people's back windows; and it is quite impossible for me to help seeing
and being interested in my neighbours. There are a good many children in
those houses; and though I don't know one of their names, I know them a
great deal better than they think I do. I never spoke a word to any of
them, and never expect to do so; yet I have my likes and dislikes among
them, and could tell them things that they have said and done, which
would astonish them very much, I assure you.
First, the babies,--for there are three: the aristocratic baby, the
happy-go-lucky baby, and the forlorn baby. The aristocratic baby lives
in a fine, well-furnished room, has a pretty little mamma, who wears
white gowns, and pink ribbons in her cap; likewise, a fond young papa,
who evidently thinks _this_ the most wonderful baby in Boston. There is
a stout, motherly lady, who is the grandma, I fancy, for she is always
hovering about 'the dear' with cups, blankets, or a gorgeous red worsted
bird to amuse it. Baby is a plump, rosy, sweet-faced little creature,
always smiling and kissing its hand to the world in general. In its
pretty white frocks, with its own little pink or blue ribbons, and its
young mamma proudly holding it up to see and be seen, my aristocratic
neighbour has an easy life of it, and is evidently one of the little
lilies who do nothing but blossom in the sunshine.
The happy-go-lucky baby is just able to toddle; and I seldom pull up my
curtain in the morning without seeing him at his window in his yellow
flannel night-gown, taking a look at the weather. No matter whether it
rains or shines, there he is, smiling and nodding, and looking so merry,
that it is evident he has plenty of sunshine bottled up in his own
little heart for private use. I depend on seeing him, and feel as if the
world was not right until this golden little sun rises to shine upon me.
He don't seem to have any one to take care of him, but trots about all
day, and takes care of himself. Sometimes he is up in the chambers with
the girl, while she makes beds, and he helps; then he takes a stroll
into the parlour, and spins the gay curtain-tassels to his heart's
content; next, he dives into the kitchen (I hope he does not tumble
downstairs, but I dare say he wouldn't mind if he did), and he gets
pushed about by all the busy women, as they 'fly round.' I rather think
it gets too hot for him there about dinner-time; for he often comes out
into the yard for a walk at noon, and seems to find endless wonders and
delights in the ash barrel, the water-but, two old flower-pots, and a
little grass plat, in which he plants a choice variety of articles, in
the firm faith they will come up in full bloom. I hope the big spoon and
his own red shoe _will_ sprout and appear before any trouble is made
about their mysterious disappearance. At night I see a little shadow
bobbing about on the curtain, and watch it, till with a parting glimpse
at a sleepy face at the window, my small sun sets, and I leave him to
his dreams.
The forlorn baby roars all day, and I don't blame him; for he is
trotted, shaken, spanked, and scolded by a very cross nurse, who treats
him like a meal bag. I pity that little neighbour, and don't believe he
will stand it long; for I see him double up his tiny fists, and spar
away at nothing, as if getting ready for a good tussle with the world by
and by, if he lives to try it.
Then the boys,--bless their buttons!--how amusing they are. One young
man, aged about ten, keeps hens; and the trials of that boy are really
pathetic. The biddies get out every day or two, and fly away all over
the neighbourhood, like feathers when you shake a pillow. They cackle
and crow, and get up on sheds and fences, and trot down the streets, all
at once, and that poor fellow spins round after them like a distracted
top. One by one he gets them and comes lugging them back, upside down,
in the most undignified attitude, and shuts them up, and hammers away,
and thinks they are all safe, and sits down to rest, when a triumphant
crow from some neighbouring shed tells him that that rascally black
rooster is out again for another promenade. I'm not blood-thirsty; but I
really do long for Thanksgiving that my neighbour Henry may find rest
for the sole of his foot; for, not till his poultry are safely eaten
will he ever know where they are.
Another boy has a circus about once a week, and tries to break his neck
jumping through hoops, hanging to a rope by his heels, turning
somersaults in the air, and frightening his mother out of her wits by
his pranks. I suspect that he has been to see Leotard, and I admire his
energy, for he is never discouraged; and, after tumbling flat,
half-a-dozen times, he merely rubs his elbows and knees, and then up and
takes another.
There is a good, domestic boy, who brushes and curls his three little
sisters' hair every morning, and must do it very gently, for they seem
to like it; and I often see them watch at the back gate for him, and
clap their hands, and run to meet him, sure of being welcomed as little
sisters like to be met by the big brothers whom they love. I respect
that virtuous boy.
The naughty boy is very funny; and the running fight he keeps up with
the cross cook is as good as a farce. He _is_ a torment, but I think she
could tame him, if she took the right way. The other day she wouldn't
let him in because she had washed up her kitchen and his boots were
muddy. He wiped them on the grass, but that wouldn't do; and, after
going at her with his head down, like a battering ram, he gave it up, or
seemed to; for, the minute she locked the door behind her and came out
to take in her clothes, that sly dog whipped up one of the low windows,
scrambled in, and danced a hornpipe all over the kitchen, while the fat
cook scolded and fumbled for her key, for _she_ couldn't follow through
the window. Of course he was off upstairs by the time she got in; but
I'm afraid he had a shaking, for I saw him glowering fiercely as he came
out later with a basket, going some 'confounded errand.' Occasionally
his father brings him out and whips him for some extra bad offence,
during which performance he howls dismally; but when he is left sitting
despondently and miraculously on an old chair without any seat, he soon
cheers up, boos at a strange cat, whistles to his dog,--who is just like
him,--or falls back on that standing cure for all the ills that boys are
heir to, and whittles vigorously. I know I ought to frown upon this
reprehensible young person, and morally close my eyes to his pranks;
but I really can't do it, and am afraid I find this little black sheep
the most interesting of the flock.
The girls have tea-parties, make calls, and play mother, of course; and
the sisters of the good boy have capital times up in a big nursery, with
such large dollies that I can hardly tell which are the babies and which
the mammas. One little girl plays about at home with a dirty face,
tumbled hair, and an old pinafore on. She won't be made tidy, and I see
her kick and cry when they try to make her neat. Now and then there is a
great dressing and curling; and then I see her prancing away in her
light boots, smart hat, and pretty dress, looking as fresh as a daisy.
But I don't admire her; for I've been behind the scenes, you see, and I
know that she likes to be fine rather than neat.
So is the girl who torments her kitty, slaps her sister, and runs away
when her mother tells her not to go out of the yard. But the
house-wifely little girl who tends the baby, washes the cups, and goes
to school early with a sunshiny face and kiss all round, _she_, now, is
a neighbour worth having, and I'd put a good mark against her name if I
knew it.
I don't know as it would be proper for me to mention the grown-up people
over the way. They go on very much as the children do; for there is the
lazy, dandified man, who gets up late, and drinks; the cross man, who
swears at the shed-door when it won't shut; the fatherly man, who sits
among his children every evening, and the cheery old man up in the
attic, who has a flower in his window, and looks out at the world with
very much the same serene smile as my orange-coloured baby.
The women, too, keep house, make calls, and play mother; and some don't
do it well either. The forlorn baby's mamma never seems to cuddle and
comfort him; and some day, when the little fist lies cold and quiet, I'm
afraid she'll wish she had. Then the naughty boy's mother. I'm very
sure, if she put her arms round him sometimes, and smoothed that rough
head of his, and spoke to him as only mothers can speak, that it would
tame him far better than the scoldings and thrashings: for I know there
is a true boy's heart, warm and tender, somewhere under the jacket that
gets dusted so often. As for the fine lady who lets her children do as
they can, while she trims her bonnet, or makes panniers, I wouldn't be
introduced to her on any account. But as some might think it was
unjustifiable curiosity on my part to see these things, and an
actionable offence to speak of them, I won't mention them.
I sometimes wonder if the kind spirits who feel an interest in mortals
ever take a look at us on the shady side which we don't show the world,
seeing the trouble, vanities, and sins which we think no one knows. If
they love, pity, or condemn us? What records they keep, and what rewards
they prepare for those who are so busy with their work and play that
they forget who may be watching their back windows with clearer eyes and
truer charity than any inquisitive old lady with a pen in her hand?
_LITTLE MARIE OF LEHON._
'Here comes our pretty little girl,' I said to Kate, as we sat resting
on the seat beside the footpath that leads from Dinan on the hill to
Lehon in the valley.
Yes, there she was, trotting toward us in her round cap, blue woollen
gown, white apron, and wooden shoes. On her head was a loaf of buckwheat
bread as big as a small wheel, in one hand a basket full of green stuff,
while the other led an old goat, who seemed in no hurry to get home. We
had often seen this rosy, bright-eyed child, had nodded to her, but
never spoken, for she looked rather shy, and always seemed in haste. Now
the sight of the goat reminded us of an excuse for addressing her, and
as she was about to pass with the respectful little curtsey of the
country, my friend said in French:--
'Stay please. I want to speak to you.' She stopped at once and stood
looking at us under her long eyelashes in a timid yet confiding way,
very pretty to see.
'We want to drink goat's milk every morning: can you let us have it,
little one?'
'Oh, yes, mademoiselle! Nannette gives fine milk, and no one has yet
engaged her,' answered the child, her whole face brightening at the
prospect.
'What name have you?'
'Marie Rosier, mademoiselle.'
'And you live at Lehon?'
'Yes, mademoiselle.'
'Have you parents?'
'Truly, yes, of the best. My father has a loom, my mother works in the
field and mill with brother Yvon, and I go to school and care for
Nannette and nurse little Bebe.'
'What school?'
'At the convent, mademoiselle. The good sisters teach us the catechism,
also to write and read and sew. I like it much,' and Marie glanced at
the little prayer in her apron pocket, as if proud to show she could
read it.
'What age have you?'
'Ten years, mademoiselle.'
'You are young to do so much, for we often see you in the market buying
and selling, and sometimes digging in your garden there below, and
bringing water from the river. Do you love work as well as school?'
'Ah, no; but mademoiselle knows it is necessary to work: every one does,
and I'm glad to do my part. Yvon works much harder than I, and the
father sits all day at his loom, yet he is sick and suffers much. Yes, I
am truly glad to help,' and little Marie settled the big loaf as if
quite ready to bear her share of the burdens.
'Shall we go and see your father about the goat? and if he agrees will
you bring the milk fresh and warm every morning?' I asked, thinking that
a sight of that blooming face would brighten our days for us.
'Oh, yes! I always do it for the ladies, and you will find the milk
quite fresh and warm, hey, Nannette?' and Marie laughed as she pulled
the goat from the hedge where she was nibbling the young leaves.
We followed the child as she went clattering down the stony path, and
soon came into the narrow street bounded on one side by the row of low,
stone houses, and on the other by the green wet meadow full of willows,
and the rapid mill-stream. All along this side of the road sat women and
children, stripping the bark from willow twigs to be used in
basket-making. A busy sight and a cheerful one; for the women gossiped
in their high, clear voices, the children sang and laughed, and the
babies crept about as freely as young lambs.
We found Marie's home a very poor one. Only two rooms in the little hut,
the lower one with its earthen floor, beds in the wall, smoky fire, and
single window where the loom stood. At it sat a pale, dark man who
stopped work as we entered, and seemed glad to rest while we talked to
him, or rather while Kate did, for I could not understand his odd
French, and preferred to watch Marie during the making of the bargain.
Yvon, a stout lad of twelve, was cutting up brush with an old sickle,
and little Bebe, looking like a Dutch doll in her tiny round cap, tight
blue gown, and bits of sabots, clung to Marie as she got the supper.
I wondered what the children at home would have said to such a supper. A
few cabbage leaves made the soup, and this, with the dry black bread and
a sip of sour wine, was all they had. There were no plates or bowls, but
little hollow places in the heavy wooden table near the edge, and into
these fixed cups Marie ladled the soup, giving each a wooden spoon from
a queer rack in the middle; the kettle stood at one end, the big loaf
lay at the other, and all stood round eating out of their little
troughs, with Nannette and a rough dog close by to receive any crusts
that might be left.
Presently the mother came in, a true Breton woman; rosy and robust,
neat and cheery, though her poor clothes were patched all over, her
hands more rough and worn with hard work than any I ever saw, and the
fine hair under her picturesque cap gray at thirty with much care.
I saw then where Marie got the brightness that seemed to shine in every
feature of her little face, for the mother's coming was like a ray of
sunshine in that dark place, and she had a friendly word and look for
every one.
Our little arrangement was soon made, and we left them all smiling and
nodding as if the few francs we were to pay would be a fortune to them.
Early next morning we were wakened by Francoise, the maid, who came up
to announce that the goat's milk had arrived. Then we heard a queer,
quick, tapping sound on the stairs, and to our great amusement,
Nannette walked into the room, straight up to my bedside, and stood
there looking at me with her mild yellow eyes as if she was quite used
to seeing night-caps. Marie followed with a pretty little bowl in her
hand, and said, laughing at our surprise, 'See, dear mademoiselle; in
this way I make sure that the milk is quite fresh and warm;' and
kneeling down, she milked the bowl full in a twinkling, while Nannette
quietly chewed her cud and sniffed at a plate of rolls on the table.
The warm draught was delicious, and we drank each our portion with much
merriment.
'It is our custom,' said Francoise; who stood by with her arms folded,
and looked on in a lofty manner.
'What had you for your own breakfast?' I asked, as I caught Marie's eye
hungrily fixed on the rolls and some tempting little cakes of chocolate
left from our lunch the day before.
'My good bread, as usual, mademoiselle, also sorrel salad and--and
water,' answered Marie, as if trying to make the most of her scanty
meal.
'Will you eat the rolls and put the chocolate in your pocket to nibble
at school? You must be tired with this long walk so early.'
She hesitated, but could not resist; and said in a low tone, as she held
the bread in her hand without eating it,--
'Would mademoiselle be angry if I took it to Bebe? She has never tasted
the beautiful white bread, and it would please her much.'
I emptied the plate into her basket, tucked in the chocolate, and added
a gay picture for baby, which unexpected treasures caused Marie to clasp
her hands and turn quite red with delight.
After that she came daily, and we had merry times with old Nannette and
her little mistress, whom we soon learned to love, so busy, blithe, and
grateful was she.
We soon found a new way to employ her, for the boy who drove our donkey
did not suit us, and we got the donkey-woman to let us have Marie in the
afternoon when her lessons were done. She liked that, and so did we; for
she seemed to understand the nature of donkeys, and could manage them
without so much beating and shouting as the boy thought necessary. Such
pleasant drives as we had, we two big women in the droll wagon, drawn by
the little gray donkey that looked as if made of an old trunk, so rusty
and rough was he as he went trotting along, his long ears wagging, and
his small hoofs clattering over the fine hard road, while Marie sat on
the shaft with a long whip, talking and laughing, and giving Andre a
poke now and then, crying 'E! E! houp la!' to make him go.
We found her a capital little guide and story-teller, for her
grandmother had told her all the tales and legends of the neighbourhood,
and it was very pleasant to hear her repeat them in pretty peasant
French, as we sat among the ruins, while Kate sketched, I took notes,
and Marie held the big parasol over us.
Some of these stones were charming; at least as _she_ told them, with
her little face changing from gay to sad as she gesticulated most
dramatically.
The romance of 'Gilles de Bretagne' was one of her favourites. How he
carried off his child-wife when she was only twelve, how he was
imprisoned and poisoned, and at last left to starve in a dungeon, and
would stand at his window crying, 'Bread, bread; for the love of God!'
yet no one dared to give him any, till a poor peasant woman went in the
night and gave him half her black loaf. Not once, but every night for
six months, though she robbed her children to do it. And when he was
dying, it was she who took a priest to him, that he might confess
through the bars of his cell.
'So good, ah, so good, this poor woman! It is beautiful to hear of that,
mademoiselle!' little Marie would say, with her black eyes full and her
lips trembling.
But the story she liked best of all was about the peasant girl and her
grandmother.
'See then, dear ladies, it was in this way. In the time of the great war
many poor people were shot because it was feared they would burn the
chateaus. In one of these so sad parties being driven to St. Malo to be
shot, was this young girl. Only fifteen, dear ladies, behold how young
is this! and see the brave thing she did! With her went the old
grandmother whom she loved next the good God. They went slowly, she was
so old, and one of the officers who guarded them had pity on the pretty
girl, and said to her as they were a little apart from the rest, "Come,
you are young, and can run. I will save you; it is a pity so fine a
little girl should be shot."
'Then she was glad and thanked him much, saying, "And the grandmother
also? You will save her with me?" "It is impossible," says the officer.
"She is too old to run. I can save but one, and her life is nearly over;
let her go, and do you fly into the next wood. I will not betray you,
and when we come up with the gang it will be too late to find you."
'Then the great temptation of Satan came to this girl. She had no wish
to suffer, but she could not leave the good old grandmere to die alone.
She wept, she prayed, and the saints gave her courage.
'"No, I will not go," she said; and in the morning at St. Malo she was
shot with the old mother in her arms.'
'Could you do that for your grandmere?' I once asked, as she stopped for
breath, because this tale always excited her. She crossed herself
devoutly, and answered with fire in her eyes, and a resolute gesture of
her little brown hands,--
'I should try, mademoiselle.'
I think she would, and succeed, too, for she was a brave and
tender-hearted child, as she soon after proved.
A long drought parched the whole country that summer, and the gardens
suffered much, especially the little plats in Lehon, for most of them
were on the steep hillside behind the huts; and unless it rained, water
had to be carried up from the stream below. The cabbages and onions on
which these poor people depend, when fresh salads are gone, were dying
in the baked earth, and a hard winter was before them if this little
store failed.
The priests prayed for rain in the churches, and long processions
streamed out of the gates to visit the old stone cross called the 'Croix
de Saint Esprit,' and, kneeling there in crowds, the people implored the
blessing of rain to save their harvest. We felt great pity for them, but
liked little Marie's way of praying best.
She did not come one morning, but sent her brother, who only laughed,
and said Marie had hurt her foot, when we inquired for her. Anxious to
know if she was really ill, we went to see her in the afternoon, and
heard a pretty little story of practical Christianity.
Marie lay asleep on her mother's bed in the wall, and her father,
sitting by her, told the tale in a low voice, pausing now and then to
look at her, as if his little daughter had done something to be proud
of.
It seems that in the village there was an old woman frightfully
disfigured by fire, and not quite sane as the people thought. She was
harmless, but never showed herself by day, and only came out at night to
work in her garden or take the air. Many of the ignorant peasants feared
her, however; for the country abounds in fairy legends, and strange
tales of ghosts and goblins. But the more charitable left bread at her
door, and took in return the hose she knit or the thread she spun.
During the drought it was observed that _her_ garden, though the
steepest and stoniest, was never dry; _her_ cabbages flourished when her
neighbours' withered, and _her_ onions stood up green and tall as if
some special rain-spirit watched over them. People wondered and shook
their heads, but could not explain it, for Mother Lobineau was too
infirm to carry much water up the steep path, and who would help her
unless some of her own goblin friends did it?
This idea was suggested by the story of a peasant returning late at
night, who had seen something white flitting to and fro in the
garden-patch, and when he called to it saw it vanish most mysteriously.
This made quite a stir in the town; others watched also, saw the white
phantom in the starlight, and could not tell where it went when it
vanished behind the chestnut trees on the hill, till one man, braver
than the rest, hid himself behind these trees and discovered the
mystery. The sprite was Marie, in her little shift, who stepped out of
the window of the loft where she slept on to a bough of the tree, and
thence to the hill, for the house was built so close against the bank
that it was 'but a step from garret to garden,' as they say in Morlaix.
In trying to escape from this inquisitive neighbour, Marie hurt her
foot, but was caught, and confessed that it was she who went at night to
water poor Mother Lobineau's cabbages; because if they failed the old
woman might starve, and no one else remembered her destitute and
helpless state.
The good-hearted people were much touched by this silent sermon on
loving one's neighbour as one's self, and Marie was called the 'little
saint,' and tended carefully by all the good women. Just as the story
ended, she woke up, and at first seemed inclined to hide under the
bedclothes. But we had her out in a minute, and presently she was
laughing over her good deed, with a true child's enjoyment of a bit of
roguery, saying in her simple way,--
'Yes; it was so droll to go running about _en chemise_, like the girl in
the tale of the 'Midsummer Eve,' where she pulls the Saint Johns-wort
flower, and has her wish to hear all the creatures talk. I liked it
much, and Yvon slept so like the dormouse that he never heard me creep
in and out. It was hard to bring much water, but the poor cabbages were
_so_ glad, and Mother Lobineau felt that all had not forgotten her.