aunt Judy, “where
it was useful, and fed the Alderney cow. It was beautiful Grass
there, and was counted as such, because that was its proper place.
But when it put its nose into garden-walks, where it was not wanted,
and had no business, then everybody called the beautiful Grass a weed.”
“So a weed is a vegetable out of its place, you see,” subjoined
No. 5, who felt the idea to be half his own, “and it won’t
do to wish there were none in the world.”
“And a vegetable out of its place being nothing better than a
weed, Mr. No. 5,” added Aunt Judy, “it won’t do to
be too anxious about what is so often falsely called, bettering your
condition in life. Come, the story is done, and now we’ll
go home, and all the patient listeners and weeders may reckon upon getting
one or more farthings apiece from mamma. And as No. 6’s
wish is not realized, and there are still weeds {1}
in the world, and among them Grass weeds, I shall hope to have
some cream to my tea.”
COOK STORIES.
“Down too, down at your own fireside,
With the evil tongue and the evil ear,
For each is at war with mankind.”
TENNYSON’S Maud.
Aunt Judy had gone to the nursery wardrobe to look over some clothes,
and the little ones were having a play to themselves. As she opened
the door, they were just coming to the end of an explosive burst of
laughter, in which all the five appeared to have joined, and which they
had some difficulty in stopping. No. 4, who was a biggish girl,
had giggled till the tears were running over her cheeks; and No. 8,
in sympathy, was leaning back in his tiny chair in a sort of ecstasy
of amusement.
The five little ones had certainly hit upon some very entertaining game.
They were all (boys and girls alike) dressed up as elderly ladies, with
bits of rubbishy finery on their heads and round their shoulders, to
imitate caps and scarfs; the boys’ hair being neatly parted and
brushed down the middle; and they were seated in form round what was
called “the Doll’s Table,” a concern just large enough
to allow of a small crockery tea-service, with cups and saucers and
little plates, being set out upon it.
“What have you got there?” was all Aunt Judy asked, as she
went up to the table to look at them.
“Cowslip-tea,” was No. 4’s answer, laying her hand
on the fat pink tea-pot; and thereupon the laughing explosion went off
nearly as loudly as before, though for no accountable reason that Aunt
Judy could divine.
“It’s so good, Aunt Judy, do taste it!” exclaimed
No. 8, jumping up in a great fuss, and holding up his little cup, full
of a pale-buff fluid, to Aunt Judy.
“You’ll have everything over,” cried No. 4, calling
him to order; and in truth the table was not the steadiest in the world.
So No. 8 sat down again, calling out, in an almost stuttering hurry,
“You may keep it all, Aunt Judy, I don’t want any more.”
But neither did Aunt Judy, after she had given it one taste; so she
put the cup down, thanking No. 8 very much, but pulling such a funny
face, that it set the laugh going once more; in the middle of which
No. 4 dropped an additional lump of sugar into the rejected buff-coloured
mixture, a proceeding which evidently gave No. 8 a new relish for the
beverage.
Aunt Judy had got beyond the age when cowslip-tea was looked upon as
one of the treats of life; and she had not, on the other hand, lived
long enough to love the taste of it for the memory’s sake of the
enjoyment it once afforded.
Not but what we are obliged to admit that cowslip-tea is one of those
things which, even in the most enthusiastic days of youth, just falls
short of the absolute perfection one expects from it.
Even under those most favourable circumstances of having had the delightful
gathering of the flowers in the sweet sunny fields - the picking of
them in the happy holiday afternoon - the permission to use the best
doll’s tea-service for the feast - the loan of a nice white table-cloth
- and the present of half-a-dozen pewter knives and forks to fancy-cut
the biscuits with - nay, even in spite of the addition of well-filled
doll’s sugar-pots and cream-jugs - cowslip-tea always seems to
want either a leetle more or a leetle less sugar - or a leetle more
or a leetle less cream - or to be a leetle more or a leetle less strong
- to turn it into that complete nectar which, of course, it really is.
On the present occasion, however, the children had clearly got hold
of some other source of enjoyment over the annual cowslip-tea feast,
besides the beverage itself; and Aunt Judy, glad to see them so safely
happy, went off to her business at the wardrobe, while the little ones
resumed their game.
“Very extraordinary, indeed, ma’am!” began one of
the fancy old ladies, in a completely fancy voice, a little affected,
or so. “Most extraordinary, ma’am, I may say!”
(Here there was a renewed giggle from No. 4, which she carefully smothered
in her handkerchief.)
“But still I think I can tell you of something more extraordinary
still!”
The speaker having at this point refreshed his ideas by a sip of the
pale-coloured tea, and the other ladies having laughed heartily in anticipation
of the fun that was coming, one of them observed:-
“You don’t say so, ma’am - ” then clicked
astonishment with her tongue against the roof of her mouth several times,
and added impressively, “Pray let us hear!”
“I shall be most happy, ma’am,” resumed the first
speaker, with a graceful inclination forwards. “Well! -
you see - it was a party. I had invited some of my most distinguished
friends - really, ma’am, fashionable friends, I may say,
to dinner; and, ahem! you see - some little anxiety always attends such
affairs - even - in the best regulated families!”
Here the speaker winked considerably at No. 4, and laughed very loudly
himself at his own joke.
“Dear me, you must excuse me, ma’am,” he proceeded.
“So, you see, I felt a little fatigued by my morning’s exertions,
(to tell you the truth, there had been no end of bother about everything!)
and I retired quietly up-stairs to take a short nap before the dressing-bell
rang. But I had not been laid down quite half an hour, when there
was a loud knock at the door. Really, ma’am, I felt quite
alarmed, but was just able to ask, ‘Who’s there?’
Before I had time to get an answer, however, the door was burst open
by the housemaid. Her face was absolute scarlet, and she sobbed
out:-
“‘Oh, ma’am, what shall we do?’
“‘Good gracious, Hannah,’ cried I, ‘what can
be the matter? Has the soot come down the chimney? Speak!’
“‘It’s nothing of that sort, ma’am,’ answered
Hannah, ‘it’s the cook!’
“‘The cook!’ I shouted. ‘I wish you would
not be so foolish, Hannah, but speak out at once. What about Cook?’
“‘Please, m’m, the cook’s lost!’ says
Hannah. ‘We can’t find her!’
“‘Your wits are lost, Hannah, I think,’ cried
I, and sent her to tidy the rooms while I slipt downstairs to look for
the cook.
“Fancy a lost cook, ma’am! Was there ever such a ridiculous
idea? And on the day of a dinner-party too! Did you ever
hear of such a trial to a lady’s feelings before?”
“Never, I am sure,” responded the lady opposite. “Did
you, ma’am?” turning to her neighbour.
But the other three ladies all shook their heads, bit their lips, and
declared that they “Never had, they were sure!”
“I thought not!” ejaculated the narrator. “Well,
ma’am, I went into the kitchens, the larder, the pantries, the
cellars, and all sorts of places, and still no cook! Do you know,
she really was nowhere! Actually, ma’am, the cook was lost!”
Shouts of laughter burst forth here; but the lady (who was No. 5) put
up his hand, and called out in his own natural tones:-
“Stop! I haven’t got to the end yet!”
“Order!” proclaimed No. 4 immediately, in a very commanding
voice, and thumping the table with the head of an old wooden doll to
enforce obedience.
And then the sham lady proceeded in the same mincing voice as before:-
“Well! - dear me, I’m quite put out. But however,
you see - what was to be done, that was the thing. It wanted only
half an hour to dinner-time, and there was the meat roasting away by
itself, and the potatoe-pan boiling over. You never heard such
a fizzling as it made in your life - in short, everything was in a mess,
and there was no cook.
“Well! I basted the meat for a few minutes, took the potatoe-pan
off the fire, and then ran up-stairs to put on my bonnet. Thought
I, the best thing I can do is to send somebody for the policeman, and
let him find the cook. But while I was tying the strings
of my bonnet, I fancied I heard a mysterious noise coming out of the
bottom drawer of my wardrobe. Fancy that, ma’am, with my
nerves in such a state from the cook being lost!”
No. 5 paused, and looked round for sympathy, which was most freely given
by the other ladies, in the shape of sighs and exclamations.
“The drawer was a very deep drawer, ma’am, so I thought
perhaps the cat had crept in,” continued No. 5. “Well,
I went to it to see, and there it was, partly open, with a cotton gown
in it that didn’t belong to me. Imagine my feelings at that,
ma’am! So I pulled at the handles to get the drawer
quite open, but it wouldn’t come, it was as heavy as lead.
It was really very alarming - one doesn’t like such odd things
happening - but at last I got it open, though I tumbled backwards as
I did so; and what do you think, ma’am - ladies - what do you
think was in it?”
“The cook!” shrieked No. 4, convulsed with laughter; and
the whole party clapped their hands and roared applause.
“The cook, ma’am, actually the cook!” pursued No.
5, “one of the fattest, most poonchy little women you ever
saw. And what do you think was the history of it? I kept
my up-stairs Pickwick in the corner of that bottom drawer. She
had seen it there that very morning, when she was helping to dust the
room, and took the opportunity of a spare half-hour to slip up and rest
herself by reading it in the drawer. Unluckily, however, she had
fallen asleep, and when I got the drawer out, there she lay, and I actually
heard her snore. A shocking thing this education, ma’am,
you see, and teaching people to read. All the cooks in the country
are spoilt!”
Peals of laughter greeted this wonderfully witty concoction of No. 5’s,
and the lemon-coloured tea and biscuits were partaken of during the
pause which followed.
Aunt Judy meanwhile, who had been quite unable to resist joining in
the laugh herself, was seated on the floor, behind the open door of
the wardrobe, thinking to herself of certain passages in Wordsworth’s
most beautiful ode, in which he has described the play of children,
“As if their whole vocation
Were endless imitation.”
Truly they had got hold here of strange
“Fragments from their dream of human life.”
Where could the children have picked up the original of such
absurd nonsense?
Aunt Judy had no time to make it out, for now the mincing voices began
again, and she sat listening.
“Have you had no curious adventures with your maids, ma’am?”
inquires No. 5 of No. 4.
No. 5 makes an attempt at a bewitching grin as he speaks, fanning himself
with a fan which he has had in his hand all the time he was telling
his story.
“Well, ladies,” replied No. 4, only just able to compose
herself to talk, “I don’t think I have been quite
as fortunate as yourselves in having so many extraordinary things to
tell. My servants have been sadly common-place, and done just
as they ought. But still, once, ladies - once, a curious
little incident did occur to me.”
“Oh, ma’am, I entreat you - pray let us hear it!”
burst from all the ladies at once.
No. 4 had to bite her lip to preserve her gravity, and then she turned
to No. 5 -
“The fan, if you please, ma’am!”
The rule was, that the one fan was placed at the disposal of the story-teller
for the time, so No. 5 handed it to No. 4, with a graceful bow; and
No. 4 waffed it to and fro immediately, and began her account:-
“People are so unscrupulous you see, ladies, about giving characters.
It’s really shocking. For my part, I don’t know what
the world will come to at last. We shall all have to be our own
servants, I suppose. People say anything about anything, that’s
the fact! Only fancy, ma’am, three different ladies once
recommended a cook to me as the best soup-maker in the country.
Now that sounded a very high recommendation, for, of course, if a cook
can make soups, she can do anything - sweetmeats and those kind of things
follow of themselves. So, ma am, I took her, and had a dinner-party,
and ordered two soups, entirely that I might show off what a good cook
I had got. Think what a compliment to her, and how much obliged
she ought to have been! Well, ma’am, I ordered the two soups,
as I said, one white, and the other brown; and everything appeared to
be going on in the best possible manner, when, as I was sitting in the
drawing-room entertaining the company, I was told I was wanted.
“When I got out of the room, there was the man I had hired to
wait, and says he:-
“‘If you please, ma’am where are the knives?
I can’t find any at all!’
“‘No knives!’ says I. ‘Dear me, don’t
come to me about the knives. Ask the cook, of course.’
“‘Please, ma’am, I have asked her, and she only laughed.’
“‘Then,’ said I, ‘ask the housemaid. It’s
impossible for me to come out and look for the knives.’
“Well, ladies,” continued No. 4, “would you believe
it? - could anyone believe it? - when I sat down to dinner, and began
to help the soup, no sooner had the silver ladle (my ladle is
silver, ladies) been plunged into the tureen, than a most singular rattling
was heard.
“‘William,’ cried I, half in a whisper, to the waiter
who was holding the plate, ‘what in the world is this? Surely
Cook has not left the bones in?’
“‘Please, ma’am, I don’t know,’ was all
the man could say.
“Well - there was no remedy now, so I dipped the ladle in again,
and lifted out - oh! ma’am, I know if it was anybody but myself
who told you, you wouldn’t believe it - a ladleful of the lost
knives! There they were, my best beautiful ivory handles, all
in the white soup! And while I was discovering them, the gentleman
at the other end of the table had found all the kitchen-knives, with
black handles, in the brown soup!
“There never was anything so mortifying before. And what
do you think was Cook’s excuse, when I reproached her?
“‘Please, ma’am,’ said she, ‘I read in
the Young Woman’s Vademecum of Instructive Information,
page 150, that there was nothing in the world so strengthening and
wholesome as dissolved bones, and ivory-dust; and so, ma’am, I
always make a point of throwing in a few knives into every soup I have
the charge of, for the sake of the handles - ivory-handles for white
soups, ma’am, and black-handles for the browns!’”
Thunders of applause interrupted Cook’s excuse at this point,
and No. 7 was so overcome that he pushed his chair back, and performed
three distinct somersets on the floor, to the complete disorganization
of his head-dress, which consisted of a turban, from beneath which hung
a cluster of false curls.
Turban and wig being replaced, however, and No. 7 reseated and composed,
No. 4 proceeded:-
“Cook generally takes them out, she informed me, ladies, before
the tureens come to table; ‘but,’ said she, ‘my back
was turned for a minute here, ma’am, and that stupid William carried
them off without asking if they were ready. It’s all William’s
fault, ma’am; and I don’t mean to stay, for I don’t
like a place where the man who waits has no tact!’
“Now, ladies,” continued No. 4, “what do you think
of that by way of a speech from a cook? And I assure you that
a medical man’s wife, to whom I mentioned in the course of the
evening what Cook had said about dissolved bones, told me that her husband
had only laughed, and said Cook was quite right. So she hired
the woman that night herself, and I have been told in confidence since
- you’ll not repeat it, therefore, of course, ladies?”
“Of course not!” came from all sides.
“Well, then, I was told that, before the year was out, the family
hadn’t a knife that would cut anything, they were so cankered
with rust. So much for education and learning to read, as you
justly observed, ma’am, before!”
When the emotions produced by this tale had a little subsided, No. 7
was called upon for his experience of maids.
No. 7, with the turban on his head, and a fine red necklace round his
throat, said he took very little notice of the maids, but that he once
had had a very tiresome little boy in buttons, who was extremely fond
of sugar, and always carried the sugar-shaker in his pocket, and ate
up the sugar that was in it, and when it was empty, filled it up with
magnesia.
“But once,” he added, “ladies, he actually
put some soda in. It was at a party, and we had our first rhubarb
tart for the season, and the company sprinkled it all over with the
soda and began to eat, but they were too polite to say how nasty it
was. But, of course, when I was helped I called out. And
what do you think the boy in buttons said?”
Nobody could guess, so No. 7 had to tell them.
“He said he had put it in on purpose, because he thought it would
correct the acid of the pie. So I said he had best be apprenticed
to a doctor; so he went - I dare say, ma’am, it was the same doctor
who took your cook - but I never heard of him any more, and I’ve
never dared to have a boy in buttons again.”
“A very wise decision, ma’am, I’m sure!” cried
Aunt Judy, who came up to the wonderful tea-table in the midst of the
last mound of applause. “And now may I ask what game this
is that you are playing at?”
“Oh, we’re telling Cook Stories, Aunt Judy,”
cried No. 6, seizing her by the arm; “they’re such capital
fun! I wish you had heard mine; they were laughing at it when
you first came in!”
“It must have been delicious, to judge by the delight it gave,”
replied Aunt Judy, smiling, and kissing No. 6’s oddly bedizened
up-turned face. “But what I want to know is, what put Cook
Stories, as you call them, into your head?”
“Oh! don’t you remember - ” and here followed a long
account from No. 6 of how, about a week before, the little ones had
gone somewhere to spend the day, and how it had turned out a very rainy
day, so that they could not have games out of doors with their young
friends, as had been expected, but were obliged to sit a great part
of the time in the drawing-room, putting Chinese puzzles together into
stupid patterns, and playing at fox-and-goose, while the ladies were
talking “grown-up conversation,” as No. 6 worded it, among
themselves; and, of course, being on their own good behaviour, and very
quiet, they could not help hearing what was said. “And,
oh dear, Aunt Judy,” continued No. 6, now with both her arms holding
Aunt Judy, of whom she was very fond, (except at lesson times!) round
the waist, “it was so odd! No. 7 and I did nothing at last
but listen and watch them; for little Miss, who sat with us,
was shy, and wouldn’t talk, and it was so very funny to see the
ladies nodding and making faces at each other, and whispering, and exclaiming,
how shocking! how abominable! you don’t say so! and all that kind
of thing!”
“Well, but what was shocking, and abominable, and all that kind
of thing?” inquired Aunt Judy.
“Oh, I don’t know - things the nurses, and cooks, and boys
in buttons did. Almost all the ladies had some story to tell -
all the servants had done something or other queer - but especially
the cooks, Aunt Judy, there was no end to the cooks. So one day
after we came back, and we didn’t know what to play at, I said:
‘Do let us play at telling Cook Stories, like the ladies at
-- .’ So we’ve dressed up, and played at Cook Stories,
ever since. Dear Aunt Judy, I wish you would invent a Cook Story
yourself!” was the conclusion of No. 6’s account.
So then the mystery was out. Aunt Judy’s wonderings were
cut short. Out of the real life of civilized intelligent
society had come those
“Fragments from their dream of human life,”
which Aunt Judy had called absurd nonsense. And absurd nonsense,
indeed, it was; but Aunt Judy was seized by the idea that some good
might be got out of it.
So, in answer to No. 6’s wish, she said, with a shy smile:-
“I don’t think I could tell Cook Stories half as well as
yourself. But if, by way of a change, you would like a Lady
Story instead, perhaps I might be able to accomplish that.”
“A Lady Story! Oh, but that would be so dull, wouldn’t
it?” inquired No. 6. “You can’t make anything
funny out of them, surely! Surely they never do half such odd
things as cooks, and boys in buttons!”
“The ladies themselves think not, of course,” was Aunt Judy’s
reply.
“Well, but what do you think, Aunt Judy?”
“Oh, I don’t think it matters what I think. The question
is, what do cooks and boys in buttons think?”
“But, Aunt Judy, ladies are never tiresome, and idle, and impertinent,
like cooks and boys in buttons. Oh! if you had but heard the real
Cook Stories those ladies told! I say, let me tell you one
or two - I do think I can remember them, if I try.”
“Then don’t try on any account, dear No. 6,” exclaimed
Aunt Judy. “I like make-believe Cook Stories much better
than real ones.”
“So do I!” cried No. 7, “they’re so much the
more entertaining.”
“And not a bit less useful,” subjoined Aunt Judy, with a
sly smile.
“Well, I didn’t see much good in the real ones,” pursued
No. 7, in a sort of muse.
“Let us tell you another make-believe one, then,” cried
No. 6, who saw that Aunt Judy was moving off, and wanted to detain her.
“Then it’s my turn!” shouted No. 8, jumping
up, and stretching out his arm and hand like a young orator flushed
to his work. And actually, before the rest of the little ones
could put him down or stop him, No. 8 contrived to tumble out the Cook
Story idea, which had probably been brewing in his head all the time
of Aunt Judy’s talk.
It was very brief, and this was it, delivered in much haste, and with
all the earnestness of a maiden speech.
“I had a button boy too, and he was a - what d’ye
call it - oh, a rascal, that was it; - he was a rascal, and liked
the currants in mince-pies, so he took them all out, and ate them up,
and put in glass beads instead. So when the people began to ear,
their teeth crunched against the beads! Ah! bah! how nasty it
was!”
No. 8 accompanied this remark with a corresponding grimace of disgust,
and then observed in conclusion:-
“Perhaps he found it in a book, but I don’t know where,”
after which he lowered his outstretched arm, smiled, and sat down.
The company clapped applause, and No. 4 especially must have been very
fond of laughing, for the glass-bead anecdote set her off again as heartily
as ever, and the rest followed in her wake, and while so doing, never
noticed that Aunt Judy had slipped away.
They soon discovered it, however, when their mirth began to subside;
but before they had time to wonder much, there appeared from behind
the door of the wardrobe a figure, which in their secret souls they
knew to be Aunt Judy herself, although it looked a great deal stouter,
and had a thick-filled cap on its head, a white linen apron over its
gown, and a pair of spectacles on its nose. At sight of it they
showed signs of clapping again, but stopped short when it spoke to them
as a stranger, and willingly received it as such.
Ah! it is one of the sweet features of childhood that it yields itself
up so readily to any little surprise or delusion that is prepared for
its amusement. No nasty pride, no disinclination to be carried
away, no affected indifference, interfere with young children’s
enjoyment of what is offered them. They will even help themselves
into the pleasant visions by an effort of will; and perhaps, now and
then, end by partly believing what they at first received voluntarily
as an agreeable make-believe.
If, therefore, after the cook figure of Aunt Judy had seated itself
by the doll’s table, and the little ones had looked and grinned
at it for some time, hazy sensations began to steal over one or two
minds, that this was somehow really a cook, it was all in the
natural course of things, and nobody resisted the feeling.
Aunt Judy’s altered voice, and odd, assumed manner, contributed,
no doubt, a good deal to the impression.
“Dear, dear! what pretty little darlings you all are!” she
began, looking at them one after another. “As sweet as sugar-plums,
when you have your own way, and are pleased. Eh, dears?
But you don’t think you can take old Cooky in, do you? No,
no, I know what ladies and gentlemen, and ladies’ and gentlemen’s
young ladies and young gentlemen are, pretty well, dears,
I can tell you! Don’t I know all about the shiny hair and
smiling faces of the little pets in the parlour, and how they leave
parlour-manners behind them sometimes, when they run to the kitchen
to Cook, and order her here and there, and want half-a-dozen things
at once, and must and will have what they want, and are for popping
their fingers into every pie!
“Well, well,” she proceeded, “the parlour’s
the parlour, and the kitchen’s the kitchen, and I’m only
a cook. But then I conduct myself as Cook, even when I’m
in the scullery, and I only wish ladies, and ladies’ young
ladies too, would conduct themselves as ladies, even when they come
into the kitchen; that’s what I call being honourable and upright.
Well, dears, I’ll tell you how I came to know all about it.
You see, I lived once in a family where there were no less than eight
of those precious little pets, and a precious time I had of it with
them. But, to be sure, now it’s past and gone - I can make
plenty of excuses for them, poor things! They were so coaxed and
flattered, and made so much of, what could be expected from them but
tiresome, wilful ways, without any sense?
“‘If your mamma would but put you into the scullery,
young miss, to learn to wash plates and scour the pans out, she’d
make a woman of you,’ used I to think to myself when a silly child,
who thought itself very clever to hinder other people’s work,
would come hanging about in the kitchen, doing nothing but teaze and
find fault, for that’s what a girl can always do.
“It was very aggravating, you may be sure, dears, (you see I can
talk to you quite reasonably, because you’re so nicely behaved;)
- it was very aggravating, of course; but I used to make allowances
for them. Says I to myself, ‘Cook, you’ve had the
blessing of being brought up to hard work ever since you were a babby.
You’ve had to earn your daily bread. Nobody knows how that
brings people to their senses till they’ve tried; so don’t
you go and be cocky, because ladies and gentlemen, and ladies’
and gentlemen’s young ladies and young gentlemen,
are not quite so sensible as you are. Who knows but what, if you’d
been born to do nothing, you might have been no wiser than them!
It’s lucky for you you’re only a cook; but don’t you
go and be cocky, that’s all! Make allowances; it’s
the secret of life!’
“So you see, dears, I did make allowances; and after the
eight little pets was safe in bed till next morning, I used to feel
quite composed, and pitiful-like towards them, poor little dears!
But certainly, when morning came, and the oldest young master was home
for the holidays, it was a trying time for me, and I couldn’t
think of the allowances any longer. Either he wouldn’t get
up and come down till everyone else had had their breakfast, and so
he wanted fresh water boiled, and fresh tea made, and another muffin
toasted, and more bacon fried; or else he was up so outrageous early,
that he was scolding because there was no hot water before the fire
was lit - bless you, he hadn’t a bit of sense in his head, poor
boy, not a bit! And how should he? Why, he went to school
as soon as he was out of petticoats, and was set to all that Latin and
Greek stuff that never puts anything useful into folks’ heads,
but so much more chatter and talk; so he came back as silly as he went,
poor thing! Dear me, on a wet day, after lesson-time, those boys
were like so many crazy creatures. ‘Cook, I must make a
pie,’ says one. ‘There’s a pie in the oven already,
Master James,’ says I. ‘I don’t care about the
pie in the oven,’ says he, ‘I want a pie of my own.
Bring me the flour, and the water, and the butter, and all the things
- and, above all, the rolling-pin - and clear the decks, will you, I
say, for my pie. Here goes!’ And here used to go,
my dears, for Master James had no sense, as I told you; and so he’d
shove all my pots and dishes away, one on the top of the other; and
let me be as busy as I would, and dinner ever so near ready, the dresser
must be cleared, and everything must give way to his pie!
His pie, indeed - I wish I had had the management of his pie just then!
I’d have taught him what it was to come shaking the rolling-pin
at the head of a respectable cook, who wanted to get her business done
properly, as in duty bound!
“But he wasn’t the only one. There was little Whipper-snapper,
his younger brother, squeaking out in another corner, ‘I shan’t
make a pie, James, I shall make toffey; it’s far better fun.
You’d better come and help me. Where’s the treacle
pot, Cook? Cook! I say, Cook! where’s the treacle-pot?
And look at this stupid kettle and pan. What’s in the pan,
I wonder? Oh, kidney-beans! Who cares for kidney-beans?
How can I make toffey, when all these things are on the fire?
Stay, I’ll hand them all off!’
“And, sure enough, if I hadn’t rushed from Master James,
who was drinking away at my custard out of the bowl, to seize on Whipper-snapper,
who had got his hand on the vegetable-pan already, he would have pulled
it and the kettle, and the whole concern, off the fire, and perhaps
scalded himself to death.
“Then, of course, there comes a scuffle, and Master Whipper-snapper
begins to roar, and out comes Missus, who, poor thing, had no more sense
in her head than her sons, though she’d never been to school to
lose it over Latin and Greek; and, says she, with all her ribbons streaming,
and her petticoats swelled out like a window-curtain in a draught -
says she:-
“‘Cook! I desire that you will not touch my children!’
“‘As you please, ma’am,’ says I, ‘if you’ll
be so good as to stop the young gentlemen from touching my pans, and
- ’ I was going to say ‘custard,’ but Master James
shouts out quite quick:-
“‘Why, I only wanted to make a pie, mamma.’
“‘And I only wanted to make some toffey!’ cries Whipper-snapper;
and then mamma answers, like a duchess at court:-
“‘There can’t possibly be any objection, my dears;
and I wish, Cook, you would he a little more good-natured to the children;
- your temper is sadly against you!’
“And out she sails, ribbons and window-curtains and all; and,
says I to myself, as I cooled down, (for the young gentlemen luckily
went away with their dear mama,) - says I to myself, ‘It’s
a very fine thing, no doubt, to go about in ribbons, and petticoats,
and grand clothes; but, if one must needs carry such a poor, silly head
inside them, as Missus does, I’d rather stop as I am, and be a
cook with some sense about me.’
“I don’t say, my dears,” continued the supposed cook,
“that I spoke very politely just then; but who could feel polite,
when their dinner had been put back at least half-an-hour over such
nonsense as that? Missus used to say the ‘dear boys’
came to the kitchen on a wet day, because they’d got nothing
else to do! Nothing else to do! and had learnt Latin and Greek,
and all sorts of schooling besides! So much for education, thought
I. Why, it would spoil the best lads that ever were born into
the world. For, of course, you know if these young gentlemen had
been put to decent trades, they’d have found something else to
do with their fingers besides mischief and waste. And, dear me,
I talk about not having been polite to Missus just then, but now you
tell me, dears, what Missus, with all her education, would have said
if she’d been in my place, when one young gentleman was drinking
her custard, and another young gentleman was pulling her pans on the
floor! Do you think she’d have been a bit more polite than
I was? Wouldn’t she have called me all the stupid creatures
that ever were born, and told the story over and over to all her friends
and acquaintance to make them stare, and say there were surely no such
simpletons in the world as ladies and gentlemen, and ladies’ and
gentlemen’s young ladies and young gentlemen?
“However, I did not go as far as that, because, you see, I had
some sense about me, and could make allowances for all the nonsense
the poor things are brought up to.”
There was no resisting the twinkle in Aunt Judy’s eye when she
came to this point, though it shone through an old pair of Nurse’s
spectacles; and the little ones clapped their hands, and declared it
was every bit as good as a Cook story, only a great deal better!
That twinkle had quite brought Aunt Judy back to them again, in spite
of her cook’s attire, and No. 6 cried out:-
“Oh! don’t stop, Aunt Judy! Do go on, Cooky dear!
do tell some more! Did you always live in that place, please?”
“There now!” exclaimed Aunt Judy, throwing herself back
in the chair, “isn’t that a regular young lady’s question,
out and out? Who but a young lady, with no more sense in her head
than a pin, would have thought of asking such a thing? Why, miss,
is there a joint in the world that can bear basting for ever?
No, no! a time comes when it must be taken down, if any good’s
to be left in it; and so at the end of three years my basting-time was
over, and the time for taking down was come.
“‘Cook,’ says I to myself, ‘you must give in.
If you go on with those cherubs (that was their company name, you know)
much longer, there won’t be a bit of you left!’ And,
sure enough, that very morning, dears, they’d come down upon me
with a fresh grievance, and I couldn’t stand it, I really couldn’t!
The sweeps had been by four o’clock to the kitchen chimney, and
I’d been up and toiling every minute since, and hadn’t had
time to eat my breakfast, when in they burst - the young ladies, not
the sweeps, dears, I mean:- and there they broke out at once - I hadn’t
fed their sea-gulls before breakfast - (a couple of dull-looking grey
birds, with big mouths, that had come in a hamper over night as a present
to the cherubs;) and it seems I ought to have been up before daylight
almost, to look for slugs for them in the garden till they’d got
used to the place!
“Oh, these ladies and gentlemen! they’d need know something
of some sort to make amends, for there are many things they never know
all their life long!
“‘Young ladies,’ says I, ‘I didn’t come
here to get meals ready for sea-gulls, but Christian ladies and gentlemen.
If the sea-gulls want a cook, your mamma must hire them one on purpose.
I’ve plenty to do for her and the family, without looking after
such nonsense as that!’
“‘That’s what you always say,’ whimpers the
youngest Miss; ‘and you know they don’t want any cooking,
but only raw slugs! And you know you might easily look for them,
because you’ve got almost nothing to do, because it’s such
an easy place, mamma always says. But you’re always cross,
mamma says that too, and everybody knows you are, because she tells
everybody!’
“When little Miss had got that out, she thought she’d finished
me up; and so she had, for when I heard that Missus was so ungenteel
as to go talking of what I did, to all her acquaintance, and had nothing
better to talk about, I made up my mind that I’d give notice that
very day.
“‘Very well, miss,’ says I, ‘your mamma shall
soon have something fresh to talk about, and I hope she’ll find
it a pleasant change.’
“There was some of them knew what I meant at once, for after they’d
scampered off I heard shouts up and down the stairs from one to the
other, ‘Cook’s going!’ ‘We shall have
a new cook soon!’ ‘What a lark we’ll have with
the toffey and the pies! We’ll make her do just as we choose!’
“‘There, now,’ thought I to myself, ‘there’ll
be somebody else put down to baste before long. Well, I’m
glad my time’s over.’ And thereupon I fell to wishing
I was back again in father and mother’s ricketty old cottage,
that I’d once been so proud to leave, to go and live with gentlefolks.
But, you see, it was no use wishing, for I’d my bread to earn,
and must turn out somewhere, let it be as disagreeable as it would.
Father and mother were dead, and there was no ricketty cottage for me
to go back to, so I wiped my eyes, and told myself to make the best
of what had to be.
“Well, dears,” pursued Cooky, after a short pause, during
which the little ones looked far more inclined to cry than laugh, “Missus
was quite taken aback when she heard I wouldn’t stay any longer.
“‘Cook,’ she said, ‘I’m perfectly astonished
at your want of sense in not recognizing the value of such a situation
as mine! and as to your complaints about the children, anything more
ridiculously unreasonable I never heard! Such superior, well-taught
young people, you are not very likely to meet with again in a hurry!’
“‘Perhaps not, ma’am,’ says I, ‘in French,
and crochet, and the piano, and Latin, and things I don’t understand,
being only a cook. But I know what behaviour is, and that’s
what I’m sure the young ladies and gentlemen have never been taught;
or if they have, they’re so slow at taking it in, that I think
I shall do better with a family where the behaviour-lessons come first!’
“Missus was very angry, and so was I; but at last she said:-
“‘Cook, I shall not argue with you any longer; you know
no better, and I suppose I must make allowances for you.’
“‘I’m much obliged to you, ma’am, I’m
sure,’ was my answer; ‘it’s what I’ve always
done by you ever since I came to the house, and I’ll do it still
with pleasure, and think no more of what’s been said.’
“I spoke from my heart, I can tell you, dears, for I felt very
sorry for Missus, and thought she was but a lady after all, and perhaps
I’d hardly made allowances enough. I’d lost my temper,
too, as I knew after she went away. But, you see, while she was
there, it was so mortifying to be spoken to as if all the sense was
on her side, when I knew it was all on mine, wherever the French and
crochet may have been. Well, but the day before I left, I broke
down with another of them, as it’s fair that you should know.
“I’d felt very lonely that day, busy as I was, and in the
afternoon I took myself into the scullery to give the pans a sort of
good-bye cleaning, and be out of everybody’s way. But there,
in the midst of it, comes the eldest young gentleman flinging into the
kitchen, shouting, ‘Cook! Cook! Where’s Cook?’
as usual. I thought he was after some of his old tricks, and I
had been fretting over those pans, thinking what a sad job it
was to have no home to go to in the world, so I gave him a very short
answer.
“‘Master James,’ says I, ‘I’ve done with
nonsense now, I can’t attend to you. You must wait till
the next cook comes.’
“But Master James came straight away to the scullery door, and
says he, ‘Cook, I’m not coming to teaze. I’ve
brought you a needle-book. There, Cook! It’s full
of needles. I put them all in myself. Keep it, please.’
“Dear, dear, I can’t forget it yet,” pursued Cook,
“how Master James stood on the little stone step of the scullery,
with his arm stretched out, and the needle-book that he’d bought
for me in his hand. I don’t know how I thanked him, I’m
sure; but I had to go back to the sink and wash the dirt off my hands
before I could touch the pretty little thing, and then I told him I
would keep it as long as ever I lived.
“He laughed, and says he, ‘Now shake hands, Cooky,’
and so we shook hands; and then off he ran, and I went back to my pans
and fairly cried.
“‘Why, Cook,’ says I to myself, ‘that lad’s
got as good a heart as your own, after all. And as to sense and
behaviour, they haven’t been forced upon him yet, as they have
upon you. Latin’s Latin, and conduct’s conduct, and
one doesn’t teach the other; and it’s too bad to expect
more of people than what they’ve had opportunity for.’
Well, dears, that was the rule I always went by, and I’ve been
in many situations since - with single ladies, and single gentlemen,
and large families, and all; and there was something to put up with
in all of them; and they always told me there was a good deal to put
up with in me, and perhaps there was. However, it doesn’t
matter, so long as Missus and servant go by one rule - to make
allowances, and not expect more from people than what they’ve
had opportunity for; and, above all, never to be cocky when all
the advantage is on their own side. It’s a good rule, dears,
and will stop many a foolish word and idle tale, if you’ll go
by it.”
Aunt Judy had finished at last, and she took off the old spectacles
and laid them on the doll’s table, and paused.
“It is a good rule,” observed No. 4, “and I
shall go by it, and not tell real Cook Stories when I grow up, I hope.”
“I love old Cooky,” cried No. 6, getting up and hugging
her round the neck; “but is it wrong, Aunt Judy, to tell funny
make-believe Cook Stories, like ours?”
“Not at all, No. 6,” replied Aunt Judy. “My
private belief is, that if you tell funny make-believe Cook Stories
while you’re little, you will be ashamed of telling stupid real
ones when you’re grown up.”
RABBITS’ TAILS.
“Death and its two-fold aspect! wintry - one,
Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out;
The other, which the ray divine hath touch’d,
Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring.”
WORDSWORTH.
“Well then; but you must remember that I have been ill, and cannot
be expected to invent anything very entertaining.”
“Oh, we do remember, indeed, Aunt Judy; we have been so miserable,”
was the answer; and the speaker added, shoving her little chair close
up to her sister’s:-
“I said if you were not to get better, I shouldn’t want
to get better either.”
“Hush, hush, No. 6!” exclaimed Aunt Judy, quite startled
by the expression; “it was not right to say or think that.”
“I couldn’t help it,” persisted No. 6. “We
couldn’t do without you, I’m sure.”
“We can do without anything which God chooses to take away,”
was Aunt Judy’s very serious answer.
“But I didn’t want to do without,” murmured No. 6,
with her eyes fixed on the floor.
“Dear No. 6, I know,” replied Aunt Judy, kindly; “but
that is just what you must try not to feel.”
“I can’t help feeling it,” reiterated No. 6, still
looking down.
“You have not tried, or thought about it yet,” suggested
her sister; “but do think. Think what poor ignorant infants
we all are in the hands of God, not knowing what is either good or bad
for us; and then you will see how glad and thankful you ought to be,
to be chosen for by somebody wiser than yourself. We must always
be contented with God’s choice about whatever happens.”
No. 6 still looked down, as if she were studying the pattern of the
rug, but she saw nothing of it, for her eyes were swimming over with
the tears that had filled into them, and at last she said:-
“I could, perhaps, about some things, but only not that about
you. Aunt Judy, you know what I mean.”
Aunt Judy leant back in her chair. “Only not that.”
It was, as she knew, the cry of the universal world, although it
broke now from the lips of a child. And it was painful, though
touching, to feel herself the treasure that could not be parted with.
So there was a silence of some minutes, during which the hand of the
little sister lay in that of the elder one.
But the latter soon roused up and spoke.
“I’ll tell you what, No. 6, there’s nothing so foolish
as talking of how we shall feel, and what we shall do, if so-and-so
happens. Perhaps it never may happen, or, if it does, perhaps
we may be helped to bear it quite differently from what we have expected.
So we won’t say anything more about it now.”
“I’m so glad!” exclaimed No. 6, completely reassured
and made comfortable by the cheerful tone of her sister’s remark,
though she had but a very imperfect idea of the meaning of it, as she
forthwith proved by rambling off into a sort of self-defence and self-justification.
“And I’m not really a baby now, you know, Aunt Judy!
And I do know a great many things that are good and bad for us.
I know that you are good for us, even when you scold over sums.”
“That is a grand admission, I must own,” replied Aunt Judy,
smiling; “I shall remind you of it some day.”
“Well, you may,” cried No. 6, earnestly; and added, “you
see I’m not half as silly as you thought.”
Aunt Judy looked at her, wondering how she should get the child to understand
what was passing through her own mind; wondering, too whether it was
right to make the attempt; and she decided that on the whole it was;
so she answered:-
“Ay, we grow wise enough among ourselves as we grow older, and
get to know a few more things. You are certainly a little wiser
than a baby in long petticoats, and I am a little wiser than you, and
mamma wiser than us both. But towards God we remain ignorant infants
all our lives. That was what I meant.”
“But surely, Aunt Judy,” interrupted No. 6, “mamma
and you know - ” There she stopped.
“Nothing about God’s dealings,” pursued Aunt Judy,
“but that they are sure to be good for us, even when we like them
least, and cannot understand them at all. We know so little what
we ought really to like and dislike, dear No. 6, that we often fret
and cry as foolishly as the two children did, who, while they were in
mourning for their mother, broke their hearts over the loss of a set
of rabbits’ tails.”
No. 6 sprang up at the idea. She had never heard of those children
before. Who were they? Had Aunt Judy read of them in a book,
or were they real children? How could they have broken their hearts
about rabbits’ tails? It must be a very curious story, and
No. 6 begged to hear it.
Aunt Judy had, however, a little hesitation about the matter.
There was something sad about the story; and there was no exact teaching
to be got out of it, though certainly if it helped to shake No. 6’s
faith in her own wisdom, a good effect would be produced by listening
to it. Also it was not a bad thing now and then to hear of other
people having to bear trials which have not fallen to our own lot.
It must surely have a tendency to soften the heart, and make us feel
more dependent upon the God who gives and takes away. On the whole,
therefore, she would tell the story, so she made No. 6 sit quietly down
again, and began as follows:-
“There were once upon a time two little motherless girls.”
No. 6’s excitement of expectation was hardly over, so she tightened
her hand over Aunt Judy’s, and ejaculated:-
“Poor little things!”
“You may well say so,” continued Aunt Judy. “It
was just what everybody said who saw them at the time. When they
went about with their widowed father in the country village where ‘they
lived, even the poor women who stood at their cottage door-steads, would
look after them when they had passed, and say with a sigh:-
“‘Poor little things!’
“When they went up to London in the winter to stay with their
grandmamma, and walked about in the Square in their little black frocks
and crape-trimmed bonnets, the ladies who saw them, - even comparative
strangers, - would turn round arid say:-
“‘Poor little things!’
“If visitors came to call at the house, and the children were
sent for into the room, there was sure to be a whispered exclamation
directly among the grown-up people of, ‘Poor little things!’
But oh, No. 6! the children themselves did not think about it at all.
What did they know, - poor little things, - of the real misfortune which
had befallen them! They were sorry, of course, at first, when
they did not see their mamma as usual, and when she did not come back
to them as soon as they expected. But some separation had taken
place during her illness; and sometimes before, she had been poorly
and got well again; and sometimes she had gone out visiting, and they
had had to do without her till she returned; and so, although the days
and weeks of her absence went on to months, still it was only the same
thing they had felt before, continued rather longer; and meantime the
little events of each day rose up to distr