WISHES AND FEARS.
_Children._ "Here are the nails, and may we help?
_Jessie._ You shall if I should want help.
_Children._ Will you want it then?
Please want it--we like helping."
There was no one in the nursery, fortunately for Ted's plans.
_Un_fortunately rather, we should perhaps say, for if nurse had been
there, she would have asked for what he wanted the little bottle which
had held the cod-liver oil, that he had lately left off taking, but of
which a few drops still remained.
Ted climbed on to a chair and reached the shelf where it stood, and
in two minutes he was off again, bottle in hand, in triumph. He found
Cheviott lying still, where he had left him; he looked up and yawned
as Ted appeared, and then growled with an air of satisfaction. It was
sometimes a little difficult for Chevie to decide exactly how _much_
care he was to take of Ted. After all, a little two-legged boy that
could talk was not _quite_ the same as a lamb, or even a sheep. He
could not run round him barking, to prevent his trotting where he
wished--there were plainly some things Ted had to do with and understood
which Chevie's dog-experience did not reach to.
So Cheviott lay there and blinked his honest eyes in the sunshine, and
stared at Ted and wondered what he was after now! For Ted was in a very
tip-top state of delight! He sat down cross-legged on the grass, drew
the delicious big shears to him--they were heavy for him even to
pull--and uncorking the bottle of "fissy" oil, began operations.
"Zem _is_ sticked fast, to be soore," he said to himself, adopting
David's favourite expression, as he tugged and tugged in vain. "If thoo
could hold one side and Ted the other, they would soon come loosened,"
he observed to Cheviott. But Cheviott only growled faintly and blinked
at his master sleepily, and after a good deal more tugging Ted did
manage to open the shears, which indeed at last flew apart so sharply
that the boy toppled over with the shock, and rolled for a moment or two
on the grass, though happily not on the shears, before he recovered his
balance.
Laughing merrily, he pulled himself up again. Luckily the bottle had not
been overturned. Ted poured a drop or two carefully on to his fingers,
quite regardless of the fishy smell, and proceeded to anoint the
scissors. This he repeated several times, polishing them all over till
they shone, but not understanding that _the_ place where the oil was
needed was the hinge, he directed the best of his attention to the
general shininess.
Then he sat and looked at them admiringly.
"_Won't_ David be p'eased?" he said. "Zem's oilened all over now. Ted
must see if they don't sticken fast now."
With nearly as much difficulty as he had had to open them, Ted now
managed to shut them.
"Zem's better," thought the busy little man, "but Ted must see how they
cut."
He laid them flat on the grass, at a place where the blades had not been
completely sheared by the scythe. Tug number one--the oil had really
done some good, they opened more easily--tug number two, behold them
gaping--tug number three, they bite the grass, and Ted is just going to
shout in triumph when a quick shock of pain stabs through him. He had
been kneeling almost _on_ the shears, and their cruel jaws had snipped,
with the grass, the tender fleshy part of his poor little leg!
It was not the pain that frightened him so much as the feeling held fast
by the now dreadful scissors.
"David, David," he cried, "oh, please come. Nurse, please come. Ted has
cuttened hisself."
His little voice sounded clear and shrill in the summer quiet of the
peaceful garden, and nurse, who had been hastening to come out to him,
heard it from the open window. David too was on his way back, and poor
Ted was soon released. But it was a bad cut--he had to be carried
into the house to have it bathed and sponged and tenderly bound up
by mother's fingers. He left off crying when he saw how sorry mother
looked.
"Ted is _so_ sorry to t'ouble thoo," he said.
"And mother is sorry for Ted," she replied. "But, my dear little boy,"
she went on, when the poor leg was comfortable and its owner forgetting
its pain on mother's knee, "don't you remember that mother told you not
to touch David's tools?"
"Oh ses," he replied. "Ted wouldn't touch zem for hisself, but it was to
_help David_," and the innocent confidence with which he looked up in
her face went to his mother's heart.
"But _still_, dear Ted, you must try to understand that what mother
says, you must do exactly. Mother likes you to be kind and helping to
people, but still mother knows better than you, and that is why, when
she tells you things, you must remember to do what she says."
Ted looked grave and a little puzzled, and seeing this his mother
thought it best to say no more just then. The lesson of obedience was
one that Ted found rather puzzling, you see, but what his mother had
said had made a mark in his mind. He thought about it often, and as he
grew bigger other things happened, as you will hear, to make him think
of it still more.
It was rather a trial to Ted not to be able to run about as usual that
afternoon, for had he done so, the cut might have begun to bleed again,
so he had to sit still in the nursery, looking out at the window and
hoping and hoping that Percy would soon come back. Once David and his
barrow passed underneath, and the gardener called up to know if Master
Ted's leg was better. Ted shook his head rather dolefully.
"Him's better," he said, "but Ted can't run about. Ted's so sad, David.
Muzzer's got letters to write and Percy's out."
A kind thought struck David. He went round to the drawing-room window
and tapped at it gently. Ted's mother was writing there. Might he
wheel Master Ted in his barrow to the part of the garden where he was
working?--he would take good care of him--"the little gentleman never
cut himself if I with him--no, indeed; I make him safe enough."
And Ted's mother consented gladly. So in a few minutes he was
comfortably installed on a nice heap of dry grass, with Cheviott close
beside him and David near at hand.
"You never touch my tools again, Master Ted, for a bit; no, to be sure;
do you now?" said David.
"No," said Ted. "Muzzer says I mustn't. But wasn't the big scissors
nicely oilened, David?"
"Oh, fust rate--ay," said David. "Though I not say it is a cliver
smell--no. I not like the smell, Master Ted."
"Never mind," replied Ted reassuringly. "Ted will ask muzzer for some
cock-alone for thoo. Thoo can put some on the scissors."
"What's that, Master Ted?" inquired David, who was not at all above
getting information out of his little master.
"Cock-alone," repeated Ted. "Oh, it's somesing that smells very nice. I
don't know what it is. I thing it must be skeesed out of f'owers. I'll
run and get thoo some now, David, this minute," and he was on the point
of clambering to his feet when the stiff feeling of his bandaged leg
stopped him. "Oh, I forgot," he exclaimed regretfully.
"Yes indeed, Master Ted. You not walk a great deal to-day, to be
sure--no, indeed--for a bit; ay."
Ted lay still for a minute or two. He was gazing up at the sky, which
that afternoon was very pure and beautiful.
"Who paints the sky, David?" he said suddenly.
"Well indeed, Master Ted, I not think you ask me such a foolis'
question, Master Ted _bach_!" said David. "Who's make a sky and a sea
and everything so?"
"'Dod," said Ted. "Oh, I know that. But I thoughtened p'raps 'Dod
put somebody up there to paint it. It was _so_ pitty last night,
David--_all_ tolours--Ted tan't say zem all. Why isn't there many
tolours now, David?"
"I not know for sure," said David, stopping a moment in his work and
looking up at the sky.
"Ted _thought_," continued the little fellow slowly, "Ted _thought_
p'raps 'Dod's paints was getting done. Could that be why?"
David was rather matter-of-fact, and I don't know that that made him
any the worse a companion for Ted, whose brain was already quite full
enough of fancies. So he did not smile at Ted's idea, but answered quite
gravely,
"No indeed, Master Ted, I not think that untall."
"If on'y Ted could fly," the child continued in a minute or two, as just
then a flock of birds made their graceful way between his gazing eyes
and the clear blue vault above. "How pittily birds flies, don't they,
David? If Ted could fly he'd soon find out all about the sky and
everysing. And it wouldn't matter then that him had hurt his leg.
_Couldn't_ Ted learn to fly, David?"
Ted was soaring too far above poor David's head already for him to know
what to answer. What could he say but "No indeed, Master Ted," again? He
had never heard tell of any one that could fly except the angels. For
David was fond of going to church, or chapel rather, and though he could
not read Ted's Bible, he could read his own very well.
"Angels," said Ted. The word started his busy fancy off in a fresh
direction. He lay looking up still, watching now the lovely little
feathery clouds that began to rise as the sun declined, and fancying
they were angels with wings softly floating hither and thither in the
balmy air. He watched one little group, which seemed to him like three
angels with their arms twined together, so long, that at last his eyes
grew rather tired of watching and their little white blinds closed over
them softly. Little Ted had fallen asleep.
"So, so; dear me, he tired," said old David, as, surprised at the
unusual silence, he turned to see what Ted was about. "Bless him, he
tired very bad with his cliver talk and the pain; ay--but, indeed, he
not one to make fuss--no. He a brave little gentleman, Master Ted--ay,
indeed," and the kind old man lifted the boy's head so that he should
lie more comfortably, and turned his wheelbarrow up on one side to shade
him from the sun.
Ted smiled in his sleep as David looked at him. Shall I tell you what
made him smile? In his sleep he had got his wish. He dreamt that he was
flying. This was the dream that came to him.
He fancied he was running down the garden path with Chevie, when all at
once Chevie seemed to disappear, and where he had been there stood a
pretty snow-white lamb. With an eager cry Ted darted forward to catch
it, and laid his hand on its soft woolly coat, when--it was no lamb but
a little cloud he was trying to grasp. And wonderful to say, the little
cloud seemed to float towards him and settle itself on his shoulders,
and then all of himself Ted seemed to find out that it had turned into
wings!
"Ted can fly, Ted can fly!" he cried with delight, or _thought_ he
cried. In reality it was just then that David lifted his head, and
feeling himself moving, Ted fancied it was the wings lifting him upward,
and gave the pleased smile which David noticed. Fly! I should think so.
He mounted and mounted, higher and higher, the white wings waving him
upwards in the most wonderful way, till at last he found himself right
up in the blue sky where he had so wished to be. And ever so many--lots
and lots of other little white things were floating or flying about,
and, looking closely at them, Ted saw that they were not little clouds
as they seemed at first, but wings--all pairs of beautiful white wings,
and dear little faces were peeping out from between them. They were all
little children like himself.
"Come and play, Ted, come and play. Ted, _Ted_, TED!" they cried so
loud, that Ted opened his eyes--his real waking eyes, not his dream
ones--sharply, and there he was, lying on the soft grass heap, not up
in the sky among the cloud-children at all!
At first he was rather disappointed. But as he was thinking to himself
whether it was worth while to try to go to sleep again and go on with
his dream, he heard himself called as before, "Ted, _Ted_, TED."
And looking up he forgot all about everything else when he saw, running
down the sloping banks as fast as his legs would carry him, Percy, his
dear Percy!
Ted jumped up--even his wounded leg couldn't keep him still now.
"Was it thoo calling me, Percy?" he said. "I was d'eaming, do thoo
know--_such_ a funny d'eam? But I'm so glad thoo's come back, Percy.
Oh, Ted _is_ so glad."
Then all the day's adventures had to be related--the accident with the
scissors and the drive in the wheelbarrow, and the funny dream. And in
his turn Percy had to tell of all he had seen and done and heard--the
shops he had been at in the little town, and what he had had for
luncheon and--and--the numberless trifles that make up the interest
of a child's day.
"Does thoo think there's any shop where we could get _wings_, Percy?"
asked Ted. He had the vaguest ideas as to what "shops" were, but Percy
had been telling him of the beautiful little boats he had seen at a
toy-shop in the market-place, "boats with white sails and all rigged
just like real ones;" and if boats with white sails were to be got, why
not white wings?
"Wings!" exclaimed Percy. "What sort of wings do you mean, Teddy?"
"Wings for little boys," Ted explained. "Like what I was d'eaming about.
It would be so nice to fly, Percy."
"Beautiful, wouldn't it?" agreed Percy. "But nobody can fly, Ted. Nobody
_could_ make wings that would be any use for people. People can't fly."
"But little boys, Percy," persisted Ted. "Little boys isn't so very
much bigger than birds. Oh, you don't know how _lovely_ it feels to fly.
Percy, _do_ let us try to make some wings."
But Percy's greater experience was less hopeful.
"I'm afraid it would be no use," he said. "People have often tried. I've
heard stories of it. They only tumbled down."
"Did they hurt themselves?" asked Ted.
"I expect so," Percy replied.
Just then David, who was passing by, stopped to tell the boys that some
one was calling them in from the house.
"Is it your papa, Master Ted; yes, I think," he said.
Ted's leg was feeling less stiff and painful now. He could walk almost
as well as usual. When they got to the house-door his father was waiting
for him. He had heard of Ted's misfortune, and there was rather a comical
smile on his face as he stooped to kiss his little boy.
"I want you to come in to see Mr. Brand," he said. "He says he hasn't
seen you for a long time, little Ted."
Ted raised his blue eyes to his father's face with a rather puzzled
expression.
"Whom's Mr. Brand?" he asked.
"Why, don't you remember him, Teddy?" said Percy. "That great big
gentleman--so awfully tall."
Ted did not reply, but he seemed much impressed.
"Is him a diant?" he asked, gravely.
"Very nearly, I should say," said Percy, laughing, and then, as he had
already seen Mr. Brand, who had met Ted's father on his way back from
A----, Percy ran off in another direction, and Ted followed his father
into the drawing-room.
Mr. Brand was sitting talking to Ted's mother, but just as the door
opened, he rose from his seat and came forward.
"I was just going to ask you if--ah! here's your little boy," he said
to Ted's father. Then, sitting down again, he drew Ted between his knees
and looked kindly at the small innocent face. He was very fond of
children, but he did not know much about them, and Ted, looking and
feeling rather overawed, stood more silently than usual, staring
seriously at the visitor.
He was very tall and very big. Whether he quite came up to Ted's idea of
a "diant" I cannot tell. But queer fancies began to chase each other
round the boy's brain. There had been a good deal to excite and upset
the little fellow--at no time a strong child--that day, and his dream
when lying asleep on the grass had added to it all. And now, as he stood
looking up at big Mr. Brand, a strange confusion of ideas filled his
mind--of giants tall enough to reach the sky, to catch and bring down
some of the cloud-wings Ted wished so for, interspersed with wondering
if it was "fissy oil" that had made this big man so very big. If he,
Ted, were to take a great, great lot of fissy oil, would _he_ grow as
big and strong? Would he be able to cut the grass like David perhaps, to
run faster than Percy--to--to I don't know what--for at this moment Mr.
Brand's voice brought him back from his fancies.
"What an absent-minded little fellow he is," Mr. Brand was saying, for
he had been speaking to Ted two or three times without the child's
paying any attention.
"Not generally," said Ted's mother. "He is usually very wide-awake to
all that is going on. What are you thinking of, Ted, dear?"
"Yes," said Mr. Brand. "Tell us what you've got in your head. Are you
thinking that I'm a very tiny little man--the tiniest little man you
ever saw?"
"No," said Ted solemnly, without the least smile, at which his mother
was rather surprised. For, young though he was, Ted was usually very
quick at seeing a joke. But he just said "No," and stared again at Mr.
Brand, without another word.
"Then what were you thinking--that I'm the very _biggest_ man you ever
did see?"
"Ses," said Ted, gravely still, but with a certain light in his eyes
which encouraged Mr. Brand to continue his questions.
"And what more? Were you wishing you were as big as I am?"
Ted hesitated.
"I'd _rather_ fly," he said. "But Percy says nobody can fly. I'd like
to be big if I could get up very high."
"How high?" said Mr. Brand. "Up to the top of the mountain out there?"
"Is the mountain as high as the clouds?" asked Ted.
"Yes," said Mr. Brand; "when you're up at the very top, you can look
down on the clouds."
Ted looked rather puzzled.
"I'll tell you what," the gentleman went on, amused by the expression of
the child's face, "I'll tell you what--as I'm so big, supposing I take
you to the top of the mountain--we'll go this very afternoon. I'll take
a jug of cold water and a loaf of bread, and leave it with you there so
that you'll have something to eat, and then you can stay there quite
comfortable by yourself and find out all you want to know. You'd like
that, wouldn't you? to be all by yourself on the top of the mountain?"
He looked at Ted in a rather queer way as he said it. The truth was that
Mr. Brand, who though so big was not very old, was carried away by the
fun (to _him_) of watching the puzzled look on the child's face, and
forgot that what to him was a mere passing joke might be very different
to the tender little four-years-old boy.
Ted's face grew rather white, he edged away a little from this strange
gentleman, whom he could not make out, but who was so big that Ted felt
it impossible to doubt his being able to do anything he wished.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he repeated, quite gravely, and
glancing at Ted with slightly knitted brows which made the boy suddenly
think of some of the "ogre" stories he had heard.
"No," said Ted bluntly. But he was afraid to say more. Ogres didn't
like to be contradicted, and perhaps--_perhaps_ this strange man really
thought he _would_ like it, and really meant to please him. Any way, it
would never do to answer rudely, though Ted's face grew still paler,
when his glance fell on the mountain peak clearly to be seen out of the
window from where he stood, and a little shiver ran through him when he
thought that perhaps he would have to go, whether he liked it or not. He
edged away still farther, but it was no use. Mr. Brand had put his arm
round him, and there was no getting away, when suddenly a noise outside
the window caught the gentleman's attention and he started up. It was
his dog barking loudly, and Mr. Brand, fearing he might have got into
some mischief, stepped out through the glass door to see. Ted was on
the alert, and before any one in the room had noticed him he was off.
Where should he go to? He dared not hide in the garden, for there he
might be seen, especially as Mr. Brand was running about after his dog;
he would not go up to the nursery, for nurse would ask him why he had
not stayed downstairs; he did not even wish to find Percy, for though he
could not have explained why, he felt that it would be impossible for
him to tell _any one_ of the strange terror that Mr. Brand's joke had
awakened. He felt ashamed of it, afraid too that if, as he vaguely
thought might be the case, the offer had been made in real earnest and
with a wish to please him, his dislike to it would be ungrateful and
unkind. Indeed poor Ted was more troubled than he ever remembered to
have been in his whole little life--he could think of nothing for it but
to hide till all danger was past.
A brilliant idea struck him--he would go and pay a visit to cook! It was
not very often he went into the kitchen, and no one would look for him
there. And cook was kind, very kind when not very busy. So with a slight
shudder as, running past the open front-door, he caught sight of the
well-known mountain peak, frowning at him, as it seemed now, for the
first time in his life, Ted made his way to cook's quarters.
She was not in the kitchen, but hearing some one coming, she called out
from the back kitchen where she was. That was better still, every step
the farther from the drawing-room, or from Mr. Brand rather, was a gain.
So Ted trotted into the back kitchen, and to prevent cook's thinking
there was anything the matter asked her if he might play with the cat.
He found a piece of string, to which cook tied a cork, and as pussy was
really more of a kitten than a cat, he amused himself for some time by
making her run after it, whistling now and then to keep up his heart,
though had cook looked at him closely she could have seen how white he
was, and how every now and then he threw frightened glances over his
shoulder.
"Your leg's better, Master Ted?" said cook.
"Oh ses, zank thoo," said Ted. "Him's much better."
"You'll have to take care never to touch sharp tools again, won't you?"
she went on, as she bustled about with her work.
"Ses," he said again. But he did not speak with his usual heartiness,
and cook, who, like all the servants, loved the bright, gentle little
fellow, looked at him rather anxiously. Suddenly a sound was
heard--wheels on the gravel drive.
"What's that, cook?" said Ted, starting.
"Only the gentleman's dog-cart--the gentleman that's been to see your
papa. He's going away," said cook composedly.
Ted hurried into the kitchen. From the window the drive could be seen by
big people, though not by him.
"Lift me up on the table, please, cook," he said, and when cook
good-naturedly did so, and he saw the giant really, actually driving
away, Ted could almost have cried with pleasure. But his fears and his
relief he kept in his own little heart.
"Zank thoo, cook," he said gravely, but with the pretty courtesy he
never forgot. "Zank thoo, and please lift me down again."
"He's a funny little fellow," said cook to herself, as she watched Ted
trot off. "I wonder what he'd got in his mind, bless him."
Ted reappeared in the drawing-room.
"Where have you been, dear?" said his mother. "We were looking about for
you to say good-bye to Mr. Brand. Where did you go to?"
"Ted were in the kitchen, 'peaking to cook," he replied.
"But why did you go away, dear, while Mr. Brand was here?" asked his
mother. "Were you frightened of his dog?"
"No," said Ted, "Ted's never frightened of dogs."
"No, dear, I know you're not," said his mother. But she did not feel
satisfied. Her little boy did not look the same as usual somehow. Still
she felt it was better to ask no more--after a while Ted would perhaps
tell her of himself. And she did well, for it would have been almost
impossible for him to tell his mingled feelings.
"Muzzer likes that big man," he was thinking to himself. "Muzzer thinks
he's kind. It's naughty and unkind of Ted to be frightened," and so the
loyal little man kept silence.
And it was not for a long time--not till Ted himself had learnt to
"understand" a little better, that even his mother understood the
whole.