IN THE GARDEN.
"Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow."
SONGS OF SEVEN.
Down below the garden of Ted's pretty home flowed, or danced rather,
with a constant merry babble, a tiny stream. A busy, fussy stream it
was, on its way to the beautiful little river that, in its turn, came
rushing down through a mountain-gorge to the sea. I must tell you about
this mountain-gorge some time, or, if you like, we shall visit it with
Ted and his faithful companion, whom you have not yet heard about--his
father's great big Scotch collie dog, Cheviott.
You don't know what a dear dog he was, so brave, but so gentle and
considerate. He came of a brave and patient race, for you know "collies"
are the famous Scotch sheep-dogs, who to their shepherd masters are more
useful than any _two_-legged servant could be. And though I am not sure
that "Chevie" himself had ever had to do with "the keeping of sheep,"
like gentle Abel of old, yet, no doubt, as a baby doggie in his northern
home, he must have heard a good deal about it--no doubt, if his tongue
had had the power of speaking, he could have told his little master some
strange stories of adventures and narrow escapes which had happened to
members of his family. For up in the Border mountains where he was born,
the storms sometimes come on so suddenly that shepherd and flock are all
but lost, and but for their faithful collies, might never find their way
home again. Often, too, in the early spring-time, the poor little lambs
go astray, or meet with some accident, such as being caught in the
bushes and being unable to escape. What, then, would become of them but
for their four-footed guardian, who summons aid before it is too late,
and guides the gentle, silly lambkins and their mothers along the right
paths? I think Ted's father and mother did well when they chose for
their boy a collie like Cheviott for his companion.
Across the stream, just at the foot of the garden path which sloped down
from the house, a couple of planks were placed as a bridge. A narrow
bridge, and not a very firm one, it must be confessed, and perhaps
for that very reason--because there was something a little risky and
dangerous about it--Ted, true boy that he was, was particularly fond of
crossing it. He liked to stand on it for a minute or two on the way,
"jigging" up and down to feel the shaking and trembling of the planks,
but that, of course, was only a kind of playing with danger. I don't
think he _would_ have much liked a sudden tumble into the mischievous
little brook's cold waters, very cold it would have felt, though it
looked so browny bright and tempting. And many a bath in the brook Ted
would have had, had Chevie been as much carried away by his spirits as
his little master. For no sooner did the two set off running from the
top of the sloping garden path, than Ted would call out, "A race,
Chevie, a race! Who'll be at the bridge first?" And on he would run as
fast as his sturdy wee legs could carry him, Cheviott bounding beside
him with a great show of also doing _his_ best. But--and wasn't this
clever of Chevie?--just a little way on this side of the bridge he
would--not stop short, for that might have disappointed Ted and made
him feel as if they weren't having a _real_ race, but go gradually
more slowly, as if he felt he had no chance of gaining, so that little
Ted always reached the bridge first, and stood shouting with glee
and triumph. The first time or two that Ted's mother saw this little
performance she had been frightened, for if the dog had gone on at full
speed, or even only at luggage-train speed, beside the boy, he could not
have avoided tumbling him into the brook. But for anything of this kind
Cheviott was far too much of a gentleman, and after watching them once
or twice, Ted's mother felt perfectly satisfied that the little man
could not be better taken care of than by his four-footed friend.
There was another friend, too, who could very well be trusted to take
care of Ted, for though he had, of course, a very kind, good nurse in
the house, nurses are not able to be the whole day long in the garden,
nor are they always very fond of being much there. So, even though Ted
was still quite a little boy, it was very nice for him to have two such
good out-door friends as Cheviott and David the gardener, the other one
I am going to tell you of.
It was a beautiful spring day. Ted woke up early, and thought to himself
how nice and bright and sunny it was going to be in the garden. He was
rather in a hurry to be dressed, for there were several things he was
in a hurry to do, and the days, in summer time especially, never seemed
long enough for all he had before him. Just now these summer days seemed
really brimming over with nice things, for his big cousin Percy--at
least he was what _Ted_ counted a "big" cousin, and he was a good many
years older than Ted--was with him for the holidays, and though Percy
had some lessons to do, still they had a good deal of time together.
"Ted wonders if Percy is 'decked' yet," said Ted to his nurse. "Decked"
was the word he always used for "dressed," and he was often made fun of
for using it. His mind was very full of Percy this morning, for he had
only arrived the evening before, and besides the pleasure of having him
with him, which was _always_ a pleasure, there was the nice newness of
it,--the things he had to show Percy, the tricks Chevie had learnt, big
dog though he was, the letters and little words Ted had himself mastered
since Percy was last there.
"I don't know that Master Percy will be ready quite so early this
morning," said nurse. "He may be a little tired with travelling
yesterday."
"Ted doesn't _zink_ Percy will be tired," said Ted. "Percy wants to see
the garden. Percy is so big, isn't he, nurse? Percy can throw sticks up
in the sky _so_ high. Percy throwed one up in the sky up to heaven, so
high that it _never_ comed down again."
"Indeed," said nurse; "are you quite sure of that, Master Ted? Perhaps
it did come down again, but you didn't see it."
Nurse was a sensible person, you see. She did not all at once begin
saying to Ted that he was talking nonsense, or worse still that he was
telling stories. For very little children often "romance" in a sweet
innocent way which has nothing whatever to do with story-telling--I mean
_untruth_-telling, for it is better not to call untruths "stories," is
it not? The world and the people in it, and the things they see and
hear, are all new and strange to the little creatures so lately started
on their puzzling journey. What wonder that real and fancy are mixed up
together sometimes--that it is difficult to understand that the pretty
blue-bells do not sometimes tinkle in the moonlight, or that there are
no longer bears in the woods or fairies hidden among the grass? Perhaps
it would be better for us if we were _more_ ready to believe even such
passed-by fancies, than to be so quick as we sometimes are to accuse
others of wishing to deceive.
Ted looked at nurse thoughtfully.
"P'raps it did," he said. "P'raps it might have comed down again after
Ted was a'leep."
"I daresay it caught in a tree or something of that kind," said nurse,
as she finished brushing Ted's soft curls and lifted him off the chair
on which he had been standing, just as Percy put his head in at the door
to ask if Ted might have a run in the garden with him before breakfast.
"They're not down yet," said Percy, nodding his bright curly head in
the direction of Ted's father's and mother's room; "they're not ready.
Nurse, do let Ted come out with me for a bit before breakfast," and Ted
trotted off, his hand in Percy's, in utmost content.
Was there ever so clever and kind and wonderful a big boy as Percy
before? Was there ever one who knew so much about _everything_--cricket
and croquet and football; skating and fishing and climbing trees--things
on earth and things in water--what was there he didn't know? These
were the thoughts that were busy in Ted's little brain as he followed
kind Percy about the garden, that bright summer morning, chattering
incessantly, and yet ready enough to be silent when Percy took it
into his head to relate to his tiny adorer some of his school
experiences.
"Ted will go to school some day, Percy," he said half questioningly.
"Of course you will. I hope you'll come to my school if I've not left
by then. I could look after you, you know, and see that they didn't
bully you."
"What's 'bully'?" asked Ted.
"Oh, teasing, you know. Setting you down because you're a little chap,
and all that. Knocking you about if you don't look sharp. All those
kinds of things that big fellows do to small ones."
Ted opened his eyes. It was not very clear to him what Percy meant--it
was a new idea, and would have distressed him greatly had he quite taken
it in that big boys could be anything but good to little ones.
"Thoo doesn't knock Ted about, and thoo is big, Percy," he said,
remonstratingly.
"No, of course I don't, but that's different. You're like my brother,
you know."
"And bruvvers _couldn't_ knock theirselves about," said Ted with an air
of satisfaction.
"N-no, I suppose not," said Percy. Boy as he was, he felt somehow that
he could not bear to destroy little Ted's beautiful faith. "But never
mind about that just now," he added; "let's run down the bank and see
how the cabbages and cauliflowers are getting on. They were just put
in when I was here last;" and for some time both boys were intensely
interested in examining the state of the vegetable beds.
"Ted likes f'owers best," said the child, after a few moments' silence.
"When Ted----"
"Why don't you say 'I' and 'I like,' Teddy?" said Percy. "You're getting
such a big boy--four years old."
"Ted _means_ I," persisted the small man. "_I_ sall have all f'owers in
Ted's garden, when me is big."
Percy was obliged to leave off what he was about--hunting for the slugs
and caterpillars among the cabbages--in order that he might stand still
and laugh.
"I'm afraid you wouldn't get the prize for grammar at our school, Ted,"
he said. But Ted only laughed too.
"I haven't learnt grammar," he said slowly and distinctly. "But please,
Percy, Ted doesn't like cabbages. Come and see the f'owers. There was
lots of c'ocodiles at that side. Ted likes zem best of all, but zem's
done now."
"_Crocodiles_," said Percy. "What can crocodiles be?"
"Little f'owers with pointy leaves," said Ted. "P'raps it isn't
c'ocodiles but somesing like coc--coco----"
"Crocuses perhaps," said Percy, as they made their way up to the house.
"Yes, they're very pretty, but they're soon done."
"When I'm big I'll have a garden where they'll _never_ be done," said
Ted. "I'll have c'ocodiles and towslips for muzzer and--and----"
"Come in to breakfast, my man," called out his father from the
dining-room. "What have you been about this morning?"
"We'se been in the garden," said Ted, "and Percy's been 'samining the
cabbages. He's caught slugs upon slugs, worms upon worms, earwigs upon
earwigs."
"My dear little boy," said Ted's father, though he couldn't help
laughing, "you mustn't learn to exaggerate."
"What's 'saggerate?" began Ted, but looking round another idea caught
him. "Where's muzzer?" he said suddenly.
"Mother is rather tired this morning," said his father. "Eat your
breakfast, dear," and then he turned to talk to Percy and ask him
questions as to how he was getting on at school.
For a minute or two neither of them noticed Ted. He sat quietly at his
place, his bowl of bread and milk before him, but he made no attempt to
eat it. Then Percy happened to see him.
"Aren't you hungry, Ted?" he said.
Ted looked up with his two blue eyes full of tears.
"Ses," he said, "Ted's hungry. But if muzzer doesn't come down Ted can't
eat. Ted won't eat nothing all day, and he'll die."
"Not quite so bad as that," said his father quietly, for he did not
want Ted to see that it was difficult not to smile at his funny way of
speaking, "for see here is mother coming."
Ted danced off his seat with pleasure.
"It's dedful when thoo's not here," he said feelingly, and now the bread
and milk was quickly despatched. "When I'm big," he continued, in the
intervals of the spoonfuls, "I'll have a house as big--as big as a
mountain," his eyes glancing out of the window, "and all the little boys
in the world shall live there with all their favers and muzzers, and
Percies, and everybodies, and nobody shall never go away, not to school
or bidness, or nothing, so that they'll all be togever always."
Ted looked round for approval, and then took another spoonful.
"What a nice place you'll make of the world, my boy, when you're big,"
said his father.
"Ses," said Ted with satisfaction.
"But as that time hasn't come yet, I'm afraid I _must_ go to my
'bidness,'" his father went on. For he had to go several times a week a
good way into the country, to see that his men were all doing their work
properly. "And Percy must go with me to-day," he went on, "for he needs
some new clothes, and I shall be driving through A----," which was the
nearest town to which they lived.
Percy's face looked very pleased, but Ted's grew rather sad.
"Never mind, Teddy," whispered Percy. "We'll have lots of days. You must
have a good game with Chevie to keep up your spirits."
"And David is going to cut the grass to-day," said his father, "so you
will have plenty of fun."
"But Ted must be careful," said his mother; "don't touch David's sharp
tools, Ted. I was quite frightened the other day," she added; "Ted was
trying to open and shut those great big shears for clipping the
borders."
"Zem was sticked fast," said Ted. "Zem opens kite easy sometimes."
"Well, don't you touch them any way," said his mother, laughing. But
though Ted said "No," I don't feel sure that he really heard what
his mother was saying. His wits were already off, I don't know where
to--running after Cheviott perhaps, or farther away still, up among the
little clouds that were scudding across the blue sky that he caught
sight of out of the window.
And then his father and Percy set off, and his mother went away about
her housekeeping, sending Ted up to the nursery, and telling him that he
might ask nurse to put his big blouse on, so that he might play about
the garden without risk of soiling his clothes.
Ted felt, for him, a very little sad as he trotted out into the garden.
He had hoped for such a nice merry day with Percy. But low spirits never
troubled him long. Off he set with Cheviott for the race down to the
little bridge, always the first bit of Ted's programme, and careful
Chevie as usual pulled up in plenty of time to avoid any risk of
toppling his master into the brook. Arrived on the bridge, Ted stood
still and "jigged" a little as usual. Then he peered down at the shiny
water with the bright brown pebbles sparkling up through it, and
wondered what it would feel like to be a little fish.
"Little fisses," he said to himself, "always has each other to play
with. They don't go to school, and they hasn't no bidness, nor no cooks
that they must be such a long time ordering the dinners with, nor--nor
beds to make and stockings to mend. I wish nurse would 'tum out this
morning. Ted doesn't like being all alone. Ted would like somebody
littler to play with, 'cos then they wouldn't go to school or out d'ives
with papa."
But just as he was thinking this, he caught sight of some one coming
across the garden, and his ideas took another turn at once.
"David, old David," he cried, "is thoo going to cut the grass? Do let me
come and help thoo, David."
And he ran back across the bridge again and made his way to David as
fast as he could.
"Good morning, Master Ted," said the gardener. "Is it beautiful day,
Master Ted, to be sure. Yes indeed."
"Ses," agreed Ted. "Good morning, old David. I'm going to stay out in
the garden a long time, a tevible long time, 'cos it's such a sprendid
lovely day. What is thoo going to do, David? Can't Ted help thoo?"
"I am going to cut the grass, Master Ted, but I not be very long--no;
for it is only the middle that's be cut. All the rest stand for hay, to
be sure. Ay, indeed."
"And when will the hay be cuttened?" inquired Ted.
"That's be as Master order, and not as Master can choose neither--no,"
said David. "He not able to make for the sun to shine; no, indeed; nor
the rain neither,--no."
"'_Dod_ sends rain and sun," said Ted, reverently, but yet looking at
David with a sort of curiosity.
"Well, indeed you are right, Master Ted. Yes, yes. But I must get on
with my work. God gives us work to do, too; ay, indeed; and them as not
work never expect to eat, no, never; they not care for their victual
anyhow if they not work for it. No."
Ted looked rather puzzled. "Ted eats," he said,--"not victuals--Ted
doesn't know that meat--but bread and butter, and tea, and potatoes,
and rice pudding, and meat, and _sometimes_ 'tawberry jam and apple pie
and--and--lots of things. And Ted likes zem very much, but him doesn't
work."
"I not know for that, Master Ted," said David, "is it all kinds of work;
ay, indeed; and I see you very near always busy--dear me, yes; working
very good, Master Ted--ay."
Illustration:
"I wish thoo'd let me help thoo to cut the grass."--P. 32.
"I _like_ to be busy. I wish thoo'd let me help thoo to cut the grass,"
said Ted, eyeing David wistfully, as he started his big scythe, for the
old gardener knew nothing of mowing machines, and would most likely
have looked upon them with great contempt. But he stopped short a moment
to look down at wee Ted, staring up at him and wishing to be in his
place.
"No, indeed, Master Ted _bach_!" he said; "you soon have your cliver
little legs and arms cut to pieces, if you use with my scythe, Master
Ted--ay, indeed, d'rectly. It look easy, to be sure, but it not so easy
even for a cliver man like you, Master Ted--no, indeed. But I tell you
what you shall do. You shall help to make the grass to a heaps, and then
I put it in a barrow and wheel it off. Ay, indeed; that be the best."
This proposal was very much to Ted's taste. Chevie and he, at a safe
distance from David's scythe, thought it great fun to toss about the
soft fine grass and imagine they were helping David tremendously. And
after a while, when Chevie began to think he had had enough of it, and
with a sort of condescending growl by way of explanation, stretched
himself out in the sunshine for a little forenoon sleep, David left off
cutting, and, with Ted's help of course, filled the barrow and wheeled
it off to the corner where the grass was to lie to be out of the way. It
was beginning to be rather hot, though still quite early, and Ted's face
grew somewhat red with his exertions as he ran beside David.
"You better ride now; jump in, Master Ted," said the gardener, when his
barrow was empty. So he lifted him in and wheeled him back to the lawn,
which was _quite_ after Ted's own heart.
"Isn't thoo going to cut with thoo's big scissors?" said Ted after a
while.
"It is want oiling," said David, "and I forget to do them. I shall leave
the borders till after dinner,--ay, sure," and he was going on with his
scything when suddenly a voice was heard from the house calling him.
"David, David, you're wanted," said the voice, and then the cook made
her appearance at the side of the house. "There's a note to take
to----."
They could not hear to where, but David had to go. He glanced round him,
and, afraid of Ted's experiments, shouldered his scythe and walked off
with it for fear of accidents.
"Are you going in, Master Ted?" he asked.
"Nurse is going to call me when she's ready," said Ted composedly, and
knowing that the little fellow often played about by himself for a
while, good David left him without any more anxiety. He had got his
scythe safe, he never thought of the big pair of shears he had left
lying in the grass!
Now these gigantic "scissors" as he called them had always had a
wonderful attraction for Ted. He used to think how funny they would look
beside the very tiny fine pair his mother worked with--the pretty
scissors that lay in her little case lined with velvet and satin. Ted
had not, in those days, heard of Gulliver and his strange adventures,
but if he had, one might have imagined that to his fancy the two pairs
of scissors were like a Brobdignag and a Lilliputian. And no sooner had
David disappeared than unfortunately the great scissors caught his eyes.
"Zem's still sticked fast," he said to himself. "David says zem needs
oil. Wiss I had some oil. P'raps the fissy oil to make Ted grow big
would do. But the scissors is big enough. Ted wonders if the fissy oil
would make zem bigger. Zem _couldn't_ be much bigger."
Ted laughed a little to himself at the funny fancy. Then he sat and
stared at the scissors. What did they remind him of? Ah yes, they were
like the shears of "the great, long, red-legged scissor man," in the
wonderful story of "Conrad Suck-a-thumb," in his German picture-book.
Almost, as he gazed at them, it seemed to Ted that the figure of the
scissors man would suddenly dart out from among the bushes and seize
his property.
"But him wouldn't cut _Ted's_ fumbs," thought the little man to himself,
"'cos Ted _never_ sucks zem. What a pity the scissors is sticked fast!
Poor David can't cut with zem. P'raps Ted could oilen zem for poor
David! Ted will go and get some fissy oil."
No sooner thought than done. Up jumped Ted, and was starting off to
the house when a growl from Cheviott made him stop. The dog had just
awakened, and seeing his little master setting off somewhere thought it
his business to inquire where to and why. He lifted his head and gave it
a sort of sleepy shake, then growled again, but gently of course.
"What did thoo say, Chevie?" said Ted. "Did thoo want to know where I
was going? Stay here, Chevie. Ted will be back in a minute--him's on'y
going to get some fissy oil to oilen poor David's scissors."
And off he set, though a third growl from Cheviott followed him as he
ran.
"What does Chevie mean?" thought Ted. "P'raps him's thinking muzzer said
Ted mustn't touch zem big scissors. But muzzer on'y meant Ted wasn't to
cutten with zem. Muzzer would _like_ Ted to help poor David," and, his
conscience quite at rest, he trotted on contentedly.