WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE
[Illustration: GREEN PEACE.]
WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE
BY
LAURA E. RICHARDS
AUTHOR OF “CAPTAIN JANUARY,” “MELODY,”
“QUEEN HILDEGARDE,” ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
BOSTON
ESTES AND LAURIAT
1894
_Copyright, 1893_,
BY ESTES AND LAURIAT.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
TO THE
Dear and Honored Memory of my Father,
DR. SAMUEL GRIDLEY HOWE.
_Thy voice comes down the rolling years_
_Like ring of steel on steel;_
_With it I hear the tramp of steeds,_
_And the trumpet’s silver peal._
_I see thee ride thy fearless way,_
_With steadfast look intent,_
_God’s servant, still by night and day,_
_On his high errand bent._
_Thy lance lay ever in the rest_
_’Gainst tyranny and wrong._
_Thy steed was swift, thine aim was sure,_
_Thy sword was keen and strong._
_But were the fainting to be raised,_
_The sorrowing comforted,--_
_The warrior vanished, and men saw_
_An angel stoop instead._
_O soldier Father! dear I hold_
_Thine honored name to-day;_
_Thy high soul draws mine eyes above,_
_And beacons me the way._
_And when my heart beats quick to learn_
_Some deed of high emprise,_
_I almost see the answering flash_
_That lightens from thine eyes._
_I greet thee fair! I bless thee dear!_
_And here, in token meet,_
_I pluck these buds from memory’s wreath,_
_And lay them at thy feet._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. OURSELVES 13
II. MORE ABOUT OURSELVES 27
III. GREEN PEACE 42
IV. THE VALLEY 62
V. OUR FATHER 77
VI. JULIA WARD 107
VII. OUR MOTHER 129
VIII. OUR TEACHERS 163
IX. OUR FRIENDS 180
X. OUR GUESTS 194
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
GREEN PEACE _Frontispiece_
MAUD 43
LAURA WAS FOUND IN THE SUGAR-BARREL 53
DR. SAMUEL GRIDLEY HOWE 79
THE DOCTOR TO THE RESCUE! 97
JULIA WARD AND HER BROTHERS, AS CHILDREN 109
(From a miniature by Miss Anne Hall.)
LIEUT.-COLONEL SAMUEL WARD 117
(Born Nov. 17, 1756; Died Aug. 16, 1832.)
JULIA WARD 125
JULIA WARD HOWE 131
JULIA ROMANA HOWE 149
JULIA WARD HOWE 157
(From a recent photograph.)
LAURA E. RICHARDS 177
WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE.
CHAPTER I.
OURSELVES.
There were five of us. There had been six, but the Beautiful Boy was
taken home to heaven while he was still very little; and it was good for
the rest of us to know that there was always one to wait for and welcome
us in the Place of Light to which we should go some day. So, as I said,
there were five of us here,--Julia Romana, Florence, Harry, Laura, and
Maud. Julia was the eldest. She took her second name from the ancient
city in which she was born, and she was as beautiful as a soft Italian
evening,--with dark hair, clear gray eyes, perfect features, and a
complexion of such pure and wonderful red and white as I have never
seen in any other face. She had a look as if when she came away from
heaven she had been allowed to remember it, while others must forget;
and she walked in a dream always, of beauty and poetry, thinking of
strange things. Very shy she was, very sensitive. When Flossy (this was
Florence’s home name) called her “a great red-haired giant,” she wept
bitterly, and reproached her sister for hurting her feelings. Julia knew
everything, according to the belief of the younger children. What story
was there she could not tell? She it was who led the famous
before-breakfast walks, when we used to start off at six o’clock and
walk to the Yellow Chases’ (we never knew any other name for them; it
was the house that was yellow, not the people) at the top of the long
hill, or sometimes even to the windmill beyond it, where we could see
the miller at work, all white and dusty, and watch the white sails
moving slowly round. And on the way Julia told us stories, from Scott or
Shakspere; or gave us the plot of some opera, “Ernani” or “Trovatore,”
with snatches of song here and there. “Ai nostri monti ritornaremo,”
whenever I hear this familiar air ground out by a hand-organ, everything
fades from my eyes save a long white road fringed with buttercups and
wild marigolds, and five little figures, with rosy hungry faces,
trudging along, and listening to the story of the gypsy queen and her
stolen troubadour.
Julia wrote stories herself, too,--very wonderful stories, we all
thought, and, indeed, I think so still. She began when she was a little
girl, not more than six or seven years old. There lies beside me now on
the table a small book, about five inches square, bound in faded pink
and green, and filled from cover to cover with writing in a cramped,
childish hand. It is a book of novels and plays, written by our Julia
before she was ten years old; and I often think that the beautiful and
helpful things she wrote in her later years were hardly more remarkable
than these queer little romances. They are very sentimental; no child of
eight, save perhaps Marjorie Fleming, was ever so sentimental as
Julia,--“Leonora Mayre; A Tale,” “The Lost Suitor,” “The Offers.” I must
quote a scene from the last-named play.
SCENE I.
Parlor at MRS. EVANS’S. FLORENCE EVANS _alone_.
_Enter_ ANNIE.
A. Well, Florence, Bruin is going to make an offer, I suppose.
F. Why so?
A. Here’s a pound of candy from him. He said he had bought it for
you, but on arriving he was afraid it was too trifling a gift; but
hoping you would not throw it away, he requested me to give it to
that virtuous young lady, as he calls you.
F. Well, I am young, but I did not know that I was virtuous.
A. I think you are.
SCENE II.
Parlor. MR. BRUIN _alone_.
MR. B. Why doesn’t she come? She doesn’t usually keep me waiting.
_Enter_ FLORENCE.
F. How do you do? I am sorry to have kept you waiting.
MR. B. I have not been here more than a few minutes. Your parlor is
so warm this cold day that I could wait.
[_Laughs._
F. You sent me some candy the other day which I liked very much.
MR. B. Well, you liked the candy; so I pleased you. Now you can
please me. I don’t care about presents; I had rather have something
that can love me. You.
F. I do not love you.
[_Exit_ MR. BRUIN.
SCENE III.
FLORENCE _alone_. _Enter_ MR. CAS.
F. How do you do?
MR. C. Very well.
F. It is a very pleasant day.
MR. C. Yes. It would be still pleasanter if you will be my bride. I
want a respectful refusal, but prefer a cordial acception.
F. You can have the former.
[_Exit_ MR. CAS.
SCENE IV.
FLORENCE _with_ MR. EMERSON.
MR. E. I love you, Florence. You may not love me, for I am inferior
to you; but tell me whether you do or not. If my hopes are true,
let me know it, and I shall not be doubtful any longer. If they are
not, tell me, and I shall not expect any more.
F. They are.
[_Exit_ MR. EMERSON.
The fifth scene of this remarkable drama is laid in the church, and is
very thrilling. The stage directions are brief, but it is evident from
the text that as Mr. Emerson and his taciturn bride advance to the
altar, Messrs. Cas and Bruin, “to gain some private ends,” do the same.
The Bishop is introduced without previous announcement.
SCENE V.
BISHOP. Are you ready?
MR. B. Yes.
BISHOP. Mr. Emerson, are you ready?
MR. C. Yes.
BISHOP. Mr. Emerson, I am waiting.
BRUIN _and_ CAS [_together_]. So am I.
MR. E. I am ready. But what have these men to do with our marriage?
MR. B. Florence, I charge you with a breach of promise. You said
you would be my bride.
F. I did not.
MR. C. You promised me.
F. When?
MR. C. A month ago. You said you would marry me.
MR. B. A fortnight ago you promised me. You said we would be
married to-day.
MR. C. Bishop, what does this mean? Florence Evans promised to
marry me, and this very day was fixed upon. And see how false she
has been! She has, as you see, promised both of us, and now is
going to wed this man.
BISHOP. But Mr. Emerson and Miss Evans made the arrangements with
me; how is it that neither of you said anything of it beforehand?
MR. C. I forgot.
MR. B. So did I.
[F. _weeps._
_Enter_ ANNIE.
A. I thought I should be too late to be your bridesmaid, but I find
I am in time. But I thought you were to be married at half-past
four, and it is five by the church clock.
MR. E. We should have been married by this time, but these men say
that Florence has promised to marry them. Is it true, Florence?
F. No. [BESSY, _her younger sister, supports her._
A. It isn’t true, for you know, Edward Bruin, that you and I are
engaged; and Mr. Cas and Bessy have been for some time. And both
engagements have been out for more than a week.
[BESSY _looks reproachfully at_ CAS.
B. Why, Joseph Cas!
BISHOP. Come, Mr. Emerson! I see that Mr. Cas and Mr. Bruin have
been trying to worry your bride. But their story can’t be true, for
these other young ladies say that they are engaged to them.
F. They each of them made me an offer, which I refused.
[_The_ BISHOP _marries them_.
F. [_After they are married._] I shall never again be troubled with
such offers [_looks at_ CAS _and_ BRUIN] as _yours_!
I meant to give one scene, and I have given the whole play, not knowing
where to stop. There was nothing funny about it to Julia. The heroine,
with her wonderful command of silence, was her ideal of maiden reserve
and dignity; the deep-dyed villany of Bruin and Cas, the retiring
manners of the fortunate Emerson, the singular sprightliness of the
Bishop, were all perfectly natural, as her vivid mind saw them.
So she was bitterly grieved one day when a dear friend of the family, to
whom our mother had read the play, rushed up to her, and seizing her
hand, cried,--
“‘Julia, will you have me?’ ‘No!’ Exit Mr. Bruin.”
Deeply grieved the little maiden was; and it cannot have been very long
after that time that she gave the little book to her dearest aunt, who
has kept it carefully through all these years.
If Julia was like Milton’s “Penseroso,” Flossy was the “Allegro” in
person, or like Wordsworth’s maiden,--
“A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay”
She was very small as a child. One day a lady, not knowing that the
little girl was within hearing, said to her mother, “What a pity Flossy
is so small!”
“I’m big inside!” cried a little angry voice at her elbow; and there was
Flossy, swelling with rage, like an offended bantam. And she _was_ big
inside! her lively, active spirit seemed to break through the little
body and carry it along in spite of itself. Sometimes it was an impish
spirit; always it was an enterprising one.
She it was who invented the dances which seemed to us such wonderful
performances. We danced every evening in the great parlor, our mother
playing for us on the piano. There was the “Macbeth” dance, in which
Flossy figured as Lady Macbeth. With a dagger in her hand, she crept and
rushed and pounced and swooped about in a most terrifying manner, always
graceful as a fairy. A sofa-pillow played the part of Duncan, and had a
very hard time of it. The “Julius Cæsar” dance was no less tragic; we
all took part in it, and stabbed right and left with sticks of
kindling-wood. One got the curling-stick and was happy, for it was the
next thing to the dagger, which no one but Flossy could have. Then there
was the dance of the “Four Seasons,” which had four figures. In spring
we sowed, in summer we reaped; in autumn we hunted the deer, and in
winter there was much jingling of bells. The hunting figure was most
exciting. It was performed with knives (kindling-wood), as Flossy
thought them more romantic than guns; they were held close to the side,
with point projecting, and in this way we moved with a quick _chassé_
step, which, coupled with a savage frown, was supposed to be peculiarly
deadly.
Flossy invented many other amusements, too. There was the school-loan
system. We had school in the little parlor at that time, and our desks
had lids that lifted up. In her desk Flossy kept a number of precious
things, which she lent to the younger children for so many pins an hour.
The most valuable thing was a set of three colored worsted balls, red,
green, and blue. You could set them twirling, and they would keep going
for ever so long. It was a delightful sport; but they were very
expensive, costing, I think, twenty pins an hour. It took a long time to
collect twenty pins, for of course it was not fair to take them out of
the pin-cushions.
Then there was a glass eye-cup without a foot; that cost ten pins, and
was a great favorite with us. You stuck it in your eye, and tried to
hold it there while you winked with the other. Of course all this was
done behind the raised desk-lid, and I have sometimes wondered what the
teacher was doing that she did not find us out sooner. She was not very
observant, and I am quite sure she was afraid of Flossy. One sad day,
however, she caught Laura with the precious glass in her eye, and it was
taken away forever. It was a bitter thing to the child (I know all about
it, for I was Laura) to be told that she could never have it again, even
after school. She had paid her ten pins, and she could not see what
right the teacher had to take the glass away. But after that the
school-loan system was forbidden, and I have never known what became of
the three worsted balls.
Flossy also told stories; or rather she told one story which had no end,
and of which we never tired. Under the sea, she told us, lived a fairy
named Patty, who was a most intimate friend of hers, and whom she
visited every night. This fairy dwelt in a palace hollowed out of a
single immense pearl. The rooms in it were countless, and were
furnished in a singular and delightful manner. In one room the chairs
and sofas were of chocolate; in another, of fresh strawberries; in
another, of peaches,--and so on. The floors were paved with squares of
chocolate and cream candy; the windows were of transparent barley-sugar,
and when you broke off the arm of a chair and ate it, or took a square
or two out of the pavement, they were immediately replaced, so that
there was no trouble for anyone. Patty had a ball every evening, and
Flossy never failed to go. Sometimes, when we were good, she would take
us; but the singular thing about it was that we never remembered what
had happened. In the morning our infant minds were a cheerful blank,
till Flossy told us what a glorious time we had had at Patty’s the night
before, how we had danced with Willie Winkie, and how much ice-cream we
had eaten. We listened to the recital with unalloyed delight, and
believed every word of it, till a sad day of awakening came. We were
always made to understand that we could not bring away anything from
Patty’s, and were content with this arrangement; but on this occasion
there was to be a ball of peculiar magnificence, and Flossy, in a fit of
generosity, told Harry that he was to receive a pair of diamond
trousers, which he would be allowed to bring home. Harry was a child
with a taste for magnificence; and he went to bed full of joy, seeing
already in anticipation the glittering of the jewelled garment, and the
effects produced by it on the small boys of his acquaintance. Bitter was
the disappointment when, on awakening in the morning, the chair by his
bedside bore only the familiar brown knickerbockers, with a patch of a
lighter shade on one knee. Harry wept, and would not be comforted; and
after that, though we still liked to hear the Patty stories, we felt
that the magic of them was gone,--that they were only stories, like
“Blue-beard” or “Jack and the Beanstalk.”
CHAPTER II.
MORE ABOUT OURSELVES.
Julia and Flossy did not content themselves with writing plays and
telling stories. They aspired to making a language,--a real language,
which should be all their own, and should have grammars and dictionaries
like any other famous tongue. It was called Patagonian,--whether with
any idea of future missionary work among the people of that remote
country, or merely because it sounded well, I cannot say. It was a
singular language. I wish more of it had survived; but I can give only a
few of its more familiar phrases.
MILLDAM--Yes.
PILLDAM--No.
MOUCHE--Mother.
BIS VON SNOUT?--Are you well?
BRUNK TU TOUCHY SNOUT--I am very well.
CHING CHU STICK STUMPS?--Will you have some doughnuts?
These fragments will, I am sure, make my readers regret deeply the loss
of this language, which has the merit of entire originality.
As to Flossy’s talent for making paper-dolls, it is a thing not to be
described. There were no such paper-dolls as those. Their figures might
not be exactly like the human figure, but how infinitely more graceful!
Their waists were so small that they sometimes broke in two when called
upon to courtesy to a partner or a queen: that was the height of
delicacy! They had ringlets invariably, and very large eyes with amazing
lashes; they smiled with unchanging sweetness, filling our hearts with
delight. Many and wonderful were their dresses. The crinoline of the day
was magnified into a sort of vast semi-circular cloud, adorned about the
skirt with strange patterns; one small doll would sometimes wear a whole
sheet of foolscap in an evening dress! That was extravagant, but our
daughters must be in the fashion. There was one yellow dress belonging
to my doll Parthenia (a lovely creature of Jewish aspect, whose waist
was smaller than her legs), which is not even now to be remembered
without emotion. We built houses for the paper-dolls with books from the
parlor table, even borrowing some from the bookcase when we wanted an
extra suite of rooms. I do not say it was good for the books, but it was
very convenient for the dolls. I have reason to think that our mother
did not know of this practice. In the matter of their taking exercise,
however, she aided us materially, giving us sundry empty trinket-boxes
lined with satin, which made the most charming carriages in the world.
The state coach was a silver-gilt portemonnaie lined with red silk. It
had seen better days, and the clasp was broken; but that did not make it
less available as a coach. I wish you could have seen Parthenia in it!
I do not think we cared so much for other dolls, yet there were some
that must be mentioned. Vashti Ann was named for a cook; she belonged
to Julia, and I have an idea that she was of a very haughty and
disagreeable temper, though I cannot remember her personal appearance.
Still more shadowy is my recollection of Eliza Viddipock,--a name to be
spoken with bated breath. What dark crime this wretched doll had
committed to merit her fearful fate, I do not know; it was a thing not
to be spoken of to the younger children, apparently. But I do know that
she was hanged, with all solemnity of judge and hangman. It seems unjust
that I should have forgotten the name of Julia’s good doll, who died,
and had the cover of the sugar-bowl buried with her, as a tribute to her
virtues.
Sally Bradford and Clara both belonged to Laura. Sally was an
india-rubber doll; Clara, a doll with a china head of the old-fashioned
kind, smooth, shining black hair, brilliant rosy cheeks, and calm (very
calm) blue eyes. I prefer this kind of doll to any other. Clara’s life
was an uneventful one, on the whole, and I remember only one remarkable
thing in it. A little girl in the neighborhood invited Laura to a
dolls’ party on a certain day: she was to bring Clara by special
request. Great was the excitement, for Laura was very small, and had
never yet gone to a party. A seamstress was in the house making the
summer dresses, and our mother said that Clara should have a new frock
for the party. It seemed a very wonderful thing to have a real new white
muslin frock, made by a real seamstress, for one’s beloved doll. Clara
had a beautiful white neck, so the frock was made low and trimmed with
lace. When the afternoon came, Laura brought some tiny yellow roses from
the greenhouse, and the seamstress sewed them on down the front of the
frock and round the neck and hem. It is not probable that any other doll
ever looked so beautiful as Clara when her toilet was complete.
Then Laura put on her own best frock, which was not one half so fine,
and tied on her gray felt bonnet, trimmed with quillings of pink and
green satin ribbon, and started off, the proudest and happiest child in
the whole world. She reached the house (it was very near) and climbed
up the long flight of stone steps, and stood on tiptoe to ring the
bell,--then waited with a beating heart. Would there be many other
dolls? Would any of them be half so lovely as Clara? Would
there--dreadful thought!--would there be big girls there?
The door opened. If any little girls read this they will now be very
sorry for Laura. There was no dolls’ party! Rosy’s mother (the little
girl’s name was Rosy) had heard nothing at all about it; Rosy had gone
to spend the afternoon with Sarah Crocker.
“Sorry, little girl! What a pretty dolly! Good-by, dear!” and then the
door was shut again.
Laura toddled down the long stone steps, and went solemnly home. She did
not cry, because it would not be nice to cry in the street; but she
could not see very clearly. She never went to visit Rosy again, and
never knew whether the dolls’ party had been forgotten, or why it was
given up.
Before leaving the subject of dolls, I must say a word about little
Maud’s first doll. Maud was a child of rare beauty, as beautiful as
Julia, though very different. Her fair hair was of such color and
quality that our mother used to call her Silk-and-silver, a name which
suited her well; her eyes were like stars under their long black lashes.
So brilliant, so vivid was the child’s coloring that she seemed to flash
with silver and rosy light as she moved about. She was so much younger
than the others that in many of their reminiscences she has no share;
yet she has her own stories, too. A friend of our father’s, being much
impressed with this starry beauty of the child, thought it would be
pleasant to give her the prettiest doll that could be found; accordingly
he appeared one day bringing a wonderful creature, with hair almost like
Maud’s own, and great blue eyes that opened and shut, and cheeks whose
steadfast roses did not flash in and out, but bloomed always. I think
the doll was dressed in blue and silver, but am not sure; she was
certainly very magnificent.
Maud was enchanted, of course, and hugged her treasure, and went off
with it. It happened that she had been taken only the day before to see
the blind children at the Institution near by, where our father spent
much of his time. It was the first time she had talked with the little
blind girls, and they made a deep impression on her baby mind, though
she said little at the time. As I said, she went off with her new doll,
and no one saw her for some time. At length she returned, flushed and
triumphant.
“My dolly is blind, now!” she cried; and she displayed the doll, over
whose eyes she had tied a ribbon, in imitation of Laura Bridgman. “She
is blind Polly! ain’t got no eyes ’t all!”
Alas! it was even so. Maud had poked the beautiful blue glass eyes till
they fell in, and only empty sockets were hidden by the green ribbon.
There was a great outcry, of course; but it did not disturb Maud in the
least. She wanted a blind doll, and she had one; and no pet could be
more carefully tended than was poor blind Polly.
More precious than any doll could be, rises in my memory the majestic
form of Pistachio. It was Flossy, ever fertile in invention, who
discovered the true worth of Pistachio, and taught us to regard with awe
and reverence this object of her affection. Pistachio was an oval
mahogany footstool, covered with green cloth of the color of the nut
whose name he bore. I have the impression that he had lost a leg, but am
not positive on this point. He was considered an invalid, and every
morning he was put in the baby-carriage and taken in solemn procession
down to the brook for his morning bath. One child held a parasol over
his sacred head (only he had no head!), two more propelled the carriage,
while the other two went before as outriders. No mirth was allowed on
this occasion, the solemnity of which was deeply impressed on us.
Arrived at the brook, Pistachio was lifted from the carriage by his
chief officer, Flossy herself, and set carefully down on the flat stone
beside the brook. His sacred legs were dipped one by one into the clear
water, and dried with a towel. Happy was the child who was allowed to
perform this function! After the bath, he was walked gently up and
down, and rubbed, to assist the circulation; then he was put back in his
carriage, and the procession started for home again, with the same
gravity and decorum as before. The younger children felt sure there was
some mystery about Pistachio. I cannot feel sure, even now, that he was
nothing more than an ordinary oval cricket; but his secret, whatever it
was, has perished with him.
I perceive that I have said little or nothing thus far about Harry; yet
he was a very important member of the family. The only boy: and such a
boy! He was by nature a Very Imp, such as has been described by Mr.
Stockton in one of his delightful stories. Not two years old was he when
he began to pull the tails of all the little dogs he met,--a habit which
he long maintained. The love of mischief was deeply rooted in him. It
was not safe to put him in the closet for misbehavior; for he cut off
the pockets of the dresses hanging there, and snipped the fringe off his
teacher’s best shawl. Yet he was a sweet and affectionate child, with a
tender heart and sensitive withal. When about four years old, he had the
habit of summoning our father to breakfast; and, not being able to say
the word, would announce, “Brescott is ready!” This excited mirth among
the other children, which he never could endure; accordingly, one
morning he appeared at the door of the dressing-room and said solemnly,
“Papa, your food is prepared!”
It is recorded of this child that he went once to pay a visit to some
dear relatives, and kept them in a fever of anxiety until he was taken
home again. One day it was his little cousin’s rocking-horse, which
disappeared from the nursery, and shortly after was seen airing itself
on the top of the chimney, kicking its heels in the sunshine, and
appearing to enjoy its outing. Another time it was down the chimney that
the stream of mischief took its way; and a dear and venerable visitor
(no other than Dr. Coggeshall, of Astor Library fame), sitting before
the fire in the twilight, was amazed by a sudden shower of boots
tumbling down, one after another, into the ashes, whence he
conscientiously rescued them with the tongs, at peril of receiving some
on his good white head.
Such boots and shoes as escaped this fiery ordeal were tacked by Master
Harry to the floor of the closets in the various rooms; and while he was
in the closet, what could be easier or pleasanter than to cut off the
pockets of the dresses hanging there? Altogether, Egypt was glad when
Harry departed; and I do not think he made many more visits away from
home, till he had outgrown the days of childhood.
At the age of six, Harry determined to marry, and offered his hand and
heart to Mary, the nurse, an excellent woman some thirty years older
than he. He sternly forbade her to sew or do other nursery work, saying
that his wife must not work for her living. About this time, too, he
told our mother that he thought he felt his beard growing.
He was just two years older than Laura, and the tie between them was
very close. Laura’s first question to a stranger was always, “Does you
know my bulla Hally? I hope you does!” and she was truly sorry for any
one who had not that privilege.
The two children slept in tiny rooms adjoining each other. It was both
easy and pleasant to “talk across” while lying in bed, when they were
supposed to be sound asleep. Neither liked to give up the last word of
greeting, and they would sometimes say “Good-night!” “Good-night!” over
and over, backward and forward, for ten minutes together. In general,
Harry was very kind to Laura, playing with her, and protecting her from
any roughness of neighbor children. (They said “bunnit” and “apurn,” and
“I wunt;” and we were fond of correcting them, which they not brooking,
quarrels were apt to ensue.) But truth compels me to tell of one
occasion on which Harry did not show a brotherly spirit. In the garden,
under a great birch-tree, stood a trough for watering the horses. It was
a large and deep trough, and always full of beautiful, clear water. It
was pleasant to lean over the edge, and see the sky and the leaves of
the tree reflected as if in a crystal mirror; to see one’s own rosy,
freckled face, too, and make other faces; to see which could open eyes
or mouth widest.
Now one day, as little Laura, being perhaps four years old, was hanging
over the edge of the trough, forgetful of all save the delight of
gazing, it chanced that Harry came up behind her; and the spirit of
mischief that was always in him triumphed over brotherly affection, and
he
“Ups with her heels,
And smothers her squeals”
in the clear, cold water.
Laura came up gasping and puffing, her hair streaming all over her round
face, her eyes staring with wonder and fright!
By the time help arrived, as it fortunately did, in the person of Thomas
the gardener, poor Laura was in a deplorable condition, half choked with
water, and frightened nearly out of her wits.
Thomas carried the dripping child to the house and put her into Mary’s
kind arms, and then reported to our mother what Harry had done.
We were almost never whipped; but for this misdeed Harry was put to bed
at once, and our mother, sitting beside him, gave him what we used to
call a “talking to,” which he did not soon forget.
Nurse Mary probably thought it would gratify Laura to know that naughty
Harry was being punished for his misdoings; but she had mistaken her
child. When the mother came back to the nursery from Harry’s room, she
found Laura (in dry raiment, but with cheeks still crimson and shining)
sitting in the middle of the floor, with clenched fists and flashing
eyes, and roaring at the top of her lungs, “I’ll tumble my mudder down
wid a ’tick!”