The pier Sunny started from was one near the mouth of a large estuary
or firth, where a great many ships of all sorts are constantly coming
and going. Sometimes the firth is very stormy, as on the first day when
she was there, but to-day it was smooth as glass. The mountains around
it looked half asleep in a sunshiny haze, and upon the river itself was
not a single ripple. The steamers glided up and down in the distance
as quietly as swans upon a lake. You could just catch the faint
click-clack of their paddle-wheels, and see the long trail of smoke
following after them, till it melted into nothing.
“Where’s Sunny’s steamboat? Sunny is going to sail in a steamboat,”
chattered the little girl; who catches up everything, sometimes even
the longest words and the queerest phrases, nobody knows how.
Sunny’s steamboat lay alongside the pier. Its engines were puffing
and its funnel smoking; and when she came to the gangway she looked
rather frightened, and whispered, “Mamma, take her,” holding out those
pathetic little arms.
Mamma took her, and from that safe eminence she watched everything: the
men loosing the ropes from the pier, the engines moving, the seagulls
flying about in little flocks, almost as tame as pigeons. She was much
amused by these seagulls, which always follow the steamers, seeming
to know quite well that after every meal on board they are sure to
get something. She called her Lizzie to look at them,--her Lizzie who
always sympathises with her in everything. Now it was not quite easy,
as Lizzie also had never been on board a steamer before, and did not
altogether relish it.
But she, too, soon grew content and happy, for it was a beautiful
scene. There was no distant view, the mountains being all in a mist of
heat, but the air was so bright and mild, with just enough saltness in
it to be refreshing, that it must have been a very gloomy person who
did not enjoy the day. Little Sunshine did to the utmost. She could
not talk, but became absorbed in looking about her, endless wonder at
everything she saw or heard shining in her blue eyes. Soon she heard
something which brightened them still more.
“Hark, mamma! music! Sunny hears music.”
It was a flute played on the lower deck, and played exceedingly well.
Now this little girl has a keen sense of music. Before she could speak,
singing always soothed her; and she has long been in the habit of
commanding extempore tunes,--“a tune that Sunny never heard before,”
sometimes taking her turn to offer one. “Mamma, shall I sing you a
song,--a song you never heard before?” (Which certainly mamma never
had). She distinguishes tunes at once, and is very critical over them.
“Sunny likes it,” or “Sunny don’t like it,--it isn’t pretty;” and at
the sound of any sort of music she pricks up her ears, and will begin
to cry passionately if not taken to listen.
This flute she went after at once. It was played by a blind man, who
stood leaning against the stairs leading to the higher deck, his
calm, sightless face turned up to the dazzling sunshine. It could not
hurt him; he seemed even to enjoy it. There was nobody listening,
but he played on quite unconsciously, one Scotch tune after another,
the shrill, clear, pure notes floating far over the sea. Sunny crept
closer and closer,--her eyes growing larger and larger with intense
delight,--till the man stopped playing. Then she whispered, “Mamma,
look at that poor man! Somekin wrong with his eyes.”
Sunny has been taught that whenever there is “somekin (something)
wrong” with anybody,--when they are blind, or lame, or ugly, or
queer-looking, we are very sorry for them, but we never notice it; and
so, though she has friends who cannot run about after her, but walk
slowly with a stick, or even two sticks,--also other friends who only
feel her little face, and pass their hands over her hair, saying how
soft it is,--mamma is never afraid of her making any remark that could
wound their feelings.
“Hush! the poor man can’t see, but we must not say anything about it.
Come with mamma, and we will give him a penny.” All sorts of money are
“pennies” to Sunny,--brown pennies, white pennies, yellow pennies; only
she much prefers the brown pennies, because they are largest, and spin
the best.
So she and mamma went up together to the poor blind man, Sunny looking
hard at him; and he was not pleasant to look at, as his blindness
seemed to have been caused by smallpox. But the little girl said not a
word, only put the white “penny” into his hand and went away.
I wonder whether he felt the touch of those baby fingers, softer than
most. Perhaps he did, for he began to play again, the “Flowers of the
Forest,” with a pathos that even mamma in all her life had never heard
excelled. The familiar mountains, the gleaming river, the “sunshiny”
child, with her earnest face, and the blind man playing there, in notes
that almost spoke the well-known words,
“Thy frown canna fear me, thy smile canna cheer me,
For the flowers o’ the forest are a wede away.”
It was a picture not easily to be forgotten.
Soon the steamer stopped at another pier, where were waiting a number
of people, ready to embark on a large excursion boat which all summer
long goes up and down the firth daily, taking hundreds of passengers,
and giving them twelve pleasant hours of sea air and mountain breezes.
She was called the _Iona_, and such a big boat as she was! She had
two decks, with a saloon below. On the first deck, the passengers
sat in the open air, high up, so as to see all the views; the second
was under cover, with glass sides, so that they could still see all
about; the third, lower yet, was the cabin, where they dined. There
was a ladies’ cabin, too, where a good many babies and children, with
their nurses and mammas, generally stayed all the voyage. Altogether,
a most beautiful boat, with plenty of play-places for little folk, and
comfortable nooks for elder ones; and so big, too, that, as she came
steaming down the river, she looked as if she could carry a townful of
people. Indeed, this summer, when nobody has travelled abroad, owing
to the war, the _Iona_ had carried regularly several hundreds a day.
Sunny gazed with some amazement from the pier, where she had
disembarked, in her mamma’s arms. It is fortunate for Sunny that she
has a rather tall mamma, so that she feels safely elevated above
any crowd. This was a crowd such as she had never been in before;
it jostled and pushed her, and she had to hold very tight round her
mamma’s neck; so great was the confusion, and so difficult the passage
across the gangway to the deck of the _Iona_. Once there, however, she
was as safe and happy as possible, playing all sorts of merry tricks,
and wandering about the boat in all directions, with her papa, or her
Lizzie, or two young ladies who came with her, and were very kind to
her. But after awhile these quitted the boat, and were watched climbing
up a mountainside as cleverly as if they had been young deer. Sunny
would have liked to climb a mountain too, and mamma promised her she
should some day.
She was now in the very heart of the Highlands. There were mountains on
all sides, reflected everywhere in the narrow seas through which the
boat glided. Now and then came houses and piers, funny little “baby”
piers, at which the _Iona_ stopped and took up or set down passengers,
when everybody rushed to the side to look on. Sunny rushed likewise;
she became so interested and excited in watching the long waves the
boat left behind her when her paddles began to move again, that her
mamma was sometimes frightened out of her life that the child should
overbalance herself and tumble in. Once or twice poor mamma spoke so
sharply that Sunny, utterly unaccustomed to this, turned around in mute
surprise. But little girls, not old enough to understand danger, do not
know what terrors mammas go through sometimes for their sakes.
It was rather a relief when Sunny became very hungry, and the bag of
biscuits, and the bottle of milk occupied her for a good while. Then
she turned sleepy. The little Maymie’s apron being secretly produced,
she, laughing a little, began to suck it, under cover of mamma’s shawl.
Soon she fell asleep, and lay for nearly an hour in perfect peace, her
eyes shut upon mountains, sea, and sky; and the sun shining softly upon
her little face and her gold curls, that nestled close into mamma’s
shoulder. Such a happy child!
Almost cruel it seemed to wake her up, but necessary; for there came
another change. The _Iona’s_ voyage was done. The next stage of the
journey was through a canal, where were sights to be seen so curious
that papa and mamma were as much interested in them as the little
girl, who was growing quite an old traveller now. She woke up, rubbed
her eyes, and, not crying at all, was carried ashore, and into the
middle of another crowd. There was a deal of talking and scrambling,
and rushing about with bags and cloaks, then all the heavier luggage
was put into two gigantic wagons, which four great horses walked away
with, and the passengers walked in a long string of twos and threes,
each after the others, for about a quarter of a mile, till they came to
the canal-side. There lay a boat, so big that it could only go forward
and backward,--I am sure if it had wanted to turn itself around it
could not possibly have done so! On board of it all the people began to
climb. Very funny people some of them were.
There was one big tall gentleman in a dress Sunny had never seen
before,--a cap on his head with a feather in it, a bag with furry tails
dangling from his waist, and a petticoat like a little girl. He had
also rather queer shoes and stockings, and when he took out from his
ankle, as it seemed, a shiny-handled sort of knife, and slipped it back
again, Sunny was very much surprised.
“Mamma,” she whispered, “what does that gentleman keep his knife in his
stocking for?” A question to which mamma could only answer “that she
really didn’t know. Perhaps he hadn’t got a pocket.”
“Sunny will give him her pocket,--her French pinafore with pockets in
it, shall she?”
Mamma thought the big Highlander might not care for Sunny’s pretty
muslin pinafore, with embroidery and Valenciennes lace, sewn for her by
loving, dainty hands; and as the boat now moved away, and he was seen
stalking majestically off along the road, there was no need to ask him
the question.
For a little while the boat glided along the smooth canal, so close to
either side that you felt as if you could almost pluck at the bushes,
and ferns, and trailing brambles, with fast-ripening berries, that hung
over the water. On the other side was a foot-road, where, a little way
behind, a horse was dragging, with a long rope, a small, deeply laden
canal-boat, not pretty like this one, which went swiftly and merrily
along by steam. But at last it came to a stand, in front of two huge
wooden gates which shut the canal in, and through every crevice of
which the pent-in water kept spouting in tiny cataracts.
“That’s the first of the locks,” said papa, who had seen it all before,
and took his little girl to the end of the boat to show her the
wonderful sight.
She was not old enough to have it explained, or to understand what a
fine piece of engineering work this canal is. It cuts across country
from sea to sea, and the land not being level, but rising higher in
the middle, and as you know water will not run up a hillside and down
again, these locks had to be made. They are, so to speak, boxes of
water with double gates at either end. The boat is let into them, and
shut in; then the water upon which it floats is gradually raised or
lowered according as may be necessary, until it reaches the level of
the canal beyond the second gate, which is opened and the boat goes
in. There are eight or nine of these locks within a single mile,--a
very long mile, which occupies fully an hour. So the captain told
his passengers they might get out and walk, which many of them did.
But Sunshine, her papa and mamma, were much more amused in watching
the great gates opening and shutting, and the boat rising or falling
through the deep sides of the locks. Besides, the little girl called
it “a bath,” and expressed a strong desire to jump in and “swim like a
fish,” with mamma swimming after her! So mamma thought it as well to
hold her fast by her clothes the whole time.
Especially when another interest came,--three or four little Highland
girls running alongside, jabbering gayly, and holding out glasses of
milk. Her own bottle being nearly drained, Sunny begged for some; and
the extraordinary difficulty papa had in stretching over to get the
milk without spilling it, and return the empty glass without breaking
it, was a piece of fun more delightful than even the refreshing
draught. “Again!” she said, and wanted the performance all repeated for
her private amusement.
[Illustration]
She had now resumed her old tyranny over her papa, whom she pursued
everywhere. He could not find a single corner of the boat in which to
hide and read his newspaper quietly, without hearing the cry, “Where’s
my papa? Sunny must go after papa,” and there was the little figure
clutching at his legs. “Take her up in your arms! up in your own
arms!” To which the victim, not unwillingly, consented, and carried her
everywhere.
Little Sunshine’s next great diversion was dinner. It did not happen
till late in the afternoon, when she had gone through, cheerfully as
ever, another change of boat, and was steaming away through the open
sea, which, however, was fortunately calm as a duck-pond, or what would
have become of this little person?
Papa questioned very much whether she was not far too little a person
to dine at the cabin-table with all the other grown-up passengers, but
mamma answered for her that she would behave properly,--she always did
whenever she promised. For Sunny has the strongest sense of keeping a
promise. Her one argument when wanting a thing, an argument she knows
never denied, is, “Mamma, you promised.” And her shoemaker, who once
neglected to send home her boots, has been immortalised in her memory
as “Mr. James So-and-so, who broke his promise.”
So, having promised to be good, she gravely took her papa’s hand and
walked with him down the long cabin to her place at the table. There
she sat, quite quiet, and very proud of her position. She ate little,
being too deeply occupied in observing everything around her. And she
talked still less, only whispering mysteriously to her mamma once or
twice.
“Sunny would like a potato, with butter on it.” “Might Sunny have one
little biscuit--just one?”
But she troubled nobody, spilt nothing, not even her glass of water,
though it was so big that with both her fat hands she could scarcely
hold it; and said “Thank you” politely to a gentleman who handed her a
piece of bread. In short, she did keep her promise, conducting herself
throughout the meal with perfect decorum. But when it was over, I think
she was rather glad.
“Sunny may get down now?” she whispered; adding, “Sunny was quite
good, she was.” For the little woman always likes to have her virtues
acknowledged.
And in remounting the companion-ladder, rather a trial for her small
legs, she looked at the steward, who was taking his money, and observed
to him, in a confidential tone, “Sunny has had a good dinner; Sunny
liked it,”--at which the young man couldn’t help laughing.
But everybody laughs at Sunny, or with her,--she has such an endless
fund of enjoyment in everything. The world to her is one perpetual
kaleidoscope of ever changing delights.
Immediately after dinner she had a pleasure quite new. Playing about
the deck, she suddenly stopped and listened.
“Mamma, hark! there’s music. May Sunny go after the music?” And her
little feet began to dance rather than walk, as, pulling her mamma by
the hand, she “went after” a German band that was playing at the other
end of the vessel.
Little Sunshine had never before heard a band, and this was of wind
instruments, played very well, as most German musicians can play. The
music seemed to quiver all through her, down to her very toes. And
when the dance-tune stopped, and her dancing feet likewise, and the
band struck up the beautiful “Wacht am Rhein,”--the “Watch on the
Rhine,”--(oh! if its singers had only stopped there, defending their
fatherland, and not invaded the lands of other people!), this little
girl, who knew nothing about French and Prussians, stood absorbed in
solemn delight. Her hands were folded together (a trick she has), her
face grew grave, and a soul far deeper than three years old looked out
of her intent eyes. For when Sunny is earnest, she is _very_ earnest;
and when she turns furious, half a dozen tragedies seem written in her
firm-set mouth, knitted brow, and flashing eyes.
She was disposed to be furious for a minute, when her Lizzie tried to
get her away from the music. But her mamma let her stay, so she did
stay close to the musicians, until the playing was all done.
It was growing late in the afternoon, near her usual bedtime, but no
going to bed was possible. The steamboat kept ploughing on through
lonely seas, dotted with many islands, larger or smaller, with high
mountains on every side, some of them sloping down almost to the
water’s edge. Here and there was a solitary cottage or farmhouse,
but nothing like a town or village. The steamboat seemed to have the
whole world to itself,--sea, sky, mountains,--a magnificent range of
mountains! behind which the sun set in such splendour that papa and
mamma, watching it together, quite forgot for the time being the little
person who was not old enough to care for sunsets.
When they looked up, catching the sound of her laughter, there she was,
in a state of the highest enjoyment, having made friends, all of her
own accord, with two gentlemen on board, who played with her and petted
her extremely. One of them had just taken out of his pocket a wonderful
bird, which jumped out of a box, shook itself, warbled a most beautiful
tune, and then popped down in the box again; not exactly a toy for
a child, as only about half a dozen have ever been made, and they
generally cost about a hundred guineas apiece.
Of course Sunny was delighted. She listened intently to the warble, and
whenever the bird popped down and hid itself again, she gave a scream
of ecstasy. But she cannot enjoy things alone.
“May mamma come and see it? Mamma would like to see it, she would!”
And, running back, Sunny drew her mamma, with all her little might,
over to where the gentlemen were sitting.
They were very polite to the unknown lady, and went over the
performance once again for her benefit. And they were exceedingly kind
to her little girl, showing a patience quite wonderful, unless, indeed,
they had little girls of their own. They tried pertinaciously to find
out Sunny’s name, but she as persistently refused to disclose it,--that
is, anything more than her Christian name, which is rather a peculiar
one, and which she always gives with great dignity and accuracy, at
full length. (Which, should they really have little girls of their own,
and should they buy this book for them and read it, those two gentlemen
will probably remember; nor think the worse of themselves that their
kindness helped to while away what might otherwise have been rather
dreary, the last hour of the voyage,--a very long voyage for such a
small traveller.)
It was ended at last. The appointed pier, a solitary place where only
one other passenger was landed, stood out distinct in the last rays
of sunset. Once again the child was carried across one of those shaky
gangways,--neither frightened nor cross and quite cheerful and wide
awake still. Nay, she even stopped at the pier-head, her attention
caught by some creatures more weary than herself.
Half a dozen forlorn sheep, their legs tied together, and their heads
rolling about, with the most piteous expression in their open eyes, lay
together, waiting to be put on board. The child went up to them and
stroked their faces.
“Poor little baa-lambs, don’t be so frightened; you won’t be
frightened, now Sunny has patted you,” said she, in her tenderest
voice. And then, after having walked a few yards:
“Sunny must go back. Please, mamma, may Sunny go back to say good-bye
to those poor little baa-lambs?”
But the baa-lambs had already been tossed on board, and the steamer was
away with them into the dark.
Into the dark poor little Sunny had also to go; a drive of nine miles
across country, through dusky glens, and coming out by loch sides, and
under the shadow of great mountains, above whose tops the stars were
shining. Only the stars, for there was no moon, and no lamps to the
carriage; and the driver, when spoken to, explained--in slow Highland
English, and in a mournful manner, evidently not understanding the half
of what was said to him--that there were several miles farther to go,
and several hills to climb yet; and that the horse was lame, and the
road not as safe as it might be. A prospect which made the elders of
the party not perfectly happy, as may well be imagined.
But the child was as merry as possible, though it was long past her
tea-time and she had had no tea, and past bedtime, yet there was no
bed to go to; she kept on chattering till it was quite dark, and
then cuddled down, making “a baby” of her mamma’s hand,--a favourite
amusement. And so she lay, the picture of peace, until the carriage
stopped at the welcome door, and there stood a friendly group with two
little boys in front of it. After eleven hours of travelling, Little
Sunshine had reached a shelter at last!