Mary: A Nursery Story for Very Little Children by Mrs. Molesworth
remember,even now, how delightful it was to get well warmed at the fire, and whata nice tea papa ordered for me.
"And the next day I was none the worse; luckily I hadn't caught cold,which papa was very glad of, as my mother came up to London that day tomeet us, and we all three travelled home together."
The children had been listening with all their ears to papa's story.When he stopped Mary gave a deep sigh.
"That's a bee-yu-tiful story, papa," she said. "But it nearly made mecry for the poor little boy."
"You shouldn't say that, Mary," said Leigh. "The poor little boy waspapa himself! Don't you understand?"
"Yes, in course I do," said Mary. "But papa _were_ a little boy then,so I might call him the poor little boy."
"That's right, Mary," said her father. "Stick up for yourself when youknow what you mean to say. Yes, indeed, I did feel a very poor littleboy that day: the thought of it has always made me so sorry for childrenwho are lost, or think they're lost. It's a dreadful feeling."
"Papa," said Mary--she was trotting beside her father, holding his handvery tight,--"I think, please, I don't want never to go to London, forfear I should get losted; and, please, never take Leigh or Artieeither--not to London--'cos, you see, it was when you was a little boyyour papa nearly losted you, and Leigh and Artie are little boys."
"Rubbish, Mary," said Leigh. "I'm eight, and papa was only six, notmuch bigger than you are now. If _I_ was with papa in London at a shopI could find my way home ever so far; there's always people in thestreet you can ask. It's not like getting lost when there's nobody totell you the way."
"The worst kind of getting lost," said Artie, "is in the snow. Up onthose mountains, you know, where the snow comes down so thick that youcan't see, and then it gets so deep that you are buried in it."
"Oh, how dedful!" said Mary; "you won't ever take us to that place, willyou, papa? I'd be more f'ightened than in London! Where is thatcountry, papa?"
"I suppose Artie means Switzerland," said their father.
"I mean the picture in my book," said Artie; "where there's dogs, youknow, snuffing to find the poor people under the snow."
"Oh, the great Saint Bernard mountain you mean!" said papa; "it's sureto be that. You often see pictures of it in children's books; there aresuch pretty stories about the good dogs and the kind monks who livethere."
"Can you teach any dogs to do things like that?" asked Leigh.
"No; they have to be a particular kind," answered papa; "but a dog likeyour puppy can be taught to fetch anything out of the water, from a bitof stick to a baby. He's what you call a retriever: that means fetchingor finding something. You can teach a good retriever almost anything."
"I thought so," said Leigh, nodding his head wisely. "I'll see what Ican't teach Fuzzy."
They were back in the park by this time. It was a beautiful May day,almost as warm as summer. The children's father stood still and lookedround with pleasure.
"It is nice to have a holiday sometimes," he said. "What a lovelycolour the grass is in the sunshine!"
"And how happy the little lambs are; aren't they, papa?" said Mary. "Iwish I had one of my very own--like Mary and the lamb in my nurserybook."
"You couldn't have a lamb _and_ a dog," said Artie. "Fuzzy would soonknock the lamb over."
"I never thought of that," said Mary. "Oh, papa dear," she went on, "Ido so want baby Dolly to get big quick! There's such lotses of prettythings to show her in the world. The grass and the trees and thelambs"--and while she spoke her blue eyes wandered all round her,--"andthe birds and the sky and--and--oh! the daisies, and"--as at that momentshe caught sight of the old woman at the lodge crossing the drive withher red cloak on--"and old Mrs Crutch and her pussy-cat, and--"
"You're getting to talk nonsense, Mary," said Leigh. "Old Mrs Crutchisn't a pretty thing!"
"Her _cloak's_ very pretty," said Mary, "and she does make such niceginger-b'ead cake."
CHAPTER NINE.
TEARS AND SMILES.
The spring turned into summer, and with the longer days and warmersunshine and gentle rain there grew up a great many more "pretty things"for Mary to show to her little sister Dolly; and Dolly herself grew likethe flowers and the lambs. By the time she was three months old shecould not only smile, she could even give little chuckling laughs whenshe was very pleased. Mary was quite sure that the baby understood allshe said to her, and I do not think she would have been very surprisedany day if Dolly had begun to talk.
"Why can't she talk, mamma?" she asked her mother one morning.
"No little baby learns to do everything at once," mamma answered. "Shehas to learn to walk and run and use her little hands the way you do.Just think what a lot of things babies have to learn; you must havepatience."
Mary tried to have patience; she did not so much mind baby's not beingable to stand or walk or things of that kind, for she could understandthat her little legs needed to grow stronger and firmer, but for a longtime she could not understand about the not talking, and it got to bequite a trouble to her.
"She can cry and she can laugh and she can coo, and she hears all thewords we say to her," said Mary, with a little sigh; "I can't think whyshe won't talk. Oh, baby dear! don't you think you could if you tried?It's _kite_ easy."
Baby was lying on the ground out on the lawn, where nurse had spread anice thick shawl for her in case the grass might be damp, and Mary wassitting beside her, taking care of her for a minute or two all byherself. Nurse had gone in to fetch some more work. Mary was veryproud of being trusted with baby. Leigh and Artie were at theirlessons.
"Baby dear," she said again, "don't you think you could say just somelittle words if you tried? Nurse would be so pleased when she comes outif she could hear you saying, `Dear little sister Mary' to me!"
She was leaning over baby, and gave her a little kiss. Baby looked upand opened her mouth very wide. Mary could see her little pink tongue,but that was all there was to be seen; and just at that moment therestarted into Mary's head what must be the reason that baby could notspeak.
"She hasn't got no teeth!" cried Mary. "She's opening her mouth wide toshow me! Oh, poor little darling baby! Has they been forgotten? Thebaby at the Lavender Cottages has got teeth!"
Baby did not seem to mind; she lay there smiling quite happily, as ifshe was pleased that Mary understood her, but Mary felt very unhappyindeed. Something came back into her mind that she had heard aboutbaby's teeth, but it was a long time ago, and she could not remember itclearly. Was it something about them having been forgotten?
"I'm afraid there's been a mistook," said Mary to herself. "Oh, poorbaby! A'posing she never can speak! Oh, nurse, nurse, do come; I wantto tell you something about poor baby!"
But nurse was still in the house and could not hear Mary calling, andMary dared not go to fetch her because baby must not be left alone. Soshe did what most little girls, and little boys too sometimes, do whenthey're in trouble,--she began to cry.
"Oh, nurse, nurse!" she wailed through her tears, "do come--oh, docome?"
And though baby could not speak she certainly could hear. Shehalf-rolled herself round at the sound of her sister's sad sobs andcries, and for a moment or two her own little face puckered up as if shewere going to cry too--it is wonderful how soon a tiny baby learns toknow if the people about it are in trouble--but then she seemed tochange her mind, for she was a very sensible baby. And instead ofcrying she gave a sort of little gurgling coo that was very sweet, forit said quite plainly that she knew Mary was grieving, and she wanted tobe told what it was all about. At first Mary did not hear her, she wasso taken up with her own crying. That is the worst of crying; it makesone quite unnoticing of everything else.
Then baby rolled herself still nearer; if only she had understood aboutcatching hold of things, no doubt she would have given Mary a littletug. But she had not learnt that yet. So all she could do was to go onwith her cooing till at last Mary heard it. Then the big sister turn
edround, her poor face all red and wet with her tears; and when she sawbaby staring up at her with her sweet, big, baby eyes, and cooing awayin her dear little voice, which sounded rather sad, she stooped down andgave her _such_ a hug that, if Dolly had not been really verygood-natured, I am afraid her cooing would have been changed intocrying.
"Oh, baby, you sweet--you dear little innicent sweet!" said
"And the next day I was none the worse; luckily I hadn't caught cold,which papa was very glad of, as my mother came up to London that day tomeet us, and we all three travelled home together."
The children had been listening with all their ears to papa's story.When he stopped Mary gave a deep sigh.
"That's a bee-yu-tiful story, papa," she said. "But it nearly made mecry for the poor little boy."
"You shouldn't say that, Mary," said Leigh. "The poor little boy waspapa himself! Don't you understand?"
"Yes, in course I do," said Mary. "But papa _were_ a little boy then,so I might call him the poor little boy."
"That's right, Mary," said her father. "Stick up for yourself when youknow what you mean to say. Yes, indeed, I did feel a very poor littleboy that day: the thought of it has always made me so sorry for childrenwho are lost, or think they're lost. It's a dreadful feeling."
"Papa," said Mary--she was trotting beside her father, holding his handvery tight,--"I think, please, I don't want never to go to London, forfear I should get losted; and, please, never take Leigh or Artieeither--not to London--'cos, you see, it was when you was a little boyyour papa nearly losted you, and Leigh and Artie are little boys."
"Rubbish, Mary," said Leigh. "I'm eight, and papa was only six, notmuch bigger than you are now. If _I_ was with papa in London at a shopI could find my way home ever so far; there's always people in thestreet you can ask. It's not like getting lost when there's nobody totell you the way."
"The worst kind of getting lost," said Artie, "is in the snow. Up onthose mountains, you know, where the snow comes down so thick that youcan't see, and then it gets so deep that you are buried in it."
"Oh, how dedful!" said Mary; "you won't ever take us to that place, willyou, papa? I'd be more f'ightened than in London! Where is thatcountry, papa?"
"I suppose Artie means Switzerland," said their father.
"I mean the picture in my book," said Artie; "where there's dogs, youknow, snuffing to find the poor people under the snow."
"Oh, the great Saint Bernard mountain you mean!" said papa; "it's sureto be that. You often see pictures of it in children's books; there aresuch pretty stories about the good dogs and the kind monks who livethere."
"Can you teach any dogs to do things like that?" asked Leigh.
"No; they have to be a particular kind," answered papa; "but a dog likeyour puppy can be taught to fetch anything out of the water, from a bitof stick to a baby. He's what you call a retriever: that means fetchingor finding something. You can teach a good retriever almost anything."
"I thought so," said Leigh, nodding his head wisely. "I'll see what Ican't teach Fuzzy."
They were back in the park by this time. It was a beautiful May day,almost as warm as summer. The children's father stood still and lookedround with pleasure.
"It is nice to have a holiday sometimes," he said. "What a lovelycolour the grass is in the sunshine!"
"And how happy the little lambs are; aren't they, papa?" said Mary. "Iwish I had one of my very own--like Mary and the lamb in my nurserybook."
"You couldn't have a lamb _and_ a dog," said Artie. "Fuzzy would soonknock the lamb over."
"I never thought of that," said Mary. "Oh, papa dear," she went on, "Ido so want baby Dolly to get big quick! There's such lotses of prettythings to show her in the world. The grass and the trees and thelambs"--and while she spoke her blue eyes wandered all round her,--"andthe birds and the sky and--and--oh! the daisies, and"--as at that momentshe caught sight of the old woman at the lodge crossing the drive withher red cloak on--"and old Mrs Crutch and her pussy-cat, and--"
"You're getting to talk nonsense, Mary," said Leigh. "Old Mrs Crutchisn't a pretty thing!"
"Her _cloak's_ very pretty," said Mary, "and she does make such niceginger-b'ead cake."
CHAPTER NINE.
TEARS AND SMILES.
The spring turned into summer, and with the longer days and warmersunshine and gentle rain there grew up a great many more "pretty things"for Mary to show to her little sister Dolly; and Dolly herself grew likethe flowers and the lambs. By the time she was three months old shecould not only smile, she could even give little chuckling laughs whenshe was very pleased. Mary was quite sure that the baby understood allshe said to her, and I do not think she would have been very surprisedany day if Dolly had begun to talk.
"Why can't she talk, mamma?" she asked her mother one morning.
"No little baby learns to do everything at once," mamma answered. "Shehas to learn to walk and run and use her little hands the way you do.Just think what a lot of things babies have to learn; you must havepatience."
Mary tried to have patience; she did not so much mind baby's not beingable to stand or walk or things of that kind, for she could understandthat her little legs needed to grow stronger and firmer, but for a longtime she could not understand about the not talking, and it got to bequite a trouble to her.
"She can cry and she can laugh and she can coo, and she hears all thewords we say to her," said Mary, with a little sigh; "I can't think whyshe won't talk. Oh, baby dear! don't you think you could if you tried?It's _kite_ easy."
Baby was lying on the ground out on the lawn, where nurse had spread anice thick shawl for her in case the grass might be damp, and Mary wassitting beside her, taking care of her for a minute or two all byherself. Nurse had gone in to fetch some more work. Mary was veryproud of being trusted with baby. Leigh and Artie were at theirlessons.
"Baby dear," she said again, "don't you think you could say just somelittle words if you tried? Nurse would be so pleased when she comes outif she could hear you saying, `Dear little sister Mary' to me!"
She was leaning over baby, and gave her a little kiss. Baby looked upand opened her mouth very wide. Mary could see her little pink tongue,but that was all there was to be seen; and just at that moment therestarted into Mary's head what must be the reason that baby could notspeak.
"She hasn't got no teeth!" cried Mary. "She's opening her mouth wide toshow me! Oh, poor little darling baby! Has they been forgotten? Thebaby at the Lavender Cottages has got teeth!"
Baby did not seem to mind; she lay there smiling quite happily, as ifshe was pleased that Mary understood her, but Mary felt very unhappyindeed. Something came back into her mind that she had heard aboutbaby's teeth, but it was a long time ago, and she could not remember itclearly. Was it something about them having been forgotten?
"I'm afraid there's been a mistook," said Mary to herself. "Oh, poorbaby! A'posing she never can speak! Oh, nurse, nurse, do come; I wantto tell you something about poor baby!"
But nurse was still in the house and could not hear Mary calling, andMary dared not go to fetch her because baby must not be left alone. Soshe did what most little girls, and little boys too sometimes, do whenthey're in trouble,--she began to cry.
"Oh, nurse, nurse!" she wailed through her tears, "do come--oh, docome?"
And though baby could not speak she certainly could hear. Shehalf-rolled herself round at the sound of her sister's sad sobs andcries, and for a moment or two her own little face puckered up as if shewere going to cry too--it is wonderful how soon a tiny baby learns toknow if the people about it are in trouble--but then she seemed tochange her mind, for she was a very sensible baby. And instead ofcrying she gave a sort of little gurgling coo that was very sweet, forit said quite plainly that she knew Mary was grieving, and she wanted tobe told what it was all about. At first Mary did not hear her, she wasso taken up with her own crying. That is the worst of crying; it makesone quite unnoticing of everything else.
Then baby rolled herself still nearer; if only she had understood aboutcatching hold of things, no doubt she would have given Mary a littletug. But she had not learnt that yet. So all she could do was to go onwith her cooing till at last Mary heard it. Then the big sister turn
"Oh, baby, you sweet--you dear little innicent sweet!" said