the heart to tell them myself. You'll know best how to do it. Their
gardens are all destroyed, root and branch; not a thing left. Their
pet plants, the heliotrope and geranium that they set so much store
by, are rooted up and torn to bits, not a piece left as big as my
hand. And it was not the storm either that did it, but just those
wicked children, Lem and Dolly, or one of them. I don't think it could
have been the boy, for I don't see how he could have found his way
down here again last night after John saw him home; but, alone or
together, the girl has had a hand in it for sure. John picked up a
dirty old sunbonnet she used to wear, lying right in Bessie's garden,
and he says she was not at home when he went up with Lem last night.
She's done it out of revenge for his being shut up, and I wish Buffer
had caught her at it, so I do. My patience is quite at an end, and
I'll have them routed out of that place, and sent off somewhere, as
sure as my name is Thomas Porter."
Mr. Bradford was very much troubled, for he knew how greatly the
children would be distressed; and, as the breakfast-bell rang just
then, he said he should not tell them till the meal was over, or no
breakfast would be eaten by Maggie or Bessie. He could scarcely eat
his own as he watched the bright faces of his two little daughters,
and thought what a different look they would wear when they heard the
bad news.
It was as he had feared: their grief was distressing to see, all
the more so when they found who had done this injury to them. Their
father had wished to keep this secret, but they begged so to go and
see the gardens, that he thought it best to take them and let them
know the worst at once; and they were so astonished when they saw the
utter desolation of their own beds, and the difference between them
and those which lay around, and asked so many questions, that he was
obliged to tell them.
The two brothers, with Hafed and Bob, were already on the spot, spades
and rakes in hand, to see what could be done; but, alas! there was
little or nothing.
It was indeed sad to see the ruin of what had, but yesterday, looked
so neat and pretty. The tiny fences were pulled up, and scattered
far and wide; lady-slippers, mignonette, verbenas, and all the other
simple flowers which had flourished so well, and given such pride and
delight to the little gardeners, were rooted up and trampled into the
earth; and, worse than all, the beloved heliotrope and geranium were
torn leaf from leaf and sprig from sprig, while their main stems had
been twisted and bent, till no hope remained that even these could be
revived.
The boys' gardens had suffered some, but not so much as those of the
little girls; whether it was that Dolly fancied Maggie and Bessie had
been the most to blame for Lem's imprisonment, and so chose first to
revenge herself on them; whether it was that their gardens lay nearer
to her hand and she had been interrupted in her wicked work before she
had quite destroyed the boys',--could not be known.
The grief of the children was pitiful to see. Bessie's could not find
words, but she clung about her father's neck, and sobbed so violently
that he feared she would be ill, and carried her back to the house to
see if mamma could not comfort her. Maggie's was not less violent,
but it was more outspoken, and she said and thought many angry things
of Lem and Dolly, as she gathered up the bruised leaves and stalks of
her own geranium and Bessie's heliotrope. The boys were quite ready to
join her in all, and more than all, that she said.
"What are you going to do with that, pet?" asked Uncle Ruthven, coming
down to see the ruin, and finding Maggie sitting on an upturned
flower-pot, her hot tears still falling on the remains of the two
favorite plants.
"Oh! Uncle Ruthven!" sobbed poor Maggie, "I could not bear to see them
lying there in the mud and dirt. It seems to me 'most as if they were
something live, and we were so fond of them. I don't think I can bear
it. And, oh! I am so sorry we asked Mr. Porter to let Lem out, just
so he could do this,--the bad, wicked boy!"
"I do not think it was Lem's doing, dear," said Mr. Stanton; and then
he told Maggie how John Porter had taken Lem home last night just
before the storm began, and that it was scarcely possible that the
boy could have made his way back in the darkness and worked all this
mischief.
"Well, it was Dolly, then," said Maggie; "and I can never, never
forgive her: no, never, Uncle Ruthven."
Uncle Ruthven would not argue with her, or try to persuade her to feel
less hardly towards Dolly now: he knew it was not the time; the wound
was too fresh, the little heart still too sore. Nor did he think it
worth while to try and make her forget the trouble yet, but talked to
her about it in an interested but soothing manner, till at last he led
her back to her mother in a more quiet, gentle mood than he had found
her.
Meanwhile the boys had all four set to work with a good will to
try what they could do to make the poor gardens look somewhat less
forlorn. It was too late in the season to think of planting new seeds
or roots; and the flowers which had been torn up were too entirely
destroyed ever to revive again.
Hafed would have taken up every flower from his own garden and
transplanted it to those of his "Missy's," if the other boys had not
made him understand that this would be useless, and most of them would
only droop and die.
The disordered beds were raked smoothly over; the little fence
carefully cleaned from the mud which covered it, and set up again;
and all the withered, bruised flowers and leaves carried away. Then
came John Porter and his brothers, bringing a dozen or so of flowering
shrubs in pots, which were neatly set out, taking from the gardens the
desolate look they had worn. Next, some bright lady-slippers, sweet
pinks and other late summer flowers were taken up with plenty of earth
about their roots so that they might not droop, and they too, were
put down in their new home.
When all was done, the little girls were called down to see the
improvement that had been made. They thanked the boys very heartily;
but, in spite of all the pains that had been taken, the gardens were
not the same they had been before, not the work of their own hands,
the gardens they had watched and tended for the last six or seven
weeks.
"Besides," said Maggie, with a mournful shake of her head, "our own
dear heliotrope and geranium are quite gone, so we need not hope for
any prize. It is too late now to try with any thing else, and we
couldn't expect Cousin Alexander to give us one when we have nothing
to show that we have taken care of ourselves."
"I don't know about that," said Fred, "Cousin Alexander came down here
this morning; and, although he did not mention the word prize, he said
he thought he ought to take into account all you had done, as well as
what you might have done, and asked us if we did not agree with him.
Of course we said yes; so we shall see what he will do."
But not all the petting and coaxing they received, or all the new
amusements provided for them, could make Maggie and Bessie forget
their ruined gardens, or recover their usual spirits that day. Indeed
it was rather a mournful day for the whole family. The melancholy
faces of the two little girls grieved their older friends; and,
besides, it was sad to know that children like Lem and Dolly should
take delight in such wicked, wanton mischief, and to know that there
seemed to be no way to do them good; since they only came near those
who were weaker and younger than themselves to do them harm, and ran
from those who were older and wiser, in fear of the punishment and
reproof their wickedness deserved. Neither by kindness nor severity
did it seem possible to reach these poor creatures.
Mr. Porter said that one of the dogs should be fastened in the garden
for a few nights, till he should see what might be done about having
Lem and Dolly removed to some place where they could give no more
annoyance to himself and his boarders.
"My darlings," said Mrs. Bradford that night, when she had gone
upstairs with the children, "what are you going to do now?"
"To say our prayers, mamma," answered Bessie, rather surprised at the
question.
"What prayers, Maggie?"
"Why, 'Now I lay me,' and 'Pray God bless,' and 'Our Father which art
in Heaven,'" said Maggie.
"And when we say 'Our Father,' what do we say about forgiveness?"
"'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against
us,'" said Bessie. "I know what you mean, mamma."
"And so do I," said Maggie; "but I _cannot_ do it, mamma, I cannot
forgive Lem and Dolly as I want to be forgiven myself, so I think I
had better leave out that part of 'Our Father,' to-night. I wouldn't
like to pray a story."
"Nor would I wish you to say what you did not feel, dearie, but I
should like you to pray that from your heart."
"But I could not, mamma," said Maggie. "Why, we have forgiven Lem and
Dolly so often, and it is not a bit of use."
"Do you remember what I was reading to you the other night?" said
mamma, "how Peter came to our Lord, and asked Him how often he should
forgive his enemy. What answer did Jesus make?"
"He said 'forgive him till seventy times seven,'" said Bessie.
"O mamma!" said Maggie. "I never could do that. I think I could be
like Peter, and forgive Lem and Dolly seven times; but every time I do
it, it grows harder and harder, and I never could do it by the time it
was seventy times seven. That is such a lot! Every bit of forgiveness
in me would be used up by that time."
"Our Lord only said 'seventy times seven,' to show that we must
forgive a great number of times, Maggie. He did not mean to measure
our forgiveness any more than He measures His own. He is ready to
pardon all who go to Him, as often and as freely as they need. But we
must ask Him from our hearts; and can we do so if those hearts are
full of unkindness and hard feeling towards those who have injured
us? I know how hard it is for you both, my darlings; I know by my own
feelings how hard it is to forgive Lem and Dolly; but I cannot hope
to be forgiven myself for what I have done wrong this day, unless I
forgive them the harm they have done to me."
"They did not harm you, mamma, did they?" asked Maggie.
"Yes: they hurt my two little blossoms, Maggie and Bessie, and so
grieved me very much. But I can hope my flowers will soon get the
better of the harm they have received; not only of their sorrow, but
also of their anger and hard feeling towards those poor, unhappy
children. Suppose you had at this moment a chance to do a kind thing,
or speak a kind word to Lem and Dolly,--would either of you do it?"
"Mamma," said Bessie, "I think I would. It would be very hard, and I'm
afraid I wouldn't quite like to do it; but I would try to think how
often Jesus forgave me, and I would say, 'forgive me my trespasses' as
I forgive Lem and Dolly, and maybe that would make it easier."
"It will indeed, my darling; and what does my Maggie say?"
"I'll try too, mamma--but--but--I can't help thinking I'd be pretty
glad if the chance never came."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
X.
_THE BANANAS._
"MADDIE," said Frankie, running up to his sister the next morning with
a pair of worsted reins in his hands, "will oo fis my weins?"
"Pretty soon, Frankie: I'm busy now," answered Maggie.
"Oo're not: oo're doin' nossin' but sittin'," said the little boy. "Do
it now."
"Yes; I am in a meditation, and you must not interrupt me," said
Maggie, with a solemn, important face.
Frankie walked round and round her on every side, looking curiously at
her, and peering down at her; then said,--
"I don't see it, Maddie."
"Don't see what?" asked Maggie.
"Dat sing oo are in," replied Frankie.
"He means that meditation you said you were in," said Bessie.
At this Maggie laughed merrily, and all her meditations were put to
flight.
"O foolish child!" she said. "I s'pose he thought a meditation meant a
kind of a thing you could see."
"Maggie," said Bessie gravely, "if you laugh at Frankie, you'll have
to laugh at me too, 'cause I don't know what a meditation means
either."
"It means," said Maggie, arranging Frankie's reins for him, "to be
thinking about whether a thing is right or wrong, and to be trying to
make up your resolution to do something that you know you ought to do,
but that you don't want to do."
"Oh!" said Bessie in a very satisfied tone; "then I know what you was
having a meditation about. And how did you make up your resolution,
Maggie?"
"Oh! just to forgive Lem and Dolly without any more fuss about it,"
said Maggie. "But for all that, Bessie, I would like never to hear or
see or think or know or dream any thing more about those two children."
"Who would like to go and play in the woods?" asked Harry, coming out
to them. "Mamma says we may all go if we choose."
"I will."
"And I."
"I too," came from his two sisters and Frankie.
"Who is going to take care of us?" asked Bessie.
"Jane and Starr," said Harry. "Fred and I could do it well enough; but
mamma is afraid of those two ragamuffins, and the Colonel said they
would not dare to trouble us if Starr was with us, and he could very
well spare him."
"Hurrah!" cried Fred, rushing out of the house. "Papa, Uncle Ruthven,
Aunt Bessie, and Aunt Annie are going with us, and we are going to
have a grand corn-roasting up in the woods; hurrah! hurrah!" and Fred
tossed his cap in the air, and turned two or three somersets on the
grass, which Frankie immediately tried to imitate, but only succeeded
in tumbling over on his side. He was quite contented with his own
performance, however, and said, with a self-satisfied shake of his
head, "I somersat mysef fee times."
The party were soon ready, and started off, grandmamma and mamma,
Colonel and Mrs. Rush promising to follow by and by when the fire
should be made, and the roasted corn nearly ready for eating.
Butter and salt were packed in a tin pail by Mrs. Porter and carried
by Hafed, while Starr brought a basket with plates and knives. The
corn was to be plucked from a cornfield which they would pass on their
way. The spot chosen was at some distance from the house, up in the
woods, where a pure, bright spring bubbled up from the rocks, and
then went rippling and singing away in one of those hundred mountain
streams. Here was a little cleared space among the trees, and a broad
flat stone on which the fire was to be built; while two or three
great trunks and stumps formed excellent seats,--excellent, that is
to say, for those people who had both their limbs left to them,--but
the Colonel did not find them quite so comfortable; so Starr slung a
camp chair over his arm to have it ready for his master's use when he
should come.
When they came to the cornfield, to reach which they had to take
rather a roundabout path, each child loaded itself with as many ears
of corn as it could carry. Papa and Uncle Ruthven each took an armful
too; so, when they were all laid together, there was quite a pile.
"We will want a pretty large fire to roast all that corn," said
Bessie; "we'll have to pick up a great many sticks."
Picking up sticks for the fire was not thought hard work, however, but
famous fun; and the little ones began to gather them up with a good
will. This was by no means the first fire they had built on this very
convenient stone: it had seen many a potato-roast and candy-boiling,
though this was the first corn-roasting they had had.
But here quite a misfortune happened to Bessie. As she was coming
towards the fireplace, with her hands full of dry branches, she
tripped and fell her full length directly in the ashes of the old
fires. Her father and other friends could not be thankful enough that
the match had not yet been put to the sticks which lay ready for
lighting; for if the fire had been burning, she must have fallen into
the flames and been badly burned.
But her arms and knees were somewhat bruised on the hard rock, and her
white dress and apron sadly soiled and black from the ashes.
Now Bessie was a very neat child,--particular about her dress,--and
could not bear to have any thing near her that was not quite clean.
The little knees and arms could be washed in the stream, and dried on
the towel which had been brought; but there was no way of cleansing
the blackened clothes, and Bessie was distressed at the thought of
passing the whole morning in such a condition.
"Come then, Miss Bessie," said Starr, "I'll just take you over home,
where you may have clean clothes put on, and bring you back before the
others know you have gone."
Bessie thanked him, and said she would be very glad; and taking her up
in his arms, so that they might get over the ground in short time, the
good-natured soldier strode away with her.
Mamma was a good deal surprised, and a little startled, to see her
Bessie coming back so soon in Starr's arms; but it was presently
explained, and the little girl made quite neat and clean again. She
was about leaving the house once more with Starr, when she heard
Colonel Rush calling her, and ran back to his room.
"Bessie," said the Colonel, "here are half a dozen bananas,--one
a-piece for each of you children,--yourself and Maggie, your three
brothers and Hafed. Would you not enjoy them up in the woods?"
"Yes," said Bessie; "but we will save them till you all come, so all
our big people can have some too."
"Oh, no! keep them for yourselves," said the Colonel; "your big people
all had enough last night, and I kept these out for you, knowing how
fond you and Maggie were of them."
Bessie thanked and kissed him, and ran off, giving her prize to Starr
to carry for her.
"There's a way by which I can take you back quicker, if you didn't
mind being lifted up a steep place in the rocks. It's quite safe:
would you like it, Miss Bessie?" said Starr.
Bessie said she would rather go by the shortest way; and Starr struck
into a path, if path it could be called, which was quite new to her.
But he carried her safely over the rugged way, while she chatted
merrily to him.
"Starr," she said, "I'm going to give you a piece of my banana,
'cause you're so very kind and good to me."
"Thank you kindly, miss," said the man; "but I never eat them, not if
a shipful was before me."
"Don't you like them?" asked the little girl.
"No, miss."
"Oh! I like them better than any thing,--I mean better than any
thing else to eat," said Bessie; "and I was very much pleased when
the Colonel gave me these, 'cause I didn't have one since I came to
Chalecoo."
"Then I am glad, too, miss," said Starr, who in the city had often
been sent by his master to buy bananas to indulge this favorite fancy
of Bessie's. "Now, Miss Bessie, I am just going to put you on top of
this great stone, and climb up myself afterwards, and then we'll be
but a few rods from where the ladies and gentlemen are."
Just before them was a mass of rock, four or five feet high, which
seemed to bar the way; but lifting Bessie as high as he could, Starr
set her safely upon the top, then handing her the bananas began to
clamber up himself.
At that moment a slight rustle made Bessie turn her head, and she
found herself face to face with Dolly Owen. Before she had time to
utter her astonishment and alarm, Starr stood beside her, and he was
the first to speak.
"So, you're there, are you?" he said, sternly. "What wickedness are
you up to now, I'd like to know?"
Dolly made no answer, but sat with her eyes fixed upon Bessie, or
rather upon the tempting bunch of bananas she held in her small hands.
The girl was half lying, half sitting upon the ground, her head and
shoulders resting against the trunk of a large tree, her face drawn as
if she were in great pain. It seemed as if she must have crept into
this nook as a hiding-place, for on all sides, save the one by which
Starr and Bessie had come, was a thick growth of underbrush, with only
a narrow outlet where the bushes had been partly broken down. From
beyond this came the sound of gay voices and merry laughter, showing,
as Starr had said, that the rest of the party were not far distant.
Very lonely and dreary the wretched child looked, lying there with
those happy sounds ringing in her ears, telling that others were so
much better off, so much happier than she was.
"What's them?" she asked, looking greedily at the bananas.
"Now are you not ashamed to be speaking to the little lady after what
you've done?" said Starr. "Those are not for such as you, and you
needn't be asking what they are. And look you here, young one, you
let me catch you a step nearer the gentlefolks, and I'll let you hear
something you won't like. _My_ patience is about come to an end."
Still Dolly took no notice of him. Instead of running away, or
cowering in fear of punishment, as she generally did when any grown
person came near her, she remained crouched, without moving, upon the
ground.
"Gi' me one," she said to Bessie.
"Did I ever hear such impudence!" exclaimed Starr, roused out of his
usual stiffness; "well, you are the most graceless creature I ever did
see. Come on, Miss Bessie, if you please."
But Bessie gently put aside Starr's hand, as he would have led her
away.
"Please wait a minute, Starr."
"I say, gi' me one," said Dolly again; "I aint eat nothin' to-day nor
yesterday, and Lem's gone away."
It was, indeed, a bold thing for Dolly to ask any thing of one whom
she had injured so much; but she was ravenous with hunger, and having
no shame, she had no thought save how she might satisfy it.
Bessie stood looking from her to the bananas. Should she give Dolly
her own or not? She wanted it very much herself; but she had asked her
Father in heaven to let her find some way to be kind to Lem and Dolly,
and now was He not answering her prayer? It had been very pleasant to
think of sharing the delicious fruit with her own dear friends whom
she loved so much, or even of giving a piece to Starr, who was always
so kind and good to her; but to give it all to this bad girl who had
done so much cruel mischief to her and hers, was another thing.
Perhaps strong, healthy children, who can enjoy whatever is set before
them, can have little idea what a piece of self-denial this was to
Bessie. She was a delicate child, with a slight appetite which needed
some coaxing, and, as she had said to Starr, if there was any one
thing which she liked particularly, it was a fine banana.
Yes, she wanted it very much; but there was poor Dolly who wanted it
very much too,--who said she had had nothing to eat all day yesterday,
who probably had never tasted such a fruit; for she had asked what
they were when she saw them,--who, even Bessie's innocent eyes could
see, looked very ill. Was not here a chance to "render good for
evil;" to do the kind thing she had said she would do if she could
but find the way?
She had a moment's struggle with herself; then, breaking one of the
bananas from the stem, she went a little nearer to Dolly and held it
out at arm's length, for she feared the mischievous girl too much to
go very close to her.
Dolly raised herself slowly and clutched at the banana, but sank back
again with a cry of pain.
"Have you hurt yourself, Dolly?" asked Bessie, gently.
Dolly made no answer, but stretched out her hand again for the fruit.
Bessie went a little nearer, and timidly placed it in her hand.
"That's not the way," she said, as the girl greedily bit into the
close, tough skin. "You must peel it. I will show you."
Dolly held fast to the banana for a moment, as if she feared Bessie
was about to take it back; then, with a wondering look into the sweet,
pitiful little face, gave it up.
[Illustration: Bessie among the Mountains. p. 196.]
"Now, don't you be waiting on her, Miss Bessie," said Starr; "you've
done more than enough already, to give her your banana. Will you come,
miss, and just leave that girl to herself?"
"I think I'd better fix it for her, Starr. She don't know how, and
I think there's something the matter with her," said Bessie: and,
stripping the peel from the fruit, she placed it once more in Dolly's
hand.
"Does something hurt you?" she asked, as the girl moaned again when
she moved.
"Yes, I hurts all over," answered Dolly.
"Did you fall down?"
"No, I didn't," mumbled Dolly, with her mouth full.
"Then how did you hurt yourself so much?"
"Dunno," said Dolly, sullenly. But she did know; she knew right well
that those terrible racking pains came from that night spent in the
Ice Glen. She had a feeling as if Bessie must know it too. "Now just
you and that man clear out. I came here first," she muttered.
"Don't fret yourself: your company's not so pleasant, nor your talk so
sweet, that the little lady need want more of it," said Starr. "Miss
Bessie, my dear, won't you come?"
"Yes," said Bessie, "in a moment," and then, turning again to the
girl,--"Dolly, I am very sorry for you."
"Humph," said Dolly, in a tone as if she could not believe this.
"Don't you think I am?" said Bessie.
"I knows better," was the answer she received.