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LITTLE FOLKS:
_A Magazine for the Young._
_NEW AND ENLARGED SERIES._
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED:
_LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK._
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: A QUEEN OF THE BEACH.]
LITTLE FOLKS.
A LITTLE TOO CLEVER.
_By the Author of "Pen's Perplexities," "Margaret's Enemy," "Maid
Marjory," &c._
CHAPTER I.--THE MOOR.
[Illustration]
Crimson and gold. As far as one could see across the moor it was one
broad expanse of purply heather, kindled into a glowing crimson by the
blaze of ruddy sunshine, and lighted here and there by bright patches of
the thorny golden rod. Dame Nature had evidently painted out of her
summer paint-box, and had not spared her best and brightest colours.
Crimson-lake, children; you know what a lovely colour it is, and how
fast it goes, for you are very fond of using it, and there is only one
cake in each of your boxes. But here was crimson-lake enough to have
emptied all the paint-boxes in the world, you might suppose, and the
brightest of goldy yellows, and the greenest of soft transparent greens,
such as no paint-box ever did, nor ever will, possess; and over all the
most azure of blues, flecked with floating masses of soft indescribable
white, looking to Elsie like the foamy soapsuds at the top of the tub
when mother had been having a rare wash, but to Duncan like lumps of
something he had once tasted and never forgotten, called cocoa-nut ice.
It seemed a pity when Dame Nature had spent her colours so lavishly that
there should be no one to see her bright handiwork. Yet, sad to tell,
there lay the broad sheet of crimson and gold day after day unnoticed
and unheeded, till, in despair, it at length began to wither and blacken
and die.
For this was a lonely moor, where the heather and gorse bloomed so
bravely, so lonely that even along the road which skirted it the number
of those who passed by in a day could be counted on the fingers of your
hand; and as for the moor itself, it seldom had any visitors but the
cows from the little farm which nestled away in one corner; and do you
suppose such lazy, cupboard-loving creatures cared whether the heather
bloomed or not, so long as they found grass enough to eat?
But the glorious moor had a worse indignity than this to endure, for
there was a cottage here and there whose inhabitants frequently crossed
by the beaten tracks, and never so much as lifted their eyes as they
passed along, to notice the gorgeous dress their moor had put on. They
were so used to it. Had she not worn it every year since they could
remember? and so they sauntered by, thinking about eating or drinking,
or how they would serve their neighbours out, sometimes even quarrelling
loudly, and never giving so much as a passing thought to all the beauty
God had spread around them, and which we who dwell in towns would give
so much to see.
The sun was shining down very hotly, but it had not yet begun to wither
the heather and gorse, on the day when I want you to notice two little
children going across the moor. I told you there were cottages here and
there, and in a pretty little green hollow just beyond a fair-sized
hillock was one where lived the MacDougalls. These two children were
Elsie and Duncan MacDougall. They very often crossed the moor, for the
farm was on the other side of it, and the milk and butter had all to be
fetched from it, the milk twice a day, whether the sun blazed, or the
chilly Scottish drizzle blotted out the hills in a misty haze, or the
north wind swept across it, and shook the gaunt fir-trees to and fro in
its noisy wrath.
"Ain't you coming on, Elsie?" Duncan cried impatiently, for Elsie had
seated herself on a big stone, pushed back her sun-bonnet from her damp
freckled forehead, crossed her brown arms defiantly over her holland
pinafore, and was swinging her bare feet as if she never meant to move
another step to-night.
"No, I ain't coming, Duncan, and that's all about it," Elsie replied,
sulkily, only she said it in a broad Scottish accent which you would
hardly have understood had you heard it, and certainly could make
nothing of if I were to try to write it.
"Then we'll get beaten when we get back," Duncan said, miserably.
"Mother's always scolding, and it's your fault, Elsie."
Elsie looked at him contemptuously. "Go on by yourself," she cried; "I
ain't afraid. It's only Robbie that they're in such a hurry to get the
milk for, and I'm not going to hurry for Robbie. Go on by yourself, do."
But this was more than Duncan dared do, and Elsie knew it, for, in the
first place, it would have seemed as if he sided with Robbie against
Elsie, which would have been quite untrue; and, in the second, it would
have got Elsie into trouble with their mother, and that Duncan would not
have done for anything in the world. If Elsie had been a queen, then
Duncan would have been one of her most willing subjects, and done her
bidding whatever it might cost.
So there stood Duncan, fidgeting to get on, yet bound to the spot where
Elsie stayed by a bond stronger than links of iron. It was in vain that
he fidgeted from one bare foot to the other, or vented his impatience by
flinging his Scottish bonnet high in the air and catching it again.
Elsie was immovable, for Elsie was in one of her very contrariest moods
to-day, and I can hardly describe to you how very contrary she could be.
At last, very slowly and deliberately, she got off the stone, and began
slowly to stretch herself. "Do make haste!" cried Duncan, almost tired
out.
"I can't be hurried," Elsie replied, with a grand air, stooping down to
pick up the milk-can, which she had deposited at the side of the stone.
"It's much too hot and I'm much too tired, and I don't see why I should
be expected to fetch the milk at all. You and Robbie ought to do it.
You're boys, and I'm a girl. It's a shame, and I mean to tell mother
so."
Duncan gazed at her in amazement. He knew Elsie was very daring, but did
she really mean to tell their mother that?
"Me and Robbie?" he gasped. "Robbie never goes nowhere with us, Elsie,
don't you know?"
"Yes, I know, child," Elsie replied, with a lofty toss of her head.
"It's just what I do know. Robbie stops at home while you and me do all
the errands and everything else too, and it isn't fair."
"But you wouldn't like Robbie to come with us: you know you wouldn't,"
Duncan exclaimed, in perplexity.
"With _us!_ No, indeed," Elsie cried, with a little contemptuous laugh.
"I don't want any spoilt little namby-pamby cry-babies along with me;
but that's no reason why I, a girl, should fetch milk for Robbie to
drink while he stays at home. Can't you see that, stupid-head?"
Duncan said "Yes," but he didn't, all the same. He and Elsie went
together, and it never had occurred to him that it ought to be
different. He didn't care for Robbie: Elsie didn't, and so he didn't.
Elsie said he was a spoilt baby, therefore Duncan knew he must be one;
and certainly he couldn't scamper over the moor, and climb the trees,
and fly here, there, and everywhere, like he and Elsie could.
Elsie had begun to move slowly along, carrying the basin, in which was
butter wrapped in wet cloths and a cool cabbage-leaf. Duncan had the
milk-can, and would have been almost home by now, had he not been
obliged to keep on waiting for Elsie to come up with him, his eager
footsteps continually carrying him far on ahead of her sauntering pace.
"I'm just not going over that hill," she said, deliberately, when at
length they reached the purple hillock on the other side of which stood
the cottage. "Come on, Duncan; I'm going round."
"But it's ever so much longer, and we're so late," grumbled Duncan.
"Who cares?" cried Elsie, stolidly. "I'm a girl and I'm not going to
climb up the hill in this heat."
Duncan stared again. He had never heard Elsie complain of the hill
before. Usually they scampered up it, and rolled down the steepest
side--not, truly, when there was milk to carry, but at other times. And
now Elsie was walking along in a languid, mincing fashion, as if she had
no more fun in her than Robbie himself, and had never scampered
bare-foot over the moor six days out of every week, no matter what the
weather might be.
"There's Robbie at the garden gate beckoning us. I expect mother's very
angry," cried Duncan, despairingly.
"Who cares? let him beckon," Elsie replied, with the most provoking
indifference. "Run on by yourself if you're afraid."
Most unkind taunt of all. Did not Elsie well know that Duncan was bound
to her by the chains of a most unswerving, unquestioning loyalty? and
that though he was, so to speak, ready to jump out of his skin with
impatient anxiety, to forsake Elsie would never enter his simple little
head.
When Robbie saw that they did not hurry, he came running towards them,
calling out, "Elsie, Duncan, do make haste! Mother's so cross. You are
late."
"Are we? And are you in a hurry, Robbie? because if you are you'd better
fetch the milk yourself another time. Duncan and I are not your
servants," Elsie replied, loftily.
Robbie stared, as well he might. "I only know mother's very cross," he
reiterated dubiously, as if not quite knowing what to say; "and I don't
think you know how late it is."
"Look here," cried Elsie, standing stock still: "suppose I tip this milk
over on to the heather, what'ud you say to that?" and she lifted up the
lid, and tilted the can, until the foaming white milk was just ready to
pour over the side.
"Oh! Elsie, Elsie, what are you doing?" cried Duncan, in a panic; while
Robbie exclaimed, "Wouldn't mother make you go back and fetch some more,
Elsie, with the pennies out of your box?"
Perhaps Elsie thought it might be so. Any way, she put the can straight,
and moved on again, but as she did so she said to Robbie, "You'd like to
tell mother what I said, wouldn't you, duckie? So you can if you like; I
don't care what you tell mother."
"No, I don't want to tell," Robbie said, almost angrily, with a pink
face and a moist look in the eyes.
As the three children walked along you could hardly help noticing what a
difference there was between the two elder and Robbie. Elsie and Duncan
were big-limbed, ruddy-cheeked children, with high cheek-bones,
fair-skinned, but well freckled and tanned by the sun. Their younger
brother was like them, and yet so different. His skin was fair, but of
milky whiteness, showing too clearly the blue veins underneath it. The
ruddy colour in their faces was in his represented by the palest tinge
of pink. His bare arms were soft and white and thin. Their abundant
straw-coloured hair had in his case become palest gold, of silky
texture, falling in curling locks almost on to his shoulders. He was, in
short, a smaller, weaker, more delicate edition of these two elder ones.
They looked the very embodiment of health and strength, he fragile,
timid, and delicate. No wonder he never scampered across the heath or
rolled down the hillsides. The mists were too chilly for him, the sun
too hot; and so it came about that Elsie and Duncan went together, and
Robbie was left behind, for Elsie was selfish, and hadn't it in her
nature to wait about for the little one, and suit her steps or her play
to his, and Duncan did whatever she did. Perhaps their mother did not
care to trust the little fellow with Elsie, knowing too well that she
was thoughtless, and unable in her own robust strength to understand
the fatigue and listlessness of her little brother. Elsie told him he
would run well enough without shoes and stockings, but their mother had
most particularly charged him that he was never to take them off without
special permission, for he was too delicate to run the risk of damping
his feet. Elsie and Duncan thought it great nonsense, and both pitied
and despised Robbie for being such a miserable molly-coddle.
"Now here's mother herself coming after us," cried Duncan, anxiously
scanning Elsie's face to see how she would act now.
But Elsie was still unflurried. Duncan almost held his breath, for there
were signs of a storm. Mrs. MacDougall's face was red, her mouth
ominously screwed up; she waved her hand angrily towards them--an action
which Elsie pretended not to see.
"Where have you been all this time, madam?" she burst forth, when they
reached her. "I will teach you to hasten your footsteps. Did I not send
Robbie to the gate to beckon you to be quick? You suppose you may do as
you like, but you are mistaken, you lazy, ill-behaved wench. The new
frock I had bought you shall be given to Nannie Cameron, and you shall
wear your old one to the kirk. How will that suit your vanity? And you
may be off to bed now directly, without any supper. There are twigs
enough for a birch rod, my lady, if bed does not bring you to a better
frame of mind. Run in now, and don't let me see your face before six
o'clock to-morrow morning."
What could Elsie be thinking of? She did not run. Robbie looked at her
in piteous distress; Duncan was beside himself. He cast a beseeching
glance at Elsie, a momentary one of resentful anger at his mother, an
impatient one at Robbie, the unfortunate messenger of their mother's
anger.
Then a look of great determination settled over their mother's face. "Do
you dare me?" she cried. "Did I ever threaten and not perform? Will you
compel me to whip you? Then if you would not have it so, hasten your
footsteps at once."
Duncan caught hold of Elsie's hand and tried to pull her, but those
sturdy, legs had the very spirit of obstinacy in them. "Be quiet," she
said; "I want to be whipped."
"Mother means it," Duncan cried. "She has never done it before, but she
will now, Elsie."
Elsie had often dared her mother, but never so flagrantly as this; and
Mrs. MacDougall was not a woman to be dared with impunity. Elsie was
going a little too far; every one saw that except herself.
"Stay here," Mrs. MacDougall said sternly to the two boys when they
entered the cottage kitchen. Then she took Elsie by the shoulder, and
marched her up the few stairs. Robbie and Duncan stood stock still,
looking blankly at each other.
[Illustration: "HE CAME RUNNING TOWARDS THEM" (_p. 3_).]
Presently there came from the room overhead a low sobbing sound, and a
minute or two afterwards Mrs. MacDougall appeared, stern and frowning.
It was an unhappy supper they sat down to. Robbie was very wretched, and
as for Duncan, each mouthful threatened to choke him. Mrs. MacDougall
wore a troubled face. After it was ended Duncan crept away to his
sister's room.
"I knew mother would," he said, sympathisingly, "and I know she'll do it
again, if you do it. You wouldn't, would you, Elsie? Mother never
whipped you before, never in all our lives, Elsie, but you didn't care.
What was the matter with you?"
"You little stupid!" Elsie replied patronisingly; "I won't fetch the
milk at all, not if mother whips me every day. I don't care. You don't
know what I know, and you don't know what I'm going to do, but I know
myself; and you little cowardy custard, you don't know what secret I
could tell you if I liked."