_GENTLEMAN PHIL._
"He is gentil that doth gentil dedes."--CHAUCER.
The birds have been awake, chirping and twittering for more than an
hour, and the sun has stolen the first cool freshness from the clear
dewdrops, as a pair of small feet come scudding across the lawn and
down the gravel path.
Phil is up betimes to-day. He had opened his eyes as he heard cook's
heavy, deliberate tread on the stairs--she is stout and old, and he
knows her step well--and then he knew that it must be quite early,
about half-past five.
Very gaily he tumbled out of his bed, and struggled into his white
summer suit.
He grew rather mixed over the buttons. There seemed so many along the
top of his small knickerbockers! What could be the use of them all?
_One_ was quite enough to hold the things together, and he made up
his mind to ask nurse to cut off all the others.
Not _now_, though! Oh no! He only peeped into her room through the
half-open door, with a mischievous smile on his sweet bonny face, and
looked at her still sleeping figure, until she stirred a little. Then
he promptly drew back his head, and snatching up his garden shoes, ran
noiselessly down the stairs.
He watched from behind the hall curtain until cook had opened the garden
door, and gone to fetch her pail.
Now came his opportunity! Pulling on his shoes, he was quickly
scuttling over the grass, looking very like a small white rabbit,
as he disappeared among the trees and shrubs.
I don't think that my little motherless, six-year-old friend knew that
he was doing anything naughty when he escaped in this way from the
vigilance of his lawful guardians.
There was an honest, unselfish desire in his heart which had prompted
this deeply laid plan, and he had been waiting for several days, with a
patience rarely seen in a child his age, for an opportunity to carry it
into effect.
As he trotted past his own strip of garden, at the further end of the
Rose Walk, he was thinking to himself--
"Of course, nobody must see me do it. Gentlemen never do things because
they want to be thanked. I should _hate_ it so if she said 'thank you,'
even once."
And away went the fat legs down the kitchen garden, and across the
paddock, towards Farmer Greeson's corn field, where the golden grain
stood helplessly in closely packed shocks.
Poor Farmer Greeson thought it very hard that Club Day should come just
in the middle of his "harvesting;" that his precious wheat must stand a
whole day waiting to be carried; and that another field must wait uncut
while the club enjoyed itself. But, then, the old man was obliged to
remind himself that the harvest was much later than usual this year.
Unsettled weather and frequent storms had upset so many farming
operations.
Ah! But what was a lost day to Farmer Greeson was Phil's golden
opportunity.
He had listened to the servants' talk about their holiday, and though he
did not quite understand what "Club Day" meant, he was quite sure that
he need not be afraid of intruders upon his darling scheme at this early
hour, and so he climbed the farmer's gate, and dropped with a merry
"hurrah" on to the stubbly ground.
An hour later still finds Phil alone in the field, stooping over the
ground and moving slowly along. He looks like a tiny old man, with his
bent form and his hat pushed to the back of his head.
Phil is gleaning.
Steadily and laboriously he gathers up the scattered ears of corn.
He finds it harder work than he thought, and he stops now and then to
take out his handkerchief and wipe his hot face, with a quaint imitation
of the labourers he has so often watched. Then he stands with his arms
akimbo, to rest before setting to work again with determined energy.
There is quite a large bundle of gleanings lying on his outspread
handkerchief. He has brought his best and largest to hold his gains; and
now the heap of corn almost eclipses the border of kittens and puppies,
with arched backs and bristling tails, that Phil thinks "so jolly."
Hark! What a delicious peal of laughter.
The little gleaner has stopped again to straighten his back, and is
watching the merry gambols of two brown baby rabbits that, quite
unconscious of Phil's nearness, are playing round one of the shocks,
as if they thought it had been put there solely for their amusement.
Round and round, in and out, they scamper, until Phil's laughter breaks
into a shout, and he claps his hands in keen delight.
This brings the entertainment to an abrupt end.
Off fly the terrified animals--their fun and frolic turned to fear by
that very human and boyish cry; and the child's merriment dies too.
He begins his labours again, saying to himself, "Well, you bunnies are
awfully easily scared! It's a good thing gentlemen can be braver than
that."
And so the sturdy legs trudge backwards and forwards across the field.
The sun shines warmly, and Phil's face grows hot and red. Phil begins to
feel hungry too.
"If I was a big man, I think I should have a nice lot of bread and
cheese! I wish I _was_ a man. But I can be a gentleman _now_, father
says so."
He stands with his head on one side and his hands in his pockets,
looking down thoughtfully at his gleanings. He is sure that he has got
enough now; but he is not quite so sure that he can carry them all at
once. However, he boldly grasps the corner of his gay handkerchief
lifts the bundle, and staggers under its weight across the uneven
ground.
Through the little gate on the other side of the corn field, with his
back turned to his own home, Phil pushes his way, and passes into the
cool shadows of the lane, just as a servant-maid enters the field by
the other gate.
If you wanted to escape observation, you did not enter the lane a minute
too soon, little Phil.
Look at the earnest purpose in his blue eyes, and the brave determination
with which he sets his teeth and struggles on with his load. A little
further and he reaches an old broken gate, standing open and leading to
a neglected garden.
Phil stops for a moment and listens. He hears nothing.
Yes; an old hen is clucking with motherly satisfaction over two
long-legged chickens that are racing for a fat green caterpillar. That
is all.
So Phil is satisfied, and plods up the narrow garden footway until
he comes to a standstill at an old cottage door. He has to put his
precious bundle on the ground while he stands on tiptoe and raises the
latch.
"Who's there? Is any one there?" says a quavering old voice, and the
child nods his curly head and smiles, but says nothing.
Pushing the door open very softly, he enters the one room of which the
cottage consists. On a bed in a corner lies a very old woman; her thin
hands clasped patiently on the counterpane, and her sightless eyes
covered with a broad white bandage.
"Ah, daughter, I've had a long, long night; and I'll be glad of my cup
of tea. But you're main early, ain't you, dearie? I don't feel the sun
upon my face yet!"
How difficult it is for Phil to hold his tongue, as he crosses the
cottage floor and stands for a moment by Dame Christy's bedside, looking
at her with a whole world of pity in his bonny eyes.
This is by no means the first time that he has been in this humble
home; but never has he come as the silent smiling visitor he is to-day.
He puts his bundle on the bed by the old woman's side, looks wistfully
at the bandaged eyes, and then creeps slowly and softly across the room
and runs out into the sunlight--down the lane.
With tired arms swinging from a sense of relief, with bright curls
tossing, and dusty feet plodding over the ground, Phil enters the corn
field, and runs--into the outstretched arms of Jane, the housemaid.