Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Tell me a StoryBy Mrs MolesworthIllustrations by Walter Crane; Joseph SwainPublished by Macmillan and Co.This edition dated 1894.
Tell me a Story, by Mrs Molesworth.
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________________________________________________________________________TELL ME A STORY, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.
CHAPTER ONE.
INTRODUCTION.
The children sat round me in the gloaming. There were several of them;from Madge, dear Madge with her thick fair hair and soft kind grey eyes,down to pretty little Sybil--Gipsy, we called her for fun,--whom youwould hardly have guessed, from her brown face and bright dark eyes, tobe Madge's "own cousin." They were mostly girls, the big ones at least,which is what one would expect, for it is not often that big boys caremuch about sitting still, and even less about anything so sentimental assitting still in the twilight doing nothing. There were two or three_little_ boys however, nice round-faced little fellows, who had not yetbegun to look down upon "girls," and were very much honoured at beingadmitted to a good game of romps with Madge and her troop.
It was one of these--the rosiest and nicest of them all, little Ted--whopulled my dress and whispered, but loud enough for every one to hear,with his coaxingest voice--"Tell me a story, aunty." And then it cameall round in a regular buzz, in every voice, repeated again andagain--"O aunty! do; dear, dear aunty, tell us a story."
I had been knitting, but it had grown too dark even for that. I couldnot pretend to be "busy." What could I say? I held up my hands indespair.
"O children! dear children!" I cried, "truly, truly, I don't know whatstories to tell. You are such dreadfully wise people now-a-days--youhave long ago left behind you what _I_ used to think wonderfulstories--`Cinderella,' and `Beauty and the Beast,' and all the rest ofthem; and you have such piles of story-books that you are alwaysreading, and many of them too written for you by the cleverest men andwomen living! What could I tell you that you would care to hear? Why,it will be the children telling stories to amuse the papas and mammas,and aunties next, like the `glorious revolution' in `Liliput Levee!'No, no, your poor old aunty is not quite in her dotage yet. She knowsbetter than to try to amuse you clever people with her stupid oldhum-drum stories."
I did not mean to hurt the poor dear little things--I did not, truly--Ispoke a little in earnest, but more in jest, as I shook my head andlooked round the circle. But to my surprise _they_ took it all forearnest, and the tears even gathered in two or three pairs of eyes.
"Aunty, you _know_ we don't think so," began Madge, gentle Madge always,reproachfully.
And "It's too bad of you, aunty, _too_ bad," burst out plain-speakingDolly. And worst of all, Ted clambered manfully up on to my knees, andproceeded to shake me vigorously. "_Naughty_ aunty," he said, "naughty,_naughty_ aunty. Ted will shake you, and shake you, to make you good."
What could I do but cry for mercy? and promise anything and everything,fifty stories on the spot, if only they would forgive me?
"But, truly children," I said again, when the hubbub had subsided alittle, "I am afraid I do _not_ know any stories you would care for."
"We should care for anything you tell us," they replied, "about when youwere a little girl, or anything."
I considered a little. "I might tell you something of that kind," Isaid, "and perhaps, by another evening, I might think over about someother people's `long agos'--your grandmother's, for instance. Wouldthat please you?"
Great applause.
"And another thing," I continued, "if I try to rub up some old storiesfor you, don't you think you might help? You, Madge, dear, forinstance, you are older than the others--couldn't you tell themsomething of your own childish life even?"
I was almost sorry I had suggested it; into Madge's face there came alook I had seen there before, and the colour deepened in her cheeks.But she answered quite happily.
"Yes, aunty, perhaps they would like to hear about--you know who I mean,and my other aunties, who are mammas now as well; if you wouldn't mindwriting it down--I don't think I could tell it straight off."
"Very well," I said, "I'll remember. And if, possibly, some not _real_stories come into my head--there's no saying what I can do till I try,"for I felt myself now getting into the spirit of it,--"you won't object,I suppose, to a fairy tale, or an adventure, for instance--just by wayof a change you know?"
General clapping of hands.
"Well then," I said, "to begin with, I'll tell you a story which is--no,I won't tell you what it is, real or not; you shall find out foryourselves."
And in this way it came to pass, you see, that there was quite asuccession of "blind man's holidays," on which occasions poor aunty wasalways expected to have a story forthcoming.
CHAPTER TWO.
THE REEL FAIRIES.
"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown."
Louisa was a little girl of eight years old. That is to say, she waseight years old at the time I am going to tell you about. She wasnothing particular to look at; she was small for her age, and her facewas rather white, and her eyes were pretty much the same as otherpeople's eyes. Her hair was dark brown, but it was not even curly. Itwas quite straight-down hair, and it was cut short, not _quite_ so shortas little boys' hair is cut now-a-days, but not very much longer. Manylittle girls had quite short hair at that time, but still there wassomething about Louisa's that made its shortness remarkable, if anythingabout her could have been remarkable! It was so very smooth and soft,and fitted into her head so closely that it gave her a small, soft look,not unlike a mouse. On the whole, I cannot describe her better than bysaying she was rather like a mouse, or like what you could fancy a mousewould be if it were turned into a little girl.
Louisa was not shy, but she was timid and not fond of putting herselfforward; and in consequence of this, as well as from her not being atall what is called a "showy" child, she received very little notice fromstrangers, or indeed from many who knew her pretty well. People thoughther a quiet, well-behaved little thing, and then thought no more abouther. Louisa understood this in her own way, and sometimes it hurt her.She was not so unobservant as she seemed; and there were times when shewould have very much liked a little more of the caressing, and evenadmiration, which she now and then saw lavished on other children; forthough she was sensible in some ways, in others she was not wiser thanmost little people.
Her home was not in the country: it was in a street, in a large andrather smoky town. The house in which she lived was not a _very_ prettyone; but, on the whole, it was nice and comfortable, and Louisa wasgenerally very well pleased with it, except now and then, when she gotlittle fits of wishing she lived in some very beautiful palace sort ofhouse, with splendid rooms, and grand staircases, and gardens, andfountains, and I don't know all what--just the same sort of little fitsas she sometimes had of wishing to be very pretty, and to have lovelydresses, and to be admired and noticed by every one who saw her. Shenever told any one of these wishes of hers; perhaps if she had it wouldhave been better, but it was not often that she could have found any oneto listen to and understand her; and so she just kept them to herself.
There was one person who, I think, could have understood her, and thatwas her mother. But she was often busy, and when not busy, often tired,for she had a great deal to do, and several other little childrenbesides Louisa to take care of. There were two brothers who camenearest Louisa in age, one older and one younger, and two or three mitesof children smaller still. The brothers went to school, and were somuch interested in the things "little boys are made of," that they wereapt to be rather contemptuous to Louisa because she was a girl, and thewee children i
n the nursery were too wee to think of anything but theirown tiny pleasures and troubles. So you can understand that though shehad really everything a little girl could wish for, Louisa was sometimesrather lonely and at a loss for companions, and this led to her makingfriends in a very odd way indeed. If you guessed for a whole year I donot think you would ever guess whom, or I should say _what_, she chosefor her friends. Indeed, I fear that when I tell you you will hardlybelieve me; you will think I am "story-telling" indeed. Listen--it wasnot her doll, nor a pet dog, nor even a favourite pussy-cat--it was,they were rather, _the reels in her mother's workbox_.
Can you believe it? It is quite, quite true. I am not "making up" atall, and I will tell you
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