A PROJECT.
WHEN Uncle Fred returned to his brother’s house, he went in search of
his nephews, with the intention of speaking his mind to them pretty
freely on the unmanliness of their treatment of little Bertie. But when
he opened the schoolroom door, he was assailed by such a chorus of eager
voices, that it was some time before he could “get a word in edgeways,”
as the saying is.
“Oh, Uncle Fred, how is Bertie now?”
“Oh, Uncle Fred, we’re so awfully sorry!”
“We really did not mean anything.”
“We never guessed he’d care like that.”
“We only meant it in fun, we never thought he’d think we should!”
“Please, Uncle Fred, don’t be cross with them:” this from Phil, who had
taken no active share in the matter. “They didn’t really know how
frightened he is. I think I ought to be punished most, because I only
laughed instead of taking Bertie’s part, and I knew much better than
they did about him.”
Uncle Fred looked into Phil’s bright, frank face with an approving
glance. He liked the boy all the better for his honest confession of a
fault.
“That is right, my boy. Never try to shirk blame when you feel you have
deserved it. Why did you not take Bertie’s part, then, when you
understood so well how frightened it made him to be on the water?”
Phil hung his head for a moment, but he looked up bravely again the
next, and in spite of the gravity of his face there was a merry sparkle
in his bright blue eyes.
“It was not at all nice of me, Uncle Fred, but I _couldn’t_ help
enjoying it. Bertie did cut away so fast, and kicked and struggled so
hard, and seemed in such a passion—I suppose it was fright really, but
it looked like a jolly big rage, and he made me laugh, and when I once
begin to laugh, it’s all over with me;” Phil glanced up roguishly at his
uncle, and then dropped his eyes and added, with genuine penitence, “But
I was awfully sorry when I saw that Bertie was really hurt. It hasn’t
done him any harm, has it?”
“I hope not; but it is very bad for any one to have a scare like that;
and Bertie is not strong, and you big boys ought to be more manly than
to combine against one smaller and weaker than yourselves. You would not
like to be called cowards, but if you heard the story told in a book, I
think you would call it a very cowardly trick to set upon a little
fellow like Bertie and treat him as you did.”
The boys flushed deeply, but did not try to defend themselves. They felt
a little guilty and conscience-stricken, for one thing, and then Uncle
Fred was an immense favorite, and they knew that he never spoke to them
like this without good cause.
But Queenie was indignant at having her brothers condemned, and she
tossed her head in her favorite fashion as she exclaimed,—
“_I_ think it’s Bertie who is the coward, Uncle Fred, not my boys.”
He turned and looked at the little girl with a smile in his kind eyes.
“Is it always cowardly to be afraid, do you think, Queenie?”
“Of course it is, Uncle Fred!” she answered, quickly; and after a
moment’s pause she added, proudly, “_I’m_ not afraid of anything!”
“No?” he answered, questioningly; and then he looked grave as he said,
glancing round at all the faces of his little relatives, “Perhaps you
would all be braver and happier if you were afraid of more things.”
Queenie looked surprised and defiant. Uncle Fred often puzzled her by
some of the things he said, and she thought that this was great
nonsense. She wondered why the boys said nothing and looked half
ashamed; but she was not readily silenced, and answered, quickly,—
“It _can’t_ be brave to be afraid, Uncle Fred. You’re only trying to
puzzle us. Everybody knows that it’s only cowards who are afraid.”
“Excuse me, Queenie, but you’re quite wrong there,” answered Uncle Fred,
quietly. “All the bravest men I have known have been afraid—very much
afraid, some of them—of some things.”
“What sort of things?” asked Queenie, with a little gesture of scorn.
“Rats, and mice, and snakes, and all that sort of thing?”
Uncle Fred’s face looked rather grave, yet very kind, and he took
Queenie’s hands in his and gazed down very steadily into the little
girl’s blue eyes, that glowed and flashed rather excitedly.
“No, my little maiden,” he answered, speaking in a tone that the
children often heard him use, and that never failed to impress them more
than they could quite understand. “No, Queenie, they were not afraid of
things of that kind, these brave men whom it has been my privilege to
know; they have been afraid of doing wrong, afraid of falling into
careless, idle, disobedient ways, afraid of not proving themselves true
and fearless servants of the King they had bound themselves to serve,
afraid that by some act of their own, committed perhaps thoughtlessly
and without intent of wrong, they might injure the great cause they had
vowed to protect and to forward all their lives through.”
The boys looked down, conscience-stricken and abashed, but Queenie
either did not or would not understand her uncle’s meaning.
“What king?” she asked, impatiently. “We haven’t got a king, we have a
queen; and if you’re talking about foreigners, of course we all know
they’re all cowards!” And Queenie waved her hand, as if dismissing all
such poltroons from the question in hand, with a fine insular prejudice
that would have made Uncle Fred laugh at any other time; but just now
his face was very grave and earnest.
“The King these brave men served, Queenie, is the great King I trust we
are all bound to obey—every one of us, whether we be men or women, or
little children only just starting in life with the little battles of
childhood to fight. There, my boys, I know you understand me. I will not
preach to you to-day; I will only say how pleased I shall be to see you
all more afraid of breaking the wise laws that our King has laid down
for His soldiers.”
Queenie did not approve a line of argument which she felt put her at a
disadvantage. She was silent, more because she stood a little in awe of
Uncle Fred than because she was convinced by what he said. She was not
prepared to admit that fear was ever anything but cowardly, and was half
vexed when Phil looked up and said, lightly,—
“I know what you mean, Uncle Fred, only you know it’s awfully hard for a
fellow to think of all that, and to be afraid when he ought. It’s much
easier to be like Queenie,—like all of us, in fact,—and not to be afraid
of anything.”
Phil was always a favorite with everybody. He was so merry and bright
and outspoken, that it was impossible not to like him, and Uncle Fred
smiled at the boy as he answered his remark.
“The easiest way is not always the best, Phil.”
“Why, no, to be sure, worse luck! it’s generally the worst!”
“You wouldn’t like all your fighting to be quite plain sailing, would
you, Phil? There would not be much glory in it if it were.”
Phil looked grave for a moment, and then answered, brightly,—
“To be sure not. No, I’d like some good tough battles, only I’m such a
fellow for forgetting—I might get into the wrong lot before ever I knew
what I was about, as I did just now.”
“You must try to learn thoughtfulness as you grow older,” said Uncle
Fred, kindly; “that will be one of your battles.”
“All right,” cried Phil; “I’ll try to think of it like that. Are you
going to punish us, Uncle Fred, for bullying Bertie? because if you are,
I wish you’d set about it sharp. I hate having a thing hanging over
one’s head.”
Uncle Fred could not help laughing.
“Well, as I’m not your father, but only an uncle, I don’t know that I
have any right to punish you, and, besides Bertie almost made me promise
not to.
“And as you seem sorry for being unkind and unmanly, I would much rather
say no more about it, but let bygones be bygones. I don’t think you will
be tempted to repeat the offence, and all I will ask of you is to try
and be kinder to the little boy in the future, remembering that he is
very lonely, and has nobody in the wide world whom he can really look to
for love or kindness.”
“Oh yes, poor little chap!” cried Phil; “we’ll be good to him now;” and
all the boys echoed Phil’s words heartily; and Uncle Fred left the room,
feeling that there was no need to punish his thoughtless nephews. It was
in ignorance and carelessness that they had acted, not with intentional
cruelty.
“And don’t you call yourself ‘only an uncle’ any more,” cried out Phil
after him; and all the boys broke out into the chorus—
“For he’s a jolly good fellow,”
which pursued their uncle all down the long passage.
They had all recovered their usual high spirits and good temper except
Queenie, who still felt annoyed, though she could hardly have explained
why.
“Bertie _is_ a coward!” she exclaimed, in her very determined fashion.
“He is a horrid little coward, whatever anybody says; and _I_ think it
served him quite right.”
The boys were secretly rather pleased that their little sister stood by
them, as it were, so boldly. They were very fond of Queenie, and liked
to look upon her as the little queen she had always been taught to
consider herself.
“Well, I’m not quite so sure of that,” answered Phil, who was always
honest, whatever faults he might have besides. “I heard Dr. Lighton say
once that he was afraid of the water because he had been so nearly
drowned, and that he could not help it, and would most likely grow out
of it if only he was let alone.”
The elder boys exchanged glances, conscious that their idea of curing
him had differed from the doctor’s.
“Why didn’t you say so before, Phil?” asked Walter.
“I never thought of it,” he answered; “I always do forget everything.”
“I should take him out every day in a boat till he gave over being silly
about it—that’s what I should do if he were _my_ little boy,” announced
Queenie, very grandly. “I have no idea of spoiling children like that.”
And at that all the boys laughed, but they laughed admiringly, for they
were proud of their sister’s spirit, although they all knew quite well
that she had been spoiled by every one in the house, save her nurse,
from the hour of her birth until now.
“That’s right, Queenie,” cried Bernard. “Never you let anybody have a
will of his own but yourself. You stick to your opinion, and let all the
rest go. But we can’t bully that little chap any more, after what Uncle
Fred said. Shall we try to make it up with him instead, and show him we
didn’t mean any harm?”
“Uncle Fred would like that,” remarked Ralph. “Only I don’t know if he’d
care to make friends just to-day—Bertie, I mean, you know.”
“He’d make friends, I know,” answered Phil. “He never bears malice; he’s
a meek, gentle little chap; but I guess he’s had enough of us for a
while. I vote we leave him in peace for to-day, and think of something
jolly for to-morrow.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Oh, I don’t quite know; I must think a bit,” and Phil thrust both his
hands into his tangle of curls. “Why, yes, I have it now! You know what
we were going to do to-day—row to that odd rocky bay ten miles down the
coast, where the sea-gulls live. Well, let’s go a regular picnic there.
Uncle Fred can take some of us in the boat, and three of us can ride by
the road,—Bertie loves to ride, and I’ve hardly ever lent him my pony,
though I’ve often promised to,—and we’ll take heaps of food, and have a
regular jolly day. Bertie will like that no end, and we’ll show him we
want to make up for frightening him.”
Phil’s plan was hailed with acclamation, and when Uncle Fred heard of it
he gave his ready consent, and was pleased that the boys should have
wished it themselves. He thought the change of the ride and the picnic
would be very good for Bertie, and he made all plain with the children’s
parents for the long day’s holiday upon the water.
Phil and Queenie, it was decided, should be the two to ride with Bertie.
The little girl submitted to this arrangement because she was not very
fond of long journeys in the boat; its movement sometimes made her feel
rather sick, and the glare of the sun upon the water often brought on a
headache. She liked riding on the whole better than the long row; but,
as she felt a little cross with Bertie, she was not quite pleased at
being obliged to spend so much time in his company. Still, that could
not be helped, and she was very anxious to visit the rocky bay; for she
had heard a great deal about it that had raised her curiosity to a high
pitch, and she had a secret hope of her own which she at last confided
to Phil.
“Phil,” she said, mysteriously that evening, as they wandered together
about the garden,—“Phil, don’t people say that lots of young sea-gulls
are hatched in that bay every year?”
“Why, yes, to be sure. What of that?”
“Phil, don’t you think,” sinking her voice to a very low whisper, “that
we might find one or two little gulls if we searched very carefully, and
bring them home in an empty basket? You know some people have tame
sea-gulls in their gardens, and I should _love_ to catch some of my very
own and keep them here always.”
Phil seemed struck with the brilliancy of this idea.
“What a capital thought, Queenie!” he cried. “It would be a tremendous
lark to take a sea-gull’s nest—only, I fancy they’re pretty hard to
get”—He paused suddenly, and then added, as if struck by an unwelcome
thought, “But I’m afraid it’s the wrong time for sea-gulls. I think all
the young birds are hatched in the spring. I don’t believe there will be
any left now, you see it’s August—pretty nearly September too.”
Queenie’s face fell.
“Oh, how tiresome! Why can’t they arrange things differently? Are you
sure, Phil?”
“About the young birds, Queenie? Yes, I’m afraid I am sure.”
For a few minutes she looked a good deal cast down, but then a brighter
look crossed her face.
“I’ll tell you what we can do, Phil,” she said, with energy. “We can
have a good look at the place, and make David tell us where all the best
places are; and then, you know, when the spring comes round—”
Phil tossed his cap into the air.
“To be sure, Queenie! you’re a brick for thinking of things.”
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