“Ah, well,” said Dame Burdock, “you’ll see. It’s a pretty thing if a young chit just out from seed this year should be impertinent to me, who have seen twenty winters, — yes, and been through them well, too!”
“Tell me, Bobolink,” said Daisy, “is there any truth in what this horrid Burdock has been saying? What does she mean by winter?”
“I don’t know, — not I,” said Bobolink, as he turned a dozen somersets in the air, and then perched himself airily on a thistle-head, singing, —
“I don’t know, and I don’t care;
It’s mighty pleasant to fly up there,
And it’s mighty pleasant to light down here,
And all I know is chip, chip, cheer.”
“Say, Humming-bird, do you know anything about winter?”
“Winter? I never saw one,” said Humming-bird; “we have wings, and follow summer round the world, and where she is, there go we.”
“Meadow-Lark, Meadow-Lark, have you ever heard of winter?” said Daisy.
Meadow-Lark was sure he never remembered one. “What is winter?” he said, looking confused.
“Butterfly, Butterfly,” said Daisy, “come, tell me, will there be winter, and what is winter?”
But the Butterfly laughed, and danced up and down, and said, “What is Daisy talking about? I never heard of winter. Winter? ha! ha! What is it?”
“Then it’s only one of Burdock’s spiteful sayings,” said Daisy. “Just because she isn’t pretty, she wants to spoil my pleasure too. Say, dear lovely tree that shades me so sweetly, is there such a thing as winter?”
And the tree said, with a sigh through its leaves, “Yes, daughter, there will be winter; but fear not, for the Good Shepherd makes both summer and winter, and each is good in its time. Enjoy thy summer and fear not.”
The months rolled by. The violets had long ago stopped blooming, their leaves were turning yellow, but they had beautiful green seed-caskets, full of rows of little pearls, which next year should come up in blue violets. The dogtoothed violet and the eye-bright had gone under ground, so that no more was seen of them, and Daisy wondered whither they could be gone. But she had new acquaintances far more brilliant, and she forgot the others. The brook-side seemed all on fire with golden-rod, and the bright yellow was relieved by the rich purple tints of the asters, while the blue fringed gentian held up its cups, that seemed as if they might have been cut out of the sky, — and still Daisy had abundance of leaves and blossoms, and felt strong and well at the root. Then the apple-tree cast down to the ground its fragrant burden of golden apples, and men came and carried them away.
By and by there came keen, cutting winds, and driving storms of sleet and hail; and then at night it would be so cold, so cold! and one after another the leaves and flowers fell stiff and frozen, and grew black, and turned to decay. The leaves loosened and fell from the apple-tree, and sailed away by thousands down the brook; the butterflies lay dead with the flowers, but all the birds had gone singing away to the sunny south, following the summer into other lands.
“Tell me, dear tree,” said Daisy, “is this winter that is coming?”
“It is winter, darling,” said the tree; “but fear not. The Good Shepherd makes winter as well as summer.”
“I still hold my blossoms,” said Daisy, — for Daisy was a hardy little thing.
But the frosts came harder and harder every night, and first they froze her blossoms, and then they froze her leaves, and finally all, all were gone, — there was nothing left but the poor little root, with the folded leaves of the future held in its bosom.
“Ah, dear tree!” said Daisy, “is not this dreadful?”
“Be patient, darling,” said the tree. “I have seen many, many winters; but the Good Shepherd loses never a seed, never a root, never a flower: they will all come again.”
By and by came colder days and colder, and the brook froze to its little heart and stopped; and then there came bitter, driving storms, and the snow lay wreathed over Daisy’s head; but still from the bare branches of the apple-tree came a voice of cheer. “Courage, darling, and patience! Not a flower shall be lost, winter is only for a season.”
“It is so dreary!” murmured Daisy, deep in her bosom.
“It will be short: the spring will come again,” said the tree.
And at last the spring did come; and the snow melted and ran away down the brook, and the sun shone out warm, and fresh green leaves jumped and sprang out of every dry twig of the apple-tree. And one bright, rejoicing day, little Daisy opened her eyes, and lo! there were all her friends once more; — there were the eye-brights and the violets and the anemones and the liverwort, — only ever so many more of them than there were last year, because each little pearl of a seed had been nursed and moistened by the snows of winter, and had come up as a little plant to have its own flowers. The birds all came back, and began building their nests, and everything was brighter and fairer than before; and Daisy felt strong at heart, because she had been through a winter, and learned not to fear it. She looked up into the apple-tree. “Will there be more winters, dear tree?” she said.
“Darling, there will; but fear not. Enjoy the present hour, and leave future winters to Him who makes them. Thou hast come through these sad hours, because the Shepherd remembered thee He loseth never a flower out of his pasture, but calleth them all by name: and the snow will never drive so cold, or the wind beat so hard, as to hurt one of his flowers. And look! of all the flowers of last year, what one is melted away in the snow, or forgotten in the number of green things? Every blade of grass is counted, and puts up its little head in the right time; so never fear, Daisy, for thou shalt blossom stronger and brighter for the winter.”
“But why must there be winter?” said Daisy.
“I never ask why,” said the tree. “My business is to blossom and bear apples. Summer comes, and I am joyful; winter comes, and I am patient. But, darling, there is another garden where thou and I shall be transplanted (me day, where there shall be winter no more. There is coming a new earth; and not one flower or leaf of these green pastures shall be wanting there, but come as surely as last year’s flowers come back this spring!” bear and suffer whatever He thought best, how miserable he would be now!”
“He would be very fretful, I suppose,” said Edward; “I’m afraid I should be.”
University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.
“Yes,” said his father; “but now, when he has learned to give up entirely to the will of his heavenly Father, see how he seems to enjoy his flowers, and his hymn-book, and his few little playthings. He enjoys them more than James Robertson enjoys all his elegant things. Now, my dear boys, remember this: The way to be happy is to have a right heart, and not to have everything given to us that we want.”
LITTLE PUSSY WILLOW AND THE MINISTER’S WATERMELONS
CONTENTS
LITTLE PUSSY WILLOW
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
THE MINISTER’S WATERMELONS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
LITTLE PUSSY WILLOW
TO
MARY, EMILY, NELLIE, AND CHARLOTTE, AND ALL MY LITTLE GIRL FRIENDS.
Here is PUSSY WILLOW in a book, just as I have promised you she should be. I send her to you as a Christmas and New Year’s present, and I hope that yon will all grow up to be nice good girls like her, with bright, healthy faces, and cheerful hearts, and the gift of always seeing
The Bright Side of Everything
Your loving friend,
H. B.
STOWE.
CHAPTER I.
IN a retired town of New England was a certain little green hollow among high hills; and in this little hollow stood an old brown farm-house. It was built two stories high in front, but the roof sloped a long way down behind, till it came so near the ground that any one of you might have jumped off from it without frightening the most anxious mamma.
As I have said, this house stood in a little hollow formed by ever so many high hills, which rose around it much as waves rise around a little boat in stormy weather; they looked, in fact, like green waves that had been suddenly stopped and hardened into mountains and hills. Upon their sides grew forests of pines, besides chestnut, hickory, ash, and maple-trees, which gave them a charming variety through most of the months of the year. The rocks, too, in many places were perfectly veiled and covered with the bright, glossy green leaves of the rose-laurel, while underneath the crevices were full of fern, saxifrage, rock-columbine, and all sorts of lovely things, which were most charming to explore, if one had energy enough to hunt them up.
The house had no yard round it, but stood on a smooth green turfy knoll, and was shaded by a great elm-tree, whose long branches arched over, and seemed like a broad, leafy sky. In summer this was pleasant enough, for the morning sun sent straight arrows of gold hither and thither between the boughs and branches, and carried some of the greenness as they went into the chambers of the old house, and at night the moon and stars winked and twinkled, and made a thousand pretty plays of light and shadow as they sent their rays dancing over, under, and through the elm-boughs to the little brown house.
It was somewhere about the first of March, I believe, when there was quite a stir in the ground-floor bedroom of this little brown house, because a very small young lady had just made her appearance in this world, who was the first daughter that had ever been given to John and Martha Primrose; and, of course, her coming was a great event. Four of the most respectable old matrons in the vicinity were solemnly taking tea and quince preserves in Martha’s bedroom, in honor of the great event which had just transpired, while a little bundle of flannel was carefully trotted and tended in the lap of the oldest of them, who every now and then opened the folds and peered in through her spectacles at a very red, sleepy little face that lay inside.
“Well,” said Dame Toothacre, the eldest, “did I ever know such a spell of warm weather as we had the last fortnight?”
“Yes,” said Ma’am Trowbridge, “ it has fairly started the buds. Look, that pussy willow by the window is quite out.”
“My Mary says she has seen a liverwort blossom,” said Dame Toothacre; “and I’ve heard bluebirds these two weeks, — it’s a most uncommon season.”
“If the warm weather holds on, Martha will have a good getting-up,” said Dame Johnson. “She’s got as plump and likely a little girl as I should want to see.”
And so, after a time, night settled down in the bedroom, and one after another of the good old gossips went home, and the little bundle of flannel was tucked warmly into bed, and Nurse Toothacre was snoring loudly on a cot-bed in the comer, and the moon streamed through the willow-bush by the window, and marked the shadow of all the little pussy buds on it clearly on the white, clean floor, — when something happened that nobody must know of but you and me, dear little folks; and what it was I shall relate.
There came in on the moonbeams a stream of fairy folk and wood spirits, to see what they could do for the new baby. You must know that everything that grows has its spirit, and these spirits not only attend on their own plants, but now and then do a good turn for mortals, — as, when plants have good and healing properties, they come to us by the ministry of these plant spirits.
In the winter, when the plant seems dead, these spirits dwell dormant under ground; but the warm suns of spring thaw them, and renew their strength, and out they come happy and strong as ever. Now it was so early in March, that, if there had not been a most uncommonly warm season for a week or two past, there would not have been a plant spirit stirring, and the new baby would have had to go without the gifts and graces which they bring. As it was, there came slipping down on the moonbeam, first, old Mother Fern, all rolled up in a woolen shawl, with a woolen hood on her head, but with a face brimful of benevolence towards the new baby. Little Mistress Liverwort came trembling after her; for it was scarcely warm enough yet to justify her putting on her spring clothes, and she did it only at the urgent solicitations of Bluebird, who had been besieging her doors for a fortnight. And, finally, there was Pussy Willow, who prudently kept on her furs, and moved so velvet-footed that nobody would even suspect she was there; but they undrew the curtains to get a look at the new baby.
“Bless its heart!” said Mother Fern, peering down at it through her glasses. “It’s as downy as any of us.”
“I should think it might be a young bluebird,” said Liverwort, looking down out of her gray hood; “it looks as much like one as anything. Come, what shall we give it? I’ll give it blue eyes, — real violet-blue, — and if that isn’t a good gift, I don’t know what is.”
“And I’ll give her some of my thrift and prudence,” said Mother Fern. “We Ferns have no blossoms to speak of, but we are a well-to-do family, as everybody knows, and can get our living on any soil where it pleases Heaven to put us; and so thrift shall be my gift for this little lady. Thrift will surely lead to riches and honor.”
“I will give her a better thing than that,” said Pussy Willow. “I grow under the windows here, and mean to adopt her. She shall be called little Pussy Willow, and I shall give her the gift of always seeing the bright side of everything. That gift will be more to her than beauty or riches or honors. It is not so much matter what color one’s eyes are as what one sees with them. There is a bright side to everything, if people only knew it, and the best eyes are those which are able always to see this best side.”
“I must say, Friend Pussy,” said Mother Fern, “that you are a most sensibly spoken bush, for a bush of your age. You always did seem to me to have a most remarkable faculty in that line; for I have remarked how you seize on the first ray of sunshine, and get your pussies out before any of us dare make a movement. Many a time I have said, ‘Well, I guess Miss Pussy Willow’ll find herself mistaken in the weather this year;’ but, taking one year with another, I think you have gained time by being always on hand, and believing in the pleasant weather.”
“Well,” said Pussy, “if I should hang back with my buds as our old Father Elm-tree does, I should miss a deal of pleasure, and people would miss a deal of pleasure from me. The children, dear souls! I’m always in a hurry to get out in the spring, because it pleases them. ‘O here’s Pussy Willow come back!’ they cry when they see me. ‘Now the winter is over!’ And no matter if there is a little dash of sleet or snow or frost after that, I stand it with a good heart, because I know it is summer that is coming, and not winter, and that things are certain to grow better, and not worse. I’m not handsome, I know; I’m not elegant; nobody thinks much of me; and my only good points are my cheerfulness and my faith in good things to come; so these are the gifts I bring to my little god-child.”
With that Pussy Willow stooped and rubbed her downy cheek over the little downy cheek of the baby, and the tiny face smiled in its sleep as if it knew that something good was being done for it. But just then Nurse Toothacre, who had been snoring very regularly for some time, gave such a loud and sudden snort that it waked her up, and she sat bolt upright in bed.
“Was that a dog barking?” she exclaimed. “I thought I heard a dog.”
Whisk! went all the little fairies up the ladder of moonshine; but Pussy Willow laughed softly as she softly patted her velvet tip against the window, and said, —
CHAPTER II
“Well!” said the old nurse, “who would ‘a’ thought that ‘ere baby would ‘a’ slept so? — None o’ your worry-cats, she ain’t.”
You will observe from this speech that good Nurse Toothacre had not had early advan
tages in forming her style of conversation; in consequence of which her manner of expressing herself was not a thing to be recommended as a model for you young folks. Well, now my dear young folks who have read the first chapter will agree that our baby has made a good beginning in life, and that the three fairies, Mother Fern, and the pretty Miss Hepatica, and Pussy Willow, have endowed her with rare gifts, such as beautiful blue eyes, a good healthy constitution, and the gift of seeing the bright side of everything.
This last gift was the greatest of all, as you will see if you think a little, because it is quite plain that it is not so much what people have that makes them happy, as what they think and feel about what they have. If one little girl has an old hat of her sister’s pressed over, and trimmed with some of her sister’s last year’s flowers, and likes it, and is delighted with it, she is really far better off than another little girl whose mother has bought for her three new hats trimmed each with different fine things, and none of which suit her, so that she declares she hasn’t a thing she can wear.
Little Pussy had great need to be gifted with this happy disposition, for she was not a rich man’s daughter. Her father was a hard-working fanner, who owed about five hundred dollars on his farm; and it was his object, working day and night, to save up money enough to pay for this farm. She had six older brothers, — great, strong, stamping boys; and her mother was a feeble, delicate woman, who had to do all the cooking, washing, ironing, making, and mending for all these men folk without any help from serrants, — so you may believe she had small time to coddle and pet her baby. In fact, before Little Pussy Willow was four weeks old, she was lying in an old basket tied into a straw-bottomed rocking-chair, in the kitchen where her mother was busy about her work; and all day long there she lay, with her thumb in her mouth, and her great, round blue eyes contentedly staring at the kitchen ceiling. Once in two or three hours her mother would take her up and nurse her a little, and pull her clothes down straight about her, and then Pussy would go off to sleep, and sleep an hour or two, and then wake up and stare at the kitchen ceiling as before, and sing and gurgle to herself in a quiet baby way, that was quite like the sound of the little brook behind the house.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 575
