Aunt Judy's Tales Part 2

Again Aunt Judy paused, and there was a looking hither and thither among the little ones, and a shuffling about on the small Derby chairs, while one or two pairs of eyes were suddenly turned to the fire, as if watching it relieved a certain degree of embarra.s.sment which their owners began to experience.

"It is not every little boy or girl," was Aunt Judy's next remark, "who knows what the courses of a dinner are."

"_I_ don't," interposed No. 8, in a distressed voice, as if he had been deeply injured.

"Oh, you think not? Well, not by name, perhaps," answered Aunt Judy.

"But I will explain. The courses of a dinner are the different sorts of food, which follow each other one after the other, till dinner is what people call 'over.' Thus, supposing a dinner was to begin with pea-soup, as you have sometimes seen it do, you would expect when it was taken away to see some meat put upon the table, should you not?"

The little ones nodded a.s.sent.

"And after the meat was gone, you would expect pie or pudding, eh?"

They nodded a.s.sent again, and with a smile.

"And if after the pudding was carried away, you saw some cheese and celery arrive, it would not startle you very much, would it?"

The little ones did nothing but laugh.

"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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.sured 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 ingrat.i.tude 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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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 suns.h.i.+ne; but every one of them as blessings permitted by G.o.d, 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 WAs.h.i.+NG 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 ingrat.i.tude; 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 G.o.d 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.