Part 2

“But how I wonder you do not live in the parlour: I cannot think what you have it for,” said Phebe; who was very fond of talking when her Mamma was out of the way.

“We have it to use sometimes, when we want it, my dear;” said Mrs. Mason: “but I like the kitchen best in common.”

“O, I suppose you only use it when you have company; that’s it, I dare say,” said Phebe; “and that is why we were there last night, when Papa and Mamma were here. Well, I shall tell them that, when I go home.”

“I dare say your ’Ma don’t want to hear about that, dear,” said Mrs. Mason; “for my part I don’t think it worth remembering; not I.”

“O yes, I shall certainly tell her,” replied Phebe: “I am sure she will think it very funny that you should live in the kitchen.”

Phebe could not help thinking just now, that she would “do a great many tiresome jobs,” as well as submit to some of William’s teasing, rather than always live in a kitchen; especially in a kitchen without a carpet.

She employed herself during breakfast in looking at every thing in the kitchen; and made many observations, some of which were very impertinent; and though Mr. and Mrs. Mason laughed at the droll things she said, they would have felt rather uncomfortable if any body else had been there to hear them.

“O dear, there is a gun,” said she, having at last discovered the square hole in the ceiling, in which Mr. Mason kept his fire-arms.

“Aye, shall I take it down, and show it you, dear,” said Mr. Mason.

“O, no, pray don’t--pray don’t,” said Phebe; “I am so frightened at it.” Phebe had often heard her Mamma tell William that guns were dangerous things for children, because they sometimes went off when people did not expect it; so, notwithstanding all that Mr. Mason could say, she kept casting anxious glances at the ceiling, all breakfast time, as if she were every instant expecting to be shot.

When breakfast was over, Phebe felt very glad that she was not wished to go to her lessons, though she longed for somebody to play with. She wandered for sometime about the garden; and at last ventured into the field which joined it. “Dear,” thought she, “how courageous Mamma would think me, if she could see me now,--walking all alone in the fields; and I am not at all afraid.”

The meadow was covered with cowslips, daisies, and buttercups; and she gathered a lap full of them, together with some primroses and violets, with which the hedges were filled. She then sat down on the stump of a tree close to the stile, at the further end of the field, and began making them into a large nosegay. She had nearly finished it, when she heard a noise like something breathing very loud, close to her; and lifting up her head, she saw a terrific bull, standing, close to the other side of the stile, looking at her. Without waiting an instant to consider what harm it could do for a bull to look at her, she threw down all her flowers; and set off running home as fast as she could, not stopping even to look back at him, till she had got within the garden gate. “O dear, the bull!” exclaimed Phebe, scarcely able to speak.

“My patience, Miss! whatever have you been a doing of;” said Susan, as soon as she saw her. “Why I was sitting comfortably close to the stile, and I just happened to look up, and there was a great bull staring at me as hard as ever he could; and I was so very much frightened; and I am so hot and tired with running:--O dear! O dear!” said Phebe.

“What’s the matter,--what’s the matter?” cried Mrs. Mason, running to her; for having heard Phebe’s exclamation, she feared that some misfortune had happened.

“Loy! loy! Ma’am,” said Susan, laughing heartily, “if Miss ha’nt been a scampering all across the long mead as hard as ever she could tear, just because she saw the bull a looking at her; and she is in such a heat, poor thing.”

“Bless the child,” said Mrs. Mason, “why what did you think he could do to you?” “O, Ma’am, he looked exactly as if he were just going to jump over the gate at me, and then what should I have done.”

“Not he, indeed; he would soon have been tired of looking at you, and then he would have walked away again. But it is well he was not in the same field, for then, if he had seen you running, he would most likely have run after you.”

“Well, I almost wish I had not minded it now,” said Phebe; “and I have lost all my pretty flowers: dear how sorry I am.”

“O, never mind the flowers,” said Mrs. Mason, “there are plenty more to be found: but do sit down and cool yourself, child.”

Phebe was so tired and heated with her run, that she sat still for a very long time, thinking how wonderful it was that any body should not be frightened at a bull, and wishing too that she had not lost her flowers. She did not, however, feel inclined to gather any more that day, but thought she would wait till the next morning, and then summon up all her courage for another ramble. But what was her disappointment at finding, when she awoke in the morning, that it rained hard; she thought it very unfortunate, that, out of so few days, one of them should be rainy.

“Dear! dear! what shall I find to do all day long,” said Phebe, as soon as she came down stairs. “What a very great pity it is that it should rain so fast.”

“O, do not make troubles out of nothing, my little lass,” said Mr. Mason, “I dare say you will find something to do, though it is a wet day: beside don’t you know, that we should not complain when things are not just as we wish them to be?”

It was no wonder if poor Phebe felt rather low spirited at the prospect of a rainy day, with neither playfellows nor playthings to amuse her. It was really not much better than being at home. She followed Mrs. Mason into the dairy; but the wind and rain, beating in through the open wire-work of the window, made it so damp and chilly, that she was soon tired of standing there. Phebe thought that of all Mrs. Mason’s old-fashioned ways this was the oddest; to have a window without any glass in it! “How I wonder you do not have glass instead of wire in that window; it would be so much warmer,” said Phebe, holding her hand against her ear, that the wind might not blow into it.

“That’s the very reason why we’ve wire instead of glass, my dear,” said Mrs. Mason, laughing; “for, if we had not a great deal of air, the milk would not keep sweet.”

“O would not it, I did not know that,” said Phebe; who just now recollected what her Mamma had very often told her; that children should never attempt to teach grown people.

She returned to the kitchen again, and stood for sometime at the window, looking into the farm yard; but there was nothing to be seen but a few cows, standing as still as Phebe, and seeming not much happier.

“How I should like to have that to play with,” said Phebe, pointing to a large glass case which stood over the mantle-piece; “but I suppose I must not.”

This glass case was indeed enough to tempt any little girl, especially one who like Phebe had not any thing to do. It contained, among other things, two smiling wax dolls, drest in stiff silk frocks, with some gold lace at the bottom,--a number of shells,--a white mouse,--a peach,--and a cucumber; some in wax and some in stone, all nicely arranged, among large bunches of artificial flowers. But Mrs. Mason could not consent to have this taken down and pulled to pieces, and the mantle-piece being very high, poor Phebe’s neck ached long before she had looked at it as much as she wished.

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Mason, laying down her work, “I’ve just thought of something that will be the very thing for you. I’ve got a doll up stairs, if I’m not mistaken, that I’ve had ever since I was such another as you--how glad I am I happened to think of it.” So she went up stairs directly, in search of it; and Phebe followed close behind, wishing she would walk rather faster.

“O what a frightful looking thing!” exclaimed Phebe, as soon as she saw it; and perhaps most other little girls might have thought the same; though certainly Phebe should not have appeared so discontented, when Mrs. Mason was trying to please her. It was a large black doll, drest in a coarse white frock, which had grown very yellow and dusty with lying by. The waist was very long, with tight sleeves coming just below the elbows; and the doll had a row of pink beads round its black neck.

“I do not like it at all,” said Phebe: “I wonder you should have kept it so long; what ugly things old-fashioned people used to like!”

“Then I’ll put it away again, shall I, dear,” said Mrs. Mason; “’tis a pity I left off my work to fetch it.”

“No, I think I’ll take it, as there is nothing else,” said Phebe; “but I don’t know how I shall play with it.” “O stay though,” said she, “I know now what I’ll do. I’ll suppose that it is a Hottentot just come to England. It will do very well for that, will it not?” So she ran down stairs with it, feeling in rather better spirits than she had done all the morning.

Phebe amused herself the rest of the day with the Hottentot, the glass case, and the box of dominoes, and went to bed hoping most earnestly that the next morning would be fine.

To her great joy she saw the sun shining brightly into her room as soon as she opened her eyes; but Phebe could not run about in the meadow, because the grass was too wet; she therefore amused herself as well as she could in the garden, and watched the carriages that passed in the road.

In the afternoon she went with Susan to see the cows milked, and stood looking at them for a long time very comfortably, till she happened to turn round, and see the bull standing in the yard.

“O dear,” said she, catching hold of Susan’s apron, “I do think that’s the very bull that looked at me on Wednesday.”

“Aye, that it is, you may depend upon it, Miss,” said Susan; “and I shou’nt wonder but he is going to look at you again to-day, too; so be sure you keep fast hold of me.”

Phebe did not once let go her hold of Susan’s apron, and was very glad when she said that it was time to go in to tea.

Phebe staid two or three days longer at Mrs. Mason’s, and was surprised to find, every day, that some little thing happened to make her rather uncomfortable; or else, (as was often the case with Phebe,) she was discontented when there was no _real_ occasion. So that she sometimes thought there were as many things to tease her at Mrs. Mason’s, as at home; only they were of a different sort.

At last the day came, on which Mrs. Mason had agreed to take her home. Every thing looked so cheerful and pretty that morning, that Phebe thought she should have been quite happy if she could only have staid one more day; but this was out of the question, for very soon after breakfast Mrs. Mason was ready to set off, and after what Phebe thought a very short ride, they reached the bustling town.

“Well, Ma’am, I’ve brought her home safe and sound you see,” said Mrs. Mason, when they went in. “She has been a very good girl, and we were delighted to hear her talk; but she is so timid, pretty dear, she’s afraid of every thing.”

To prove this, Mrs. Mason told the story of the bull, which Phebe had not intended to mention, because she knew that William would be sure to laugh at her for it, and so he did very much.

Mrs. Mason did not stay long, but kissing Phebe, left her to tell all the particulars of her visit; and her Mamma did not forget to ask if any thing had happened, “_to make her in the least uncomfortable while she was there_.”

III.

CURIOSITY AND INQUIRY.

Mary and Fanny were both very fond of asking many questions: they were _inquisitive_ little girls. Their Papa and Mamma, however, very seldom answered Fanny’s questions; and yet they almost always answered the questions of Mary. We shall see why they made this difference.

Whenever any one was going out, Fanny used to run after them, saying,

“Where are you going, tell me; pray tell me?--Are you going to Mrs. Smith’s, or to Mr. Johnson’s?--What are you going for?--When will you be back again?” And when any one of the family returned home, she would hardly be satisfied till she had asked a hundred questions of this sort.

The moment any strangers left the house Fanny must know who they were; and what business they called to talk about. She was fond of being in the room when ladies called; because they often talked about the affairs of their neighbours; and this sort of conversation she listened to very eagerly.

There was a Grocer’s shop opposite her Papa’s house. Fanny would stand at the dining-room window for hours together, to watch who went in and who came out; and to see what they bought: and if any body would listen to her, she was sure to ask the name of every person whom she did not know: but, in truth, she had learned the names of most of the people who usually came to the shop. So she would stand talking to herself thus, as she peeped between the window blinds:--

“There is Mary Wheeler. I wonder what she has been to buy, this afternoon; because she was at the shop just before dinner. I dare say it is tea; or else a piece of bacon for supper. Oh, no; I can just see the end of a candle under the lid of the basket. It is a pound of candles; or else three pounds; because, I think, they always buy three pounds of candles at a time, for then they save three half-pence.--That is old Mrs. West; la! how droll she looks. She is come herself to the shop: she hardly ever comes herself to the shop; because she sends her maid. I dare say her maid is gone out for a holiday, this Michaelmas. I can see her through the shop window, talking to Mr. Hyson. Mr. Hyson is come out of the counting-house on purpose to wait on her: he is taking down something to show her: I wonder what it is? I wish the shop window was not so dirty; and then I could see what people buy a great deal better.--Ho! ho! there is the London Carrier stopping at Mr. Hanbury’s; he has brought a parcel for them: dear! dear! what an odd parcel: such a long parcel: and there is something sticking out at the end: it looks like an iron shovel: oh, no; it is the tail of a fish. I suppose they have sent for a fish from London, because they are going to have a dinner party: then we shall see, to-morrow, who it is.--There is the coach coming! I hear the horn: now let me be all ready to see who is on the top of the coach: if it is any body that I know: but they always gallop by so fast that I can hardly see the people’s faces.”

In the morning when the Postman came with his two loud raps at the door, wherever she might be, Fanny always ran to the door; and then she would follow the servant to her Papa’s study, to read the directions on the letters, that she might guess who they came from.

Thus Fanny was very curious about many things that did not concern her; and things that it was of no consequence for her to be acquainted with: but as for her lessons, it was very difficult to make her attend to them at all.

Her sister Mary was very different: she not only learned her lessons willingly; but she was never satisfied till she understood every part of them. She always asked the meaning of every new word she met with: and she was eager to be acquainted with the nature and use of all she saw, or read about. Fanny could remember the names over most of the shop doors in the town: but Mary was acquainted with the nature of the principal trades and manufactures: she knew what countries the different articles of food, dress, or furniture come from, and how they are prepared for use.

Fanny not only knew the names of most of the neighbours; but also, how many servants they kept; or what their business was; or who their relations were: but Mary knew the names of the most famous men who have lived in different ages of the world; and what they were famous for. Fanny could describe all the London coaches that regularly passed through the town: she knew also what hour they came in; and what inn they changed horses at: but Mary knew the names of the constellations in the heavens; and also of the planets;--in what times they revolve in their orbits;--what their distance from the sun is;--how many moons they have;--when they may be seen;--and when eclipses of the sun or moon will happen. She wished to understand the _reason_ of every thing she observed; and her Papa always took the pains to tell her as much as she was able to comprehend: and sometimes he told her in what book she would find an answer to her questions. Sometimes, also, when she asked a question, her Papa would say, “You cannot understand that at present, Mary;” and then she would be contented, and not ask any more about it.

One morning, Fanny came bouncing into her Papa’s study, with a letter in her hand, which she had just snatched from the servant; crying out,--“O, Papa! Papa! Here is a letter from Uncle Thomas; I _know_ it is from Uncle Thomas; it is his hand; and his seal too, there are the birds on the fire-screen, and the crooked arm over it. I dare say it is to ask me and Mary to go and spend some time with cousins: I dare say it is.”

“Yes, Fanny,” said her Papa, when he had read the letter, “it is from your Uncle Thomas; but he says nothing about asking you to come and see him; he sends his love to you, however, and he says he hopes to spend a few days with us, soon.”

“Soon! Soon! but when, Papa?”

“He does not fix the day, Fanny.”

“Then I will stand at the window, and watch all the coaches and chaises that drive by, till I see him.”

Mary, too, was very much pleased to hear that her Uncle Thomas was coming. He was very fond of his little nieces. He had travelled in different parts of Europe; and he had always many interesting things to tell them.

Fanny actually spent a great part of every day before her Uncle arrived, in standing at the window, and looking eagerly into every carriage that passed. Mary found something better to do: she knew that her Uncle would examine into the progress which she had made in her studies, since his last visit. She therefore applied herself with more than ordinary diligence to her lessons: and she looked over what she had been learning for some months past. She also thought of many questions, relative to the countries her Uncle had seen, and about which she was now better able to ask questions, than at the time of his last visit.

All the time Fanny spent watching at the window to see her Uncle arrive, was quite thrown away; for, at last, he came late in the evening; after she and her sister were gone to bed.

When they came down stairs the next morning, they saw a pair of boots and a portmanteau, placed at the door of the room which had been prepared for their Uncle, and they would certainly have awoke him by their exclamations, if their Mamma, who happened to come by at the moment, had not beckoned to them to be silent. They hardly had patience to wait till he came down, which was not till some time after the usual breakfast hour.

It would quite fill a book to write all that these little girls said to their Uncle, during the first day of his visit. He staid a week with them: and in this time he had sufficient opportunity to observe their dispositions and tempers. When he went away, he promised that he would write a letter to them as soon as his engagements would permit. Mary and Fanny were delighted with this promise; and waited eagerly, day after day, in expectation of the letter. It was nearly a month, however, before it arrived: and they had began to think that their Uncle had forgotten his promise. At length a parcel was brought, at the corner of which, under the direction, was written, “For M. and F.”--“For M. and F.” cried Fanny; “that is for us, Mary: that is the letter from Uncle Thomas; and something else, too.”

The parcel was quickly untied; when there appeared a letter, and two separate parcels; one directed “For Mary;” the other, “For Fanny.” Before they opened the separate parcels, their Mamma recommended them to read their Uncle’s letter: it was as follows:--

“I am afraid, my dear Mary and Fanny, you have thought I had forgotten my promise; but I assure you I have not forgotten it; though I have been prevented from writing as soon as I had intended: one reason was, that I could not immediately procure some of the books which accompany this letter.

“Perhaps my dear Fanny may think the books of which I beg her acceptance rather odd ones for a little girl. I must therefore explain to her why I made choice of them for her: and in order to do this, I must write rather a long letter, which, however, I hope may give her some useful hints.

“The minds of some children, I must observe, are so dull and inactive, that they seem to have no curiosity: they seldom ask any questions: they take very little notice of what they see or hear; and never learn any more than what they are forced to learn by their Parents and Masters. When such young persons grow up, they generally care about nothing but eating and drinking; and become more and more stupid and selfish every year that they live.

“But this cannot be said of either of my nieces: my dear Mary and Fanny, have both of them very active minds: they are very inquisitive, and very observant of every thing they see or hear. I think I have sometimes passed many months, in which I have not had to reply to half the number of questions that were put to me, in one week, by the two little girls to whom I am now writing.

“It is necessary for me to remark, however, that Mary’s questions were always of a different kind from those of Fanny. Now, in order to explain exactly what I mean, I must observe, that there are two sorts of knowledge with which we may fill our minds; but one sort is much more valuable in itself, and much more beneficial in its effects upon our minds, than the other. The most valuable kind of knowledge is that which consists in being acquainted with all the different sorts of things, that exist in the earth or in the heavens. The other kind of knowledge, consists in being acquainted with those particular things, or persons, that are to be found in the place where we happen to live. Now, for the sake of shewing, by an example, what I mean, I shall suppose there are two persons, whom I will not call Mary and Fanny; but John and George. I will suppose then that these two persons are equally inquisitive; and also, that they spend exactly the same time in gratifying their curiosity.

“We will imagine then, that John observes that there are many different kinds of trees, and shrubs, and plants, and flowers, growing in the fields, hedges, and gardens, in the neighbourhood where he lives. Now he wishes to know how many different kinds there are;--in what respects they resemble each other; and in what respects they differ:--what their uses are; and how they are cultivated. He therefore procures books which treat of the science of botany; and in these books he learns that there are many thousand kinds of trees and plants, found in different countries: but though there are so many thousand sorts, he learns how to distribute them all into several classes, according to certain rules; so that he can think of them all regularly, one after another, as they are arranged in his mind. And if he meets with some new plant, which he has never seen before, by examining it, he soon finds out what class it belongs to; and so he does not forget it; because he has put it _in its right place_ in his memory.

“Then he learns the various uses of all those trees, plants, and flowers which can be converted to the service of man, either for food, medicine, or building. He knows also the countries where they grow naturally; the method of cultivating them; and the manner of preparing them for use.