Young Folks' Treasury: Classic Tales and Old-Fashioned Stories by Hamilton Wright Mabie - HTML preview

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XIII SUSAN'S BIRTHDAY

"You write a good hand, you can keep accounts, cannot you?" said Sir Arthur to Mr. Price, as they walked towards the cottage. "I think I saw a bill of your little daughter's drawing out the other day, which was very neatly written. Did you teach her to write?"

"No, sir," said Price, "I can't say I did that, for she mostly taught it to herself; but I taught her a few sums, as far as I knew, on winter nights when I had nothing else to do."

 

"Your daughter shows that she has been well taught," said Sir Arthur; "and her good conduct is a credit to you and her mother."

 

"You are very good, very good indeed, sir, to speak in this way," said the delighted father.

"But I mean to do more than pay you with words," said Sir Arthur. "You are attached to your own family, perhaps you may become attached to me, when you know me, and we shall have many chances of judging one another. I want no one to do my hard work. I only want a steady, honest man, like you, to collect my rents, and I hope, Mr. Price, you will do that for me." "I hope, sir," said Price, with joy and gratitude glowing in his honest face, "that I'll never give you cause to regret your goodness to me."

"And what are my sisters about here?" said Sir Arthur, entering the cottage and going behind the two ladies, who were busy measuring a pretty colored calico.

"It is for Susan, my dear brother. I knew she did not keep that guinea for herself," said Miss Somers. "I have just asked her mother to tell me what became of it. Susan gave it to her father; but she must not refuse a gown of our choosing this time; and I am sure she will not, because her mother, I see, likes it. And, Susan, I hear that instead of becoming Queen of the May this year, you were sitting in your mother's room as she was ill. Your mother has a little color in her cheeks now."

[pg 307]

 

"Oh, ma'am," said Mrs. Price, "I'm a different being. Joy, I think, has done it."

"Then," said Miss Somers, "I hope you will be able to come out on your daughter's birthday, which, I hear, is on the twenty-fifth of this month. Make haste and get quite well before that day, for my brother means that all the boys and girls of the village shall have a dance on Susan's birthday."

"Yes," said Sir Arthur, "and I hope on that day, Susan, you will be very happy with your little friends upon their play-green. I shall tell them that it is your good conduct which has won it for them; and if you have anything to ask, any little favor for any of your friends, which we can grant, ask now, Susan."

"Sir," said Susan, after glancing at her mother, "there is, to be sure, a favor I should like to ask; it is for Rose."

 

"Well, I don't know who Rose is," said Sir Arthur, smiling; "but go on."

 

"Ma'am, you have seen her, I believe; she is a very good girl indeed," said Mrs. Price to Miss Somers.

 

"And works very neatly, ma'am," continued Susan eagerly, "and she and her mother heard you were looking out for some one to wait upon you."

"Say no more," said Miss Somers; "your wish is granted. Tell Rose to come to the Abbey tomorrow morning, or rather come with her yourself, for our housekeeper, I know, wants to talk to you about a certain cake. She wishes, Susan, that you should be the maker of the cake for the dance, and she has good things looked out for it already, I know. It must be large enough for everybody to have a slice, and the housekeeper will ice it for you. I only hope your cake will be as good as your bread. Good-by."

"How I do wish, now," said Farmer Price, "how I do wish, wife, that our good friend the harper was only here at this time. It would do his warm old heart good. Well, the best of it is, we shall be able next year, when he comes his rounds, to pay him his money with thanks, being all the time and for ever as much obliged to him as if we kept it. I long to see him in this house again, drinking, as he did, a glass of Susan's mead, just on this spot."

[pg 308]

 

"Yes," said Susan, "and the next time he comes, I can give him one of my guinea-hen's eggs, and I shall show him Daisy."

 

"True, love," said her mother, "and he will play that tune and sing that pretty ballad. Where is it? I have not finished it."

 

"Rose ran away with it, mother, but I'll run after her, and bring it back to you this minute," said Susan.

 

Susan found her friend Rose at the hawthorn, in the midst of a crowd of children, to whom she was reading "Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb."

"The words are something, but the tune—the tune—I must have the tune," cried Philip. "I'll ask my mother to ask Sir Arthur to try and find out which way that good old man went after the ball; and if he's to be found, we'll have him back by Susan's birthday, and he shall sit here—just exactly here—by our bush, and he shall play—I mean, if he will—that same tune for us, and I shall learn it—I mean, if I can—in a minute."

The good news that Farmer Price was to collect the rents and that Attorney Case was to leave the parish in a month soon spread over the village. Many came out of their houses to have the pleasure of hearing the joyful tidings from Susan herself. The crowd on the play-green grew bigger every minute.

"Yes," cried Philip, "I tell you it's quite true, every word of it. Susan's too modest to say it herself, but I tell you all, that Sir Arthur has given us this play-green just because she is so good."

Limby Lumpy

I

LIMBY LUMPY was the only son of his mother. His father was called the "Pavior's Assistant," for he was so large and heavy that, when he used to walk through the streets, the men who were ramming the stones down with a large wooden rammer would say, "Please to walk over these stones, sir," and then the men would get a rest.

Limby was born on April 1—I do not know how long ago; but before he came into the world such preparations were made! There was a beautiful cradle, and a bunch of coral with bells on it, and lots of little caps, and a fine satin hat, and tops and bottoms for pap, and two nurses to take care of him. He was, too, to have a little chaise, when he grew big enough; after that, he was to have a donkey, and then a pony. In short, he was to have the moon for a plaything, if it could be got; and, as to the stars, he would have had them, if they had not been too high to reach.

Limby made a rare to-do when he was a little baby. But he never was a little baby—he was always a big baby; nay, he was a big baby till the day of his death.

"Baby Big," his mother used to call him; he was "a noble baby," said his aunt; he was "a sweet baby," said old Mrs. Tomkins, the nurse; he was "a dear baby," said his papa—and so he was, for he cost a good deal. He was "a darling baby," said his aunt, by the mother's side; "there never was such a fine child," said everybody, before the parents; when they were at another place they called him, "a great, ugly fat child."

Limby was almost as broad as he was long. He had what some people called an open countenance—that is, one as broad as a full moon. He had what his mother called beautiful [pg 310] auburn locks, but what other people said were carroty—not before the mother, of course.

Limby had a flattish nose and a widish mouth, and his eyes were a little out of the right line. Poor little dear, he could not help that and therefore it was not right to laugh at him.

Everybody, however, laughed to see him eat his pap, for he would not be fed with the patent silver pap-spoon which his father bought him, but used to lay himself flat on his back, and seize the pap-boat with both hands, and never let go of it till its contents were fairly in his dear little stomach.

So Limby grew bigger and bigger every day, till at last he could scarcely draw his breath, and was very ill; so his mother sent for three apothecaries and two physicians, who looked at him, and told his mother there were no hopes: the poor child was dying of overfeeding. The physicians, however, prescribed for him—a dose of castor-oil.

His mother attempted to give him the castor-oil, but Limby, although he liked tops and bottoms, and cordial, and pap, and sweetbread, and oysters, and other things nicely dished up, had no fancy for castor-oil, and struggled and kicked and fought every time his nurse or mother attempted to give it him.

"Limby, my darling boy," said his mother, "my sweet cherub, my only dearest, do take its oilypoily, there's a ducky-deary, and it shall ride in a coachy-poachy."

"Oh, the dear baby!" said the nurse; "take it for nursey. It will take it for nursey, that it will." The nurse had got the oil in a silver medicine-spoon, so contrived that, if you could get it into the child's mouth, the medicine must go down. Limby, however, took care that no spoon should go into his mouth, and when the nurse tried the experiment for the nineteenth time, gave a plunge and a kick, and sent the spoon up to the ceiling, knocked off the nurse's spectacles, upset the table on which all the bottles and glasses were, and came down whack on the floor.

His mother picked him up, clasped him to her breast, and almost smothered him with kisses.

 

"Oh, my dear boy!" said she; "it shan't take the nasty [pg 311] oil! it won't take it, the darling! Naughty nurse to hurt baby! It shall not take nasty physic!"

 

And then she kissed him again.

Poor Limby, although only two years old, knew what he was at—he was trying to be the master of his mother. He felt he had gained his point, and gave another kick and a squall, at the same time planting a blow on his mother's eye.

"Dear little creature!" said she; "he is in a state of high convulsions and fever. He will never recover!"

But Limby did recover, and in a few days was running about the house, and the master of it. There was nobody to be considered, nobody to be consulted, nobody to be attended to, but Limby Lumpy.

II

Limby grew up big and strong; he had everything his own way. One day, when he was at dinner with his father and mother, perched upon a double chair, with his silver knife and fork, and silver mug to drink from, he amused himself by playing drums on his plate with the mug.

"Don't make that noise, Limby, my dear," said his father.

 

"Dear little lamb!" said his mother; "let him amuse himself. Limby, have some pudding?"

 

"No, Limby no pudding!"

 

Drum! drum! drum!

A piece of pudding was, however, put on Limby's plate, but he kept on drumming as before. At last he drummed the bottom of the mug into the soft pudding, to which it stuck, and by which means it was scattered all over the carpet.

"Limby, my darling!" said his mother; and the servant was called to wipe Limby's mug and pick the pudding up from the floor.

 

Limby would not have his mug wiped, and floundered about, and upset the cruet-stand and the mustard on the table-cloth.

 

"Oh, Limby Lumpy—naughty boy!" said his father.

 

"Don't speak so cross to the child: he is but a child," said [pg 312] his mother. "I don't like to hear you speak so cross to the child."

 

"I tell you what it is," said his father, "I think the boy does as he likes. But I don't want to interfere."

Limby now sat still, resolving what to do next. He was not hungry, having been stuffed with a large piece of pound-cake about an hour before dinner; but he wanted something to do, and could not sit still.

Presently a saddle of mutton was brought on the table. When Limby saw this he set up a crow of delight.

 

"Limby ride," said he—"Limby ride!" and rose up in his chair, as if to reach the dish.

 

"Yes, my ducky, it shall have some mutton," said his mother, and immediately gave him a slice, cut up into small morsels.

 

That was not it. Limby pushed that on the floor, and cried out: "Limby on meat! Limby on meat!"

His mother could not think what he meant. At last, however, his father recollected that he had been in the habit of giving him a ride occasionally, first on his foot, sometimes on the scroll end of the sofa, at other times on the top of the easy chair. Once he put him on a dog, and more than once on the saddle; in short, he had been in the habit of perching him on various things, and now Limby, hearing this was a saddle of mutton, wanted to take a ride on it.

"Limby on! Limby ride on bone!" said the child in a whimper.

 

"Did you ever hear?" said the father.

 

"What an extraordinary child!" said the mother. "How clever to know it was like a saddle, the little dear! No, no, Limby; grease frock, Limby."

 

But Limby cared nothing about a greasy frock, not he—he was used enough to that—and therefore roared out more lustily for a ride on the mutton.

 

"Did you ever know such a child? What a dear, determined spirit!"

 

"He is a child of an uncommon mind," said his mother. "Limby, dear—Limby, dear, silence! silence!"

 

[pg 313]

 

The truth was, Limby made such a roaring that neither father nor mother could get their dinners, and scarcely knew whether they were eating beef or mutton.

 

"It is impossible to let him ride on the mutton," said his father—"quite impossible!"

 

"Well, but you might just put him astride the dish, just to satisfy him. You can take care his legs or clothes do not go into the gravy."

 

"Anything for a quiet life," said the father. "What does Limby want? Limby ride?"

 

"Limby on bone! Limby on meat!"

 

"Shall I put him across?" said Mr. Lumpy.

 

"Just for one moment," said his mother; "it won't hurt the mutton."

The father rose, and took Limby from his chair, and, with the greatest caution, held his son's legs astride, so that they might hang on each side of the dish without touching it—"just to satisfy him," as he said, "that they might dine in quiet—" and was about to withdraw him from it immediately.

But Limby was not to be cheated in that way. He wished to feel the saddle under him, and accordingly forced himself down upon it; but feeling it rather warmer than was agreeable, started, and lost his balance, and fell down among the dishes, soused in melted butter, cauliflower, and gravy, floundering, and kicking, and screaming, to the detriment of glasses, jugs, dishes, and everything else on the table.

"My child! my child!" said his mother. "Oh, save my child!"

 

She snatched him up, and pressed his begreased garments close to the bosom of her best silk gown.

Neither father nor mother wanted any more dinner after this. As to Limby, he was as frisky afterwards as if nothing had happened, and about half an hour from the time of this disaster cried for his dinner.

The Sore Tongue

By JANE TAYLOR

There was a little girl called Fanny, who had the misfortune one day to bite her tongue as she was eating her breakfast. It hurt her so much that she could scarcely help crying; and even when the first smart was over, it continued so sore that whenever she spoke it pained her considerably. Finding this to be the case, she said very pitifully to her mother, "Mamma, you can't think how it hurts me when I speak!" "Does it?" replied her mother; "then I'll tell you what I would advise you to do. Resolve all this day to say nothing but what is either necessary or useful; this will give your tongue a fine holiday, and may answer more purposes than one."

Fanny, knowing that she had the character of being somewhat loquacious, could not help laughing at this, and said, "Well, I will try for once; so, mum! I am going to begin now, mamma."

Mother. Do so; and whenever you are beginning to speak, be sure you ask yourself whether what you were going to say was likely to be of any use, or whether it was necessary.

Fanny . Yes, yes, I will! but don't talk to me, mamma, for fear. So saying, she screwed up her lips, and taking her work, sat for about five minutes as still as a mouse. She then looked up, smiled and nodded at her mother, as much as to say, "See how well I can hold my tongue," still screwing her lips very tight for fear she should speak. Soon, however, she began to feel a great inclination to say something; and was glad to recollect that if she could but think of anything either useful or necessary, she might speak. Whereupon she endeavored to find something to say that would come "within the act." To aid her invention, she looked all round the room.

Fanny. Mamma, don't you think the fire wants stirring? (This question, she thought, savored of both qualifications.)

 

[pg 315]

 

Mother. Not at present, my dear.

Then followed another long silence; for Fanny found it vastly more difficult than she had any previous idea of, to think of anything useful to talk about; and she knew her mamma would laugh at her if she said what was obviously idle or silly, just now. She was beginning to repent having made such an agreement, when her three elder sisters entered the room. She now thought it quite reasonable, if not absolutely necessary, to tell them of her misfortune; which she did at considerable length, and with many needless digressions (the usual custom with great talkers); upon which they all laughed, prophesying that her resolution would not last half an hour, and rallying her for telling such a long story with a sore tongue.

Soon after, some ladies called to pay their mother a morning visit. This gave Fanny's tongue such a long rest that the moment they were gone it seemed irresistibly to resume its wonted functions.

 

Fanny. What a while old Mrs. W. has had that brown satin pelisse! Really, poor old lady, I am quite tired of seeing her in it!

 

Mother. How is your tongue, Fanny?

 

Fanny. Oh, better, mamma, thank you—almost well.

 

Mother. I am sorry for it: I was in hopes it would have been sore enough at least to prevent your making impertinent remarks upon anybody all this day.

 

Fanny. No, but really, mamma, is it not an old rubbishing thing?

 

Mother. I don't know, indeed. It is no business of mine; therefore I took no notice of it.

A silence ensued after this; but conversation revived when Caroline, who had stood for some time with her eyes fixed on their opposite neighbor's window, suddenly exclaimed, "I do believe the Joneses are going to have company again to-day! The servant has just been lighting the fire in the drawing-room; and there is Miss Jones now gone up to dress. I saw her draw down the blinds in her room this instant." "So she is," said Lucy, looking up: "I never knew such people in my life! they are always having company."

[pg 316]

 

"I wonder whom they are expecting to-day," said Eliza; "dinner-company, I suppose."

The proceedings of their neighbors, the Joneses, continued to furnish matter for various sagacious conjectures and remarks for a considerable time. At length Caroline exclaimed with the eagerness of discovery, "Look! look! there's the baker now at the door, with a whole tray full of tarts and things. Make haste, or he'll be gone in."

Lucy. So he is, I declare; it is a dinner-party then. Well, we shall see presently, I hope, who are coming.

 

Caroline. Oh, no, they never dine till five when they have company.

 

Eliza. And it will be dark then; how tiresome!

 

Lucy. If Miss Jones is not dressed already! She is this instant come into the drawing-room.

 

Caroline. Stand back, stand back! Don't let her see us all staring. Ah, there she is,—got on her pink sarcenet body and sleeves to-day. How pretty that dress is, to be sure!

 

Eliza. And how nicely she has done her hair! Look, Caroline—braided behind.

 

Lucy. There, she is putting down the sash. That chimney smokes, I know, with this wind.

 

Fanny. And there is that little figure, Martha Jones, come down now. Do look—as broad as she is long! What a little fright that child is, to be sure!

 

Mother. Pray, Fanny, was that remark useful or necessary?

 

Fanny. Oh, but mamma, I assure you, my tongue is quite well now.

 

Mother. I am sorry for it, my dear. Do you know, I should think it well worth while to bite my tongue every day if there were no other means of keeping it in order.

At this the girls laughed; but their mother, resuming her gravity, thus continued: "My dear girls, I should before now have put a stop to this idle gossiping, if I had not hoped to convince you of the folly of it. It is no wonder, I confess, that at your age you should learn to imitate a style of remark which is but too prevalent in society. Nothing, indeed, is more contagious. But [pg 317] let me also tell you, that girls of your age, and of your advantages, are capable of seeing the meanness of it, and ought to despise it. It is the chief end of education to raise the minds of women above such trifling as this. But if a young person who has been taught to think, whose taste has been cultivated, and who might therefore possess internal resources, has as much idle curiosity about the affairs of her neighbors, and is as fond of retailing petty scandal concerning them, as an uneducated woman, it proves that her mind is incurably mean and vulgar, and that cultivation is lost upon her.

"This sort of gossiping, my dear girls, is the disgrace of our sex. The pursuits of women lie necessarily within a narrow sphere, and they naturally sink, unless raised by refinement, or by strong principle, into that littleness of character, for which even their own husbands and fathers (if they are men of sense) are tempted to despise them. The minds of men, from their engagements in business, necessarily take a larger range; and they are, in general, too much occupied with concerns comparatively important to enter into the minute details which amuse women. But women of education have no such plea to urge. When your father and I direct you to this or that pursuit, it is not so much for the sake of your possessing that particular branch of knowledge, but that by knowledge in general you may become intelligent and superior, and that you may be furnished with resources which will save you from the miserable necessity of seeking amusement from intercourse with your neighbors, and an acquaintance with their affairs.

"Let us suppose, now, that this morning you had been all more industriously inclined; and had been engaged in any of your employments with that ardor which some happy young people manifest in the acquisition of knowledge; would you, in that case, have felt any desire to know the date of Mrs. W.'s pelisse, or any curiosity in the proceedings of our neighbors the Joneses? No, you would then have thought it a most impertinent interruption, if any one had attempted to entertain you with such particulars. But when the mind is indolent and empty, then it can receive amusement from the most contemptible sources. Learn, then, to check this mean propensity. [pg 318] Despise such thoughts whenever you are tempted to indulge them. Recollect that this low curiosity is the combined result of idleness, ignorance, emptiness, and ill-nature; and fly to useful occupation, as the most successful antidote against the evil. Nor let it be forgotten that such impertinent remarks as these come directly under the description of those 'idle words,' of which an account must be given in the day of judgment. Yes, this vulgar trifling is as inconsistent with the spirit of Christian benevolence, and with the grand rule of 'doing to others as we would that they should do to us,' as it is with refinement of taste and dignity of character."

"Who would have thought," said little Fanny, "that my happening to bite my tongue this morning would have led to all this?"

"It would be a fortunate bite for you, Fanny," said her mother, "and for your neighbors, if it should make you more careful in the use of it. If we were liable to such a misfortune whenever we use our tongues improperly, some persons would be in a constant agony. Now, if our consciences were but half as sensitive as our nerves, they would answer the purpose much better. Foolish talking pains a good conscience, just as continual speaking hurts a sore tongue; and if we did but regard one smart as much as the other, it would act as a constant check upon the unruly member."

Eyes And No Eyes, Or The Art Of Seeing

By JOHN AIKIN and MRS. BARBAULD

 

"Well, Robert, where have you been walking this after noon?" said Mr. Andrews, to one of his pupils at the close of a holiday.

 

R. I have been, sir, to Broom heath, and so round by the windmill upon Camp-mount, and home through the meadows by the river-side.

 

Mr. A. Well, that's a pleasant round.

 

R. I thought it very dull, sir; I scarcely met with a single person. I had rather by half have gone along the turnpike road.

 

Mr. A. Why, if seeing men and horses is your object, you would, indeed, be better entertained on the highroad. But did you see William?

 

R. We set out together, but he lagged behind in the lane, so I walked on and left him.

 

Mr. A. That was a pity. He would have been company for you.

 

R. Oh, he is so tedious, always stopping to look at this thing and that! I had rather walk alone. I dare say he is not got home yet.

 

Mr. A. Here he comes. Well, William, where have you been?

 

W. Oh, sir, the pleasantest walk! I went all over Broom-heath, and so up to the mill at the top of the hill, and then down among the green meadows by the side of the river.

 

Mr. A. Why, that is just the round Robert has been taking, and he complains of its dullness, and prefers the highroad.

 

W. I wonder at that. I am sure I hardly took a step that did not delight me, and I have brought home my handkerchief full of curiosities.

 

[pg 320]

 

Mr. A. Suppose, then, you give us some account of what amused you so much. I fancy it will be as new to Robert as to me.

W. I will, sir. The lane leading to the heath, you know, is close