Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  In consequence of the first bad night he had ever known, Harry did not awake till a much later hour than usual; and, on descending the narrow stairs of his father’s cottage, he found two of his schoolfellows waiting for him. After observing that he was an idle fellow, they told him there was holiday at school, and they were come to ask him to take a ramble with them.

  Before answering them, Harry, turning to a good old woman, who lived with them both as friend and servant, said, “Pray, Alice, where is my mother?”

  “Poor soul! she be gone all the way to the market-town with the shirts she have made, and she have taken the yarn, too, as I spun, to the weaver. A heavy load she carries, I promise ye.”

  “My father is out in the fields?”

  “He’s been digging a ditch to drain the buttercup meadow these four hours. Little Jane be gone to take him bread and cheese.”

  “I thank you for calling,” said Harry to the boys, “but I cannot go with you.”

  “We will wait whilst you eat your breakfast,” answered they.

  “That will be a long time; for though it stands there, I will not touch it till I have weeded that carrot-bed quite clean.”

  With an air of resolution, Harry walked out of the cottage, and began to weed at a great rate, and with the look of one who knew that his employment was useful. In a little time, each of the boys, finding looking on to be a very dull pastime, began to weed two flower-beds that ran in parallel lines; and by the time that Harry was ready to eat his breakfast, they were each boasting what a great heap of weeds they had collected.

  “I am much obliged to you,” said he; “I will now carry the weeds away, and sweep the walks clean, and water the flowers, and — —”

  “Oh! but that will never do; we wanted you to enjoy the holiday.”

  “Why, so I do. I enjoy getting all this work done exceedingly well: I don’t think I ever had such a good holiday before.”

  The boys thought Harry’s head was turned; they said that “he was never so comical before,” and left him by no means in good humour; but Harry forgot all their remarks in his pleasure at what was done, when his father came home, and was so gratified with the appearance of his little garden, that he could scarcely eat his dinner for looking at it through the window. At length he said, “I did intend mending the pig-sty this afternoon, for it has long wanted it; but I think I will give myself a bit of a holiday, and go and meet my wife, that I may tell her what a nice place Harry has made of the garden.”

  “And I hopes, Maister Gibson, that you’ll go by all manner o’ means; and when ye’ve met her, take her for a long rest an’ a hearty welcome to Farmer Todd’s,” said old Alice.

  Harry was glad when his father set out, as he was determined now to fall to work to repair the pig-sty; and as little Jane was delighted to help him, and old Alice to instruct him, this work also went merrily on, though it was much more laborious than weeding, and much more disagreeable, for obvious reasons.

  Whilst he was thus employed, the two schoolfellows again came to Harry, saying, “Well, are you now ready to go to play?”

  “Play! no, good truth, I cannot play if I would, I am so tired.”

  “You cannot be more tired than I am,” said one.

  “Nor so much as I,” said the other.

  “You have had a great deal of pleasure, then, I suppose?”

  “I don’t think,” answered the elder, “that we have had any at all since we were weeding with you and expecting you to go with us, for then the time passed quickly. I should not much mind helping you now, for a bit of a change.”

  “No, no,” said Harry; “such work as this won’t do for good clothes like yours; besides, I have a fancy to finish it myself. Next week I’ll join you at cricket sometimes; but I am determined not to give all my time to play, as I used to do, seeing I am beginning to be good for something, and ought to help my father and mother.”

  The boys bade him good-bye, and moved off as if exceedingly fatigued, and in a short time he was obliged to desist, from extreme weariness, which affected him so much, that, notwithstanding old Alice’s admiration of his handywork, and her assurance that “the pig would sleep as nicely as a king in a castle,” he fell fast asleep the moment after he had sat down in his father’s arm-chair.

  Harry was awakened by the warm kiss of his mother and the proud congratulations of his father; but the former could not forbear expressing her fears that he had overdone himself, saying, “You should have taken labour more easy to begin with, because you were totally unused to it.”

  “More’s the pity, and more’s the shame, mother: but I hope you will never have to say that again; for I am so happy now, that I think I shall go on to earn more happiness, if I get nothing else by it; and as to my being tired, don’t think of that, for I have been as bad many a time with doing nothing. If to-morrow had not been Sunday, I would have mended the jackdaw’s cage before breakfast.”

  “I can now believe that assurance, Harry; for I see you are sensible of the value of your exertions, and in proving by deeds that you love your parents. Come and take your supper with us, my dear: we are, like yourself, weary and hungry; but sincerely can we thank God for the comforts which our toil has procured, and for the change in our son, which, if he persevere in his present sentiments, must make us indeed a Contented Family.”

  THE TWO MAGPIES. A TRUE STORY.

  BY MISS MITFORD.

  “Come along, girls! Helen! Caroline! I say, don’t stand jabbering there upon the stairs, but come down this instant, or Dash and I will be off without you.”

  This elegant speech was shouted from the bottom of the great staircase at Dinely-Hall, by young George Dinely, an Etonian of eleven years old, just come home for the holidays, to his two younger sisters, who stood disputing very ardently in French at the top. The cause of contention was, to say the truth, no greater an object than the colour of a work-bag, which they were about to make for their mamma: slate lined with pink, being the choice of Miss Caroline, whilst Miss Helen preferred drab with a blue lining.

  “Don’t stand quarrelling there about the colour of your trumpery,” added George, “but come along!”

  Now George would have scorned to know a syllable of any language except Latin and Greek, but neither of the young ladies being Frenchwomen enough to construe the appellation of the leading article, the words “drab” and “slate,” which came forth in native English pretty frequently, as well as the silk dangling in their hands, had enlightened him as to the matter in dispute.

  George was a true schoolboy, rough and kind; affecting perhaps more roughness than naturally belonged to him, from a mistaken notion that it made him look bold, and English, and manly. There cannot be a greater mistake, since the bolder men are the gentler. For the rest, he loved his sisters, which was very right; and loved to teaze them, which was very wrong; and now he and his dog Dash, both wild with spirits and with happiness, were waiting most impatiently to go down to the village on a visit to old Nurse Simmons, and her magpie.

  Nurse Simmons was a very good and very cross old woman, who after ruling in the nursery of Dinely-Hall for two generations, scolding and spoiling Sir Edward and his brothers, and performing thirty years afterwards the same good office for master George and his sisters, had lately abdicated her throne on the arrival of a French governess, and was soon comfortably settled at a cottage of her own, in the village street.

  George Dinely and Dash had already that morning visited George’s own pony, and his father’s brood mares, the garden, the pheasantry, the greenhouses, and the farmyard; had seen a brood of curious bantams, two litters of pigs, and a family of greyhound puppies, and had now few friends, old or new, to visit, except Nurse Simmons, her cottage, and her magpie; a bird of such accomplishments that his sisters had even made it the subject of a letter to Eton. The magpie might perhaps claim an equal share with his mistress in George’s impatience, and Dash, always eager to get out of doors, seemed nearly as fidgetty as his young master.<
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  Dash was as beautiful a dog as eyes could be set on; one of the large old English Spaniels which are now so rare, with a superb head, like those which you see in Spanish pictures, and such ears! they more than met over his pretty spotted nose; and when he lapped his milk, dipped into the pan at last two inches. His hair was long and shiny and wavy, not curly, partly of a rich dark liver colour, partly of a silvery white, and beautifully feathered about the thighs and legs. He was extremely lively and intelligent, and had a sort of circular motion, a way of flinging himself quite round on his hind feet, something after the fashion in which the French dancers twist themselves round on one leg, which not only showed unusual agility in a dog of his size, but gave token of the same spirit and animation which sparkled in his bright hazel eye. Anything of eagerness or impatience was sure to excite this motion, and George Dinely gravely assured his sisters, when they at length joined him in the hall, that Dash had flung himself round six and twenty times whilst waiting the conclusion of their quarrel.

  Getting into the lawn and the open air did not tend to diminish Dash’s glee or his capers, and the young party walked merrily on; George telling of school pranks and school misfortunes — the having lost or spoilt four hats since Easter, seemed rather to belong to the first class of adventures than the second, — his sisters listening dutifully and wonderingly; and Dash, following his own devices, now turning up a mouse’s nest from a water furrow in the park — now springing a covey of young partridges in a corn field — now plunging his whole hairy person in the brook; and now splashing Miss Helen from head to foot, by ungallantly jumping over her whilst crossing a stile, being thereunto prompted by a whistle from his young master, who had, with equal want of gallantry, leapt the stile first himself, and left his sisters to get over as they could; until at last the whole party, having passed the stile, and crossed the bridge, and turned the church-yard corner, found themselves in the shady recesses of the vicarage-lane, and in full view of the vine-covered cottage of Nurse Simmons.

  As they advanced they heard a prodigious chattering and jabbering, and soon got near enough to ascertain that the sound proceeded mainly from one of the parties they were come to visit — Nurse Simmons’s magpie. He was perched in the middle of the road, defending a long dirty bare bone of mutton, doubtless his property, on one end of which he stood, whilst the other extremity was occupied by a wild bird of the same species, who, between pecking at the bone and fighting and scolding, found full employment. The wild magpie was a beautiful creature, as wild magpies are, of a snowy white and a fine blue black, perfect in shape and plumage, and so superior in appearance to the tame bird, ragged, draggled, and dirty, that they hardly seemed of the same kind. Both were chattering away most furiously; the one in his natural and unintelligible gibberish, the other partly in his native tongue, and partly in that for his skill in which he was so eminent, — thus turning his accomplishments to an unexpected account, and larding his own lean speech with divers foreign garnishes, such as “What’s o’clock?” and “How d’ye do?” and, “Very well I thank you,” and “Poor pretty Mag!” and “Mag’s a good bird,” all delivered in the most vehement accent, and all doubtless understood by the unlearned adversary as terms of reproach.

  “What can those two magpies be quarrelling about?” said Caroline, as soon as she could speak for laughing, for, on the children’s approach the birds had abandoned the mutton bone, which had been quietly borne away by Dash, who was lying in great state on a mossy bank, discussing and enjoying the stolen morsel.

  “I wish I knew what they were saying,” pursued Caroline, as the squabble grew every moment more angry and less intelligible.

  “Doubtless they are disputing about colours,” quoth George.

  “What an odd noise it is!” continued Caroline; “I never heard any thing like it;” avoiding her brother’s compliment.

  “I have;” said George drily.

  “I wonder whether they understand each other?” ejaculated Miss Helen, following her sister’s example, and taking no notice of the provoking George; “they really do seem to comprehend.”

  “As well as other magpies,” observed the young gentleman. “Why should they not?”

  “But what strange gibberish!” added poor Helen.

  “Gibberish, Miss Helen! Don’t you hear that the magpies are spattering magpie French, sprinkled with a little magpie English? I was just going to ask you to explain it to me,” replied the unmerciful George. “It is quite a parody upon your work-bag squabble,” pursued their tormentor; “only that the birds are the wiser, for I see they are parting — the wild one flying away, the tame gentleman hopping towards us. Quite the scene of the work-bag over again,” continued George, “only with less noise and much shortened — a modern abridgment! Really, young ladies, the magpies have the best of it,” said the Etonian, and off he stalked into Nurse Simmons’s cottage.

  PREPARATION FOR THE RACES; OR, MORE HASTE THAN GOOD SPEED.

  BY MRS. HOFLAND.

  Every boy in the country knows that Doncaster races are the gayest scene imaginable — that the number of horses entered to run, the jockeys in satin jackets who ride them, the fine ladies on the grand stand, the splendid carriages of the nobility, and the immense crowd of spectators, offer altogether a scene of the utmost hilarity, which must be enjoyed, more or less, by all who witness it.

  No wonder, therefore, that, when Mr. Morrison (a gentleman farmer near Bawtry) said to his wife, one morning in the race-week, “My dear, you shall go to Doncaster, and take the children to-day;” three little boys became all extremely eager to hear the answer of mamma, and to assure her, that though their father would not be present, they would all conduct themselves most satisfactorily.

  Every mother is expert in reading the wishes of her children, and Mrs. Morrison was alike a tender and intelligent mother, yet she did not reply immediately; her husband, therefore, continued speaking. “The two little boys may ride Dapple alternately, with a place in the gig. George may ride old Gray, which will carry him pleasantly if not pressed too much. You are so good a driver, and Captain knows his business so well, that I shall have no uneasiness about you. I regret that I cannot go with you, but George must be my representative, and attend you.” “I should like to give the children a treat,” said Mrs. Morrison, “therefore I will go, though I have no taste for races myself. I know that William and Richard will do as I bid them, and keep close to me; but my hesitation in complying with your proposal arose from thinking of George. He is always in such a hurry on every occasion, that I have many fears about him, I confess.”

  “Fears for me! dear mother; how can you fear for me? I can ride as well as father! I can do — —” “George,” said Mr. Morrison gravely, “a boy brought up as you have been, hardily, and suitably for your condition in life, can certainly do what is necessary on this occasion — you can assist your mother to find a station on the course, and guard your brothers, as they ride, from those surprises and dangers almost inseparable from a scene of so much tumult as you must encounter. Now, the question is not, Can you, but will you, do these things?”

  “To be sure I will, dear father; I will do every thing my mother can possibly desire.”

  “We will try you on the strength of this assurance.”

  Away bounded all the boys towards the stable, where the younger flew to the donkey; whilst George, perceiving Giles, the farmer boy, mounted on old Gray, eagerly seized him, and desired him to dismount that moment and saddle the horse for his use.

  “But I be taking him to the pond, Maister Georgy.”

  “But I tell you I am going to Doncaster races, and will have him this moment — there will be Lord Fitzwilliam in three carriages, and the Duke of Devonshire in ever so many, and — —”

  “More pity for they to be cut in pieces a that how,” said Giles, drily.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, but saddle old Gray directly; for there will be seventeen horses to-day running for the gold cup, and the jockeys will be a
ll in different colours, and there will be music, and shows, and every thing else, I tell you.” “Well, Maister Georgy, but all the grand sights in the world won’t make old Gray over and above agreeable if he ben’t to have his water, and his corn, quite reg’lar. I guess he won’t look as you’d like ‘un to look, nor carry you as you’d choose to be carried. So let alone pullin’ at his head, an’ trust me for getting him into proper order for his journey.”

  As Giles was a lad of good disposition and knew his duty, George for the present returned to the house, where it was necessary he also should make preparations for the races. He was, however, a very short time in dressing, and before old Gray had half eaten his corn, or Giles half groomed him, the impatient boy hurried him out, mounted, and, riding to the door, began hallooing that he was quite tired of waiting.

  “But the gig is not ready, nor the donkey saddled, nor mamma dressed,” said William.

  George fidgetted about three times as long as would have fed his horse, before Mrs. Morrison was ready, although she was by no means long, and knew perfectly well the time it would take to accomplish her journey and secure its object. The moment she entered the gig, George considered himself at liberty, and, instead of riding beside the vehicle, and seeing how little Richard managed his donkey, which was accustomed to trot beside his friend the old grey horse, away went the eldest hope of the family as fast as his old servant could carry him.