Tell Me a Story

by Mrs. Molesworth

water, and hanging them round the nurseryguard to dry, and most likely ending up by coaxing nurse to clear awayall the mess you have made, and to promise to let you iron dolly's cleanclothes the next wet afternoon--which you think so delightful. Judy'sarms ached sorely, sorely, and her head ached too, and she felt allsteamy and hot and weary, when at last her share of it was over, and,"for a change," she was instructed to take the two youngest out for awalk up the lane, while mother boiled the potatoes for dinner.

  The babies were very tiresome, and though Judy was quite at liberty tomanage them in her own way, and to punish them as she had never venturedto punish Lena and Harry at home, she did not find it of much use. Shewondered "how ever the real Betsy did;" and I fancy the babies toowondered a good deal in their own way as to what had come over their bigsister to-day. Altogether the walk was very far from a pleasure to anyof the three, and when at last Judy managed to drag her weary self, andher two hot, cross little charges home again to the cottage, she was byno means in an amiable humour. She would have liked to sit down andrest, and she would have liked to wash her face and hands, and brush herhair--Judy who at home _always_ grumbled at nurse's summons to "come andbe tidied"--but there was no time for anything of the kind. Dinner--thepotatoes, that is to say--was ready, and the table must be set at once,ready for father and the boys, and Betsy's mother told her to "looksharp and bustle about," in a way that Judy felt to be really a greatdeal "too bad." She was hungry, however, and ate her share of potatoes,flavoured with a little dripping and salt, with more appetite than shehad sometimes felt for roast mutton and rice pudding, though all thesame she would have been exceedingly glad of a little gravy, or even ofa plateful of _sago_ pudding, which generally was by no means afavourite dish of hers.

  "Me and the boys won't be home till late," said the father, as he roseto go; "there's a piece o' work master wants done this week, and he'llpay us extray to stay a couple of hours. Betsy must bring us our tea."

  Judy's spirits rose. She would have a walk by herself any way,unplagued by babies, and the idea of it gave her some patience for theafternoon's task of darning stockings, which she found was expected ofher. Just at first the darning was rather amusing, but after a whileshe began to be sadly tired of it. It was very different from sittingstill for a quarter of an hour, with nurse patiently instructing her,and praising her whenever she did well; _these_ stockings were so veryharsh and coarse, and the holes were so enormous, and the basketful sohuge!

  "I'll _never_ get them done," she exclaimed at last. "I think it's toobad to make a little girl like me or Betsy do such hard work; and Ithink her father and brothers must make holes in their horrid stockingson purpose, I do. I'll _not_ do any more."

  She shoved the basket into a corner, and looked about for amusement.The babies were asleep, and Jock was playing in a corner, and mother,poor body, was still busy in the wash-house--Judy could find nothing toplay with. There were no books in the cottage, except an old _Farmers'Almanac_, a Bible and Prayer-book, and one or two numbers of a _People'sMiscellany_, which Judy looked into, but found she could not understand.How she wished for some of her books at home! Even those she had readtwo or three times through, and was always grumbling at in consequence,would have been a great treasure; _even_ a history or geography bookwould have been better than nothing.

  Suddenly the clock struck, and Betsy's mother called out from thewash-house,--

  "It's three o'clock--time for you to be going with the tea. Set thekettle on, Betsy, and I'll come and make it and cut the bread. It'lltake you more nor half-an-hour to walk to Farmer Maxwell's where they'reworking this week."

  Judy was staring out of the window. "It's beginning to rain," she saiddolefully.

  "Well, what if it is," replied Betsy's mother, "Father and boys can'twant their tea because it's raining. Get thy old cloak, child. Mygoodness me!" she went on, as she came into the kitchen, "she hasn't gotthe kettle on yet? Betsy, it's too bad of thee, it is for sure; there'snot a thing but what's been wrong to-day."

  Judy's conscience pricked her about the stockings, so, withoutattempting to defend herself, she fetched the old cloak she had seenhanging in Betsy's room, and, drawing the hood over her head, stoodmeekly waiting, while the mother cut the great hunches of bread, madethe tea, and poured it into the two tin cans, which the little girl wasto carry to the farm.

  It did not rain much when she first set off, so though it was a good twomiles' walk, she was only moderately wet when she got to the farm. Oneof the boys was on the look-out for her, or rather for their tea, whichhe at once took possession of and ran off with, advising Judy to makehaste home, it was going to rain like blazes. But poor Judy found it noeasy matter to follow his counsel; her arms were still aching with theweight of the baby in the morning, and her wrist was chafed with thehandle of one of the tin pails, which she could not manage otherwise tocarry, the old cloak was poor protection against the driving rain, and,worst of all, Betsy's old boots had several holes in them, and a sharpstone had made its way through the sole of the left one, cutting andhurting her foot. She stumbled along for some way, feeling verymiserable, till at last, quite unable to go farther, she sat down underthe hedge, and burst into tears.

  "So you haven't found things quite so pleasant as you expected, eh, MissJudy? You don't find walking in Betsy's shoes quite such an easy matterafter all?" said a voice at her side; and, looking up, lo and behold!there, standing before her, Judy saw the old woman with the scarletcloak.

  "I don't think it is kind of you to laugh at me," she sobbed.

  "It's `too bad,' is it, eh, Miss Judy?"

  Judy sobbed more vigorously, but did not answer.

  "Come, now," said the old woman kindly. "Let's talk it over quietly.Are you beginning to understand that other people's lives have troublesand difficulties as well as yours--that little Betsy, for instance,might find things `too bad' a good many times in the course of the day,if she was so inclined?"

  "Yes," said Judy humbly.

  "And on the whole," continued the fairy, "you would rather be yourselfthan any one else--eh, Miss Judy?"

  "Oh yes, yes, a _great_ deal rather," said Judy eagerly. "Mayn't I bemyself again now this very minute, and go home to tea in the nursery?Oh, I _would_ so like! It seems ever so long since I saw Lena and Harryand nurse, and you said yesterday I needn't keep on being Betsy if Ididn't like."

  "Not quite so fast, my dear," said the old woman. "It's only fouro'clock; you must finish the day's work. Go back to the cottage andwait patiently till bed-time, and then--you know what to do--you haven'tlost your apple?"

  "No," said Judy, feeling in her pocket. "I have it safe."

  "That's all right. Now jump up, my dear, and hasten home, or Betsy'smother will be wondering what has become of you."

  Judy got up slowly. "I'm _so_ wet," she said, "and oh! my foot's _so_sore. These horrible boots! I think it's too--"

  "Hush!" said the fairy. "How would you like me to make you stay as youare, till you quite leave off that habit of grumbling. I'm not sure butwhat it would be a good thing for her," she added, consideringly, as ifthinking aloud.

  "O no, _please_ don't," said Judy, "please, _please_ don't. I do begyour pardon; I didn't mean to say it, and I _won't_ say it any more."

  "Then off with you; your foot won't be so bad as you think," said thefairy.

  "Thank you," replied Judy, fancying already that it hurt her less. Shehad turned to go when she stopped.

  "Well," said the old woman, "what's the matter now?"

  "Nothing," answered Judy, "but only I was thinking, if I am myself againto-morrow morning, and Betsy's herself, what will they all think? nurseand all, I mean; and if I try to explain, I'm sure they'll never believeme--they'll say I'm talking nonsense. Nurse always says `rubbish' if wemake up fairy stories, or anything like that."

  The old woman smiled curiously.

  "Many wiser people than nurse think that `rubbish' settles whatever theydon't understand," she said. "But
never you mind, Judy. You needn'ttrouble your head about what any one will think. No one ever will bethe wiser but you and I. When Betsy wakes in her own little bed in themorning, she will only think she has had a curious dream--a dream,perhaps, which will do her no harm--and nurse will think nothing butthat Miss Judy has been cured of grumbling in a wonderful way. For ifyou're _not_ cured it