Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration: HAREBY WOOD.]
CHAMBERS'S LIBRARY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
Second Series
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MIDSUMMER AT HAY-LODGE
BY
RUTH BUCK [LAMB]
[Illustration]
WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
1870.
Edinburgh:
Printed by W. & R. Chambers.
CONTENTS.
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CHAPTER
I.—THE INVITATION ACCEPTED, AND "THE PARROT AND THE MAGPIE"
II.—A WET DAY, AND "WHAT THE RAINDROPS DID"
III.—HAREBY WOOD, AND "THE STORY OF GRAY DICK"
IV.—THE LAST LOAD OF HAY, AND "THE TWO LITTLE BUDS AND THE LIGHTNING"
V.—BERNARD'S FAULT, AND "THE HOLE IN THE WINDOW"
VI.—UNCLE PAUL'S BIRTHDAY; "MAGGIE'S DAISIES, OR THE VALUE OF A GIFT;"
AND "LITTLE FLORELLA, OR THE WISHING-TEMPLE"
CONCLUSION.—BERNARD'S RETURN TO SCHOOL
MIDSUMMER AT HAY-LODGE.
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CHAPTER I.
THE INVITATION ACCEPTED, AND
"THE PARROT AND THE MAGPIE."
"THE postman will not be here yet, Marian, so you and Kate had better
come to breakfast," said Mrs. Ingram, addressing her two children, who
stood at the window, watching eagerly for the arrival of the red-coated
messenger, in the hope that he would bring a letter from "Brother
Bernard." And Mrs. Ingram herself looked scarcely less anxious, for
Bernard was the "only son of his mother, and she was a widow."
The boy had been six months absent at school, and midsummer was just
at hand. As it was his first half-year from home, no wonder Marian and
Kate, his two sisters—to say nothing of mamma—were counting the very
hours which must pass before Bernard could arrive.
Just after Mrs. Ingram had summoned the girls to the breakfast-table,
the postman's knock was heard in the street. Marian ran into the hall,
to be ready to take the letter out of the box without a moment's delay,
and soon returned, exclaiming: "Two letters, mamma, and one is from
Bernard!"
Who doubts which was first opened and read by the loving mother!
Her voice trembled, and her eyes were dimmed for a moment with glad
tears, as she told Marian and Kate that Bernard would come to-morrow.
Little Kate clapped her hands, and fairly danced round the room in her
glee. Ah! She guessed that in some snug corner of Bernard's trunk,
there would be a whole pile of small treasures hoarded up, bit by bit,
for the little sister at home.
Bernard was turned thirteen years old, and boys of his age can, if
they choose, fashion a great many pretty toys to please a little girl
of six, yet without spending much of their pocket-money either. And
Bernard always did like, and had contrived new pleasures for Kate,
oftener than she could tell. But the child did not reckon on her
brother's coming home just for the sake of what he might bring; and,
to do the little maiden justice, Bernard's gifts were valued far more
"because" they were his, than for their own worth or beauty.
Kate was just a little spoiled. She was a very lovely child, with dark
eyes, and clusters of soft brown curls. And visitors too often spoke
of her beauty, and mamma was apt to give her rather more than her due
share of love, because of the child's likeness to the dear husband and
father, who died soon after the youngest darling was born.
Marian was not beautiful; but she had a good honest face, and was
obedient to her mother, and very loving to little Kate and her brother
Bernard. It was Marian who called her mother's attention to the second
letter, on which Mrs. Ingram did not at first bestow a glance, so much
was she occupied with the one from her son.
This second letter was an odd-looking affair, as Marian remarked to
her mother. It was not enclosed in an envelope, but folded in the
old-fashioned style, and it had a seal nearly as large as a half-crown,
which Kate admired greatly, and declared she should beg of mamma, if it
could only be preserved unbroken.
Marian was very much puzzled to guess where the queer letter came from,
and began to wish that her mother would not spend quite so long a time
upon Bernard's. But Mrs. Ingram was not at a loss; for as soon as she
examined the handwriting, she exclaimed: "Why, it is from Uncle Paul!"
The children had often heard their mother speak of her uncle, Paul
Parker, who was a young man when she was a little girl; but they had
never seen him, and they were very curious to know what he had written
about. So, after the seal had been carefully cut round, and handed
whole to Kate, Mrs. Ingram read the letter, first to herself, and
afterwards aloud to the children.
And this was what the letter contained:
"_HAY-LODGE, June 17._
"MY DEAR NIECE—After long years of wandering in many lands, I have at
length begun to find out that I am not so young as I was, and that at
sixty-five I am not so strong as I used to be ten years ago. I have
therefore resolved to stay at home for the future, or, at any rate, not
to travel far.
"I daresay you often wonder whether Uncle Paul—who used sometimes to
pet, but more generally to tease you, when you were a little girl—has
quite forgotten you. He writes now to tell you that he has not, and
that he should be glad to see you and your dear children under the roof
which he has purchased as a shelter for his gray hairs.
"Uncle Paul feels himself a very old man now, dear niece, and is quite
weary of wandering to and fro on the earth. But, though he is likewise
a childless man, he is anxious to hear the sound of young voices in his
home, and perhaps to preach a little—as old men will sometimes do—to
the owners of those voices. So, if you would like to spend midsummer
with one who always loved you, and if you think your youngsters will
have patience to listen sometimes to an old man, come as soon, and stay
as long as you can, with—
"Your affectionate uncle,
"PAUL PARKER.
"P.S.—Tell the young folks that we shall have haymaking directly, and
that I have quite a little farm. Bernard must bring his fishing-rod and
tackle; and if the girls love flowers, I can suit them finely, for I
have both a garden and a green-house."
Marian and Kate were loud in their expressions of delight when the
queer-looking letter was read, as what city-born children would not?
And they said to each other: "Oh! Won't this be a pleasant surprise for
Bernard, if dear Ma will only consent to let us all go?"
Marian was rather doubtful as to mamma's power to promise; for she
was older, and knew more of money-matters than her little sister did.
She knew that their widowed mother's income had to be managed with
great care and economy, and that the cost of Bernard's education was a
serious matter, which obliged Mrs. Ingram to deny herself many little
comforts for her son's sake.
But Marian had not seen a piece of paper enclosed in the queer letter,
and with Paul Parker's name in good bold handwriting at the corner;
and so she did "not" know that Uncle Paul had not only given the
invitation, but also sent money to pay their expenses to Hay-Lodge;
for he was aware that his widowed niece's income was not large enough
to meet the cost, so he kindly provided the means himself. It was
therefore a pleasant surprise to Marina, when her mother replied:
"Yes, my dears, all being well, we shall go to Uncle Paul's in three or
four days after Bernard comes home."
On the following afternoon, Mrs. Ingram and her daughters joyously
welcomed Bernard home. Nor was little Kate disappointed when his trunk
came to be opened; and mamma and Marian, too, found that, amid all the
varied occupations of school, and though surrounded by new companions,
the boy had not forgotten them. Then Uncle Paul's letter was read
again, and Bernard asked innumerable questions about this, as yet,
unknown relative. But mamma herself could tell very little, for many
years had passed since she last saw her uncle.
"Only," said she, "I remember he was very full of fun, and used to tell
tales to me when I was a child and sat on his knee to listen."
"Then he is sure to know plenty of stories now," said Bernard, "for he
has travelled for years in different countries."
"I shall ask him to tell 'me' some nice stories," said Kate.
"Take care," replied her mother with a smile, "that Uncle Paul does not
make a story about 'you,' Kate."
But as the little lassie did not know Uncle Paul quite so well as her
mother did, she shook her head, as much as to say that he would be
puzzled to do that.
What a bustle there was, to be sure, for the next three days! The girls
and Mrs. Ingram required but a very short time for preparation; but
Bernard had grown out of his clothes, and there was quite hard work for
mamma and Marian in making him ready by the appointed day. However, at
last they were all comfortably seated in the railway-carriage, and on
the way to Hay-Lodge, very much delighted at the prospect of spending
midsummer amongst country scenes and sounds, but just a little afraid
of this unknown uncle whom they were going to visit.
"That must be Uncle Paul!" said Mrs. Ingram, as the train stopped
at the pretty country station, and she caught sight of an elderly
gentleman upon the platform.
He had heard the exclamation, and at once stepped forward, saying:
"Yes, I am Uncle Paul; and here, I suppose, are Bernard, Marian, and
Kate, who, with their mother, I am glad to welcome to Hay-Lodge."
Then followed a great deal of hand-shaking; and Kate, rather doubtful
of the propriety of the thing, was kissed by her stranger uncle, whose
face she scanned very curiously indeed.
It was a pleasant face, though it had been browned by the sun in a
warmer country than England, and it looked rather odd, in consequence
of being surrounded with white hair and whiskers, while the eyebrows
were still black, and the eyes very dark and keen.
Perhaps Uncle Paul guessed that all the youngsters were trying to read
his character in his face, and were taking a good survey of him for the
purpose. At any rate, though he glanced kindly at them now and then and
held little Kate's hand in his, he talked only to Mrs. Ingram during
the drive to Hay-Lodge.
The children were nearly wild with delight at the sight of Uncle
Paul's pretty house and grounds; and while their mother rested,
they, unwearied with the journey, rambled through the large garden,
looked at the poultry, and admired the flowers in the green-house and
conservatory. Moreover, the children had quite decided among themselves
that this new-found uncle was a person to be loved and trusted.
When they were at length satisfied to rest quietly in the house for
the remainder of the evening, Kate required no invitation from Uncle
Paul, but climbed upon his knee, and even pulled his white whiskers,
to bring his ear closer to her own rosy lips. Kate had a great deal to
tell him—about Bernard's presents, their city-home, and of an intended
new dress for her doll. Uncle Paul listened with profound attention. He
might have been a doll's nurse all his life, to hear how he discussed
with Kate whether flaxen hair or black was the prettiest; and how he
finally decided in favour of dark curls, because the little girl's own
were brown. Kate became more and more confidential, and told Uncle Paul
that she loved him very much indeed, and that she intended to ask him
to tell her a story the next day.
"What!" said he. "Has your mother been telling you about the stories I
used to invent to please her when she was a little girl? A nice task I
shall have to satisfy you all!" And he pretended to frown at mamma for
betraying him; but somehow the frown turned into a laugh, and spread
from face to face, until they all laughed together. And Kate, who
appeared determined to expose her mother's conduct further, informed
Uncle Paul that she had been warned to take care lest he should make a
story about her own self.
"I will tell you a fable this very minute, Kate," said he; "so listen,
and when it is finished, you must be off to bed, or you will be sleepy
in the morning, when I want you to go and see the mowers in the
hayfield."
And without further preface, Uncle Paul began the story about—
"THE PARROT AND THE MAGPIE."
"A magpie one day saw a parrot in a gilded cage, and, being struck
with the wonderful beauty of the foreign bird's plumage, determined
to make its acquaintance. The parrot—a newcomer to the house—was not
particularly pleased at seeing the magpie approach, for Mag was dressed
in a sober suit of half-mourning—black and white—you know; and this
dress looked draggled, and a good deal the worse for wear; while the
parrot's feathers were of all the colours of the rainbow, and glistened
beautifully in the sun.
"But Poll was at a loss for society, and so she thought to herself:
'I will put up with this shabby-looking person's intrusion for the
present. He appears to be at home here, and can probably tell me a good
deal about the neighbourhood. It is lucky that I have no acquaintances
at hand, for I should be dreadfully annoyed if any of my well-dressed
friends saw me talking with him. However, I can get as much information
as I want, and then have nothing more to say to him.' The parrot, you
see, had just knowledge enough to be very selfish, but was not so wise
as to understand that we should judge people by their good qualities,
and not by the colour of their coats.
"When the magpie came up, and bowed politely, the parrot was extremely
gracious, made remarks on the weather, and complained of the coldness
of the climate, in comparison with that of her own native land.
'Indeed,' said she, 'I should not have left my own country, but for the
urgent solicitations of a gentleman, who declared that he could not
bear to come home without me.'
"Polly did not think it necessary to mention that the reason the
gentleman would not come home without her, was because he had bought
and paid for her. It is sometimes unpleasant to own that we have been
compelled to undertake a sea-voyage whether we would or not.
"The magpie had a pretty good guess how matters stood; but he was too
civil to hint at such a thing. He therefore owned his ignorance of
foreign lands, and said he had never travelled far from his native
place. Like the parrot, he did not tell the reason he had travelled
so little; but the truth was, his wings were clipped, and he could
no more take a long journey than she could help doing it. The parrot
laughed rather contemptuously, and hinted that it was hardly likely her
new acquaintance would be pressed to leave his native place, as his
external appearance was not very attractive.
"'Do not judge me by my looks,' said the magpie; 'I am not valued for
them, or, I am aware, I could claim no merit.'
"'I thought people were estimated on account of their looks,' replied
she, conceitedly surveying her fine feathers, 'or "I" should not be
here.'
"'They are partly. I was handsome myself once, though perhaps you would
scarcely think it, to see me now.'
"The parrot could not conceal her amusement at the very idea of this
ragged stranger's notions of beauty. But when she had recovered her
gravity, she asked whether the magpie's company was still valued on the
score of good-looks.
"'By no means,' he replied.
"'What, then, may I ask?' said the parrot.
"'I can converse with men in their own language,' answered the magpie.
'I was very carefully instructed by my present master while I was
young, and as I did my best to profit by his lessons, I soon acquired
this power; and I can assure you it is no mean accomplishment for a
bird.'
"'It is one "I" shall never take the trouble to acquire,' returned the
parrot. 'I have some notion that the individual at whose house I am
staying would like me to do so, but he will never be gratified, though
I "could" speak if I chose.'
"'I am sure I should advise it,' replied the magpie, who was far wiser
than this vain travelled stranger, and knew that mere good-looks soon
lose their charm.
"The parrot quite despised his advice, and was almost offended at the
magpie's presumption in offering it unasked. When the master of the
house approached shortly afterwards, and began to talk to the foreign
bird, she answered him only with a discordant scream, and obstinately
refused to profit by his lessons; nay, more, she was ungrateful enough
to peck at and bite his finger, and declare in her own tongue that she
would not be teased by him. In this conduct she persisted for a long
time; but she still retained her place in the gilded cage, and boasted
to the magpie that no person could be persuaded to part with so lovely
a creature as herself, let her mental qualities be what they might.
"The magpie shook his head, tried to reason with the foolish and
ungrateful beauty, and was laughed at for his pains.
"But the time came when the parrot regretted that she had disdained his
advice. Disease attacked her; she lost her fine feathers; and like a
person dressed in tawdry and shabby finery, she looked all the worse
amidst the remains of her once gay coat. Her master, finding she had
lost the only attraction she ever possessed, and weary of her harsh
voice and ill-temper, turned her out of the fine gilded cage, which was
bestowed on a more amiable individual of her species. So the parrot,
exposed to the severity of the climate, and unused to seek her own
livelihood, perished miserably of cold and hunger, while the magpie's
homely coat was never noticed because of his talents and obliging
disposition."
Little Kate clapped her hands and laughed when Uncle Paul finished his
story; then turning to her mamma with a triumphant look, she said:
"This tale is not about me, however, for I am neither a magpie nor a
parrot. Am I, Uncle Paul?"
Her uncle stroked back her soft curls, and said: "Certainly not."
But there was a merry expression on his face, and Mrs. Ingram asked:
"Are you quite sure, Kate, that there are 'no' little girls who are
like the parrot in thinking they need only to be pretty to be beloved,
and that it is of no use trying to be good and wise?"
Kate had not thought of that, and her face became grave at the idea her
mother's words suggested. Poor little lassie! "She" did not guess what
a good use Uncle Paul made of those keen dark eyes of his, or how much
he had already noticed the characters of his young relatives.
But bedtime had come, and active as the children were, they began to
yield to the feelings of weariness which stole over them, so they were
not sorry to say good-night to Uncle Paul, after exacting a promise
that they should be called early, to go to the hayfield.
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