As the day went on, Miss Barbara became more and more annoyed that her meanness had been found out, but she had no wish to cure herself of the fault. The ball was still her first thought.
"Well," she said to Betty, "you have heard how things have turned out, but if Miss Somers does not ask me to go with, her, I think I know some one else who will."
Now, some officers were quartered at the town where the ball was to be held. And because they had got into trouble with a tradesman there, out of which Mr. Case had undertaken to help them, they sometimes invited the Attorney to mess. The officers thought that if they showed some attention to Mr. Case, he would not charge them so much for his help. One of them even asked his wife to take, sometimes, a little notice of Miss Barbara. The name of this officer's wife was Mrs. Strathspey. It was of Mrs. Strathspey that Barbara was thinking when she said to Betty that if Miss Somers did not take her to the ball, she thought she knew of some one else who would.
"Mrs. Strathspey and the officers are to breakfast here to-morrow," said Bab. "One of them dined at the Abbey to-day and he said they would all come. They are going somewhere into the country and breakfast here on the way. Pray, Betty, don't forget that Mrs. Strathspey can't breakfast without honey. I heard her say so myself."
"Then, indeed," said Betty, "I'm afraid Mrs. Strathspey will have to go without breakfast here, for not a spoonful of honey have we, let her long for it ever so much."
"But, surely," said Bab, "we can contrive to get some honey in the neighborhood."
"There's none to be bought, that I know of," said Betty.
"But is there none to be begged or borrowed?" said Bab, laughing. "Do you forget Susan's beehive? Step over to her in the morning with my compliments, and see what you can do. Tell her it's for Mrs. Strathspey."
In the morning Betty went with Miss Barbara's compliments to Susan, to beg some honey for Mrs. Strathspey, who could not breakfast without it. Susan did not like to part with her honey, because her mother loved it, and she therefore gave Betty only a little. When Barbara saw how little Susan sent, she called her a miser, and she said she must have some more for Mrs. Strathspey. "I'll go myself and speak to her. Come with me, Betty," said the young lady, who seemed to forget she had said, on the day that she was asked to "take a spoon," that she never would pay Susan another visit.
"Susan," she said to the poor girl whom she had done everything in her power to hurt, "I must beg a little more honey from you for Mrs. Strathspey's breakfast. You know, at a great time such as this, we should help one another."
"To be sure we should," added Betty.
Susan, though she was generous, was not weak; she was willing to give to those she loved, but would not let anything be taken from her or coaxed out of her by those whom she could not respect. She answered that she was sorry she had no more honey to spare.
Barbara grew angry. "I'll tell you what, Susan Price," she said, "the honey I will have, so you may as well give it to me by fair means. Yes or no? Speak! Will you give it to me or not? Will you give me that piece of the honeycomb that lies there?"
"That bit of honeycomb is for my mother's breakfast," said Susan; "I cannot give it you."
"Can't you?" said Bab, "then see if I don't take it."
She stretched across Susan and grasped, but she did not reach far enough. She made a second dart at the honeycomb and, in her effort to get it, she overset the beehive. The bees swarmed about her. Her maid Betty screamed and ran away. Susan, who was sheltered by a laburnum-tree, called to Barbara, upon whom the black clusters of bees were now settling, and begged her to stand still and not to beat them away, "If you stand quietly you won't be stung, perhaps."
But instead of standing quietly, Bab flung about her arms, and stamped and roared, and the bees stung her terribly. Her arms and her face swelled in a frightful manner. She was helped home by poor Susan and Betty. The maid, now that the mischief was done, thought only of how she could excuse herself to her master.
"Indeed, Miss Barbara," said she, "it was quite wrong of you to go and get yourself into such a scrape. I shall be turned away for it, you'll see."
"I don't care whether you are turned away or not," said Barbara; "I never felt such pain in my life. Can't you do something for me? I don't mind the pain either so much as being such a fright. Pray, how am I to be fit to appear at breakfast with Mrs. Strathspey; and I suppose I can't go to the ball either to-morrow, after all."
"No, that you can't expect to do, indeed," said Betty. "You need not think of balls, for those lumps and swellings won't go off your face this week. That's not what I mind; I'm thinking of what your papa will say to me when he sees you, miss."
Susan, seeing she could be of no further use, was about to leave the house, when at the door she met Mr. Case coming in. Now, since his second visit to the Abbey, the Attorney had been thinking things over. It was clear that both Sir Arthur and Miss Somers thought highly of the Price family, so perhaps it was a mistake on his part not to be on friendly terms with them too. He felt sure that if the story of Susan's lamb ever reached the Abbey, Sir Arthur would have no more to do with him. It would therefore be well to get into the good graces of the farmer and his family. So when Mr. Case met Susan at the door he smiled and said, "How is your mother? Have you called for something that may be of use to her? Barbara, Barbara—Bab, come downstairs, child, and see what you can do for Susan Price." But no Barbara answered, and her father stalked upstairs to her room. There he stood still, amazed at the sight of his daughter's swollen face.
Before Mr. Case could speak, Betty began to tell the story of Barbara's mishap in her own way. Barbara spoke at the same time, giving quite another account of what had happened. The Attorney turned the maid away on the spot, and turning to Barbara asked how she dared to treat Susan Price so ill, "when," as he said, "she was kind enough to give you some of her honey. I will not let you treat her so." Susan, who could not but hear all that was said, now went to beg the angry father to forgive his daughter.
"You are too good to her, as indeed you are to everybody," he said. "I forgive her for your sake."
Susan courtesied in great surprise, but she could not forget the Attorney's treatment of Daisy, and she left his house as soon as she could to get ready her mother's breakfast. Mr. Case saw that Simple Susan was not to be taken in by a few simple words, and when he tried in the same way to approach her father, the blunt, honest farmer looked at him with disdain.
So matters stood on the day of the long-expected prize-giving and ball. Miss Barbara Case, stung by Susan's bees, could not, after all her efforts, go with Mrs. Strathspey to the ball. The ballroom was filled early in the evening. There was a large gathering. The harpers who tried for the prize were placed under the music-gallery at the lower end of the room. Among them was our old blind friend, who, as he was not so well clad as the others, seemed to be looked down upon by many of the onlookers. Six ladies and six gentlemen were chosen to be judges of the performance. They were seated opposite to the harpers. The Misses Somers, who were fond of music, were among the ladies, and the prize was in the hands of Sir Arthur.
There was now silence. The first harp sounded, and as each harper tried his skill, those who listened seemed to think that he deserved the prize. The old blind man was the last. He tuned his harp, and such a simple, sad strain was heard as touched every heart. All were delighted, and when the music ceased there was still silence for some moments.
The silence was followed by loud cheers. The judges were all agreed that the old blind harper, who had played last, deserved the prize. The simple, sad air, which had moved all who listened, was composed by himself. He was asked to give the words belonging to the music, and at last he modestly said he would repeat them, as he could not see to write. Miss Somers took her pencil, and as the old harper repeated his ballad, she wrote the words. He called it "Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb." Miss Somers looked at her brother from time to time, as she wrote, and Sir Arthur, as soon as the old man had finished, took him aside and asked him some questions, which brought to light the whole story of Susan's lamb and of Attorney Case's cruelty.
The Attorney himself was present when the harper began to repeat his ballad. His color, as Sir Arthur steadily looked at him, changed from red to white, and from white to red, until at length he suddenly shrunk back through the crowd and left the room. We shall not follow him. We had rather follow our old friend the harper. No sooner had he received the prize of ten guineas, than he went to a small room belonging to the people of the house, asked for pen, ink, and paper, and dictated, in a low voice to his boy, a letter, which he ordered him to put at once into the post-office. The boy ran off with the letter and was but just in time, for the postman's horn was sounding. The next morning Farmer Price was sitting beside his wife and Susan sorrowing that his week's leave was nearly at an end, and that they had not enough money to give to the man who was willing to go in his place, when a knock was heard at the door. Then the person who delivered the letters in the village put one into Susan's hand, saying, "A penny, if you please—here's a letter for your father."
"For me!" said Farmer Price; "here's the penny then; but who can it be from, I wonder? Who can think of writing to me, in this world?" He tore open the letter, but the hard name at the bottom of the page puzzled him—"your obliged friend, Llewellyn."
"And what's this?" he said, opening a paper that was enclosed in the letter. "It's a song, seemingly; it must be somebody that has a mind to make an April fool of me."
"But it is not April, it is May, father," said Susan.
"Well, let us read the letter, and we shall come to the truth all in good time."
Farmer Price then sat down in his own chair, and read as follows:
"My Worthy Friend—I am sure you will be glad to hear that I have had success this night. I have won the ten-guinea prize, and for that I am much indebted to your sweet daughter Susan; as you will see by a little ballad I enclose for her. Your kindness to me has let me learn something of your family history. You do not, I hope, forget that I was present when you were counting the treasure in Susan's little purse, and that I heard for what purpose it was all saved. You have not, I know, yet made up the full sum you need; therefore, I will be glad if you will use the five-guinea bank-note which you will find within the ballad. Pay me the money again when it suits you, and if it never suits you to pay it, I shall never ask for it. I shall go my rounds again through this country, I believe, about the same time next year, and will call to see how you are, and to play the new tune for Susan and the dear little boys.
"I should just add, to set your heart at rest about the money, that it does not distress me at all to lend it to you. I am not quite so poor as I appear to be. But it is my wish to go about as I do. I see more of the world under my tattered clothes than, perhaps, I should ever see in a better dress. There are many of us like this, and we are glad, when we can, to do any kindness to such a worthy family as yours.—So fare ye well.
"Your obliged Friend,
Susan now, at her father's bidding, opened the ballad. He took the five-guinea bank-note, while she read, with surprise, "Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb." Her mother leaned over her shoulder to read the words, but they were stopped before they had finished the first verse by another knock at the door.
It was not the postman with another letter. It was Sir Arthur and his sisters.
They came meaning to lend the farmer and his good family the money to pay the man who was willing to go away in the farmer's place. But they found their help was not needed.
"Still, since we are here," said Sir Arthur, "there is something I should like to speak about. Mr. Price, will you come out with me, and let me show you a piece of your land through which I want to make a road. Look there," said Sir Arthur, pointing to the spot, "I am laying out a drive round my estate, and that bit of land of yours stops me."
"Why, sir, true enough it's mine, but you are welcome to it. I can trust you to find me another bit worth the same, or to make up the value of it in some other way. I need say no more."
Sir Arthur was silent for a few moments. Then he said, "What is this I hear about some mistake in your lease?"
"Well, sir," replied the farmer, "the truth is the fit thing to be spoken at all times. I can show you a letter from your brother who had the estate before you, and who let the farm to me. That letter shows what he meant, Sir Arthur, and if in the writing of the lease it was otherwise said, it is, as you say, a mistake, sir. Now a mistake is a mistake all the world over, and should be treated as such, but Attorney Case says in the matter of a lease you must abide by the mistake as though it were the truth."
"You seem," said Sir Arthur, "to have some quarrel with this Attorney of whom you talk so often. Now would you mind telling me frankly what is the matter between you?"
"The matter between us, sir, is this," said Price. "You know the corner of the field with the pink hawthorn near Mr. Case's house? The lane runs past one side of it and a sweetbrier hedge separates it on the other from his garden. Well, sir, the Attorney wishes to enclose that bit of ground with his own, and as it belongs to the village, and moreover is a play-green for the children, and it has been their custom to meet by the hawthorn every Mayday for as many years as I can remember, I was loth to see them turned out of it."
"Let us go together and look at this piece of ground," said Sir Arthur. "It is not far off, is it?"
"Oh, no, sir, close by."
When they reached the ground, Mr. Case saw them from his garden and hurried to the spot. He was afraid of what the farmer might tell Sir Arthur. But this time the Attorney was too late, for the truth had already been told.
"Is this the place you speak of?" asked Sir Arthur.
"Yes, sir," answered Price.
"Why, Sir Arthur," said Attorney Case, seeing that he was too late, "let there be no dispute about the ground. Let it belong to the village if you will. I give up all claim to it."
"But you know well, Mr. Case, that a man cannot give up claim to a place which is not his. You cannot give up this piece of land, for you have no claim to it, as I can prove to you by a look at my maps. This field used to belong to the farm on the other side of the road, but was cut off from it when the lane was made."
"Indeed you must know best," said the trembling Attorney, who was afraid of Sir Arthur and enraged to be shown in the wrong before Farmer Price.
"Then," said Sir Arthur to the farmer, "you understand that this little green is to be a playground for the village children, and I hope they may gather hawthorn from their favorite bush for many a Mayday to come."
Farmer Price bowed low, which he seldom did, even when he received a kindness for himself, but he was now overjoyed to think of the children's delight when he should tell them the good news.
"And now, Mr. Case," said Sir Arthur, turning to the Attorney, "you sent me a lease to look over."
"Yes, I thought it my duty to do so. I hope it will not hurt the good farmer."
"No, it will not hurt him," said Sir Arthur. "I am willing to write a new one for him when he pleases. He has a letter from my brother who let the farm to him, which shows exactly what was meant, even if there was a mistake made in making out the lease. I hope I shall never treat any one unfairly."
"No, indeed," said the Attorney, "but I always thought if there was a mistake in a lease it was fair to take advantage of it."
"Then you shall be judged by your own words," answered Sir Arthur. "You meant to send me Farmer Price's lease, but your son has somehow brought me yours instead. I have found a bad mistake in it."
"A bad mistake in my lease!" gasped the alarmed Attorney.
"Yes," replied Sir Arthur, pulling the lease out of his pocket. "Here it is. You will see it has not been signed."
"But you won't take advantage of a mistake, surely!" said the Attorney, who seemed to forget that he had shortly before said that it was fair to do so.
"I shall not take advantage of you as you would have done of this honest man," replied Sir Arthur. "You shall be paid the value of your house and land upon condition that you leave the parish within one month."
The Attorney knew it was useless to reply. He therefore turned and sneaked away.
"You write a good hand, you can keep accounts, cannot you?" said Sir Arthur to Mr. Price, as they walked towards the cottage. "I think I saw a bill of your little daughter's drawing out the other day, which was very neatly written. Did you teach her to write?"
"No, sir," said Price, "I can't say I did that, for she mostly taught it to herself; but I taught her a few sums, as far as I knew, on winter nights when I had nothing else to do."
"Your daughter shows that she has been well taught," said Sir Arthur; "and her good conduct is a credit to you and her mother."
"You are very good, very good indeed, sir, to speak in this way," said the delighted father.
"But I mean to do more than pay you with words," said Sir Arthur. "You are attached to your own family, perhaps you may become attached to me, when you know me, and we shall have many chances of judging one another. I want no one to do my hard work. I only want a steady, honest man, like you, to collect my rents, and I hope, Mr. Price, you will do that for me."
"I hope, sir," said Price, with joy and gratitude glowing in his honest face, "that I'll never give you cause to regret your goodness to me."
"And what are my sisters about here?" said Sir Arthur, entering the cottage and going behind the two ladies, who were busy measuring a pretty colored calico.
"It is for Susan, my dear brother. I knew she did not keep that guinea for herself," said Miss Somers. "I have just asked her mother to tell me what became of it. Susan gave it to her father; but she must not refuse a gown of our choosing this time; and I am sure she will not, because her mother, I see, likes it. And, Susan, I hear that instead of becoming Queen of the May this year, you were sitting in your mother's room as she was ill. Your mother has a little color in her cheeks now."
"Oh, ma'am," said Mrs. Price, "I'm a different being. Joy, I think, has done it."
"Then," said Miss Somers, "I hope you will be able to come out on your daughter's birthday, which, I hear, is on the twenty-fifth of this month. Make haste and get quite well before that day, for my brother means that all the boys and girls of the village shall have a dance on Susan's birthday."
"Yes," said Sir Arthur, "and I hope on that day, Susan, you will be very happy with your little friends upon their play-green. I shall tell them that it is your good conduct which has won it for them; and if you have anything to ask, any little favor for any of your friends, which we can grant, ask now, Susan."
"Sir," said Susan, after glancing at her mother, "there is, to be sure, a favor I should like to ask; it is for Rose."
"Well, I don't know who Rose is," said Sir Arthur, smiling; "but go on."
"Ma'am, you have seen her, I believe; she is a very good girl indeed," said Mrs. Price to Miss Somers.
"And works very neatly, ma'am," continued Susan eagerly, "and she and her mother heard you were looking out for some one to wait upon you."
"Say no more," said Miss Somers; "your wish is granted. Tell Rose to come to the Abbey to-morrow morning, or rather come with her yourself, for our housekeeper, I know, wants to talk to you about a certain cake. She wishes, Susan, that you should be the maker of the cake for the dance, and she has good things looked out for it already, I know. It must be large enough for everybody to have a slice, and the housekeeper will ice it for you. I only hope your cake will be as good as your bread. Good-by."
"How I do wish, now," said Farmer Price, "how I do wish, wife, that our good friend the harper was only here at this time. It would do his warm old heart good. Well, the best of it is, we shall be able next year, when he comes his rounds, to pay him his money with thanks, being all the time and for ever as much obliged to him as if we kept it. I long to see him in this house again, drinking, as he did, a glass of Susan's mead, just on this spot."
"Yes," said Susan, "and the next time he comes, I can give him one of my guinea-hen's eggs, and I shall show him Daisy."
"True, love," said her mother, "and he will play that tune and sing that pretty ballad. Where is it? I have not finished it."
"Rose ran away with it, mother, but I'll run after her, and bring it back to you this minute," said Susan.
Susan found her friend Rose at the hawthorn, in the midst of a crowd of children, to whom she was reading "Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb."
"The words are something, but the tune—the tune—I must have the tune," cried Philip. "I'll ask my mother to ask Sir Arthur to try and find out which way that good old man went after the ball; and if he's to be found, we'll have him back by Susan's birthday, and he shall sit here—just exactly here—by our bush, and he shall play—I mean, if he will—that same tune for us, and I shall learn it—I mean, if I can—in a minute."
The good news that Farmer Price was to collect the rents and that Attorney Case was to leave the parish in a month soon spread over the village. Many came out of their houses to have the pleasure of hearing the joyful tidings from Susan herself. The crowd on the play-green grew bigger every minute.
"Yes," cried Philip, "I tell you it's quite true, every word of it. Susan's too modest to say it herself, but I tell you all, that Sir Arthur has given us this play-green just because she is so good."
LIMBY LUMPY was the only son of his mother. His father was called the "Pavior's Assistant," for he was so large and heavy that, when he used to walk through the streets, the men who were ramming the stones down with a large wooden rammer would say, "Please to walk over these stones, sir," and then the men would get a rest.
Limby was born on April 1—I do not know how long ago; but before he came into the world such preparations were made! There was a beautiful cradle, and a bunch of coral with bells on it, and lots of little caps, and a fine satin hat, and tops and bottoms for pap, and two nurses to take care of him. He was, too, to have a little chaise, when he grew big enough; after that, he was to have a donkey, and then a pony. In short, he was to have the moon for a plaything, if it could be got; and, as to the stars, he would have had them, if they had not been too high to reach.
Limby made a rare to-do when he was a little baby. But he never was a little baby—he was always a big baby; nay, he was a big baby till the day of his death.
"Baby Big," his mother used to call him; he was "a noble baby," said his aunt; he was "a sweet baby," said old Mrs. Tomkins, the nurse; he was "a dear baby," said his papa—and so he was, for he cost a good deal. He was "a darling baby," said his aunt, by the mother's side; "there never was such a fine child," said everybody, before the parents; when they were at another place they called him, "a great, ugly fat child."
Limby was almost as broad as he was long. He had what some people called an open countenance—that is, one as broad as a full moon. He had what his mother called beautiful auburn locks, but what other people said were carroty—not before the mother, of course.
Limby had a flattish nose and a widish mouth, and his eyes were a little out of the right line. Poor little dear, he could not help that and therefore it was not right to laugh at him.
Everybody, however, laughed to see him eat his pap, for he would not be fed with the patent silver pap-spoon which his father bought him, but used to lay himself flat on his back, and seize the pap-boat with both hands, and never let go of it till its contents were fairly in his dear little stomach.
So Limby grew bigger and bigger every day, till at last he could scarcely draw his breath, and was very ill; so his mother sent for three apothecaries and two physicians, who looked at him, and told his mother there were no hopes: the poor child was dying of overfeeding. The physicians, however, prescribed for him—a dose of castor-oil.
His mother attempted to give him the castor-oil, but Limby, although he liked tops and bottoms, and cordial, and pap, and sweetbread, and oysters, and other things nicely dished up, had no fancy for castor-oil, and struggled and kicked and fought every time his nurse or mother attempted to give it him.
"Limby, my darling boy," said his mother, "my sweet cherub, my only dearest, do take its oily-poily, there's a ducky-deary, and it shall ride in a coachy-poachy."
"Oh, the dear baby!" said the nurse; "take it for nursey. It will take it for nursey, that it will."
The nurse had got the oil in a silver medicine-spoon, so contrived that, if you could get it into the child's mouth, the medicine must go down. Limby, however, took care that no spoon should go into his mouth, and when the nurse tried the experiment for the nineteenth time, gave a plunge and a kick, and sent the spoon up to the ceiling, knocked off the nurse's spectacles, upset the table on which all the bottles and glasses were, and came down whack on the floor.
His mother picked him up, clasped him to her breast, and almost smothered him with kisses.
"Oh, my dear boy!" said she; "it shan't take the nasty oil! it won't take it, the darling! Naughty nurse to hurt baby! It shall not take nasty physic!"
And then she kissed him again.
Poor Limby, although only two years old, knew what he was at—he was trying to be the master of his mother. He felt he had gained his point, and gave another kick and a squall, at the same time planting a blow on his mother's eye.
"Dear little creature!" said she; "he is in a state of high convulsions and fever. He will never recover!"
But Limby did recover, and in a few days was running about the house, and the master of it. There was nobody to be considered, nobody to be consulted, nobody to be attended to, but Limby Lumpy.
Limby grew up big and strong; he had everything his own way. One day, when he was at dinner with his father and mother, perched upon a double chair, with his silver knife and fork, and silver mug to drink from, he amused himself by playing drums on his plate with the mug.
"Don't make that noise, Limby, my dear," said his father.
"Dear little lamb!" said his mother; "let him amuse himself. Limby, have some pudding?"
"No, Limby no pudding!"
Drum! drum! drum!
A piece of pudding was, however, put on Limby's plate, but he kept on drumming as before. At last he drummed the bottom of the mug into the soft pudding, to which it stuck, and by which means it was scattered all over the carpet.
"Limby, my darling!" said his mother; and the servant was called to wipe Limby's mug and pick the pudding up from the floor.
Limby would not have his mug wiped, and floundered about, and upset the cruet-stand and the mustard on the table-cloth.
"Oh, Limby Lumpy—naughty boy!" said his father.
"Don't speak so cross to the child: he is but a child," said his mother. "I don't like to hear you speak so cross to the child."
"I tell you what it is," said his father, "I think the boy does as he likes. But I don't want to interfere."
Limby now sat still, resolving what to do next. He was not hungry, having been stuffed with a large piece of pound-cake about an hour before dinner; but he wanted something to do, and could not sit still.
Presently a saddle of mutton was brought on the table. When Limby saw this he set up a crow of delight.
"Limby ride," said he—"Limby ride!" and rose up in his chair, as if to reach the dish.
"Yes, my ducky, it shall have some mutton," said his mother, and immediately gave him a slice, cut up into small morsels.
That was not it. Limby pushed that on the floor, and cried out: "Limby on meat! Limby on meat!"
His mother could not think what he meant. At last, however, his father recollected that he had been in the habit of giving him a ride occasionally, first on his foot, sometimes on the scroll end of the sofa, at other times on the top of the easy chair. Once he put him on a dog, and more than once on the saddle; in short, he had been in the habit of perching him on various things, and now Limby, hearing this was a saddle of mutton, wanted to take a ride on it.
"Limby on! Limby ride on bone!" said the child in a whimper.
"Did you ever hear?" said the father.
"What an extraordinary child!" said the mother. "How clever to know it was like a saddle, the little dear! No, no, Limby; grease frock, Limby."
But Limby cared nothing about a greasy frock, not he—he was used enough to that—and therefore roared out more lustily for a ride on the mutton.
"Did you ever know such a child? What a dear, determined spirit!"
"He is a child of an uncommon mind," said his mother. "Limby, dear—Limby, dear, silence! silence!"
The truth was, Limby made such a roaring that neither father nor mother could get their dinners, and scarcely knew whether they were eating beef or mutton.
"It is impossible to let him ride on the mutton," said his father—"quite impossible!"
"Well, but you might just put him astride the dish, just to satisfy him. You can take care his legs or clothes do not go into the gravy."
"Anything for a quiet life," said the father. "What does Limby want? Limby ride?"
"Limby on bone! Limby on meat!"
"Shall I put him across?" said Mr. Lumpy.
"Just for one moment," said his mother; "it won't hurt the mutton."
The father rose, and took Limby from his chair, and, with the greatest caution, held his son's legs astride, so that they might hang on each side of the dish without touching it—"just to satisfy him," as he said, "that they might dine in quiet—" and was about to withdraw him from it immediately.
But Limby was not to be cheated in that way. He wished to feel the saddle under him, and accordingly forced himself down upon it; but feeling it rather warmer than was agreeable, started, and lost his balance, and fell down among the dishes, soused in melted butter, cauliflower, and gravy, floundering, and kicking, and screaming, to the detriment of glasses, jugs, dishes, and everything else on the table.
"My child! my child!" said his mother. "Oh, save my child!"
She snatched him up, and pressed his begreased garments close to the bosom of her best silk gown.
Neither father nor mother wanted any more dinner after this. As to Limby, he was as frisky afterwards as if nothing had happened, and about half an hour from the time of this disaster cried for his dinner.
There was a little girl called Fanny, who had the misfortune one day to bite her tongue as she was eating her breakfast. It hurt her so much that she could scarcely help crying; and even when the first smart was over, it continued so sore that whenever she spoke it pained her considerably. Finding this to be the case, she said very pitifully to her mother, "Mamma, you can't think how it hurts me when I speak!" "Does it?" replied her mother; "then I'll tell you what I would advise you to do. Resolve all this day to say nothing but what is either necessary or useful; this will give your tongue a fine holiday, and may answer more purposes than one."
Fanny, knowing that she had the character of being somewhat loquacious, could not help laughing at this, and said, "Well, I will try for once; so, mum! I am going to begin now, mamma."
Mother. Do so; and whenever you are beginning to speak, be sure you ask yourself whether what you were going to say was likely to be of any use, or whether it was necessary.
Fanny. Yes, yes, I will! but don't talk to me, mamma, for fear. So saying, she screwed up her lips, and taking her work, sat for about five minutes as still as a mouse. She then looked up, smiled and nodded at her mother, as much as to say, "See how well I can hold my tongue," still screwing her lips very tight for fear she should speak. Soon, however, she began to feel a great inclination to say something; and was glad to recollect that if she could but think of anything either useful or necessary, she might speak. Whereupon she endeavored to find something to say that would come "within the act." To aid her invention, she looked all round the room.
Fanny. Mamma, don't you think the fire wants stirring? (This question, she thought, savored of both qualifications.)
Mother. Not at present, my dear.
Then followed another long silence; for Fanny found it vastly more difficult than she had any previous idea of, to think of anything useful to talk about; and she knew her mamma would laugh at her if she said what was obviously idle or silly, just now. She was beginning to repent having made such an agreement, when her three elder sisters entered the room. She now thought it quite reasonable, if not absolutely necessary, to tell them of her misfortune; which she did at considerable length, and with many needless digressions (the usual custom with great talkers); upon which they all laughed, prophesying that her resolution would not last half an hour, and rallying her for telling such a long story with a sore tongue.
Soon after, some ladies called to pay their mother a morning visit. This gave Fanny's tongue such a long rest that the moment they were gone it seemed irresistibly to resume its wonted functions.
Fanny. What a while old Mrs. W. has had that brown satin pelisse! Really, poor old lady, I am quite tired of seeing her in it!
Mother. How is your tongue, Fanny?
Fanny. Oh, better, mamma, thank you—almost well.
Mother. I am sorry for it: I was in hopes it would have been sore enough at least to prevent your making impertinent remarks upon anybody all this day.
Fanny. No, but really, mamma, is it not an old rubbishing thing?
Mother. I don't know, indeed. It is no business of mine; therefore I took no notice of it.
A silence ensued after this; but conversation revived when Caroline, who had stood for some time with her eyes fixed on their opposite neighbor's window, suddenly exclaimed, "I do believe the Joneses are going to have company again to-day! The servant has just been lighting the fire in the drawing-room; and there is Miss Jones now gone up to dress. I saw her draw down the blinds in her room this instant." "So she is," said Lucy, looking up: "I never knew such people in my life! they are always having company."
"I wonder whom they are expecting to-day," said Eliza; "dinner-company, I suppose."
The proceedings of their neighbors, the Joneses, continued to furnish matter for various sagacious conjectures and remarks for a considerable time. At length Caroline exclaimed with the eagerness of discovery, "Look! look! there's the baker now at the door, with a whole tray full of tarts and things. Make haste, or he'll be gone in."
Lucy. So he is, I declare; it is a dinner-party then. Well, we shall see presently, I hope, who are coming.
Caroline. Oh, no, they never dine till five when they have company.
Eliza. And it will be dark then; how tiresome!
Lucy. If Miss Jones is not dressed already! She is this instant come into the drawing-room.
Caroline. Stand back, stand back! Don't let her see us all staring. Ah, there she is,—got on her pink sarcenet body and sleeves to-day. How pretty that dress is, to be sure!
Eliza. And how nicely she has done her hair! Look, Caroline—braided behind.
Lucy. There, she is putting down the sash. That chimney smokes, I know, with this wind.
Fanny. And there is that little figure, Martha Jones, come down now. Do look—as broad as she is long! What a little fright that child is, to be sure!
Mother. Pray, Fanny, was that remark useful or necessary?
Fanny. Oh, but mamma, I assure you, my tongue is quite well now.
Mother. I am sorry for it, my dear. Do you know, I should think it well worth while to bite my tongue every day if there were no other means of keeping it in order.
At this the girls laughed; but their mother, resuming her gravity, thus continued:
"My dear girls, I should before now have put a stop to this idle gossiping, if I had not hoped to convince you of the folly of it. It is no wonder, I confess, that at your age you should learn to imitate a style of remark which is but too prevalent in society. Nothing, indeed, is more contagious. But let me also tell you, that girls of your age, and of your advantages, are capable of seeing the meanness of it, and ought to despise it. It is the chief end of education to raise the minds of women above such trifling as this. But if a young person who has been taught to think, whose taste has been cultivated, and who might therefore possess internal resources, has as much idle curiosity about the affairs of her neighbors, and is as fond of retailing petty scandal concerning them, as an uneducated woman, it proves that her mind is incurably mean and vulgar, and that cultivation is lost upon her.
"This sort of gossiping, my dear girls, is the disgrace of our sex. The pursuits of women lie necessarily within a narrow sphere, and they naturally sink, unless raised by refinement, or by strong principle, into that littleness of character, for which even their own husbands and fathers (if they are men of sense) are tempted to despise them. The minds of men, from their engagements in business, necessarily take a larger range; and they are, in general, too much occupied with concerns comparatively important to enter into the minute details which amuse women. But women of education have no such plea to urge. When your father and I direct you to this or that pursuit, it is not so much for the sake of your possessing that particular branch of knowledge, but that by knowledge in general you may become intelligent and superior, and that you may be furnished with resources which will save you from the miserable necessity of seeking amusement from intercourse with your neighbors, and an acquaintance with their affairs.
"Let us suppose, now, that this morning you had been all more industriously inclined; and had been engaged in any of your employments with that ardor which some happy young people manifest in the acquisition of knowledge; would you, in that case, have felt any desire to know the date of Mrs. W.'s pelisse, or any curiosity in the proceedings of our neighbors the Joneses? No, you would then have thought it a most impertinent interruption, if any one had attempted to entertain you with such particulars. But when the mind is indolent and empty, then it can receive amusement from the most contemptible sources. Learn, then, to check this mean propensity. Despise such thoughts whenever you are tempted to indulge them. Recollect that this low curiosity is the combined result of idleness, ignorance, emptiness, and ill-nature; and fly to useful occupation, as the most successful antidote against the evil. Nor let it be forgotten that such impertinent remarks as these come directly under the description of those 'idle words,' of which an account must be given in the day of judgment. Yes, this vulgar trifling is as inconsistent with the spirit of Christian benevolence, and with the grand rule of 'doing to others as we would that they should do to us,' as it is with refinement of taste and dignity of character."
"Who would have thought," said little Fanny, "that my happening to bite my tongue this morning would have led to all this?"
"It would be a fortunate bite for you, Fanny," said her mother, "and for your neighbors, if it should make you more careful in the use of it. If we were liable to such a misfortune whenever we use our tongues improperly, some persons would be in a constant agony. Now, if our consciences were but half as sensitive as our nerves, they would answer the purpose much better. Foolish talking pains a good conscience, just as continual speaking hurts a sore tongue; and if we did but regard one smart as much as the other, it would act as a constant check upon the unruly member."