THE ANGEL-BABY
The beautiful summer was passing away very fast. Only a few days more
till autumn. A little longer, and the cousins must separate; so, for
the time that was left, they clung all the more closely together.
I have called it a beautiful summer; so it was, but there is one
sorrowful thing I have not said much about. There was one trouble
which always made the children feel sad when they stopped to think of
it.
While they were playing in the hay-field, or taking supper "up in the
trees," now and then they would hear the tired cry of the darling sick
baby.
Then Grace would clasp her hands together in her quick way, and say,--
"O dear, dear, I wish the doctor would get Harry well."
"Poh!" said Horace, "the doctors they have East ain't no 'count, are
they, though, Gracie?"
"Of course they don't know so much as Dr. De Bruler," replied Grace,
very decidedly.
"I'll tell you how they make doctors," spoke up little Prudy; "they
take a man and put him in a bear's buffalo coat, and that makes a
doctor."
"And a gig," said Horace, "and some sharp things, and lots of little
bottles."
"What children!" said Grace, looking down upon them with a lofty
smile. "Why, Prudy, what _have_ you got in your pocket?"
"O, I don't know," said Prudy, throwing her hands behind her.
"_Goodness_ won't hurt me, will it, Susy?"
"I guess _you_ ain't good enough to hurt."
"Well, grandma says not to eat green apples," said the child, "but
she'd be willing I could chew 'em and get the _good_ all out--don't
you s'pose she would?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Susy; "you must ask."
"Well, I never teased for any. Horace gave 'em to me, and I shan't
swallow 'em."
"O, what a little snipe," cried Grace, laughing, "your pocket is
stuffed so full it's going to burst open, and you'll be sick again,
now you see!"
"Sick?" repeated Prudy, looking frightened, for she did not forget her
severe illness; "then I'll throw 'em away. I don't love such sour
things anyhow. I was only _hung-buggin_'."
And Prudy went down the wooden stairs which led from the trees, and
walked slowly towards the house, dropping the green apples one by one
into the grass.
At the kitchen door she met her aunt Madge, who was in tears.
"O auntie," said she, "I'm going to wash my hands spandy clean, and
then are you willing there is any thing I can have to eat?"
"Cookies, if you like, my dear."
"O auntie," cried Prudy, eager with a new thought, "won't you tell me
where them raisins is--the ones you didn't put in the pudding? Tell
me, O, do, do! If you will, I won't touch 'em, true as the world."
"Then why do you want to know where they are?" said aunt Madge, a
faint smile flitting across her face and then dying out again.
"O, 'cause," said Prudy, "then I can tell Susy, and _she_ can get
'em!"
"You can each of you have a handful," said aunt Madge, reaching down
the box. "You may have some, for I know you wouldn't take them without
leave, and Susy wouldn't either, you funny child!"
"Now," said she, putting the raisins in Prudy's apron, "I want you to
go out of doors and keep very still."
"Why do you cry so, my dearest auntie in the world?" said Prudy,
climbing into a chair, and throwing her arms around her auntie's neck,
while the raisins dropped to the floor; "is Mr. 'Gustus Allen dead?"
"No," said aunt Madge, hugging little Prudy as if she was good for the
heartache, "the baby is a _great deal worse_, darling! Tell the
children I will send them some dinner up in the trees, and don't let
Horace come into the house. You know he means to keep still, but his
boots make so much noise."
Prudy gathered up the raisins, and went out quietly, her happy little
face looking very sober. But the "bird-child" could not be sad long at
a time, and she had hardly climbed the steps into the trees, and given
away the clusters of raisins, before the sick baby was almost
forgotten.
"There," said Horace, suddenly, "I must go right into the house and
see Harry. I haven't seen him to-day."
"O, no, no!" cried Prudy, holding him back, and speaking very fast,
"he's a great deal _wusser_, and auntie said your boots was so big
she'd send the dinner out here; and then she cried like every thing."
"O," said Grace, "I'm so afraid the baby won't get well! Aunt Madge
didn't say any thing about _dying_--about Harry's _dying_, did she,
Prudy?"
"No," replied Prudy, stopping a moment to think; "she said he was
wusser--a great deal wusser, darling. And then she talked about
Horace's boots, and that's all."
"The darling little baby! He used to love me before he got so sick;
and all the way coming East I held him ever so much, you know,
Horace."
"Well, he liked me, too," said Horace, looking very sober, "and I've
played with him the most, and let him spoil lots of my things."
"So you have," said Grace. "I heard ma say the other day you'd always
been good to little brother. O Susy, you ought to have seen how Harry
used to jump when he'd hear Horace open the door; he always expected a
frolic!"
"Didn't we have _times_!" cried Horace, dropping his eyes, which were
full of tears.
"O Susy," said Grace, "do you suppose any one that's sick all summer
ever gets well?"
"I don't know," sighed Susy; "mother says if God is willing they'll
get well, and if he isn't they'll die. God knows what is best."
"Yes," chimed in little Prudy, "God knows a great deal more'n I do!"
And so the children chatted and played quietly all day long, sometimes
breaking off in the midst of a game to talk about the baby. It seemed
like a very strange day. The sky looked so calm and peaceful that you
could almost fancy it was keeping still to listen to something a great
way off. The quiet trees might have been dreaming of heaven, Susy
thought. Horace begged her now to tell that fairy story about "The
Bravest of Lion's Castle;" but Susy said it made her feel wicked to
think of fairy stories _that_ day, though she couldn't tell why.
When the children went into the house at supper-time it was very
still. Nobody was to be seen but aunt Madge, who gave them some bowls
of bread and milk, and said the family had taken tea.
A kind of awe crept over Grace as she looked at the tearful face of
her auntie, and she dared not ask about the baby.
After they had finished their supper, aunt Madge said, "You may all
follow me into the nursery; I have something to tell you.--Our dear
little pale baby, who has been sick day and night all this long
summer, will never feel sick or cry any more. God has taken him to
heaven to be a little angel."
All but Prudy knew that she spoke of death. Grace flung herself on the
floor and wept aloud. Horace rushed up stairs into the back chamber,
without saying a word to any body; and Susy buried her face in the
sofa-pillows, whispering, "O God, don't let it be so; it isn't true,
is it?"
But Prudy only opened her blue eyes in wonder. When she saw the pure
little form of the baby lying on the bed, in a soft crimson dress, she
smiled and said,--
"O, he looks as if he was asleep, and he is asleep!"
"But see, he doesn't breathe," whispered Susy.
"No," said Prudy, "he don't breathe because he don't want to. He was
sick, and it made him too tired to _breathe_ so much."
Why every body should weep was more than Prudy could tell; but she
thought it must be right to do as the rest did, and by bedtime she was
sobbing as if her heart would break. She afterwards said to Susy,--
"I tried as hard as I could to cry, and when I got to crying I cried
as tight as I could spring!"
But when aunt Madge wanted to put Prudy to bed she was unwilling to
go. "O, no," said she, "I want to wait and see the baby go up!"
"See what?" said aunt Madge.
"See God take the baby up to heaven," sobbed the child.
"But he is in heaven _now_," replied aunt Madge.
"O, no, he hasn't gone a single step. I saw him on the bed. They
haven't put his wings on yet!"
Aunt Madge was puzzled, and hardly knew what to say, for it is not
easy to make such very little children know the difference between the
body, which goes back to dust, and the spirit, which goes to God who
gave it.
She talked a long while, but I doubt if Prudy understood one word, for
when the casket which held the form of little Harry was buried in the
garden, she cried because the earth was heaped over it.
"What makes 'em do it?" she asked, "he can't get to heaven through all
that dirt!"
But by and by, when days passed, and there was no longer a baby in
the house, Prudy began to think of him as one of the angels. And one
morning she told a beautiful dream which she thought she had had,
though she sometimes called her _thoughts_ dreams.
"O," said she, "I dreamed about my angel! He had stars all round his
head, and he _flowed_ in the air like a bird. There was ever so many
little angels with him, and some of 'em sang. They didn't sing
_sorry_; they was singing, 'The Little Boy that died.' And, aunt 'Ria,
I guess you wouldn't cry if you could see how happy they were!"
"No, no," sobbed poor aunt 'Ria, holding Prudy close in her arms,
which she said felt "_so_ empty" now, "it can't be right to cry, can
it, Prudy, when I _know_ my baby is so happy in heaven?"