Chapter 2

"Very well," pursued Aunt Judy, "such a dinner as we have been talking about consists of four courses. The soup course, the meat course, the pudding course, and the cheese course. And it was while one course was being carried out, and another fetched in, that the little Victims had to wait; and that was the DINNER misery I spoke about, and a very grievous affair it was. Sometimes they had actually to wait several minutes, with nothing to do but to fidget on their chairs, lean backwards till they toppled over, or forward till some accident occurred at the table. And then, poor little things, if they ventured to get out their knuckle-bones for a game, or took to a little boxing amusement among themselves, or to throwing the salt in each other's mugs, or pelting each other with bits of bread, or anything nice and entertaining, down came those merciless keepers on their innocent mirth, and the old stupid order went round for sitting upright and quiet. Nothing that I can say about it would be half as expressive as what the little Victims used to say themselves. They said that it was 'SO VERY HARD.'

"Now, then, a good groan for the DINNER misery," exclaimed Aunt Judy in conclusion.

The order was obeyed, but somewhat reluctantly, and then Aunt Judy proceeded with her tale.

"On one occasion of the DINNER misery," resumed she, "there happened to be a stranger lady present, who seemed to be very much shocked by what the Victims had to undergo, and to pity them very much; so she said she would set them a nice little puzzle to amuse them till the second course arrived. But now, what do you think the puzzle was? It was a question, and this was it. 'Which is the harder thing to bear--to have to wait for your dinner, or to have no dinner to wait for?'

"I do not think the little Victims would have quite known what the stranger lady meant, if she had not explained herself; for you see THEY had never gone without dinner in their lives, so they had not an idea what sort of a feeling it was to have NO DINNER TO WAIT FOR. But she went on to tell them what it was like as well as she could. She described to them little Tommy Brown, (whom they envied so much for having no lessons to do,) eating his potatoe soaked in the dripping begged at the squire's back-door, without anything else to wait--or hope for. She told them that HE was never teazed as to how he sat, or even whether he sat or stood, and then she asked them if they did not think he was a very happy little boy? He had no trouble or bother, but just ate his rough morsel in any way he pleased, and then was off, hungry or not hungry, into the streets again.

"To tell you the truth," pursued Aunt Judy, "the Victims did not know what to say to the lady's account of little Tommy Brown's happiness; but as the roast meat came in just as it concluded, perhaps that diverted their attention. However, after they had all been helped, it was suddenly observed that one of them would not begin to eat. He sat with his head bent over his plate, and his cheeks growing redder and redder, till at last some one asked what was amiss, and why he would not go on with his dinner, on which he sobbed out that he had 'much rather it was taken to little Tommy Brown!'"

"That was a very GOOD little Victim, wasn't he?" asked No. 8.

"But what did the keepers say?" inquired No. 5, rather anxiously.

"Oh," replied Aunt Judy, "it was soon settled that Tommy Brown was to have the dinner, which made the little Victim so happy, he actually jumped for joy. On which the stranger lady told them she hoped they would henceforth always ask themselves her curious question whenever they sat down to a good meal again. 'For,' said she, 'my dears, it will teach you to be thankful; and you may take my word for it, it is always the ungrateful people who are the most miserable ones.'"

"Oh, Aunt Judy!" here interposed No. 6, somewhat vehemently, "you need not tell any more! I know you mean US by the little Victims! But you don't think we really MEAN to be ungrateful about the beds, or the dinners, or anything, do you?"

There was a melancholy earnestness in the tone of the inquiry, which rather grieved Aunt Judy, for she knew it was not well to magnify childish faults into too great importance: so she took No. 6 on her knee, and assured her she never imagined such a thing as their being really ungrateful, for a moment. If she had, she added, she should not have turned their little ways into fun, as she had done in the story.

No. 6 was comforted somewhat on hearing this, but still leant her head on Aunt Judy's shoulder in a rather pensive state.

"I wonder what makes one so tiresome," mused the meditative No. 5, trying to view the matter quite abstractedly, as if he himself was in no way concerned in it.

"Thoughtlessness only," replied Aunt Judy, smiling. "I have often heard mamma say it is not ingratitude in CHILDREN when they don't think about the comforts they enjoy every day; because the comforts seem to them to come, like air and sunshine, as a mere matter of course."

"Really?" exclaimed No. 6, in a quite hopeful tone. "Does mamma really say that?"

Yes; but then you know," continued Aunt Judy, "everybody has to be taught to think by degrees, and then they get to know that no comforts ever do really come to anybody as a matter of course. No, not even air and sunshine; but every one of them as blessings permitted by God, and which, therefore, we have to be thankful for. So you see we have to LEARN to be thankful as we have to learn everything else, and mamma says it is a lesson that never ends, even for grown-up people.

"And now you understand, No. 6, that you--oh! I beg pardon, I mean THE LITTLE VICTIMS--were not really ungrateful, but only thoughtless; and the wonderful stranger lady did something to cure them of that, and, in fact, proved a sort of Aunt Judy to them; for she explained things in such a very entertaining manner, that they actually began to think the matter over; and then they left off being stupid and unthankful.

"But this reminds me," added Aunt Judy, "that you--tiresome No. 6-- have spoilt my story after all! I had not half got to the end of the miseries. For instance, there was the TAKING-CARE misery, in consequence of which the little Victims were sent out to play on a fine day, and kept in when it was stormy and wet, all because those stupid keepers were more anxious to keep them well in health than to please them at the moment.

"And then there was--above all--" here Aunt Judy became very impressive, "the WASHING misery, which consisted in their being obliged to make themselves clean and comfortable with soap and water whenever they happened to be dirty, whether with playing at knuckle- bones on the floor, or anything else, and which was considered SO HARD that--"

But here a small hand was laid on Aunt Judy's mouth, and a gentle voice said, "Stop, Aunt Judy, now!" on which the rest shouted, "Stop! stop! we won't hear any more," in chorus, until all at once, in the midst of the din, there sounded outside the door the ominous knocking, which announced the hour of repose to the juvenile branches of the family.

It was a well-known summons, but on this occasion produced rather an unusual effect. First, there was a sudden profound silence, and pause of several seconds; then an interchange of glances among the little ones; then a breaking out of involuntary smiles upon several young faces; and at last a universal "Good-night, Aunt Judy!" very quietly and demurely spoken.

"If the little Victims were only here to see how YOU behave over the GOING-TO-BED misery, what a lesson it would be!" suggested Aunt Judy, with a mischievous smile.

"Ah, yes, yes, we know, we know!" was the only reply, and it came from No. 8, who took advantage of being the youngest to be more saucy than the rest.

Aunt Judy now led the little party into the drawing-room to bid their father and mother good-night too. And certainly when the door was opened, and they saw how bright and cosy everything looked, in the light of the fire and the lamps, with mamma at the table, wide awake and smiling, they underwent a fearful twinge of the GOING-TO-BED misery. But they checked all expression of their feelings. Of course, mamma asked what Aunt Judy's story had been about, and heard; and heard, too, No. 6's little trouble lest she should have been guilty of the sin of real ingratitude; and, of course, mamma applauded Aunt Judy's explanation about the want of thought, very much indeed.

"But, mamma," said No. 6 to her mother, "Aunt Judy said something about grown-up people having to learn to be thankful. Surely you and papa never cry for nonsense, and things you can't have?"

"Ah, my darling No. 6," cried mamma earnestly, "grown-up people may not CRY for what they want exactly, but they are just as apt to wish for what they cannot have, as you little ones are. For instance, grown-up people would constantly like to have life made easier and more agreeable to them, than God chooses it to be. They would like to have a little more wealth, perhaps, or a little more health, or a little more rest, or that their children should always be good and clever, and well and happy. And while they are thinking and fretting about the things they want, they forget to be thankful for those they have. I am often tempted in this way myself, dear No. 6; so you see Aunt Judy is right, and the lesson of learning to be thankful never ends, even for grown-up people.

"One other word before you go. I dare say you little ones think we grown-up people are quite independent, and can do just as we like. But it is not so. We have to learn to submit to the will of the great Keeper of Heaven and earth, without understanding it, just as Aunt Judy's little Victims had to submit to their keepers without knowing why. So thank Aunt Judy for her story, and let us all do our best to be obedient and contented."

"When I am old enough, mother," remarked No. 7, in his peculiarly mild and deliberate way of speaking, and smiling all the time, "I think I shall put Aunt Judy into a story. Don't you think she would make a capital Ogre's wife, like the one in 'Jack and the Bean- Stalk,' who told Jack how to behave, and gave him good advice?"

It was a difficult question to say "No" to, so mamma kissed No. 7, instead of answering him, and No. 7 smiled himself away, with his head full of the bright idea.

VEGETABLES OUT OF PLACE.

"But any man that walks the mead, In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humours lead, A meaning suited to his mind." TENNYSON.

It was a fine May morning. Not one of those with an east wind and a bright sun, which keep people in a puzzle all as day to whether it is hot or cold, and cause endless nursery disputes about the keeping on of comforters and warm coats, whenever a hoop-race, or some such active exertion, has brought a universal puggyness over the juvenile frame--but it was a really mild, sweet-scented day, when it is quite a treat to be out of doors, whether in the gardens, the lanes, or the fields, and when nothing but a holland jacket is thought necessary by even the most tiresomely careful of mammas.

It was not a day which anybody would have chosen to be poorly upon; but people have no choice in such matters, and poor little No. 7, of our old friends "the little ones," was in bed ill of the measles.

The wise old Bishop, Jeremy Taylor, told us long ago, how well children generally bear sickness. "They bear it," he says, "by a direct sufferance;" that is to say, they submit to just what discomfort exists at the moment, without fidgetting about either a cause or a consequence," and decidedly without fretting about what is to come.

For a grown-up person to attain to the same state of unanxious resignation, is one of the high triumphs of Christian faith. It is that "delivering one's self up," of which the poor speak so forcibly on their sick-beds.

No. 7 proved a charming instance of the truth of Jeremy Taylor's remark. He behaved in the most composed manner over his feelings, and even over his physic.

During the first day or two, when he sat shivering by the fire, reading "Neill D'Arcy's Life at Sea," and was asked how he felt, he answered with his usual smile; "Oh, all right; only a little cold now and then." And afterwards, when he was in bed in a darkened room, and the same question was put, he replied almost as quietly, (though without the smile,) "Oh--only a little too hot."

Then over the medicine, he contested nothing. He made, indeed, one or two by no means injudicious suggestions, as to the best method of having the disagreeable material, whether powdery or oleaginous, (I will not particularize further!) conveyed down his throat: commonly said, "Thank you," even before he had swallowed it; and then shut his eyes, and kept himself quiet.

Fortunately No. 1, and Schoolboy No. 3, had had the complaint as well as papa and mamma, so there were plenty to share in the nursing and house matters. The only question was, what was to be done with the little ones while Nurse was so busy; and Aunt Judy volunteered her services in their behalf.

Now it will easily be supposed, after what I have said, that the nursing was not at all a difficult undertaking; but I am grieved to say that Aunt Judy's task was by no means so easy a one.

The little ones were very sorry, it is true, that No. 7 was poorly; but, unluckily, they forgot it every time they went either up-stairs or down. They could not bear in their minds the fact, that when they encouraged the poodle to bark after an India-rubber ball, he was pretty sure to wake No. 7 out of a nap; and, in short, the day being so fine, and the little ones so noisy, Aunt Judy packed them all off into their gardens to tidy them up, she herself taking her station in a small study, the window of which looked out upon the family play- ground.

Her idea, perhaps, was, that she could in this way combine the prosecution of her own studies, with enacting policeman over the young gardeners, and "keeping the peace," as she called it. But if so, she was doomed to disappointment.

The operation of "tidying up gardens," as performed by a set of "little ones," scarcely needs description.

It consists of a number of alterations being thought of, and set about, not one of which is ever known to be finished by those who begin them. It consists of everybody wanting the rake at the same moment, and of nobody being willing to use the other tools, which they call stupid and useless things. It consists of a great many plants being moved from one place to another, when they are in full flower, and dying in consequence. (But how, except when they are in flower, can anyone judge where they will look best?) It consists of a great many seeds being prevented from coming up at all, by an "alteration" cutting into the heart of the patch just as they were bursting their shells for a sprout. It consists of an unlimited and fatal application of the cold-water cure.

And, finally, it results in such a confusion between foot-walks and beds--such a mixture of earth and gravel, and thrown-down tools--that anyone unused to the symptoms of the case, might imagine that the door of the pigsty in the yard had been left open, and that its inhabitant had been performing sundry uncouth gambols with his nose in the little ones' gardens.

Aunt Judy was quite aware of these facts, and she had accordingly laid down several rules, and given several instructions to prevent the usual catastrophe; and all went very smoothly at first in consequence. The little ones went out all hilarity and delight, and divided the tools with considerable show of justice, while Aunt Judy nodded to them approvingly out of her window, and then settled down to an interesting sum in that most peculiar of all arithmetical rules, "The Rule of False," the principle of which is, that out of two errors, made by yourself from two wrong guesses, you arrive at a discovery of the truth!

When Aunt Judy first caught sight of this rule, a few days before, at the end of an old summing-book, it struck her fancy at once. The principle of it was capable of a much more general application than to the "Rule of False," and she amused herself by studying it up.

It is, no doubt, a clumsy substitute for algebra; but young folks who have not learnt algebra, will find it a very entertaining method of making out all such sums as the following old puzzler, over which Aunt Judy was now poring:

"There is a certain fish, whose head is 9 inches in length, his tail as long as his head and half of his back, and his back as long as both head and tail together. Query, the length of the fish?"

But Aunt Judy was not left long in peace with her fish. While she was in the thick of "suppositions" and "errors," a tap came at the window.

"Aunt Judy!"

"Stop!" was the answer; and the hand of the speaker went up, with the slate-pencil in it, enforcing silence while she pursued her calculations.

"Say, back 42 inches; then tail (half back) 21, and head given, 9, that's 30, and 30 and 9, 39 back.--Won't do! Second error: three inches--What's the matter, No. 6? You surely have not begun to quarrel already?"

"Oh, no," answered No. 6, with her nose flattened against the window- pane. "But please, Aunt Judy, No. 8 won't have the oyster-shell trimming round his garden any longer, he says; he says it looks so rubbishy. But as my garden joins his down the middle, if he takes away the oyster-shells all round his, then one of MY sides--the one in the middle, I mean--will be left bare, don't you see? and I want to keep the oyster-shells all round may garden, because mamma says there are still some zoophytes upon them. So how is it to be?"

What a perplexity! The fish with his nine-inch head, and his tail as long as his head and half of his back, was a mere nothing to it.

Aunt Judy threw open the window.

"My dear No. 6," answered she, "yours is the great boundary-line question about which nations never do agree, but go squabbling on till some one has to give way first. There is but one plan for settling it, and that is, for each of you to give up a piece of your gardens to make a road to run between. Now if you'll both give way at once, and consent to this, I will come out to you myself, and leave my fish till the evening. It's much too fine to stay in doors, I feel; and I can give you all something real to do."

"I'LL give way, I'm sure, Aunt Judy," cried No. 6, quite glad to be rid of the dispute; "and so will you, won't you, No. 8?" she added, appealing to that young gentleman, who stood with his pinafore full of dirty oyster-shells, not quite understanding the meaning of what was said.

"I'll WHAT?" inquired he.

"Oh, never mind! Only throw the oyster-shells down, and come with Aunt Judy. It will be much better fun than staying here."

No. 8 lowered his pinafore at the word of command, and dropped the discarded oyster-shells, one by one--where do you think?--why--right into the middle of his little garden! an operation which seemed to be particularly agreeable to him, if one might judge by his face. He was not sorry either to be relieved from the weight.

"You see, Aunt Judy," continued No. 6 to her sister, who had now joined them, "it doesn't so much matter about the oyster-shell trimming; but No. 8's garden is always in such a mess, that I must have a wall or something between us!"

"You shall have a wall or a path decidedly," replied Aunt Judy: "a road is the next best thing to a river for a boundary-line. But now, all of you, pick up the tools and come with me, and you shall do some regular work, and be paid for it at the rate of half-a-farthing for every half hour. Think what a magnificent offer!"

The little ones thought so in reality, and welcomed the arrangement with delight, and trudged off behind Aunt Judy, calculating so hard among themselves what their conjoint half-farthings would come to, for the half-hours they all intended to work, and furthermore, what amount or variety of "goodies" they would purchase, that Aunt Judy half fancied herself back in the depths of the "Rule of False" again!

She led them at last to a pretty shrubbery-walk, of which they were all very fond. On one side of it was a quick-set hedge, in which the honeysuckle was mixed so profusely with the thorn, that they grew and were clipped together.

It was the choicest spot for a quiet evening stroll in summer that could possibly be imagined. The sweet scent from the honeysuckle flowers stole around you with a welcome as you moved along, and set you a dreaming of some far-off region where the delicious sensations produced by the odour of flowers may not be as transient as they are here.

There was an alcove in the middle of the walk--not one of the modern mockeries of rusticity--but a real old-fashioned lath-and-plaster concern, such as used to be erected in front of a bowling-green. It was roofed in, was open only on the sunny side, and was supported by a couple of little Ionic pillars, up which clematis and passion- flower were studiously trained.

There was a table as well as seats within; and the alcove was a very nice place for either reading or drawing in, as it commanded a pretty view of the distant country. It was also, and perhaps especially, suited to the young people in their more poetical and fanciful moods.

The little ones had no sooner reached the entrance of the favourite walk, than they scampered past Aunt Judy to run a race; but No. 6 stopped suddenly short.

"Aunt Judy, look at these horrible weeds! Ah! I do believe this is what you have brought us here for!"

It was indeed; for some showers the evening before, had caused them to flourish in a painfully prominent manner, and the favourite walk presented a somewhat neglected appearance.

So Aunt Judy marked it off for the little ones to weed, repeated the exhilarating promise of the half-farthings, and seated herself in the alcove to puzzle out the length of the fish.

At first it was rather amusing to hear, how even in the midst of their weeding, the little ones pursued their calculations of the anticipated half-farthings, and discussed the niceness and prices of the various descriptions of "goodies."

But by degrees, less and less was said; and at last, the half- farthings and "goodies" seemed altogether forgotten, and a new idea to arise in their place.

The new idea was, that this weeding-task was uncommonly troublesome!

"I'm sure there are many more weeds in my piece than in anybody else's!" remarked the tallest of the children, standing up to rest his rather tired back, and contemplate the walk. "I don't think Aunt Judy measured it out fair!"

"Well, but you're the biggest, and ought to do the most," responded No. 6.

"A LITTLE the most is all very well," persisted No. 5; "but I've got TOO MUCH the most rather--and it's very tiresome work."

"What nonsense!" rejoined No. 6. "I don't believe the weeds are any thicker in your piece than in mine. Look at my big heap. And I'm sure I'm quite as tired as you are."

No. 6 got up as she spoke, to see how matters were going on; not at all sorry either, to change her position.

"I'VE got the most," muttered No. 8 to himself, still kneeling over his work.

But this was, it is to be feared, a very unjustifiable bit of brag.

"If you go on talking so much, you will not get any half-farthings at all!" shouted No. 4, from the distance.

A pause followed this warning, and the small party ducked down again to their work.

They no longer liked it, however; and very soon afterwards the jocose No. 5 observed, in subdued tones to the others:-

"I wonder what THE LITTLE VICTIMS would have said to this kind of thing?"

"They'd have hated it," answered No. 6, very decidedly.