Part 4

I had now an opportunity of seeing them at all times, and my esteem for them was by no means diminished. Indeed, I never beheld a happier little society: they were obedient and attentive during the hours allotted to study, and so united in all their sentiments, that it seemed as if one mind animated the three. Their governess was indulgent, because she found that indulgence was not injurious to them; and they were happy, because they deserved to be so. Even their motives and incitements to virtue were of the noblest kind. They were early taught to believe, that happiness is derived from conferring benefits, rather than from receiving them. Their excellent mother knew this truth from experience, and was anxious that her daughters should learn it by the same means. She had established a school for poor children, on Sir Charles’s estate, to which she allowed each of the young ladies to send a little girl; and in order to enable them to pay for their _protegées_, she allowed a weekly stipend to those who, by their amiable conduct, deserved it. My young readers may easily suppose, that they always endeavoured to merit this reward; for it would have been at once vexatious and disgraceful, not to have had a child in the school. They were allowed to visit the poor children occasionally, to inspect their progress; and I observed that they always came home more cheerful and happy, from their favourite walk to the hill, on the summit of which stood the little school-house; so that I did not doubt that they already felt the good effects of their mother’s sensible plan.

Several weeks passed without any material occurrence in my history, and my young friends were beginning to anticipate the return of their beloved parents, when my mistress remarked, one day, that I was not so merry as usual, (for I was not quite well.) “Poor little fellow,” said she, “he perhaps regrets being kept in doors this fine weather: I must let him out.”

The children looked as if they did not wish me to go, but said nothing. I should not have been so silent, could I have made myself understood; for I really wished to stay where I was so comfortable.

Not long after this they went out, and I was rejoicing at being left behind, when my dear mistress returned, and taking me in my cage, conveyed me to the shrubbery, where she rejoined her pupils. They, remembering what had passed on a former occasion, offered no remonstrance on this. We arrived at the little garden where I had so often been before; my cage was set down, and the doors placed open. I was still irresolute: I chirped to my mistress, came on the outside of my cage, and then went in again, to show that I was willing to remain with her. At length I ventured out again, and hopped on one of the flower-beds. My friends watched me for some time, and I, still anxious to show my affection and gratitude, flew on to my mistress’s shoulder.

“Dear little bird!” said she, “I trust you will be happy, and I shall then congratulate myself on having been the means of making you so.”

These words seemed to assure me, that my liberty was a desirable object, and, encouraged by the manner in which they were uttered, I ventured a short flight to an adjacent syringa. My friends followed me, and having scattered food near the spot, left me, in order to continue their walk. I felt rather timid when left alone, but my sensations were very different to those I experienced when I was out before. I soon acquired sufficient courage to explore my new place of abode, which I found so delightful, that I regretted when the approach of night put an end to my rambles. I met with many other little birds, but felt no terror on their approach; for they seemed by no means inclined to molest me, and I was now strong enough to defend myself, if they had. I found plenty of food, for the trees abounded in insects; and my friends did not fail to strew about the paths, such seeds as they knew I liked. I frequently saw them pass along, and wished to show myself to them; but there was a little dog which generally accompanied them, and I was afraid of getting too near him. Once, however, I heard them talking very earnestly about me, and wishing to know whether I was still alive. This made me resolve to watch for an opportunity of assuring them of my safety.

It was not long before I fulfilled my intention, for my mistress and little Julia came out one afternoon without the dog. I was on a laburnum-tree near the house, and immediately flew from it to a grass-plot before them.

“There is my bird!” exclaimed my mistress, in an accent of delight.

“Where?” said Julia.

“There, on the grass. Do not you see him? Now he has flown towards the kitchen-window.”

“Now I see him, indeed,” said Julia: “are you not glad to find him alive and well?”

“And in good company too,” added my mistress; for just then I was taking a little flight with some young birds, who were very friendly to me, and with whom I made many pleasant excursions about the shrubbery, though we seldom passed its boundaries: for my young readers are, perhaps, to be informed, that Robins do not assemble in large companies, and take long flights, as larks, thrushes, linnets, and many other birds do, but content themselves with a less extensive range, about the hedges, woods, or gardens, where they are brought up.

After the first interview, I saw my friends almost every day, and as the dog seldom came with them, I took care that they should see me; for I knew that it gave them pleasure, and I was anxious to prove myself grateful for their kindness.

I was now extremely happy, much more so than I had ever been, enjoying, at once, liberty, society, and the affectionate notice of those to whom I owed all my enjoyments. But an unforeseen event deprived me of all my felicity. My mistress, in her extreme solicitude lest I should be unable to find food, or should be deprived of it by the other birds, who sometimes attack those who have been brought up tame, left my cage fixed to the enclosure of her garden, and constantly replenished the troughs with food and water. I frequently fed there, and found it extremely convenient; but it seems that I was observed by one of the little boys who weeded in the garden, and swept the gravel-walks of the shrubbery. He watched for an opportunity, and when I was feeding one evening, he suddenly shut the door of the cage. Soon after this he left off work, and taking me gently out of the cage, carried me home with him.

He lived in a little cottage, at some distance from my late residence. I had never seen any poor person’s house, therefore was greatly surprised at the appearance of this. While I was looking at the outside of it, a neat-looking little girl came to the door. “Ah, Willy! is it you,” said she: “I am glad you are come, for I wanted to show you my pretty kitten.”

“Oh! I am afraid I shall not wish you joy of it,” said the boy, “for I have something here worth twenty kittens, and both must not be together.”

“Then that must be a mouse,” said the child.

“Not a mouse. Guess again.”

“Perhaps a young rabbit, or a squirrel—but do show it me, pray do.”

“Yes, if you will promise to give me the kitten, that I may take it to aunt Patty, or give it to somebody; for see, you would not like this pretty little bird to be killed.”

“Oh dear, no! my good Willy. Did you bring it for me? Pray let me have it in my own hand.”

“Be patient,” said the boy; “first go and shut up your kitten in the shed, till I can take it away.”

“Aunt Patty gave it me,” said the little girl, “and she will take it back again. I should have been glad to have kept it, but I shall like a little bird much better.”

“Peggy, Peggy, where are you?” said a voice from the interior of the cottage: “I want you, child.”

“Coming, mother,” replied Peggy; “only I am looking at a pretty Robin Willy has brought me.”

“A Robin!” returned her mother; “then mind the cat you have been nursing all the afternoon. The bird would not like her so well as she would like him.”

“So Willy says, mother; and I am going to put puss in the shed, till he can take her back. May I, mother?”

“Yes, child, and make haste, for I want you here.”

Peggy made great haste, and when her mother had done with her, she returned to her brother, who had now entered the cottage, and requested to have me in her hand.

“Gently, then,” said Willy: “do not pinch it: it is not like a cat.”

“Oh! I will take great care,” said she, and she took me very tenderly from the boy, greatly surprised that I did not flutter, or struggle to get from her; and still more so, when, gently disengaging myself from her feeble grasp, I perched on her shoulder. “Oh! you dear little creature,” said she, “why you know me already. But how did you contrive to make him so tame, Willy?”

“I did nothing to him,” said the boy; “I got him only this evening.” And then he related what my readers already know, about his finding me in the cage.

“Come, William,” said the boy’s mother, “get your supper, for I am sure you must be hungry; but, stop a moment, first take off your coat, that I may put a patch on the elbow. I cannot bear to see you in rags; no more could your poor father, he was always so tidy.”

“And so will I be, mother, when I am a man: and so shall you and Peggy be too, for I will buy you comfortable clothes.”

“What! will you buy me a new frock?” said Peggy: “when will you get it? I can make some of it myself. Cannot I, mother?”

“Not so fast, Peggy,” interrupted her brother; “I am not rich enough yet, nor shall not be neither, till I am bigger, and able to earn more money.”

“I hope that will be soon, then, for both my frocks are very old: mother has patched them so often. And see, I put in these two pieces,” added she, showing her frock; which I then first observed to be of various pieces and colours. “But,” continued the talkative little girl, “I know what I had rather have now than a new frock:—dear Willy, if you could get me a little cage for my bird!”

“That will not cost much,” replied her brother, “for I can make you one myself, and so I will, when I have done my supper.”

“Thank you, thank you, dear Willy! You are always so good-natured,” said Peggy, “and that makes me feel so happy, that I never want a new frock, or any thing else, when I think of it.”

This interesting dialogue did not pass unnoticed by the poor mother. She had let fall her boy’s coat, and was gazing intently on her children, her eyes filled with tears of joy.

“Dear mother, you are crying!” said Willy: “what is the matter? Are you unhappy? Can I do any thing for you?”

“I am not unhappy, my dear boy,” replied she, “it was joy that overcame me, and, like Peggy, I seem to want nothing, while I am blest with two children so dutiful to me, and so fond of each other.”

“That, I hope, we shall always be,” said Willy, and he rose hastily, to get, as he said, the twigs for the cage; but I saw him brush off a tear from his cheek, with the back of his hand.

Willy was, indeed, a good-natured boy, and that in a different degree to what the common acceptation of the term implies; for I have known many children who thought themselves good-natured, because they gave away what they did not want, or deprived themselves of some superfluity, to relieve the wants of others. This boy, however, had no superfluities, but he gave up what he really wanted to his mother and sister, seeming never to consider himself; and his coat had not now been so ragged, if he had not expended the money which was to have bought a new one, on his little sister, the preceding winter. His poor mother had hoped to make it up to him, by the little she could earn at needle-work or spinning, but in this she had been disappointed. Her little girl had been ill of the measles in the spring, and all her resources had been then exhausted, in procuring proper nourishment and remedies for the little sufferer. Nor was this the only privation to which Willy submitted; for I am sure he frequently refused his share of their scanty provisions, that there might be more for his mother and sister.

CHAP. VII.

I was treated very well by this poor family, and, by degrees, got acquainted with their history. They had known better days. The father, when living, had been an honest, industrious, and thriving farmer; but a fire had, in one night, consumed all his stock, and thus reduced him and his poor children to a state little superior to beggary. He had lost all but his industry, and that he exerted for some time with indefatigable ardour; but the anxiety of his mind, and the continual fatigue he underwent, at length brought on a fever, which terminated his distresses and his life together.

He had now been dead a twelvemonth, having left four children, (the two I have mentioned, and two much younger,) who must have gone to the workhouse, had it not been for Willy’s industry. He not only worked all day in the garden, but frequently went on errands to a neighbouring town in the evening; and such were his diligence and honesty, that all the neighbours were glad to employ him on these occasions.

I must confess, that, though I greatly admired the conduct of this worthy family, I was not so happy in it, as I had heretofore been. Little Peggy had not much time to bestow on me; for, though only six years old, her mother thought it right to habituate her to domestic employments and the use of her needle, in both of which she was already very handy. I was, of course, confined much more than I liked; but my poor little mistress seemed so delighted to possess me, that I was not very anxious to leave her. However, my opinion was not consulted, for I soon after left her, owing to the following circumstances.

As Peggy was one day standing at the cottage-door, with one of her patched frocks on, two young ladies came past. One of them accosting Peggy, said, “Who mended your frock so nicely, little girl?”

“My mother, Miss,” answered the child; “but the other is done the best, because I did some of this.”

“Should you like to have a new one?” said the other young lady. “I think, dear Amelia,” added she, addressing her companion, “this little creature would do very well for one of them.”

“But do you think she could learn the verses?” said Amelia.

“I dare say she could: I would try to teach her myself.”

“You, Louisa! What would your mamma say?”

“My mamma would have no objection, I am sure; for she often takes me with her to the Sunday-school, and then I sometimes hear the children say their hymns.”

“Willy goes to the Sunday-school,” interrupted the little girl; “and he taught me a hymn; and when he gets a new frock for me, I am to go too.”

“Come,” said Miss Amelia, “we must not stay here; my mamma does not allow me to visit the cottagers, she has such a terror of infection. You know I am an only child, and much depends on my life,” added she, with a mixture of importance and affected languor.

“That is true,” said Louisa, “but you know my mamma has plenty of us, and she says we must all be useful, for that is the only good of living at all. However, what do you decide? Shall I prepare the poor child or not?”

“Just as you like—with all my heart,” returned Amelia, in a tone that indicated her heart had nothing to do with it.

“Well, then, I will ask mamma,” said Louisa; and away they both went, without saying any thing more to Peggy.

I must here beg leave to anticipate some part of my history, for the purpose of informing my readers, what I afterwards learned respecting these two young ladies. Amelia Wyndham was, as she said, an only child, and heiress to immense property. Her father had died when she was an infant, and her mother, on whom the entire management of her had devolved, indulged her to excess. Misguided affection had some share in producing such unwise conduct, but pride had a still greater. She imagined, that because her daughter would possess ample means to gratify all her fancies, she need not be denied any thing; and because riches and noble descent confer importance, and induce submission, she need not be taught obedience or humility, therefore, was never to be contradicted. It seems, however, that Amelia’s mother forgot that there are enjoyments which neither rank nor wealth can confer; for I have observed, that, though rich or proud people may excite fear, they cannot command esteem or respects—tributes which belong to the virtuous only. I thought Willy and his little sister much more to be admired than this young lady. Besides, they appeared much happier than she, which I supposed was the consequence of their being more useful. However, lest I appear tedious, I will return to Miss Amelia.

Such sentiments as Mrs. Wyndham’s were not calculated to produce any salutary effects on the mind of her child, who, though naturally active and well-disposed, was rendered helpless, indolent, and perverse. When little, she had not been allowed to walk out, like other children, lest she should be tired; nor to romp with her little playfellows, because they were too robust, and might overpower her tender frame. Her mind, too, was neglected, because study was irksome to her. Her natural activity had, indeed, induced her to begin many things, but her habitual indolence had inclined her to relinquish them as soon as any difficulty arose; so that at twelve years of age she had merely acquired an imperfect idea of those studies and accomplishments, in which most young ladies of the same age have made some proficiency.

Such was Amelia Wyndham, to whom Louisa Carleton was a striking contrast. She was the eldest of a numerous family, and about six months older than her companion. She possessed sensible parents, who had accustomed her to habits of obedience and industry from her infancy. She had been taught, that the best use of riches is to assist the needy; the best use of knowledge, to instruct the ignorant; and the best use of time, to employ it in improving her own mind, or in benefiting her fellow-creatures. An education founded on such principles seldom fails of success, and in the present instance it had produced the most happy effects. Louisa was well-informed, obedient, gentle, and humane; the admiration of all who knew her, the delight of her parents, and her mother’s principal assistant in the domestic economy of her family, and in her plans for relieving the poor.

I shall now return to the cottage, and inform my readers what passed there. On the day after the two young ladies spoke to little Peggy, Louisa Carleton came again, accompanied by her mamma: the latter enquired into the circumstances of the family, and finding that the poor woman had no employment but spinning, desired her to come to her house the ensuing week, when she should be at home, and would give her some work, which would be more profitable than her present occupation. Mrs. Carleton then proceeded to explain the purport of her visit, by informing Peggy’s mother, that Mrs. Wyndham intended to invite a large party to a splendid breakfast on her daughter’s birthday, and that Miss Amelia wished to surprise her mamma and the visitors, by procuring a group of little girls, who were to recite some verses she had selected for the occasion. “They are all to have new clothes given to them,” added she: “Miss Wyndham has fixed on your little girl as one of them, so, if you choose her to earn a new dress by this means, my Louisa will teach her what she is to do.”

“Most willingly, Ma’am, and a thousand thanks to you,” said the poor woman; “but Peggy cannot read, and if there be much to learn, I am afraid Miss will find her troublesome.”

“But I will try, mother, indeed I will,” said Peggy.

“Do not be afraid,” said Louisa, “there is but little to learn, and I have plenty of time to teach you.”

Very little more passed during this visit: the ladies took leave, Louisa promising to come again shortly. She kept her word, and came regularly for several days, to instruct little Peggy in her part. Finding her very docile, she taught her to spell, and heard her read. The child’s mother was delighted, and Miss Louisa was no less so, with the progress of her pupil; for she hoped to surprise and please her dear mamma, by letting Peggy read to her at some future time.

My readers may suppose, that I was not unnoticed by Miss Louisa. Peggy displayed all my accomplishments to her young benefactress, who was very much pleased with me, and who did not fail to expatiate on my tameness, &c. to her friend Amelia. The latter no sooner heard that I was something uncommon, than she wished to possess me; for Amelia estimated the value of things from their scarcity, rather than any other quality they possessed.

CHAP. VIII.

Mrs. Carleton’s visit to Mrs. Wyndham was protracted longer than she at first intended. At length the great fête-day arrived. Every thing went on in the best manner possible. Miss Wyndham’s generosity in clothing the poor children, and her taste in the judicious arrangement of her part of the entertainment, were talked of throughout the neighbourhood; yet, for my part, I discovered nothing so meritorious in the young lady’s conduct, nor could I forbear thinking Louisa Carleton much more entitled to admiration, even on this occasion; for she bestowed her time and attention in teaching little Peggy. And I afterwards learned that it was she, who, with the assistance of one of her sisters, had entirely made the children’s dresses; for Amelia was neither able nor willing to work for any one, so that all the praises bestowed on her, were, in reality, due to Louisa. However, I am sure each was rewarded according to her own taste:—Amelia with the applause of the multitude, Louisa with the more grateful, though less pompous testimony of her own heart.

The grand business of the _fête_ was no sooner over, than Amelia’s thoughts recurred to me, and she accompanied Louisa, on the following evening, to the cottage. I shall pass over the poor woman’s expressions of gratitude, (which Miss Amelia did not receive with that openness and affability I had so often observed in Louisa on similar occasions,) and continue my narrative.

Amelia asked to see me. “It is a Robin,” said she: “does it sing?”

“Yes, Miss,” said Peggy; “perhaps, if you stay a little while, you will hear him.”

I was not willing to disappoint my little mistress, so I presently after began to sing.

“That is not the song of a Robin,” said Amelia.

“So I have often observed,” returned Louisa; “but it is a very sweet song, and he is a very nice little bird, I think.”

“So do I,” said Amelia: “I wish I had one like him. Could not you get me one, child?” enquired she, addressing Peggy.

“I don’t know, Miss, but I’ll try—I mean, I’ll ask our Willy to try.”

“Do so,” said Amelia; “but I suppose there are few like this: I never saw one so tame. Besides, I thought Robins could not be kept in a cage.”

The object of the visit being thus far attained, the young ladies departed. Louisa, however, ran back to tell Peggy’s mother, that though she was now about to return home with her mamma, the little girl should not be forgotten; for that she would come, though perhaps not so often, to teach her. “After Christmas,” added she, “I shall be able to send her to the village school; and in the mean time, you can send her every Sunday with her brother, to learn her Catechism, and then I can teach her; for mamma has promised to take me always with her to the Sunday-school.”

When Louisa was gone, Peggy’s mother said: “Child, you must give that little bird to Miss Wyndham, for I am sure she wants it.”

“Must I, dear mother,” said Peggy: “why, I did not wish to part with it; yet, if I did, I thought I should like to give it to Miss Louisa.”

“She does not wish for it, and Miss Amelia does,” replied the mother: “you know she gave you clothes, and you must not be ungrateful.”