_AT SEA._
“Are we at sea now, papa?” said Maggie, holding by her father’s hand as
she jumped up and down on the deck of the steamer; “are we really at
sea?”
“Hardly at sea yet, little daughter: we are still going down the bay.
When we are fairly at sea we shall lose sight of our own great city,
where we have left grandmamma and the boys, and all the other dear
ones.”
“Yes,” said Bessie, who was by no means in such overflowing spirits
as Maggie; “it’s rather sorrowful to leave so many of our own people
behind us. I wish everybody could have come with us.”
“Then we’d have no one to write to,” said Maggie, who found consolation
in all partings in the thought of letter-writing, in which she
delighted.
“But, papa, will you tell us when we are really and truly at sea?”
“You’ll be apt to know that without telling, little maiden,” said a
gentleman who was passing: “we have had high winds the last three days,
and shall find it rough enough outside, I take it;” and he passed on.
“Who’s that, papa?” asked Bessie.
“That is the captain,” said Mr. Bradford.
“What a nice face he has,” said the little girl.
“What did he mean by ‘outside’?” asked Maggie.
“He meant outside of the bay or harbor. We are going now through
what is called the Narrows, then we shall pass Sandy Hook, where the
light-house is, and be fairly out at sea.”
“And what did he mean by ‘rough’?” asked Maggie.
“Well, he meant the waves might be rather high, and toss and roll the
ship about more than you would find quite comfortable.”
“Oh! I shan’t mind it,” said Maggie. “It will be fun.”
“He meant you’d be seasick,” said Belle, with a wise shake of her head.
“I don’t believe he ever meant that,” answered Maggie, in a tone which
said she considered the idea almost an insult. “He must see how well
and strong I look.”
“I hope you may be able to keep to your determination, my little girl,”
said her father, smiling.
“Why, is this what people make such a fuss about?” said Maggie, when
some time after the threatened rolling and pitching began: “I think it
is lovely. But, then, papa,” she added presently, “perhaps it would be
nicer if you would ask that good-natured-looking captain not to let the
ship do it quite so much. It seems to make my head so very _bobbly_.”
“The captain cannot help it, dear,” said her father, looking half in
pity, half in amusement, at the face which Maggie was making such
desperate efforts to keep smiling and unconcerned. “The waves roll the
vessel about in this way, and you know the captain does not rule them.
We must bear it as we can; but I hope by and by you will become used to
it, and not mind it so much.”
“Oh! I don’t _mind_ it, papa,” said Maggie, still determined that these
rolling waves should not conquer her; “at least not so very much, and
I’m not a bit seasick; only--only--I don’t think the sea is quite so
very comfortable to be on as the land: do you?”
Hapless little Maggie! Half an hour more, and the “bobbly” head lay
in mamma’s lap, hands and feet hung helplessly, chattering tongue was
still, save for an occasional piteous, “O mamma!” and the merry dancing
eyes, usually so wide-open and quick to notice all around them, were
closed as though they never cared to lift their lids again. Even the
new satchel had lost its charm, and hung unheeded at her side. Its
cherished contents, which she had intended to be of so much use to
others, proved of none to herself. Lemons, smelling salts, hartshorn,
and many other remedies, were tried without success; and it would have
been hard to find a more wretched little girl than was poor Maggie,
for the next twenty-four hours. Belle and Lily were too ill themselves
to feel at all inclined to triumph over the failure of Maggie’s
“determination;” though I do not think they would have been unkind
enough to do so, had they been ever so well.
As for Bessie, she made what the captain called “a capital little
sailor,” and to her fell the part of nurse, which Maggie had intended
to fill. And never was a more gentle, tender, thoughtful young
nurse than our little “princess,” handy and knowing enough for
seven-and-twenty instead of seven years old. Now she was rubbing
Maggie’s cold hands, now bathing Belle’s dizzy, aching head with such
soothing fingers; now coaxing Lily to take one of those oranges which
were to work such wonders; now amusing baby, for Mammy was in a bad
way too, and mamma’s attention was pretty well taken up with her poor
Maggie; now showing a picture-book to some fretful child whose mother
was too ill to attend to it. Always ready not only to do, but to see
where and how she could do, some small service for a sufferer, she went
about from one to another like some dainty little fairy, with a mission
of healing and kindness. So long as she could keep her feet, which was
not always possible, the rolling of the ship only troubled her by the
distress it brought to others, especially Maggie; but all her pleasure
in her beloved sea was lost in her sympathy for her sister. It was so
strange and unusual to see Maggie lying helpless and subdued, with no
thought or care for any thing about her, that it made Bessie herself
very miserable; and she could scarcely believe her father’s assurances
that Maggie was not going to die, and would probably soon feel better.
But she thought despair and misery could go no farther upon the
following morning, when, having dressed Margaret Bessie Marion and
Margaret Colonel Horace Rush in the new travelling suits Aunt Annie had
made for them, and combed their “real live hair,” she brought them and
placed one on each side of Maggie, as she lay among the pile of pillows
and shawls papa had arranged for her upon the deck.
“Maggie dear,” she said coaxingly, “would it not comfort you a little
to hold Bessie Margaret Marion? She looks so sweet.”
“No,” moaned Maggie, without opening her eyes: “I never want her again,
Bessie, never. You can have her.”
“Oh, no!” said Bessie, cheerily: “you’ll want her when you feel better,
and I hope that will be pretty soon.”
“No,” said Maggie again: “I’ll never be better. And, Bessie, I think
I’d better tell you my will. I’m too sick to write it myself, but you
can remember.”
“But you’re not going to die,” answered Bessie, dropping the doll upon
her lap and looking at Maggie in fresh dismay.
“Yes, I feel it,” said Maggie, with a tragic whisper and shake of her
head.
“Oh, no, dear! Papa said not, and the doctor said so too. They said
people hardly ever died of seasickness.”
“Then I’m one of the ‘hardly evers,’ Bessie,” persisted Maggie,
seeming, poor child, to find some relief in the idea; “and I’d
better make my will, and tell you who I want my playthings and other
_possessings_ to go to.”
Bessie did not know whether to be most alarmed at Maggie’s words, or
consoled by her belief that her father and the doctor must know best;
and she listened in silence while Maggie went on, speaking slowly and
with many pauses.
“You can have all my dolls, Bessie, ’cept Josephine Matilda, and she’ll
be good for Baby, ’cause she’s Indian rubber and can’t be broken; and
mamma my prize writing-desk, and papa my new satchel; and my doll’s tea
set, the white and gilt one for you, and the blue one for Lily; same
with the dinner-sets--only, red for Belle--and my tin kitchen too--oh!
I can’t tell any more--oh! mamma--mamma!” and here poor Maggie’s will
came abruptly to an end.
But things brightened towards the latter part of that day, for they
came into smoother waters; and Maggie, as well as all the other seasick
passengers, began to feel easier.
“Hallo!” said the captain, pausing as he came by to look at the little,
pale, tired face upon the pillows: “is this the jolly little woman who
came on board yesterday afternoon? Why, this will not do. I shall have
to take her in hand myself, Mrs. Bradford: will you let me turn doctor?”
“Most certainly, Captain, if you can do any thing to relieve her. Every
thing seems to fail except time and patience, and of the last my poor
child has shown a fair sample,” answered the anxious mother.
With a nod to Maggie, who, at the sound of his hearty, cheery voice
had half opened her eyes to look at him, and another to Bessie, who sat
upon the edge of her sister’s couch, he walked away; coming back after
a little while, followed by the steward carrying a small tray. On the
tray were two plates, the one holding a crisp slice of brown toast; the
other, something which Bessie thought very uninviting, a dry, rather
black-looking herring.
“I wonder if he is going to ask Maggie to eat that thing,” she said to
herself. “Idea of it! I know she never can do it. I’m afraid he’s not
so very nice as he looks, and that he has very poor sense.”
But the captain asked Maggie nothing about the herring; but, sitting
down beside her, he took the tray from the steward, and cutting a small
bit from the fish, he held it to Maggie’s lips. Maggie turned away her
head in disgust, in which Bessie sympathized.
“Come, come,” said the captain, “every one has to do as I say on this
ship, especially when I turn doctor.”
He did not smile, though he looked as good-natured and pleasant
as ever; and, doubtful if he were in joke or in earnest, Maggie
reluctantly took the bit of fish from the fork, and then a mouthful of
the toast, which she swallowed with the same martyr-like air. Another
and another followed, taken with less and less reluctance; till at
last Bessie was surprised to see Maggie’s eyes remain open, and fix
themselves rather longingly upon the plate, as if she wished the
captain would make the intervals shorter. He took no notice, however,
but fed her slowly, till fish and toast had both entirely disappeared,
when he said,--
“I think we shall do now. I’ll be back in half an hour, Mrs. Bradford,
to see how my patient here is getting on,” and walked away.
“Maggie,” said Bessie, as soon as he had gone, “wasn’t that meal very
nas--, I mean rather disagreeable?”
“Why, no,” said Maggie, “it was delicious; and I think that captain is
lovely, Bessie. He’s the best doctor ever I saw. The next time I come
to sea--which I hope I never will again--I’ll put herring in my satchel
’stead of lemons. They never did me a bit of good.”
Bessie privately thought this worse than the “pickle arrangement;” but
since the captain’s prescription had done Maggie so much good, she
had nothing more to say against it or him; and when he came back at
the promised time it was to find his little patient beginning to look
like herself, and talking and smiling with something of her accustomed
brightness.
This was the last of Maggie’s seasickness, and by the next morning she
was nearly as lively and well as usual; though she now and then fell
into a fit of thought, as if she were considering some knotty question;
and she was observed to regard Margaret Bessie Marion with more than
usual interest, and to give her a great amount of petting and tending.
At length the question which was weighing on her mind found words.
“Papa,” she said, “don’t lawyers know about wills?”
“They ought to, Maggie,” answered Mr. Bradford. “Why, you don’t want to
make yours, do you?”
“I have made it, papa,” said Maggie, with all the gravity of a judge.
“I told Bessie about it, but I want to know if it’s against the law to
undo the things you’ve willed, if you don’t die when you thought you
were going to.”
“Not at all,” said papa, laughing: “you may make your will, and ‘undo
it’ as often as you please, while you are living.”
“For the people won’t be disappointed as long as they don’t know you’ve
willed them the things,” said Maggie, meditatively. “Anyhow, I s’pose
my people would be more disappointed to have me die, than not to have
my things.”
“They would indeed, little daughter,” said her father, drawing her
tenderly to him: “to lose our Maggie would be to take a great deal of
sunshine out of the lives of ‘your people.’”
“And I know Bessie don’t care for my dollies so long as we can play
with them together: do you, Bessie?”
“Oh, no! Maggie; and if I hadn’t you, I should never play again, but be
sorrowful all my life;” and Bessie put on an air of extreme melancholy
at the bare idea of such a possibility.
So this matter being settled to the satisfaction of all, and Maggie
feeling like her own self once more, she and Bessie were free to enjoy
all the new pleasures about them.
They were a merry, happy party, those four little girls, Maggie,
Bessie, Belle, and Lily; always pleasant and good-natured with
one another; never fretting or quarrelling in their play. As
for Maggie, her new friend the captain used to call her “Little
Make-the-best-of-it;” for her sunny temper found so much good in all
things, and so many reasons why all that was, was best.
He escorted the young quartette all over the steamer, taking them down
into the machine rooms, where they saw the great furnaces glowing
with hot coals, and tended by strong men in scarlet shirts, with
their sleeves rolled up to the shoulders; where the iron beam and
pistons went up and down, up and down, without a moment’s pause or
irregularity; where each little wheel and joint went steadily on doing
its appointed work, without which the huge machinery must have stood
motionless and useless.
The sympathies of the children, especially those of Maggie, were
greatly excited in behalf of a man whom they saw watching the steam
dial plates at the upper end of the engine room. There were three of
these plates, the centre one very large, the other two smaller; and the
man paced up and down the narrow platform in front, almost without a
moment’s pause, turning his eyes every now and then to the dials.
“What funny clocks,” said Bessie, “and how that man watches them! Why
is he so anxious about the time?”
“Only one of them is a clock,” said the captain; “the others are to
show how much steam we have on, and how it is working, and if all is
right.”
Bessie did not understand, and said so; and the captain, taking her up
in his arms, tried to explain the use and working of the dials to the
little girls; but it was rather a difficult matter for them to take in,
and I do not know that he made it very clear to them.
“But I want to know about that man,” said Maggie: “does he have to walk
here and look at these things all the time?”
“All the time,” said Captain Brooks.
“Doesn’t he eat and sleep?” asked Belle.
“Oh! to be sure,” said the captain. “I said he was here all the time;
but I should have said a man was here all the time; for there is
another who takes his turn while this one rests.”
“But are you not tired sometimes?” Bessie asked of the man, who just
then came to the end of the platform where she was.
He nodded assent as he turned, but made no answer in words, did not
even smile, being a grum-looking man, and seeming altogether intent on
his dials.
“He’s not very polite just to nod at you and not speak,” said Lily.
“It is against the rule of the ship for him to talk while he is on
duty, and he always keeps the rule,” said the captain.
“Oh!” said Maggie, her pity more than ever roused for the object of
her interest: “does he have to walk on this little bit of a place with
nothing to amuse him, and can’t even talk? I think that is pretty hard:
_I_ never could do it.”
“But if he were talking and chatting with every one who came along, and
thinking only of his own amusement, he would forget his work and have
his attention taken off from those plates which it is his business to
watch constantly,” said the captain.
“And then we’d be blown up or burnt up or drowned or something,” said
Maggie.
“Not as bad as that, I hope,” said Captain Brooks, smiling; “but
something might readily go wrong before he perceived it.”
“It seems like watching conscience all the time for fear we do
something naughty,” said Bessie, who had been thoughtfully regarding
the man since she last spoke. “If we forget conscience, or don’t pay
attention where it points, we can be naughty before we know it.”
“Just so,” said the captain, looking at her half in amusement, half in
surprise; “but tell me, little one, do you find some moral lesson in
every thing?”
“I don’t know what ‘moral’ is, sir,” said Bessie, demurely; “but I
think that man is a pretty good lesson to us.”
Here roguish Lily, for whom the prospect of being “blown up or burnt
up or drowned or something,” did not seem to have any terrors, and who
had been all this time trying to distract the watchman’s attention by
shaking her head and finger at him, flirting her pocket-handkerchief,
and giving little squeaks and “hems,” all without any avail, suddenly
astonished him and accomplished her object, by firing a paper pellet
which hit him directly between the eyes. The gruff old fellow only
gave her a growl in return, however, and recommenced his pacing up and
down; but Lily went capering about in an ecstasy of delight at her
unlooked-for success, till the captain, who could not help laughing,
called her to order with,--
“Here, here, you elf! have done with your monkey tricks, or I shall
shut you up in a cage till we get to shore.”
“You’ve none large enough,” said laughing Lily.
“There are plenty of hencoops on board,” said the captain, pretending
to look fierce, “and carpenters too, to make any sized cage I may
order. You had better look out.”
“I don’t think it’s fair to tease the poor man,” said Bessie, “he has
to be so stupid all the time, and he is so dutiful too. Let’s go away,
Captain Brooks, and not let him be teased any more.”
So the captain took them away in search of other novelties; but Maggie
and Bessie did not forget “the poor, stupid man,” as the latter called
him, meaning only that she thought he passed his time in such a dull,
uninteresting manner; and they set their young wits to work to see if
they could not do him some kindness.
“I don’t see the good of it,” said Lily. “The captain said he was a
surly old fellow, any way, and didn’t care to talk much when he could.
I guess we’d better just let him alone.”
“We oughtn’t to judge by appearances,” said Maggie, gravely. “Bessie
and I have learned that.”
“But not till we’d performed some pretty bad mistakes,” said Bessie:
“so take a lesson of us.”
“Tell us about them,” said Belle; and accordingly Belle and Lily were
much interested in hearing of Lem and the silver cup, and of Aunt
Patty; Maggie also confessing how she had for a long time misjudged
Mrs. Jones, of Quam Beach, because she had a disagreeable manner.