"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.