summer, and then on a day near the middle of September they all fly
back again to warmer climes. No matter what they are doing, when the
call comes,—that mysterious call which only they understand,—off they
go, and we see them no more till the next April.
"You know how the swallows make nests for themselves up under the
eaves, and I have heard they sometimes bring up two broods in the same
year.
"Now it so happened that a year or so ago, one pair had their second
brood rather late in the season. And before the poor little nestlings
were able to fly, the call came to the swallows to go south.
"What do you think the little father and mother did? They left their
little nestlings to starve, and flew away themselves to the warm
countries! When the blacksmith came to mend the gutter the next spring,
he found the little dead things huddled together in the forsaken nest.
And when I heard it, I underlined that text in my Bible which I have
always loved, that speaks of God's love as contrasted with a mother's
love, great as that is—'Yea, they "may" forget, yet will I not forget
thee.'"
There was a moment's pause in the large circle, and then Margaret
looked up from hugging her baby, and said softly,—
"That is a very sad story, Grandmamma."
"Yes, it is," answered Mrs. Forde, taking her great-granddaughter's
tiny hand, and smoothing it up and down tenderly, "but it is well for
us to be reminded sometimes!"
"Reminded?" asked Margaret.
"That God says, '"I" have loved thee with an "everlasting" love!'"
Then there was a stir in the circle. Claude and the Reigate boys went
back to their castle, while the bare mention of the blacksmith had been
quite enough for some of the children. It was still light, so ever so
many of them asked permission to pay a visit to the forge before going
home.
"Good afternoon, Grandfather!" said Jack, roguishly. "It will be almost
evening before we come back!"
The little ones ran to the wall to watch the party on its way to the
village, only wishing they had been fortunate enough to be allowed to
go with them; for after all, what is so entrancing to the childish mind
as an unhindered peep into a forge?
SUCH A HAPPY EVENING.
————
"AUNTIE, Auntie! The dew is falling," called Frank, coming round the
corner of the house to discover his Aunt Rachel taking a few minutes'
rest with her favourite nephew by her side, amusing him with a picture
book, and telling him such thrilling stories that he sat entranced.
She had found him just now in great tribulation, for her dog Frisky,
unused to children, had taken a particular fancy to the darling of one
of the families assembled to celebrate the Golden Wedding-day, and had,
true to his name, frisked round him in the most friendly manner.
Little Kenneth, who had no dog at home, did not take these attentions
at all in a friendly spirit. He felt sure Frisky was bent on doing him
some serious mischief, and would end up with demolishing him! Poor
little Kenneth!
His mournful cry brought Aunt Rachel to his side very quickly. All day
she had done little else than hover round among the little ones, making
straight all that might have gone crooked, making smooth anything that
might have been rough.
She had said that morning to her parents, as they sat at breakfast
talking over the arrangements for the grand day—"Mother! I shall leave
all the food to Charlotte's care. 'I' shall devote myself to the little
ones."
Charlotte was Mr. Forde's other home-daughter. She laughed now a
little, and said to her sister,—
"Pray, who is to attend to the elder guests, as you have told me off to
the 'food' all day. I hope you do not put me down as specially greedy?"
"Not at all. I consider myself rather greedy to 'bag' the
children,—they are the best share by half! But I thought the older
people suited you best, Charlotte?"
"Oh! I don't mind," she said. "But as to the food, with all our
elaborate preparations, and so many maids to carry all out, I do not
think I need concern myself about that. I'll amuse the older folks."
Thus, it was settled. Happily for everybody, the preparations had been
most complete, and the carrying out of them perfect; so that Charlotte
had quite a free mind to give to the entertainment of her sisters and
brothers.
Aunt Rachel had been helping some of the little ones to dig in a corner
of the pretty garden, where Mr. Forde had ordered a load of sand to be
deposited. Here, after tea, she enticed those who seemed a little tired
of the hay.
"The big boys are so rough," she had heard one of them say, as she
smoothed the hay out of her hair, and straightened her rumpled dress.
"I don't like playing with big cousins at all."
The sand had proved a most delightful exchange from the rather
overpowering play of the older children, and while some of them dug
with great energy, the rest of the little ones wandered a little
further on in the garden, to a plane which was called by Aunt Rachel
"the wilderness,"—a corner where things were left to grow as they
liked, with only such cutting and training as was judiciously invisible
to ordinary eyes.
What a happy time it was for all of them, and not least for Aunt
Rachel, who often declared it was impossible for her to have too much
of children! Margaret, one of her elder nieces, married but a short
year and a half ago, with a precious treasure of her own, quite agreed
with her aunt that at any rate, she could never have too much of her
little Daisy!
While the sun was still bright, this indefatigable little mother was
sure that her baby was sleepy, and leaving the happy party in the
hay-field, she made her way across the lawns and carried her darling
into the house.
As she passed through the drawing-room, she met one of her cousins, a
little girl named Mildred, who was always known as one of the greatest
baby-lovers ever seen.
"Oh, Margaret!" she exclaimed, springing forward. "'May' I take care of
Daisy?"
"If you like," answered Margaret, feeling that she was conferring a
great boon. "Just hold her while I run up to find Mary. I wonder if she
has her bed ready for her!"
The cot was ready in the spare room, for Margaret was to sleep at
Bickley that night. So Mildred was allowed to carry the baby up the
broad easy stairs, and to superintend its undressing.
Daisy had just learned to crawl, and was placed on the floor to show
Mildred the new performance, when the door was pushed open a very
little, and Master Frisky walked in to see what was going on.
He did not quite like that any other four-footed animal, as he
considered it, should be allowed to walk about in "his" spare room, so
he laid himself down rather sulkily and considered the matter before he
decided on any course of action.
Margaret and Mildred and the nurse were very much entertained,
especially as Daisy had no idea of fear, and made her way steadily
towards the occupant of the mat, intent on a game if possible. Frisky,
however, was almost too awed at the new quadruped to move. He hung his
tail as if afraid.
"Do you think he will snap at her?" said Mildred, shrinking.
"Oh, no!" answered Margaret.
But she would not risk it, so caught up her darling and placed her
out of harm's way in the cot, where she was tenderly watched over by
Mildred and the nurse, till she fell asleep.
"That's the first 'Good-night!'" whispered Mildred, bending over
her. "Little Daisy, you are the first to say good-bye to the Golden
Wedding-day!"
Then she noiselessly left the room, and went out into the still
evening, listening for sounds that might guide her to some place of
interest.
Merry voices came from all sides, ringing laughter; so after an
instant's pause, she decided on making a visit to the hay-loft, where
she found three of her cousins having a grand frolic.
On her way, she passed some of the neighbours' cottages. And there in
the warm western sun, outside the door under shelter of the wall, lay
the baby of the family, all clean and rosy, ready for her good-night.
By the side of her watched her little sister, amusing herself meanwhile
with feeding some tame sparrows, puss looking on, but restrained from
touching them by the little girl's hand; while opposite stood the
eldest boy, stripping a brier of its leaves to make a stick for himself.
"How happy you look," said Mildred, and passed on towards the hay-loft.
Soon she was in the thick of the fun, hiding in the dusky corners, or
climbing up and down the ladder which led to the ground,—a pastime
which all found particularly delightful, because there was just a
little danger of slipping!
Meanwhile, two more of the cousins were having another frolic somewhere
else. Aunt Charlotte had been coaxed to let them into her studio, and
in consideration of the interest of the day, to actually allow one of
her brushes to be used on one of her canvases!
"You've been a mighty long time!" remarked Eddie, who was standing
patiently on the mat, acting as a model for one of his cousins.
"Well, you can go!" she answered condescendingly. "I've got your hair
exactly now, and your nose! I've made you quite handsome, Eddie!"
"Do you call that like me?" asked Eddie.
"Exactly! Don't you?"
But Eddie did not wait to argue the point. Finding himself let off,
he bounded away; for however pleasant it may be to paint, it is not
such an enviable thing to be painted, especially when there are such
attractions elsewhere as are to be found on Golden Wedding-days.
Jack, finding nothing particular to do of an exciting nature,
determined to amuse himself by climbing one of the high trees near the
wall which separated his grandfather's grounds from the gardens of some
cottages.
He had been as far as he thought prudent, and for once had really kept
within reasonable bounds, and now was descending (as he could not
indulge himself by going higher!) when he saw a woman come out of the
nearest cottage door, look quickly about, wring her hands, and call out
in a very despairing tone, "Baby! Baby!"
"What's the matter?" called Jack's blunt voice from the midst of his
leafy shade.
The woman stopped short, looked about in every direction, and then
burst into tears.
"What's the matter?" called Jack again. "I'm up here in the tree."
He shook the branches, and she looked up.
"What ails you?" asked Jack, for the woman's face was woebegone.
"Why, the baby! Oh, do, my dear young master, come down and help me
find her. She's all I have now, and my heart will break!"
Jack could not make it out, but he descended to the wall, and then in a
manner best known to himself, let himself down on the other side, and
stood by the woman, again asking, "But 'what' have you lost? You can't
lose a baby like that. She must be somewhere."
His steady courageous tone quieted the mother's nervous apprehension a
little. To her mind, nothing was easier than to lose her baby.
"Where was she?" asked Jack.
"Why, here," exclaimed the woman eagerly. "I'd been leading her about
the kitchen; she's just begun to walk a bit, and we was as happy as
could be. And then I put on her bonnet to take her out for a bit, and I
ran upstairs to get my own things. I wasn't a minute, I do assure you,
sir. And when I came down, the door was open and she was gone!"
"She isn't far, I'll be bound," said Jack reassuringly. "I'll just run
round and have a look about."
"But you see it's getting dark," said the mother despairingly, "and if
I lose her—"
She threw her apron over her head and sobbed aloud.
"Oh, come," said Jack, "you're wasting the time. You go that way, and
I'll go this. She can't be far, and we'll call her."
He ran off as he spoke, turning up the leafy lane with its shade of
overhanging trees. While the child's mother, wiping her eyes, which
were still almost blinded with tears, went in the direction Jack had
pointed out, glad to have any advice to follow.
The fact was the baby, a little independent morsel of humanity, finding
that she was arrayed in outdoor garments, thought the most natural
thing was to take a walk. It did not occur to her that she should wait
for her mother, it rather occurred to her that it would be a fine thing
to go without her mother.
The door was fortunately ajar, and a touch of her tiny fingers pushed
it open sufficiently to let her small form through. She trotted down
the little garden, went out into the lane, looked this way and that,
and finally turned in at the little gate which led into Aunt Rachel's
wilderness.
A lonely wilderness now, for the children had left the dewy grass, and
were collecting indoors preparatory to going home.
So Jack ran past the little wanderer and overshot the mark, as so many
people do in this life. His fleet legs carried him over so far down the
lane, till his good sense told him that no baby feet could have trotted
as far as that in the few moments which must have elapsed between the
child having gone out and his beginning to search.
As he slowly retraced his steps, alternately calling "Baby!" and
listening attentively, he heard a very mournful little voice wailing
dolefully, somewhere very near.
To his renewed calls of "Baby," no answer was made, but to his joy, the
crying stopped.
Then he was sorry it had stopped, for now he had no guide to the baby's
whereabouts.
He looked up at the fence and recognised the particular pattern of
his grandfather's palings. He gave a spring over the little ditch,
clambered up the flowery bank, no matter how many nettles and thorns
were in his way, and grasping the top of the tall fence, peeped over.
There, in the midst of Aunt Rachel's wilderness, sat the little lost
wanderer!
It did not take Jack a moment to clamber over the palings and to run up
to the little sorrowful baby.
His most gentle soothing, however, availed nothing to assuage her
grief. So Jack lifted her up, took her by the hand, and led her
toddling steps out at the door by which she had entered.
Here they almost ran up against her mother.
"Oh, sir!" she said, gratefully, but no more, for such a hugging and
kissing as went on completely stopped her flow of eloquence, for which
Jack was not sorry.
At any rate, the baby had left off crying,—that was one good thing.
"Come in, do, sir!" exclaimed the woman, throwing open the cottage
door. "I feel I can never thank you enough."
"Oh! I did not do much," said Jack. "You'd have found her right enough
yourself, if you hadn't been so frightened. She was close by all the
time."
"Ah! Well, young sir, I daresay you are right, but I've had such trials
that I'm afraid I ain't always as sensible as I might be."
She seemed to expect Jack to inquire about her trials.
And though he was longing to get back to his cousins, with ready good
humour, he asked,—
"Have you had such trials then?"
"Me, sir?" she asked, astonished, as if any one could not have heard
her story.
Jack nodded.
"Why, sir, I married a widower, that's his boy as minds your
grandfather's cows, and I had one child of my own—such a beautiful boy!
One day he was taken ill, I don't know how it was, the doctor said
it must have been croup. Anyway, I saw he was poorly, and I took him
down to the doctor's, but he was out, and it was a bitter day, that it
was. So I went home again, and for all I could do, the baby got worse.
George went and tried everywhere to find the doctor, but he'd been sent
for somewheres at a distance, and wasn't expected home till morning.
Long before that the life had gone out of my baby, and he lay cold and
stiff. If only the doctor had been at home, I shouldn't have lost him!"
She spoke bitterly, and Jack stood still, wondering what to say, for he
did not like to leave the woman uncomforted, and yet he hardly knew how
to comfort her.
"You have this one now," he ventured at last, but the woman flashed
almost angrily upon him,—
"'That' don't make up," she said, though she hugged her little girl
tighter at the thought.
"I beg your pardon," said Jack, "and perhaps you wouldn't like me to
say any more?"
"My nerves is so bad," apologised the woman, looking into his open
face, which had flushed a deep red.
Though Jack had been brave once before that day, he was braver now.
"I don't think I gave you the true comfort," he said. "I heard my
mother telling some one, that the Lord Jesus when He was on earth loved
people even when He had to stay away sometimes. Perhaps He lets us have
troubles that we may trust Him better."
The woman gave him a glance of surprise, and Jack, thinking he had
leave to go, sped towards the house, little dreaming that after all
with "that" Name, he "had" comforted the woman!
* * * * * * *
"We have been looking at the swans," said Eddie. "And mother says they
are going home to bed, and that we must too!"
"Oh!" said Effie. "I wish we could stay here always,—don't you, Eddie?"
"For some things," answered Eddie candidly, "but we should want mother,
you know."
"Of course we should; she'd have to stay here."
"But the servants could not do without her," remarked Eddie, as if that
were conclusive.
And Effie saw it was, and did not argue the point further.
"We must put on our things," said their mother regretfully; "the fly is
at the door, and the train will not wait for us."
"No, that it won't," said Jack. "I can't bear saying 'Good-bye,' I'd
rather say 'Good-night,' then you have the hope of meeting the next
day. I wish we had!"
"We must not make a regret out of our great happiness," said their
grandmamma's voice behind them. "I never spent such a happy day! Let us
say 'Good-night,' as Jack suggests, instead of 'Good-bye.'"
So everybody took up the idea that there were to be no regrets, but
only the loving word, "Good-night" was to be spoken, as each party had
to leave.
Eddie and Effie, with their parents, accompanied by Cyril and his
parents, were nearly the first to go, and very very sleepy were the
little people before they got to the end of the journey.
In fact, there was some suspicion that the three little pairs of eyes
had forty winks in the train.
However that might have been, Eddie and Effie were quite awake enough
to give their mother a great hug, and to whisper that they had had a
very, very, "very" happy day.
"If those cousins hadn't been so rough—" began Effie, but her mother
stopped her with a kiss.
"We will not remember one tiresome thing to-day," she said brightly.
"It has been the best and loveliest day possible."
"But then," said Eddie archly, "perhaps nothing tiresome 'did' happen
to you, mother dear!"
"I tore my dress," she answered, in a mock doleful tone; "I shall never
get over 'that'—"
"What?" asked their father, entering.
"—that stile again, I was going to say," she answered, laughing, "only
I wanted to shock Effie just a very little bit."
So another "Good-night" was said, and the two pairs of eyes closed
wearily, and Eddie and Effie left the Golden Wedding-day behind.
Not two fields off, at that very moment, Cyril sat on his mother's
knee, telling her all about his day. Not that she did not know all
about it before, but she did not mind hearing it afresh from his lips.
He was even wider awake than Eddie and Effie, for he had had more than
forty winks in the train. His mother's knee had been a pillow for his
curls all the time of his journey, and now he had reached home and had
partaken of supper with his parents, he felt ready for anything, and
chatted away as if sleep were a thing quite unheard of.
"Tell me a story, mother," he pleaded; "then when you've told me one,
I'll promise to go to sleep."
"Say instead, that you will promise to lie still, and shut your eyes. I
do not think you can make yourself go to sleep, Cyril."
"Can't I?" he asked, his innocent eyes meeting hers with a surprised
look.
"I do not think so. There are some things we can do, and some things we
can't."
"Tell me a story about that!"
"About what, Cyril?"
"About what we can't do, and we can."
His mother smiled.
"I knew a little boy once who was left in a room by himself, and was
told not to touch anything on the table."
"Not me?" interrupted Cyril.
"Not you, dearest; oh! no. Some other little boy. Well, he promised
his mother, and when she was gone, he stood a long time listening to
his mother's footsteps dying away in the distance. And then he turned
to look at the table. He had not thought before anything about it. But
now, just because he was told not, his mind went back to it, and his
eyes felt as if they must turn that way and no other."
"What a silly little boy," remarked Cyril sagely; "he should have shut
them up tight."
"Well, he didn't. He thought he would just walk over to the table and
have a look. So he did, and as we often find, looking was not enough.
There was a basin of something standing within reach.
"'Mother meant this bread and milk for me, I am sure,' he said to
himself, 'she always gives me some at bedtime. I wonder if there's
sugar in it? Mother always puts sugar in it, if I'm good: I have been
good all day, to-day. It's been a good day, I'm sure.'
"He drew nearer; he would have peeped in it or even tasted it, but the
table was too high. Having thus played with temptation, he put out
both his hands and tipped the basin just a very little. The basin was
slippery, and just as the little boy had a full view of its contents,
over it tipped, pouring a stream of milk right down his chest."
"Was he burned?" asked Cyril, horrified.
"You may well ask that, Cyril. Fortunately, indeed, the milk had only
been placed there ready for boiling, and was quite cold; or else that
little boy would have been terribly scalded, and might have died! Now,
Cyril, tell me—was what he did, one of the things he might have helped?
Did he make a promise to his mother that he could have kept?"
Cyril considered the matter soberly for ever so long, and then ended by
flinging his arms tightly round his mother's neck.
"Oh, you dear mother!" he exclaimed. "I s'pose it was! I 'am' so glad
he wasn't scalded, but only nasty and wet! But now, mother, say my
prayers, and then I'll promise!"
So Cyril laid his head on his pillow, promising only to shut his eyes
and lie very quiet, and his mother said "Good-night" with a happy
heart, and ran downstairs to talk over the Golden Wedding-day with her
husband.
Meanwhile, another party had reached home, a large and rather tired
party. For there had been too much talking and laughing in the train
for the regulation "forty winks." And when they arrived at their house,
the little ones were very sleepy, and it must be confessed a wee bit
cross.
But nurse and mother and elder sisters each took a tired child in
charge, and went off with them to their respective rooms.
One little boy was so fatigued that he threw himself on his bed and
begged to be allowed to stay as he was! But a little management soon
divested the tired young gentleman of his visiting apparel, and almost
before they could tuck him up, he was in dreamland.
"Nursie dear!" called Ethel from her bed in the night nursery. "I'm not
a bit sleepy; can't you let me hold baby while you see to the others?"
"Wait till I've undressed him then," answered nurse, "and we'll see
about it. I declare I never saw such a lot of you to get to bed at
once!"
"No, because we don't generally go out all at once, and Golden
Wedding-days don't happen very often."
"I should hope not," remarked nurse, good-humouredly, remembering the
bustle it had been to get them off in the morning, and how very early
everybody had been awake, and what an array of garments had been laid
out on a certain spare bed for days, so that not one thing should be
forgotten or missing when the grand morning arrived. Oh, yes, she
remembered it all, and was glad Golden Wedding-days did not happen
every week.
"But you liked going, didn't you, nursie?"
"Oh! Yes, miss, it was very nice indeed. I'm sure, to see such a number
of young ladies and gentlemen together, with all their papas and
mammas, except poor Miss Archer's, of course, was a treat worth going
fifty miles to see, that it was!"
So the baby was undressed and given to Ethel to amuse, and then nurse
turned to another of her charges, who was leaning on the table not
making any attempt to prepare for the night.
"What is the matter, Miss Elsie?" she asked.
"I'm thinking," said Elsie, without looking up.
"You're tired, I expect," said Nurse.
"No, I'm not,—not in the least tired. I was thinking about that
gingerbread that we made. I wish it had had some lemon peel in it!"
"Is that all?" said nurse. "I thought it was something very serious."
"That's all," said Elsie.