deference. “I must really beg your pardon for this
intrusion,” I began, “but I have been tiring myself
out fishing, and your home here looked so pleasant—and
I felt so thirsty—and——”
“Want a drink, I reckon,” said the old man, turning
abruptly toward the kitchen door, then pausing as
suddenly, with a backward motion of his thumb—“jest
foller the path here down to the little brick—that’s the
spring—and you’ll find ’at you’ve come to the right place
fer drinkin’-worter! Hold on a minute tel I git you a
tumbler—there’re nothin’ down there but a tin.”
“Then don’t trouble yourself any further,” I said,
heartily, “for I’d rather drink from a tin cup than a
goblet of pure gold.”
“And so’d I,” said the old man, reflectively, turning
mechanically, and following me down the path.
“‘Druther drink out of a tin—er jest a fruit-can with
the top knocked off—er—er—er a gourd,” he added
in a zestful, reminiscent tone of voice, that so heightened
my impatient thirst that I reached the spring-house
fairly in a run.
“Well-sir!” exclaimed my host, in evident delight,
as I stood dipping my nose in the second cupful of the
cool, revivifying liquid, and peering in a congratulatory
kind of way at the blurred and rubicund reflection of my
features in the bottom of the cup, “well-sir, blame-don!
ef it don’t do a feller good to see you enjoyin’ of it that-a-way!
But don’t you drink too much o’ the worter!—’cause
there’re some sweet milk over there in one o’ them
crocks, maybe; and ef you’ll jest, kindo’ keerful-like,
lift off the led of that third one, say, over there to yer
left, and dip you out a tinful er two o’ that, w’y, it’ll
do you good to drink it, and it’ll do me good to see you
at it——But hold up!—hold up!” he called, abruptly,
as, nowise loath, I bent above the vessel designated.
“Hold yer hosses fer a second! Here’s Marthy; let her
git it fer ye.”
If I was at first surprised and confused, meeting the
master of the house, I was wholly startled and chagrined
in my present position before its mistress. But as I
arose, and stammered, in my confusion, some incoherent
apology, I was again reassured and put at greater ease
by the comprehensive and forgiving smile the woman
gave me, as I yielded her my place, and, with lifted hat,
awaited her further kindness.
“I came just in time, sir,” she said, half laughingly,
as with strong, bare arms she reached across the gurgling
trough and replaced the lid that I had partially removed.—“I
came just in time, I see, to prevent father
from having you dip into the ’morning’s-milk,’ which, of
course, has scarcely a veil of cream over the face of it
as yet. But men, as you are doubtless willing to admit,”
she went on jocularly, “don’t know about these things.
You must pardon father, as much for his well-meaning
ignorance of such matters, as for this cup of cream,
which I am sure you will better relish.”
She arose, still smiling, with her eyes turned frankly
on my own. And I must be excused when I confess
that as I bowed my thanks, taking the proffered cup
and lifting it to my lips, I stared with an uncommon
interest and pleasure at the donor’s face.
She was a woman of certainly not less than forty years
of age. But the figure, and the rounded grace and fulness
of it, together with the features and the eyes, completed
as fine a specimen of physical and mental health
as ever it has been my fortune to meet; there was something
so full of purpose and resolve—something so wholesome,
too, about the character—something so womanly—I
might almost say manly, and would, but for the petty
prejudice maybe occasioned by the trivial fact of a
locket having dropped from her bosom as she knelt; and
that trinket still dangles in my memory even as it then
dangled and dropped back to its concealment in her
breast as she arose. But her face, by no means handsome
in the common meaning, was marked with a breadth
and strength of outline and expression that approached
the heroic—a face that once seen is forever fixed in
memory—a personage once met one must know more of.
And so it was, that an hour later, as I strolled with the
old man about his farm, looking, to all intents, with the
profoundest interest at his Devonshires, Shorthorns, Jerseys,
and the like, I lured from him something of an
outline of his daughter’s history.
“There’re no better girl ‘n Marthy!” he said, mechanically
answering some ingenious allusion to her worth.
“And yit,” he went on reflectively, stooping from his
seat in the barn door and with his open jack-knife picking
up a little chip with the point of the blade—“and
yit—you wouldn’t believe it—but Marthy was the oldest
o’ three daughters, and hed—I may say—hed more advantages
o’ marryin’—and yit, as I was jest goin’ to say,
she’s the very one ’at didn’t marry. Hed every advantage—Marthy
did. W’y, we even hed her educated—her
mother was a-livin’ then—and we was well enough
fixed to afford the educatin’ of her, mother allus contended—and
we was—besides, it was Marthy’s notion,
too, and you know how women is thataway when they git
their head set. So we sent Marthy down to Indianop’lus,
and got her books and putt her in school there, and paid
fer her keepin’ and ever’thing; and she jest—well, you
may say, lived there stiddy fer better’n four year. O’
course she’d git back ever’ once-an-a-while, but her visits
was allus, some-way-another, onsatisfactory-like, ’cause,
you see, Marthy was allus my favorite, and I’d allus
laughed and told her ’at the other girls could git married
if they wanted, but _she_ was goin’ to be the ‘nest-egg’
of our family, and ’slong as I lived I wanted her at home
with me. And she’d laugh and contend ’a’t she’d as lif
be an old maid as not, and never expected to marry,
ner didn’t want to. But she had me sceart onc’t,
though! Come out from the city one time, durin’ the
army, with a peart-lookin’ young feller in blue clothes
and gilt straps on his shoulders. Young lieutenant he
was—name o’ Morris. Was layin’ in camp there in the
city somers. I disremember which camp it was now adzackly—but
anyway, it ’peared like he had plenty o’
time to go and come, fer from that time on he kep’
on a-comin’—ever’ time Marthy ’ud come home, he’d
come, too; and I got to noticin’ ’a’t Marthy come home
a good ’eal more’n she used to afore Morris first brought
her. And blame ef the thing didn’t git to worryin’ me!
And onc’t I spoke to mother about it, and told her ef
I thought the feller wanted to marry Marthy I’d jest
stop his comin’ right then and there. But mother she
sorto’ smiled and said somepin’ ’bout men a-never seein’
through nothin’; and when I ast her what she meant,
w’y, she ups and tells me ’a’t Morris didn’t keer nothin’
fer Marthy, ner Marthy fer Morris, and then went on
to tell me that Morris was kindo’ aidgin’ up to’rds Annie—she
was next to Marthy, you know, in pint of years
and experience, but ever’body allus said ’a’t Annie was
the purtiest one o’ the whole three of ’em. And so when
mother told me ’a’t the signs pinted to’rds Annie, w’y, of
course, I hedn’t no particular objections to that, ’cause
Morris was of good fambly enough it turned out, and,
in fact, was as stirrin’ a young feller as ever I’d want
fer a son-in-law, and so I hed nothin’ more to say—ner
they wasn’t no occasion to say nothin’, ’cause right along
about then I begin to notice ’a’t Marthy quit comin’
home so much, and Morris kep’ a-comin’ more. Tel
finally, one time he was out here all by hisself, ’long
about dusk, come out here where I was feedin’, and ast
me, all at onc’t, and in a straightfor’ard way, ef he
couldn’t marry Annie; and, some-way-another, blame ef
it didn’t make me as happy as him when I told him
yes! You see that thing proved, pine-blank, ’a’t he
wasn’t a-fishin’ round fer Marthy. Well-sir, as luck
would hev it, Marthy got home about a half-hour later,
and I’ll give you my word I was never so glad to see
the girl in my life! It was foolish in me, I reckon, but
when I see her drivin’ up the lane—it was purt’ nigh
dark then, but I could see her through the open winder
from where I was settin’ at the supper-table, and so I
jest quietly excused myself, p’lite-like, as a feller will,
you know, when they’s comp’ny round, and I slipped off
and met her jest as she was about to git out to open
the barn gate. ’Hold up, Marthy,’ says I; ’set right
where you air; I’ll open the gate fer you, and I’ll do
anything else fer you in the world ’a’t you want me
to!’
“‘W’y, what’s pleased _you_ so?’ she says, laughin’,
as she druv through slow-like and a-ticklin’ my nose with
the cracker of the buggy-whip.—’What’s pleased _you_?’
“‘Guess,’ says I, jerkin’ the gate to, and turnin’ to
lift her out.
“‘The new peanner’s come?’ says she, eager-like.
“‘Yer new peanner’s come,’ says I; ’but that’s not
it.’
“‘Strawberries fer supper?’ says she.
“‘Strawberries fer supper,’ says I; ’but that ain’t
it.’
“Jest then Morris’s hoss whinnied in the barn, and
she glanced up quick and smilin’ and says, ’Somebody
come to see somebody?’
“‘You’re a-gittin’ warm,’ says I.
“‘Somebody come to see _me_?’ she says, anxious-like.
“‘No,’ says I, ’a’nd I’m glad of it—fer this one ’a’t’s
come wants to git married, and o’ course I wouldn’t
harber in my house no young feller ’a’t was a-layin’ round
fer a chance to steal away the “Nest-egg,’” says I,
laughin’.
“Marthy had riz up in the buggy by this time, but
as I helt up my hands to her, she sorto’ drawed back
a minute, and says, all serious-like and kindo’ whisperin’:
“‘Is it _Annie_?’
“I nodded. ’Yes,’ says I, ’a’nd what’s more, I’ve
give my consent, and mother’s give hern—the thing’s
all settled. Come, jump out and run in and be happy
with the rest of us!’ and I helt out my hands ag’in, but
she didn’t ’pear to take no heed. She was kindo’ pale,
too, I thought, and swallered a time er two like as ef she
couldn’t speak plain.
“‘Who is the man?’ she ast.
“‘Who—who’s the man?’ I says, a-gittin’ kindo’ out
o’ patience with the girl.—’W’y, you know who it is,
o’ course.—It’s Morris,’ says I. ’Come, jump down!
Don’t you see I’m waitin’ fer ye?’
“‘Then take me,’ she says; and blame-don! ef the girl
didn’t keel right over in my arms as limber as a rag!
Clean fainted away! Honest! Jest the excitement, I
reckon, o’ breakin’ it to her so suddent-like—’cause she
liked Annie, I’ve sometimes thought, better’n even she
did her own mother. Didn’t go half so hard with
her when her other sister married. Yes-sir!” said
the old man, by way of sweeping conclusion, as he rose
to his feet—“Marthy’s the on’y one of ’em ’a’t never
married—both the others is gone—Morris went all
through the army and got back safe and sound—’s livin’
in Idyho, and doin’ fust-rate. Sends me a letter ever’
now and then. Got three little chunks o’ grandchildren
out there, and I’ never laid eyes on one of ’em. You
see, I’m a-gittin’ to be quite a middle-aged man—in fact,
a very middle-aged man, you might say. Sence mother
died, which has be’n—lem-me-see—mother’s be’n dead
somers in the neighborhood o’ ten year.—Sence mother
died I’ve be’n a-gittin’ more and more o’ _Marthy’s_ notion—that
is,—you couldn’t ever hire _me_ to marry
nobody! and them has allus be’n and still is the ’Nest-egg’s’
views! Listen! That’s her a-callin’ fer us now.
You must sorto’ overlook the freedom, but I told Marthy
you’d promised to take dinner with us to-day, and it
’ud never do to disappint her now. Come on.” And,
ah! it would have made the soul of you either rapturously
glad or madly envious to see how meekly I consented.
I am always thinking that I never tasted coffee till
that day; I am always thinking of the crisp and steaming
rolls, ored over with the molten gold that hinted
of the clover-fields, and the bees that had not yet permitted
the honey of the bloom and the white blood of
the stalk to be divorced; I am always thinking that the
young and tender pullet we happy three discussed was
a near and dear relative of the gay patrician rooster that
I first caught peering so inquisitively in at the kitchen
door; and I am always—always thinking of “The Nest-egg.”
WEE WILLIE WINKIE
BY
RUDYARD KIPLING
As the sub-title, “An Officer and a Gentleman,” indicates, this is a
story of character. Mr. Kipling, like Robert Louis Stevenson, James
Whitcomb Riley, and Eugene Field, has carried into his maturity
an imperishable youth of spirit which makes him an interpreter of
children. Here he has shown what our Anglo-Saxon ideals—honor,
obedience, and reverence for woman—mean to a little child.
WEE WILLIE WINKIE[9]
“An officer and a gentleman.”
His full name was Percival William Williams, but he picked up the other
name in a nursery-book, and that was the end of the christened titles.
His mother’s _ayah_ called him Willie-_Baba_, but as he never paid the
faintest attention to anything that the _ayah_ said, her wisdom did not
help matters.
His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon as Wee Willie
Winkie was old enough to understand what Military Discipline meant,
Colonel Williams put him under it. There was no other way of managing
the child. When he was good for a week, he drew good-conduct pay; and
when he was bad, he was deprived of his good-conduct stripe. Generally
he was bad, for India offers many chances of going wrong to little
six-year-olds.
Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee Willie Winkie was
a very particular child. Once he accepted an acquaintance, he was
graciously pleased to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the
195th, on sight. Brandis was having tea at the Colonel’s, and Wee
Willie Winkie entered strong in the possession of a good-conduct badge
won for not chasing the hens round the compound. He regarded Brandis
with gravity for at least ten minutes, and then delivered himself of
his opinion.
“I like you,” said he slowly, getting off his chair and coming over to
Brandis. “I like you. I shall call you Coppy, because of your hair. Do
you _mind_ being called Coppy? It is because of ve hair, you know.”
Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie Winkie’s
peculiarities. He would look at a stranger for some time, and then,
without warning or explanation, would give him a name. And the
name stuck. No regimental penalties could break Wee Willie Winkie
of this habit. He lost his good-conduct badge for christening the
Commissioner’s wife “Pobs”; but nothing that the Colonel could do made
the Station forego the nickname, and Mrs. Collen remained “Pobs” till
the end of her stay. So Brandis was christened “Coppy,” and rose,
therefore, in the estimation of the regiment.
If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the fortunate man was
envied alike by the mess and the rank and file. And in their envy lay
no suspicion of self-interest. “The Colonel’s son” was idolized on his
own merits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was not lovely. His face
was permanently freckled, as his legs were permanently scratched, and
in spite of his mother’s almost tearful remonstrances he had insisted
upon having his long yellow locks cut short in the military fashion. “I
want my hair like Sergeant Tummil’s,” said Wee Willie Winkie, and, his
father abetting, the sacrifice was accomplished.
Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affections on Lieutenant
Brandis—henceforward to be called “Coppy” for the sake of brevity—Wee
Willie Winkie was destined to behold strange things and far beyond his
comprehension.
Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy had let him wear
for five rapturous minutes his own big sword—just as tall as Wee
Willie Winkie. Coppy had promised him a terrier puppy, and Coppy had
permitted him to witness the miraculous operation of shaving. Nay,
more—Coppy had said that even he, Wee Willie Winkie, would rise in
time to the ownership of a box of shiny knives, a silver soap-box,
and a silver-handled “sputter-brush,” as Wee Willie Winkie called it.
Decidedly, there was no one except his own father, who could give
or take away good-conduct badges at pleasure, half so wise, strong,
and valiant as Coppy with the Afghan and Egyptian medals on his
breast. Why, then, should Coppy be guilty of the unmanly weakness of
kissing—vehemently kissing—a “big girl,” Miss Allardyce to wit? In
the course of a morning ride Wee Willie Winkie had seen Coppy so doing,
and, like the gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled round and cantered
back to his groom, lest the groom should also see.
Under ordinary circumstances he would have spoken to his father, but he
felt instinctively that this was a matter on which Coppy ought first to
be consulted.
“Coppy,” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up outside that subaltern’s
bungalow early one morning—“I want to see you, Coppy!”
“Come in, young ’un,” returned Coppy, who was at early breakfast in the
midst of his dogs. “What mischief have you been getting into now?”
Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously bad for three days, and
so stood on a pinnacle of virtue.
“_I’ve_ been doing nothing bad,” said he, curling himself into a long
chair with a studious affectation of the Colonel’s languor after a hot
parade. He buried his freckled nose in a tea-cup and, with eyes staring
roundly over the rim, asked: “I say, Coppy, is it pwoper to kiss big
girls?”
“By Jove! You’re beginning early. Who do you want to kiss?”
“No one. My muvver’s always kissing me if I don’t stop her. If it isn’t
pwoper, how was you kissing Major Allardyce’s big girl last morning,
by ve canal?”
Coppy’s brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce had with great craft
managed to keep their engagement secret for a fortnight. There were
urgent and imperative reasons why Major Allardyce should not know how
matters stood for at least another month, and this small marplot had
discovered a great deal too much.
“I saw you,” said Wee Willie Winkie calmly. “But ve _sais_ didn’t see.
I said, ’_Hut jao!_’”
“Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip,” groaned poor Coppy, half
amused and half angry. “And how many people may you have told about it?”
“Only me myself. You didn’t tell when I twied to wide ve buffalo ven my
pony was lame; and I fought you wouldn’t like.”
“Winkie,” said Coppy enthusiastically, shaking the small hand, “you’re
the best of good fellows. Look here, you can’t understand all these
things. One of these days—hang it, how can I make you see it!—I’m
going to marry Miss Allardyce, and then she’ll be Mrs. Coppy, as you
say. If your young mind is so scandalized at the idea of kissing big
girls, go and tell your father.”
“What will happen?” said Wee Willie Winkie, who firmly believed that
his father was omnipotent.
“I shall get into trouble,” said Coppy, playing his trump card with an
appealing look at the holder of the ace.
“Ven I won’t,” said Wee Willie Winkie briefly. “But my faver says it’s
un-man-ly to be always kissing, and I didn’t fink _you’d_ do vat,
Coppy.”
“I’m not always kissing, old chap. It’s only now and then, and when
you’re bigger you’ll do it too. Your father meant it’s not good for
little boys.”
“Ah!” said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlightened. “It’s like ve
sputter-brush?”
“Exactly,” said Coppy gravely.
“But I don’t fink I’ll ever want to kiss big girls, nor no one, ’cept
my muvver. And I _must_ do vat, you know.”
There was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie Winkie.
“Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?”
“Awfully!” said Coppy.
“Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha—or me?”
“It’s in a different way,” said Coppy. “You see, one of these days
Miss Allerdyce will belong to me, but you’ll grow up and command the
Regiment and—all sorts of things. It’s quite different, you see.”
“Very well,” said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. “If you’re fond of ve big
girl, I won’t tell any one. I must go now.”
Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the door, adding—“You’re
the best of little fellows, Winkie. I tell you what. In thirty days
from now you can tell if you like—tell any one you like.”
Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engagement was dependent on a
little child’s word. Coppy, who knew Wee Willie Winkie’s idea of truth,
was at ease, for he felt that he would not break promises. Wee Willie
Winkie betrayed a special and unusual interest in Miss Allardyce, and,
slowly revolving round that embarrassed young lady, was used to regard
her gravely with unwinking eye. He was trying to discover why Coppy
should have kissed her. She was not half so nice as his own mother. On
the other hand, she was Coppy’s property, and would in time belong to
him. Therefore it behooved him to treat her with as much respect as
Coppy’s big sword or shiny pistol.
The idea that he shared a great secret in common with Coppy kept Wee
Willie Winkie unusually virtuous for three weeks. Then the Old Adam
broke out, and he made what he called a “camp-fire” at the bottom of
the garden. How could he have foreseen that the flying sparks would
have lighted the Colonel’s little hay-rick and consumed a week’s store
for the horses? Sudden and swift was the punishment—deprivation of the
good-conduct badge and, most sorrowful of all, two days’ confinement
to barracks—the house and veranda—coupled with the withdrawal of the
light of his father’s countenance.
He took the sentence like the man he strove to be, drew himself up with
a quivering under-lip, saluted, and, once clear of the room, ran to
weep bitterly in his nursery—called by him “my quarters.” Coppy came
in the afternoon and attempted to console the culprit.
“I’m under awwest,” said Wee Willie Winkie mournfully, “and I didn’t
ought to speak to you.”
Very early the next morning he climbed on to the roof of the
house—that was not forbidden—and beheld Miss Allardyce going for a
ride.
“Where are you going?” cried Wee Willie Winkie.
“Across the river,” she answered, and trotted forward.
Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay was bounded on the north
by a river—dry in the winter. From his earliest years, Wee Willie
Winkie had been forbidden to go across the river, and had noted that
even Coppy—the almost almighty Coppy—had never set foot beyond it.
Wee Willie Winkie had once been read to, out of a big blue book, the
history of the Princess and the Goblins—a most wonderful tale of a
land where the Goblins were always warring with the children of men
until they were defeated by one Curdie. Ever since that date it
seemed to him that the bare black and purple hills across the river
were inhabited by Goblins, and, in truth, every one had said that
there lived the Bad Men. Even in his own house the lower halves of the
windows were covered with green paper on account of the Bad Men who
might, if allowed clear view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms and
comfortable bedrooms. Certainly, beyond the river, which was the end of
all the Earth, lived the Bad Men. And here was Major Allardyce’s big
girl, Coppy’s property, preparing to venture into their borders! What
would Coppy say if anything happened to her? If the Goblins ran off
with her as they did with Curdie’s Princess? She must at all hazards be
turned back.
The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected for a moment on the
very terrible wrath of his father; and then—broke his arrest! It was
a crime unspeakable. The low sun threw his shadow, very large and very
black, on the trim garden-paths, as he went down to the stables and
ordered his pony. It seemed to him in the hush of the dawn that all the
big world had been bidden to stand still and look at Wee Willie Winkie
guilty of mutiny. The drowsy _sais_ gave him his mount, and, since
the one great sin made all others insignificant, Wee Willie Winkie
said that he was going to ride over to Coppy Sahib, and went out at a
foot-pace, stepping on the soft mould of the flower-borders.
The devastating track of the pony’s feet was the last misdeed that cut
him off from all sympathy of Humanity. He turned into the road, leaned
forward, and rode at fast as the pony could put foot to the ground in
the direction of the river.