"STATISTICS."
"Are they not busy?--the creatures!
Wanting to go to their beds?--not they!"
How delightful it was to wake the next morning and to see sparkling in
the early sunshine the neat little silver coins, and the big copper
ones, laid out in a row on his table! Ted jumped out of bed, not quite
so early as he had intended, for he had been up rather later than usual
the night before, and by the time he had had his nice cold bath and was
dressed, he heard the prayer bell ring, and was only ready to take his
seat as usual on a little chair in a corner of the room not far from
where his dear old nurse and the other servants were placed. He liked
better to sit there, for it gave him somehow a little uncomfortable
feeling to see the servants quite by themselves, as it were, so
separated from the family, and he had got into the way of sitting
between the two sets of seats, and though little Narcissa from her
perch on her mother's knee would sometimes smile and nod and beckon to
him to come nearer, Ted always kept to his own place. This morning many
thoughts were dancing about his brain, and it was a little difficult for
him to listen with his usual attention, even though it was one of the
chapters he was very fond of, especially when his father read it in his
nice clear voice. It was that one about the boy Jesus, staying behind
His father and mother to talk with the learned doctors in the temple,
and though some part of it puzzled Ted rather, yet he liked to listen
and think about it. How frightened that father and mother must have
been! How was it that Jesus knew that it was right for Him to stay
behind--even though it was without His father's and mother's leave? For
other little boys it would have been wrong, but then,--oh yes, of
course, Jesus was not like other little boys. If only they, if only he,
Ted, could learn to be more like _Him_, the one perfect Christmas child!
And even the puzzling part of it grew clearer as this unconscious prayer
rose out of the innocent heart. For Ted's own father and mother, even
if they were frightened for a little, would not be _vexed_ if he did
something without their leave that was good and right. Only it was
difficult to tell, very difficult--on the whole Ted felt that he
understood what his mother told him about being obedient, better than he
used. That was what God had given little boys fathers and mothers for,
for they, when they were good and wise, could not but know best. When
they were _not_ good and wise, like the fathers and mothers of some of
the poor London street boys he had heard of--oh, how fearful that must
be! And then as his own father's voice went on, it all came before Ted
like a picture--he had once seen a picture of it, he thought--the first
setting-out of old Joseph and the sweet-faced mother, the distress and
fear, the delight of finding the Child again, and then the long walk
home all together to the carpenter's shop in the narrow Eastern street.
And, child-like, Ted's fancy turned again with the association to what
was before him this morning. _He_ was to go to the carpenter's to choose
the wood for the seat in the tree, and oh, how delightful it would be to
see it arranged, and how surprised Percy would be, and what beautiful
rows of stick-sticks Cissy and he would be able to make to help Uncle
Ted. All kinds of pleasant hopes and fancies were racing round Ted's
brain again as he knelt down with the others to listen to the prayer
that followed the reading. It was not till the murmured chorus of "Our
Father," repeated all together at the end, caught his ear, that with a
sudden start Ted realised that he had not been listening.
He did feel sorry and ashamed, but he was so happy that morning, the
world outside was so bright and sunny, and the people inside so kind
and cheerful, as they all sat round the breakfast table, that Ted's
self-reproach did not last. And as soon as he had finished the short
morning lessons he had to do in the holidays, he got leave from mother
to go off to order the plank for the seat.
It turned out a little dearer than he had expected. Two and sevenpence
were the funds in hand.
"I could give you a piece of wood for much less of course, sir," said
the good-natured carpenter, who was a great ally of Ted's, "but as you
explain it to me it needs something more than a bit of wood, else it
wouldn't be safe for you and the young lady to sit on;" and then he
showed the boy how it should be done, with a small iron bolt driven into
the wall and another of a different kind fixed to the tree. "Then," said
he, "it will be as safe as safe, and I'll plane you a neat little seat
with no splinters or sharp edges to tear Missy's frocks."
Ted was delighted. His quick eye caught at once the carpenter's plan,
and he saw how much more satisfactory and complete it would be than the
rough idea he had had at first. But the price? Ted felt much afraid that
here was to be the difficulty.
"How much will it cost, Mr. Newton?" he inquired anxiously.
The carpenter reflected a moment.
"Wood, so much; bolts, so much; nails; time;" Ted heard him half
whispering to himself. Then he looked up.
"A matter of three shilling or so, sir," he replied. "I'll try that it
shan't be more. But you see the bolts I have to buy, they're not things
as we use every day. And for the time, sir, I'm not thinking much of
that. The evenings are light now. I'll try and see to it myself after
work's over."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Newton," said Ted. "I think it'll be all
right. But I'd like first to tell my mother how much it will cost, and
then I'll run back and settle about it."
"All right, sir," the carpenter replied; and after pausing a moment at
the door to pat the great big gentle dog, that was lying there blinking
in the sunshine, and thinking to himself that its eyes somehow reminded
him of long ago Cheviott whom Ted still remembered, though Newton's dog
wasn't at all the same kind, the boy ran off again, whistling as he
went, with light dancing steps down the in-and-out zigzag streets of the
old town, stopping a moment, eager as he was, to admire the peeps of
lovely view he came upon now and then as he turned a corner, or crossed
the open market-place.
He was in great spirits. Fivepence short he felt sure could easily be
made up.
"Either mother will give it me," he thought, "or she'll find some way of
my earning it. I'm sure she'd like it properly done, and there'll be no
fear of Cissy or me hurting ourselves."
On he danced again, for now he was in more open ground, running along
the country highroad where was his home. A few cottages stood not far
from where he was passing--cottages of respectable people, with several
of whom sociable Ted was on friendly terms, and just as he was nearing
the first of these, a boy about his own age came out, a basket on his
arm and in his hands something tied up in a cloth which he was carrying
carefully. But boys will be boys!
"Good morning, Jamie," said Ted as they met, for he recognised the boy
as the son of a man living farther down the road, who had sometimes
worked for his father; "where have you been, and what's that you've
got?" and in pure fun Ted tapped with a switch he was carrying on the
mysterious bundle.
Jamie looked up laughingly.
"O Master Ted," he was just beginning, but somehow--_how_ I cannot tell,
and I feel pretty sure that neither Ted nor Jamie could have told
either--Ted's friendly tap had either distracted his attention so that
he trod on a stone and lost his balance, or else it had destroyed the
equilibrium of the bundle itself, so that almost before he had time even
to say "O Master Ted," the mischief was done. Down plumped the bundle,
with a crash of broken crockery, and a brown liquid at once oozed out
through the cloth, making a melancholy puddle on the road. Jamie's
half-spoken words changed into a cry of despair. It was the Sunday's
dinner which had come to grief, the pie which his poor mother had
prepared so carefully, and which he was taking home from his
grandmother's, in whose oven it had been baking.
"Oh dear, oh dear, what ever _shall_ I do?" cried the poor little boy.
"What will mother say? Oh dear, oh dear!--O Master Ted, what shall I
do?"
Jamie's tears and sobs were pitiful. Ted, with a pale concerned face
stood beside him, speechless.
"It was all my fault, Jamie," he said at last. "It's me your mother must
scold, not you. I must go home with you, and tell her it wasn't your
fault."
"Oh but it were," sobbed the child. "Mother always tells me to look
neither to right nor to left when I'm carrying anything like this here.
Oh deary me, what ever shall I do?"
He stooped down and untied the knots of the large checked handkerchief
in which the unfortunate pie had been enveloped. The dish was all in
pieces, the gravy fast disappearing. Jamie gathered together, using the
largest bit of the broken stoneware as a plate, some of the pieces of
meat which might still be eaten, and Ted, stooping down too, helped him
to the best of his ability. But it was very little that could be saved
from the shipwreck. And then the two boys turned in the direction of
Jamie's home, Jamie sobbing all the way, and Ted himself too appalled to
know what to say to comfort him.
Jamie's mother was a busy, hard-working woman. She was kind to her
children, but that is not to say that they never had a sharp word from
her. And there were so many of them--more than enough to try the patience
of a mother less worried by other cares. So poor Jamie had some reason
to cry, and he did not attempt to prevent Ted's going home with
him--alone he would hardly have dared to face the expected scolding.
She was at the door, or just inside it, as the boys made their
appearance, with a big tub before her in which she was washing up some
odds and ends, without which her numerous family could not have made
their usual tidy appearance at church and Sunday school the next day.
For it was Saturday, often a rather trying day to heads of households in
every class. But Jim's mother was in pretty good spirits. She had got on
with her work, Sunday's pie had been made early and sent on to granny's,
and Jamie, who was a very careful messenger, would be back with it
immediately, all ready to be eaten cold with hot potatoes the next
day. So Sunday's dinner was off the good woman's mind, when suddenly a
startling vision met her gaze. There was Jamie, red-eyed and tearful,
coming down the road, and beside him the little Master from the Lawn
House. What could be the matter? Jamie had not hurt _himself_, thus
much was evident, but what was the small and shapeless bundle he was
carrying in the handkerchief she had given him to cover the pie, and
what had come over the nice clean handkerchief itself? The poor woman's
heart gave a great throb of vexation.
"What ever have ye done with the pie, Jamie?" she exclaimed first in her
anxiety, though she then turned in haste to bid the little master "good
morning."
"O mother," Jamie began, his sobs bursting out afresh, but Ted put him
gently aside.
"Let me tell," he said. "I came on purpose. If--if you please," he went
on eagerly, though his fair face flushed a little, "it was all my fault.
I gave Jim a little poke with my stick, quite in fun, and somehow it
made him drop the pie. But it isn't his fault. You won't scold _him_,
please, will you?"
Vexed as she was, Jamie's mother could not but feel softened. Ted's
friendly ways were well known to his poorer neighbours, who with one
voice pronounced him "a perfect little gentleman wherever he goes."
"It's not much use scolding," she said gently enough, but still with
real distress in her tone which went to Ted's heart. "No use crying over
spilt milk, as my master says. But still I do think Jamie might have
been more careful. However, it can't be helped, but they'll have to do
without a pie for dinner to-morrow. And thank you, Master Ted, for
coming along of Jim for to tell me."
"But it wasn't Jim's fault. It was _all_ mine," repeated Ted sadly. And
then he bade the poor woman good-bye, and nodding to Jim, who was still
wiping his eyes, though looking a good deal less frightened, the boy set
off towards home again.
But how different everything looked--the sun was as bright, the air as
pleasant as ten minutes before, but Ted's heart was heavy, and when at
the garden gate he met his mother, who greeted him with her kind smile
and asked him if he had settled with Newton about the seat, it was all
poor Ted could do not to burst into tears. He was running past his
mother into the house, with a hasty "Yes, thank you, mother, I'll tell
you about it afterwards," for he had not yet made up his mind what he
should say or do; it was his own fault, and he must suffer for it, that
was his first idea, but his mother stopped him. The momentary glance at
his face had been sufficient to show her that something was the matter.
"What is it, Ted, dear?" she said kindly and anxiously.
Ted's answer was a question, and a very queer question.
"Mother," he said, "how much do pies cost?"
"Pies," repeated his mother, "what kind of pies do you mean? Big ones,
little ones, meat ones, or what?"
"Big ones, mother, at least _a_ big one, and all made of meat, with
crust at the top. And oh!" he exclaimed, "there was the dish! I daresay
that cost a good deal," and his face grew sadder and sadder.
But his mother told him he really must explain, and so he did. "I didn't
mean to tell you about it, mother," he said, "for it was my own fault,
and telling you seems almost like asking for the money," and here poor
Ted's face grew red again. "I thought the only thing to do was to take
the _act_ money, the two shillings and sevenpence, you know, mother, and
give it to Jamie's mother, and just give up having the seat," and here
Ted's repressed feelings were too much for him. He turned away his face
and fairly burst into tears. Give up the seat! Think of all that meant
to him, poor boy. The pleasure for Cissy as well as his own, the
delightful surprise to Percy, the rows of stick-sticks for his uncle. I
don't think it was wonderful that Ted burst into tears.
"My poor boy," said his mother, and then she thought it over to herself
for a little. She did not begin talking to Ted about how careless he had
been, and that it must be a lesson to him, and so on, as many even very
kind mothers are sometimes tempted to do, when, as _does_ happen now and
then in this rather contrary world, very small wrongdoings have very big
results,--she could not feel that Ted had been much to blame, and she
was quite sure it _would_ be "a lesson to him," without her saying any
more about it. So she just thought it over quietly, and then said,
"No, Ted. I don't quite think that would be right. Your giving
up the seat would be punishing others as well as yourself--Cissy
particularly--and that would not be right. I will see that Jamie and his
brothers and sisters have something for their dinner to-morrow that will
please them as much as the pie, and you must tell Newton to go on with
the seat, and----"
"But, mother," interrupted Ted, "I won't be happy unless I pay it
myself, the dinner I mean. It wouldn't be _fair_, if I didn't--would
it, mother?" and he looked up with his honest, anxious blue eyes in his
mother's face, so that she felt the same wish to stoop down and kiss him
that had made her do so long ago in the street of the little country
town near their old home.
"I was going on to speak about that," said his mother. "It will take all
your money and a little more to pay Newton, you see, and you haven't any
more."
"No, mother, but if I was to give up my library pennies?"--for Ted
subscribed a penny a week to a children's library in the town, as he had
long ago exhausted the home stores.
"That would take a _very_ long time, and it would be a pity for you to
lose your reading," said his mother. "But I'll tell you what--I will
count the dinner as owing from you to me, and you will pay it as best
you can, little by little. For every summer you get presents from your
uncles or cousins when they are with us. I will count it two shillings
and sixpence--the sixpence for the dish, and I know you will not forget
to pay me."
"No indeed, mother, and thank you _so_ much," said Ted, with a now
really lightened heart. "Shall I tell Jamie about the dinner? I could go
that way when I go back to Newton's. He will be so pleased. His mother
didn't scold him, but yet I couldn't help being _very_ sorry for him.
His face did look so unhappy."
And when, after dinner, Ted ran off again, I think the pleasure of the
good news in store for poor Jamie was quite as much in his mind as his
own errand to Newton's.
The seat was a great success. Newton came that very evening to measure
it exactly, and Ted had the satisfaction of making some suggestions
which the carpenter thought very good ones, as to the best way of
fastening it firmly. And on Monday evening the work was accomplished.
Never, surely, were two birds in a nest more happy than Ted and Cissy,
when, for the first time, they mounted up on to their airy throne. Their
mother, busy among her flowers, was surprised by a sound of soft singing
over her head, coming from at first she could not tell where. She stood
still to listen--she had, for the moment, forgotten about the perch in
the tree. But the words and the tune soon told her who it was. It was
Ted at his old favourite, "Home, sweet home." Sweetly and softly his
boyish voice rang out. The tears came into his mother's eyes, but she
moved away silently. She did not want the children to know she was
there. It seemed to take away the simplicity of his pretty singing for
him to know that _any one_, even his mother, had been listening.
"He is very fond of music," she said to herself, "no doubt he has great
taste for it," and the thought gave her pleasure. She pictured to
herself happy future days when Ted and Cissy would be able to play and
sing together--when as "big people," the brother and sister would
continue the tender friendship that she liked so much to see.
Monday evening was too late to begin the important paper for Uncle Ted.
But on Tuesday the children were up with the lark, armed with a long
ruled sheet, divided by lines across the other way, into what Ted called
several "compartments," a pencil or two, for though Cissy could not make
figures, she could make little strokes, each of which stood for a one
_something_. The words at the head of the "compartments" comprised
everything which, with the slightest probability, _could_ be expected
to journey along the highroad. Men, women, boys, girls, babies in
perambulators, babies in nurses' arms; old women with baskets were
considered a separate genus, and had a row to themselves; carts with one
horse, waggons with two, donkeys, dogs, pigs, cats, wheelbarrows. And
at one side Ted carefully marked the hour at which began and ended the
"observations." For, alas! the children could not be _all_ day at their
post, though they did gravely purpose that they should take it in turn
to go in to dinner, so that no passers-by should be unrecorded. But
that mother could not agree to. Dinner must be eaten, and with as much
deliberation and propriety as usual, or else what was an interest and a
pleasure would have to be discouraged. And after all it was rather nice
to have the paper exhibited and commented upon as they all sat round the
luncheon-table, though Cissy looked as if she were not _quite_ sure that
she should not take offence for Ted, when one of the big people inquired
why there wasn't a row for elephants and another for dancing-bears.
The long summer afternoon was spent in the same way. Never surely had
such a delightful occupation for two small people brimming over with
life and energy, been discovered. Two birds busied with arranging their
nest could not have been more completely content.
"If this goes on," said the children's mother, laughing, when they did
condescend to come in to tea, "I think we had better send a mattress and
a pillow up to your seat, and let you stay there all night."
Ted and Cissy smiled, and in their hearts I rather think they were of
opinion that what their mother proposed would be very nice. But, eager
as they were, they were both very hungry, and it was evident that living
in a tree did not destroy their appetite, for the quantity of slices
of bread and butter which disappeared would have alarmed any one
unaccustomed to the feats of little people in that way.
And tea over, off they set again. It was almost as if they were away on
a visit somewhere, the house seemed so quiet, and the garden, so often
at that time of day the scene of tremendous romps in which even nurse
herself was coaxed to join, quite deserted. _Unless_--that is to
say--you had passed under a certain tree and stood still to listen to
the clatter going on overhead, though, thanks to the leafy branches,
there was nothing to be _seen_.
"Can there be magpies up in that tree?" would, I think, have been your
first idea. And then, listening a little more attentively, you would
have come to think that whether human or feathered they were very funny
magpies indeed.
"Fifteen, _sixteen_, that makes. Hurrah, sixteen dogs since ten o'clock
this morning. And, let's see, seven old women with baskets, and----"
"Them wasn't all _old_," corrects the small voice of magpie number two;
"Jessie wif the eggs isn't old."
"Never mind; if they've got baskets they _should_ be old," replies
Ted. "An old woman with a basket _sounds_ right. Then there's five
p'rambulators, oh, it _is_ a long word to spell--it goes right out of
its place into the other rows. I wish I'd just put 'babies in p'rams.'
And then there's three pigs and horses, oh dear I can't count how many.
It's getting too dark to see the strokes on the paper. I say, Cissy,
just you get down and run in and ask for two or three dips. We can stick
them up on the wall and have a beautiful lighting up, and then we can
see everybody that passes."
Down clambered obedient Cissy--she was growing very alert by this time
at making her way up and down--off she set to the house with her
message.
"Dips, dips," she repeated to herself. "Ted says I'm to ask for two or
three dips. I wonder what dips is."
She had not the slightest idea, but it never occurred to her to do
otherwise than exactly what her brother had said. It was a funny little
figure that presented itself to the children's mother, in the twilight,
just as she was putting away her work and thinking it was really time
for Ted and Cissy to come in, a shawl wrapped round and tied behind over
her white pinafore, of which the part that could be seen was by no means
as clean as it might have been, any more than the eager flushed little
face, with its bright dark eyes and wavy hair tumbling over the
forehead.
"My dear Cissy, what a _very_ dirty little girl you are," said her
mother, laughing. "You really look more like a gipsy than anything
else."
"Does dipsies live up trees?" inquired Cissy gravely. "Trees _is_ rather
dirty. But oh, mother, Ted wants me to ask you for two or three dips.
_P'ease_ give me zem."
"_Dips_," repeated her mother, "what in the world does he want dips
for?"
"Cissy doesn't know," replied the little girl. "Cissy doesn't know what
dips is. Cissy finks Ted said he would 'tick zem up on ze wall, to make
it look pitty."
Her mother was very much amused.
"Dips are candles," she said. "I suppose Ted wants to light up the
tree."
Her words made a light break over Cissy's face in the first place.
"Oh ses," said the little maiden, "it is getting so dark. Oh _do_ give
Ted some dips, _dear_ mother--do, _do_."
But not any number of "do's" would have made mother agree to so
dangerous a proceeding.
"My dear little girl, you would certainly set yourselves on fire, and
the tree too," she replied. "But never mind," she went on, seeing
the corners of Cissy's mouth going down with the thought of Ted's
disappointment, "I will go out with you and explain to Ted."
Mother put a shawl over her shoulders and went out with her little girl.
Some way off, Ted heard them coming.
"O Cis, have you got the dips?" he cried. "I forgot to tell you to bring
some matches too. I've had such hard work to see, and a lot of people
passed. I _think_ there was a woman and two boys. I'll have to mark them
down, when----"
"I've come with Cissy, Ted," replied his mother's voice, to his
surprise, "to tell you that it would really be too much of a good thing
to go on with your observations all night. And, in the first place, you
would certainly set yourself and Cissy and the tree on fire, if I let
you have candles up there. Come down now, that's a good boy, and show me
your paper, and we'll pack it up to send to your uncle by post."
"Very well, mother," said Ted, with his usual cheery good-nature. "I'm
coming. Here goes," and in another minute he was beside her. "You don't
know what a beautiful long paperful I've got. I don't want you to pack
it up _yet_, mother. Cissy and I are going to keep it on ever so much
longer, aren't we, Cis?"
And chattering merrily the children went in with their mother. But as
she said to their father, it really is to be doubted if they would not
have stayed in the tree all night, if Ted had got his wish and arranged
a "dip" illumination on the top of the wall.
After all, that day in the tree was the last of their "stick-sticks."
The weather changed, and there was nearly a week of rain, and by the
time it was over, children-like, Ted and Cissy had grown tired of the
rows of strokes representing old women and donkeys and horses, and all
the rest of them; the "observations" had lost their attraction for them.
Still the pleasure was not quite over, for there was the packing of the
big paper to send to Uncle Ted by post, and his letter of thanks in
return. And Percy came home for the holidays, and greatly approved of
the nest in the tree. And what the children did _not_ do up there--what
games they played, how they were by turns Robinson Crusoe hiding from
the savages, King Charles in the oak at Boscobel, or, quainter still,
how they all sometimes suddenly turned into squirrels and manufactured
for themselves the most wonderful tails of old brush handles, and
goodness only knows what, which stuck straight up behind and made the
climbing to the nest by no means an easy matter--yes indeed, what they
did _not_ do up in the tree would be difficult to tell.
But it comes into my mind just now that I have never told you anything
of Ted's indoor life. Hitherto it has seemed all summer days and
gardens, has it not? And no doubt the boy's _greatest_ happiness was
in outdoor interests and employments. But of course it was not always
summer and sunshine for Ted, any more than for any one else--and,
Christmas child though he was, there were wintry days when even _he_ had
to stay in the house and find work and pleasures indoors. For winter
does not mean nothing but bright frosty skies overhead, and crisp clean
snow underfoot. There are dreary days of rain and mist and mud, when
children are much better at home, and when mothers and nurses are more
thankful than any one _not_ a mother or nurse can imagine, to have to
do with cheerful contented little people, who are "good at amusing
themselves," and unselfish enough not to worry every one about them
because it is a rainy day.