THE RIDE HOME.
"SO you've been nutting, eh?" said Mr. Dart (for that was the farmer's
name), looking first on one side of him and then on the other, where
his two companions sat.
"Yes, sir," said Nelly, "and we have had real good luck too. Only see
how full our baskets are."
"Dolly told me you were going to stop for her some time, to go nutting
with you," said the farmer, turning round as he spoke, and putting a
cabbage that was jolting out of the wagon back into its place. "I am
glad of that: I hope she will be able to accompany you. If you should
chance to come on one of her well days, I guess she will."
"Well days, sir?" asked Bessie.
"Yes; she has the fever'n nager pretty bad, and that brings her a sick
day and a well day, by turns. It's the natur' of the disease."
"What! sick _every_ other day!" cried Bessie;--"well, if that is not
too bad! And she seems so good too. Why, we owe this ride to her."
"Yes," said the farmer, "Dolly is a pretty good little girl. Never
had much trouble with Dolly in all her life. She's always willin' to
help round the house as much as she can, and now that her mother is
down with the nager, I couldn't get along without her, anyway. In the
summer time Dolly makes garden with the best of us. Many is the field
she's sowed with grain, after I've ploughed it up. Half of these ere
cabbages Dolly cut and put in the wagon herself. You see that little
basket back in the corner?"
The children looked back in the wagon, and there, sure enough, was a
small covered basket, jolting around among the potatoes.
"That's Dolly's water cresses," said Mr. Dart. "I haven't taken a load
to market for the last month without Dolly's basket of watercresses.
She gathers them herself, down in our meadow, where the ground is wet
and soft, and where they thrive like every thing. They seem to be
getting poor now, and I don't believe Doll will be able to pick many
more this year. Why, the money that girl has made off them cresses is
wonderful. I always hand it right over to her, and she puts it by to
save against a time of need. Cresses sell just like wildfire in our
market-place,--I mean, of course, fine ones like my Dolly's are in
their prime."
"Cresses," said Bessie, with growing interest, "do people really pay
money for _cresses_? Why, the field back of our house is full of 'em!
They have great, thick, green leaves, and they look as healthy as
possible."
"Do they?" said the farmer, smiling at her kindly; "well, then I can
just tell you your folks are fortunate. They ought to sell 'em and make
money out of them."
"I wish we could," said Bessie, clasping her hands at the thought, "how
glad mother would be if we could! Mother is sick, sir, and cannot do
all the work she used, to earn money."
"Ah," said the former, with a look of concern; "I am sorry to hear
that, my little girl. I know what it is to be sick, and have sick folks
about me. What's the matter? has she got the nager too?"
"No, sir," said Bessie, "we don't have that down our way. I don't know
what _does_ ail mother. She sort o' wastes away and grows thin and
pale."
"Like enough it's the nager," said the farmer; "there is nothing like
it for making a body thin and pale."
"That's Bessie's house," cried Nelly, as a sudden turn in the road
revealed their two homes, at the foot of the hill, "that white one with
the smoke curling out of the left hand chimney."
"And a nice little place it is too," said the farmer. "I pass right by
it almost every day, and sometimes in the middle of the night, when
all little girls are in their beds and asleep."
Bessie looked at the kind-hearted farmer, and wondered to herself what
could bring him so near her home in the nighttime. As her thoughts by
this time were pretty well filled with what he called the "nager,"
she concluded that it must be for the purpose of getting the doctor
for himself and his family. The farmer, however, who seemed fond of
talking, soon undeceived her.
"You see," he began, "that it is a very long drive from my house to
town, say eight miles, at the least, and when I start as I have to-day,
about sundown, it takes me, with a heavy load, generally, till half
past eight o'clock to get to the market. Well, then I unload, and sell
out to a regular customer I have, a man who keeps a stand of all sorts
of vegetables, and who generally buys them over night in this way. Then
I turn round and come back. It is often eleven o'clock when I reach
home and go to bed. Sometimes, again, according to the orders I have
from town, Dobbin and I start--"
"Dobbin?" interrupted Bessie, "is Dobbin the horse, sir?"
The farmer nodded smilingly, and continued, "Dobbin and I start at five
o'clock in the morning, and we go rattling into market, just in time to
have the things hurriedly sorted and in their places, before the buyers
begin to throng about the stalls. I stop there a while, but I get home
before noon, and Dolly always has my dinner ready to rest me, while
Dobbin eats his to rest _him_."
"I wish Dolly could go to our school," said Nelly, after a pause. "Miss
Milly, our teacher, is so good to us all. She lives in this little
house that we are passing."
The farmer looked round at the school-house, and Nelly thought she
heard him sigh as he did so. "Dolly is a smart girl, and a nice girl,"
said he, gravely, "but I am afraid her mother and I can't give her much
book larnin'. Wish I could: but times are hard and money scarce. Dolly
knows how to read and write, and I guess she will have to be content.
Her health isn't strong, either, and she couldn't stand study."
"Here we are, sir, this is our house," cried Nelly, as the wagon neared
the farm-house gate. "I'm very much obliged to you for my lift."
The farmer handed down her basket of nuts, and told her she was quite
welcome. Bessie called out good-by, and the farmer drove on again. A
short distance brought them to Bessie's house. As she in her turn was
getting down, Mr. Dart asked her if she had any objections to show him
the water-cress field of which she had spoken. Bessie was delighted to
do it, so Dobbin was tied to a tree, and the little girl led the way to
the back of the house.
"Does the field belong to your mother?" asked the farmer.
"Yes, sir," said Bessie, "this house and the garden and the wet meadow
where the watercresses grow, mother owns them all. She's sick now, as I
told you, sir, and oftentimes she lies in her bed and cries to think we
can't get on better in the world. I'd help her, if I could, but I don't
know any thing to do."
It did not take long to reach the wet meadow, as Bessie called it.
It lay only a stone's throw back of the house. It was called "wet,"
because a beautiful brook coursed through it, and moistened the ground
so much as to render it unprofitable for cultivation. The watercresses
had it all their own way. They grew wild over nearly the whole field,
and extended down to the very edge of the brook, and leaned their
beautiful bright leaves and graceful stems into the little stream, as
it flowed over the pebbles.
Bessie led the farmer to a large, flat stone, where they could stand
with dry feet and survey the scene. The sun was just setting; they
could see the glow in the west through the grove of trees that skirted
the outer edge of the field; the birds were just chirping their
mournful October songs, as they flew about, seeking for a shelter for
the coming night; the murmur of the brook added not a little to the
serenity of the hour.
The farmer stooped, and reaching his hand among the wet earth where the
cresses grew, plucked one, and tasted it.
"It is as fine as any I ever ate," said he, "and, as far as I see, your
mother's meadow is full of just such ones. The frost and the cold winds
have spoiled ours, but yours are protected by that hill back there, and
are first-rate."
"Do you think we could get money for them?" cried Bessie, jumping up
and down on the loose stone on which they stood, until it shook so as
almost to make her lose her balance and fall into the water; "do you
think people will _buy_ them?"
"Certainly," said the farmer, giving his lips a final smack over the
remnant of the cress, "certainly I do, and they are so clear from weeds
it will be no trouble to gather them. What is your name, little girl?"
"Bessie, sir, and my mother's name is that too. Wouldn't you like to
come in and see her for a moment, to tell her about the cresses?"
"Not to-day," said the farmer, shaking his head, and looking at the
sinking sun; "it grows late, and I have a long journey to go, but
I'll tell you what I _will_ do. I go to market again the day after
to-morrow, and I leave home at five o'clock in the morning, or
thereabouts. Now, I'm sorry to hear of your mother's troubles, and
I want to help her if I can. You tell her all I have said about the
cresses bringing a good price, and see if she has any objections to
your gathering a big basket full, and having it ready to send to market
when I pass by. I can take one for you just as well as not, three or
four times a week. Leave it just inside the gate, and I will get it,
for it will be too early for you to be up."
"Yes, sir," said Bessie, her face perfectly radiant with smiles; "how
good you are to take so much trouble--how good you are! I'll tell
mother all about you, be sure of that."
"And now I must be off," said the farmer, stepping from the flat stone
into the moist grass and picking his way as well as he could towards
the house, and thence to the gate. Bessie followed him to the road, and
watched him untie old Dobbin. The tears came in her eyes as she called
out,
"Good-by, sir, good-by."
The farmer turned, half smiled to see how grateful the poor child
looked, and said kindly,
"Good-by, Bessie."