Little Sunshine had never yet beheld the sea. That wonderful delight, a
sea-beach, with little waves running in and running back again, playing
at bo-peep among shingle and rocks, or a long smooth sandy shore,
where you may pick up shells and seaweed and pebbles, and all sorts
of curious things, and build castles and dig moats, filled with real
water,--all this was unknown to the little girl. So her mamma, going
to spend a day with a dear old friend, who lived at a lovely seaside
house, thought she would take the child with her. Also “the big child,”
as her Sunny sometimes called Lizzie, who enjoyed going about and
seeing new places as much as the little child.
They started directly after breakfast one morning, leaving behind them
the parrot, the dogs, and everything except Franky, who escorted them
in the carriage through four or five miles of ugly town streets, where
all the little children who ran about (and there seemed no end of them)
had very rough bare heads, and very dirty bare feet.
Sunny was greatly struck by them.
“Look, mamma, that little boy has got no shoes and stockings on! Shall
Sunny take off hers and give them to that poor little boy?”
And she was proceeding to unbutton her shoes, when her mamma explained
that--the boy being quite a big boy--Sunny’s shoes would certainly not
fit him, and if they did, he would probably not put them on; since in
Scotland little boys and girls often go barefooted, and like it. Had
not papa once taken off Sunny’s shoes and stockings, and let her run
about upon the soft warm grass of the lawn, calling her “his little
Scotch girl?”
Sunny accepted the reasoning, but still looked perplexed at the bare
feet. They were “so dirty,” and she cannot bear to have the least
speck of dirt on feet or hands or clothes, or anywhere about her. Her
Auntie Weirie, on whose lap she sat, and of whom she had taken entire
possession,--children always do,--was very much amused.
She put them safely into the train, which soon started,--on a journey
which mamma knew well, but which seemed altogether fresh when seen
through her child’s eyes. Such wonderful things for Sunshine to look
at! Mountains,--she thoroughly understood mountains now; and a broad
river, gradually growing broader still, until it was almost sea. Ships,
too--some with sails, and some with chimneys smoking; “a puff-puff on
the water,” Sunny called them. Every now and then there was a little
“puff-puff” dragging a big ship after it, and going so fast, fast,--the
big ship looking as proud as if it were sailing along all by its own
self, and the little one puffing and blowing as busily as possible.
Sunny watched them with much curiosity, and then started a brilliant
idea.
“That’s a papa-boat and that’s a baby-boat, and the baby-boat pulls the
papa-boat along! So funny!”
And she crumpled up her little face, and, tossing up her head, laughed
her quite indescribable laugh, which makes everybody else laugh too.
There were various other curious things to be seen on the river,
especially some things which mamma told her were called “buoys.” These
of course she took to mean little “boys,” and looked puzzled, until
mamma described them as “big red thimbles,” which she understood, and
noticed each one with great interest ever afterward.
But it would be vain to tell all the things she saw, and all the
delight she took in them. Occasionally her little face grew quite
grave, such difficulty had she in understanding the wonders that
increased more and more. And when at last the journey was ended and
the train stopped, the little girl was rather troubled, and would not
let go of her mamma for a single minute.
For the lovely autumn weather of yesterday had changed into an
equinoctial gale. Inland, one did not so much perceive it, but at the
seaside it was terrible. People living on that coast will long remember
this particular day as one of the wildest of the season, or for several
seasons. The wind blew, and the sea roared, as even mamma, who knew the
place well, had seldom heard. Instead of tiny wavelets running after
Sunny’s little feet, as had been promised her, there were huge “white
horses” rising and falling in the middle of the river; while along the
shore the waves kept pouring in, and dashing themselves in and out of
the rocks, with force enough to knock any poor little girl down. Sunny
could not go near them, and the wind was so high that her hat had to be
tied on; and her cloak, a cape of violet wool, which Auntie Weirie had
rushed to fetch at the last minute, in case of rain, was the greatest
possible blessing. Still, fasten it as Lizzie would, the wind blew
it loose again, and tossed her curls all over her face in a furious
fashion, which the little girl could not understand at all.
“Sunny don’t like it,” said she, pitifully; and, forgetful of all the
promised delights,--shells, and pebbles, and castles of sand,--took
refuge gladly indoors.
However, this little girl is of such a happy nature in herself that
she quickly grows happy anywhere. And the house she came to was such a
beautiful house, with a conservatory full of flowers,--she is so fond
of flowers,--and a large hall to play in besides. Her merry voice was
soon heard in all directions, rather to her mamma’s distress, as the
dear mistress of the house was not well. But Sunny comprehends that
she must always speak in a whisper when people are not well; so she
was presently quieted down, and came into the dining-room and ate her
dinner by mamma’s side, as good as gold. She has always dined with
mamma ever since she could sit up in a chair, so she behaves quite
properly,--almost like a grown-up person. When she and mamma are alone,
they converse all dinner-time; but when there are other people present,
she is told that “little girls must be seen and not heard,”--a rule
which she observes as far as she can. Not altogether, I am afraid, for
she is very fond of talking.
Still, she was good, upon the whole, and enjoyed herself much, until
she had her things put on again, ready to start once more, in a kind
lady’s carriage, which was ordered to drive slowly along the shore,
that Sunny might see as much as possible, without being exposed to the
wind and spray. She was much interested, and a little awed. She ceased
to chatter, and sat looking out of the carriage window on the curve of
shore, over which the tide came pouring in long rollers, and sweeping
back again in wide sheets of water mixed with white foam.
“Does Sunny like the waves?” asked the kind lady, who has a sweet way
with children, and is very good to them, though she has none of her own.
“Yes, Sunny likes them,” said the little girl, after a pause, as if she
were trying to make up her mind. “’Posing (supposing) Sunny were to go
and swim upon them? If--if mamma would come too?”
“But wouldn’t Sunny be afraid?”
“No,” very decidedly this time. “Sunny would be quite safe if mamma
came too.”
The lady smiled at mamma; who listened, scarcely smiling, and did not
say a word.
It was a terrible day. The boats, and even big ships, were tossing
about like cockle-shells on the gray, stormy sea; and the mountains,
hiding themselves in mist, at last altogether disappeared.
Then the rain began to fall in sheets, as it often does fall
hereabouts,--soaking, blinding rain. At the station it was hardly
possible to keep one’s footing: the little girl, if she had not been
in her Lizzie’s arms, would certainly have been blown down before she
got into the railway-carriage.
Once there,--safely sheltered from the storm,--she did not mind it in
the least. She jumped about, and played endless tricks, to the great
amusement of two ladies,--evidently a mamma and a grandmamma,--who
compared her with their own little people, and were very kind to
her,--as indeed everybody is when she travels. Still, even they might
have got tired out, if Sunny had not fortunately grown tired herself,
and began to yawn in the midst of her fun in a droll way.
Then mamma slyly produced out of her pocket the child’s best travelling
companion,--the little Maymie’s apron. Sunny seized it with a scream
of delight, cuddled down, sucking it, in her mamma’s arms, and in
three minutes was sound asleep. Nor did she once wake up till the
train stopped, and Lizzie carried her, so muffled up that nobody could
have told whether it was a little girl or a brown paper parcel, to the
carriage where faithful Franky waited for her, and had waited ever so
long.
Fun and Franky always came together. Sunny shook herself wide awake
at once,--fresh as a rose, and lively as a kitten. Oh, the games that
began, and lasted all the four miles that the carriage drove through
the pelting rain! Never was a big boy kinder to a little girl; so
patient, so considerate; letting her do anything she liked with him;
never cross, and never rough,--in short, a thorough gentleman, as all
boys should be to all girls, and all men to all women, whether old or
young. And when home was reached, the fire, like the welcome, was so
warm and bright that Sunny seemed to have lost all memory of her day
at the seaside,--the stormy waves, the dreary shore, the wild wind,
and pouring rain. She was such a contented little girl that she never
heeded the weather outside. But her mamma did a little, and thought of
sailors at sea, and soldiers fighting abroad, and many other things.
The happy visit was now drawing to a close. Perhaps as well, lest, as
some people foretold, Sunny might get “quite spoiled,”--if love spoils
anybody, which I do not believe. Certainly this child’s felicities were
endless. Everybody played with her; everybody was kind to her. Franky
and Franky’s mamma, her two aunties, the parrot, the dogs Bob and Jack,
were her companions by turns. There was another dog, Wallace by name,
but she did not play with him, as he was an older and graver and bigger
animal,--much bigger than herself indeed. She once faintly suggested
riding him, “as if he was a pony,” but the idea was not caught at, and
fell to the ground, as, doubtless, Sunny would have done immediately,
had she carried out her wish.
Wallace, though big, was the gentlest dog imaginable. He was a black
retriever, belonging to Franky’s elder brother, a grown-up young
gentleman; and his devotion to his master was entire. The rest of
the family he just condescended to notice, but Mr. John he followed
everywhere with a quiet persistency, the more touching because poor
Wallace was nearly blind. He had lost the sight of one eye by an
accident, and could see out of the other very little. They knew
how little, by the near chance he had often had of being run over
by other carriages in following theirs; so that now Franky’s mamma
never ventured to take him out with her at all. He was kept away from
streets, but allowed to run up and down in the country, where his
wonderful sense of smell preserved him from any great danger.
This sense of smell, common to all retrievers, seemed to have been
doubled by Wallace’s blindness. He could track his master for miles and
miles, and find anything that his master had touched. Once, just to
try him, Mr. John showed him a halfpenny, and then hid it under a tuft
of grass, and walked on across the country for half a mile or more. Of
course the dog could not _see_ where he hid it, and had been galloping
about in all directions ever since; yet when his master said, “Wallace,
fetch that halfpenny,” showing him another one, Wallace instantly
turned back, smelling cautiously about for twenty yards or so; then,
having caught the right scent, bounding on faster and faster, till out
of sight. In half an hour more he came back, and ran direct to his
master with the halfpenny in his mouth.
Since, Mr. John had sent the dog for his stick, his cap, or his
handkerchief, often considerable distances; but Wallace always brought
the thing safe back, whatever it was, and laid it at his master’s feet.
Mr. John was very proud of Wallace, and very fond of him.
Sunny was not old enough to understand these clevernesses of the
creature, but she fully appreciated one trick of his. He would hold a
bit of biscuit or sugar on his nose, quite steady, for several minutes,
while his master said “Trust,” not attempting to eat it; but when
Mr. John said “Paid for!” Wallace gobbled it up at once. This he did
several times, to Sunshine’s great delight, but always with a sort of
hesitation, as if he considered it a little below the dignity of such a
very superior animal. And the minute they were gone he would march away
with his slow, blind step, following his beloved master.
But all pleasures come to an end, and so did these of Little
Sunshine’s. First, Franky went off to school, and she missed him out
of the house very much. Then one day, instead of the regular morning
amusements, she had to be dressed quickly, to eat her breakfast twice
as fast as usual, and have her “things” put on all in a hurry, “to go
by the puff-puff.” Her only consolation was that Dolly should have
her things put on too,--poor Dolly! who, from constant combing, was
growing balder and balder every day, and whose clothes were slowly
disappearing, so that it required all Lizzie’s ingenuity to dress her
decently for the journey.
This done, Sunny took her in her arms, and became so absorbed in her
as hardly to notice the affectionate adieux of her kind friends, some
of whom went with her to the station: so she scarcely understood that
it was good-bye. And besides, it is only elder folks who understand
good-byes, not little people. All the better, too.
Sunshine was delighted to be in a puff-puff again, and to see more
mountains. She watched them till she was tired, and then went
comfortably to sleep, having first made Dolly comfortable too, lying
as snug in her arms as she did in her mamma’s. But she and Dolly woke
up at the journey’s end; when, indeed, Sunny became so energetic and
lively, that, seeing her mamma and Lizzie carrying each a bag, she
insisted on carrying something too. Seizing upon a large luncheon
basket which the pretty lady had filled with no end of good things,
she actually lifted it, and bore it, tottering under its weight, for
several yards.
“See, mamma, Sunny _can_ carry it,” said she in triumph, and her mamma
never hinders the little girl from doing everything she _can_ do;
wishing to make her a useful and helpful woman, who will never ask
anybody else to do for her what she can do for herself.
The place they were going to was quite different from that they had
left. It was only lodgings,--in a house on the top of a hill,--but
they were nice lodgings, and it was a bright breezy hill, sloping down
to a beautiful glen, through which ran an equally beautiful stream.
Thence, the country sloped up again, through woods and pasture-lands,
to a dim range of mountains, far in the horizon. A very pretty place
outside, and not bad inside, only the little girl’s “nursery” was not
so large and cheerful as the one she was used to, and she missed the
full house and the merry companions. However, being told that papa was
coming to-morrow, she brightened up, and informed everybody, whether
interested or not in the fact, that “Sunny was going to see papa jump
out of a puff-puff, to-morrow.” “To-morrow” being still to her a very
indefinite thing; but “papa jumping out of a puff-puff” has long been
one of the great features of her existence.
Still, to-day she would have been rather dull, if, when she went out
into the garden, there had not come timidly forward, to look at her, a
little girl, whose name mamma inquired, and found that it was Nelly.
[Illustration: Nellie and Sunny on the steps.]
Here a word or two ought to be said about Nelly, for she turned out
the greatest comfort to solitary little Sunny, in this strange place.
Nelly was not exactly “a young lady;” indeed, at first she hung back
in a sweet, shy way, as doubtful whether Sunny’s mamma would allow
the child to play with her. But Nelly was such a good little girl,
so well brought-up, and sensible, though only ten years old, that a
princess might have had her for a playfellow without any disadvantage.
And as soon as mamma felt sure that Sunny would learn nothing bad from
her,--which is the only real objection to playfellows,--she allowed the
children to be together as much as ever they liked.
Nelly called Sunshine “a bonnie wee lassie,”--words which, not
understanding what they meant, had already offended her several
times since she came to Scotland.
“I’m not a bonnie wee lassie,--I’m Sunny; mamma’s little Sunny, I am!”
cried she, almost in tears. But this was the only annoyance that Nelly
ever gave her.
Very soon the two children were sitting together in a most charming
play-place,--some tumble-down, moss-grown stone steps leading down to
the garden. From thence you could see the country for miles, and watch
the railway trains winding along like big serpents, with long feathers
of steam and smoke streaming from their heads in the daylight, and
great red fiery eyes gleaming through the dark.
Nelly had several stories to tell about them: how once a train caught
fire, and blazed up,--they saw the blaze from these steps,--and very
dreadful it was to look at; also, she wanted to know if Sunny had seen
the river below; such a beautiful little river, only sometimes people
were drowned in it,--two young ladies who were bathing, and also a
schoolmaster, who had fallen into a deep hole, which was now called the
Dominie’s Hole.
Nelly spoke broad Scotch, but her words were well chosen, and her
manner very simple and gentle and sweet. She had evidently been
carefully educated, as almost all Scotch children are. She went to
school, she said, every morning, so that she could only play with Sunny
of afternoons; but to-morrow afternoon, if the lady allowed,--there
was still that pretty, polite hesitation at anything that looked like
intrusiveness,--she would take Sunny and her Lizzie a walk, and show
them all that was to be seen.
Sunny’s mamma not only allowed this, but was glad of it. Little Nelly
seemed a rather grave and lonely child. She had no brothers and
sisters, she said, but lived with her aunts, who were evidently careful
over her. She was a useful little body; went many a message to the
village, and did various things about the house, as a girl of ten can
often do; but she was always neatly dressed, her hands and face quite
clean, and her pretty brown hair, the chief prettiness she had, well
combed and brushed. And, above all, she never said a rude or ugly word.
It was curious to see how Little Sunshine, who, though not shy or
repellent, is never affectionate to strangers, and always declines
caresses, saying “she only kisses papa and mamma,” accepted Nelly’s
kiss almost immediately, and allowed her to make friends at once. Nay,
when bedtime arrived, she even invited her to “come and see Sunny
in her bath,” a compliment she only pays occasionally to her chief
favourites. Soon the two solitary children were frolicking together,
and the gloomy little nursery--made up extempore out of a back
bedroom--ringing with their laughter.
At last, fairly tired with her day’s doings, Sunny condescended to go
to sleep. Her mamma sat up for an hour or two longer, writing letters,
and listening to the child’s soft breathing through the open door, to
the equally soft soughing of the wind outside, and the faint murmur of
the stream, deep below in the glen. Then she also went to rest.