BY LAND AND SEA
"So the wind blew softly,
And the sun shone bright."
Grandfather had fixed that it would be best to go straight through at
once to the seaport, where, the next morning, they would find the
'normous boat waiting to take them over the sea. They had to pass
through London on the way, and, by the time they got to the big London
station, Baby was very tired--so white and quiet that mother was a
little frightened.
"I almost wish," she said, "that we had fixed to stay all night in
London. Baby has never had a long railway journey before, since he was a
_real_ Baby, you know, and he is not very strong."
She was speaking to auntie. It was just when they were getting near the
big London station. Auntie looked at Baby. He was lying on Lisa's knee
with his eyes shut, as if he were asleep, but he wasn't. He heard what
they said, and he was rather pleased at them talking about him. In
_some_ ways he was very fond of being made a fuss about.
"He does look a little white shrimp," said auntie. "But then you know,
May, he is so fair. He looks more quickly white if he is tired than
other children. And he has been such a good little man all day--not one
bit of trouble. He is really a capital traveller--_ever_ so much quieter
than the others."
She said these last few words in a low tone, not caring for the other
children to hear; but if she had spoken quite loud I don't think they
would have heard, and, indeed, it seemed as if they wanted to show that
auntie's words were true; for just at that moment there came such a
scream from Denny that everybody started up in a fright.
What _could_ be the matter? everybody asked.
"It's all Denny," said Fritz, in a great fuss.
"It's not; it's all Fritz and Celia," said Denny.
"It's both of them," said Celia. "Mother, I wish you wouldn't let them
be near each other. Denny put her hand into the dormice's cage when
Fritz wasn't looking, and she poked out Tim, who was just beginning to
come awake for the night, and she as nearly as _could_ be got his tail
pulled off, and then, when Fritz caught her, she screamed."
"Fritz snipped my hand in the little door of the cage," sobbed Denny.
"And Celia always takes Fritz's part."
Celia was beginning; to "answer back," when auntie stopped her by a
look--the children were sometimes rather afraid of auntie's "looks."
"Dear me, young people," said grandfather from his end of the carriage,
"you might be peaceable for five minutes, and then we shall be in
London, and you shall have a good tea before we go on again."
The children all grew quiet. They were glad to hear of tea, and they
were a little ashamed of themselves. Auntie moved over to their end of
the carriage.
"Him would like some tea too, p'ease," said Baby, as she passed him, and
auntie patted his head.
"They are all tired, I suppose," said mother; "but it really is too
silly, the way they quarrel about nothing."
"Auntie," said Celia softly, "I think it was partly my fault. Denny and
Fritz asked me to tell them a story, and I wouldn't. It would have kept
them quiet."
"Well, never mind now," said auntie. "You must all try and be very good
to-morrow. This is only the first day, you know. You can't be expected
to be very clever travellers yet. And the very first lesson to learn in
travelling is--do you know what?"
"Not to lose your things?" said Celia.
"To be ready in time?" said Fritz.
"To sit still in the railway?" said Denny, rather meekly.
"All those are very good things," said auntie; "but they're not _the_
thing I was thinking of. It was _to keep your temper_."
The children got rather red, but I don't think any one noticed, for
already the train was slackening, and in another minute or two they all
got out and were standing together on the bustling platform, dimly
lighted up by the gas lamps, which looked yellow and strange in the
foggy air of a London November evening.
"Is zit London?" said Baby, and when Celia said "yes," he added rather
mournfully, "Him doesn't sink London's pitty at all."
[Illustration: Poor little boys, for after all, Fritz himself wasn't
very big! They stood together hand in hand on the station platform,
looking, and feeling, rather desolate.--P. 84.]
Poor little boys, for, after all, Fritz himself wasn't very big! They
stood together hand in hand on the station platform, looking, and
feeling, rather desolate. Lisa was busy helping with the rugs and
bags that had been in the carriage; mother and auntie, as well as
grandfather and Peters and the maid, were all busy about the luggage.
"Stay there a moment, children," said somebody; but Denny had no idea of
staying anywhere. Off she trotted to have a look at the luggage too, and
Celia was half inclined to follow her, when her glance fell on her two
little brothers.
"Celia," said Baby, catching hold of her, "don't go away too. Fritz is
taking care of him, but we _might_ be lostened."
He spoke rather timidly, and Celia's heart was touched. She was a good
deal older than the others--nearly twelve--Fritz and Denny were very
near in age, and sometimes Celia was a little cross at mother for not
making difference enough, as she thought, and for keeping her still a
good deal in the nursery. Mother had her own good reasons, and it is not
always wise for big people to tell children their reasons, as Celia got
to know when she grew wiser and bigger herself. She sometimes spoke
rather crossly to the younger ones, and it made them a very little
afraid of her, but in her heart she was kind. Just now she stooped down
to kiss Baby.
"Don't be frightened, poor old man," she said, "you won't be lost. Fritz
wouldn't let you be lost, would you, Fritz?"
Fritz brightened up at that, as Celia had meant he should. He, too, had
been feeling a little strange and queer--the long journey and the
sleeping in the day, all so different from their life at home, had
rather upset him--but he would not have liked to say so! And now he was
quite pleased at Celia telling Baby that, of course, Fritz was big
enough to take care of him. It is so easy for children--bigger ones
above all--to please each other and give nice feelings, when they really
try to feel _with_ each other and _for_ each other.
The little boys looked much happier a few minutes later, when they were
seated at tea in a comfortable corner of the refreshment room.
Grandfather had sent Peters on, as soon as they had got the luggage all
safe, to see that a table was placed for them by themselves. He,
himself, went off to get some real dinner, for, of course, it was not to
be expected that a gentleman, and especially an _old_ gentleman, would
be contented with tea, and bread and butter, and buns, however nice,
but, to the children's great pleasure, mother and auntie said _they_
would far rather stay and have tea with the little people.
"It is a good thing, isn't it, for them to stay with us?" said Fritz to
Celia, confidentially, "for we are none of us _very_ big, are we? And
you know we _might_ get lost somehow, as Baby says, though I wouldn't
say so to him for fear of frightening him, you know."
"No, of course not," said Celia, and looking up she was pleased to see
mother smiling at her. Mother saw that Celia was trying to be kind and
helpful, and she did so like to see the way the little ones clung to
Celia when she was gentle. Mother must have been something like Baby in
her mind, I think, for when she looked at the boys sitting there in the
strange, big station-room, their little faces grave and rather tired
looking, a sort of sorry feeling came over _her_ too, as she thought of
the snug, cosy nursery at home, and the neat nursery tea, with the
pretty pink and white cups she had chosen, and the canaries and "Bully"
twittering in the window. Poor "calanies" and poor Bully! they didn't
know where they had got to! They had slept nearly all day, thinking, as
they were meant to think, that it was night, I suppose, but now they
must have given up thinking so, for they were fidgeting about in their
cages in an unhappy, restless sort of way. They had plenty of seed, and
Celia and Lisa took care that they should have fresh water, but still,
poor little things, they were not very happy.
"Going away from their own home is really a trial for children," thought
mother. She was a little tired herself, and being tired makes
_everything_ seem the wrong way.
But there was no help for it. They had all to make the best of things,
and to set off again in another train and be rattled away to the sea. It
was quite dark by now, of course, and it seemed very queer to start on
another journey with so little rest between. I think, however, once they
were all settled in the railway carriage, that the children slept the
most of the way; Baby, at any rate, knew nothing more till he woke up to
find himself in Lisa's arms, with a cold, fresh air--the air of the
sea--blowing in his face, and making him lift up his head and look about
him.
"Where is him?" he said. "Is him in the 'normous boat?"
"Not so, Herr Baby," said Lisa. "He shall first be undressed and have a
nice sleep all night in bed, to rest him well. Lie still, mine child,
and Lisa will keep you warm."
"Him likes the wind," said Baby. "It blowed his eyes open; him is quite
awake now," and he tried to sit straight up in Lisa's arms.
"Oh, Herr Baby, I cannot hold you so," said Lisa.
"There is such a little way to go," said his mother, who was just
behind, "lie still, dear, as Lisa tells you."
"Him would like to walk, him's legs is so 'tiff," said Baby. "P'ease let
him walk if it's such a little way!"
His voice was so piteous that mother told Lisa to let him walk; they
were going from the station to the hotel, a very little way, as mother
had said. Lisa put Baby down on the ground; at first he really tumbled
over, his legs felt so funny, but with Lisa's hand he soon got his
balance again. It was a very dark night; they could not have seen their
way but for the lights of the station and the town.
"What a dark countly zit is!" said Herr Baby. "Is there no moon in zit
countly? Denny says in her hymn 'the moon to shine by night,' is there
no moon 'cept in him's own countly?"
"What are you chattering about, little man?" said auntie.
"He's asking about the moon, auntie; he wants to know if there isn't
any moon here. He thinks we've left it behind at home," said Denny.
A sort of roar from poor Baby interrupted her.
"Oh, Denny, don't, _don't_ say that," he cried, "it makes him sink of
the labbits, and Thomas, and Jones, and the trees, and the flowers, and
him's dear little bed, and all the sings we'se leaved behind. Him
doesn't like you to speak of leaved behind."
"_Poor_ Baby," said Denny, "I'm so sorry." She stooped down to kiss him,
but it was so dark it wasn't easy to find his mouth, and she only
managed to kiss the tip of his nose, which was as cold as a little
dog's. This made Herr Baby begin laughing, which was a good thing,
wasn't it? And he was so taken up in explaining to Lisa how funny it
felt when Denny kissed his nose, that he had not time to think of his
sorrows again till they were at the foot of the large flight of steps
leading up to the big hotel where they were to sleep.
"Nice big house," said Baby, looking round; and as he caught sight of
some of the waiters running about, he asked Lisa if "them was new
servants instead of Thomas and Jones."
"Him likes Thomas and Jones best," he went on, the corners of his mouth
going down again, so that Lisa was obliged to assure him the servants
were not going to be _instead_ of Thomas and Jones, they were all only
just going to stay one night at this big house, and to-morrow they would
set off in the great ship to cross the sea.
The mention of the ship fortunately gave a new turn to Baby's thoughts;
and he allowed Lisa to take him upstairs and warm him well before a good
fire before she undressed him and put him to bed. The other children
thought it great fun to sleep in strange rooms, in beds quite unlike
those they had at home, and to have to hunt for their nightgowns and
brushes and sponges in two or three _wrong_ carpet bags before they came
to the right one; but Baby's spirits were rather depressed, and it was
not easy to keep him from crying in the sad little way he had when his
feelings were touched.
"He is tired, poor little chap," said auntie, as she kissed him for
good-night. "It is ever so much later than he has ever been up before.
It is nearly ten."
"Him _were_ up till ten o'clock on Kissmass," said Herr Baby,
brightening up. "Him were up _dedful_ late, till, till, p'raps till near
twenty o'clock."
Auntie would have liked to laugh, but she took care not, for when Baby
was in this sort of humour there was no telling whether other people's
laughing might not make him take to crying, so she just said,
"Indeed! That must have been _very_ late; well, go to sleep now, and
sleep till twenty o'clock to-morrow morning, if you like. We don't need
to start early," she added, turning to Lisa; and I think poor Lisa was
not sorry to hear it!
If I were to go on telling you, bit by bit, all about the journey, and
everything that happened big and little, it would take a good while, and
I don't know that you would find it very interesting. Perhaps it is
better to take a jump, as people do in real big story books, and to go
on with Herr Baby's adventures a few days later, when he, and Denny, and
Fritz, and Celia, and Lisa, and mother, and auntie, and grandfather, and
the "bully," and the "calanies," and Tim, and Peepy-Snoozle, and Linley,
mother's maid, and Peters, grandfather's man, and I forget if there was
any one else, but I think not; and all the boxes and carpet-bags, and
railway-rugs, were safely arrived at Santino, the pretty little town
with mountains on one side and the sea on the other, where they were all
going to spend the winter. I must not forget to tell you one thing,
however, which, I daresay, some of you who may have crossed "over the
sea," and _not_ found it very delightful, may be anxious to know about.
I mean about the voyage in the 'normous boat, which Baby had been so
looking forward to, poor little fellow.
Well, wasn't it lucky, he was not at all disappointed? They had the
loveliest day that ever was seen, and Baby thought 'normous boats far
the nicest way of travelling, and he couldn't understand why grandfather
couldn't make them go all the way to Santino in the nice boat, and when
they explained to him that it couldn't be, because there was no sea for
boats to go on all the way, he thought there must have been some great
mistake in the way the world was made. And when they got to Santino, and
the first thing he saw _was_ the sea, blue and beautiful like a fairy
dream, Baby was quite startled.
"Mother, auntie!" he said, reproachfully, "you toldened him there
weren't no sea."
"We didn't mean that, Baby, dear," said mother; "we meant that there was
no sea to come the shortest way; we would have had to come all round the
land, and it would have been much longer. Look, it is like this," and
mother traced with her parasol a sort of map on the sand, to show Baby
that they had come a much nearer way. For they were standing by the
sea-shore at the time.
"Yes," said Herr Baby, after looking on without speaking for a minute or
two, "him under'tands now."
"So you've had your first lesson in geography," said auntie.
Baby stared up at her.
"Are _that_ jography?" he said. "Him thought jography were awful, dedful
difficult. Denny is so _werry_ c'oss when her has jography to learn."
"Oh, because, of course, you know," said Denny, getting rather red,
"_my_ jography is _real_ jography, with books and maps and ever so long
rows of names to learn. Baby's so stupid--he always takes up things so;
he'll be thinking now that if he makes marks on the sand, he'll be
learning jography."
Denny turned away with a very superior air. Baby looked much hurt.
[Illustration: "Are _that_ jography?" he said.--P. 94.]
"Him's not stupid, _are_ him?" he said; and in a moment Celia and Fritz
were hugging him and calling Denny a naughty, unkind girl to tease him.
Mother and auntie had walked on a little, so things _might_ have gone on
to a quarrel if Lisa hadn't stopped it.
"Mine children," she said, "it is too pity to be not friendly together.
See what one beautifullest place this is--sky so blue and sea so blue,
and all so bright and sunny. One should be nothing but happy here."
"Yes," said Celia, looking round, "it is an awfully pretty place."
Celia, you see, was just beginning to be old enough to notice really
beautiful things in a way that when children are _very_ little, they
cannot quite understand, though some do much more than others.
"It is a _very_ pretty place," she said again, as if she were speaking
to herself, for Fritz and Denny had taken it into their heads to run
races, of which Lisa was very glad, and Celia stood still by herself,
looking round at the lovely sea and sky, and the little white town
perched up above, with the mountains rising behind. Suddenly a little
hand was slipped into hers.
"Him would like to live here everways," said Baby's voice; "it _are_ so
pitty--somefin like Heaven, p'raps."
"I don't know," said Celia, "I suppose Heaven must be prettier than
anything we could fancy."
"There's gold streets in Heaven, Lisa says," said Baby; "him sinks blue
sky streets would be much pittier."
"So do I," said Celia.
Then they walked on a little, watching Fritz and Denny, already like two
black specks in front--they had run on so far--and, somehow, in the
_very_ bright sunshine, one seemed to see less clearly. Mother and
auntie were in front too, and when Fritz and Denny raced back again,
quite hot and out of breath, mother said it was time for them all to go
in; it was still rather too hot to be out much near the middle of the
day, though it was already some way on in November, and next month would
be the month that Christmas comes in!
"How funny it seems," said Celia. "Why, when we left home it was quite
winter. Just think how we were wrapped up when we started on the
journey, and now we're quite warm enough with nothing at all over our
frocks."
"It may be cold enough before long," said mother, who was more
accustomed to hot climates than the children; "sometimes the cold
hereabouts comes quite suddenly, and it even seems colder from having
been so warm before. I daresay you will be glad of your thick clothes
before Christmas. But we must get on a little quicker, or else
grandfather will be in a hurry for his breakfast."
"Ganfather's werry lazy not to have had him's breakfast yet," said
Baby. "_Him's_ had _him's_ breakfast ever so long ago, hundreds of years
ago."
"Oh, Baby," said Denny, "how you do 'saggerate! It _couldn't_ have been
hundreds of years ago, because, you know, you weren't born then."
"Stupid girl!" said Baby, "how does you know? you wasn't there."
"Well, _you_ weren't there," said Denny again.
"Children, don't contradict each other. It's not nice," said auntie.
"Him didn't begin," said Baby, "t'were Denny beginned."
"I didn't. I only said _once_ that Baby wasn't born hundreds of years
ago," said Denny, "and then he----"
"Onst is as wurst as twicet," said Baby.
Mother turned round at this. There was a funny look on her face, but
still she spoke rather gravely.
"Baby, I don't know what's coming over you," she said. "It isn't like
you to speak like that."
Baby's face grew red, and he turned his head away.
"Him didn't mean _zeally_ that ganfather were lazy," he said, in a low
voice.
"It wasn't _that_ I was vexed with you for," said mother. "I know you
were joking when you said that. I meant what you said to Denny."
"Him's werry sorry," said Baby, on the point of tears.
"Never mind. Don't cry about it," said mother, who really wanted the
children to be very good and happy this first day. And she was a little
afraid of Baby's beginning to cry, for, _sometimes_, once he had begun,
it was not very easy to stop him.
"You don't understand about grandfather and his breakfast," said auntie.
"Here nobody has big breakfast when they first get up except you
children, who have the same that you have at home."
"No we don't," said Denny. "At home we have bread and milk every day
except Sunday--on Sunday we have bacon or heggs, because that's the
nothing-for-breakfast day."
Auntie stared at Denny.
"Really, Denny," she said, "it is sometimes a little difficult to be
sure that you have got all your senses. How can you have 'nothing for
breakfast' when you have bacon, and--who in the world ever taught you to
say 'heggs'?"
"I meant to say 'neggs,'" said Denny very humbly. "Grandfather laughed
at me because I didn't say 'hippotamus' right--I called it a
'nippotamus,' and he made me say 'hi-hi-hip,' and that's got me into the
way of saying it to everything, like calling a negg, a hegg."
"A _negg_," repeated auntie slowly. "Can't you hear any difference
between 'a negg,' and 'an egg'? Spell, a-n an, e-g-g egg."
Denny repeated it.
"What dedful jography Denny's having," observed Baby; "I can say _a
negg, quite_ right."
"And so you too call 'a negg' nothing for breakfast?" said auntie.
"Neggs and bacon is nothing for breakfast," answered Baby.
"Auntie," said Fritz, "you don't understand. We call it nothing for
breakfast when there's not bread-and-milk, you know, for on
bread-and-milk days we have just one little cup of tea and a bit of
bread-and-butter after the bread-and-milk. But on Sundays, and
birthdays, there's nothing for the _first_, and so we get better things,
more like big people, and tea, and whatever there is, as soon as we
begin. That's why we like 'nothing for breakfast,' do you see, auntie?"
"I see," said auntie, "but I certainly couldn't have guessed. I hope
there's _something_ for breakfast to-day for us, for I'm very hungry,
and look, there's grandfather coming out to meet us, which looks as if
he were hungry too. And what have you to say to it, old man?" she added,
as Herr Baby came up the steps, one foot at a time, of course, "aren't
you hungry after your walk?"
"Him's hungry for him's _dinner_, but not for him's _breakfast_; in
course not," said Baby, with great dignity.