have had success this night. I have won the ten-guinea prize,
and for that I am much indebted to your sweet daughter Susan;
as you will see by a little ballad I enclose for her. Your
kindness to me has let me learn something of your family
history. You do not, I hope, forget that I was present when
you were counting the treasure in Susan's little purse, and
that I heard for what purpose it was all saved. You have not,
I know, yet made up the full sum you need; therefore, I will
be glad if you will use the five-guinea bank-note which you
will find within the ballad. Pay me the money again when it
suits you, and if it never suits you to pay it, I shall never
ask for it. I shall go my rounds again through this country,
I believe, about the same time next year, and will call to
see how you are, and to play the new tune for Susan and the
dear little boys.
"I should just add, to set your heart at rest about the
money, that it does not distress me at all to lend it to you.
I am not quite so poor as I appear to be. But it is my wish
to go about as I do. I see more of the world under my
tattered clothes than, perhaps, I should ever see in a
better dress. There are many of us like this, and we are
glad, when we can, to do any kindness to such a worthy family
as yours.--So fare ye well.
"Your obliged Friend,
LLEWELLYN."
Susan now, at her father's bidding, opened the ballad. He took the
five-guinea bank-note, while she read, with surprise, "Susan's
Lamentation for her Lamb." Her mother leaned over her shoulder to read
the words, but they were stopped before they had finished the first
verse by another knock at the door.
XII
ATTORNEY CASE IN TROUBLE
It was not the postman with another letter. It was Sir Arthur and his
sisters.
They came meaning to lend the farmer and his good family the money to
pay the man who was willing to go away in the farmer's place. But they
found their help was not needed.
"Still, since we are here," said Sir Arthur, "there is something I
should like to speak about. Mr. Price, will you come out with me, and
let me show you a piece of your land through which I want to make a
road. Look there," said Sir Arthur, pointing to the spot, "I am laying
out a drive round my estate, and that bit of land of yours stops me."
"Why, sir, true enough it's mine, but you are welcome to it. I can
trust you to find me another bit worth the same, or to make up the
value of it in some other way. I need say no more."
Sir Arthur was silent for a few moments. Then he said, "What is this I
hear about some mistake in your lease?"
"Well, sir," replied the farmer, "the truth is the fit thing to be
spoken at all times. I can show you a letter from your brother who had
the estate before you, and who let the farm to me. That letter shows
what he meant, Sir Arthur, and if in the writing of the lease it was
otherwise said, it is, as you say, a mistake, sir. Now a mistake is a
mistake all the world over, and should be treated as such, but
Attorney Case says in the matter of a lease you must abide by the
mistake as though it were the truth."
"You seem," said Sir Arthur, "to have some quarrel with this Attorney
of whom you talk so often. Now would you mind telling me frankly what
is the matter between you?"
"The matter between us, sir, is this," said Price. "You know the
corner of the field with the pink hawthorn near Mr. Case's house? The
lane runs past one side of it and a sweetbrier hedge separates it on
the other from his garden. Well, sir, the Attorney wishes to enclose
that bit of ground with his own, and as it belongs to the village, and
moreover is a play-green for the children, and it has been their
custom to meet by the hawthorn every Mayday for as many years as I can
remember, I was loth to see them turned out of it."
"Let us go together and look at this piece of ground," said Sir
Arthur. "It is not far off, is it?"
"Oh, no, sir, close by."
When they reached the ground, Mr. Case saw them from his garden and
hurried to the spot. He was afraid of what the farmer might tell Sir
Arthur. But this time the Attorney was too late, for the truth had
already been told.
"Is this the place you speak of?" asked Sir Arthur.
"Yes, sir," answered Price.
"Why, Sir Arthur," said Attorney Case, seeing that he was too late,
"let there be no dispute about the ground. Let it belong to the
village if you will. I give up all claim to it."
"But you know well, Mr. Case, that a man cannot give up claim to a
place which is not his. You cannot give up this piece of land, for you
have no claim to it, as I can prove to you by a look at my maps. This
field used to belong to the farm on the other side of the road, but
was cut off from it when the lane was made."
"Indeed you must know best," said the trembling Attorney, who was
afraid of Sir Arthur and enraged to be shown in the wrong before
Farmer Price.
"Then," said Sir Arthur to the farmer, "you understand that this
little green is to be a playground for the village children, and I
hope they may gather hawthorn from their favorite bush for many a
Mayday to come."
Farmer Price bowed low, which he seldom did, even when he received a
kindness for himself, but he was now overjoyed to think of the
children's delight when he should tell them the good news.
"And now, Mr. Case," said Sir Arthur, turning to the Attorney, "you
sent me a lease to look over."
"Yes, I thought it my duty to do so. I hope it will not hurt the good
farmer."
"No, it will not hurt him," said Sir Arthur. "I am willing to write a
new one for him when he pleases. He has a letter from my brother who
let the farm to him, which shows exactly what was meant, even if there
was a mistake made in making out the lease. I hope I shall never treat
any one unfairly."
"No, indeed," said the Attorney, "but I always thought if there was a
mistake in a lease it was fair to take advantage of it."
"Then you shall be judged by your own words," answered Sir Arthur.
"You meant to send me Farmer Price's lease, but your son has somehow
brought me yours instead. I have found a bad mistake in it."
"A bad mistake in my lease!" gasped the alarmed Attorney.
"Yes," replied Sir Arthur, pulling the lease out of his pocket. "Here
it is. You will see it has not been signed."
"But you won't take advantage of a mistake, surely!" said the
Attorney, who seemed to forget that he had shortly before said that it
was fair to do so.
"I shall not take advantage of you as you would have done of this
honest man," replied Sir Arthur. "You shall be paid the value of your
house and land upon condition that you leave the parish within one
month."
The Attorney knew it was useless to reply. He therefore turned and
sneaked away.
XIII
SUSAN'S BIRTHDAY
"You write a good hand, you can keep accounts, cannot you?" said Sir
Arthur to Mr. Price, as they walked towards the cottage. "I think I
saw a bill of your little daughter's drawing out the other day, which
was very neatly written. Did you teach her to write?"
"No, sir," said Price, "I can't say I did that, for she mostly taught
it to herself; but I taught her a few sums, as far as I knew, on
winter nights when I had nothing else to do."
"Your daughter shows that she has been well taught," said Sir Arthur;
"and her good conduct is a credit to you and her mother."
"You are very good, very good indeed, sir, to speak in this way," said
the delighted father.
"But I mean to do more than pay you with words," said Sir Arthur. "You
are attached to your own family, perhaps you may become attached to
me, when you know me, and we shall have many chances of judging one
another. I want no one to do my hard work. I only want a steady,
honest man, like you, to collect my rents, and I hope, Mr. Price, you
will do that for me."
"I hope, sir," said Price, with joy and gratitude glowing in his
honest face, "that I'll never give you cause to regret your goodness
to me."
"And what are my sisters about here?" said Sir Arthur, entering the
cottage and going behind the two ladies, who were busy measuring a
pretty colored calico.
"It is for Susan, my dear brother. I knew she did not keep that guinea
for herself," said Miss Somers. "I have just asked her mother to tell
me what became of it. Susan gave it to her father; but she must not
refuse a gown of our choosing this time; and I am sure she will not,
because her mother, I see, likes it. And, Susan, I hear that instead
of becoming Queen of the May this year, you were sitting in your
mother's room as she was ill. Your mother has a little color in her
cheeks now."
"Oh, ma'am," said Mrs. Price, "I'm a different being. Joy, I think,
has done it."
"Then," said Miss Somers, "I hope you will be able to come out on your
daughter's birthday, which, I hear, is on the twenty-fifth of this
month. Make haste and get quite well before that day, for my brother
means that all the boys and girls of the village shall have a dance on
Susan's birthday."
"Yes," said Sir Arthur, "and I hope on that day, Susan, you will be
very happy with your little friends upon their play-green. I shall
tell them that it is your good conduct which has won it for them; and
if you have anything to ask, any little favor for any of your friends,
which we can grant, ask now, Susan."
"Sir," said Susan, after glancing at her mother, "there is, to be
sure, a favor I should like to ask; it is for Rose."
"Well, I don't know who Rose is," said Sir Arthur, smiling; "but go
on."
"Ma'am, you have seen her, I believe; she is a very good girl indeed,"
said Mrs. Price to Miss Somers.
"And works very neatly, ma'am," continued Susan eagerly, "and she and
her mother heard you were looking out for some one to wait upon you."
"Say no more," said Miss Somers; "your wish is granted. Tell Rose to
come to the Abbey to-morrow morning, or rather come with her yourself,
for our housekeeper, I know, wants to talk to you about a certain
cake. She wishes, Susan, that you should be the maker of the cake for
the dance, and she has good things looked out for it already, I know.
It must be large enough for everybody to have a slice, and the
housekeeper will ice it for you. I only hope your cake will be as good
as your bread. Good-by."
"How I do wish, now," said Farmer Price, "how I do wish, wife, that
our good friend the harper was only here at this time. It would do his
warm old heart good. Well, the best of it is, we shall be able next
year, when he comes his rounds, to pay him his money with thanks,
being all the time and for ever as much obliged to him as if we kept
it. I long to see him in this house again, drinking, as he did, a
glass of Susan's mead, just on this spot."
"Yes," said Susan, "and the next time he comes, I can give him one of
my guinea-hen's eggs, and I shall show him Daisy."
"True, love," said her mother, "and he will play that tune and sing
that pretty ballad. Where is it? I have not finished it."
"Rose ran away with it, mother, but I'll run after her, and bring it
back to you this minute," said Susan.
Susan found her friend Rose at the hawthorn, in the midst of a crowd
of children, to whom she was reading "Susan's Lamentation for her
Lamb."
"The words are something, but the tune--the tune--I must have the
tune," cried Philip. "I'll ask my mother to ask Sir Arthur to try and
find out which way that good old man went after the ball; and if he's
to be found, we'll have him back by Susan's birthday, and he shall sit
here--just exactly here--by our bush, and he shall play--I mean, if he
will--that same tune for us, and I shall learn it--I mean, if I
can--in a minute."
The good news that Farmer Price was to collect the rents and that
Attorney Case was to leave the parish in a month soon spread over the
village. Many came out of their houses to have the pleasure of hearing
the joyful tidings from Susan herself. The crowd on the play-green
grew bigger every minute.
"Yes," cried Philip, "I tell you it's quite true, every word of it.
Susan's too modest to say it herself, but I tell you all, that Sir
Arthur has given us this play-green just because she is so good."
LIMBY LUMPY
I
LIMBY LUMPY was the only son of his mother. His father was called the
"Pavior's Assistant," for he was so large and heavy that, when he used
to walk through the streets, the men who were ramming the stones down
with a large wooden rammer would say, "Please to walk over these
stones, sir," and then the men would get a rest.
Limby was born on April 1--I do not know how long ago; but before he
came into the world such preparations were made! There was a beautiful
cradle, and a bunch of coral with bells on it, and lots of little
caps, and a fine satin hat, and tops and bottoms for pap, and two
nurses to take care of him. He was, too, to have a little chaise, when
he grew big enough; after that, he was to have a donkey, and then a
pony. In short, he was to have the moon for a plaything, if it could
be got; and, as to the stars, he would have had them, if they had not
been too high to reach.
Limby made a rare to-do when he was a little baby. But he never was a
_little_ baby--he was always a big baby; nay, he was a big baby till
the day of his death.
"Baby Big," his mother used to call him; he was "a noble baby," said
his aunt; he was "a sweet baby," said old Mrs. Tomkins, the nurse; he
was "a dear baby," said his papa--and so he was, for he _cost_ a good
deal. He was "a darling baby," said his aunt, by the mother's side;
"there never was such a fine child," said everybody, before the
parents; when they were at another place they called him, "a great,
ugly fat child."
Limby was almost as broad as he was long. He had what some people
called an open countenance--that is, one as broad as a full moon. He
had what his mother called beautiful auburn locks, but what other
people said were carroty--not before the mother, of course.
Limby had a flattish nose and a widish mouth, and his eyes were a
little out of the right line. Poor little dear, he could not help that
and therefore it was not right to laugh at him.
Everybody, however, laughed to see him eat his pap, for he would not
be fed with the patent silver pap-spoon which his father bought him,
but used to lay himself flat on his back, and seize the pap-boat with
both hands, and never let go of it till its contents were fairly in
his dear little stomach.
So Limby grew bigger and bigger every day, till at last he could
scarcely draw his breath, and was very ill; so his mother sent for
three apothecaries and two physicians, who looked at him, and told his
mother there were no hopes: the poor child was dying of overfeeding.
The physicians, however, prescribed for him--a dose of castor-oil.
His mother attempted to give him the castor-oil, but Limby, although
he liked tops and bottoms, and cordial, and pap, and sweetbread, and
oysters, and other things nicely dished up, had no fancy for
castor-oil, and struggled and kicked and fought every time his nurse
or mother attempted to give it him.
"Limby, my darling boy," said his mother, "my sweet cherub, my only
dearest, do take its oily-poily, there's a ducky-deary, and it shall
ride in a coachy-poachy."
"Oh, the dear baby!" said the nurse; "take it for nursey. It will take
it for nursey, that it will."
The nurse had got the oil in a silver medicine-spoon, so contrived
that, if you could get it into the child's mouth, the medicine must go
down. Limby, however, took care that no spoon should go into his
mouth, and when the nurse tried the experiment for the nineteenth
time, gave a plunge and a kick, and sent the spoon up to the ceiling,
knocked off the nurse's spectacles, upset the table on which all the
bottles and glasses were, and came down whack on the floor.
His mother picked him up, clasped him to her breast, and almost
smothered him with kisses.
"Oh, my dear boy!" said she; "it shan't take the nasty oil! it won't
take it, the darling! Naughty nurse to hurt baby! It shall not take
nasty physic!"
And then she kissed him again.
Poor Limby, although only two years old, knew what he was at--he was
trying to be the master of his mother. He felt he had gained his
point, and gave another kick and a squall, at the same time planting a
blow on his mother's eye.
"Dear little creature!" said she; "he is in a state of high
convulsions and fever. He will never recover!"
But Limby did recover, and in a few days was running about the house,
and the master of it. There was nobody to be considered, nobody to be
consulted, nobody to be attended to, but Limby Lumpy.
II
Limby grew up big and strong; he had everything his own way. One day,
when he was at dinner with his father and mother, perched upon a
double chair, with his silver knife and fork, and silver mug to drink
from, he amused himself by playing drums on his plate with the mug.
"Don't make that noise, Limby, my dear," said his father.
"Dear little lamb!" said his mother; "let him amuse himself. Limby,
have some pudding?"
"No, Limby no pudding!"
_Drum! drum! drum!_
A piece of pudding was, however, put on Limby's plate, but he kept on
drumming as before. At last he drummed the bottom of the mug into the
soft pudding, to which it stuck, and by which means it was scattered
all over the carpet.
"Limby, my darling!" said his mother; and the servant was called to
wipe Limby's mug and pick the pudding up from the floor.
Limby would not have his mug wiped, and floundered about, and upset
the cruet-stand and the mustard on the table-cloth.
"Oh, Limby Lumpy--naughty boy!" said his father.
"Don't speak so cross to the child: he is but a child," said his
mother. "I don't like to hear you speak so cross to the child."
"I tell you what it is," said his father, "I think the boy does as he
likes. But I don't want to interfere."
Limby now sat still, resolving what to do next. He was not hungry,
having been stuffed with a large piece of pound-cake about an hour
before dinner; but he wanted something to do, and could not sit still.
Presently a saddle of mutton was brought on the table. When Limby saw
this he set up a crow of delight.
"Limby ride," said he--"Limby ride!" and rose up in his chair, as if
to reach the dish.
"Yes, my ducky, it shall have some mutton," said his mother, and
immediately gave him a slice, cut up into small morsels.
That was not it. Limby pushed that on the floor, and cried out: "Limby
on meat! Limby on meat!"
His mother could not think what he meant. At last, however, his father
recollected that he had been in the habit of giving him a ride
occasionally, first on his foot, sometimes on the scroll end of the
sofa, at other times on the top of the easy chair. Once he put him on
a dog, and more than once on the saddle; in short, he had been in the
habit of perching him on various things, and now Limby, hearing this
was a _saddle_ of mutton, wanted to take a ride on it.
"Limby on! Limby ride on bone!" said the child in a whimper.
"Did you _ever hear_?" said the father.
"What an extraordinary child!" said the mother. "How clever to know it
was like a saddle, the little dear! No, no, Limby; grease frock,
Limby."
But Limby cared nothing about a greasy frock, not he--he was used
enough to that--and therefore roared out more lustily for a ride on
the mutton.
"Did you ever know such a child? What a dear, determined spirit!"
"He is a child of an uncommon mind," said his mother. "Limby,
dear--Limby, dear, silence! silence!"
The truth was, Limby made such a roaring that neither father nor
mother could get their dinners, and scarcely knew whether they were
eating beef or mutton.
"It is impossible to let him ride on the mutton," said his
father--"quite impossible!"
"Well, but you might just put him astride the dish, just to satisfy
him. You can take care his legs or clothes do not go into the gravy."
"Anything for a quiet life," said the father. "What does Limby want?
Limby ride?"
"Limby on bone! Limby on meat!"
"Shall I put him across?" said Mr. Lumpy.
"Just for one moment," said his mother; "it won't hurt the mutton."
The father rose, and took Limby from his chair, and, with the greatest
caution, held his son's legs astride, so that they might hang on each
side of the dish without touching it--"just to satisfy him," as he
said, "that they might dine in quiet--" and was about to withdraw him
from it immediately.
But Limby was not to be cheated in that way. He wished to feel the
saddle _under_ him, and accordingly forced himself down upon it; but
feeling it rather warmer than was agreeable, started, and lost his
balance, and fell down among the dishes, soused in melted butter,
cauliflower, and gravy, floundering, and kicking, and screaming, to
the detriment of glasses, jugs, dishes, and everything else on the
table.
"My child! my child!" said his mother. "Oh, save my child!"
She snatched him up, and pressed his begreased garments close to the
bosom of her best silk gown.
Neither father nor mother wanted any more dinner after this. As to
Limby, he was as frisky afterwards as if nothing had happened, and
about half an hour from the time of this disaster _cried for his
dinner._
THE SORE TONGUE
By JANE TAYLOR
There was a little girl called Fanny, who had the misfortune one day
to bite her tongue as she was eating her breakfast. It hurt her so
much that she could scarcely help crying; and even when the first
smart was over, it continued so sore that whenever she spoke it pained
her considerably. Finding this to be the case, she said very pitifully
to her mother, "Mamma, you can't think how it hurts me when I speak!"
"Does it?" replied her mother; "then I'll tell you what I would advise
you to do. Resolve all this day to say nothing but what is either
necessary or useful; this will give your tongue a fine holiday, and
may answer more purposes than one."
Fanny, knowing that she had the character of being somewhat
loquacious, could not help laughing at this, and said, "Well, I will
try for once; so, mum! I am going to begin now, mamma."
_Mother_. Do so; and whenever you are beginning to speak, be sure you
ask yourself whether what you were going to say was likely to be of
any use, or whether it was necessary.
_Fanny_. Yes, yes, I will! but don't talk to me, mamma, for fear. So
saying, she screwed up her lips, and taking her work, sat for about
five minutes as still as a mouse. She then looked up, smiled and
nodded at her mother, as much as to say, "See how well I can hold my
tongue," still screwing her lips very tight for fear she should speak.
Soon, however, she began to feel a great inclination to say something;
and was glad to recollect that if she could but think of anything
either useful or necessary, she might speak. Whereupon she endeavored
to find something to say that would come "within the act." To aid her
invention, she looked all round the room.
_Fanny_. Mamma, don't you think the fire wants stirring? (This
question, she thought, savored of both qualifications.)
_Mother_. Not at present, my dear.
Then followed another long silence; for Fanny found it vastly more
difficult than she had any previous idea of, to think of anything
useful to talk about; and she knew her mamma would laugh at her if she
said what was obviously idle or silly, just now. She was beginning to
repent having made such an agreement, when her three elder sisters
entered the room. She now thought it quite reasonable, if not
absolutely necessary, to tell them of her misfortune; which she did at
considerable length, and with many needless digressions (the usual
custom with great talkers); upon which they all laughed, prophesying
that her resolution would not last half an hour, and rallying her for
telling such a long story with a sore tongue.
Soon after, some ladies called to pay their mother a morning visit.
This gave Fanny's tongue such a long rest that the moment they were
gone it seemed irresistibly to resume its wonted functions.
_Fanny_. What a while old Mrs. W. has had that brown satin pelisse!
Really, poor old lady, I am quite tired of seeing her in it!
_Mother_. How is your tongue, Fanny?
_Fanny_. Oh, better, mamma, thank you--almost well.
_Mother_. I am sorry for it: I was in hopes it would have been sore
enough at least to prevent your making impertinent remarks upon
anybody all this day.
_Fanny_. No, but really, mamma, is it not an old rubbishing thing?
_Mother_. I don't know, indeed. It is no business of mine; therefore I
took no notice of it.
A silence ensued after this; but conversation revived when Caroline,
who had stood for some time with her eyes fixed on their opposite
neighbor's window, suddenly exclaimed, "I do believe the Joneses are
going to have company again to-day! The servant has just been lighting
the fire in the drawing-room; and there is Miss Jones now gone up to
dress. I saw her draw down the blinds in her room this instant." "So
she is," said Lucy, looking up: "I never knew such people in my life!
they are always having company."
"I wonder whom they are expecting to-day," said Eliza;
"dinner-company, I suppose."