“What a gem! Who is your authoress?”
“She is Anon., I believe,” said George, sleepily. “She closes the
couplet with,--
‘Because my heart in praise goes up
For such a full and heaped-up cup.’
Now I am in just such a frame of mind, and quite agree with her when
she goes on to say,--
‘This world is all so beautiful,
We should be very gra-te-ful;
But then, you know, sometimes we’re not,
And do forget our happy lot.’”
“George,” said Miss Temple, “how can you be so foolish?” but she
laughed again, and the others, too, went on laughing and joking him
about his “nonsense;” while poor Maggie sat,--with downcast-eyes,
changing color, and beating heart,--listening intently to every word
her tormentor uttered, and wondering how much more pain he would
put her through. As for Bessie, she had at first heard in wondering
surprise those strangely familiar lines; but surprise soon changed to
sympathy for her Maggie, and indignation against Mr. Temple.
Suddenly Kate turned her eyes towards the two little faces, and the
expression of both left no room for doubt as to who was the author of
the unfortunate verses. Maggie was in an agony of embarrassment: too
well did Kate know the signs, and remember with shame how, not long
since, she herself had found as much amusement in them as George Temple
was probably now doing, since he was taking so much pains to excite
them. But Kate had learned better, and had grown more thoughtful and
considerate, more careful not to give pain to another for the sake of
a little passing enjoyment to herself. How cruel Mr. Temple’s teasing
seemed to her now, and how she felt for Maggie!
For Bessie, too, who she saw was trying to keep down her rising temper,
she was very sorry. She must come to the rescue in some way.
“I might have known from the first,” she said to herself, “that those
were Maggie’s verses. They sound just like her,--just like her happy,
grateful, little heart, always so ready and eager to give praise and
gratitude where they are due. They are not bad for such a child,
either; but I must help her out of this. Poor little Maggie!”
“There’s another sentiment of the talented writer, to which I shall
also say amen,” began Mr. Temple again,--
“‘And then I’ve lots of friends at home
From whom just now away I roam;
I hope they’ll all be safe and sound
When I again at home am found.’”
“I thought you meant to try your own powers of rhyming,” said Kate. “I
am glad you have not, for I know you could not do nearly as well as the
writer you quote; and I am sure you have not half as feeling a heart.
But we have had enough.”
This was an unlucky speech of Kate’s; for it gave Mr. Temple an
opportunity of doing still worse.
“A feeling heart!” he repeated: “well, I don’t know about that; her
feelings seem to have been mixed, for she says,--
‘Alas! ’tis my unhappy fate
To see on board a man I hate:
I know I should not be so mad;
But he behaves so very bad.’
Now, I am in a much more amiable frame of mind; for I do not see in
this present company a single person whom it is ‘my unhappy fate’ to
hate. How is it with you, Maggie?”
But Maggie was overwhelmed, and could not possibly have answered if she
had wished to do so ever so much.
“Maggie,” said Kate, seeing no way to spare the child further confusion
but by taking her away, “you have not enough green with those flowers.
Come over there, I see some pretty leaves, and we will gather them.”
Maggie sprang to her feet, letting the flowers fall to the ground, and
seized eagerly upon the kind hand held out for her relief. The tears,
which she had been struggling to hold back, flowed freely the moment
she was beyond the sound of her tormentor’s voice; but she felt better
for them and for Kate’s sympathy.
“Never mind, dear,” said Kate, soothingly. “I know the poetry is yours,
Maggie, and it is very nice indeed; but I would not say so before
Charlie and Mary. I thought you would not like it. George Temple could
not have written it himself, and he ought to be ashamed to tease you
so.”
“It’s _too, too_ mean,” sobbed Maggie; “and that man is too horrid. I
didn’t really mean I hated him; but now I most feel as if I did.”
Meanwhile Bessie, who had lingered a moment to pick up Maggie’s
flowers, was receiving in dignified silence Mr. Temple’s questions as
he asked “what ailed her sister?”
“What is the matter, George?” said Miss Temple, seeing something was
wrong. “Are you teasing Maggie? Are those verses hers?”
“I told you they were Anon.,” replied her brother.
This was a little too much. It was quite bad enough for Mr. Temple
to torment Maggie so; but that he should give the credit of those
beautiful verses to another, was more than could be borne, and Bessie
turned upon him, saying, with the utmost severity, but without
passion,--
“They’re not. Miss Anon. didn’t write them. My Maggie did; and you know
it, and you took them out of her bag.”
Mr. Temple laughed with the others at the first part of the speech, but
looked grave again at its ending.
“Hallo!” he said, rousing himself from the lazy attitude he had kept
until now, “do you know what you are saying, little lady? That would be
stealing.”
Bessie stood looking at him for a moment in silence.
“I picked them up off the deck of the steamboat,” said the young
gentleman, a shade of vexation crossing his face as he noted the
expression of the child’s.