A LITTLE ORPHAN MERMAID.
By the clear moonlight I saw a very wee maiden, all in white, having
neither cloak nor shawl, nor any other soft appliance to protect or
comfort her, but lying with her little back upon the aftmost planking,
with one arm bent (as I said before), and the other drooping at her
side, as if the baby-hand had been at work to ease her crying; and then,
when tears were tired out, had dropped in sleep or numb despair.
My feelings were so moved by this, as I became quite sure at last that
here was a little mortal, that the tears came to mine own eyes too, she
looked so purely pitiful. "The Lord in heaven have mercy on the little
dear!" I cried, without another thought about it; and then I went and
sat close by, so that she lay between my feet.
However, she would not awake, in spite of my whistling gradually, and
singing a little song to her, and playing with her curls of hair;
therefore, as nothing can last for ever, and the tide was rising fast, I
was forced to give the little lady, not what you would call a kick so
much as a very gentle movement of the muscles of the foot.
She opened her eyes at this, and yawned, but was much inclined to shut
them again; till I (having to get home that night) could make no further
allowance for her, as having no home to go to; and upon this I got over
all misgivings about the dirtiness of my jacket, and did what I had
feared to do, by reason of great respect for her; that is to say, I put
both hands very carefully under her, and lifted her like a delicate
fish, and set her crosswise on my lap, and felt as if I understood her;
and she could not have weighed more than twenty pounds, according to my
heft of fish.
Having been touched with trouble lately, I was drawn out of all
experience now (for my nature is not over-soft) towards this little
thing, so cast, in a dream almost, upon me. I thought of her mother,
well drowned, no doubt, and the father who must have petted her, and of
the many times to come when none would care to comfort her. And though a
child is but a child, somehow I took to that child. Therefore I became
most anxious as to her state of body, and handled her little mites of
feet, and her fingers, and all her outworks; because I was not sure at
all that the manner of her yawning might be nothing more or less than a
going out of this world almost. For think, if you can see it so, how
everything was against her. To be adrift without any food, or any one to
tend her, many hours, or days perhaps, with a red-hot sun or cold stars
overhead, and the greedy sea beneath her!
However, there she was alive, and warm, and limp, to the best of my
judgment, sad though I was to confess to myself that I knew more of bass
than of babies. For it had always so pleased God that I happened to be
away at sea when He thought fit to send them; therefore my legs went
abroad with fear of dandling this one, that now was come, in a way to
disgrace a seaman; for if she should happen to get into irons, I never
could get her out again.
Upon that matter, at any rate, I need not have concerned myself, for the
child was so trim and well ballasted, also ribbed so stiff and sound,
that any tack I set her on she would stick to it, and start no rope; and
knowing that this was not altogether the manner of usual babies (who yaw
about, and no steerage-way), I felt encouraged, and capable almost of a
woman's business. Therefore I gave her a little tickle; and verily she
began to laugh, or perhaps I should say by rights to smile, in a gentle
and superior way--for she always was superior. And a funnier creature
never lived, neither one that could cry so distressfully.
"Wake up, wake up, my deary," said I, "and don't you be afraid of me. A
fine little girl I've got at home, about twice the size that you be, and
goes by the name of 'Bunny.'"
"Bunny!" she said; and I was surprised, not being up to her qualities,
that she could speak so clearly. Then it struck me that if she could
talk like that I might as well know more about her. So I began, very
craftily, with the thing all children are proud about, and are generally
sure to be up to.
"Pretty little soul," I said, "how old do you call yourself?"
At this she gathered up her forehead, not being used to the way I put
it, while she was trying to think it out.
"How old are you, deary?" said I, trying hard to suck up my lips and
chirp, as I had seen the nurses do.
"I'se two, I'se two," she answered, looking with some astonishment;
"didn't 'a know that? Hot's 'a name?"
This proof of her high standing and knowledge of the world took me for
the moment a good deal off my legs, until I remembered seeing it put as
a thing all must give in to, that the rising generation was beyond our
understanding. So I answered, very humbly, "Deary, my name is 'old
Davy.' Baby, kiss old Davy."
"I 'ill," she answered, briskly. "Old Davy, I likes 'a. I'll be a good
gal, I 'ill."
"A good girl! To be sure you will. Bless my heart, I never saw such a
girl." And I kissed her three or four times over, until she began to
smell my plug, and Bunny was nobody in my eyes. "But what's your own
name, deary, now you know old Davy's name?"
"I'se Bardie. Didn't 'a know that?"
"To be sure I did," for a little fib was needful from the way she looked
at me, and the biggest one ever told would have been a charity under the
circumstances.
"Pease, old Davy, I'se aye hungy," she went on ere I was right again,
"and I 'ants a dink o' yater."
"What a fool I am!" cried I. "Of course you do, you darling. What an
atomy you are to talk! Stop here a moment."
Setting her on the seat by herself (like a stupid, as I was, for she
might have tumbled overboard), I jumped out of the boat to fetch her
water from the spring-head, as well as the relics of my food from the
corner of the fish-basket. And truly vexed was I with myself for
devouring of my dinner so. But no sooner was I gone, than feeling so
left alone again after so much desertion, what did the little thing do
but spring like a perfect grasshopper, and, slipping under the
after-thwart, set off in the bravest toddle for the very bow of the
boat, in fear of losing sight of me? Unluckily, the boat just happened
to lift upon a bit of a wave, and, not having won her sea-legs yet in
spite of that long cruise, down came poor Bardie with a thump, which
hurt me more than her, I think.
Knowing what Bunny would have done, I expected a fearful roar, and back
I ran to lift her up. But even before I could interfere, she was up
again and all alive, with both her arms stretched out to show, and her
face set hard to defy herself.
"I 'ont ky, I 'ont, I tell 'a. 'Ee see if I does now, and ma say hot a
good gal I is."
"Where did you knock yourself, little wonder? Let old Davy make it well.
Show old Davy the poor sore place."
"Nare it is. Gardy là! nare poor Bardie knock herself."
And she held up her short white smock, and showed me the bend of her
delicate round knee as simply and kindly as could be.
"I 'ont ky; no, I 'ont," she went on, with her pretty lips screwed up.
"Little brother ky, 'e know; but Bardie a gate big gal, savvy voo?
Bardie too big enough to ky."
However, all this greatness vanished when a drop of blood came oozing
from the long black bruise, and still more when I tried to express my
deep compassion. The sense of bad-luck was too strong for the courage of
even two years' growth, and little Bardie proved herself of just the
right age for crying. I had observed how clear and bright and musical
her voice was for such a tiny creature; and now the sound of her great
woe, and scene of her poor helpless plight, was enough to move the rocks
into a sense of pity for her.
However, while she had her cry out (as the tide would never wait), I
took the liberty of stowing all my fish and fishing-tackle on board of
that handy little boat, which I began to admire and long for more and
more every time I jumped from the rock into her foresheets. And finding
how tight and crank she was, and full of spring at every step and with a
pair of good ash sculls, and, most of all, discovering the snuggest of
snug lockers, my conscience (always a foremost feature) showed me in the
strongest light that it would be a deeply ungracious, ungrateful, and
even sinful thing, if I failed to thank an ever wise and overruling
Providence for sending me this useful gift in so express a manner.
And taking this pious and humble view of the night's occurrence, I soon
perceived a special fitness in the time of its ordering. For it happened
to be the very night when Evan Thomas was out of the way, as I had been
told at Nottage, and the steward of the manor safe to be as drunk as a
fiddler at Bridgend; and it was not more than a few months since that
envious Scotchman, Sandy Macraw (a scurvy limb of the coastguards, who
lived by poaching on my born rights), had set himself up with a boat,
forsooth, on purpose to rogue me and rob me the better. No doubt he had
stolen it somewhere, for he first appeared at night with it; and now
here was a boat, in all honesty mine, which would travel two feet for
each one of his tub!
By the time I had finished these grateful reflections, and resolved to
contribute any unsold crabs to the Dissenting minister's salary (in
recognition of the hand of Providence, and what he had taught me
concerning it no longer ago than last Sabbath-day, when he said that the
Lord would make up to me for the loss of my poor wife, though never
dreaming, I must confess, of anything half so good as a boat), and by
the time that I had moored this special mercy snugly, and hidden the
oars, so that no vile wrecker could make off with her feloniously, that
dear little child was grown quiet again, being unable to cry any more,
and now beginning to watch my doings as much as I could wish, or more.
She never seemed tired of watching me, having slept out all her sleep
for the moment; and as I piled up fish on fish, and they came sliding,
slippery, she came shyly, eyeing them with a desire to see each one,
pushing her mites of fingers out, and then drawing back in a hurry as
their bellies shone in the moonlight. Some of the congers could wriggle
still, and they made her scream when they did it; but the lobsters were
her chief delight, being all alive and kicking. She came and touched
them reverently, and ready to run if they took it amiss; and then she
stroked their whiskers, crying, "Pitty, pitty! jolly, jolly!" till one
great fellow, who knew no better, would have nipped her wrist asunder if
I had not ricked his claw.
"Now, deary," said I, as I drew her away, "you have brought poor old
Davy a beautiful boat, and the least that he can do for you is to get
you a good supper." For since her tumble the little soul had seemed
neither hungry nor thirsty.
"Pease, old Davy," she answered, "I 'ants to go to mama and papa, and
ickle bother and Susan."
"The devil you do!" thought I, in a whistle, not seeing my way to a fib
as yet.
"Does 'ee know mama and papa, and ickle bother, old Davy?"
"To be sure I do, my deary--better than I know you, almost."
"'Et me go to them, 'et me go to them. Hot ma say about my poor leggy
peggy?"
This was more than I could tell; believing her mother to be, no doubt,
some thirty fathoms under water, and her father and little brother in
about the same predicament.
"Come along, my little dear, and I'll take you to your mother." This was
what I said, not being ready, as yet, with a corker.
"I'se yeady, old Davy," she answered; "I'se kite yeady. 'Hen 'll 'e be
yeady? Peshy voo."
"Ready and steady: word of command! march!" said I, looking up at the
moon, to try to help me out of it. But the only thing that I could find
to help me in this trouble was to push about and stir, and keep her
looking at me. She was never tired of looking at things with life or
motion in them; and this I found the special business of her nature
afterwards.
Now, being sure of my boat, I began to think what to do with Bardie. And
many foolish ideas came, but I saw no way to a wise one, or at least I
thought so then, and unhappily looked to prudence more than to gracious
Providence, for which I have often grieved bitterly, ever since it
turned out who Bardie was.
For the present, however (though strongly smitten with her manners,
appearance, and state of shipwreck, as well as impressed with a general
sense of her being meant for good-luck to me), I could not see my way to
take her to my home and support her. Many and many times over I said to
myself, in my doubt and uneasiness, and perhaps more times than need
have been if my conscience had joined me, that it was no good to be a
fool, to give way (as a woman might do) to the sudden affair of the
moment, and a hot-hearted mode of regarding it. And the harder I worked
at the stowing of fish, the clearer my duty appeared to me.
So by the time that all was ready for starting with this boat of mine,
the sea being all the while as pretty as a pond by candle-light, it was
settled in my mind what to do with Bardie. She must go to the old
Sker-house. And having taken a special liking (through the goodness of
my nature and the late distress upon me) to this little helpless thing,
most sincerely I prayed to God that all might be ordered for the best;
as indeed it always is, if we leave it to Him.
Nevertheless I ought never to have left it to Him, as every one now
acknowledges. But how could I tell?
By this time she began to be overcome with circumstances, as might
happen naturally to a child but two years old, after long exposure
without any food or management. Scared, and strange, and tired out, she
fell down anyhow in the boat, and lay like a log, and frightened me.
Many men would have cared no more, but, taking the baby for dead, have
dropped her into the grave of the waters. I, however, have always been
of a very different stamp from these; and all the wars, and discipline,
and doctrine I have encountered, never could imbue me with the cruelty
of my betters. Therefore I was shocked at thinking that the little dear
was dead.