_LUCY._
Old ocean seemed to wish to make amends, during the last two days of
the short voyage, for the tossing and rolling he had given our friends
during the first. It was as smooth as a river almost, and broke itself
up into little wavelets which seemed formed only to sparkle and catch
the sunshine. The weather was warm and summer-like, growing more and
more so the farther south they went; and the children spent the whole
of their time on deck, even taking their meals there: for though Maggie
declared herself “all right now,” she could not eat when taken below,
and it was “such fun” to have breakfast, dinner, and tea, sent up to
them and eaten on deck in such _impromptu_ fashion, that the others
were only too glad of the excuse of bearing her company. Mamma and Mrs.
Norris preferred it too; so they had quite a sociable, cosey time of it.
As for Bessie, she wanted “no better contentment” than to sit watching
the sea. The sky; the waves; the white sea-gulls, which now and then
came sailing round on their snowy wings; the other vessels they saw in
the far distance, or sometimes near at hand; the huge porpoises which
threw themselves with a sudden leap and plunge out from the water and
back again,--each and all had their charm for her; and, if undisturbed,
she would sit for hours, her doll clasped in her arms, gazing her fill,
and thinking her own thoughts. Happy, peaceful thoughts they were too,
if one might judge by the expression of her sweet little face.
“How my Bessie loves the sea, does she not?” said her father, sitting
down beside her one time when he found her thus absorbed.
“Yes, papa, dearly; but then I love the real sea better.”
“But this is the real sea, darling.”
“But I mean the _real, real_ sea, papa; the true, _very_ sea,” said the
little girl.
“I do not know how you could have more real sea than this, dear,” said
her father, rather at a loss to know what she could mean. “We are many,
many miles from land. You can see none on any side. It is water, water,
the real true ocean, all around us, as far and farther than our eyes
can reach. You do not mean that you would have it rough and stormy?”
“Oh, no, papa!” Bessie answered, rather puzzled herself how to make her
meaning plain to her father; “but I mean that kind of sea where the
waves come slowly, slowly on the beach, all white and curly, and make
that nice sound I like so much. It does not come in this kind of a sea.”
“Oh, ho!” said her father, “I understand. It is the _seashore_ you are
longing for, even more than the open sea itself. Well, perhaps one of
these days, you may be there again.”
“Oh! do you think I might be, papa? Oh, that would be so delightful!”
and she turned her little, eager, wistful face to her father with such
a sparkle in her eye.
“I think it more than likely that such a thing will come to pass,
Bessie,” said Mr. Bradford; but he did not tell her what a pleasant
surprise awaited her in the course of her summer travels.
“Papa,” she said again presently, “do not these dear little waves we
have to-day make you think of our Maggie? They seem just like her, as
if they were dancing and laughing, and so glad and gay.”
“Yes,” said her father, pleased at the pretty conceit of the
affectionate little sister, “and God’s sunshine, pouring down upon
these merry waves and touching them with light and sparkle, is like the
love and tenderness which make our Maggie’s heart so gay and happy.”
“And I am a little bit of Maggie’s sunshine: am I not, papa?” asked the
sweet Bessie.
The reply came in a squeeze, half a dozen smothering kisses, and a
squeal meant to express affection and delight, from Maggie herself,
who, coming up behind them and hearing Bessie’s question, answered
after her own peculiar fashion.
Yes: they were both true sunbeams, these two dear little girls:
sunbeams as all children may be, because they were happy; happy because
they were good and generous and loving; sunbeams to one another and to
all around them, shedding light and brightness wherever they passed.
“Bessie,” said Maggie, when she had done hugging and kissing her
sister, “I’ve made a very surprising discovery. Do you see that little
girl sitting over there? I’ve seen her before.”
“Yes,” answered Bessie. “She’s a kind of errand girl and helps the
stewardess. Yesterday morning when you were so sick she brought some
ice for you; but I didn’t speak to her, ’cause I felt so bad about
you.”
“But, do you know who her father is, Bessie?”
“No,” said Bessie. “Who?”
“That man downstairs, the steam-clock man. Isn’t that very curious?”
“Why, yes. How did you find out, Maggie?”
“Well, Belle and Lily and I were there, while you looked at the water,
and that child came and stood by us; and she looked so very wishful
at our dolls, that I told her she might hold Bessie Margaret Marion a
little while if she would be careful of her; and you don’t know how
pleased she seemed then; and, Bessie, what do you think, the poor child
never had a doll in her life, ’cept only a rag one, and she has no
mother or sisters or any one but her father; and the captain lets her
live with her father on board the steamer; and she tries to help the
stewardess and run about; and she don’t like the sea a bit, she is so
tired of being on it most all the time; and she’s just my age, only a
year older; and Lily asked her if her father was a cross patch to her,
and she was rather mad at that, and said no: he was good and kind as
could be, and she loved him dearly. And so I told her Lily did not mean
to make her mad,--only we thought perhaps she did not find him very
interesting ’cause he would not talk much. But she did not seem to like
that very much either: so I said, very quickly, that maybe the reason
her father did not talk much was because he had so much thinking to do;
and then she looked pleased again, and said yes, that was it, but he
always talked enough to her. And then I told her I felt so very sorry
for him, ’cause he had to walk up and down that little place, with
nothing to do but to look at those old clock things; and I knew I never
could be so strict with my duty, for I would be sure to laugh or talk
or something.”
“And didn’t she look pleased when you said that about her father?”
asked Bessie, when Maggie had come to the end of this long story.
“Oh, yes! And she said he did not like to do it, but he had to make a
living,” answered Maggie.
“I’m real sorry for both of them,” said Bessie. “You know, Maggie, we
said we would like to be kind to him if we could, ’cause he had such
a stupid time; and I s’pose he would be just as pleased if we did a
kind thing to his girl.”
“Yes,” said Maggie: “if he’s a dutiful father, he would. I was thinking
we might give her a doll to amuse herself with.”
“Not one of ours?” said Bessie, holding Margaret Colonel Horace fast,
as if she thought she was to be taken from her at once.
“Oh, no! We never could give up these dolls,” said Maggie. “We love
them too much; and besides the Colonel gave them to us, so it would
never do. But then, you know, we have some of our own money with us;
and I thought when the steamer stopped going and we come to that part
of the world that is land again, maybe we might find a toy-store and
buy her a doll of her own.”
“Yes,” said Bessie. “Papa, do they have stores in Savannah?”
“Plenty,” answered papa, “and doubtless we shall find a toy-store
without trouble.”
“And we may buy Lucy a doll, may we not, papa?” said Maggie. “You see,
it’s pretty hard for a child to have no relations, or dolls, or other
advantages, except only a father.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Bradford, laughing, “if you choose to spend your money
to give pleasure to this little girl, who is so poorly off, you may
certainly do so.”
The children were delighted with their papa’s consent; and when Belle
and Lily heard of the plan, they begged Maggie and Bessie to let
them join in giving this pleasure to the poor child who had so few
enjoyments. Maggie and Bessie readily agreed: and it was settled that
when they reached Savannah, one of the first things to be done should
be the purchase of a doll for Lucy Waters; for such was the name of the
little girl.
Our four young friends were not the only children on the steamer with
whom Lucy had something to do, as you shall hear.
“Father,” she said, as she sat upon his knee that evening, while he was
off duty, “there are some nice little girls on board, this trip.”
“Humph!” was all the answer she received; for, in spite of Lucy’s
assertion that her father talked enough to her, he did not throw away
too many words, even upon her: but Lucy was used to his way, and did
not mind it, for she knew he loved her dearly.
“There are,” she insisted. “One of them let me take her doll, and it
can turn its head; and she let me do it, and move its arms too. And
another one was kind to me when some other children said bad things to
me. There they are, father: don’t you see them?” and she pointed to
where Maggie and Bessie were sitting, with their father and mother.
“Thought so,” said Waters, who was not really surly, but only silent
and unsociable.
“Why how, father! Did you know about it?”
“No,” replied her father, “but thought like enough it was them when you
said some spoke nice to you. Seem like kindly, loving, little souls.”
“There are two more nice ones, that play with ’em,” said Lucy.
“Humph!” said Waters again, “one of ’em is a saucy mischief, I guess.”
“Oh!” said Lucy, “I know which one you mean. They call her Lily. I
didn’t like her so much at first; but I do now, ’cause she slapped a
boy’s face who said hateful things to me.”
If Lucy imagined her father would ask what the boy had said, she was
mistaken; for he smoked away without a word more. But the memory of her
wrongs was too great to be borne in silence, and presently she said,--
“Are not my clothes very nice, father?”
“Nice as I can afford, anyhow,” he answered without taking his pipe
from his lips.
“I told that boy and his sisters they were as nice as anybody’s,” said
Lucy; “but maybe they’re not.” And taking off her bonnet, she turned
it round and round, eying it rather mournfully. “I don’t think this
kind of a hat is so nice as those little girls’, father; nor this long
apron so nice as their short frocks. I wonder if I couldn’t make
’em look better, so folks wouldn’t laugh at me.”
Now, I think Waters was somewhat mistaken when he said Lucy’s clothes
were as nice as he could afford. He had good wages, and his little girl
did not want for what was necessary to make her neat and comfortable:
but he did not know how to dress her; and the enormous shaker bonnet,
which would have fitted a grown woman; and long, scant apron which came
to her feet,--cost no less, perhaps more, than the short frock and
round straw hat, which would have been more convenient and suitable for
a girl of her age.
Poor Lucy knew she looked very different from most children of her
own size; but, although she kept herself very tidy, she did not see
how she was to remedy this difficulty. She was a funny little figure,
certainly: more so than she was aware of; but it had never troubled
her much until this afternoon, when some rude but well-dressed boys
and girls, who would have been very indignant if they had been told
they were not half so well-bred and polite as the engineer’s little
daughter, had annoyed her very much.
Maggie and Bessie had noticed these children, but, seeing how rough
and boisterous they were, had rather avoided them. But that afternoon,
while they, with Belle and Lily, were talking to Lucy, and asking her
some questions about her homeless, seafaring life, these boys and girls
came up to them.
Not having at that moment any dispute to settle among themselves, they
were ready to band together against any one else; and Lucy presented a
tempting mark for attack.
“Ho! you seem to have picked up a fine acquaintance there!” said Arthur
Lathrop, the eldest of the brothers.
“She is dressed in the last fashion,” said Charlotte, his sister, with
a scornful look at Lucy.
“Quite the style,” joined in the other boy. “You brought your bonnet
from the Paris Exposition: did you not, ma’am?”
Poor Lucy had not the least idea what the Paris Exposition was; but she
knew very well that these unkind children were making fun of her, and
she drew back with a hurt and angry look.
“Couldn’t you give my sisters the pattern of that lovely bonnet?” said
Arthur.
“And of that outside toggery too,” said William, “whatever its name is.
Not being used to such an elegant style of dress, I don’t know what to
call it.”
“You ought to be ashamed to talk so,” said Bessie, indignantly. “She’s
a nice, good, little girl, who tries to be a help to every one; and if
her clothes are not so very pretty, she can’t help it. It is better to
have good clothes and be bad, than to have bad clothes and be good,”
added the little girl, saying just the opposite of what she intended.
But no one noticed her mistake. The Lathrops were all too intent
on their victim, the other little ones too full of sympathy and
indignation, to pay much heed to a choice of words.
“Well,” returned William, provokingly, “don’t we say she is the most
stylish, fashionable young lady we have seen this long time. For me, I
am struck dumb with admiration.”
“To be sure,” said Charlotte, “didn’t you say that bonnet was the
latest fashion from the Exposition?”
“Or from Noah’s ark: which is it? Pray tell us, miss,” put in Arthur
with a loud laugh.
“Let her be, you bad boys,” said Belle.
“She looks a great deal nicer than any of you,” said Lily, too anxious
to take up Lucy’s defence to think of the exact truth of her statement.
“Oh! of course, of course,” retorted Arthur. “She is quite a model. I
propose we all ask our mothers to buy us just such clothes. Don’t leave
us, Miss Elegance;” and he caught hold of poor Lucy, who had turned to
run away.
“Let her be,” said Lily.
“You’re very ungrateful,” said Maggie. “This morning when you called
the stewardess, I saw Lucy run very quick to call her. You ought to be
ashamed all of you. You’re as bad as the Elisha children in the Bible,
that were eaten up.”
“Are you going to let her go?” asked Lily, with a threatening shake of
her head at the young tyrant, who still held Lucy fast.
“As soon as she tells us how many hundred dollars she paid for this
love of a bonnet,” said Arthur, tossing off the unlucky shaker with a
jerk of his thumb and finger.
Without another word, Lily reached up her small hand, and gave the big
boy a sounding slap upon his cheek. In his surprise, he loosed his hold
of Lucy, who quickly snatched up her bonnet, and made good her escape.
Arthur turned fiercely upon Lily; but she stood her ground, and not
exactly caring, bully though he was, to strike back at a girl so much
smaller than himself, he contented himself with catching her still
uplifted hand in his, and saying,--
“How dare you do that?”
“’Cause you deserved it,” said Lily, sternly.
“And I’ve a good mind to give you another,” said Belle.
“Children! Children!” said Mr. Powers, who had seen from a distance
that trouble was threatening, and had come to prevent it. “What is the
matter here? Quarrelling and striking?”
“I’m striking,” said Lily, rather proud of having given a blow in what
she considered a just cause; “but I’m not quarrelling, sir.”
“No, papa,” said Belle. “We’re not quarrelling: it’s only those bad,
mean ones;” and she pointed at the Lathrops with as much scorn in her
tone and manner as they had used towards Lucy.
But these children, knowing right well that their share in the dispute
was by far the worst, did not choose to face Mr. Powers’s inquiries,
and now scattered in all directions.
“Striking and calling names look a good deal like quarrelling,” said
Mr. Powers, smiling.
“But we had to take Lucy’s side, papa,” said Belle; and neither she
nor Lily was to be persuaded that it was not right for the latter to
strike a blow in Lucy’s defence. Indeed, Maggie and Bessie were rather
inclined to hold the same opinion, and all four were quite excited over
Lucy’s wrongs.
While Lucy was telling her father the story, they were talking it over
among themselves; and knowing, in spite of their sympathy, that she
presented rather a comical figure, were trying to think of some means
by which they might help her to dress herself more like other children.
But they did not see exactly how it was to be done, nor did Mrs.
Bradford when they consulted her.
“I fear it would not do to offer Lucy clothes, my darlings,” she said:
“those she wears, though odd-looking, are good and comfortable; and her
father might be offended if we offered her any thing which seemed like
charity, or let him know that we do not think her properly dressed.”
“Mamma,” said Bessie, gravely, “do you think a thing is comfortable
when it makes a child laughed at?”
“Well, no, dear, perhaps not,” answered Mrs. Bradford, smiling, “and I
am very sorry for Lucy. Mrs. Norris and I were saying this morning that
we wished we might tell the poor child how to make herself look less
like a little old woman, but we thought it would not do to interfere.”
“I’d wish somebody would interfere if it was me,” said Maggie. “It must
be most _too_ much to have a father who won’t talk, and who has such
very bad taste.”
This was said with so much emphasis, and with such a long-drawn sigh at
the end, as if the mere thought of such misfortune were almost too much
for Maggie, that every one laughed.
Bessie had less to say about Lucy’s troubles than any of the others;
but she thought more of them: for we know how sensitive she herself
was to ridicule, and she could not bear to think that Lucy might have
to undergo the same trial again.
“Mamma,” she said, coming to her mother’s side that evening, “there
are Lucy and her father sitting at the head of those steps, and she is
showing him those queer dressing-gown frocks of hers. Could I go and
speak to them?”
Mrs. Bradford turned to see if it was a proper place for Bessie to go
to, and then gave her permission, thinking that her little girl might
possibly see some way to help Lucy, and trusting to her good sense and
kind heart not to say any thing that might give offence.
“Maybe they’re not just the right shape,” said the engineer, as Bessie
came near; “but I don’t know how you are to better them;” and he turned
over and over the two frocks, just like the one Lucy had on, which lay
across his knee. “Maybe Dorothy would show you.”
“I don’t like to ask her,” said Lucy; or Dorothy the stewardess, was
rather sharp and short with her.
Bessie came close.
“Would you be offended if some one tried to be kind to Lucy?” she
asked, seizing her opportunity.
She was quite surprised to see how pleasantly Waters smiled as he
answered,--
“Not I. Those that are friends to my Lucy are friends to me.”
“Some children laughed at her,” said Bessie, wishing to put the case as
gently as she could.
The engineer frowned and nodded.
“I told him,” said Lucy.
“There’s no excuse for them,” continued Bessie, looking out over
the waters as if she were talking more to herself than to the man,
“but perhaps they would not have done it, if--if--if Lucy’s clothes
were--were a little prettier.”
“And I’ll warrant if your power was as good as your will, you’d make
them prettier for her,” answered the engineer. “You’re a kind little
lady. Lucy was just asking me if I could tell her how to fix up her
things a bit; but I don’t know. Old Mrs. Sims, who does her washing and
sewing, she bought them, and I didn’t see but they were all right; but
now Lucy says they’re not, and she can’t do ’em over.”
Lucy stood listening in amazement to this unusually long speech from
her father, who was very rarely so sociable with any one as he now was
with Bessie.
“But you wouldn’t mind if mamma was to try and help her, would you?”
Bessie asked in a coaxing voice.
“Mind!” said the engineer, “I’d be only too thankful, and so would
my Lucy; but such a lady as your mamma doesn’t want to bother with a
little stranger girl.”
“Oh, yes, she does!” said Bessie, eagerly, “and mamma don’t think it
a bit of bother if she can do a kind thing for some one; and she said
she would like to fix Lucy up, ’cause she was such a nice, tidy child.
Come and show her these, Lucy;” and without waiting for more words, she
snatched up one gown, and taking Lucy by the hand drew her after her,
telling her to bring the other two with her.
Lucy obeyed rather timidly; but the kind manner and words of the two
ladies, Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Norris, soon put her at her ease, and
she became deeply interested in the plans for putting what Bessie
called “the dressing-gown” frocks into proper shape.
There were four of them, all alike, of a good but dull gingham, without
the least shape or fit, save what was given by a string about the
waist; very long and scant,--so scant, that the ladies decided it would
take two to make one suitable frock. Lucy asked and readily obtained
leave from her father for this; and Mrs. Bradford allowed the four
little girls to begin the work that very night by ripping apart the
seams.
She and Mrs. Norris went to work also that evening; and when the
steamer came into port the following night, Lucy was made happy by
having one dress made in a manner proper for a girl of her age; and
knowing that the second was surely promised to her by Mrs. Bradford.
Belle presented her with “the doll of moderation,” which she had
brought with her, she and her young friends having concluded to keep
their money for another purpose instead of buying a new one.
The day on which the vessel started on her return voyage, Mr. Bradford
and Mr. Powers drove down with their little daughters and Lily Norris;
and the children brought Lucy not only her own gingham frock, but also
two others, of bright, simple calico, all nicely made up; and a straw
hat with a blue ribbon upon it. These were all their own presents,
bought with their own money, only the making having been paid for
by their mammas; so that the engineer could find no fault with the
kindness done to his little girl by these thoughtful young strangers.
Lucy was contented beyond measure with her new clothes; but no words
could do justice to her satisfaction and pleasure in her doll. What a
treasure it was! What a delight in her rather lonely little life! She
talked to it, and caressed it, slept with it in her arms at night,
kissed it the first thing in the morning, dressed and undressed it,
and learned to use her needle in fashioning clothes for it. Her father
might be too busy to attend to her; Dorothy might snub her; fretful,
impatient passengers send her hither and thither till she was ready to
drop from fatigue,--she had one solace and delight that repaid her for
all: the recollection of that little china head, and the staring, blue
eyes which lay upon the pillow in her berth, the kisses which she would
run and snatch now and then, till her time was her own once more, and
she could pet and nurse her little treasure to her heart’s content.
And so our four little travellers have begun their journey with a kind
deed which brought pleasure and comfort, such as they did not dream of,
into this poor, craving, young heart, which had had so little to feed
upon; and went upon their way followed by blessings and grateful, happy
memories.