"It is the mynd that maketh good or ill,
That maketh wretch or happie, rich or poore."
_Spenser_.
"It's too bad!" said Miss Judy; "I declare it's really _too bad_!" and
she came stumping along the road; after her nurse, looking decidedly
"put out."
"It would be something new if it wasn't too bad with you, Miss Judy,
about something or other," said, nurse coolly.
Miss Judy was a kind-hearted, gentle-mannered little girl. She was
pretty and healthy and clever--the sort of child any parents might have
been proud of, any brothers and sisters fond of, had not all her
niceness been spoiled by one most disagreeable fault. She was _always_
grumbling. The hot days of summer, the cold days of winter, the rain,
the wind, the dust, might, to hear her speak, have been expressly
contrived to annoy her. When it was fine, and the children were to go
out a walk, Miss Judy was sure to have something she particularly wanted
to stay in for; when it rained, and the house was evidently the best
place for little people, Miss Judy was quite certain to have set her
heart upon going out. She grumbled at having to get up, she grumbled at
having to go to bed, she grumbled at lessons, she grumbled at play; she
_could_ not see that little contradictions and annoyances come to
everybody in the world, and that the only way to do is to meet them
bravely and sensibly. She really seemed to believe that nobody had so
much to bear as she; that on her poor little shoulders all the
tiresomenesses and disappointments, and "going the wrong way" of things,
were heaped in double, and more than double quantities, and she
persuaded herself that everybody she saw was better off in every way
than herself, and that no one else had such troubles to bear. So,
children, you will not be surprised to hear that poor Miss Judy was not
loved or respected as much as some little girls who perhaps _really_
deserved love and respect less. For this ugly disagreeable fault of
hers hid all her good qualities; and just as flowers cannot flourish
when shaded from the nice bright sun by some rank, wide-spreading weed,
so Judy's pretty blossoms of kindness and unselfishness and
truthfulness, which were all really _there_, were choked and withered by
this poisonous habit of grumbling.
I do not really remember what it was she was grumbling at this
particular morning. I daresay it was that the roads were muddy, for it
was autumn, and Judy's home was in the country. Or, possibly, it was
only that nurse had told her to walk a little quicker, and that
immediately her boots began to hurt her, or the place on her heel where
once there _had been_ a chilblain got sore, or the elastic of her hat
was too loose, and her hat came flopping down on to her face. It might
have been any of these things. Whatever it was, it was "too bad."
_That_, whenever Miss Judy was concerned, you might be quite, quite sure
of.
They were returning home from rather a long walk. It was autumn, as I
said, and there had been a week or two of almost constant rain, and
certainly country lanes are _not_ very pleasant at such times. If Judy
had not grumbled so at everything, she might have been forgiven for this
special grumble (if it was about the roads), I do think. It was getting
chilly and raw, and the clouds looked as if the rain was more than half
thinking of turning back on its journey to "Spain," or wherever it was
it had set off to. Nurse hurried on; she was afraid of the little ones
in the perambulator catching cold, and she could not spare time to talk
to Miss Judy any longer.
Judy came after her slowly; they were just passing some cottages, and at
the door of one of them stood a girl of about Judy's age, with her mouth
open, staring at "the little gentry." She had heard what had passed
between Judy and her nurse, and was thinking it over in her own way.
Suddenly Judy caught sight of her.
"What are you staring at so?" she said sharply. "It's too bad of you.
You are a rude little girl. I'll tell nurse how rude you are."
Judy did not generally speak so crossly, especially not to poor
children, for she had really nice feelings about such things, but she
was very much put out, and ashamed too, that her ill-natured words to
nurse should have been overheard, so she expressed her vexation to the
first object that came in her way. The little girl did not leave off
staring at her; in fact she did so harder than before. But she answered
Judy gently, growing rather red as she did so; and Judy felt her
irritation cool.
"I didn't mean no offence," she said. "I were just looking at you, and
thinking to be sure how nice you had everything, and a wondering how it
could be as you weren't pleased."
"Who said I wasn't pleased?" said Judy.
"You said as something was a deal too bad," replied the child.
"Well, so it was,--it must have been, I mean,--or else I wouldn't have
said so," answered Judy, who, to tell the truth, had by this time quite
forgotten what particular trouble had been the cause of her last
grumble. "How do you mean that I have everything so nice?"
"Your things, miss--your jacket and your frock, and all them things.
And you live in such a fine house, and has servants to do for you and
all. O my! wouldn't I change with you. Nothing would never be too bad
for _me_ if _I_ was you, miss."
"I daresay you think so," said Judy importantly, "but that just shows
that you don't know better. _I_ can tell you I have a great, great many
troubles and things to bear that you have no idea of. Indeed, I daresay
you are _far_ happier than I. You are not bothered about keeping your
frocks clean, and not getting your feet wet, and all those horrible
things. And about lessons--I daresay you have no trouble at all about
lessons. You don't go to school, do you?"
"Not now, miss. It's more than six months since I've been. Mother's
wanted me so badly to mind baby. Father did say as perhaps I should go
again for a bit come Christmas," answered the little girl, who was
growing quite at ease with Judy.
"And do you like going?" said Judy.
"Pretty well, but it's a long walk--winter time 'specially," said the
child; "not but what most things is hard then to them as lives in places
like ours. 'Tisn't like for you, miss, with lots of fires, and no need
for to go out if it's cold or wet."
"Indeed _I_ have to go out very often--indeed, always almost when I
don't want," retorted Judy. "Not that I should mind the walk, to
school. I should like it; it would be far nicer than horrid lessons at
home, cooped up in the same room all the time, with no change. You
don't understand a bit; I am quite _sure_ you haven't as many troubles
as I." The little girl smiled, but hardly seemed convinced. "Seems to
me, miss, as if you couldn't hardly know, unless you tried, what things
is like in places like ours," she said.
But before Judy could reply, a voice from inside the cottage called out,
"Betsy my girl, what are you about so long? Father'll be in directly,
and there's the tea to see to."
The voice was far from unkind, but its effect on Betsy was
instantaneous.
"I must go, miss," she said; "mother's calling;" and off she ran.
"How nice and funny it must be to set the tea for her father," thought
Judy, as she walked on. "I should like that sort of work. What a silly
girl she is not to see how much fewer troubles she has than I. I only
wish--"
"_What_ did you say you wished?" interrupted a voice that seemed to come
out of the hedge, so suddenly did its owner appear before Judy.
"I didn't say I wished anything--at least I didn't know I was speaking
aloud," said the little girl, as soon as she found voice to reply.
The person who had spoken to her was a little old woman, with a scarlet
cloak that nearly covered her. She had a basket on her arm, and looked
as if she was returning from market. There was nothing very remarkable
about her, and yet Judy felt startled and a little frightened, she did
not quite know why.
"I didn't know I was speaking aloud," she repeated, staring half timidly
at the old woman.
"Didn't you?" she replied. "Well, now I think of it, I don't remember
saying that you did. There's more kinds of speaking than with tongue
and words. What should you say if I were to tell you what it was you
were wishing just now?"
"I don't know," said Judy, growing more alarmed "I think, please, I had
better run on. Nurse will be wondering where I am."
"You didn't think of that when you were standing chattering to little
Betsy just now," said the old woman.
"Did you hear us?" asked Judy, her astonishment almost overcoming her
alarm. "Where were you standing? I didn't see you."
"I daresay not. There's many things besides what _you_ see, my dear.
For instance, you don't see why Betsy should think it would be a fine
thing to be you, and perhaps _Betsy_ doesn't see why you should think it
would be a fine thing to be in her place instead of in your own."
Judy's eyes opened wider and wider. "Did you hear all that?" she
exclaimed.
The old woman smiled.
"So you really would like to be Betsy for a change?" she said.
"Not exactly for a _change_," answered Judy. "It isn't that I am
_tired_ of being myself, but I am sure no other little girl in the world
has so many troubles; that is why I would rather be Betsy. You have no
idea what troubles I have," she went on, "and I can never do _anything_
I like. It's always `Miss Judy, you must,' or `Miss Judy, you mustn't,'
all day long. And if ever I am merry for a little, then nurse tells me
I shall wake baby. O! he _is_ such a cross baby!"
"And do you think _Betsy's_ baby brothers and sisters are never cross?"
inquired the old woman.
"O no, I daresay they are; but then she's allowed to scold them and
punish them, and _I_ may never say anything, however tiresome the little
ones are. If I might put baby in the corner when he is naughty, I would
soon cure him. But I may never do _anything_ I want; it's _too_ bad."
"Poor thing, poor thing! it _is_ too bad, a great deal too bad. I do
feel for you," said the old woman.
But when Judy looked up at her there was a queer twinkle in her eyes,
which made her by no means sure whether she was laughing at her or not.
The little girl felt more than half inclined to be affronted, but before
she had time to decide the point, the old woman interrupted her.
"Look here, my dear," she said, lifting up the lid of the basket on her
arm; "to show you that I am in earnest, see what I will do for you.
Here is a nice rosy-cheeked apple; put it into your pocket, and don't
let any one see it, and when you are in bed at night, if you are still
of the same mind about being Betsy instead of yourself, just take a bite
of the apple, then turn round and go to sleep, and in the morning you
shall see what you shall see."
Half hesitatingly, Judy put out her hand for the apple.
"Thank you very much," she said, "but--"
"But what?" said the old woman rather sharply.
"Must I _always_ be Betsy, if I try being her?"
"Bless the child, what will she have?" exclaimed the old woman. "No,
you needn't go on being Betsy if you don't want. Keep the apple, take
care you don't lose it, and when you've had enough of a change, take
another bite. But after that, remember the apple can do no more for
you."
"I daresay I shall not want it to do anything for me once I have left
off being myself," said Judy. "Oh, how nice it will be not to have
nurse ordering me about all day long, and not to be bothered about
keeping my frock clean, and to have no lessons!"
"I'm glad you're pleased," said the old woman. "Now, good-bye; you
won't see me again till you want me."
"Good-bye, and thank"--"Thank you very much," she was going to have
said, holding out her hand as she spoke--for remember she was not a rude
or ill-mannered little girl by any means--but, lo and behold, there was
nobody there! the old woman had disappeared! Judy rubbed her eyes, and
stared about her in every direction, but there was nothing to be seen--
nothing, that is to say, in the least like an old woman, only some birds
hopping about quite unconcernedly, and a tiny field-mouse, who peeped up
at Judy for an instant with its bright little eyes, and then scurried
off to its hole.
It was growing late and dusk, the mists were creeping up from the not
far distant sea, and the hills were thinking of putting on their
night-caps, and retiring from view. Judy felt a little strange and
"eerie," as she stood there alone in the lane. She could almost have
fancied she had been dreaming, but there was the rosy-cheeked apple in
her hand, proof positive to the contrary. So Judy decided that the best
thing she could do was to run home as fast as she could, and consider at
her leisure if she should make use of the little old woman's gift.
It was nearly dark when she reached the garden gate--at least the trees
on each side of the carriage-drive made it seem so. Judy had never been
out so late alone before, and she felt rather frightened as to what
nurse would say. The side door was open, so she ran in, and went
straight up to the nursery. Just as she got upstairs she met nurse, her
shawl and bonnet on, her kind old face looking hot and anxious. At
sight of the truant she stopped short.
"So there you are, Miss Judy," she exclaimed; "and a nice fright you've
given me. It's my turn to speak about `too bad' _now_, I think. It
really was too bad of you to stay behind like that, and me never
thinking but what you were close behind till this moment; at least, that
you had come in close behind, and had stayed down in the drawing-room
for a little. You've frightened me out of my wits, you naughty child;
and if only your mamma was at home, I would go straight down-stairs, and
tell her it's more than I can put up with."
"It's more than I can put up with to be scolded so for nothing," said
Judy crossly, and with a tone in her voice new to her, and which rather
took nurse aback. She had not meant to be harsh to the child, but she
had been really frightened, and, as is often the case, on finding there
had been no cause for her alarm, a feeling of provocation took its
place.
"You should not speak so, Miss Judy," she said quietly, for she was wise
enough not to wish to irritate the little girl, whom she truly loved,
further.
But Judy was not to be so easily pacified.
"It's too bad," she began as usual; "it's a great deal too bad, that I
should never be allowed to do the least thing I want; to be scolded so
for nothing at all--just staying out for two or three minutes;" and she
"banged about" the nursery, dragging her hat off, and kicking her boots
into the corner in an extremely indignant manner.
Nurse felt much distressed. To Judy's grumbling she was accustomed, but
this was worse than grumbling. "What can have come over the child?" she
said to herself, but to Judy she thought it best to say nothing at all.
All through tea Judy looked far from amiable; she hardly spoke, though a
faint "Too bad" was now and then heard from her direction. Poor nurse
had not a very pleasant time of it, for the "cross" infection spread,
as, alas! it is too apt to do, and little Lena, Judy's four-years'-old
sister, grew peevish and discontented, and pinched Master Baby, in
return for which he, as was to be expected, set up a dismal howl.
"Naughty, horrid little things!" said Judy. "If I had _my_ way with
them, they should both be whipped and put to bed."
"Hush, Miss Judy!" said nurse. "If you would be pleasant and help to
amuse them, they would not be so cross."
"I've something else to do than to amuse such ill-natured little
things," said Judy.
"Well I should think it _was_ time you learnt your lessons for
to-morrow," said nurse. "We've had tea so late, it will soon be time
for you to be dressed to go down to the drawing-room to your papa.
There are some gentlemen dining with him to-night."
"I can't bear going down when mamma's away," said Judy. "It's too bad
of her to go away and leave us."
"For shame, Miss Judy, to speak so, when you know that it's only because
your poor aunt is so ill that your mamma had to go away. Now get your
books, there's a good girl, and do your lessons."
"I'm not going to do them," said Judy, with sudden resolution. "I
needn't unless I like. I don't think I shall ever do any more. It's
too bad I should never have a minute of time to myself."
Nurse really began to think the little girl must be going to be ill.
Never, in all her experience of her, had she known her so cross. It was
the same all the evening. Judy grumbled and stormed at everything; she
would not stand still to have her hair brushed, or her pretty white
muslin frock fastened; and when she came upstairs she was more ill
pleased than before, because, just as she was beginning to amuse herself
with some pictures, her papa told her he thought it was time for little
girls to be in bed. How often, while she was being undressed, she
declared that something or other was "too bad," I really could not
undertake to say. She grumbled at her nice warm bath, she grumbled at
her hair being combed out, she grumbled at having to go to bed when she
wasn't "the least bit sleepy," she grumbled at everything and everybody,
herself, included, for she came to the resolution that she really would
not be herself any longer! No sooner had nurse and the candle left the
room than Judy drew out the apple, which, while nurse was not looking,
she had managed to hide under her pillow, took a good big bite of it,
turned round on her side, and, notwithstanding that her little heart was
beating much faster than usual, half with excitement, half with fear, at
what she had done, in two minutes she was sound asleep.
"Betsy, Betsy girl, it's time you were stirring. Up with you, child;
you must look sharp."
What voice was that? who could it be, shouting so loudly, and waking her
up in the middle of the night? Judy for a moment felt very indignant,
but she was extremely sleepy, and determined to think she was dreaming;
so she turned round, and was just dozing off, when again she heard the
cry:
"Betsy, Betsy, wake up with thee. Whatever's come to the child this
morning?"
The voice seemed to come nearer and nearer, and at last a thump on the
wall, close to Judy's head, it seemed to her, fairly startled her awake.
"Up with thee, child," sounded close to her ear. "Baby's been that
cross all night I've had scarce a wink o' sleep. Thee mustn't lie
snoring there."
Suddenly all returned to Judy's memory. She was not herself; she was
Betsy.
"I'm coming," she called out, hardly knowing what she was saying; and
then the person on the other side of the wall seemed to be satisfied,
for Judy now heard her walking about, clattering fire-irons and pots and
pans, evidently employed in tidying the kitchen.
It was still what Judy thought quite dark. She had some idea of calling
for a light, but whom to call to she did not know. So, feeling very
strange and rather frightened, she got timidly out of bed, and by the
little light that came in at the small square window, began to look
about her. What a queer little place it was! Not a room really, only a
sort of "lean-to" at one side of the kitchen, barely large enough for
the narrow, rickety little bedstead, and one old chair that stood beside
it, answering several purposes besides its proper one, for on it was
placed a cracked basin and jug, and a tiny bit of looking-glass, without
a frame, fastened by a piece of string to the only remaining bar.
Betsy's clothes lay in the bed, which was but poorly provided with
proper blankets--the sheets were clean--everything in the place was as
clean as poverty _can_ be, and indeed Betsy was, and considered herself
to be, a very fortunate little girl for having a "room" of her own at
all; but to Judy, Judy who had had no training like Betsy's, Judy who
found every crumple in a rose leaf "too bad," Judy who knew as little of
other people's lives and other people's troubles as the man in the
moon,--you can fancy, my dears, how the room of which little Betsy was
so proud looked to _Judy_! But she had a spirit of her own, ready
though she was to grumble. With a little shiver, she began to try to
dress herself in the well-mended clothes, so different from her own
daintily-trimmed little garments--for _washing_ she felt to be out of
the question; it was really _too_ cold, and besides there were no soap,
or sponges, or towels to be seen.
"I don't care," she said to herself stoutly, as she wriggled first into
one garment and then into another. "I don't care. Any way I shall have
no lessons to learn, and I shall not be bothered about keeping my frock
clean. But I do wish the fairy had left me my own hair," she went on
regretfully, examining the thick dark locks that hung round her face,
and kept tumbling into her eyes, "my hair is _much_ nicer. I don't
believe Betsy ever has hers properly brushed, it _is_ so tuggy. And
what brown hands I've got, and such crooked nails. I wonder if Betsy's
mother will cut them for me; I wonder if--"
She was interrupted by another summons.
"Betsy, girl, what _are_ you after this morning? I be getting downright
cross with you, child. There's father'll be back for breakfast
directly, and you not helped me by a hand's turn this blessed morning."
Judy started. She only stopped to fasten the last button of her little
dark cotton frock, and calling out, "I'm coming," opened the rough door
of the little bed-room, and found herself in the kitchen. There sat
Betsy's mother, with the baby on her knee, and the baby but one tumbling
about at her feet, while she vainly tried to fasten the frock of another
little fellow of three, who sturdily refused to stand still.
"You must finish dressing Jock," she said, on catching sight of Judy;
"Jock's a naughty boy, won't stand still for mammy to dress him; naughty
Jock," she continued, giving him a little shake as she got up, which
sent him howling across the room to Judy. "It's too bad of you, Betsy,
to be so lazy this morning, and me so tired with no sleep, and the
little ones all crying; if I tell father he'll be for giving it thee,
lass, to make thee stir about a bit quicker."
"He'll give me _what_?" said Judy, perplexed. "I don't understand."
"Hold thy tongue; I'll have none of that answering back, child," said
Betsy's mother, tired and out of patience, poor woman, though you must
not think she was either harsh or unkind, for she was a very kind, good
mother.
"Jock, let me dress you," said Judy, turning to the little boy, with a
vague idea that it would be rather amusing to act nurse to him. Jock
came towards her willingly enough, but Judy found the business less easy
than she had expected. There was a button missing on his little
petticoat, which she did not find out in time to prevent her fastening
it all crooked; and when she tried to undo it again, Jock's patience was
exhausted, and he went careering round the kitchen, Judy after him, till
the mother in despair caught hold of him, and completed the task.
"Your fingers seem to be all thumbs this morning," she said testily.
"You've not swep' up a bit, nor made th' fire, nor nothing. Go and
fetch water now to fill th' kettle, or father'll be in afore it's on the
boil."
Judy turned to the fireplace, and, with some difficulty, managed to lug
the heavy old kettle as far as the front door. Just outside stood the
pump, but try as she might she could not get the water to flow. She was
ready to cry with vexation, pumping had always seemed such nice easy
work; she had often watched the children of these very cottages filling
their kettles and jugs, and had envied them the fun; but now when she
had it to do she found it very different--_very_ poor fun, if indeed fun
at all! At last she got the water to begin to come, a poor miserable
little trickle; at this rate the kettle would _never_ be filled, and her
tears were preparing to descend, when a rough hearty voice made her
jump. It was Betsy's father.
"Pump's stiff this morning, is it, my lass?" he called out as he came up
the path. "Let's have a hand at it;" and with his vigorous pull the
water quickly appeared. He lifted the kettle into the kitchen, greatly
to Judy's relief; but Betsy's mother took a different view of the
matter.
"I don't know what's come to Betsy this morning," she said. "Lazy's no
word for her. The porridge is ready, but there'll be no time to make
thee a cup of coffee, father. She's been close upon a quarter of an
hour filling the kettle, and baby's so cross this morning I can't put
her down."
"I must make my breakfast of porridge then," said the father; "but
Betsy, girl, it's new for thee to be lazy, my lass."
Judy felt humbled and mortified, but she said nothing. Somehow she felt
as if she could not defend herself, though she knew she had honestly
done her best. The words "too bad" rose to her lips, but she did not
utter them. She began to wonder how little Betsy managed to get through
her daily tasks, easy as she had imagined them to be.
The porridge was not much to her taste, but she tried to eat it.
Perhaps it was not so much the porridge itself, for it was good of its
kind, which took away her appetite, as the want of the many little
things to which she was so accustomed that their absence made her for
the first time think of them at all. The nice white tablecloth and
silver spoons on the nursery table, the neat, pretty room, and freshly
dressed little brothers and sisters--all were very different from the
rough board, and the pewter spoons, and Betsy's father and big brothers
hurriedly devouring the great bowls of porridge, while the three little
ones cried or quarrelled incessantly. "After all," thought Judy,
"perhaps it is a good thing to have _rather_ a strict nurse, even if she
is very fussy about being neat and all that."
But yet she felt very sorry for Betsy's mother, when she looked at her
thin, careworn face, and noticed how patient she was with the babies,
and how cheerfully she answered all "father's" remarks. And there began
to dawn in the little girl's mind a faint idea that perhaps there were
troubles and difficulties in the world such as she had never dreamt of,
that there are a good many "too bads" in other people's lots as well as
in Miss Judy's.
Breakfast over, her troubles began again. It was washing-day, and just
as she was looking forward to a ramble in the fields in glorious
independence of nurse's warnings about spoiling her frock, her dreams
were put an end to by Betsy's mother's summoning her to take her place
at the tub. And oh, my dears, _real_ washing is very different work
from the dolls' laundressing--standing round a wash-hand basin placed on
a nursery chair, and wasting ever so much beautiful honey-soap in nice
clean hot water, and then when the little fat hands are all "crumply"
and puffy "like real washerwomen's," rinsing out the miniature garments
in still nicer clean cold water, and hanging them round the nursery
guard to dry, and most likely ending up by coaxing nurse to clear away
all the mess you have made, and to promise to let you iron dolly's clean
clothes the next wet afternoon--which you think so delightful. Judy's
arms ached sorely, sorely, and her head ached too, and she felt all
steamy and hot and weary, when at last her share of it was over, and,
"for a change," she was instructed to take the two youngest out for a
walk up the lane, while mother boiled the potatoes for dinner.
The babies were very tiresome, and though Judy was quite at liberty to
manage them in her own way, and to punish them as she had never ventured
to punish Lena and Harry at home, she did not find it of much use. She
wondered "how ever the real Betsy did;" and I fancy the babies too
wondered a good deal in their own way as to what had come over their big
sister to-day. Altogether the walk was very far from a pleasure to any
of the three, and when at last Judy managed to drag her weary self, and
her two hot, cross little charges home again to the cottage, she was by
no means in an amiable humour. She would have liked to sit down and
rest, and she would have liked to wash her face and hands, and brush her
hair--Judy who at home _always_ grumbled at nurse's summons to "come and
be tidied"--but there was no time for anything of the kind. Dinner--the
potatoes, that is to say--was ready, and the table must be set at once,
ready for father and the boys, and Betsy's mother told her to "look
sharp and bustle about," in a way that Judy felt to be really a great
deal "too bad." She was hungry, however, and ate her share of potatoes,
flavoured with a little dripping and salt, with more appetite than she
had sometimes felt for roast mutton and rice pudding, though all the
same she would have been exceedingly glad of a little gravy, or even of
a plateful of _sago_ pudding, which generally was by no means a
favourite dish of hers.
"Me and the boys won't be home till late," said the father, as he rose
to go; "there's a piece o' work master wants done this week, and he'll
pay us extray to stay a couple of hours. Betsy must bring us our tea."
Judy's spirits rose. She would have a walk by herself any way,
unplagued by babies, and the idea of it gave her some patience for the
afternoon's task of darning stockings, which she found was expected of
her. Just at first the darning was rather amusing, but after a while
she began to be sadly tired of it. It was very different from sitting
still for a quarter of an hour, with nurse patiently instructing her,
and praising her whenever she did well; _these_ stockings were so very
harsh and coarse, and the holes were so enormous, and the basketful so
huge!
"I'll _never_ get them done," she exclaimed at last. "I think it's too
bad to make a little girl like me or Betsy do such hard work; and I
think her father and brothers must make holes in their horrid stockings
on purpose, I do. I'll _not_ do any more."
She shoved the basket into a corner, and looked about for amusement.
The babies were asleep, and Jock was playing in a corner, and mother,
poor body, was still busy in the wash-house--Judy could find nothing to
play with. There were no books in the cottage, except an old _Farmers'
Almanac_, a Bible and Prayer-book, and one or two numbers of a _People's
Miscellany_, which Judy looked into, but found she could not understand.
How she wished for some of her books at home! Even those she had read
two or three times through, and was always grumbling at in consequence,
would have been a great treasure; _even_ a history or geography book
would have been better than nothing.
Suddenly the clock struck, and Betsy's mother called out from the
wash-house,--
"It's three o'clock--time for you to be going with the tea. Set the
kettle on, Betsy, and I'll come and make it and cut the bread. It'll
take you more nor half-an-hour to walk to Farmer Maxwell's where they're
working this week."
Judy was staring out of the window. "It's beginning to rain," she said
dolefully.
"Well, what if it is," replied Betsy's mother, "Father and boys can't
want their tea because it's raining. Get thy old cloak, child. My
goodness me!" she went on, as she came into the kitchen, "she hasn't got
the kettle on yet? Betsy, it's too bad of thee, it is for sure; there's
not a thing but what's been wrong to-day."
Judy's conscience pricked her about the stockings, so, without
attempting to defend herself, she fetched the old cloak she had seen
hanging in Betsy's room, and, drawing the hood over her head, stood
meekly waiting, while the mother cut the great hunches of bread, made
the tea, and poured it into the two tin cans, which the little girl was
to carry to the farm.
It did not rain much when she first set off, so though it was a good two
miles' walk, she was only moderately wet when she got to the farm. One
of the boys was on the look-out for her, or rather for their tea, which
he at once took possession of and ran off with, advising Judy to make
haste home, it was going to rain like blazes. But poor Judy found it no
easy matter to follow his counsel; her arms were still aching with the
weight of the baby in the morning, and her wrist was chafed with the
handle of one of the tin pails, which she could not manage otherwise to
carry, the old cloak was poor protection against the driving rain, and,
worst of all, Betsy's old boots had several holes in them, and a sharp
stone had made its way through the sole of the left one, cutting and
hurting her foot. She stumbled along for some way, feeling very
miserable, till at last, quite unable to go farther, she sat down under
the hedge, and burst into tears.
"So you haven't found things quite so pleasant as you expected, eh, Miss
Judy? You don't find walking in Betsy's shoes quite such an easy matter
after all?" said a voice at her side; and, looking up, lo and behold!
there, standing before her, Judy saw the old woman with the scarlet
cloak.
"I don't think it is kind of you to laugh at me," she sobbed.
"It's `too bad,' is it, eh, Miss Judy?"
Judy sobbed more vigorously, but did not answer.
"Come, now," said the old woman kindly. "Let's talk it over quietly.
Are you beginning to understand that other people's lives have troubles
and difficulties as well as yours--that little Betsy, for instance,
might find things `too bad' a good many times in the course of the day,
if she was so inclined?"
"Yes," said Judy humbly.
"And on the whole," continued the fairy, "you would rather be yourself
than any one else--eh, Miss Judy?"
"Oh yes, yes, a _great_ deal rather," said Judy eagerly. "Mayn't I be
myself again now this very minute, and go home to tea in the nursery?
Oh, I _would_ so like! It seems ever so long since I saw Lena and Harry
and nurse, and you said yesterday I needn't keep on being Betsy if I
didn't like."
"Not quite so fast, my dear," said the old woman. "It's only four
o'clock; you must finish the day's work. Go back to the cottage and
wait patiently till bed-time, and then--you know what to do--you haven't
lost your apple?"
"No," said Judy, feeling in her pocket. "I have it safe."
"That's all right. Now jump up, my dear, and hasten home, or Betsy's
mother will be wondering what has become of you."
Judy got up slowly. "I'm _so_ wet," she said, "and oh! my foot's _so_
sore. These horrible boots! I think it's too--"
"Hush!" said the fairy. "How would you like me to make you stay as you
are, till you quite leave off that habit of grumbling. I'm not sure but
what it would be a good thing for her," she added, consideringly, as if
thinking aloud.
"O no, _please_ don't," said Judy, "please, _please_ don't. I do beg
your pardon; I didn't mean to say it, and I _won't_ say it any more."
"Then off with you; your foot won't be so bad as you think," said the
fairy.
"Thank you," replied Judy, fancying already that it hurt her less. She
had turned to go when she stopped.
"Well," said the old woman, "what's the matter now?"
"Nothing," answered Judy, "but only I was thinking, if I am myself again
to-morrow morning, and Betsy's herself, what will they all think? nurse
and all, I mean; and if I try to explain, I'm sure they'll never believe
me--they'll say I'm talking nonsense. Nurse always says `rubbish' if we
make up fairy stories, or anything like that."
The old woman smiled curiously.
"Many wiser people than nurse think that `rubbish' settles whatever they
don't understand," she said. "But never you mind, Judy. You needn't
trouble your head about what any one will think. No one ever will be
the wiser but you and I. When Betsy wakes in her own little bed in the
morning, she will only think she has had a curious dream--a dream,
perhaps, which will do her no harm--and nurse will think nothing but
that Miss Judy has been cured of grumbling in a wonderful way. For if
you're _not_ cured it will be _my_ turn to say it's too bad!--will it
not?"
"Yes," said Judy, laughing. "Thank you so much, kind fairy. Won't you
come and see me again sometimes?"
But the last words were spoken to the air, for while Judy was uttering
them the old woman had disappeared, and only the little field-mouse
again, with bright sparkling eyes, ran across the path, looking up
fearlessly at Judy as it passed her.
And Judy never did see the old woman again. She went back to the
cottage, bearing bravely the pain of her wounded foot, which was not so
very bad after all, and the discomfort of her wet clothes.
And though Betsy's mother scolded her for having been so slow about her
errand, she did not grumble or complain, but did her best to help the
poor woman with the evening's work. All the same, I can tell you, she
was _very_ glad to get to bed at night, and you may be sure she did not
forget to take a great big bite of her apple.
"When I am myself again, I'll spend the six shillings I have in my
money-box to buy Betsy a nice new print frock instead of that ugly old
one that got so soaked to-day," was her last thought before she fell
asleep.
And oh! my dears, _can_ you imagine how delightful it was to find
herself in the morning, her real own self again? She felt it was almost
_too good_ to be true. And, since then, it has been seldom if ever,
that Miss Judy has been heard to grumble, or that anything has been
declared to be "too bad."