WATER-CRESSES.
BESSIE'S mother was both surprised and rejoiced to hear of the kindness
of the farmer. It seemed to her a great stroke of good fortune. The
little sum of money which she had saved in more prosperous days was
almost exhausted, and it had been a bitter thought to her to know, that
when this should be gone, they would have nothing. The little house in
which they lived could be sold, it is true, but the widow had always
looked upon it in the light of a _home_, and not as an article to be
disposed of for support.
A ready consent was given that Bessie should try what she could do with
the water-cresses. The little girl was delighted at the prospect, and
already she saw herself the future possessor of a great deal of money.
Her mother wanted her to gather the cresses the night previous to the
morning on which the farmer was expected, but in her enthusiasm, Bessie
insisted that they would be far fresher and nicer when they reached
market if she should do so at daybreak; and she promised faithfully to
rise in sufficient time to accomplish the feat.
"But, my child," said her mother, "it will not be light enough for you
to choose the best cresses, and the farmer may come before you get
through, and of course we could not ask him to wait. No, gather them
late in the afternoon, carefully select the poor ones, and the dead
leaves and grasses that may be mingled with them, and the rest put in
the oak pail and cover them with clean water. In the morning you can
rise as early as you please, and fasten them up securely in the large
basket, and be ready to give them to the farmer yourself, if you would
like to do so when he passes."
Bessie acknowledged that this was wisest. Accordingly, towards the
latter part of the day before the appointed morning, she provided
herself with a basket and the garden scissors, to go down to the brook
and begin her undertaking. Previous to doing so, however, she put her
head in her mother's room and called out with a gay laugh, "good-by,
mother, I am going to make a fortune for you yet, see if I don't!"
Her mother smiled, and when Bessie shut the door and jumped lightly
down the stairs, two at a time, she felt as though her child's courage
and hopefulness were really infusing courage and hopefulness into
herself.
[Illustration: "She was clipping at the cresses, when she heard some
one call her name."--p. 45.]
Singing at the top of her lungs, Bessie set to work. Never had she felt
as light-hearted and happy. She tucked up her calico dress a little
way, into the strings of her apron, in order to keep it out of the wet,
and drew off her shoes and stockings. Then arming herself with the
scissors, she cut vigorously among the cresses; taking care, however,
to choose only those that presented a fine appearance, for she was
determined that the first specimens the farmer took with him, should be
so fine as to attract the attention of the buyers, and thus induce them
to come again. A shrewd little business woman was Bessie! She had her
basket sitting on some stones near her, and when she moved further
up and down the brook, she was careful always to move that also. She
was singing away as loudly and heartily as she could, and clipping at
the cresses, when she heard some one call her name. She looked up, and
there stood a boy about fourteen years old, named Martin, who lived
on Nelly's father's farm. He looked as though he wanted very much to
laugh at the odd figure which Bessie cut; her sun-bonnet hanging by its
strings to her neck, her dress tucked up to the knees, a pair of shears
in one hand, an enormous basket in the other, and both of her bare feet
in the brook.
"Why, Bessie," said Martin, "what a noise you have been making! I
called you four or five times _real loud_, and I whistled too, and yet
you went on singing 'Old folks at home,' and 'Little drops of water,'
as though your ears were not made to hear any voice but your own!"
"That's 'cause I'm _so_ happy," said Bessie. "Why, Martin, I'm
beginning to earn my own living,--think of _that_. Isn't it fun
though?" and she splashed through the stream to have a nearer talk with
her visitor.
"Earning your living!" repeated Martin; "well, I should call playing in
the brook, as you seemed to be just now, any thing but that."
"Playing!" echoed Bessie, with some indignation, "I am a big girl of
nine now, and I am not going to play any more; I am going to _work_.
Don't you see these cresses?"
"Yes," said Martin, "but they're not good for much, are they?"
"Good!" laughed Bessie, capering about, quite unmindful of bare ankles,
"Good! I shouldn't wonder _much_ if they were. Why, Martin Wray, I'm to
sell 'em, and get _money_ for 'em--plenty of it--till my pockets are so
full that they cannot hold any more--there!"
"Money!" said Martin, "you don't mean to say people buy cresses? What
can they do with them?"
"Eat 'em," replied Bessie, promptly; "mother says rich folks buy them
to make into salads,--mustard, pepper, salt, vinegar, and all that sort
of thing, you know. Mother says they are just in their prime now."
Martin stooped and helped himself to a handful of the cresses. He did
not seem to like their flavor, but made wry faces over them.
"Dear, dear," he said, "how they bite! They will take my tongue off."
"That's the beauty of 'em," said Bessie, coolly, "that's a proof that
they are good. Mother says when they grow flat and insipid they don't
bring a fair price."
"But isn't this late in the year for them?" asked her visitor.
"No," was the answer; "this is just the best of the fall crop, and they
will last for a month or six weeks, and maybe all winter, if the season
is mild. May is the great spring month for them, and October the one
in the autumn. Mother told me she brushed the snow away from a little
patch last Christmas, and there they were just as fresh and green as
ever."
"And who are you going to sell them to?" asked Martin.
"A farmer," answered Bessie, "who lives up in the nutting woods has
promised to take them to market."
"Oh," said Martin, "that reminds me of what I came for. Nelly knew I
had to pass by here to-day with a letter, and she asked me to inquire
if you would go nutting with her and me to-morrow. She wants to stop
for another little girl too, I believe."
"Dolly?" said Bessie.
"I don't know," replied Martin, "what her name was. She said it was a
girl who had the fever and ague."
"That's Dolly!" cried Bessie, joyfully, "Dolly has it _awful_. Just
wait here a minute while I run ask mother if she can spare me."
She went skipping in the house, and in a short time her bare feet were
heard skipping out again.
"Yes," she cried, triumphantly waving her sun-bonnet, "mother told me
'yes.'"
Martin now said he must go on and deliver his letter, and Bessie bade
him good-by, and went back to her cresses. In a little while the basket
was filled with the very finest the brook afforded, and she carried
them in the house to place in water as her mother had directed.
The next morning, as the gray dawn came through the window of the room
where she and her mother slept, Bessie awoke suddenly, and before she
knew it she was sitting up in bed, drowsily rubbing her eyes. She had
borne so well on her mind the appointment with the farmer, that she had
awakened long before her usual time. She was a lazy girl generally,
and liked very much to lie luxuriously in bed and _think about_
getting up, without making an effort to do so. It was at least three
hours earlier than it was her habit to rise, yet she did not stop to
think of that, but bounded out and began her morning's ablution; her
mother having always striven to impress upon her the great fact that
"cleanliness is next to godliness." It was but a short time when,
leaving her mother, as she thought, soundly sleeping, Bessie crept
noiselessly as possible down the stairs that led to the kitchen, and
there carefully packed her cresses for market. When the basket was
full, she wrapped hastily a shawl around her, to protect her from the
chilly autumn air of the morning, and ran out to the gate to place it,
ready for the farmer, when he should come along in his wagon. She
stood on the cross bars of the gate, and looked eagerly up and down the
road, but she saw nothing as yet. The thought crossed her mind that
Mr. Dart might already have passed the house, and finding no basket
prepared for him, had driven on without it. But when she looked around,
and saw how early it still appeared, how the gray was not gone from the
sky, and the sun had not risen, nor the soft white morning mists yet
rolled away from the mountains that lay to the left of the village, she
was quite sure that she was not too late. She went back to the open
door sill of the kitchen, which, being built in a small wing, fronted
on the road, and sat down quietly on the sill. Presently she thought
she heard the rattle of wheels, and the snapping of a whip. She ran to
the gate, and looked in the direction from which it was to be expected
the farmer would come, and there he was, seated on top of a load of
turnips, trotting down the road as fast as old Dobbin could go, under
the circumstances. He saw Bessie, and shook his whip over his head as a
sort of salutation.
"Good morning," said Bessie, as soon as he was near enough to hear her
voice.
"Good morning," replied the farmer, holding Dobbin up, so as to stop.
"Well now, this looks something like! I guess you're most as smart as
my Dolly, who got up and fixed breakfast before I started. What does
mother say about the water-cresses, eh?"
"All right, sir," cried Bessie, joyfully, lugging into view the
basket, "and here they are, sir, all ready,--beauties, _every one_ of
'em."
The farmer raised the cover, looked in, and whistled.
"Yes," said he, "this is the pick of the whole lot, I guess. But you
haven't half big enough a basket. You must send more next time, for
the frost may come and nip them a little, before you sell enough to be
worth your while. Haven't you ever heard of making hay while the sun
shines, Bessie?"
He took the basket and packed it nicely among the turnips, so that it
would not jostle out with the movement of the wagon. As he did so,
Bessie's mother, with a shawl hastily thrown around her, opened the
window of her bedroom, and said sufficiently loud to be heard,
"Good morning, sir; I am afraid you are putting yourself to a great
deal of trouble for us."
"Not at all, ma'am," said the farmer, quite surprised at her sudden
apparition, and taking off his hat as he spoke; "on the contrary, it's
quite a pleasure."
"I am very much obliged to you, I am sure," said the widow, "and Bessie
is too. It is very kind of you to help us, poor people as we are, along
in the world."
"Well, ma'am," said the farmer with a smile, "as far as that goes, I'm
poor myself--poor enough, dear knows, and that's the very thing that
sometimes makes me feel for other poor folks, particularly poor _sick_
folks, for we 'most always have a spell of the nager at our house. But
I must be off. I'll stop, ma'am, as I come back, about noon, to tell
you what luck I have had with these ere cresses."
He was just going to drive on when Bessie said, "Oh, sir, I almost
forgot. Is to-day Dolly's _well_ day? Nelly and I thought of going
nutting with her."
"Yes," replied the farmer, "Doll is pretty smart to-day. Make no doubt
she can go. Good morning, ma'am, good morning, Bessie;" and he touched
up old Dobbin and trotted down the hill.
Bessie stood with the shawl over her head to watch the wagon as it
seemed to grow less and less in size, and finally was hid by a curve
of the road. Then she pulled to the gate to keep out stray cows from
the little garden which her mother prized so much, and re├źntered the
kitchen.
She had a great many things to accomplish during the morning, because
now that her mother was sick a number of household duties devolved upon
her, with which she had nothing to do under ordinary circumstances.
But, keep herself as busy as she could, the time still hung heavily. It
seemed to her as if noon would never come. Her mother tried to hear her
say her lessons in the intervals, when she had to sit up, but Bessie
could not attend enough to repeat them well. She made many strange
mistakes.
The top of every page in her spelling-book was decorated with a picture
which illustrated whatever word stood at the head of the column. Thus,
_chandelier_, _work-box_, _bedstead_, were each represented in a pretty
engraving. I suppose this was done in order to excite the interest
of the scholar. Bessie's thoughts to-day were so far away with her
water-cresses, however, that she could think of nothing else. At the
head of her column for the morning was the word _ladle_, and at its
side was the picture of a stout servant girl, ladling out a plate of
soup from a tureen. The shape of the ladle so much resembled a skimmer
which Bessie had often seen in use in her mother's kitchen, that
with her thoughts following the farmer in his wagon, she spelled and
pronounced in this wise:
"L-a, skim, d-l-e, mer, _skimmer_!"
"My patience," said her mother, "what nonsense is that, Bessie, which
you are saying?"
"L-a, skim, d-l-e, mer, skimmer," gravely repeated Bessie, quite
unconscious of the droll mistake.
Her mother could not but laugh, but she asked her if such inattention
was kind to herself when she was so ill as scarcely to be able to
speak, much less to question over and over again a girl who did not
care whether she learned or not.
"But I _do_ care, mother," cried Bessie, coloring.
"Then why do you try me so? Take your book and study your spelling
properly."
Bessie did so, and this time, mastering her inclination to think of
other things, soon accomplished her task.
"It is not because you are a dull child," said her mother, "that you do
not learn, but because you are a careless one. The least thing comes
between you and your lessons. This morning, I suppose you are somewhat
to be excused, but I cannot express to you how you weary me, day after
day, by the same conduct."
These words filled Bessie with shame. She really loved her mother, and
there were few things she would not have done to please her. She did
not realize how simple thoughtlessness can pain and annoy those whom we
would not purposely wound.
"Well, mother," said Bessie, casting down her eyes, "I _do_ wish I was
good. Maybe I am not big enough yet, am I, mother?"
Her mother smiled, saying, "You are plenty big enough, and plenty old
enough too."
Bessie smiled too, and was happy to see that her mother was not as
vexed with her as she thought. She went up to her and gave her a
little shy kiss on her cheek.
"It is _such_ hard work to be good," she said, "and it does _so_ bother
me to be thinkin' of it all the time. Wouldn't it be nice if we could
be good without any trouble? When I am grown up I hope I'll be good,
anyway."
"Oh Bessie," said her mother, seriously, "do not wait till then. While
you are young is the time to break yourself of bad habits and slothful
ways. If you wait until you become a woman, they will have fastened
themselves upon you so that you cannot shake them off."
Just as Bessie's mother pronounced the last words, she heard a knock
on one of the outer doors. Bessie heard it too, and ran down stairs to
open it. It was now nearly time to expect Mr. Dart, and her heart beat
with delight at the anticipation of the news she was so soon to hear.
She opened the door, and saw, not the kind face of the farmer, but that
of a small, ungainly boy, who lived in the next house. He was a sickly,
spoiled child, and Bessie, never liking him much at the best of times,
found him now rather an unwelcome visitor.
"Our folks wants to know if your mother'll lend us some sugar," he
said, at the same time handing out a cracked tea-cup.
Bessie took the cup and invited the boy to go up and see her mother,
while she brought the sugar. She had just filled the cup even full,
when again she heard a knock. This time she felt sure it was the
farmer, and indeed when she flew to the door, there he stood, smiling
at her in the porch. One of his hands was extended towards her, and in
its palm she saw three bright silver coins!
"Take them, Bessie," he said, "they are your own. Them cresses o'
your'n were the best in market. I'm coming along to-morrow morning at
the same time, and if you like, you can have another lot for me. Here's
your basket, but it isn't half big enough, as I told you before."
Bessie stood holding the money in her hands, quite unable to utter a
word. Her first thought was to dash up stairs and tell her mother, her
next to run after the farmer and thank him. But he had already mounted
into his seat and Dobbin, very glad to know that his nose was turned
homeward, had taken the hint to start off at a pace that soon placed
his driver out of hearing.
"I am so sorry," said Bessie, gazing after the wagon in much the same
way as she had done in the morning. "Mother will say I forgot my
politeness _that_ time. And he so kind too!"
She ran in the house again, and in a moment was in her mother's room.
"Mother, mother," she cried, holding out the coins, "you can have every
thing you want now! See, here's money, plenty of it! I don't believe
I ever saw so much at once in all my life. How many goodies you shall
have to make you well!"
Her mother was lying partially dressed outside the bed-quilts, but she
rose up slowly to share Bessie's joy. Bessie put the money in her hands
and danced around the room like a wild girl, utterly regardless of the
fire-tongs that she whirled out of place, and a couple of chairs, which
she laid very neatly flat on their sides in the middle of the floor.
Then she flew at her mother and gave her two monstrous, _sounding_
kisses on each cheek. Her mother gave them right straight back to her,
and I can assure you Bessie wasn't at all sorry to have them returned.
"Why, Bessie," said the little boy, who had been a silent spectator all
this time, "what is the matter with you? You act real crazy."
"I _am_ crazy," said Bessie, good-humoredly, "just as crazy as can be.
This is my water-cress money. Didn't you know I can earn money for
mother? How much is there, mother?"
The widow spread out the three coins in her hand, and after a moment's
pause, said,
"Here are two twenty-five cent pieces, and a ten cent piece; that makes
just sixty cents."
Bessie sat perfectly still, and when her mother looked at her,
attracted by an unusual sound, she had her apron up to her eyes, crying
as peacefully as possible.
"Why, my foolish little girl," said her mother, "I can't have any tears
shed in this way. Jump up like a good child and get Nathan his sugar."
"I couldn't help it," sobbed Bessie, "I didn't know I was agoin' to
till I did."
"What are you thinking of doing with it all?" asked Nathan, eyeing the
money with some curiosity.
"Save it," answered Bessie, promptly, "till mother gets ready to use
it." She went to a table standing at the head of the bed, and from its
drawer she took out a large-sized Madeira nut, that had been given to
her by her uncle the previous Christmas. The two halves were joined
together by a steel hinge, and when a small spring was touched on the
opposite side, they opened. Bessie touched it now, and advancing to her
mother, said,
"Let's keep the money in this nut, mother, for a purse, until you want
to spend it."
Her mother dropped the silver in the open shell, and Bessie closed it
and replaced it in the drawer. Then she and Nathan went down to get the
sugar.