Maria Wilton lives in the pretty white house which stands just at the
entrance of the wood, where the children find the blackberries so thick
in the berrying season. It is not as large or elegant a house as many
that we pass on a walk through the village; but yet, with its
neatly-painted front and blooming little garden, its appearance is
quite as inviting as that of many a more splendid mansion. Certain it
is, at least, that there is not a more pleasant or happy dwelling in
the town. Neatness and good order regulate all the arrangements of the
family, and where such is the case, it is almost needless to add that
peace and harmony characterize the intercourse of the inmates. It is
seldom that confusion or uproar, or disputes or contentions, are known
among the Wiltons.
But it was of Maria that I was intending to speak more
particularly,—her kind, and yielding, and conciliating manners towards
her brothers and sisters. Maria was not the oldest of the children; she
was not quite nine, and her sister Harriet was as much as eleven, and
her brother George still older. And yet her influence did more to
maintain peace and good feeling in the family group, than would have
been believed by a person who had not observed her. In every case where
only her own wishes or inclinations were concerned, Maria was ready to
give up to George or Harriet; because, as she said, they were older
than herself; and again, she was quite as ready to yield to little
Susan and Willy, because they were younger. Her brothers and sisters,
in their turn, were far less apt to contend for any privilege or
advantage, than they would have been, if she had shown herself more
tenacious of her own rights.
Mr. Wilton used occasionally to go into the city, a few miles distant,
upon business. He usually went in a chaise, taking one of the children
with him. The excursion was to them a very pleasant one, and all
anticipated, with a great deal of pleasure, their respective turns to
ride with their father. It happened that the day when it fell to
Maria’s turn, was to be the close of an exhibition of animals, which
had been for a short time in the city. Maria’s eye brightened with
pleasure as her father mentioned this circumstance at the dinner table,
and inquired if she would like to visit the caravan.
“O, father!” exclaimed George, eagerly, as he laid down his knife and
fork; “a caravan!—Mayn’t I go?”
“You cannot both go,” replied his father; “and I believe it is Maria’s
turn to go into town with me.”
“Well,” said George, “but I don’t believe Maria would care any thing
about seeing it;” and his eye glanced eagerly from his father to Maria,
and then from Maria to his father again.
“How is it, Maria?” said Mr. Wilton; “have you no wish to visit the
caravan?”
Maria did not answer directly, while yet her countenance showed very
plainly what her wishes really were. “Is there an _elephant_ there,
father?” she, at length, rather hesitatingly inquired.
“There probably is,” replied her father.
“An _elephant_!” repeated George with something of a sneer; “who has
not seen an elephant? I would not give a farthing to go, if there was
nothing better than an elephant to be seen.”
“What _should_ you care so much to see?” inquired Mr. Wilton.
“Why, I would give any thing to see a leopard or a camel.”
“A leopard or a camel!” repeated his father in the same tone in which
George had made his rude speech; “I am sure I wouldn’t give a farthing
to see either a camel or a leopard.”
“No,” said George, “because you have seen them both; but _I_ never
did.”
“Neither has Maria seen an elephant,” returned Mr. Wilton; “so what is
the difference?”
George looked a little mortified at the overthrow of his argument. But
still his eagerness for the gratification was not to be repressed.—“I
shouldn’t think a _girl_ need to care about going to see a parcel of
wild beasts,” he remarked, rather petulantly, as he gave his chair a
push, upon rising from the table.
“O, George, George.” expostulated his father, “I did not think you were
either a selfish or a sullen boy.”
“No, father, and he is not,” said Maria, approaching her father, and
taking his hand; “but he wants to go very much, and I do not care so
_much_ about it; so he may go, and I will stay at home.”
“You are a good girl,” said her father; “but I shall not consent to any
such injustice; so go and get ready as quick as possible.”
“But, father, I had really a great deal rather that George should go,”
insisted Maria.
“But I cannot think that George would really, on the whole, prefer to
take your place,” said Mr. Wilton, turning to George.
“No, sir.” replied George, who—restored by this time to a sense of
propriety and justice—was standing ready to speak for himself. “No,
sir; Maria is very kind; but I do not wish to take her place; I am very
sorry indeed that I said any thing about it. I certainly shall not
consent to hike your place, Maria,” he said, perceiving that she was
ready to entreat still further.
“O! but I do wish you would,” said Maria. But just here her mother
interposed. “If Maria would really prefer to give up her place to her
brother,” said Mrs. Wilton, “I certainly shall like the arrangement
very much, for I am to be particularly engaged this afternoon, and, as
Harriet is to be absent, I shall be very glad of some of Maria’s
assistance in taking care of the baby.”
“O! well,” said Maria, brightening up, “then I am sure I will not go:
so run, George, for father is almost ready to start.”
Thus the matter was amicably settled. George went with his father, and
Maria remained at home to help take care of little Willy.
Maria loved her little brother very much, and she never seemed tired of
taking care of him, even when he was ever so fretful or restless. She
would leave her play, at any moment, to run and rock the baby, or to
hold him in her lap; for, even if she felt inclined, at any time, to be
a little out of patience for a moment, she would recollect how many
hours she had herself been nursed, by night and by day, and she was
glad of an opportunity to relieve her mother of some of her care and
fatigue. Her cousin, Ellen Weston, called, one afternoon, to ask her to
accompany a party of little girls, who were going to gather berries in
the wood near Maria’s house. It happened that Maria had been left with
the care of Willy, just as her cousin called; and it happened, too,
that Willy was that afternoon unusually fretful and difficult to
please. If Maria left him for a moment, or if she did not hold him
exactly in the posture which suited him, or if she had not precisely
the thing ready which he wanted at the moment, he would act just as all
babies of nine or ten months sometimes take it into their heads to act.
With all her patience and good-humor, she hardly knew how to manage
him; and especially after having been obliged to reject so agreeable an
invitation as the one her cousin brought, she found her task a little
irksome.
She could hardly repress an occasional expression of impatience, as she
tried in vain to please the wayward little fellow. But her patience and
good-humor were very soon restored; and as she reflected that she was
doing her mother a great deal of good, by staying at home with Willy,
she felt quite willing to dismiss all thoughts of the berrying
expedition. The girls, however, did not forget her. It was proposed by
one of the party, when Ellen had stated the reason why Maria could not
join them, that each should contribute some portion of her berries to
be carried to her on their way home. All agreed very readily to the
plan, and each took pains to select the largest and the ripest of her
berries for Maria’s basket. The gratification afforded Maria by this
little token of kind remembrance, more than compensated for the
self-denial which she had practised. It is almost always the case when
persons cheerfully submit to any privation, for the sake of other
persons, or because it is duty, that they are amply rewarded for it.
They enjoy, at least, the consciousness of doing right, which is one of
the very highest sources of pleasure. Maria would, at any time, have
been satisfied with only this reward; but it very often happened, very
unexpectedly, that something more was in store for her. This was the
case upon the time when she gave up her ride, and her visit to the
caravan, for the sake of her brother. I have not said that it was
absolutely Maria’s duty to yield to her brother, in this case: perhaps
it would have been perfectly right for her to have maintained her own
claims; and yet there is no doubt that she felt a great deal happier
for the sacrifice she had made.
But we were going to speak of some further reward that her amiable
behavior, in this instance, procured her. As her father opened a
package which he had brought on his return, he silently placed in her
hands a beautiful copy of a newly-published work, upon the fly-leaf of
which she found written—“Maria Wilton—a reward for her kind and
obliging manners towards her brothers and sisters.”