When her father came home to his dinner, he would seize her in his great, strong, sun-browned hands, and toss her over his head, and her long-armed brothers would pass her from one to another, like a little shuttlecock, in a way that would have alarmed many another baby; but Pussy took it all with the utmost composure, and laughed and crowed all the more, the ruder her nursing grew.
“I say, wife, what shall we call her?” said Papa John; “she’s a perfect March blossom, — come just as the pussy willows were out.”
“Let’s call her Pussy Willow then,” said Sam, the oldest boy; and the rest laughed uproariously, and considered it a famous joke, — for when people work hard all day, and have a good digestion, it is not necessary that a thing should be very funny to make them laugh tremendously. In fine, whether the plant fairies secretly had a hand in it, or because Brother Sam was so fond of his conceit, the fact is that, though the baby was baptized in church by the name of Mary, she was ever afterwards called in the family “Pussy,” and “Pussy Willow.” Tom, the second boy, declared that her cheeks were soft and downy like the pussies, and when she was lying in her cradle, only two weeks old, he would sometimes tickle her cheeks with them to bring out that pretty baby smile which is as welcome on a little face as the first spring flower.
Pussy, having a tranquil mind and a good digestion, throve very fast. The old women of the neighborhood remarked that she began to “feel her feet” when she was only a month old, and if anybody gave her the least chance to show off this accomplishment, she would jump up and down till one’s arms were tired of holding her; but when her father or brother or mother was weary of this exercise, and laid her flat on her back in the cradle, Pussy did not make up a square mouth and begin to cry, as many ill-advised babies do, but put her thumb into her mouth, like a sensible little damsel, and Bet herself to seeing what could be found to amuse her on the top of the kitchen wall. There she saw the blue flies coursing up and down, stopping once in a while to brush themselves briskly with the little clothes-brushes which nature has put on the end of each of their legs, when suddenly they would sweep round and round in circles, and then come down and settle on Pussy’s face, and walk up and down over it, buzzing and talking with each other, first by her eyes, then by her nose, then over her forehead, as if the little face had been a flies’ pleasure-garden, laid out expressly for them to amuse themselves in.
Pussy took it all in good part, though sometimes she winked very hard, and even took her thumb out of her mouth to make some blind little passes with her white baby fists doubled up, which would send the flies buzzing and careering again; but never a cry did she utter.
“Of all the good babies that ever I did see,” said Nurse Toothacre, “I never see one ekil to this. Why, Marthy Primrose wouldn’t know she had a baby in the house, if she hadn’t the washin’ and dressin’ and nussin’ of her.”
By and by little Pussy learned to creep on all-fours, and then she made long voyages over the clean-scoured kitchen floor, and had most beautiful times, because she could open the low cupboard doors and pull out all the things, and pick holes in all the paper parcels, and pull over pails of water, and then paddle in the clear silver flood that coursed its way along the kitchen in little rivulets. One day she found a paper of indigo in the low closet, with which she very busily rubbed her hands and face and her apron and the floor, so that when her mother came in from hanging out clothes she did not know her own baby, but thought she was a little blue goblin, and had to take her to the wash-tub and put her in like a dirty dress to get her looking like herself again.
Now as Martha Primrose was celebrated as one of the nicest housekeepers in the country, of course she could not allow such proceedings; and as Pussy did not yet understand English, the only way she could keep her from them was to watch her and catch her away, when she saw her going about any piece of mischief. In consequence, Baby’s life was a perfect series of disappointments. It often seemed to her that she was stopped in everything she undertook to do. First, she would scuttle across the floor to the kitchen fireplace and fill both little hands with ashes and black coals, just to see what they were made of; and then there would be a loud outcry, and she would be made to throw them down, her apron would be shaken, and her hands washed, and the words, “No! no! naughty!” pronounced in very solemn tones over her. She would look up and laugh, and creep away, and bring up next by the dresser, where she would reach up for a pretty, nice dish of flour which she longed to pull over; and then the “No! no!” and “Naughty!” would sound again. Then Pussy would laugh again, and go into the back kitchen and begin paddling in a delightful pail of water, which was to her the dearest of all forbidden amusements, when suddenly she would be twitched up from behind, and “No! no! naughty baby!” once more sounded in her ear. Pussy heard this so much that it began to amuse her; and so, when her mother looked solemn and stem at her, she would shake her little head and look waggish, and try to imitate the “No! no I” as if it were something said for her diversion.
“You can’t put her out,” said Martha to her husband; “she’s the best little thing; but it is wonderful the mischief she does. She just goes from one thing to another all day long.”
The fact is, baby once got a pan of molasses pulled over on her head, and once fell, head first, into her mother’s wash-tub, which luckily had not at the time very hot water in it; and once she pulled the tap out of her mother’s cask of beer, and got herself pretty well blinded and soaked with the spurting liquid. But all these things did not disturb her serenity, and she took all the washings and dressings and scoldings that followed with such jolly good-humor that the usual amusement, when her father and brothers came home, was the recital of Pussy’s adventures for the day; and Pussy, sitting on her father’s knee and discovering herself to be the heroine of the story, would clap her hands and crow and laugh as loudly as any of them.
“She’s got more laugh in her than a whole circus,” said John Primrose. “I don’t want no theatre nor no opera when I can have her;” — and her brothers, who used to be gone whole evenings over at a neighboring tavern, gradually took to staying at home to have a romp with little Pussy. When the hay about the old house was mown, they had capital times, tumbling and rolling with Pussy in the sweet grass, and covering her up and letting her scratch out again, and toss the hay about in her little fat hands, enchanted to find that there was one thing that she could play with and not be called “Naughty baby!” or have “No! no!” called in her ear.
In my next chapter I will tell you all about what little Pussy had to play with, and what she did when she got older.
CHAPTER III
I CANNOT make my young folks understand just the value of the gift which fairies brought to Little Pussy Willow, unless I tell them about another little girl who did not have any such present, but had everything else.
Little Emily Proudie was born in a splendid house, with a white marble front, and a dozen marble steps leading up to the door. Before she was born there were all sorts of preparations to receive her, — whole drawers full of little dresses with worked waists, and of little caps trimmed with pink and blue rosettes, and cunning little sacks embroidered with silk and silver, and little bonnets, and little socks and little shoes, and sleeve-ties with coral clasps, and little silver and gold rattles, — in short, everything that all the rich aunts and uncles and cousins of a rich little baby could think of.
To be sure no plant-fairies came in at the window to look at her; but there were the fairies of the milliner’s shop, and the jeweler’s shop, and of all the shops and stores in New York, and they endowed the baby with no end of bright and beautiful things. She was to be handsome and rich, and always to have elegant clothes, and live in a palace, and have fine horses and carriages, and everything to eat and to drink that she could fancy, — and therefore everybody must think that this little girl would be happy.
But this one plain gift that the poor Little Fussy Willow brought was left out in all Emily’s treasure
s. No good fairy ever gave her the gift of liking everything she had, and seeing the bright side of everything. If she had only had this gift, she might have been as much happier than our Little Pussy Willow as she had more things to be happy with; but as she did not have it, she grew up, notwithstanding all her treasures, to be a fretful, discontented little girl.
At the time I am speaking of, these two little girls are each of them to be seen in very different circumstances. It is now the seventh birthday of Little Pussy Willow; and you might think, perhaps, that she was going to have a holiday, or some birthday presents, or a birthday party. But no, it is not so. Pussy’s mother is a poor hard-working woman, who never found any time to pet her children, though she loved them as much as any other mother. Besides, where she lived, nobody ever heard of such a thing as celebrating a child’s birthday. Pussy never had had a present made to her in all her little life. She never had had a plaything, except the bright yellow dandelions in spring, or the pussies of the willow-bush, or the cat-tails which her brothers sometimes brought home in their pockets; and to-day, though it is her birthday, Pussy is sitting in a little chair, learning to sew on some patchwork, while her mother is kneading up bread in the kitchen beside her. There is a yellow mug standing on the table, with some pussy-willow sprigs in it, which have blossomed out early this spring, and which her father broke off for her before he went to his work; and Pussy sits pulling her needle through the gay squares of calico, and giving it a push with the little yellow brass thimble. Sometimes she stops a minute to speak to the little pussies, and touch their downy heads to her cheek, and sometimes she puts up her little mouth to kiss her mother, who comes to her with her hands all covered with flour; and then she tugs away again most industriously with her needle, till the small square is finished, and she says, “May I get down and play now?” And mamma says, “Wait a moment till I get my hands out of the bread.” And mamma kneads and rolls the great white cushion in the bread-bowl, and turns it over and over, and rubs every bit and morsel of loose white flour into it, and kneads it smoothly in, and then, taking it up once more, throws it down in the bowl, a great, smooth, snowy hill of dough, in the middle of which she leaves one fist-print; and then she rubs her hands from the flour and paste, and washes them clean, and comes and takes up Pussy, and sets her down on the floor; and Pussy forthwith goes to a lower cupboard where are her treasures.
And what are they? They are the fragment of an old milk-pitcher, and the nose and handle of a tea-pot, and ever so many little bits of broken china, and one little old sleigh-bell which her grandfather gave her. There is a rag-doll made up on a clothes-pin, which Pussy every day washes, dresses, puts to bed, takes up, teaches to sew, and, in short, educates to the best of her little ability in the way in which she is herself being brought up. And there are several little strips of bright red and yellow calico which she prizes greatly, besides a handful of choice long curly shavings, which she got at a carpenter’s bench when her mother took her up to the village.
Pussy is perfectly happy in these treasures, and has been sewing very industriously all the morning, that she may get to the dear closet where they are kept. Then for playmates she has only a great, grave, old, yellow dog named Bose, who, the minute he sees Pussy get down, comes soberly patting up to her, wagging his tail. And little Pussy gathers all her treasures in her short checked apron, and goes out under the great elm-tree to play with Bose; and she is now perfectly happy.
She makes a little house out of her bits of broken china, arranged in squares on the turf; she ties a limp sun-bonnet on Bose’s head, and makes believe that he is mother to the clothes-pin rag-baby, and tells him he must rock it to sleep; and Bose looks very serious and obedient, and sits over the baby while Pussy pretends to yoke up oxen and go off to the fields to work.
By and by Bose thinks this has lasted long enough, and comes scampering after her, with the sun-bonnet very much over one eye; and then he gets talked to, and admonished, and led back to his duty. He gets very tired of it sometimes; and Pussy has to vary the play by letting him have a scamper with her down to the brook, to watch the tiny little fish that whisk and dart among the golden rings of sunlight under the bright brown waters.
Hour after hour passes, and Pussy grows happier every minute; for the sun shines, and the sky is blue, and Bose is capital company, and she has so many pretty playthings!
When Pussy lies down in her little crib at night, she prays God to bless her dear father and mother, and her dear brothers, and Bose, and dolly, and all the dear Little Pussy Willows. The first part of the prayer her mother taught her, — the last part she made up herself, out of her own curly head and happy little heart, and she does not doubt in the least that the good God hears the last as much as the first.
Now this is the picture of what took place on little Pussy’s seventh birthday: but you must see what took place on little Emily’s seventh birthday, which was to be kept with great pomp and splendor. From early morning the door-bell was kept constantly ringing on account of the presents that were being sent in to Emily. I could not begin to tell you half of them. There was a great doll from Paris, with clothes all made to take off and put on, and a doll’s bureau full of petticoats and drawers and aprons and stockings and collars and cuffs and elegant dresses for Miss Dolly; and there were little bandboxes with ever so many little bonnets, and little parasols, and little card-cases, and nobody knows what, — all for Miss Dolly. Then there were bracelets and rings and pins for little Emily herself, and a gold drinking-cup set with diamonds, and every sort of plaything that any one could think of, till a whole room was filled with Emily’s birthday presents.
Nevertheless, Emily was not happy. In fact, she was very unhappy; and the reason was that the pink silk dress she wanted to wear had not come home from the dressmaker’s, and no other dress in the world would in the least do for her.
In vain mamma and two nurses talked and persuaded, and showed her her presents; she wanted exactly the only thing that could not be got, and nothing but that seemed of any value in her eyes. The whole house was in commotion about this dress, and messengers were kept running backward and forward to Madame Follet’s; but it was almost night before it came, and neither Emily nor any of her friends could have any peace until then.
The fact is that the little girl had been so industriously petted ever since she was born, and had had so many playthings and presents, that there was not anything that could be given her which seemed half as pretty to her as two or three long clean, curly shavings seemed to Little Pussy Willow; and then, unfortunately, no good fairy had given her the gift of being easily pleased; so that, with everybody working and trying from morning to night to please her, little Emily was always in a fret or a worry about something. Her mother said that the dear child had such a fastidious taste! — that she was so sensitive! — but whatever the reason might be, Emily was never very happy. Instead of thinking of the things she had, and liking them, she was always fretting about something that she had not or could not get; and when the things she most longed for at last came into her hands, suddenly she found that she had ceased to want them.
Her seventh birthday ended with a children’s ball, to which all the little children of her acquaintance were invited, and there was a band of music, and an exquisite supper and fireworks on the lawn near the house; and Emily appeared in the very pink silk dress she had set her heart on; but alas! she was not happy. For Madame Follet had not put on the flounces, as she promised, and the sash had no silver fringe. This melancholy discovery was made when it was entirely too late to help it, and poor Emily was in low spirits all the evening.
“She is too sensitive for this life,” said her mamma,—” the sweet little angel!”
Emily sunk to sleep about midnight, hot, tired, feverish. She cried herself to sleep. Why? She could not tell. Can you Î
CHAPTER IV
AND now some of my little friends perhaps have a question to ask me. Is not a little girl more likely to be happy who is
brought up in the simple and natural way in which Pussy Willow has grown up, than one who has had all that has been given to Emily Proudiet I began by telling you that the gift of being easily pleased was what made the difference between the two little girls, — that it was a gift worth more than beauty, or riches, or anything else that could be thought of.
But I do think that a way of “bringing-up” like that in which poor little Emily was educated is the surest way to destroy this gift, even if a girl’s birth fairies had given it to her. You know very well that, when you have been taking a lonely scramble among the rocks until long after your dinner-time, a plain crust of bread tastes so sweet to you that you wonder you ever have wanted cake or gingerbread; and that sometimes, in like manner, when you have walked till you are hot and thirsty, you have dipped up the water out of some wild-wood spring, and drank it with an enjoyment such as the very best tea or coffee or lemonade never gave. That was because you were really hungry or really thirsty; and the pleasure you get from food and drink can never be known unless you become really hungry and thirsty.
But many poor little children are brought up in such a way that they never know what it is to have a real desire for anything. They are like a child stuffed with cake and sweetmeats from morning till night. Every wish is anticipated, and pleasures are crowded upon them so fast that they have none of the enjoyments of wishing, planning, and contriving which come to those who are left to seek their own pleasures and make their own way. The good God has so made us that the enjoyments which come to us through the use of our own faculties are a great deal more satisfactory than those which are brought to us by others. Many a little girl enjoys making a sand-pie out in the road far more than she would the most expensive playthings, because she trots about in making it, runs, laughs, works, gets herself into a healthy glow, and feels that she is doing something.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 576
