Chapter XIV: Water-Lilies 330 (3)

“Yes,” said Bessie.

They knelt down together side by side, and Belle said in a soft but steady voice, for her tears had now ceased,--

“Dear Jesus, I promise not to slap Daphne any more, or not to be naughty any more if I can help it; and you will help me to be good. Amen.”

Then pressing her lips to the cold stone, as if it were the warm, living cheek she had once caressed, she said in a pleading, pathetic whisper,--

“Dear mamma, your little Belle will try to be just as good as you would want her to be if you were here wif her.”

Will any doubt that the “mother-angel” heard and rejoiced over the simple promise uttered by her little one’s trusting lips?

“Do you think it really makes Jesus glad when I’m good?” asked Belle, when they had risen from their knees.

“Oh! to be sure it does,” answered Bessie.

“And He _did_ leave me some comfit: didn’t He, Bessie? He left me papa, and He gave me you and Maggie too; and your mamma is a great comfit too.”

“Mamma’s the best comfort of anybody,” said Bessie.

“Oh, no, Bessie! oh, no! Papa best--you next.”

Bessie did not contradict her, though she thought it a very strange opinion for Belle to hold, and was not at all convinced herself.

“I wish papa was here to stay with me by mamma a little while,” said Belle, presently.

“Shall I go ask him to come?” asked Bessie.

“Yes,” said Belle. “Do you know the way?”

“Oh, yes! It’s right up that path, isn’t it?”

Then she kissed Belle and left her, turning back as she passed through the gate, to look at her little playmate sitting by her mother’s grave and leaning her head pensively against the monument. But Belle smiled as she met Bessie’s eye, and the little girl felt that she had not been left quite “comfortless.” Her own heart was very full of love and sympathy.

Bessie ran up the path till she was nearly half way to the house, when she was brought to a sudden stand-still by what she thought a very alarming object. Just before her was a large black dog, broad-chested, tall, and fierce-looking, standing directly in the path, and seeming as though he meant to dispute the way.

Bessie’s heart was in her mouth and her knees shook; but she did not scream. She looked at the dog and he looked at her, but he did not bark or growl. Then she found her voice, and tried what coaxing would do.

“Nice doggie, nice little doggie,” she said to the great creature. “Does little doggie want Bessie to go away? Well, she will. But then the good little fellow mustn’t bark at Bessie and frighten her.”

Bessie had an idea that her seeming enemy could bite as well as bark if he saw fit occasion; but she did not think it wisest to suggest it to him.

It must have been a hard-hearted dog, indeed, which could have resisted that insinuating voice and smile, and either bark or bite; and this one did not seem inclined to do the one or the other; but then neither did he seem to intend to move out of the path, but stood stock still gazing at his unwilling little companion.

Seeing that he appeared peaceable, Bessie took courage, and, edging off upon the grass, went a few steps forward. But as she passed the dog, he turned and placed himself before her, though still without any show of attacking her.

Bessie was pretty well frightened; but she began her wiles again, talking to him as she would have done to Baby Annie or Flossy.

“Poor fellow! nice doggie. Bessie wouldn’t hurt little doggie for any thing. Doggie, doggie, doggie! He’ll let Bessie go to the house, won’t he? Don’t he want to go and see Belle down there?”

Now you must not think that Bessie wanted to save herself by exposing her little friend; for she knew that this must be Duke, the great English blood-hound, of which Belle had often spoken, saying how loving and good Duke was to her, although he was fierce and unfriendly with strangers.

But no, all coaxing proved useless: the dog stood his ground and would not suffer her to pass, even giving a low growl and seizing the skirt of her dress when she tried once more to do so.

Bessie was dreadfully frightened, and was about to call aloud for help, when she saw Mr. Powers coming towards her from the house. As he came down the path, a great snake glided from beneath some low bushes on the other side, passed swiftly over the narrow path, and would have been out of sight in an instant, had not the dog, suddenly all alert, bounded forward, seized it by the back of the neck, and giving it a violent shake, left it lying dead.

“How is this, dear child?” said Mr. Powers, looking from the dog and snake to the child. “Old Ben told me he had seen you and Belle going to the burying-ground. Where is Belle?”

“Yes, sir, we did,” answered Bessie; “and Belle is there now, waiting for you to come to her mamma’s grave. I was just coming to tell you, and that dog stopped me. He’s a pretty naughty dog; he wouldn’t let me go on, and he killed the poor snake that did not do a bit of harm, but was just running away as fast as he could.”

“Duke knew he would do harm if he but found the chance, my child,” said Mr. Powers. “That is a very venomous snake, and the dog’s care may have saved you from being badly bitten. Good Duke! brave fellow!” and Mr. Powers patted the dog’s head. “It is years and years since we have seen a snake of this kind upon the plantation, and I hope it may be long before we see another. You and Belle have each escaped a great danger this morning, Bessie. I am glad too that old Duke was not bitten.”

Bessie was very grateful to Duke now, and she too patted and caressed him. He seemed to think himself, that he had performed a great feat, as indeed he had; and kept looking up at his master and thrusting his nose into his hand as if to call for more thanks. Bessie’s attentions he received more coolly, though he permitted them.

“Run up to the house now, you steady little woman,” said Mr. Powers: “your mother is wondering where you can be, though she said you were to be trusted not to get into mischief. It is a good thing to have such a character, Bessie.”

When Duke saw that Bessie and his master were going in different directions, he seemed to be divided in his own mind as to which one he had better accompany. But after looking from one to the other he seemed to decide that Bessie needed his protection, and trotted gravely along by her side till she reached the house, when he turned about and raced after his master.

Bessie went in and told her story, but so simply and with so little fuss that her mother had no idea of the danger she had been in, till Mr. Powers came with Belle and told how she, as well as Belle, had been mercifully preserved from harm that morning.

When Belle came back with her father, she was quite composed, and soon became cheerful again, though she was rather more quiet than usual all the morning.

As soon as the party were rested after their drive, they all went out for a walk about the place. Mr. Powers’ estate was a rice plantation, and the children were greatly interested in going through the mills and seeing how the rice, so familiar to them as an article of food, was prepared for the market. They were particularly so, in watching the husking of the rice. The grain was stored on the second story of the buildings, in great boxes or bins. There was a little sliding-door in each of these, just above the bottom of the bin; and when the men were ready to go to work, a trough was placed leading from that, through a trap-door, to a hopper on the floor below. Then the bin door was opened, and the rice in its brown husks slid through the trough into the hopper beneath, and from thence into the mill, on each side of which stood a man who turned the arms of the mill. In this, the outer husk was stripped from the rice; then it passed through another wide, covered trough, into the sifting or winnowing machine. This was a large box with a wheel at the bottom which turned the rice over and over. As it came to the top, the chaff was blown away by a great “four sided fan,” as Bessie called it, made of four pieces of canvas stretched in different directions, and fixed upon a roller which was turned round by a man, and fanned away the light husks broken from the grain on its passage through the mill. But this was only the outer husk; and it had to go down a third trough into another mill, where the inner covering was taken off; then through a second fanning machine, from which it came out clean and white; and lastly into a third building, where it was led into another range of bins, till it should be necessary to put it into the bags and barrels in which it was sent to market.

Maggie, as usual, wanted to “help;” and the good-natured colored men who were about let her try her hand at just what she chose, provided it was safe for her. Indeed, all the children, even Belle, to whom the amusement was not new, were greatly pleased to pull up the sliding panels of the bins, and see the rice come pouring down into the mill-hopper, and to thrust their hands and arms into the white grain, and shovel it into the bags. So entertained were they with this business, that the older people walked on when they had satisfied their own curiosity, leaving the children in the care of old Cato, who promised to see that they came to no harm.

“We’ve done a whole lot of work, Mr. Powers,” said Maggie, when they were called back to the house to dinner. “I think your men must be pretty glad we came.”

“Yes,” said Lily: “we’ve most filled two bags and a barrel.”

“And we didn’t spill very much either,” said Bessie, who was at that moment laboring away with a wooden shovel, on which she contrived to take up about two table-spoonsful of rice.

“Capital!” said Mr. Powers: “you’ve earned your dinner to-day, have you not?”

Whether the dinners were fairly earned or no, the exercise had given them all good appetites, and they were not sorry to go in and take their seats at the well-furnished table.

VI.

_LETTERS._

Maggie had seized the opportunity when Bessie was not near, to ask Mr. Powers for the Spanish moss.

“Mr. Powers,” she said, “is not that moss private moss?”

“Private moss? How private, Maggie?” said the gentleman.

“I mean is it not your own to do what you like with?”

“Certainly: if growing upon my trees and on my grounds can make it mine, it is, dear?”

“Then could you let me have some of it, quite a good deal?” said Maggie, to whom it had been a great effort to ask this; but the thought of pleasing Bessie upheld her courage.

“Oh! to be sure; a whole wagon-load if you want it,” said Mr. Powers, smiling, and without the least idea that Maggie would take his words almost literally.

The next thing was to ask mamma’s consent to carry it home, and this also was obtained without difficulty; Mrs. Bradford having no idea of the extent of Maggie’s ideas, and supposing she only wanted a small quantity as a curiosity.

Accordingly, Maggie took the other children into her confidence as soon as they were all sent out again to play under Daphne’s care. Bessie was delighted with the plan, and kissed and thanked her many times; and the other two were quite ready to lend their aid.

So they all set to work to gather the moss, Daphne, too, giving a helping hand, at her little lady’s request; though as she saw the great pile they heaped together, she was more than doubtful as to the use of such exertion. To gather it might be allowed,--it would never be missed from the trees,--but to carry it home was another thing.

But she let them take their own way; for she could never bear to refuse Belle any thing, least of all to-day, when Belle had come and put her arms around her neck, and laid her soft fair cheek against her old nurse’s dark one; telling her she was “sorry for every time she had slapped her; but she would never do it again, for Jesus was going to help her, and mamma would ask Him to, she was sure.”

So if Belle had asked to dance upon Daphne’s head, or do any other extraordinary or unheard-of thing, I think the old woman would have contrived in some way to grant her darling’s wish; and she meekly stood pulling off the long, gray, pendant mosses, and heaping them in the little, eager, outstretched arms which returned to her again and again.

Great was the amazement of the grown people to see the procession which appeared, when at last the carriages came to the door to take them back to the city, and the children were called to make ready.

First came a negro lad whom Maggie and Belle had pressed into the service, showing his two rows of white teeth, and rolling up his eyes with enjoyment of the fun; while he pushed before him a small hand-cart filled with the precious material, which was to make such a lovely “Bessie’s Bower” of the familiar little room far away at the North; next Bessie and Belle trotting along, half hidden beneath the moss which Maggie had heaped in their arms and around their necks; then followed Maggie herself, and Lily, toiling away at a large wheelbarrow piled with the spoil; old Daphne bringing up the rear, also carrying her share and looking rather sheepish.

“Here’s ‘Birnam wood come to Dunsinane,’” said Mr. Bradford, laughing, as he first perceived the approaching show. “What are the little ones about? Some freak of Maggie’s, doubtless. What a busy, contriving little head it is. What is all that for, Maggie?” as the children came within hearing.

“To take home to New York to make a bower for Bessie in our room, papa. Mamma gave us leave, and Mr. Powers said we might take all we wanted,” answered Maggie, not in the least doubting that she was quite secure with both these safe-guards.

“Dearest child!” said Mrs. Bradford when she could speak for laughing. “I never supposed you had any idea of taking such a quantity.”

“I told you I wanted quite a good deal, mamma,” answered Maggie, beginning to quake for the success of her plan, when she saw how astonished and amused the grown people were.

Poor Maggie! So many of her fine plans had come to grief lately, and still she must always be forming new ones.

“And how do you propose carrying all this home, Maggie?” asked Mr. Bradford.

“Oh! Belle says there are boxes under all the seats of the carriage, papa; and we can carry it to the hotel in these. And then I thought maybe you could find some way to send it home in the steamer, when Mr. Powers sends the sweet potatoes and things to grandmamma.”

“And if there’s too much to go into the carriage boxes, we have a great many baskets, and we will lend Maggie some,” said Belle.

“And we are all going to carry some on our laps, we are anxious for Bessie to have her bower,” said Lily.

“I’d like it very much, mamma,” pleaded Bessie, last of all.

“My dear children,” said Mrs. Bradford, “I am sorry to disappoint you; but it would be impossible to carry all that moss home. Not the half of it could go in the carriage, even if we all made ourselves uncomfortable for the sake of carrying it; and you would soon grow tired of such a bower.”

“But it is useful as well as ornamental, mamma,” said Maggie, with an air as if this quite settled the matter in her favor; “for Belle says the poor people here make beds of it, and if we ever do grow tired of it we could give it to some poor person, and they might be very glad of it.”

“And I never _will_ be tired of it, mamma, even when I’m grown up, Maggie made it,” said Bessie.

“My darlings,” said mamma, “it is impossible. You may carry home a basket full if you will, but I could not allow your room to be filled with it, and it would be too much trouble to pack such a quantity, and send it to New York. You must rest content with a little, dear Maggie. There are a great many reasons why your plan will not do, though it was kind in you to think of pleasing Bessie; but we will find some other way of doing that.”

Maggie’s disappointment was very great, as was that of all the little girls; but when mamma said a thing, it was to be; and Maggie knew she would never deprive them of any pleasure that was best for them to have. So she tried to bear it as cheerfully as she might, though there were tears in her eyes, and she gave a sigh which seemed to come from her very shoes, as she dropped the arm of the wheelbarrow.

“I’m afraid you would have to call your room the ‘Spider’s Bower,’ if you decked it with that moss, Maggie,” said Mr. Powers; “for those insects are very fond of it, and will gather where it is.”

“Ugh!” said Maggie; and the Spanish moss at once lost half its charm for her, for she had a great dislike to spiders.

Seeing that she bore her disappointment so well, Mr. Bradford took an opportunity of telling Maggie a secret, which went a great way towards consoling her. But she had some time to wait before this secret bore fruit; and as we are not going back with Maggie and Bessie to their city home, perhaps you would like to know what it was.

In the autumn when their travels were ended, and they reached home, where a great deal of papering and painting had been done during their absence, they found their own little room decked forth with the most enchanting wall-paper that ever was seen. On a pearl-colored ground ran a vine of green leaves, and bright berries, and here and there, perched upon the stems, or hovering over and pecking at the berries, were the most brilliant colored birds. Never was seen a prettier paper, or one more suited to a little girls’ room; and both Maggie and Bessie were quite satisfied with such a “bower” as it made of their cosey little nook; and the Spanish moss, well beaten and shaken, to destroy all spiders who might have found a retreat therein, was consigned to the boys’ play-room in the top story of the house. Though by that time it had lost its first novelty and charm, both Maggie and Bessie still had a clinging to it, as a memento of their pleasant visit to Belle’s beautiful Southern home.

Maggie was still farther consoled that evening when they reached the city, by finding two letters awaiting her, and one for Bessie. Maggie’s were from Uncle Ruthven and Fred, and Bessie’s was from Harry.

You shall have them all. Uncle Ruthven says,--

“I cannot tell you, dear little Maggie, how much we all miss
you and darling Princess. I do not like to go to your house and
find no smiling faces looking out of the window, or running to
the front door, or head of the stairs when Uncle Ruthven comes.
So I do not go very often; only now and then to see that all
is going right during your absence. I hear nothing from the
William Tells and Rip Van Winkles, and therefore conclude they
are still enjoying their long nap.

“Our house is quite gay, however, what with the three boys,
Flossy, and Marygold, all of whom are flourishing.

“Flossy was very mopish for a day or two after you left; and
kept himself hidden under sofas and behind curtains, in a most
melancholy manner, refusing to play, and eating very little.
He is in better spirits now, however, though not as frisky as
usual; and Harry and Fred take him out every day for a walk;
but when they come towards home, he always insists on turning
into your street; and when they take him up and bring him to
our house, he falls into low spirits again, and retires into
private life until the next meal-time.

“Marygold is well, and sings away as merrily as he did in
your own room at home. Aunt Annie wanted to put him in the
conservatory with the other birds, but grandmamma said, no: he
must hang in the bow-window of her own sitting-room; for since
she could not have you, she must have something which belonged
to you about her. So there he swings and sings, reminding us
constantly of our Maggie and Bessie so far away.

“As for Frankie, he is as mischievous and roguish as ever,
and pretty saucy into the bargain. He seems very much afraid
that grandmamma will think she is to take his mamma’s place
altogether; and every morning when he comes down to breakfast,
enters the room with,--

“‘Damma, I’ll stay wis oo, and mind oo des dis one more day.
Den I do back my mamma’s house and mind her.’

“If grandmamma tells him to do or not to do any thing, he says:
‘Yes, I’ll mind oo dis once; but oo’re not my mamma.’

“‘But she is my mamma, and I make all little boys mind her,’ I
said to him this morning.

“He looked gravely at me for a moment, and then said, ‘Den be a
dood boy ouself, and den I will see ’bout it.’

“The rogue gave us a good fright yesterday. I was writing
letters in the library, when he came in, and asked if he might
stay with me. I gave him leave, provided he was quiet; and for
a wonder, he was so; standing for some time looking out of the
window, till he saw a poor drunken man go by, when he turned to
me and said,--

“‘When tipseys walk, they run.’

“After that he came down, and I gave him the great book of
animals you know so well, with which he amused himself for some
time, telling the animals about the ‘poor tipseys.’ He was
very sweet and good, and being much engaged with my letters, I
did not pay much attention to him. But, after a time, I looked
around to see if he was in mischief, and he was nowhere to be
seen.

“The book lay open on the floor, and one or two toys beside
it, but no Frankie. The door stood open, and thinking he must
have slipped out, I went in search of him. He was not to be
found. Grandmamma, your two aunts, and all the servants were
soon alarmed, and joined in the search, but all in vain; and we
were just about sending to mamma’s house, to see if he had run
away there, when Aunt Bessie saw a little fat hand peeping out
of the almost closed door of one of the bookcases. She ran and
pulled it open, and there lay our lost boy, fast asleep. He had
crept in among the papers and pamphlets, and, drawing the door
nearly to, had fallen asleep without meaning to, in his quiet
nook. He woke to find us all looking at him, and was very angry
at himself for going to sleep; exclaiming, ‘I des b’lieve I
went to seep, and I tates no more naps in de daytime. I ’samed
of myself.’

“Harry and Fred are going to write to you, so I will leave them
to speak for themselves. We are all well here, and last evening
had the great pleasure of reading the letters you and Bessie
wrote to the Colonel and Mrs. Rush, and which they kindly
brought around to us.

“Write to me soon, and tell all your adventures to your
affectionate uncle,

“RUTHVEN STANTON.”

Harry’s letter to Bessie came next, and ran thus:--

“PRECIOUS PET PRINCESS,--It seems to me as if it were two
months instead of two weeks since you went away, and I can’t
tell you how I want to see you. But it is all right, for I
know you are having first-rate times, and dear mamma is getting
ever so much good. We’re not having such a bad time either,
though it’s not like having you all home. Uncle Ruthven is a
first-rate fellow to stay with, I can tell you, and when we
have finished our lessons, he always has some fun on hand for
us. So we don’t have time to feel very lonely. But I am glad
for your sakes that you and Mag were not left behind, for you
would have felt worse about it than Fred and I do.

“Last Saturday we all went to Riverside, we boys on our ponies,
of course, and had a famous day. Uncle John has a new boat,
and he and Uncle Ruthven rowed us across the river,--they let
Fred and me take an oar by turns, too,--and we went up the
Palisades. Isn’t there a splendid view up there, though? You
can see ever and ever so far. There were lots of Bob Whites
about, and we heard them all round us, and we came upon two
fellows with dogs and guns hunting them. I hope they didn’t
have much luck, the old rascals!

“Haven’t we had a time this afternoon? I don’t know just how
it happened, but I think Master Marygold must have opened the
door of his cage himself,--for we have seen him pecking away at
the catch several times lately; and Uncle Ruthven, only this
morning, told Jane to twist a piece of wire round it when she
cleaned the cage. But Jane forgot it, and so this afternoon
Frankie came running in saying, ‘Marydold’s few away;’ and
sure enough the cage was empty and no Marygold to be seen. But
after awhile we heard a saucy ‘cheep,’ and there, on the top
of grandpapa’s picture, sat my gentleman as independent as you
please; and, before we had time to shut the window, out he flew
into the yard. Weren’t we in a way though, thinking what you
and Maggie would say to come home and find him lost. He hopped
around for a while, flying off every time any one went near
him, and at last flew clear away over the neighbors’ gardens,
and we gave him up for lost.

“Grandmamma put his cage outside, hoping he would grow homesick
and come back. And sure enough; for she was taking a nap in
her bow-window about sunset, when she was waked by a ‘cheep,
cheep,’ and there was Marygold hopping about on her work-table,
and asking pardon for his naughtiness as plainly as any bird
could. She brought his cage, and in he popped, glad enough
to be at home. So he’s all safe once more, and his cage made
secure, so he can’t try that dodge again.

“You know Colonel Rush has taken a house at Newport for the
summer, and he wants us all to come there when we get through
with our other wanderings. Won’t it be jolly? Then you know we
are to spend October at dear, old Chalecoo; so you will have
change enough for one six months. What travelled young ladies
you and Maggie will be!

“I think I have written the most correct and proper letter in
the world, and hope your dear little highness will not find any
‘unproper impressions,’ as you once said when Fred used some
slang word; and that it will altogether suit your notions. Lots
of love and kisses to all from

“Your loving brother,

“HARRY.”

Here is Fred’s letter to Maggie.

“DEAR OLD MIDGET,--Don’t I wish you were here that I might give
you a good squeeze and hear you call out, ‘O Fred! you are
cur-r-rushing me!’ I’ll play the bear in the matter of hugs,
when I do get you back,--that is certain. By the way, there’s
a mean chap leading a poor, old, black bear about the streets
here, making him dance, and scrape a fiddle, and other jigs
of that kind. It is not a bit of fun to see the poor, poky,
old thing perform, and he must have been beaten ever so much
before he could be taught. You can see that by the way he is
frightened when his master lifts his stick. It’s a mean shame,
so it is. Don’t you say so, Mag?

“What jolly times you are having! so are we for the matter of
that. Uncle Ruthven is a regular brick,--though I always knew
that,--and so are grandmamma and the colonel, and all the rest.
School breaks up the twentieth of June, and then, hurrah! for
the country. Uncle John has invited Tom Norris to go with us to
Riverside, and stay all the time that we stay. First-rate in
him, wasn’t it? Tom is the jolliest good boy I ever saw: you
never catch him in the least thing that isn’t just up to the
right, and yet he’s the best company and merriest fellow in
the world. He keeps me out of a heap of mischief, many a time,
dear, old chap! that’s so, I know. Dear, old, steady-going Hal!
he often wonders at my tantrums, I know; but he’s good too, and
it is awful hard work to keep out of scrapes in school when
you’ve a quick temper like mine, and not too much thought. I’ll
tell you a secret, Mag: I believe it has helped me a good deal
to see you and Queen Bess take so much pains to cure yourselves
of those two very faults,--you, with your carelessness, and
Bessie, with her passionate temper. I thought it was a shame
if you two little girls did it, that a great fellow like me
shouldn’t. And for that reason I’m going to let you tell dear
mamma some thing that will make her dear eyes dance. Mr. Peters
called me to him this morning,--and I thought for sure I must
be in some row, though I didn’t see what,--and he said he
wanted to tell me that no boy in the school had improved in
character, or taken so much pains with his faults, as I had
during the last year. I don’t want to be puffed up, but didn’t
I feel some pumpkins; but I could most have cried that mamma
wasn’t home for me to tell the good news to. However, when I
went home, there sat grandmamma, the dear, precious, old soul,
so sweet and good and loving; so I just pitched into her and
gave her the news, and a tight squeeze into the bargain. She
was as pleased as could be, but then she isn’t mamma; so just
you tell the darling mother, and bid her shut her eyes, and do
you give her a good choke for me, just as I do, Ducky-Daddles!
and see if she don’t gasp out, ‘Oh, my dear boy!’ and you write
it to me, Mag. And tell papa, Mr. Peters told me if I turned
out such a man as my father,--a true Christian, a perfect
gentleman, and a thorough scholar,--no one could ask more for
me. I never expect to be all that, but it’s something to have
one’s father spoken of that way, and, Mag, do you believe, I
just bawled. And old Peters--I’ll never call him that again if
I remember, only it comes so handy--asked me to go of a little
errand for him. I knew that it was just that he knew I didn’t
want to go back to the school-room with red eyes, and I was
all right again before I came back. He’s a jolly old soul, if
he is strict. But I just tell you, you and her royal highness
can take some of the credit to yourselves; for I know you have
helped me without meaning it. And Uncle Ruthven is as pleased
as any thing, and he said he had seen it himself, and he had
meant to give me a handsome pony for taking pains with myself;
but as papa had given me one when he gave Hal a watch just
before you went away, he would let me say what the present
should be.

“And so, Midget, I told him I should like him to give you and
Bess the pony between you; and he said I had better take a
couple of days to think it over, and he would give me leave to
change my mind. I suppose he thinks I’ll slink out of it; but
I shan’t, so you two may just count on a pony of your own. I
guess there’ll be a side-saddle too, for Uncle Ruth don’t do
things by halves. I’m awfully sleepy, and anybody but you would
be tired of this long letter.

“Your loving brother,

“FREDERICK TALBOT BRADFORD, ESQ.”

Maggie answered her Uncle Ruthven’s letter the very next morning in these words:--

“DEAR UNCLE RUTHVEN,--Whenever I think of the pleasure of
writing to my absent friends who are away from me in distant
lands I am always very thankful that I am not a quadrewped or
other animal which has only legs and no arms to write with. And
if it had, no brains or ideas, but only instinct which is not
enough to write with. So I thank God He gave me a sencible soul
which thinks, and arms and also pen, ink, and paper. And also
pencils for Bessie has to print with them, and also friends
which we can write to, for if I was an orfun and had no friends
I would be badly of and very lonesome and my ideas of no use.
So I think every one ought to be very grateful for these things
(if they have them) and if they have not let them say God knows
best; and I think it is the duty of the human race to make use
of these things and to write long letters to all their friends,
for it is such a pleasure to have letters and to answer them.
And I am going to write you the longest letter I ever wrote in
my life, because the Bible says, ‘Whatsoever ye would that men
should do unto you, do ye also unto them.’

“But, dear Uncle Ruthven, we have had no adventures to tell you
about. I mean _real real_ adventures; except only one which
was most terrible to hear and was that Bessie met a snake that
was poisonous and nearly bit her, but a good dog of Mr. Powrs
would not let her go on, and so she did not come in the way
of the snake which was a wonderful blessing or she might have
died. And then I would have been like the king Miss Ashton
told us about, whose son was drowned and he never smiled again
nor would I if my Bessie came to such a sad end but would be
unhappy all the days of my existence and never laugh at the
funniest thing that could happen. And I pray our Father in
Heaven that my Bessie will not die while I am alive even to
go to Heaven for I would miss her so very, very much. But I
will not write any more of this most unhappy thing or else my
beloved uncle you will say ‘what a sad, stupid letter Maggie
has written to me,’ and I would not wish any one to take the
liberty of saying such a thing about me.

“Belle’s home which is named Oakdale is a place most beautiful
to behold with such large oak trees that make the most pleasant
of shades and magnolias and vines of jessamine and other sweet
smells most delicious to the nose. I do wish there was a nicer
name to call a nose, it don’t sound nice in a letter. And
such lots and heaps of rice, enough for a million dinner and
breakfasts I should think but I hope I shall never be in the
necessity to eat it for I hate rice. But Bessie likes it very
much so I am glad it grows for her and others. And we had such
fun playing with it and working too for we helped the men a
great deal. Now you need not laugh Uncle Ruthven nor the boys
either if you let them read this letter, for the men said we
did and if you had seen the great bag we filled you would know
it. It was real funny to see the rice run down the wooden
gutters into the hoppers. Isn’t that a queer name?

“Papa said such a funny thing. He said he knew a hopper that
would not be of much use in that mill because it always shut
its mouth whenever any rice came near it, and he meant me. It
made us all laugh so. The next day after to-morrow we are going
to take adieu of Savannah and all the kind people we have come
to know; and of Miss Adams and the doctor; and most of all of
Mr. and Mrs. Norris and Lily. Lily cries about it and wants to
stay with us but her parents have to stay in this place for a
short time and to go home by the steamer, and I am glad and
thankful such is not my fate to be seasick again. Oh! Uncle
Ruthven! it is awful! and you can’t help it if you make up your
mind ever so much. But we go by land which is much better than
the sea to travel on and shall visit many places and see many
surprising things which I shall advertise you of when I know
them myself.

“Bessie and I think we never heard of any thing so kind and
generous as Fred to say he wanted you to give us a pony for
his present and never no never again will I say Fred teases, no
not if he plages me ever so much. But I think he does not plage
so much as he used to. Mamma was so pleased about him and is
at this present moment writing to him. It is a very charming
thing to have sencible and religious parents and I suppose also
it must be so for the parents to have their children improve
and be as sencible and good as is in their natures. But it is
not in mine to be so good as Bessie and I despair of it for it
is not in me. The other day a lady was talking to Bessie and
I heard her say afterwards, ‘That child is a little angel.’ I
suppose she meant _like_ an angel which would be far better for
her to say as it is always best to say just what you mean but I
thank her for the complement to my Bessie and think she must be
a woman of sense.

“Harry wrote to Mamma and said something that hurt my feelings.
He said I wrote very nice letters but they were so full of
moral reflextions and centiment that he almost killed himself
laughing. Now I know he didn’t almost kill himself and Miss
Ashton never taught us reflextions and centiment and I don’t
know what they mean and I wouldn’t do such a thing as to put
them in my letters. I don’t think Harry is very kind to say
that and make fun of me. But don’t you tell any one I said so
for you know I tell you all my secrets dear Uncle Ruthven and
maybe Harry would think I was cross.

“Please give my love to every body I know if I do love them and
if I don’t my complements and most of all to all my own people.
It took me two days to write all this letter which I hope will
give satisfaction from your affectionate beloved

“MAGGIE.”

Last of all here is a little letter which Bessie wrote to her grandmamma,--

“DEAR DARLING GRANMAMMA,--Your Bessie is going to send a
letter to you to tell you how I love you but I cant rite such
nice leters as Maggie. Dont Maggie make nice leters and she
said she would help me but I toled her I wanted to make it
all myself so you would kno how much I love you. Please dear
Granmamma to rite me an answer to my leter and I hope you will
keep alife till we come home or if you are not dear Manma will
cry and all the rest of us two. I saw a carf in a cart with all
its legs tied and it mad me sorry and I wish it was mine to let
it luse. Baby is so sweet and she has a new trik that is so
cuning. All the time she pulls off her shoes and soks and Mamma
don’t want her to so Nursey says shame shame when she does it
and when baby sees any one else do it now she always calls
shame and she saw a gentelman in the parlor who did not kno how
to be very polite and he sat with his slipper hanging on his
toe and Baby pointed her finger at him and called out very loud
Oh shame shame and every boddy lafed it was so funny. Every
day I am more and more glad for dear Manma feels so much better
and it makes such a joy in my hart that I can’t tell it but you
kno it don’t you dear Granmanma for you are her own mother and
you love her just like she loves me. I am too tired to make it
any longer and I love you and my solger and all my peple and I
send them kisses.

“Good by dear Granmanma

“Your little pet

“BESSIE.”

VII.

_A “REAL, REAL ADVENTURE.”_

They were all in the railway train bound for ----; that is, Mr. and Mrs. Bradford, with their three little girls and nurse, Mr. Powers, Belle, and old Daphne.

Maggie, Bessie, and Belle, with their dolls, had two whole seats to themselves, one having been turned so as to face the other, and give them what Bessie called a “nice, cunning travelling-house.” Here they had established themselves in great comfort, papa and mamma being just behind; while Mr. Powers, and the two nurses with Baby, were seated on the opposite side of the car.

And here, by and by, seeing the nice play that was going on, did Miss Baby think it best to betake herself and her own doll, named Peter Bartholomew. This gentleman with the long name, which had been given to him by Fred, was made entirely of worsted, face, cap, coat, and pants, all knit of the brightest colors, and could be knocked about or thrown from any height without damage to his head or limbs. So for this reason he had come travelling with Baby Annie, as her dolls were apt to receive some hard knocks and severe falls, not altogether wholesome for more brittle materials.

But Annie was not very fond of Peter Bartholomew, and he received some pretty hard usage at her tiny hands; so that it was well he was not a gentleman of tender feelings, and was able to take thumps, hard squeezes, and scoldings with the utmost composure.

However, on this occasion she thought it wise to praise Peter Bartholomew, by way of persuading her sisters that his company, as well as her own, was desirable; and, putting her little head on one side in the most insinuating manner, she spoke thus from nurse’s lap,--

“Baby tome too. Peter tome too. Baby dood. Peter dood. Nice Peter. Oh, pitty Peter!”

“Oh! isn’t she too cunning, the darling?” said Bessie. “Let’s let her come play with us.”

“Yes, we’ll take her in our house,” said Belle.

So baby was taken into the enclosure, which Maggie had made quite complete by fastening a handkerchief from the arm of one seat to that of the other, and calling it “the door.” Nurse could have lifted baby at once into the place which was offered for her; but that would not do at all. Baby must wait till the door was untied, and she admitted in due form.

Once there, and seated in a snug corner, she behaved herself very well for a long time, watching her little sisters and Belle with grave admiration and wonder, and submitting to be played and “_pretended_” with just as they chose, only now and then insisting that they should all “tiss Peter,” a thing which she would by no means be induced to do herself.

But at last she took it into her head to look out of the window, and in order to do that she must stand upon her feet, which was not safe to let her do without some careful hand to guard her; and as she objected very decidedly to returning to the other side of the car where nurse sat, there was nothing for it but to let nurse come to her.

Now this interfered very much with the arrangements of the three little girls, who were having a grand “family” play; and not one of them was at all inclined to be so disturbed, and there was even some pouting when nurse said they must make room for her for a short time.

But Maggie, Bessie, and Belle could all understand better than Baby Annie, that in travelling one must consider the comfort and convenience of one’s fellow-passengers, as well as one’s own. Baby was very little, and not very well: they had a long day’s journey before them, and it was necessary that she should be indulged in a measure, and kept in a good humor as long as possible; and Bessie was the first to think of this.

“Now, just let me in here for a bit, my honeys,” said nurse, as Maggie stood with her hand on the pocket-handkerchief door, determined to defend her “house” as long as possible. “Baby’ll fret if I take her to the other side when she don’t like it, and that will worry your mother; besides it’s sunny there when we come out of the woods. Let her look out of your window awhile, with me to hold her, and it will soon be her sleepy time, when ye may have your place to yourselves.”

Now old nurse was by no means a small woman; and the children knew that their quarters would be very much narrowed when she should find entrance there, and she might have found it hard work to persuade them to yield without interference from their father or mother, had not Bessie bethought herself when nurse spoke of her mother.

“Oh, yes!” she said to her sister and Belle, “you know we came on our travels to do mamma good, and so we mustn’t let any thing trouble her. If we do, maybe our Father would think we didn’t care very much that He made her better, and that we are ungrateful. Any thing must be choosed ’cept to worry mamma. And baby don’t know any better; so let’s give up to her this time, if she cries everybody will be uncomf’able.”

“Well,” said Maggie, once more untying the handkerchief, “I won’t be selfish.”

“Nor I,” said Belle, who had been the most unwilling to give up her own way.

The “cunning house” was certainly far less roomy when Mammy was seated therein; but having made up their minds to do a kind act, our little girls did it pleasantly and made no fussing about it; the only thing that was said being when Bessie remarked,--

“Nursey, it would be rather convenienter if you were not _quite_ so fat,” which nurse thought a great joke, and laughed heartily, saying,--

“And there’s nobody knows that better than your old Mammy, my pet; but just put by your play till baby’s had her fill of looking out, and I’ll tell ye a story.”

Nurse’s stories always found a market; and the three little girls ranged themselves in the seat facing her, and listened eagerly while she told them the most marvellous of fairy tales.

Meanwhile, Baby Annie, happy and contented, amused herself with watching the swiftly passing objects; and Peter Bartholomew, held by one foot, hung dangling head downwards from the car window. How much he enjoyed this novel mode of riding, neither he nor his little mistress ever told, though baby had enough to say both to herself and him while nurse talked to the other children.

But at last Mrs. Bradford suddenly exclaimed,--

“Take care, nurse; baby has her head out!” and Mammy, who had turned her face for a moment from her charge, drew her in and seated her on her lap.

“Baby must not put her head out,” said mamma: “she’ll be hurt.”

“Peter out,” said baby.

“Why! she’s lost Peter Barfolomew,” said Belle.

“Sure enough,” said nurse, when she had shaken out her skirts, and looked on the floor, without finding that gentleman.

“Bad Peter. Peter all don,” chuckled the baby.

“Did ye throw Peter out?” asked Mammy.

Baby could not say yes; but she nodded her little head till it seemed as if she would wag it off, seeming to think she had done something very praiseworthy.

“Oh, you naughty girl!” said nurse.

“No, no: baby dood; bad Peter. Peter all don, Peter out,” said baby again, clapping her hands, and laughing with the most self-satisfied air.

Yes, Peter Bartholomew was “all gone,” left far behind as the train sped on its way; and though the children went off into merry peals of laughter at little Annie’s bit of mischief, Mrs. Bradford was rather sorry, since Aunt Patty had taken such pains to make him for her. However, the baby knew no better, and his loss could not trouble her much.

Nurse had not finished her story, and when the children’s mirth had subsided, she went on with it. Having disposed of Peter Bartholomew, and finding that she was not allowed to put her head out, the window lost its charms for baby, and she sat still on nurse’s lap for a few moments, gravely regarding her fellow-passengers, and trying to find amusement in them.

Nor was it long before she found a new object of interest. In the seat next to Mammy and herself, and of course with his back towards them as they rode backwards, was a gentleman who wore an enormous Panama straw hat. The older children had remarked this hat and wondered at it, but after the first moment they forgot both the hat and its wearer, and noticed them no more. But I cannot say that the gentleman had not noticed them, although he gave no sign of doing so.

The hat by no means took baby’s fancy: perhaps she thought it took up more than its share of room in the world; however that may be, she concluded to take a closer look at it, and raised herself upon her little feet on the cushioned seat beside Mammy. First she looked at the hat on one side, then on the other; then she peeped under it; then tried to lift herself on the tips of her small toes and peer over it; then carefully touched it with one little finger, and finally expressed her opinion in a loud, emphatic,

“Bad hat!”

But the owner of the offending article of dress did not turn his head or appear to take the slightest notice, not even when baby repeated,--

“Bad, bad hat! Off hat!”

“Sh! sh! my lamb. What’s come to ye to-day?” said nurse.

Not the spirit of a lamb certainly, for baby was in a contrary mood, and determined to have her own way by one means or another; and, finding the hat remained in its place in spite of her orders, she seized hold of it; and, before nurse could stop her, had snatched it from the stranger’s head and tossed it into his lap. Still, without turning his head or seeming at all disturbed, the gentleman put it on again, while baby struggled to free herself from nurse’s hold, shouting,--

“Off hat, off! Bad hat!” again and again, till her mother was obliged to call her to order.