Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration: _Frontispiece.—The Blue Socks._
"Oh, mother! Will you please give me some money this minute?"]
THE BLUE SOCKS;
OR,
COUNT THE COST.
[BY]
[Lucy Ellen Guernsey]
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
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NEW YORK: 599 BROADWAY.
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
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CONTENTS.
——————
CHAPTER I.
GREAT BEGINNINGS
CHAPTER II.
SELF-DENIAL
CHAPTER III.
PROGRESS
CHAPTER IV.
STORIES
CHAPTER V.
ELSIE'S TROUBLES
CHAPTER VI.
THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER
CHAPTER VII.
MADAM WENTWORTH
CHAPTER VIII.
THE TEA-PARTY
CHAPTER IX.
MINNY'S EXCUSES
CHAPTER X.
CONCLUSION
THE BLUE SOCKS.
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CHAPTER I.
GREAT BEGINNINGS.
"OH, mother! Will you please give me some money, this minute? I want
to go right down and get some yarn, so that I can begin to-night. And,
mother, will you show me how to set it up?"
This was said by a very pretty little girl, about twelve years old.
She had, apparently, just come in from school, for she still wore her
hat and coat, while her satchel of books lay on the floor by her side,
and her luncheon-basket dangled from her hand. Her mother sat on the
sofa, busily engaged in cutting out animals and birds in paper for the
amusement of another child, a sickly, deformed little creature, about
two years younger than Henrietta.
Mrs. Laurens delayed her answer for a moment, as she carefully shaped
the bill of the parrot then under her hand; and Henrietta stamped her
little foot impatiently.
"Say, mother, won't you?"
"Won't I do what, Hetty? I should like to know the whole story, before
I give my consent. You have not told me why you want yarn, nor what it
is you want me to set up. It would really save a good deal of my time
and yours, if you would learn always to begin at the beginning of a
story."
Hetty coloured a little.
"Well, mother, I will. The girls at school are all going to knit socks
for the soldiers. Miss Armitage talked to us about it this afternoon,
and we are all going to knit one pair."
"What! Fifty girls all going to knit one pair of socks! What a curious
pair it will be!"
"Mother, I do wish you wouldn't laugh when I am in earnest. Of course
I mean that we are each going to knit one pair before Christmas—that
will be fifty pairs of socks—only think, mother, fifty pairs! But I
mean to knit two or three pairs myself, and so does Minny Granger. And,
mother, only think! Elsie Probert would not promise to knit any! She
said she must think about it, and ask her mother, because she did not
know whether she should find time. I guess I would find time, if I had
to sit up all night; and so I told her: wouldn't you, mother? I shall
never like Elsie again, if she is not willing to work for the poor
soldiers."
"Why, my child, you are coming to conclusions very hastily, as usual.
Elsie did not say that she was not willing: she said she must think
about it, and ask her mother—which was quite right. Elsie has more to
do at home than either you or Minny Granger."
"Yes, I know that, because they keep only one servant; and I don't
believe she is a very good one, either, for Mrs. Probert and Elsie work
a great deal themselves. And, mother, Minny says that on washing-days,
Mrs. Probert gets the dinner herself, for she has seen her going in
and out of the kitchen-door, and even carrying kettles. Minny says she
should think Mr. Probert would send his daughter to a public school,
and not to a select school like Miss Armitage's, where only girls of
the first families go—and such an expensive school, besides. You know
he is only a book-keeper."
"You speak very improperly, my daughter," said Mrs. Laurens, with
more severity than was at all common with her. "I shall forbid your
having any thing to do with Minny, if she fills your head with such
ideas. What business is it of hers or yours what Mrs. Probert does on
washing-days or other days? She is a cultivated and lady-like woman,
and Elsie is one of the sweetest little girls I know. Let me hear no
more of such gossip."
Hetty coloured and pouted; but she was too strongly bent upon gaining
her point to indulge in a fit of temper just then.
"Well, but, mother, about the yarn? May I go and get some, and begin
to-night?"
"Do you think you would finish a pair of socks, if you began them,
Hetty?"
"Why, yes, mother, of course. Didn't I tell you I meant to knit two or
three pairs?"
"I know you did, my daughter; but 'saying' is one thing, and 'doing'
another. However, I am willing you should make the trial, on two or
three conditions."
"I hate conditions," said Hetty, aside, and in a low voice.
"On two or three conditions," continued her mother. "First, you shall
knit them all yourself."
"Of course! I wouldn't have any one else touch them for the world!"
"Secondly, you shall not neglect your practising, nor any other of your
ordinary duties.
"Thirdly, you shall go and put away all your school-things neatly, and
then wait patiently till Cecy has had her luncheon and Peter is ready
to carry her out. Then I will go down with you and buy the yarn."
"Why can't I go and buy it now, mother?"
"Because, my dear, you know nothing about yarn, and you might get what
was very unsuitable to the purpose. Now begin by putting away your
books, dress yourself neatly, and mend that hole in your glove."
Hetty pouted, and murmured something to herself; but she saw that her
mother was decided, and, gathering up her things, she withdrew to her
own room.
Little Cecy's large gray eyes had wandered wonderingly from her
mother's face to her sister's during this dialogue, but she had not
said a word. Now, however, that Hetty was out of the way, she asked, in
her slow, hesitating manner,—
"What does Hetty mean, mother?"
"Hetty wants to knit some warm socks for the soldiers, my dear. You
know winter is coming soon, and the poor soldiers' feet will be very
cold, unless they have warm woollen stockings to wear under their
boots: so a great many ladies are knitting socks to send them. You
recollect I told you that all the soldiers were going to the South to
fight the rebels. Don't you remember how Cousin Charles came to bid you
good-by and show you his uniform and sword?"
"I remember," said Cecy. "But, mother, if the rebels want to go away
and have a country by themselves, why don't they let them? It would be
a great deal less trouble."
"Cecy," said her mother, "do you remember when we were down on the
beach last summer, how little Cousin Harry wanted to sit out on the
rock and watch the ships?"
"Oh, yes; and aunt would not let him. She called him, and he would not
come, and when she went to lead him away, he lay down on the sand and
kicked it up and screamed. Then aunt sent for Peter to take him up in
his arms and carry him in."
"Why did not aunt let Harry stay out on the rock as long as he pleased?
It would have been a great deal less trouble."
Cecy opened her eyes wide. "Why, mother, he would have been drowned,
because the waves came up all over the rock that day. We could hardly
see where it was. It was one of the days when the water came up high."
"Well, Cecy, it would be a great deal less trouble 'at first' to let
the rebels have their own way, but by-and-by it would cause a great
deal more, not only to us, but also to them, and wise people think it
would end in our being entirely ruined. So the Government wishes to
bring them to obedience, just as Aunt Mary did Harry. That is what the
soldiers have gone for. Do you understand now?"
"Yes, mother, I think I do." Cecy was silent for a few minutes, and
then sighed deeply.
"What makes you sigh, dear?" asked her mother.
"I was thinking, mother, how much I wished I could do something for the
soldiers."
"So do I, my love; but I am afraid you could not knit. You know you
tried to sew last summer, and it made your poor shoulder ache sadly."
"I know it, mother." And Cecy sighed again, and remained silent a while
longer.
Then, as a new thought struck her, she brightened up a little.
"Mother," she said, in a low voice, "will you teach me a prayer to say
for the soldiers, as well as for Uncle David and Cousin Charles?"
"Yes, my dear child," replied her mother, kissing her tenderly.
"That will be helping a little, won't it, mother?"
"A great deal, Cecy. No one can tell how much good it will do. Now you
must have your luncheon, and then, as it is such a fine day, Peter
shall take you out for a good, long walk, while I go with Hetty to buy
the yarn."
Mrs. Laurens was a widow, and Henrietta and Cecelia, or Hetty and
Cecy, as they were more commonly called, were her only children. She
had married early in life, had abundance of this world's goods, her
children were bright and healthy, and her husband the kindest of men.
For six years she had lived in an earthly paradise, but then came a
dark cloud.
Mr. Laurens was in the habit of spending every summer in the country or
on the sea-shore. One afternoon he had been out with his wife, to try a
horse which he had just purchased. The animal, though spirited, seemed
exceedingly well broken, and, as they returned, Mr. Laurens, seeing
Cecy, then two years old, standing on the steps with her nurse, said,
gayly,—
"Now Cecy shall have a ride all alone with father, like a grown-up
woman."
Cecy of course was delighted. Mrs. Laurens had perfect confidence in
her husband's driving, and saw them set out without fear, while she
walked to a neighbour's to bring home Henrietta, who had keen spending
the day with a little playmate. On her return, she was met with the
terrible news that the horse had run away and overset the chaise, and
that her husband and child were even then being brought home in a dying
condition. Mr. Laurens was dead before he reached the house, and it was
some hours before Cecy gave any but the faintest signs of life.
At last, however, and by slow degrees, she revived. But it was not
till many days afterwards that the whole of the sad story was known,
and it was discovered that the little girl's spine was so injured that
she must remain a cripple for life. For a long time it was feared that
the shock had completely destroyed her mind, but, under her mother's
unremitting care and watchfulness, she recovered. She was slow in
thinking or speaking, and seldom talked much, except to her mother and
one other person. She was very fond of her sister, and in general liked
to be with her, but Henrietta was by nature hasty and impetuous, and
found it hard to tone down her spirits to poor Cecy's minor key; and
truth compels me to say that she was not seldom impatient with the poor
child, for not being able to think as fast as herself. Then Cecy would
cry, and bring on one of her fits of nervous exhaustion, and there was
an end of all pleasure, or even comfort, for the day.
Our readers must not infer from what we have said that Hetty was
altogether a bad child. She was warmhearted and affectionate, full of
good impulses, and even conscientious. That is to say, when convinced
that she had done wrong, she was very sorry, and made many good
resolutions for the future, which she kept very well so long as she had
no particular temptation to break them. Her mother was necessarily so
much taken up with poor, suffering, helpless Cecy that she was not able
to give as much time as she could have wished to Hetty; but she did the
best she could for her, in sending her to an excellent school, and in
checking her graver faults as they appeared.
Elsie Probert had always been Hetty's most particular school-friend.
They had studied together, walked together, dressed their dolls
together, and sat in the same class in Sunday-school, ever since
they were three years old. Elsie fully believed Hetty to be almost
perfection, and Hetty entertained the same opinion of Elsie. But of
late, a cloud had come between these two friends,—a cloud small at
first, but which grew larger and thicker every day.
A new scholar had come to Miss Armitage's school, in the person of
Minny Granger. Minny's father was immensely rich, and she was an only
child,—the undoubted heiress of three or four hundred thousand dollars
at the very least. Her mother was a weak-minded, half-educated woman,
very proud of her husband's wealth, her diamonds, her own beauty
and that of her daughters, and last, not least, of that mysterious
something called a social position. She found it hard to believe
that a woman who kept only one servant or perhaps none at all, whose
husband was a clerk or a retail grocer, who opened the door herself
to visitors, or even, as in Mrs. Probert's case, cooked her husband's
dinner upon occasion, could be as much a lady in feeling and taste
as herself; and it may be doubted whether she did not in her heart
consider mechanics and day-labourers as of a different and inferior
species.
Minny had been brought up with the same ideas. She had also been
indulged in an almost unlimited amount of pocket-money, which she spent
with reckless profusion. The girls were daily amazed at the amount of
chocolate cream-drops, cocoanut-cakes and caramels which she brought to
school with her luncheon, and which—to do her justice—she was always
ready to share. Moreover, she had vast stores of the finest stationery,
which she gave away as readily as she did her eatables, and a whole
library of story-books, which she was always ready to lend: so it was
no wonder that she soon found herself surrounded with a large party of
devoted adherents.
Of these Elsie had not been one. She had never quite liked Minny from
the first. There was something in almost every sentence she uttered,
which grated on Elsie's lady-like sensibilities, and this alone would
have prevented their becoming intimate. But after a time, other traits
began to show themselves, which turned indifference into positive
dislike and distrust. Elsie was not jealous nor suspicious in her
nature, but she could not help seeing that Minny was greedy, not only
of sweetmeats and confectionery, but also of applause and admiration,
and that she was by no means scrupulous in her methods of obtaining
what she desired. She accepted help in her drawings and her French
exercises from those more skilful than herself, did not hesitate
to look into her book at recitation, if she were sure of not being
observed, and, as Elsie strongly suspected, drew her compositions from
some other source than her own brain. She was rude and overbearing
in her manners to little girls and those whom she fancied not quite
her equals. And Elsie noticed that, though she was very ready to give
away what she had in more abundance than she could possibly use, she
never made the slightest sacrifice of her own wishes or comfort to the
convenience of others.
Hetty, however, saw none of these defects. Dazzled by Minny's beauty,
and always fond of novelty, she soon plunged into the most devoted
and exclusive friendship with the newcomer. Hetty and Minny walked
together to and from school, played together at recess, and exchanged
confidential little notes and mysteriously significant looks at all
times; and Elsie found herself gradually but decidedly "left out."
Hetty, indeed, would willingly have included her at first, but Minny
demurred. She saw that she had failed to influence Elsie as she had
influenced Hetty. Conscious that all she did would not bear inspection,
she fancied that Elsie watched her, and, as she told Hetty, she had no
idea of being intimate with everybody's daughters because she happened
to go to school with them. She did not see, for her part, how such a
girl as Elsie came to be there at all. The public school was the place
for her, and, if her mother had any sense, she would send her there.
Elsie really loved Hetty dearly, and of course she could not see
without pain the direction things were taking. At first she accused
herself of jealousy and suspicion; but as days passed, it became
more and more clear that she had not only ceased to be necessary to
Henrietta, but that she could not join in the conversations and walks
of the two girls without casting a damper upon their intercourse, and
even being treated decidedly as an intruder by at least one of the pair.
Elsie was gentle and loving by nature, but she was also self-respecting
and somewhat proud, and she could not help being deeply grieved at
seeing preferred to herself a girl who was her inferior in every thing
but wealth and beauty.
She withdrew herself as far as possible from Minny's society, and
waited, hoping that Hetty's eyes would, after a while, be opened to
the character of her new friend, and that then she would return to her
old one. So far this hope had not been fulfilled. Hetty and Minny grew
more and more intimate every day. It was plain that Hetty was coming
to regard outside show as of more importance than any thing else;
and Elsie could not help fancying that her friend was ashamed of her
economical dress and plain straw hat, and would rather not be seen in
the street with her. Such was the state of things at the commencement
of our story.
As soon as Mrs. Laurens had seen Cecy duly wrapped up and deposited
in Peter's sturdy arms for her promenade, she put on her own bonnet,
and accompanied Hetty to look for some yarn. Hetty was all impatience,
and would have taken the first that presented itself, but Mrs. Laurens
persisted in her search till she found some that was both strong enough
to wear well and soft enough to be agreeable to the feet. Hetty was
rather dissatisfied that her mother bought only one skein.
"This will do for a beginning, my love," said Mrs. Laurens, smiling.
"There is no fear that all the yarn in town will be used up. If you
finish one pair in season, I shall think you do very well."
Suitable needles being procured, they returned home. Hetty, as usual,
was all eagerness to begin, and could hardly wait to put away her
bonnet.
"Are all your lessons learned for to-morrow?" asked her mother.
"Yes, mother,—no mother,—not quite. All but a little Roman history; and
that is so easy, I can learn it before I go to school in the morning."
Her mother decided, however, that the lessons must be learned before
the knitting was touched. Hetty pouted, and almost cried, but Mrs.
Laurens was firm; and she took her book not a little comforted by
seeing her mother preparing to wind the yarn and set up the work.
Meantime Peter was slowly walking up and down with Cecy in his arms.
He was a very large, almost gigantic, coloured man, as black as ebony,
who had been in Mr. Laurens's employ for many years, first as porter
and warehouseman, and afterwards as coachman and gardener. It had been
decided by the physicians that Cecy must spend as much time as possible
in the open air; but there seemed some difficulty in bringing this
about,—as she could not bear the motion even of the easiest carriage.
It was at last discovered that Peter had the knack of adapting his
strong arms to her weak back, so that Cecy declared she lay as
comfortably as in her cradle, and many an hour of comparative ease and
pleasure did the poor child owe to this discovery. Peter was always
at her service, at any hour of the day or night: he was never tired
and never impatient. Although, of course, not much educated, he had a
strong, sensible mind, and a fervent and enlightened religious faith.
Cecy was always sure that he would understand her, slow as the right
word might be in coming; and she talked to him more than to any person
in the world, except her mother.
"Peter," said she, as they pursued their walk, "Hetty is going to knit
some socks for the soldiers."
"That will be very nice, if she only gets 'em done before the war is
over," replied Peter, smiling.
"What makes you say that? Do you think the war will come to an end very
soon?"
"I'm afraid not, my dear; but you know Miss Hetty don't always finish
what she undertakes. She was going to make me a pair of mittens last
Christmas, but I should have had a great many cold fingers if I had
waited for 'em."
"Yes, I know," said Cecy, after a little consideration. "She never
finished my doll's talma, either. But, Peter, I don't think Hetty meant
to tell a story about the mittens: do you?"
"Oh, no, Miss Cecy. But she don't always think when she begins a piece
of work how long it will take to finish it, and so she gets tired. A
great many little people are that way,—and big people too, for that
matter."
Cecy was silent for a while, apparently meditating on this unfortunate
state of things. Then, as they passed two or three soldiers, she awoke
from her revery with a sigh:—
"There are some soldiers now! Oh, how I wish I could do something for
them! But I can't do any thing for any one, only hinder and take up
time. Oh, dear!" Cecy's lip quivered, and the tears stood in her eyes.
"Now, Cecy, you know you must not cry," said Peter, tenderly but
firmly. "That will make you sick, and give your dear mother trouble."
This argument was a strong one, and seldom came unheeded. Cecy stifled
the rising sob, but she could not send back the large tears or prevent
them from running over.
At that moment, the two soldiers who had attracted her attention
stopped, and one of them turned back to ask Peter a question. Receiving
his answer, he looked with some surprise at the unusual burden he
carried.
"Is the little girl sick?" he asked, kindly.
"She is always sick, poor child," replied Peter. "She is quite
helpless, and can only get out when I carry her. Just now she is
fretting because her sister is working for the soldiers, and she is not
able to do any thing."
"Poor thing!" said the soldier, looking at her with renewed interest.
"To think of her caring about that, now, when she has so much to bear.
But I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you."
"Oh, I don't mean to," replied Cecy, quite cheered up by this
unexpected sympathy: "only you know it is hard to—" She hesitated, as
she often did, for a word.
"Hard to see others working when you can't," said the soldier, taking
her meaning at once. "Yes, I know that very well. I was in the hospital
at the time of the fight at Big Bethel, and I thought lying abed was
the hardest duty I ever did in my life."
"Were you, really?" asked Cecy, with great interest,—"because you were
sick?"
"I was wounded, child. See here: my arm is not quite well yet." And he
turned back his sleeve, and showed her part of the large red scar.
"Only think!" said Cecy. "I have really seen a wounded soldier with my
own eyes!"
Both the men smiled.
"Perhaps you will shake hands with me, little miss," said the soldier.
"When I go back to the camp, I will tell the men about the little sick
girl who wanted to work for the soldiers."
"Put your head down, Peter: I want to whisper," said Cecy, eagerly.
"Do you think I might give him my little red verse-book? It is in my
pocket; and I bought it with my own money."
Peter was of opinion she might, and Cecy, her little fingers trembling
with eagerness, drew forth the tiny gilt volume.
"Will you please take this?" she said, with a timid grace quite
irresistible. "It has beautiful verses out of the Bible in it, and it
is such a little wee book, you can carry it in your pocket. It is my
very own: so I may give it away."
The soldier's bearded lip trembled, as he took the little volume and
the hand that held it into his own.
"Thank you very much, my little girl. I will keep it and read it, for
your sake." He kissed the little thin hand, nodded to Peter, and walked
rapidly away.
Cecy was very much interested with the adventure, and could talk of
nothing else all the way home.
"I have done something for one soldier, haven't I, Peter? You know it
really was something, because I was fond of that little book. It was
not just giving away what I did not care for?"
"True; and who knows how much good it may do? A single word of
Scripture has waked up many a careless sinner and made a new man of
him."
"But this man may be good now, you know, Peter. I'm sure he looked and
talked as if he was good."
Peter could not quite agree to this. He thought the man looked like
rather a hard subject, but he did not think it necessary to disturb
Cecy's charitable view of the case.
"Well, dear, it's only right to think so, as long as we don't know any
thing to the contrary; and the better he is, the more he will prize
your little book. Did it have your name in it?"
"Yes,—'Cecy Laurens, 75 B— Street.' Cousin Charles printed it, in
little wee letters. Why?"
"I thought he would think all the more of it: that's all."
"Of course," said Cecy. "I'm sure 'I' should. I'm so glad I had it with
me!"
[Illustration]