Out in one of the meadows was a big elm-tree. It was very tall, and in
summer it looked like a monster bunch of green plumes.
It stood on the bank of our little brook. Right where the old elm stood,
the bank was quite high, six feet almost. The boughs on the old tree
grew very low. I would catch hold of one of those low-hanging boughs.
Then, I would give a little run and jump. Away out over the bank and
over the brook I would swing!
Oftentimes I would take my patchwork out under the old elm. But soon the
patchwork would be on the ground, forgotten, and an idle little girl
would be lying flat on the grass, with her hands clasped under her head,
looking up into the clear blue sky!
I used to make believe that the white clouds were my ships, coming into
harbor under full sail. And I used to make up fine names for my ships,
and O, such splendid cargoes as they would be loaded with, all for
me—their rich young owner—the idle dreamer in the grass!
O, it was such fun to lie there in the midst of funny daisies with their
high white collars, and buttercups with their yellow caps! The roguish
little winds would make them bend over and tickle the rosy face of the
little girl whom the birds and the brook had almost hushed off to sleep.
There would be a soft little touch on my forehead, and then another on
my chin, and yet others on my cheeks. Then I would open my eyes and
laugh at those funny little white and gold heads, soberly wagging up and
down. But once I was rather frightened out under the old elm. I had been
lying flat on my back for an hour or two, when I was called. I half
raised myself up and answered. My hand was on the ground just where I
had been lying. I felt something squirming around my thumb. It was a
tiny brown snake! Of course, it was as harmless as a fly, but didn’t I
spring to my feet!
When I had to recite a little piece in school or at a church concert, I
always used to rehearse that little piece out under the old elm, over
and over again.
_Percia V. White._
[Illustration: SWINGING ON THE ELM-TREE BOUGH.]
_Puggie in Disgrace._
Child-ren, just look at this queer little Pug,
His small wrin-kled nose, his little black mug!
I fear he’s been naugh-ty at les-sons to-day,
And, like naugh-ty child-ren, he’s pun-ished this way.
He sits on the stool of re-pent-ance, you see;
Poor Pug-gie is gen-tle and meek as can be;
But when at his les-sons he just took a nap,
And that is the rea-son he wears the Fool’s cap.
His neck has an or-na-ment, not like his head,
But a beau-ti-ful lock-et and rib-bon in-stead;
So you see that to some one the dog-gie is dear,
Al-though they all tease him I very much fear.
From Ho-race, the eld-est, to lit-tle Miss May,
All in-sist that Poor Pug-gie should join in their play;
Some-times they pet him, and some-times they tease,
But he bears it all pa-tient-ly, eager to please.
He rolls his big eyes, or just heaves a sigh,
And thinks they’ll make up for it all by and by.
For Pug-gie is greed-y, and bears a great deal
For the sake of some cakes or a good heart-y meal.
But though he _is_ greed-y, his faults are but few,
He is lov-ing and hon-est, de-vo-ted and true.
If our two-foot-ed friends were as faith-ful as he
Ve-ry for-tu-nate peo-ple I think we should be.
[Illustration]
_TIC-TAC-TOO._
Tic-tac-too was a little boy; he was exactly three years old, and the
youngest in the family; so, of course, he was the king. His real name
was Alec; but he was always known in the household, and among his wide
circle of friends generally, as Tic-tac-too. There was a little story to
account for this, and it is that story which I am now going to tell.
[Illustration]
There are very few children who do not know the funny old nursery rhyme
of “Tic-tac-too;” it is an old-fashioned rhyme, and in great vogue
amongst nurses. Of course Alec enjoyed it, and liked to have his toes
pulled, and the queer words said to him. But that is not the story; for
it is one thing to like a nursery rhyme very much, and another to be
called by the name of that rhyme, and nothing else.
Now, please, listen to the story.
There was no nicer house to live in than Daisy Farm: it was
old-fashioned and roomy; there were heaps of small bedrooms with low
ceilings, and heaps of long passages, and unexpected turnings, and dear
little cosey corners; and there was a large nursery made out of two or
three of the small rooms thrown together, and this nursery had casement
windows, and from the windows the daisies, which gave their name to the
farm, could be seen. They came up in thousands upon thousands, and no
power of man and scythe combined could keep them down. The
mowing-machine only suppressed them for a day or two; up they started
anew in their snowy dresses, with their modest pink frills and bright
yellow edges.
Mr. Rogers, who owned Daisy Farm, objected to the flowers; but his
children delighted in them, and picked them in baskets-full, and made
daisy-chains to their hearts’ content. There were several children who
lived in this pleasant farmhouse, for Tic-tac-too had many brothers and
sisters. The old-fashioned nursery was all that a modern nursery should
be; it had deep cupboards for toys, and each child had his or her wide
shelf to keep special treasures on; and the window-ledges were cosey
places to curl up in on wet days, when the rain beat outside, and the
wind sighed, and even the daisies looked as if they did not like to be
washed so much.
[Illustration]
Some of the children at Daisy Farm were old enough to have governesses
and masters, to have a schoolroom for themselves, and, in short, to have
very little to say to the nursery; but still there were four nursery
little ones; and one day mother electrified the children by telling them
that another little boy was coming to pay them a visit.
“He is coming to-morrow,” said mother; “he is a year younger than Alec
here, but his mother has asked us to take care of him. You must all be
kind to the little baby stranger, children, and try your very best to
make him feel at home. Poor little man, I trust he will be happy with
us.”
[Illustration]
Mother sighed as she spoke; and when she did this, Rosie, the eldest
nursery child, looked up at her quickly. Rosie had dark gray eyes, and a
very sympathetic face; she was the kind of child who felt everybody’s
troubles, and nurse said she did this far more than was good for her.
The moment her mother left the room, Rosie ran up to her nurse, and
spoke eagerly—
“Why did mother sigh when she said a new little boy was coming here,
nursie?”
“Oh, my love, how can I tell? People sigh most likely from habit, and
from no reason whatever. There’s nothing to fret anybody in a sigh, Miss
Rosie.”
“But mother doesn’t sigh from habit,” answered Rosie; “I expect there’s
going to be something sad about the new little boy, and I wonder what it
is. Harry, shall we collect some of our very nicest toys to have ready
for the poor little new boy?”
Harry was six; he had a determined face, and was not so generous as
Rosie.
“I’ll not give away my skin-horse,” he said, “so you needn’t think it,
nor my white dog with the joints; there are some broken things down in
that corner that he can have. But I don’t see why a new baby should have
my best toys. Gee-up, Alec! you’re a horse, you know, and I’m going to
race you from one end of the nursery to the other—now trot!”
Fat little curly-headed Alec started off good-humoredly, and Rosie
surveyed her own shelf to see which toys would most distract the
attention of the little stranger.
She was standing on a hassock, and counting her treasures over
carefully, when she was startled by a loud exclamation from nurse.
“Mercy me! If that ain’t the telegraph boy coming up the drive!”
Nurse was old-fashioned enough still to regard telegrams with
apprehension. She often said she could never look at one of those awful
yellow envelopes, without her heart jumping into her mouth; and these
fears she had, to a certain extent, infected the children with.
Harry dropped Alec’s reins, and rushed to the window; Rosie forgot her
toys, and did likewise; Jack and Alec both pressed for a view from
behind.
“Me, me, me, me want to see!” screamed baby Alec from the back.
Nurse lifted him into her arms; as she did so, she murmured under her
breath,—
“God preserve us! I hope that awful boy isn’t bringing us anything bad.”
Rosie heard the words, and felt a sudden sense of chill and anxiety; she
pressed her little hand into nurse’s, and longed more than ever to give
all the nicest toys to the new little boy.
Just then the nursery door was opened, and Kate, the housemaid,
appeared, carrying the yellow envelope daintily between her finger and
thumb.
“There, nurse,” she said, “it’s for you; and I hope, I’m sure, it’s no
ill-luck I’m bringing you.”
“Oh, sake’s alive!” said nurse. “Children, dears, let me sit down. That
awful boy to bring it to me! Well, the will of the Lord must be done;
whatever’s inside this ugly thing? Miss Rosie, my dear, could you hunt
round somewhere for my spectacles?”
It always took a long time to find nurse’s spectacles; and Rosie, after
a frantic search, in which she was joined by all the other nursery
children, discovered them at last at the bottom of Alec’s cot. She
rushed with them to the old woman, who put them on her nose, and began
deliberately to read the contents of her telegram.
The children stood round her as she did so. They were all breathless and
excited; and Rosie looked absolutely white from anxiety.
“Well, my dears,” said nurse at last, when she had spelt through the
words, “it ain’t exactly a trouble; far from me to say that; but all the
same, it’s mighty contrary, and a new child coming here, and all.”
“What is it, nurse?” said Harry. “_Do_ tell us what it’s all about.”
“It’s my daughter, dears,” said nurse; “she’ll be in London to-morrow,
on her way back to America.”
“Oh, nurse!” said Rosie, “not your daughter Ann?”
[Illustration]
“The same, my love; she that has eight children, and four of them with
carrotty hair. She wants me to go up to London, to see her to-morrow;
that’s the news the telegraph boy has brought, Miss Rosie. My daughter
Ann says, ‘Mother, meet me to-morrow at aunt’s, at two o’clock.’ Well,
well, it’s mighty contrary; and that new child coming, and all!”
“But you’ll have to go, nurse. It would be dreadful for your daughter
Ann not to see you again.”
“Yes, dear, that’s all very fine; but what’s to become of all you
children? How is this blessed baby to get on without his old Nan?”
“Oh, nurse, you _must_ go! It would be so cruel if you didn’t,”
exclaimed Rosie.
Nurse sat thinking hard for a minute or two; then saying she would go
and consult her mistress, she left the room.
The upshot of all this was, that at an early hour the following morning
nurse started for London, and a girl, of the name of Patience, from the
village, came up to take her place in the nursery.
Mrs. Rogers was particularly busy during these days. She had some
friends staying with her, and in addition to this her eldest daughter,
Ethel, was ill, and took up a good deal of her mother’s time; in
consequence of these things the nursery children were left entirely to
the tender mercies of Patience.
Not that that mattered much, for they were independent children, and
always found their own amusements. The first day of nurse’s absence,
too, was fine, and they spent the greater part of it in the open air;
but the second day was wet—a hopelessly wet day—a dull day with a
drizzling fog, and no prospect whatever of clearing up.
The morning’s post brought a letter from nurse to ask for further leave
of absence; and this, in itself, would have depressed the spirits of the
nursery children, for they were looking forward to a gay supper with
her, and a long talk about her daughter Ann, and all her London
adventures.
[Illustration]
But this was not the real trouble which pressed so heavily on Rosie’s
motherly heart; the real anxiety which made her little face look so
careworn was caused by the new baby, the little boy of two years old,
who had arrived late the night before, and now sat with a shadow on his
face, absolutely refusing to make friends with any one.
He must have been a petted little boy at home, for he was beautifully
dressed, and his curly hair was nicely cared for, and his fair face had
a delicate peach bloom about it; but if he was petted, he was also,
perhaps, spoilt, for he certainly would not make advances to any of his
new comrades, nor exert himself to be agreeable, nor to overcome the
strangeness which was filling his baby mind. Had nurse been at home, she
would have known how to manage; she would have coaxed smiles from little
Fred, and taken him up in her arms, and “mothered” him a good bit.
Babies of two require a great lot of “mothering,” and it is surprising
what desolation fills their little souls when it is denied them.
Fred cried while Patience was dressing him; he got almost into a passion
when she washed his face, and he sulked over his breakfast. Patience was
not at all the sort of girl to manage a child like Fred; she was rough
in every sense of the word; and when rough petting failed, she tried the
effect of rough scolding.
“Come, baby, come, you _must_ eat your bread and milk. No nonsense now,
open your mouth and gobble it down. Come, come, I’ll slap you if you
don’t.”
But baby Fred, though sorrowful, was not a coward; he pushed the bowl of
bread and milk away, upset its contents over the clean tablecloth, and
raised two sorrowful big eyes to the new nurse’s face.
“Naughty dirl, do away,” he said; “Fred don’t ’ove ’oo. Fred won’t eat
bekfus’.”
[Illustration]
“Oh, Miss Rosie, what a handful he is!” said Patience.
“Let me try him!” said Rosie; “I’ll make him eat something. Come Freddy
darling, you love Rosie, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” said Fred.
“Well, you’ll eat some breakfast; come now.”
“I won’t eat none bekfus’—do away.”
Rosie turned round and looked in a despairing way at her own three
brothers.
“If only nurse were at home!” she said.
“Master Fred,” said Patience, “if you won’t eat, you must get down from
the breakfast-table. I have got to clear up, you know.”
She popped the little boy on the floor. He looked round in a bewildered
fashion.
“Let’s have a very exciting kind of play, and perhaps he’ll join in,”
said Rosie, in a whisper. “Let’s play at kittens—that’s the loveliest of
all our games.”
“Kittens” was by no means a quiet pastime. It consisted, indeed, in wild
romps on all-fours, each child assuming for the time the character of a
kitten, and jumping after balls of paper, which they caught in their
mouths.
“It’s the happiest of all our games, and perhaps he’ll like it,” said
Rosie.
“Patie,” said Alec, going up to the new nurse, “does ’oo know
_Tic-tac-too_?”
“Of course I do, master Baby—a silly game that.”
“I ’ike it,” said little Alec.
He tripped across the nursery to the younger baby, and sat down by his
side.
“Take off ’oo shoe,” he said.
Fred was very tired of being cross and miserable. He could not say he
was too little to Alec, for Alec was scarcely bigger than himself.
Besides he understood about taking off his shoe. It was a performance he
particularly liked. He looked at Baby Alec, and obeyed him.
“Take off ’oo other shoe,” said Alec.
Fred did so.
“Pull off ’oo ’tocks,” ordered the eldest baby.
Fred absolutely chuckled as he tugged away at his white socks, and
revealed his pink toes.
“Now, come to Patie.”
Fred scrambled to his feet, and holding Alec’s hand, trotted down the
long nursery.
“Patie,” said Alec, “take F’ed on ’our lap, and play _Tic-tac-too_ for
him?”
[Illustration]
Patience was busy sewing; she raised her eyes. Two smiling little
baby-boys were standing by her knee. Could this child, whose blue eyes
were full of sunshine, be the miserable little Fred?
“Well, master Alec,” she said, kissing the older baby, “you’re a perfect
little darling. Well, I never! to think of you finding out a way to
please that poor child.”
“Tic-tac-too!” said Fred, in a loud and vigorous voice. He was fast
getting over his shyness, and Alec’s game suited him to perfection.
But the little stranger did _not_ like the game of kittens. He marched
in a fat, solid sort of way across the nursery, and sat down in a
corner, with his back to the company. Here he really looked a most
dismal little figure. The view of his back was heart-rending; his curly
head drooped slightly, forlornness was written all over his little
person.
“What a little muff he is!” said Harry; “I’m glad I didn’t give my skin
horse to him.”
“Oh, don’t,” said Rosie, “can’t you see he’s unhappy? I must go and
speak to him. Fred,” she said, going up to the child, “come and play
with Alec and me.”
[Illustration]
“No,” said Fred, “I’se too little to p’ay.”
“But we’ll have such an easy play, Fred. _Do_ come; I wish you would.”
“I’se too little,” answered Fred, shaking his head again.
At that moment Rosie and her two elder brothers were called out of the
room to their morning lessons. Rosie’s heart ached as she went away.
“Something must be done,” she said to herself. “That new little boy-baby
will get quite ill if we can’t think of something to please him soon.”
She did not know that a very unexpected little deliverer was at hand.
The two babies were now alone in the nursery, and Patience, having
finished her tidying up, sat down to her sewing.
Patience lifted him on her lap, popped him down with a bounce, kissed
him, and began,—
“Tic, tac, too,
The little horse has lost his shoe,
Here a nail, and there a nail,
Here a nail, and there a nail,
Tic, tac, too!”
When the other children returned to the nursery, they heard peals of
merry baby laughter; and this was the fashion in which a little boy won
his name.
“HOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.”