Life at the glen went on every day alike, in the simplest, happiest
fashion, a sort of paradise of children, as in truth it was. Even the
elders lived like children; and big people and little people were
together, more or less, all day long. A thing not at all objectionable
when the children are good children, as these were.
The boys were noisy, of course, and, after the first hour of the
morning, clean faces, hands, and clothes became a difficulty quite
insurmountable, in which their mother had to resign herself to fate;
as the mamma of five boys, running about wild in the Highlands,
necessarily must. But these were good, obedient, gentlemanly little
fellows, and, had it been possible to keep them clean and whole, which
it wasn’t, very pretty little fellows, too.
Of course they had a few boyish propensities, which increased the
difficulty. Maurice, for instance, had an extraordinary love for all
creeping things, and especially worms. On the slightest pretence of
getting bait to fish with, he would go digging for them, and stuff them
into his pockets, whence, if you met him, you were as likely as not to
see one or two crawling out. If you remonstrated, he looked unhappy,
for Maurice really loved his worms. He cherished them carefully, and
did not in the least mind their crawling over his hands, his dress, or
his plate. Only, unfortunately, other people did. When scolded, he put
his pets meekly aside, but always returned to them with the same love
as ever. Perhaps Maurice may turn out a great naturalist some day.
The one idea of Eddie’s life was boats. He was for ever at the little
pier waiting a chance of a row, and always wanting to “low” somebody,
especially with “two oars,” which he handled uncommonly well for so
small a child. Fortunately for him, though not for his papa and the
salmon-fishers, the weather was dead calm, so that it was like paddling
on a duck-pond; and the loch being shallow just at the pier, except a
few good wettings, which he seemed to mind as little as if he were a
frog, bright, brave, adventurous Eddie came to no harm.
Nor Franky, who imitated him admiringly whenever he could. But Franky,
who was rather a reserved little man, and given to playing alone, had,
besides the pier, another favourite play-place, a hollow cut out
in the rock to receive the burn which leaped down from the hillside
just behind the house. Being close to the kitchen door, it was put to
all sorts of domestic uses, being generally full of pots and pans,
saucepans and kettles,--not the most advisable playthings, but Franky
found them charming. He also unluckily found out something else,--that
the hollow basin had an outlet, through which any substance, sent
swimming down the swift stream, swam away beautifully for several
yards, and then disappeared underground. And the other end of this
subterraneous channel being in the loch, of course it disappeared
for ever. In this way there vanished mysteriously all sorts of
things,--cups and saucers, toys, pinafores, hats; which last Franky was
discovered in the act of making away with, watching them floating off
with extreme delight. It was no moral crime, and hardly punishable, but
highly inconvenient. Sunny’s beloved luggie, which had been carried
about with her for weeks, was believed to have disappeared in this way,
and, as it could not sink, is probably now drifting somewhere about on
the loch, to the great perplexity of the fishes.
Little Phil, alas! was too delicate to be mischievous. He crept about
in the sunshine, not playing with anybody, but just looking on at the
rest, with his pale, sweet, pensive face. He was very patient and good,
and he suffered very much. One day, hearing his uncle at family prayers
pray that God would make him better, he said, sadly, “If He does,
I wish He would make haste about it.” Which was the only complaint
gentle, pathetic little Phil was ever heard to utter.
Sunny regarded him with some awe, as “the poor little boy who was so
ill.” For herself, she has never yet known what illness is; but she is
very sympathetic over it in others. Anybody’s being “not well” will
at once make her tender and gentle; as she always was to Phil. He in
his turn was very kind to her, lending her his “music,” which was the
greatest favour he could bestow or she receive.
This “music” was a box of infantile instruments, one for each
boy,--trumpet, drum, fife, etc., making a complete band, which a
rash-minded but affectionate aunt had sent them, and with which
they marched about all day long, to their own great delight and the
corresponding despair of their elders. Phil, who had an ear, would go
away quietly with his “music,”--a trumpet, I think it was,--and play it
all by himself. But the others simply marched about in procession, each
making the biggest noise he could, and watched by Sunny with admiration
and envy. Now and then, out of great benevolence, one of the boys
would lend her his instrument, and nobody did this so often as Phil,
though of them all he liked playing his music the best. The picture of
him sitting on the door-step, with his pale fingers wandering over his
instrument, and his sickly face looking almost contented as he listened
to the sound, will long remain in everybody’s mind. Sunny never
objected to her mamma’s carrying him, as he often had to be carried;
though he was fully six years old. He was scarcely heavier than the
little girl herself. Austin Thomas would have made two of him.
Austin’s chief peculiarity was this amiable fatness. He tumbled about
like a roly-poly pudding, amusing everybody, and offending no one but
Little Sunshine. But his persistent pursuit of her mamma, whom he
insisted on calling “Danmamma” (grandmamma), and following whenever he
saw her, was more than the little girl could bear, and she used to knit
her brows and look displeased. However, mamma never took any notice,
knowing what a misery to itself and all about it is a jealous child.
Amidst these various amusements passed the day. It began at 8 A. M.,
when Sunshine and her mamma usually appeared on the terrace in front
of the house. They two were “early birds,” and so they got “the
worm,”--that is, a charming preliminary breakfast of milk, bread and
butter, and an egg, which they usually ate on the door-step. Sometimes
the rest, who had had their porridge, the usual breakfast of Scotch
children,--and very nice it is, too,--gathered around for a share;
which it was pleasant to give them, for they waited so quietly, and
were never rough or rude.
Nevertheless, sometimes difficulties arose. The tray being placed on
the gravel, Maurice often sat beside it, and his worms would crawl out
of his pocket and on to the bread and butter. Then Eddie now and then
spilt the milk, and Austin Thomas would fill the salt-cellar with sand
out of the gravel walk, and stir it all up together with the egg-spoon;
a piece of untidiness which Little Sunshine resented extremely.
She had never grown reconciled to Austin Thomas. In spite of his burly
good-nature, and his broad beaming countenance (which earned him the
nickname of “Cheshire,” from his supposed likeness to the Cheshire Cat
in “Alice’s Adventures”), she refused to play with him; whenever he
appeared, her eye followed him with distrust and suspicion, and when he
said “Danmamma,” she would contradict him indignantly.
“It isn’t grandmamma, it’s _my_ mamma, my own mamma. Go away, naughty
boy!” If he presumed to touch the said mamma, it was always, “Take me
up in your arms, in your own arms,”--so as to prevent all possibility
of Austin Thomas’s getting there.
[Illustration]
But one unlucky day Austin tumbled down, and, though more frightened
than hurt, cried so much that, his own mamma being away, Sunny’s mamma
took him and comforted him, soothing him on her shoulder till he ceased
sobbing. This was more than human nature could bear. Sunny did nothing
at the time, except pull frantically at her mamma’s gown, but shortly
afterward she and Austin Thomas were found by themselves, engaged in
single combat on the gravel walk. She had seized him by the collar of
his frock, and was kicking him with all her might, while he on his part
was pommelling at her with both his little fat fists, like an infant
prize-fighter. It was a pitched battle, pretty equal on both sides; and
conducted so silently, in such dead earnest, that it would have been
quite funny,--if it had not been so very wrong.
Of course such things could not be allowed, even in babies under three
years old. Sunny’s mamma ran to the spot and separated the combatants
by carrying off her own child right away into the house. Sunny was so
astonished that she did not say a word. And when she found that her
mamma never said a word either, but bore her along in total silence,
she was still more surprised. Her bewilderment was at its height, when,
shutting the bedroom door, her mamma set her down, and gave her--not
a whipping: she objects to whippings under any circumstances--but the
severest scolding the child had ever had in her life.
When I say “scolding,” I mean a grave, sorrowful rebuke, showing how
wicked it was to kick anybody, and how it grieved mamma that her good
little girl should be so exceedingly naughty. Mamma grieved is a
reproach under which little Sunny breaks down at once. Her lips began
to quiver; she hung her head sorrowfully.
“Sunny had better go into the cupboard,” suggested she.
“Yes, indeed,” mamma replied. “I think the cupboard is the only place
for such a naughty little girl; go in at once.”
So poor Sunshine crept solemnly into a large press with sliding doors,
used for hanging up clothes, and there remained in silence and darkness
all the while her mamma was dressing to go out. At last she put her
head through the opening.
“Sunny quite good now, mamma.”
“Very well,” said mamma, keeping with difficulty a grave countenance.
“But will Sunny promise never to kick Austin Thomas again?”
“Yes.”
“Then she may come out of the cupboard, and kiss mamma.”
Which she did, with a beaming face, as if nothing at all had happened.
But she did not forget her naughtiness. Some days after, she came up,
and confidentially informed her mamma, as if it were an act of great
virtue, “Mamma, Sunny ’membered her promise. Sunny hasn’t kicked the
little boy again.”
After the eight o’clock breakfast, Sunny, her mamma, and the five
little boys generally took a walk together, or sat telling stories in
front of the house, till the ten o’clock breakfast of the elders. That
over, the party dispersed their several ways, wandering about by land
or water, and meeting occasionally, great folks and small, in boats, or
by hillsides, or indoors at the children’s one o’clock dinner,--almost
the only time, till night, that anybody ever was indoors.
Besides most beautiful walks for the elders, there were, close by the
house, endless play-places for the children, each more attractive than
the other. The pier on the loch was the great delight; but there was,
about a hundred yards from the house, a burn (in fact, burns were
always tumbling from the hillside, wherever you went), with a tiny
bridge across it, which was a charming spot for little people. There
usually assembled a whole parliament of ducks, and hens, and chickens,
quacking and clucking and gobbling together, to their own great content
and that of the children, especially the younger ones. Thither came
Austin Thomas with his nurse Grissel, a thorough Scotch lassie; and
Sunny with her English Lizzie; and there the baby, the pet of all, tiny
“Miss Mary,” a soft, dainty, cuddling thing of six months old, used to
be brought to lie and sleep in the sunshine, watched by Little Sunshine
with never-ending interest. She would go anywhere with “the dear
little baby.” The very intonation of her voice, and the expression
of her eyes, changed as she looked at it,--for this little girl is
passionately fond of babies.
Farther down the mountain-road was another attractive corner, a
stone dike, covered with innumerable blackberries. Though gathered
daily, there were each morning more to gather, and they furnished an
endless feast for both nurses and children. And really, in this sharp
mountain air, the hungriness of both big and little people must have
been alarming. How the house-mother ever fed her household, with the
only butcher’s shop ten miles off, was miraculous. For very often the
usual resort of shooting-lodges entirely failed; the game was scarce,
and hardly worth shooting, and in this weather the salmon absolutely
refused to be caught. Now and then a mournful-looking sheep was led up
to the door, and offered for sale alive, to be consumed gradually as
mutton. But when you have to eat an animal right through, you generally
get a little tired of him at last.
The food that never failed, and nobody ever wearied of, was the trout;
large dishes of which appeared, and disappeared, every morning at
breakfast. A patient guest, who could not go shooting, used to sit
fishing for trout, hour by hour, in the cheerfullest manner; thankful
for small blessings (of a pound or a pound and a half at most), and
always hoping for the big salmon which he had travelled three hundred
miles to fish for, but which never came. Each day, poor gentleman! he
watched the dazzlingly bright sky, and, catching the merest shadow of a
cloud, would say courageously, “It looks like rain! Perhaps the salmon
may bite to-morrow.”
Of afternoons, Sunny and her mamma generally got a little walk and
talk alone together along the hillside road, noticing everything, and
especially the Highland cattle, who went about in family parties,--the
big bull, a splendid animal, black or tawny, looking very fierce, but
really offering no harm to anybody; half a dozen cows, and about twice
that number of calves. Such funny little things these were! not smooth,
like English calves, but with quantities of shaggy hair hanging about
them, and especially over their eyes. Papa used to say that his little
girl, with her incessant activity, and her yellow curls tossing wildly
about on her forehead, was very like a Highland calf.
At first, Sunny was rather afraid of these extraordinary beasts, so
different from Southern cattle; but she soon got used to them, and as
even the big bull did nothing worse than look at her, and pass her by,
she would stand and watch them feeding with great interest, and go
as close to them as ever she was allowed. Once she even begged for a
little calf to play with, but as it ran away up the mountainside as
active as a deer, this was not practicable. And on the whole she liked
the ducks and chickens best.
And for a change she liked to walk with mamma around the old-fashioned
garden. What a beautiful garden it was!--shut in with high walls, and
sloping southward down to the loch. No doubt many a Highland dame,
generations back, had taken great pleasure in it, for its fruit-trees
were centuries old, and the box edging of its straight, smooth gravel
walks was a picture in itself. Also a fuchsia hedge, thick with crimson
blossoms, which this little girl, who is passionately fond of flowers,
could never pass without begging for “a posie, to stick in my little
bosie,” where it was kissed and “loved” until, generally soon enough,
it got broken and died.
Equally difficult was it to pass the apples which lay strewn about
under the long lines of espaliers, where Maurice and Eddie were often
seen hovering about with an apple in each hand, and plenty more in
each pocket. The Highland air seemed to give them unlimited digestion,
but Sunny’s mamma had occasionally to say to her little girl that
quiet denial, which caused a minute’s sobbing, and then, known to be
inevitable, was submitted to.
The child found it hard sometimes that little girls might not do all
that little boys may. For instance, between the terrace and the pier
was a wooden staircase with a hand-rail; both rather old and rickety.
About this hand-rail the boys were for ever playing, climbing up it and
sliding down it. Sunny wanted to do the same, and one day her mamma
caught her perched astride at the top, and preparing to “slidder” down
to the bottom, in imitation of Eddie, who was urging her on with all
his might. This most dangerous proceeding for little girls with frocks
had to be stopped at once; mamma explaining the reason, and insisting
that Sunny must promise never to do it again. Poor little woman, she
was very sad; but she did promise, and, moreover, she kept her word.
Several times mamma saw her stand watching the boys with a mournful
countenance, but she never got astride on the hand-rail again. Only
once, a sudden consolation occurred to her.
“Mamma, ’posing Sunny were some day to grow into a little boy, _then_
she might slide down the ladder?”
“Certainly, yes!” answered mamma, with great gravity, and equal
sincerity. In the meantime she perfectly trusted her reliable child,
who never does anything behind her back any more than before her face.
And she let her clamber about as much as was practicable, up and down
rocks, and over stone dikes, and in and out of burns, since, within
certain limitations, little girls should be as active as little boys.
And by degrees, Sunny, a strong, healthy, energetic child, began to
follow the boys about everywhere.
There was a byre and a hay-house, where the children were very fond
of playing, climbing up a ladder and crawling along the roof to the
ridge-tiles, along which Eddie would drag himself, astraddle, from end
to end, throwing Sunny into an ecstasy of admiration. To climb up to
the top of a short ladder and be held there, whence she could watch
Eddie crawl like a cat from end to end of the byre, and wait till he
slid down the tiles again, was a felicity for which she would even
sacrifice the company of “the dear little baby.”
But, after all, the pier was the great resort. From early morning
till dark, two or three of the children were always to be seen there,
paddling in the shallows like ducks, with or without shoes and
stockings, assisting at every embarkation or landing of the elders, and
generally, by force of entreaties, getting--Eddie especially--“a low”
on their own account several times a day. Even Sunny gradually came to
find such fascination in the water, and in Eddie’s company, that if her
mamma had not kept a sharp lookout after her, and given strict orders
that, without herself, Sunny was never under any pretext to go on the
loch at all, the two children, both utterly fearless, would certainly
have been discovered sailing away like the wise men of Gotham who “went
to sea in a bowl.” Probably with the same ending to their career; that
“If the bowl had been stronger,
My song would have been longer!”
After Little Sunshine’s holiday was done, mamma, thinking over the
countless risks run, by her own child and these other children, felt
thankful that they had all left this beautiful glen alive.