Betty's Battles: An Everyday Story

by Harriet Pyne Grove

  CHAPTER IV

  BETTY'S BIRTHDAY

  "To-day is my birthday."

  That is Betty's first thought when she awakes next morning, and theremembrance soothes and pleases her.

  "Surely, Bob will not be cross with me to-day. Surely, father will smilewhen he kisses me, and mother will make a real effort to finish her workearlier. But Grannie's letter will be best of all--a long letter it iscertain to be, and, perhaps, a box of sweet country flowersbesides--those I brought from her little garden are all dead now."

  Betty's heart feels lighter than it has for some days past, and she runsdownstairs quite briskly.

  How eagerly she listens for the postman's knock as she helps Claraprepare the breakfast! "Ah, he's in the street now--I can hear his'rat-tats'--they're coming nearer. Now he's next door----"

  Alas, for poor Betty! The next knock is at the house on the other side.

  She darts upstairs. No, there is no letter on the door-mat; there is noletter coming to her at all! Grannie has forgotten the day. Betty couldcry with disappointment and vexation.

  But this is only the beginning.

  Jennie, Pollie, and Harry never remember any birthdays save theirown--she had expected nothing from them. But Lucy and Bob, it is hardindeed that _they_ should take no notice of this all-important day whichmakes her just fifteen years old.

  Worse still, Bob is in a thoroughly bad humour; and Lucy, having fallenasleep after Betty awakened her this morning, is ashamed of herself, andeats her breakfast in silence.

  Not a word does Betty say to remind them. She is longing intensely for abirthday greeting, but nothing would make her confess it.

  "I shouldn't have forgotten _their_ birthdays," she thinks bitterly. "Ithought they didn't really care much about me, and this proves it."

  "You needn't look at me like that!" cries Bob sharply. "I shan't washmy hands any oftener for you, Miss Particular, in spite of all yournaggings!" and he snatches up his cap, and clatters out of the room,banging the door after him.

  Soon after father comes in for his breakfast. Betty looks up eagerly.Alas! he also has forgotten.

  After this, mother's forgetfulness is not surprising. She, too, takesher breakfast almost in silence, and disappears into the kitchen ratherearlier than usual.

  Betty's heart is very sore as she sets about her morning work. Her headaches, and she feels tired all over. She has just tidied the fireplacewhen mother enters.

  "The kitchen-range is smoking again, Betty. I'm not going to have anymore of it, so I've sent Clara for the sweep."

  Betty is horrified. "Why, mother, there's no dinner cooked--not even abit of pudding!"

  "Well, we'll have to make do with this fire--it can't be helped."

  This is too much. Betty knows what "having the sweep in" means.

  "Why couldn't you wait until to-morrow?" she breaks out angrily. "It'stoo bad--that it is! Isn't everything horrid enough already withoutthis?"

  And she covers her face with her hands, and bursts into a passion oftears.

  "Why, Betty--Betty, for goodness' sake, don't--what can be the matter?"

  "It's my birthday!" cries Betty, "and you've all forgotten--and I _did_think things would be better to-day, and now they'll be worse thanever!"

  "Your birthday, child? So it is, I declare! Well, I can't think how Icame to forget it! If I'd thought now, I would have tidied up a bit--butthere's so much to do in this house--just no end to it, and yet there'sno peace, and everything in a muddle----"

  "It's all because no one _wants_ things to be better!" sobs Betty.

  "If you mean me, Betty, let me tell you you've no right to speak likethat to your mother----"

  "I mean everybody! I just hate everything, _everything_!" cries Betty,stamping her foot, and sobbing so wildly that Mrs. Langdale is alarmed.

  She forgets her own grievance directly, in true motherly anxiety.

  "Come, come, Betty, don't give way like this; you've been working toohard, my dear; keeping too close to the house. Clara and I will managethe sweep; just put on your hat, and go for a walk."

  "I can't, my head aches dreadfully," sobs Betty.

  "Then you must lie down a bit. Come, come, you'll make yourself quiteill."

  Betty's head is aching so badly now that she can scarcely think.Presently, lying on her bed, she grows calmer.

  What a dreadful failure she has made of it all! She has fought andstruggled all the week, only to meet defeat at the end. What wouldGrannie say? How rudely she spoke to mother just now--Grannie wouldn'tapprove of that.

  "But I couldn't help it, and I can't do anything to make things better,or the house nicer. The harder I try, the worse it all gets. I don't seeany way out of it at all, but earning my own living, and letting themall go on as they like. I wonder what Grannie would say to such a plan?Well, I can't ask her, she's too far away; and, Oh, dear, dear, she'sforgotten my birthday!"

  Worn out with crying and pain, presently Betty falls asleep.

  When she has slept for about an hour, a loud "rat-tat" at the streetdoor awakens her. She jumps up. The postman! Of course, she hadforgotten the twelve o'clock post. She flies downstairs, still dizzywith sleep. Mother and Clara have not heard the knock, they are busy inthe kitchen.

  A letter and a parcel. Betty almost snatches them from the postman'shands, and scans them eagerly.

  Yes, it is Grannie's well-known hand-writing. How could she think dearGrannie would forget her!

  Betty hurries upstairs with her treasures. "A book--Grannie has sent mea book--that's just like Grannie; she knows I like reading better thananything."

  She strips off the brown paper with eager fingers. The book looks quitedelightful; it is prettily bound, and nicely illustrated. Betty turnsover the leaves rapidly, and her eyes fall on a picture that attractsher attention directly.

  By the open door of a rose-clad cottage stands a little maiden. Shewears the quaint close cap and quilted petticoat of the olden time, andis eagerly looking at something which the dear old dame in front of herholds tightly clasped beneath the fingers of her right hand.

  Somehow, the cottage reminds Betty of Grannie's cottage. The old dameis certainly rather like Grannie, and the girl is, Oh, just about herown age!

  Did Grannie send the book because she also saw the resemblance?

  "I must find out," thinks Betty. "Mother doesn't want me--she saidso--and my head still aches."

  So she lies down again, and begins to read, "The Talking-Bird: AWonder-Tale."

  "It's a real lovely story; I can see that. I was rather afraid that abook from Grannie might be rather dry--she's so _very_ good."

  Poor Betty! She has a great deal to learn yet, that is evident. Reallygood people are not dull; books that are good and true can certainlynever be "dry." Betty wants to be good, she wants to walk in the NarrowWay, and follow her Saviour faithfully; but it all seems such uphillwork; doing one's duty is such a tiresome, wearisome business; trying tobe good is such a dull, uninteresting affair.

  Her heart is still cold, you see; the fire of the Holy Spirit has notyet warmed it into loving life.

  So Betty begins to read. The rose-clad cottage looks sweet enough, butBetty soon finds that there is very little sweetness in the maiden'slife. Poor Gerda's lot is a hard one. She is always at work. She mustspin, and bake, and milk cows; yet her stepmother never seems pleasedwith her.

  Gerda's two brothers are out all day cutting wood in the great pineforests, but though she knits them warm stockings, and tries her best tocook them nice suppers, they never give her a smile, or a kiss, or aloving word. And Gerda says to herself:--

  "It does not matter how I work, or what I do, I can never please anybodyat all."

  Betty pauses a moment. "How very like _my_ experience!" she thinks. "Ofcourse, I have to do different work--mend horrid stockings for Bobinstead of knitting them, and sweep and dust instead of spinning; butthe effect of it all is just the same, and Bob is exactly like that. Ido all I can to please him. I always ma
ke the porridge myself, becausehe says it's 'lumpy' when Clara does it, but never a word of thanks do Iget. Why, he couldn't even trouble to remember that to-day is mybirthday, and I saved up for weeks and weeks to buy _him_ a nice presenton his birthday! It's too bad!"

  "Before Gerda's father married again," Betty reads on, "she had beenallowed to manage the house as she pleased" ("I wish I was"), "but noweverything is changed. Gerda loved to rise with the sun, and scour thekitchen floor with white sand before breakfast, and polish all the brasspans until they shone like gold" ("I don't sand floors or polish pans,but that's just how I feel about getting my work done early"), "but herstepmother liked hot cakes for breakfast, and as she would not riseearly enough to bake them herself, Gerda had to leave her work and cookcakes instead; and because no one seemed to care for her, or notice howhard she had to work, she grew more discontented, and fretful, andunhappy every day; and meantime all around her became more difficult andsad."

  "Oh, dear, that's exactly like me!" sighs Betty.

  Then she goes on to read how a strange little old woman, in a big redcloak, came to the cottage door one day. Her eyes were blue as the sky,and she carried a flat basket slung over one arm.

  "Gerda thought she had come to sell ribbons and pins, and turned to shutthe door; but the old dame stopped her smilingly. 'I have come to_give_, and not to sell,' she said.

  "'You have been fretting, my child, and it's troubled you are, and soreand bitter you are feeling against those who fret you. Eh, my dear, I'llsoon better that!' and her blue eyes seemed to dance with the knowledgeof some happy secret.

  "But Gerda stood quite dumb with amazement.

  "Then the old dame raised her folded hand towards Gerda, and unclaspedit a little.

  "'Oh, how sweet!' she cried. There, in the old woman's hand, nestled atiny bird. Its feathers were red as the heart of a rose, and its eyesshone like diamonds.

  "'It is for you. My bird will stay with you as long as you need him, andsmooth all the fret of your life away.'

  "Gerda stretched out eager hands towards the beautiful bird. 'Oh,' shecried, 'if that could only come true!'

  "'Oh, how sweet!' she cried."]

  "'It will come true, my child, if you do as I bid you. You must allow mybird to perch on your shoulder, and be with you wherever you go. He is atalking bird, and whenever you are tempted to give an angry answer, orspeak a bitter word'--Gerda hung her head; alas! she knew that thiswould be very often--'you must let the bird speak for you. Only do this,and in a few months you will be the happiest girl in the world.'

  "'But what will people say?' stammered Gerda, quite bewildered.

  "'Directly my bird touches your shoulder he will become invisible; _you_will feel him, but no one will see him; and when he speaks, his voicewill be so like yours that no one can tell the difference. Your part isto keep down the angry words that rise to your lips. My sweet bird willdo the rest,' and she kissed the bird's bright eyes, and placed himgently on Gerda's shoulder, and, behold! though she could feel the lightfluttering of feathers against her cheek, she could see nothing."

  "What can be the meaning of this--what is the bird going to do?" thinksBetty, as she hastily turns the page.

  Betty has quite forgotten her headache, and reads on:--

  "Just at that moment, Gerda saw her little pet kid jump quite over thewall of the yard where her father's fiercest watch-dog was chained. 'Oh,it will be killed!' she cried, and ran swiftly to the rescue. But whenshe returned with the kid in her arms, the old woman had gone. 'And Inever thanked her! You tiresome creature--it was all your fault!'

  "That is what she began to say as she lifted her hand to beat the poorlittle kid, but at the same instant she felt the invisible birdfluttering at her cheek again, and, lo and behold! a voice--a voiceexactly like her own, only much sweeter--struck in ere she could finishthe sentence: 'Poor little kid, you knew no better, and I am sure theold woman will understand I did not mean to be ungrateful--she had suchkind, wise eyes.'

  "Certainly the words were much wiser than those she meant to useherself."

  That is only the beginning. The story goes on to tell how Gerda's lifeis altered altogether through the gentle, loving words spoken by thebird in her stead; how her brothers grow to love her, and are never sohappy as when they can give her pleasure, bringing her home all sorts oftreasures at the end of their day's work. Lilies from the valley, wildstrawberries from the hill, honey from the woodbee's nest; how herstepmother becomes kind and thoughtful, and her father calls her thesunshine of the home--and all this because the old dame gave her thatwonderful speaking-bird!

  Betty reads to the end, and closes the book with a sigh.

  "What a pity such things can't be true! Now, if _I_ had a lovelyrose-coloured bird who would perch on my shoulder, and always sayexactly the right thing in my place when I felt cross, or stupid, howdifferent everything would be!

  "Dear me, what nonsense I am talking! It's just a pretty child'sstory--that is all--and I can't imagine why Grannie sent it to me. Ihaven't read her letter yet. Dear old Grannie--_she_ didn't forget mybirthday. It was unkind of the others; just too bad, after all I'vedone. Well, I'll see how they like it themselves. I certainly shan'tworry much about presents for other people's birthdays, if they won'teven take the trouble to remember mine!"

  Betty rises, and, taking Grannie's letter to the window, begins to read.

  What love there is in the very first words--what a warm birthdaygreeting! Betty's eyes grow misty as she reads, and she holds the pageto her lips for a moment.

  "Grannie _really_ loves me," she murmurs.

  "It is a long letter. Ah, here is something about the book! Dear me,what can Grannie mean?"

  "'Has my Betty guessed the _name_ of Gerda's speaking-bird yet? Has shediscovered the secret of the happiness that came to the little maiden ofthe story?' ("No, indeed; how could I?") 'Does Gerda's story fit my dearBetty's own case?' ("Part of it does, of course.") 'Yes, for my Bettyhas troubles and trials; my Betty is tempted to think her own life isvery hard and dull; is tempted to give up trying; is perhaps thinking ofgetting rid of the worry and fret by turning away from it all, and goingout to work for herself?' ("Now, how could Grannie have found that out?I'm sure _I_ never said a word about being a typist while I was withher!")

  "'The bird's name was _Love_, Betty. The wonderful change in Gerda'slife was brought about by pure, unselfish love.

  "'In all this world there is no force so strong as love, Betty--truelove; the love that suffereth long and is kind; love that seeketh nother own, is not easily provoked; love that beareth all things, believethall things, hopeth all things, endureth all things; the love that ourLord Jesus Christ gives to all those who truly love and follow Him.'"

  Love! Betty looks rather blank. Does Grannie mean that she isn't lovingpeople enough?

  "'The little maiden in the story had been troubled and discontented, butafter she listened to the voice of the Spirit of Love, and let it speakfor her, all her trials vanished away. The story of Gerda's Bird is onlya pretty tale, but, Betty, you are one of God's soldiers now, and theSpirit of Love has come to abide with you; to dwell in your heart, andspeak to your soul. The Holy Spirit, dear, the Heavenly Dove; the Lord'sbest gift to you.

  "'Listen to it, Betty; let its voice speak for you. When sharp, unlovingwords rise to your lips, keep them fast closed until the Love within youcan make itself heard.

  "'You want a happy home, my child; you long for the love of all thosearound you, but it is only by bringing the Lord into all your thoughtsabout your home, that it can be really happy--only by loving others verymuch that you can win true love in return.'"

  For a long time Betty stands by the window, thinking, thinking as shehas never done before.

  "Is that _really_ the way out of it? Can love, and keeping one's temper,make all that difference? Of course, I know that Bob would like mebetter if I didn't scold when he is rough and careless; and I'm suremother would rather I didn't worry her about the house being so
untidyand badly managed. But then, if I _don't_ scold and worry, how can I getthings into proper order?"

  Suddenly a bright thought, like a ray of pure light, darts into hermind--"Does Grannie mean me to work just as hard to make things nicer,but in a different way? To love everybody so much that I don't get crosswhen they seem careless and unreasonable?

  "Oh, have I been thinking too much of myself--of my own plans? Oh, dearLord, help me, help me to seek the good of others, help me to sufferlong and be kind; not to be easily provoked; help me to feel that myhome and all within it are precious gifts from Thee!"