WILLY'S TRAVELS ON THE RAILROAD.
INTENDED FOR YOUNG CHILDREN.
BY MRS. MARCET.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1847.
LONDON:
SPOTTISWOODE and SHAW,
New-street-Square.
CONTENTS.
THE RAILROAD.
THE SPOILED CHILD.
THE TUNNEL.
OLD AND YOUNG.
THE THIRD CLASS CARRIAGES, OR THE MARKET GIRL.
THE INN.
THE ARBORETUM.
CHILDREN'S GAMBOLS.
THE FACTORY.
THE FARM.
TREES.
THE FACTORY VISITED.
THE COUNTRY HOUSE.
THE GARDENER.
THE LITTLE COWARD.
THE LITTLE COWARD (CONTINUED).
THE LITTLE WASHERWOMAN.
THE RETURN TO OLD FRIENDS.
WILLY'S TRAVELS ON THE RAILROAD.
THE RAILROAD.
Willy, when he was six years old, went with his Papa and Mamma to take
a long journey. He had but a confused notion what a long journey was;
and knew nothing of the railroad by which they were to travel. When
they reached the _station_ from which the train of carriages set out,
Willy was at first bewildered by the novelty of the scene, and by
the bustle which takes place in settling all the passengers and their
luggage. He felt a little awed by the strangeness of every thing around
him; but looking about, and seeing nothing to be afraid of, he took
courage, and began to observe and ask questions as usual.
"You thought we should be too late, Mamma," said he, "but you see we
are in very good time, for the horses are not yet put to any of the
carriages."
"They go without horses," replied his Mother.
"Without horses!" repeated he; "how can those great coaches go on
without horses? There must be somebody to push or to pull them, for
they cannot move by themselves."
"There is some_thing_, not some_body_," said his Mother, "which makes
them move, and here it comes." Willy at that instant heard a great
rumbling noise, and, turning round, he saw a strange-looking carriage
full of fire inside, and, as it rolled on, it made a terrible whizzing
noise, and a great deal of white smoke came out of it. Willy thought
that it was on fire, and he drew his Mamma back, crying out, "O Mamma!
it will burn us."
But she answered, "No, no, it will make us go on. Look at the two men
upon that carriage, they are not hurt by riding on it, nor shall we be
hurt when our carriages are drawn by it."
"What is it, then?" asked Willy; "it looks like a live monster, more
than like a carriage?"
"It is only a steam-engine," replied she, "like that which moves a
steam-boat, in which you have often been, and what you take for smoke
is steam rising from boiling water, just as it does from the tea urn."
"But that is real fire inside the carriage, is it not?"
"Yes," replied she, "and there is real fire in the tea urn, in the
shape of a red-hot heater; fire is wanted both in the tea urn and in
the steam-engine, to make the water boil, for without boiling water we
can have no steam; and without steam we should not be able to get on so
fast, either in a boat, or on the railroad."
"And then," said Willy, "we should be like the man and the pig, we
should not get home to-night."
"Very true, Willy, you can understand the story of the pig that would
not go over the bridge, much better than how a steam-engine can move a
boat, or a train of carriages."
Just then a little bell went ting-a-ring-a-ring, and his Mamma told him
it was to let them know that the train was going to set off; so the
passengers all hastened to take their places. The train at first set
off rather slowly, but then it went on faster and faster, till it got
to its full speed, and Willy thought that there must be horses to make
it go so fast. He looked out of the window, but the train was so long
he could see neither the beginning nor the end. He saw only the houses
and trees and fields, looking as if they were moving.
"I know they do not," said he; "but in the railroad, I think every
thing seems to be moving. And do, Papa, look, how little the cows are
in that field. And are those sheep? they seem to be no bigger than
lambs;--and I declare those houses," said he, pointing to them, "look
almost like baby houses at the toy shop."
"Those houses are really small," replied his father, "but not so very
small as you suppose, for they are large enough for people to live in;
every thing seen from the train when it is moving fast, appears smaller
than it really is; but I will not try to explain the reason, because
you could not understand it."
"But, Papa," continued Willy, "the steam-engine must be stronger than
horses, to be able to move the train."
"Much stronger than one horse," replied he; "the engine which draws
this train is one perhaps of thirty-horse power, which means that it
has the power or strength of thirty horses."
"But I wonder that thirty horses should be able to draw so many
carriages along, such large carriages too, much bigger than our
chariot, and so many people in them."
"They are, indeed, a great deal larger," said his father; "for each
carriage will hold eighteen persons."
"But there is only room for six in this carriage," observed Willy.
"True; but this is only a part of the carriage; it looks like a
whole carriage inside, but if you saw it from the outside, you would
find that there were two others joined close to it, to make a whole
carriage."
"I think, then," said Willy laughing, "that the whole carriage is like
a house with three rooms in it, and that we are riding in one of the
rooms; indeed it is so large that it looks almost as big as a little
room."
"Just so," replied his father. "Now, can you tell me how many people
there are in the whole carriage?"
"Yes," said Willy, carrying on the joke, "if there are three rooms
and six persons in each, there must be eighteen in the whole house;
for three times six makes eighteen in the multiplication table. But I
should like to know how many people there are in the whole train, and
that cannot be in the multiplication table, I think."
"No," said his father; "there are, I believe, ten of these carriages,
and eighteen times ten makes one hundred and eighty."
"But," added he, "there are a great many other carriages of a different
kind belonging to this train; they are called the second and third
classes, and are cheaper, so that the common people can afford to go
in them. The second class is not so well fitted up as this carriage
(which is one of the first class), and is more exposed to the air; and
the third class, which is the cheapest, is quite open."
"Oh, then, I should like that best," said Willy; "for I like open
carriages so much, you can see the horses;--oh no, not on the
railroad," added he; "but then you see everything around you, without
the trouble of looking out of the windows, and then the fresh air blows
so nicely about you."
"We will try them before we get to the end of our journey," said his
father.
"But," asked Willy, "how can one steam-engine be strong enough to draw
all these carriages; for it is not alive? I know that men are strong,
and horses are stronger, and elephants are stronger still, but they are
all alive; I never knew anything strong that was not alive; did you,
Mamma?"
"Yes," replied she, laughing, "I once saw a little boy blown down by
the wind; now the wind must have been strong to blow down the boy, and
yet it is not alive. Then don't you remember when you bathed in the
sea last summer, how strong the waves were? you often told me that if
the bathing woman had not held you tightly, they would have thrown you
down."
"Oh yes," cried Willy, "and the waves are not alive; though they move
about and froth so much, they are only sea water; but I am sure they
are strong, very strong indeed. And is there anything else strong that
is not alive?"
"The steam from the steam-engine, which looks so light that you took it
for smoke, is strong enough to draw this long heavy train. But observe,
it is not the steam which you see flying about that moves the train,
but that which is kept close inside the engine and cannot get out. Then
the carriage wheels rolling on this smooth iron rail move more easily."
"I thought," added he, "that iron rails always stood upright as they do
in the railing before our house. I never saw an iron rail lying on the
ground as these do, unless it was broken or thrown down."
"Any bar of iron," replied his father, "is called a _rail_, and may be
used either upright or lying on the ground, or in any way in which it
is wanted; but it is more commonly called an iron bar when it is not
used as a railing. The iron bars which fasten the window shutters are
not called rails."
The train now slackened its pace, as it was near the station, where
they were to stop for passengers.
This station was a very pretty looking building in which several
persons were waiting the arrival of the train; as soon as it stopt,
many passengers hurried out, and many others got in. "I think it is
like playing at puss in the corner," said Willy.
"Yes," replied his mother, "and sometimes a passenger is too late, and
then he is really puss in the corner, for the train sets off without
him, and he loses his place."
THE SPOILED CHILD.
Willy and his parents had had no one in their carriage but an old
lady, who wore a very old-fashioned black bonnet; but now the door was
opened, and there came in a lady with a pretty looking little girl,
and immediately afterwards the ting-a-ring bell gave the signal of
departure. "Here we are off again," cried Willy, "whiz, whiz, whiz:
and look at the pretty curling smoke, oh no, the steam I mean, which
is going all the way with us. Well, I think a railroad is very funny
after all, though it does frighten you a little sometimes." Willy now
looked at the little girl, and thought she would make a nice little
companion for him; but though he tried all he could to get acquainted
with her, she would not say a word. He asked her what her name was,
but her Mamma was obliged to answer for her that it was Harriet; then
how old she was, still she was dumb; and her mother said five last
birthday. At last Willy thought of another way of getting the better
of her shyness. A school-fellow of his had given him a very pretty
ball as a keepsake just before he set out on his journey; this ball
was in his pocket, and he took it partly out, so as to tempt the
little girl to look at it, and wish to see more. She wondered what
that pretty looking red and yellow round thing could be; it could not
be an orange, because it was half red, and it could not be an apple;
so then she smiled, as much as to say, Show me the whole of it. Willy,
seeing she was pleased, took the ball quite out of his pocket, and
asked her to catch it. She immediately held out a pretty little apron
she wore to catch it, and then she threw it back again, and so they got
quite well acquainted, and went on playing at ball for some time, till
unfortunately Harriet, who was a little awkward in taking aim, threw
the ball so that it fell into the old lady's lap; this made her grumble
at troublesome children, and throwing the ball back to them, she
declared that if it came in her way again she would throw it out of the
window. The children took more care, but their spirits rose as the game
went on, the ball was tossed higher and higher, with less attention,
till in an unlucky moment it fell plump on the old lady's high-crowned
bonnet, and as it was only made of silk, pushed it down, so that the
bonnet was in an instant changed from a bonnet with a remarkably high
crown, into a bonnet which looked as if it had no crown at all. This
struck the children as so funny, that they both burst out laughing; it
certainly was wrong, because it was very rude, but the laughing burst
out before they had time to think of that. However, their gaiety was
soon at an end, for the old lady, after having had some trouble to find
the ball, which had, as it were, hidden itself in the crown of her
bonnet, kept her promise, and threw it out of the window. Upon this the
little girl began to cry, and screamed out to her Mamma, to stop the
carriage in order to pick up the ball; but her Mamma told her that was
impossible, but promised to buy her a ball when they came to the end
of the journey; but this was far from pacifying little Miss, she almost
screamed herself hoarse, because her Mamma would not stop the carriage;
and then frowned rudely at the old lady for spoiling her game at play.
Willy looked at her with astonishment; the very pretty little girl was
become ugly from her passion. Her Mamma, half scolding, half coaxing,
took her on her lap and gave her a piece of barley sugar to stop her
crying, but she sobbed so violently, that it almost choked her when it
was first put into her mouth; at length, quite worn out, she sunk on
her Mamma's bosom, and sobbed herself to sleep.
The mother made the best apologies she could to the old lady, but could
not help observing that it was very hard to throw away the children's
ball. The old lady replied, "she had given them warning, so it was
their own fault." The child's mother declared that she was the best
child in the world when not put in a passion, but then she really could
not manage her; she hoped she would outgrow it.
"Her passions will grow stronger as she grows older," replied the
lady, "if she is not corrected in time. I believe if you punished her
instead of giving her barley sugar, when she is in such a rage, it
would do her more good. And you, my little fellow," added she, speaking
to Willy, "you did not cry, though it was your ball that I threw out
of window. Come here, and I will try to make you some amends." If the
truth must be told, Willy had felt the tears start to his eyes when
he saw the ball fly out at the window; it not only broke up the game,
but it was his dear Harry's parting present: however, he had learnt
how to command himself, and made no complaint. He crossed the carriage
and went up to the old lady, though not without showing some signs of
reluctance: she said, "I treated you as you deserved by throwing away
your ball, because it is proper that children should be taught how to
behave in a public carriage towards strangers. But you behaved very
well in not crying, or saying anything saucy about it. Now," continued
she, "I have a pretty picture-book in this bag, and I will lend it
you to look at." The book was full of beautifully coloured prints,
with a few lines in verse at the bottom of each, so easy, that Willy
could both read and understand them. He amused himself with this book
extremely, and thanked the lady; indeed, he was nearly saying that it
amused him better than the ball; but he did not, because he thought
that would not be fair towards Harry.
The mother of the sleeping child, seeing Willy so much pleased,
observed, it was a pity that the lady had not thought of this book of
pictures before; for it was the very thing that would have amused and
pacified her little girl.
"I should not have shown the book," said the old lady, "had the little
girl been awake. I like to amuse children when they are good, but it is
right they should be punished when they are naughty. I have had a great
many children," continued she, "and a great many grandchildren, and
I never once rewarded them for crying, and when they found crying was
of no use, they left it off. A child would much rather laugh than cry,
when he can get nothing by crying. But when a child knows that it will
get either the thing it cries for, or something else to pacify it, like
the piece of barley sugar, it will cry if it has any sense."
Willy thought the old lady was rather severe; he did not recollect
his own Mamma having ever punished him for crying; but then he could
not recollect having cried for any thing: when he cried, it was from
a fall; and then his Mamma laughed at him, if it was a fall which
only frightened him; or, if he was hurt, she applied something to ease
the pain, and then bade him bear it like a man, and not like a baby.
Willy thought he should like to know the grandchildren of the old lady,
they must all be so good; but he wondered whether they were fond of
their grandmamma, and he ventured to ask her how many she had. "Why,
I can hardly tell you," replied she, "I have so many; and my memory
is very bad, now I am so old, that I cannot well reckon them up. But
look at this pretty bag," said she, "it was worked by three of my
granddaughters." This was the bag from which the picture-book had been
taken; it was very pretty, there were three broad white velvet stripes
on each side of it, and these were separated by stripes of green
velvet; the green stripes were plain, but on the white ones beautiful
flowers were embroidered; there were roses, and jessamine, and
jonquils, and violets, and I know not how many other pretty blossoms,
with their bright green leaves, and they looked so fresh and so gay
that they almost seemed to be alive and growing.
"Well, now," said the old lady, "each of my three granddaughters worked
one of these stripes, and their Mamma had the bag made up, with a nice
handle, as you see, and a pretty lock and key, and then they sent it to
me on my birthday. You may suppose how much I was pleased, and what a
nice letter I wrote to thank them for the present; and now I am going
to see them in the country, so I thought this was the time to use my
travelling bag, for it is meant for a travelling bag, to keep all I
want on the road safe and snug; so I put my purse and my spectacles,
and my pocket-book and handkerchief, and two or three books I was
reading, into it, and yet the bag was not half full; then I thought of
a nice way of filling it. I took it to the bazaar, and there I bought
a number of toys, and all sorts of things I knew the children would
like, which filled it to the brim."
Willy stared and thought the cross old lady was becoming quite
good-natured, and he longed much to see all the things in the bag.
The lady guessed his wishes, and said, "As you seem to be a careful
child, I will trust the bag to your hands; take it to yonder corner of
the carriage, where there is an empty seat, and you may look over the
things."
This was a treat, indeed; and I never should have finished, if I told
you all the bag contained. The first thing that Willy saw was a
dissecting puzzle, but he was too impatient to look at the other things
to stop to put it together; besides, he was afraid he might drop some
of the pieces, and that the old lady might grow cross again. The next
was a box of paints. The different colours were so beautifully arranged
that they looked very pretty, though they were only colours to paint
with. Then there was a little palette to spread them on, and a number
of brushes, of different sorts and sizes, to paint with. Next came
a work-box, which did not please Willy so much as the painting-box,
because he knew nothing about needlework; and if the truth must be
told, he did not know much more about painting; but, as he sometimes
daubed over with colours a drawing his Mamma made for him, he fancied
he understood something about painting.
Then there was a large doll carefully wrapped up in silver paper,
so nicely dressed and so pretty, that he thought he should like to
play with it, as well as a little girl could do; but he was afraid of
crumpling its dress, so he only turned it round, and looked at it all
over. Then there was a portfolio for writing, fitted up with pens,
ink, and paper, sealing wax, and in short every thing that could be
wanted for writing. This, he guessed, was for a little boy, for though
a little girl can write as well as a little boy, she does not write so
much, having needlework and other things to do, that do not belong to
little boys.
When Willy had finished the examination of the bag, and put all the
things back in their places, he returned it to the lady, and thanked
her.
THE TUNNEL.
Willy was lying at his ease and resting himself after having done so
much business, when he suddenly heard a loud and harsh sound which
frightened him; he crept close to his Mamma, saying he had never heard
such a horrid screeching noise in his life.
"It is only a signal for something," said she, "but for what, I cannot
tell."
"I dare say it comes from that terrible fire carriage," said Willy.
"It does," replied his father, "a little steam is let out through a
very small hole, and the difficulty the steam has to force its way
through the hole makes this disagreeable whistle."
"You complain of my little whistle sometimes, Mamma," said Willy, "but
I am sure it does not make half so disagreeable a noise as this."
Very soon after, to the great astonishment of Willy, it became suddenly
dark, so dark that he could hardly see his Papa or his Mamma, though
the sun had shone brightly a minute before. He laid hold of his
mother's hand, and asked what was the matter.
"Nothing, my dear," said she, "we are only going through a tunnel."
"A tunnel? what's that?"
"It is a long hole made in the ground through a hill, that the train
may go straight through the hill instead of going over it, for it is
not easy for trains to go up and down hill."
"Then it must be a very long hole indeed! When shall we get through it,
and see daylight again?"
"In a minute or two," replied she; "and this, no doubt, was the reason
the whistle gave a signal, to warn any one, who might chance to be in
the tunnel to get out of the way before the train went in. And this
noise, disagreeable as it is, makes an excellent signal, it is heard at
so great a distance; and it is so unlike all other sounds that it can
never be mistaken."
"And how can they make such a long hole, and so large too! big enough
for the train to pass through?"
"They begin," said his father, "by digging into the hill at both ends,
the end at which we came in, and the end at which we shall soon go out,
and they carry away the earth in wheelbarrows as they go on."
"What a quantity of ground there must be to wheel away!" said Willy;
"and are we very low under ground now?"
"We have not gone down," replied his father; "but then the hill is high
above our heads, much higher than a house."
"Oh dear!" cried Willy, "if the hill were to fall upon us, would it not
crush us to death?"
"Certainly it would, but there is no danger of that. Were you ever
afraid that the ceiling of a room would fall down, and kill you?"
"Oh no," said Willy, laughing, "I never thought of such a thing."
"Because it never happens," said his father; "nor does it happen to
a hill to fall down into a tunnel. Builders, who understand how to
build houses, and engineers, who know how to make tunnels, take care to
construct them in such a manner that they shall not fall."
"I think, Mamma," said Willy, "that we are getting near the end of the
tunnel, for I see a little light."
"That glimmering of light," said his father, "comes from a hole which
has been made from the top of the hill, and is called a _shaft_. When a
tunnel is very long, it is so difficult to get rid of the earth that it
is found easier to take it away from the middle part of the tunnel, by
pulling it up through a shaft, or well."
"Then," said Willy, "they dig a shaft just as they dig a well, I
suppose, only they bring up baskets full of earth instead of water. I
remember seeing the well dug in our garden."
"Then you must have observed, that when they first began to dig the
well they brought up earth; it was not till they had dug down to a
spring of water that they brought up water."
"These shafts have also the advantage of letting light and air into the
tunnel."
"It is but very little," replied Willy, "for I could hardly have seen
you and Mamma, if it had not been for the little lamp at the top of the
carriage."
"Now, Willy," said his mother, "I think you will soon see us by
daylight, for we are coming to the end of the tunnel. Mind that you
look at the sides of the tunnel before we leave it."
The daylight increased every instant, and Willy saw that the sides of
the tunnel as well as the arch overhead were built of bricks.
"Just like the brick walls of a house," said he; "if I had known that,
I should not have been afraid of the hill falling upon us and crushing
us. I thought the tunnel was only a hole made through the ground."
"In some places," said his father, "that is really the case; but then
it is where the ground is made of hard rock, so that it is as strong
and even stronger than a brick wall."
"It is like building a house of stone, like our country house, instead
of bricks, like our house in London."
"Yes," replied his father, "only the stone walls of a tunnel are not
built, they are there all ready made; you have only to cut a road
through them."
"How hard it must be to dig through the solid rock! they cannot do it
with a spade, can they?"
"No; sometimes they work with a pickaxe, and sometimes they blow
up pieces of the rock with gunpowder; but that you are too young to
understand."
Just then the train came out of the tunnel, and Willy was quite
delighted to see daylight once more. He now began to feel very hungry,
and inquired of his Mamma when he should dine?
"We shall very soon arrive at a station," replied she, "where the train
will stop for ten minutes, and as I do not think you can eat your
dinner in so short a time, I believe that you must dine with us when we
reach Derby; you may eat a luncheon at the station, and then you will
be able to wait for a late dinner."
To dine in the dining-room with Papa and Mamma was a treat Willy had
never yet known, and he could not help jumping about for joy; then
recollecting the old lady, he stopped suddenly, fearful of disturbing
her; but she observed his forbearance, and said, "Jump on, my lad, in
your own corner; I like to see children happy when they are good." But
if Willy had not disturbed the old lady, he had awakened the young one,
and she awoke in very bad humour; her eyes were so swelled with crying,
that Willy scarcely knew her again, and thought she looked ugly rather
than pretty. She too was hungry, and said the carriage must turn about
and go home to have dinner; her mother promised she should have her
dinner very soon, the first time they stopped; so then Harriet made up
her mind to grumble and whine until that time arrived. Willy looked at
her, and thought what a sad thing it was to be a spoiled child.
OLD AND YOUNG.
The train now arrived at the Wolverton station, where most of the
passengers alighted to take some refreshment. There was a large room,
and tables covered with good things for travellers to eat. Willy would
have filled his pockets with sweet cakes and fruit; but his mother knew
that would not be good for him, so she allowed him to take a large
bun, and then gave him some sandwiches. He had hardly finished eating
them, when the little bell was heard ting-a-ring-a-ring; and every body
understood what it meant. "It seems to say," cried Willy, "come away,
ladies, come away, gentlemen, from all those nice things, or you will
lose your places; we are going to set off." A great bustle there was,
to be sure, with the crowd of people who were pushing their way out of
the room door, and then hurrying to their carriages.
When Willy and his Papa got into their carriage, they found neither the
old lady nor the spoiled child and her mother, but some gentlemen had
taken their places. And in another minute the train began to move.
"Oh dear!" cried Willy, "they will be left behind; what will they do?"
"They have no doubt come to the end of their journey, and are gone to
the town, in which they live, in one of those little carriages called
flies."
"Flies, Papa," repeated Willy, "why are they called flies? for they are
not a bit like one."
"The carriage is not like the shape of a fly," said his father; "but
it is like one by the quickness of its motion. Flying is quicker than
trotting or galloping, and these carriages are called flies because
they go so fast." They were all glad to have got rid of the spoiled
child. Their new fellow travellers talked among themselves, and Willy
and his parents did so too. Willy felt very grateful to the old lady
for all she had shown him; "yet still, Mamma," said he, "it was rather
hard, I think, to throw my ball out of the window; for we did not hit
her bonnet on purpose. And then, as for laughing, to be sure that was
very wrong; but it was so funny, how could we help it?"
"Do you think, if the same thing were to happen again, you would laugh?"
"Oh no, certainly, I should be more careful now that I know I should
lose my ball."
"The old lady gave you warning; and you see that the lesson has not
been lost."
"But I am sure _you_ would not have done so, Mamma, if you had been the
old lady."
"We ought, my dear, to make some allowance for the infirmities of old
people, which often make them peevish and irritable."
"What are infirmities, Mamma?" asked Willy.
"Old people can neither see nor hear so well as young ones, because
their eyes and their ears become worn out."
"Yes," said Willy, "the old lady was obliged to put on her spectacles
when she read in her book; and she made me repeat what I said often,
because she could not hear me till I spoke louder."
"That," continued his mother, "is owing to her eyes and her ears being
a good deal worn out; and that is the case, I dare say, also, with
her limbs; her legs begin to feel that her body is a great weight to
carry about; and she cannot run, nor even walk so quickly as you can.
Then often old people cannot sleep at night, which makes them tired in
the day time; all these complaints, though not exactly illnesses, are
called infirmities, and are very wearisome to bear; it is therefore
the duty of the young to do all in their power to make the old as
comfortable as they can, and to put up with a little fretfulness and
ill temper on their part, without being angry."
"Oh, poor lady!" exclaimed Willy; "well, when I meet with a cross old
man or woman, I will think of those infirmities you have been telling
me of. I am sure if I had known about them, I should never have laughed
at the old lady when she looked so funny with the ball stuck in her
bonnet."
"That's right, my dear," said his mother; "and on the other hand, I
think the old lady might have had a little more indulgence for the
weakness of children--for children," continued she, "have their
infirmities as well as old people."
"Why what, Mamma?" cried Willy, with surprise; "I am sure I can run and
walk, ay, and skip and jump as well as any body, and see and hear too."
"The infirmities of childhood are not in general of the same nature
as those of old age; and yet there is often a great resemblance
between the two. A child is feeble, because it has not grown up to
its strength; an old person is feeble, because she has lost strength.
Little Sophy is often obliged to be carried in her nurse's arms,
because she is tired of walking; Grandmamma can only walk a little
way either, and wants a stick to support her. Sophy suffers from
tooth-ache, because she is cutting her teeth, which means that her
teeth are growing; Grandmamma has the tooth-ache, because her teeth are
grown old and decayed. Sophy is fed with pap and soft food, because she
has no teeth to chew with; and Grandmamma is obliged to mince her meat,
because the few teeth she has are too much worn out to be able to chew
meat."
"Well," said Willy, "I never should have thought Sophy and Grandmamma
had been so much alike! I am sure they do not look alike at all,
Mamma."
"No; in looks, youth has all the advantage."
They now passed a luggage train which was stopping at one of the
stations, and Willy was very much amused with seeing the number of
cattle, and sheep, and pigs that were closely lodged in the waggons. "I
think those poor creatures are too crowded to be comfortable," observed
he; "I dare say they would like better travelling on foot, as the
flocks of sheep often do."
"I doubt it," said his Mother, "for all along the road the dogs and men
are worrying them to keep them together, and then they are sadly tired
before the day is over: don't you think you would be tired?"
"Oh, that I am sure I should, but then I have only two legs to walk
on, and they have four; so it must be much easier for them. I wish
old people had four legs," continued he, "then they would not feel
the weight of their bodies so great: I know a poor old man who makes
himself two legs of wood besides his own live legs, and that is old
Carter, who walks on crutches; and then Grandmamma has three legs, when
she walks with a stick."
THE THIRD CLASS CARRIAGES, OR THE MARKET GIRL.
Willy's Papa told him that as he had been so long travelling in the
coach which was a close carriage, he would take him to another part of
the train where the carriages were open, as he had promised to do.
Willy was much pleased at this, and when the train stopped at a
station, they got out, and walked to another part of it.
He saw nothing like the open carriages he had been used to; there was
neither phaeton, nor gig, nor caleche; there were, it is true, a number
of immensely large carts full of people carrying baskets, and they sat
down on plain wooden seats in long rows. Willy with his Papa and Mamma
sat next to a rosy-cheeked young woman, who had a large basket of live
fowls, and a smaller one of eggs and butter.
"I am sure you could not carry those heavy baskets?" said Willy.
"No, that I could not indeed," replied the young woman; "I am obliged
to get some one to help me to take them from the station to market, or
else pay the omnibus for doing so. But before we had a railroad, I did
not go so far as Derby; I sold my things at Kegworth, and I could get
no price for fowls there; so I only took butter and eggs to market."
Willy had already made an acquaintance with the fowls in the basket,
the young woman having placed it under his feet as a footstool, for
his little legs were too short to reach the ground. Now Willy having
a piece of the bun in his hand, the remains of the luncheon, which he
was only nibbling because he was no longer hungry, some of the crumbs
fell into the basket and were greedily picked up by the chickens; and
finding it very good, they tried to put their beaks between the twigs
of the wicker to catch some more. Willy, seeing this, every now and
then fed them; but there was one old hen who, being stronger than the
chickens, pushed them away, in order to get all the crumbs for herself.
"No, no," said Willy, "get away, and let the chickens have their
share." However, the hen at last contrived to thrust her head through
the bars of the basket, but there she was caught, for she could not get
it back again. This made Willy laugh. "It serves you right," said he,
"I am sure you cannot swallow anything now you are caught in a trap;"
but when he saw that the hen was really choking in struggling to get
her head free, he was sorry for her, and the young woman opened the
basket, and got the head of the hen back again, but she was a good deal
hurt, and lay at the bottom of the basket very sulky.
"She is well punished for her greediness," said the girl, "but she
will have time to come round again before I get to market, or else I
should not be able to sell her; folks would fancy there was something
the matter with her, and I want to get a good price for my fowls, that
I may have something more than my mother reckons on: and then I shall
be able to spend that in tea and sugar; for tea, she says, comforts her
more than any thing."
"Is anything the matter with your mother," asked Willy, "that she wants
to be comforted?"
"Oh dear, she is blind," said the girl, "and I am sure that's
uncomfortable enough. Stone blind! and yet she is not an old woman
neither, but she has got what the doctors call a cataract, and they
say it can be cured, but that the time is not yet come to cure it; but
when it does, we are to take her to Derby to the hospital, and there
the doctors will do something to her eyes. Oh, I don't like to think of
it," said she, shuddering, "but then they say she will see again, just
as she did years ago."
"You need not be afraid of the operation for your mother," said Willy's
mother; "I assure you it is not painful."
"Why, sure you have not had it done to your eyes, Ma'am?"
"No; but I know from those who have: it is called _couching_, and if
the eyes are carefully bound up afterwards till they get strong, she
may see as well as ever."
"But," said Willy, "I suppose you will stay with her at the hospital to
take care of her."
"No; I shall not be able," replied the market girl, "I must stay at
home to take care of the house, and of my younger brother and sister,
Johnny and Betsey, who go to school."
"Then," asked Willy, "does no body stay with your poor blind mother
when you go to market?"
"It's lucky enough that one of the market days is of a Saturday,
when there is a holiday at school, and on Thursdays, that's to-day,
the little girl stays at home on purpose to attend to mother. Then,
as for the hospital, she will want for no care there, for we have
a grandmother living at Derby, and though she is old, she makes as
good a nurse as anyone; and she will be sure to take care of her
own daughter. Besides, there are plenty of doctors and nurses at the
hospital," said she. "Oh, Derby's a famous place for poor folks; I
suppose you know all about the fine gardens Mr. Joseph Strutt has made
for the people to walk about and amuse themselves in?"
"No, indeed," replied Willy's mother; "we do not know Mr. Joseph
Strutt."
"Not know him!" cried the girl, lifting up her hands with astonishment,
"I thought every body knew Mr. Joseph Strutt. Well, you are going to
Derby, where he lives; so pray go and see him and his house full of
curiosities."
"But as we are not acquainted with him, we cannot take the liberty of
going to his house, or walking in his gardens."
"Oh, but you may," said the girl, "house and gardens are open to
everybody, gentle or simple; but the gardens, I assure you," added she,
with a look of self-satisfaction, "were made for the poor more than for
the rich; you rich people have gardens of your own, but you may come
and see the Arboretum, that is its name, and welcome, and then I am
sure you will say that none of the gardens of the rich can compare with
this. And if you chance to meet Mr. Joseph Strutt there, it will do
your heart good even to look at him; he is so gentle and so kind, and
from his looks you might think that instead of doing good to all the
people about him, they were doing good to him."
"Oh, do let us go and see him," said Willy, "and all his curiosities
and the gardens too." His father said they would try to get introduced
to him, for he liked to see good people, extremely. When they reached
Derby, they took leave of the market girl. Willy helped her to lift the
basket of chickens, and he bid them good by, too; and he was very sorry
to think he should see her no more. "I should have liked to have seen
her little brother and sister, too," said he.
"I am afraid you have not much chance of that," said his mother; "but
who can tell?"
THE INN.
In the mean time they went to an inn at Derby. Willy had never been
at an inn, and knew not what it meant. He supposed it was the house
of one of his father's friends, to whom they were to pay a visit. The
landlady was extremely civil, and asked them what they would like to
have for dinner. She said she had a nice young chicken and some green
peas, and a gooseberry tart, with a custard, which she thought would
please little master. Willy replied, "Oh, yes, that it will, thank
you, Ma'am;" and when she went away, he asked why she did not sit down
and stay with Mamma?
"She is not a friend of mine," replied his mother, "I never saw her
before."
"Then why do you come to her house, if you don't know her, Mamma? You
said you could not go to Mr. Strutt's, because you did not know him."
His mother then explained to him, that this landlady kept a large house
called an inn, or hotel, on purpose to receive travellers, and then
made a bill, and that they paid her for all they ate or drank, and for
the use of the room they sat in, and the bed rooms they slept in.
"This house," said she, "cost her a great deal of money, and she has
besides to pay for all we eat and drink."
"Oh yes," said Willy, "the nice dinner we are going to have must cost
her a great deal of money, and she would not have enough if we did not
pay her."
"So you see, Willy, she takes money out of her pocket to spend for us,
and we put money into her pocket to pay her back again."
Willy was thoughtful for a minute or two, and then asked his Mamma
whether she paid the landlady just as much money as she spent for her?
"Her bill comes to a little more," said his mother, "for if I paid her
only just what she spent for us, she would gain nothing by us."
"But she would not lose either," said Willy; "if she spent a sovereign
for us, and you paid her a sovereign, she would neither gain nor lose."
"I am glad to find you understand accounts so well," said his mother.
"But you must know that this landlady keeps an inn on purpose to gain
money; she wants money to pay for all she and her children eat and
drink, and for their clothing and their schooling, and I know not how
many things besides; now all that I pay her more than she spends for me
she puts in her pocket, and keeps to spend for her own family."
"And does everybody who comes to the inn," asked Willy, "pay her a
little more?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Then all the little mores must make a great deal," observed Willy.
"Oh, how nicely that is contrived! We get good dinners and beds, and
all we want, when we go to the inn, and the landlady gets the money she
wants to spend for her family; so everybody gets something good."
He then ran about, examining all the furniture, which was new to him:
he admired the flowers on the carpet, and was amused with the spring
blinds, and the round dumb waiters, laughing heartily when he was told
that they were called dumb waiters because they could not speak; and
when dinner came he got one placed beside him, and then whispering
to his Mamma, begged she would send away the live speaking waiter,
and make use of the dumb one. So the knives and forks and plates were
placed on the dumb waiter, and then Willy, who had heard his father
and mother ask the waiter for a knife or a plate, said in joke, "Come,
waiter, bring me a plate," and then added, "The waiter is deaf as well
as dumb, and besides that, he cannot move."
"Oh yes, he can," said his Mamma; "at least, if he cannot walk, he can
run, for the dumb waiter runs on castors;" and she pushed it towards
Willy.
"Oh, but I mean it cannot move of itself, like an animal; then it
cannot feel, but I am sure it can make other people feel, for when you
pushed it, it gave me a good blow upon the shoulder."
Willy was to sleep in a little bed in his Mamma's room: that was a
great pleasure, and the new bed was another treat. Then everything was
new to him in the room, and it was a long time before he could go to
sleep, so much was he taken up with the hangings of the bed, which,
instead of being plaited full like the flounce of a gown, were drawn
up in festoons and bordered by a fringe; then it was red damask, not
white, like his own little bed at home; and the paper, instead of
having green and white stripes like that of his nursery, was covered
all over with flowers, which seemed to him much prettier, and there
was an odd sort of wash-handstand which stood like a naughty boy in the
corner; but one after another all these things seemed to fade away, he
saw nothing distinctly, and at last he fell asleep.
The next morning, while they were at breakfast, the landlady came
again, and said she hoped they liked their breakfast, that the eggs
were quite fresh, for her little daughter had brought them in from the
hen-house that morning.
Willy could not help looking at the landlady's pockets, to see if they
were big enough to hold all the money that was paid her, but he saw
nothing but a bunch of keys hanging by her side; then he thought so
much money would be too heavy for her to carry about, 'so I dare say
she keeps it in a lock-up drawer, as Mamma does, and that the keys on
that bunch lock up the drawer;' however, he said nothing. Then, he
thought, this little girl she talks about is one of those she buys
clothes and food for with the money that is paid her. 'I wish I could
see her.' After breakfast his Mamma told him he might go and play in
the garden of the inn, if he would not meddle with any thing. It was a
pretty garden, with a great deal of ripe fruit and many gay flowers in
it; but what pleased him most was the sight of a little girl gathering
gooseberries in a small basket; he asked her whether she was the little
girl who had brought in the eggs that morning, and when she said that
she was, they soon got acquainted. Willy asked her whether she would
let him help her. "That I will," said Anna (for that was her name), "if
you will not eat any of the fruit; can you be trusted?"
"To be sure," answered Willy, a little offended that he should not be
thought trustworthy; "why I am very nearly as old as you are, and have
as good a right to be trusted."
"Ay, that you may be," said Anna, "but I have known boys a great deal
older than you are come and steal apples in our orchard, and only call
it fun. But stealing can't be fun any way, I'm sure. Now, Mamma knows
me and trusts me; but I don't know you, so I don't know whether I ought
to trust you; however, if you promise not to eat any of the fruit you
gather, I will."
This was agreed upon, and Willy gathered the gooseberries so fast that
the basket was soon full; but when Anna came to examine them, she found
a great many of them were not ripe. "Look here," said she, "here is
one, and another, and another, quite green!"
"Why they are all green," cried Willy, "they are not red, but green
gooseberries."
"Yes, but when green gooseberries are ripe they are soft, and look
rather yellowish, like these," said she, showing him some ripe ones:
"well, I am afraid I shall be scolded!"
Willy felt very sorry, and said, "But I will tell your Mamma that it
was I who gathered them, and then she will scold me, and not you."
"Yes," said Anna, "she will scold me for letting you gather fruit when
you did not know which were ripe and which unripe."
The two children looked rather dismal, till at length a bright thought
struck Anna. "I remember," said she, "Mamma told me to gather some
unripe green gooseberries, if I could find any, to make some gooseberry
fool; now perhaps we may just find enough in the basket if we pick them
out;" so they emptied the gooseberries into a large leaf, and picked
out all those which were unripe; and Willy learnt to distinguish a ripe
from an unripe gooseberry, and he said, "I shall never forget it; I was
so much vexed for fear of getting you scolded."
"But take care," said Anna, "if you pinch them so hard to feel if they
are ripe, you will hurt the gooseberries."
"Hurt them," said Willy, smiling, "why they cannot feel."
"Well," said Anna, "I mean spoil them;" and just as she said so Willy
showed her a beautiful large gooseberry, which he held between the
tips of his fingers, saying, "I am sure I need not pinch this to know
whether it is ripe, it is so large and yellow, and looks as if you
could see through it."
"But take care," said Anna, "you do not let it fall by holding it so
slightly, for it is so ripe that if it fell on the ground I dare say
it would burst, the skin is so thin."
So Willy grasped it tighter between his fingers to prevent it from
falling, but he did not consider that if he squeezed it tight the skin
might break; and so it happened; his finger and thumb met together in
the middle of the gooseberry all wet and sticky!
"Well, now you may as well eat it," said Anna, "for no use can be
made of it." But Willy was so much vexed, that he had no wish to eat
the gooseberry; he felt angry with himself for being so awkward, and
fearful that he should get Anna into trouble. However, he just sucked
his fingers to get rid of the wet, and he could not help thinking what
a pity so fine a gooseberry should be lost, the juice tasted so very
nice.