X.

_FRESH TROUBLES._

THE ginger-cakes were a great success. It is true that one's tongue was

bitten, now and then, by a lump of ginger or other spice, not quite as

thoroughly mixed in by Nellie's unaccustomed fingers as it might have

been by those which were stronger and more used to such business; but

who minded such trifles as that, or would refuse to give the little

workwoman the meed of praise she so richly deserved?

Not her papa certainly, who found no fault whatever, and eat enough of

the ginger-cakes to satisfy even his Nellie.

Not even Daisy, who met with such a misfortune as that spoken of above,

while at the tea-table, and who was perceived first by Nellie holding

her tongue with one thumb and finger, while in the other hand she

held out the ginger-cake, regarding it with a puzzled and disturbed

expression.

"What's the matter, Daisy?" asked Nellie.

"Somefing stinged my tongue. I b'ieve it was a bee, and I eat him

up," said Daisy, the ever ready tears starting to her eyes. They were

excusable under the circumstances certainly.

"It has been a little bit of ginger," said Mrs. Ransom, who had

suffered in a similar manner, but in silence. "Take some milk, my

darling."

"O Daisy, I'm so sorry! I suppose I haven't mixed it well," said

Nellie, looking horrified.

Daisy obeyed her mother's command, which brought relief to her smarting

tongue, and then, turning to Nellie with a most benignant smile,

said,--

"You needn't mind, Nellie. I'd just as lieve have my tongue bited for

your ginger-cakes. Papa," she added, turning to her father, "I s'pose

you're going to be busy after tea, ar'n't you?"

"No, papa has nothing to do but to rest himself this evening," answered

Mr. Ransom.

"Oh dear!" sighed Daisy, taking her tongue between thumb and finger

again.

"Do you want papa to be busy?" asked Mr. Ransom.

"I fought you would be," said Daisy, who found it extremely

inconvenient not to be able to pet the injured member and to talk at

the same moment. "I s'posed you'd have to undo that big parcel that's

in the hall closet; and I fought my tongue would feel a good deal

better to know what's inside of it."

"Oh! that is it, is it?" said Mr. Ransom. "Well, yes, I believe I

_have_ that little business to attend to, so your tongue may get well

right away, Daisy."

Having finished his tea, Mr. Ransom now rose and went out into

the hall, returning with the great parcel which had so excited the

curiosity of his little daughter. This he put down upon the floor

beside his chair, went out once more, and came back again with two

smaller parcels. These he put upon the table, and took his seat before

all three.

Daisy's excitement hardly knew bounds now, especially when there came

from within one of the smaller parcels a little rustle, as though

something alive was inside. Still, her attention was principally taken

up with the "biggest one of all;" and, to her great delight, this was

the first papa opened.

Paper and string removed, two bird-cages, _empty_ cages, presented

themselves to the eyes of the children. What could they be for?

"Papa," said Daisy, "you _couldn't_ be going to catch the little

birdies out the trees, and put them in there, could you?"

"Wait a moment," said her father, taking up the parcel whence the

rustling had come.

This, opened, revealed another bird-cage, this a tiny wooden one, but

oh! delight! containing two beautiful canaries. They looked rather

uncomfortable and astonished, it is true, and as if they might be

thoroughly tired of their narrow quarters, from which Mr. Ransom now

speedily released them, putting one bird in each large cage, which was

soon furnished with fresh seed and water, sugar, and all that birds

love.

"What little beauties! Who are they for, papa?" asked Carrie.

"For little girls who have been helpful and kind to mamma during the

past week," said Mr. Ransom, smiling. "I sent up the cages by express,

but brought on the birds myself. Poor little fellows! they are glad to

have reached their journey's end, I think."

"But there's only two, and there are fee girls," said Daisy,--"one,

two, fee girls," pointing by turns to her sisters and herself, "and

one, two birds. That's not enough, papa."

"Papa thought his Daisy too young to have the care of a bird yet,"

said Mr. Ransom, "but here is what he brought for her; for mamma wrote

to him what a good girl she was, and what pains she was taking to cure

herself of that foolish habit of crying for trifles."

And, unwrapping the last parcel, Mr. Ransom disclosed a box containing

a pretty little dinner-set. At another time Daisy would have been

delighted; but what was a dinner-set to a bird?

She stood looking from one to the other without the slightest

expression of pleasure or satisfaction in her own pretty gift.

"Don't you like it, Daisy?" asked her father.

"Papa, I--I--I would if I could, but--but the birdies are 'live, and

the dinner-set is dead; but I wouldn't cry about it, would I, mamma?"

With which she ran to her mother, and buried her face in her lap. Poor

little woman! it was almost touching to see how hard she struggled

with her too ready tears, which had been so long accustomed to have

their way upon small occasion. There was no mistaking the good-will

and resolution with which she was striving to cure herself of a rather

vexatious and foolish habit; but it was such hard work as can only be

imagined by little girls who have been troubled with a similar failing.

Mamma's praises and caresses helped her to conquer it this time again,

though it was a harder trial than usual, and she altogether declined to

look at the dinner-set, or to take any comfort therein.

"Papa," said Nellie to her father in a low tone, as she and Carrie

stood beside him, their attention divided between the birds and Daisy,

"papa, if you will buy Daisy a bird, I will take care of it for her. I

suppose she is too little to do it herself; but she likes pets so much,

and she was so very sweet and unselfish about her white mice, that I

think she deserves a reward."

Mr. Ransom had not heard the story of the white mice; but he now made

inquiries which Nellie soon answered, Daisy's sacrifice losing nothing

of its merit in her telling; while Carrie, feeling more and more

uncomfortable, but neither caring nor daring to run out of hearing,

and so excite questions, stood idly rubbing her finger over the bars

of her bird's cage. The contrast between her own conduct and that of

her almost baby sister was making itself felt more and more to her own

heart and conscience. If Daisy deserved a bird because she had been

loving and considerate for mamma, surely she did not deserve the same.

How she hoped that papa would give Daisy one!

But no; papa plainly showed that he had no such intention, for when

Nellie concluded with these words,--

"Don't you think you will give Daisy a bird of her own, papa?" he

answered,--

"I think not at present, Nellie. I have spent as much as I can afford

at this time on trifles, and Daisy must wait for her bird till

Christmas, or some other holiday. But she is a darling, blessed,

little child, with a heart full of loving, generous feeling, and I do

not think the less of her sacrifice because I do not find it best to

give her a bird just now. I shall try to give her some other pleasure

which may make up to her for the loss of her white mice."

But it did not seem to Nellie or Carrie, any more than it did to Daisy

herself, that any thing could do this so well as a canary-bird; and,

although they knew that it was of no use to try and persuade papa to

change his mind when he had once resolved upon a thing, they felt as if

they could hardly let the matter drop here.

Daisy had heard nothing of all this, for she was cuddled up in her

mother's lap on the other side of the room, where mamma had taken her

away from birds and dinner-set, till she should be petted and comforted

into happiness once more.

And now papa left the other children, and, going over to mamma and

Daisy, sat down beside them, and gave his share of praise to his

little daughter, not only for the giving up of the white mice, but also

for that other matter concerning the tears, which she was so bravely

learning to control, with the idea of "helping mamma."

So at last a calm, though mournful resignation returned to the bosom of

the little one, and she was farther consoled by mamma insisting upon

putting her to bed herself, a treat which Daisy had not enjoyed since

Nellie had taken up the character of mamma's housekeeper; for, when

Ruth could not leave baby, Nellie now always considered this a part of

her duty.

Still Daisy could not refrain from saying, as her mother led her from

the room,--

"Mamma, I fink I never heard of a little girl who had so many _sorrys_

as me; did you?"

When Mrs. Ransom came downstairs, however, she reported Daisy as

restored to a more cheerful frame of spirits, and as singing herself

to sleep with her own version of the popular melody of "One little, two

little, three little nigger boys,"--namely, "One little, two little,

fee little _colored person_ boys;" so careful was she in all things

to heed mamma's wishes, and not at all disturbed by the fact that the

words of her rhyme did not exactly fit the tune. It was all the same to

Daisy. Rules of music and measure were nothing to her, so long as her

conscience was at rest.

The family had all gone out upon the piazza. The father and mother sat

a little apart, talking; the boys were amusing themselves with old

Rover upon the lower step; while Nellie and Carrie were seated above at

the head of the flight.

"What makes you so quiet, Carrie?" asked Nellie.

"I don't know," answered Carrie, though she said "don't know" more from

that way we all have of saying it at times when we are not prepared

with an answer, than from an intention to speak an untruth. Then,

after another silence of a moment or two, she spoke again,--

"Nellie, why won't you make one of those brackets for mamma?"

"For the reason I told you. Because I don't think I shall have time. I

think I'd better take my money to buy her some other Christmas present

all ready made. Mamma will like it just as well if she sees I try to

help and please her in the mean time," said sensible Nellie.

"But you could give her something a great deal prettier if you made it

yourself," said Carrie.

"I know it," answered Nellie, quietly; "but I cannot do it, and have

any play-time, and mamma says she does not wish me to be busy all the

time."

"Pshaw!" said Carrie, whose mind was quite set upon the pair of

brackets to be worked by herself and her sister, "your housekeeping

don't take you so long, and you never study so _very_ much now, so you

have a good deal of time, and I should think you might be willing to

use some of it to make a pretty thing for mamma. You think yourself so

great with the housekeeping."

"I have some other work I want to do," said Nellie. "I would do it if I

could, but I cannot, Carrie."

"That's real selfish," said Carrie. "You'd rather do something for

yourself than please mamma."

Nellie made no answer. If our quiet, gentle "little sunbeam" could not

disperse the clouds of Carrie's ill-temper, she would at least not make

them darker and heavier by an angry retort or provoking sneer. Carrie

was very unjust and unreasonable, it was true; but Nellie knew that

she would feel ashamed and sorry far sooner, if she were let alone,

than she would if she were answered back. And Nellie felt that it was

not so long since she herself had been "cross" and fretful at trifles.

She believed, too, that "something ailed Carrie," making her unusually

captious and irritable at this time. It was not over-study certainly:

Carrie was not likely to be at fault in that; but Nellie could not help

thinking either that she was not well, or that some trouble was on her

mind. What that was, of course, she had not the slightest suspicion.

"After all, Nellie don't think so very much about pleasing mamma," said

Carrie to herself, with rather a feeling of satisfaction in the thought.

It was not pleasant to feel that, while both her sisters were trying so

hard to be useful and good to mamma, that she alone had done that which

was likely to bring annoyance and trouble upon her.

There is an old adage that "misery loves company." I am not so sure

about that, for I do not see what comfort there can be in knowing that

others are unhappy; but I fear that sin often "loves company," and that

there is a certain satisfaction in being able to feel that some other

person is as naughty as ourselves. _Then_ we need not draw comparisons

to our own disadvantage.

Such was Carrie's state of mind just now; and there is no denying that

she was somewhat pleased to believe that Nellie was seeking her own

happiness rather than mamma's.

But still she did not feel that she could so easily give up the idea of

the pair of brackets. To make mamma such a grand present as that seemed

in some sort a kind of amends for her past undutifulness, and she could

not bear that she and Nellie should fall behind Maggie and Bessie in a

Christmas present to their mother.

So she went on to urge Nellie farther, but in a pleasanter tone.

"I think it would be perfectly splendid to give mamma such a lovely

present," she said, "and it would be so nice to tell all the girls in

school that we are going to do it. Don't you think it would?"

"I don't care about telling the girls," answered Nellie, "but I would

be very glad to make such a lovely thing for mamma."

"And you will do it then?"

"No," said Nellie, reluctantly, but decidedly: "I tell you I cannot,

Carrie. I have something else to do, and I know mamma would not wish me

to take any more work. Don't ask me any more."

"What are you going to do?" asked Carrie.

"I'll tell you another time," said Nellie, lowering her voice still

more. "I don't want mamma to hear. Please don't talk about it."

Carrie pouted again, and, to one or two proposals from Nellie that

they should amuse themselves with some game, returned short and sullen

refusals. Presently she rose, and, going to her father and mother, bade

them good-night.

"What! so early, dear?" said her mother in surprise, for it was

something very unusual for Carrie to wish to go to rest before her

ordinary bed-time.

"Yes'm," said Carrie: "I've nothing to do, and it's so stupid; and

Nellie's cross and won't talk to me."

O Carrie, Carrie!

"I am afraid it is Carrie who is a little cross and fretful," said Mrs.

Ransom, who had noticed that this had been Carrie's condition all day.

"Well, perhaps bed is the best place for you. Try to sleep it off, and

be pleasant and good-natured in the morning."

"Everybody seems to think Nellie and Daisy are quite perfect," murmured

Carrie to herself, as she sauntered slowly through the hall and up

the stairs. "No one ever says they do any thing wrong; but always say

I am cross, and every thing else that is horrid. I've a good mind--I

mean I'd just like to go 'way far off in a steamboat or the cars or

something, and stay for a great many years, and then how sorry they'd

be when they'd lost me, and didn't know where I was. They'd be glad

enough when I came back; and wouldn't they wish they'd never been cross

to me!"

Drawing such solace as she could from thoughts like these, after the

manner of too many little children when they have been cross and

discontented, and brought trouble upon themselves, she went on to the

nursery.

"I want my clothes unfastened," she said imperiously to Ruth, who

held the ever-wakeful baby across her knees, having just succeeded in

hushing it to sleep.

Ruth would probably at another time have declined the service demanded

from her, until Carrie spoke in a more civil way; but now she preferred

submission to having the baby roused, which would be the probable

result of any contention between Carrie and herself. So she did as she

was _ordered_ without answering, and thereby secured the quiet she

desired. At least so she thought, as Carrie stood perfectly silent till

the task was nearly completed. But Ruth had reckoned without her host.

Carrie had fully expected that Ruth would reprove her for her

disagreeable way of speaking, perhaps even refuse to do what she

wanted; and she felt ashamed and rather subdued as she stood quietly

before the nurse while she unfastened sash, buttons, and strings. She

had resolved that she would give no more trouble to-night, would not

make any noise that could disturb baby, and was even trying to make up

her mind to tell Ruth she was sorry that she had been so troublesome

and rebellious all day, when she saw--what?

There, secure in the silence of the quiet nursery, was a little mouse

darting here and there, seeking, probably, for what he might find in

the shape of food.

Carrie gave a start, a start as violent as though she herself had been

afraid of the harmless little animals her mother held in such nervous

dread, causing Ruth to start also in involuntary sympathy, and thus

waking the baby upon her lap.

Ruth scolded Carrie, of course: she was more apt to blame her than

she was either of the other children, and to believe that she did a

vexatious thing "on purpose." Probably this was Carrie's own fault,

because she really gave more trouble than her sisters; but it was none

the pleasanter, and perhaps there was some truth in her oft repeated

complaint that she had "a hard time in the nursery."

Be that as it may, Ruth's harsh words were the last drop in Carrie's

brimming cup; and, wrenching herself out of the nurse's hands, she

declared she would finish undressing herself, and ran away to her own

room.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]