XII.—THE WHOLE WHITE WORLD.
In winter we played everywhere! The whole white world was a lovely playground! We had no skates, but we wore very thick-soled boots that took the place of skates very well. At least we thought so, and that was all we needed to make us contented. When the little pond was frozen over, we would take a quick run down its snowy banks and then we would skim clear across that little pond’s frozen surface just as swift as a bird would skim through the air.
Sometimes a thick frost would come in the night-time. The next morning a fine blue haze would be in the air and everything would be clothed in soft white frost-furs. As the sun rose higher and higher we would watch to see the trees and bushes grow warm in the sunshine and throw off their furs. Then we would try and catch those soft furs as they fell. But if caught they melted quickly away.
If the surface of the snow hardened enough so that we could walk on the crust without breaking through, our happiness was complete. High hills were all about us, and it seemed to us as if every shining hill would say if it could, “Come and slide!”
And O, the happy hours that we have had with our clumsy old sled! Away we would go, the wind stinging our faces until crimson roses blossomed in our cheeks, and the shining crust snapping and creaking under our sled, and the hill flying away behind us!
If a damp clinging snow came, it made lovely snowballs; and it was such fun to catch hold of the long clothes-lines and shake them and see little clumps of snow hop like rabbits from the line into the air.
And if instead of warmth, and great damp feathery snowflakes, there came a bitter wind and an icy sleet that froze as it fell—what then? Never mind! Sunrise would set the whole world a-sparkle. Every tree and bush would be gay with splendid ice-jewels! And in the great shining ice palace, we could run and laugh and shout, watching the ice-jewels loosen and fall, all day long.
Percia V. White.
“AWAY WE WOULD GO!”
GRAN’MA GRACIE.
It was Uncle George who called her “Gran’ma” when she was only six, and by the time she was seven everybody had taken to the name, and she answered to it as a matter of course.
Why did he call her so? Because she was such a prim, staid, serious, little old-fashioned body, and consequently her mother laughingly took to dressing her in an old-fashioned way, so that at last, whether she was out in the grounds, or round by the stables with Grant, in her figured pink dress, red sash, long gloves, and sun-bonnet, looking after her pets, or indoors of an evening, in her yellow brocade, muslin apron—with pockets, of course, and quaint mob cap tied up with its ribbon—she always looked serious and grandmotherly.
“It is her nature to,” Uncle George said, quoting from “Let dogs delight;” and when he laughed at her, Gran’ma used to look at him wonderingly in the most quaint way, and then put her hand in his, and ask him to take her for a walk.
Gran’ma lived in a roomy old house with a delightful garden, surrounded by a very high red-brick wall that was covered in the spring with white blossoms, and in the autumn with peaches with red cheeks that laughed at her and imitated hers; purple plums covered with bloom, and other plums that looked like drops of gold among the green leaves; and these used to get so ripe and juicy in the hot sun, that they would crack and peer out at her as if asking to be eaten before they fell down and wasted their rich honey juice on the ground. Then there were great lumbering looking pears which worried John, the gardener, because they grew so heavy that they tore the nails out of the walls, and had to be fastened up again—old John giving Gran’ma the shreds to hold while he went up the ladder with his hammer, and a nail in his mouth.
That garden was Gran’ma’s world, it was so big; and on fine mornings she could be seen seriously wandering about with Dinnywinkle, her little sister, up this way, down that, under the apple-trees, along the gooseberry and currant alleys, teaching her and Grant that it was not proper to go on the beds when there were plenty of paths, and somehow Dinnywinkle, who was always bubbling over with fun, did as the serious little thing told her in the most obedient of ways, and helped her to scold Grant, who was much harder to teach.
For Grant, whose papa was a setter, and mamma a very lady-like retriever, always had ideas in his head that there were wild beasts hiding in the big garden, and as soon as his collar was unfastened, and he was taken down the grounds for a run, he seemed to run mad. His ears went up, his tail began to wave, and he dashed about frantically to hunt for those imaginary wild beasts. He barked till he was hoarse sometimes, when after a good deal of rushing about he made a discovery, and would then look up triumphantly at Gran’ma, and point at his find with his nose, till she came up to see what he had discovered. One time it would be a snail, at another a dead mouse killed by the cat, and not eaten because it was a shrew. Upon one occasion, when the children ran up, it was to find the dog half wild as he barked to them to come and see what he was holding down under his paw,—this proving to be an unfortunate frog which uttered a dismal squeal from time to time till Gran’ma set it at liberty, so that it could make long hops into a bed of ivy, where it lived happily long afterwards, to sit there on soft wet nights under a big leaf like an umbrella, and softly whistle the frog song which ends every now and then in a croak.
Grant was always obedient when he was caught, and then he would walk steadily along between Gran’ma and Dinny, each holding one of his long silky ears, with the prisoner making no effort to escape.
But the job was to catch him; and on these occasions Gran’ma used to run and run fast, while Dinny ran in another direction to cut Grant off.
And a pretty chase he led them, letting them get close up, and then giving a joyous bark and leaping sidewise, to dash off in quite a fresh direction. Here he would perhaps hide, crouching down under one of the shrubs, ready to pounce out on his pursuers, and then dash away again, showing his teeth as if he were laughing, and in his frantic delight waltzing round and round after his tail. Then away he would bound on to the closely shaven lawn, throw himself down, roll over and over, and set Dinny laughing and clapping her hands to see him play one of his favorite tricks, which was to lay his nose down close to the grass, first on one side and then on the other, pushing it along as if it was a plough, till he sprang up and stood barking and wagging his tail, as much as to say, “What do you think of that for a game?” ending by running helter-skelter after a blackbird which flew away, crying “Chink—chink—chink.”
That was a famous old wilderness of a place, with great stables and out-houses, where there was bright golden straw, and delicious sweet-scented hay, and in one place a large bin with a lid, and half-full of oats, with which Gran’ma used to fill a little cross-handled basket.
“Now, Grant,” she cried, as she shut down the lid, after refusing to let Dinny stand in the bin and pour oats over her head and down her back—“Now, Grant!”
“Wuph!” said Grant, and he took hold of the basket in his teeth, and trotted on with it before her round the corner, to stop before the hutches that stood outside in the sun.
Here, if Dinny was what Gran’ma called “a good girl,” she had a treat. For this was where the rabbits lived.
Old Brownsmith sent those rabbits, hutch and all, as a present for Gran’ma, one day when John went to the market garden with his barrow to fetch what he called some “plarnts;” and when he came back with the barred hutch, and set the barrow down in the walk, mamma went out with Gran’ma and Dinny, to look at them, and Grant came up growling, sniffed all round the hutch before giving a long loud bark, which, being put into plain English, meant, “Open the door, and I’ll kill all the lot.”
“I don’t know what to say, John,” said mamma, shaking her head. “It is very kind of Mr. Brownsmith, but I don’t think your master will like the children to keep them, for fear they should be neglected and die.”
“’Gleckted?” said old John, rubbing one ear. “What! little miss here ’gleck ’em? Not she. You’ll feed them rabbuds reg’lar, miss, wontcher?”
Gran’ma said she would, and the hutch was wheeled round by the stables, Grant following and looking very much puzzled, for though he never hunted the cats now, rabbits did seem the right things to kill.
But Gran’ma soon taught him better, and he became the best of friends with Brown Downie and her two children, Bunny and White Paws.
In fact, one day there was a scene, for Cook rushed into the schoolroom during lesson time, out of breath with excitement.
“Please’m, I went down the garden, ’m, to get some parsley, and that horrid dog’s hunting the rabbits, and killing ’em.”
There was a cry from both children, and Gran’ma rushed out and round to the stables, to find the hutch door unfastened, and the rabbits gone, while, as she turned back to the house with the tears running down her cheeks, who should come trotting up but Grant, with his ears cocked, and Bunny hanging from his jaws as if dead.
Gran’ma uttered a cry; and as Mamma came up with Dinny, the dog set the little rabbit down, looked up and barked, and Bunny began loping off to nibble the flowers, not a bit the worse, while Grant ran and turned him back with his nose, for Gran’ma to catch the little thing up in her arms.
Grant barked excitedly, and ran down the garden again, the whole party following, and in five minutes he had caught White Paw.
Dinny had the carrying of this truant, and with another bark, Grant dashed in among the gooseberry bushes, where there was a great deal of rustling, a glimpse of something brown, and then of a white cottony tail. Then in spite of poor Grant getting his nose pricked with the thorns, Brown Downie was caught and held by her ears till mamma lifted her up, and she was carried in triumph back, Grant trotting on before, and leading the way to the stable-yard and the hutch, turning round every now and then to bark.
The rabbits did not get out again, and every morning and evening they were fed as regularly as Gran’ma fed herself.
On reaching the hutch, Grant set the basket down, leaving the handle rather wet, though he could easily have wiped it with his ears, and then he sat down in a dreamy way, half closing his eyes and possibly thinking about wild rabbits on heaths where he could hunt them through furze bushes, while Gran’ma in the most serious way possible opened the hutch door.
There was no difficulty about catching White Paw, for he was ready enough to thrust his nose into his little mistress’s hand, and be lifted out by his ears, and held for Dinny to stroke.
“Now let me take him,” she cried.
“No, my dear, you are too young yet,” said Gran’ma; and Dinny had to be content with smoothing down White Paw’s soft brown fur, as it nestled up against its mistress’s breast, till it was put back kicking, and evidently longing to escape from its wooden-barred prison, even if it was to be hunted by Grant.
Then Bunny had his turn, and was duly lifted out and smoothed; after which, Brown Downie, who was too heavy to lift, gave the floor of the hutch a sharp rap with one foot, making Grant lift his ear and utter a deep sigh.
“No,” he must have thought; “it’s very tempting, but I must not seize her by the back and give her a shake.”
Then the trough was filled with oats, the door fastened, and the girls looked on as three noses were twitched and screwed about, and a low munching sound arose.
Three rabbits and a dog! Enough pets for any girl, my reader; but Gran’ma had another—Buzz, a round, soft-furred kitten with about as much fun in it as could be squeezed into so small a body. But Buzz had a temper, possibly soured by jealousy of Grant, whom he utterly detested.
Buzz’s idea of life was to be always chasing something,—his tail, a shadow, the corner of the table-cover, or his mistress’s dress. He liked to climb, too, on to tables, up the legs, into the coal-scuttle, behind the sideboard, and above all, up the curtains, so as to turn the looped-up part into a hammock, and sleep there for hours. Anywhere forbidden to a respectable kitten was Buzz’s favorite spot, and especially inside the fender, where the blue tiles at the back reflected the warmth of the fire, and the brown tiles of the hearth were so bright that he could see other kittens in them, and play with them, dabbing at them with his velvet paw.
Buzz had been dragged out from that forbidden ground by his hind leg, and by the loose skin at the back of his neck, and he had been punished again and again, but still he would go, and strange to say, he took a fancy to rub himself up against the upright brass dogs from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail, and then repeat it on the other side.
But Gran’ma’s pet did not trespass without suffering for it. Both his whiskers were singed off close, and there was a brown, rough, ill-smelling bit at the end of his tail where, in turning round, he had swept it amongst the glowing cinders, giving him so much pain that he uttered a loud “Mee-yow!” and bounded out of the room, looking up at Gran’ma the while as if he believed that she had served him like that.
In Gran’ma’s very small old-fashioned way, one of her regular duties was to get papa’s blue cloth fur-lined slippers, and put them against the fender to warm every night, ready for him when he came back tired from London; and no sooner were those slippers set down to toast, than Buzz, who had been watching attentively, went softly from his cushion where he had been pretending to be asleep, but watching all the time with one eye, and carefully packed himself in a slipper, thrusting his nose well down, drawing his legs right under him, and snoozling up so compactly that he exactly fitted it, and seemed part of a fur cushion made in the shape of a shoe.
But Buzz was not allowed to enjoy himself in that fashion for long. No sooner did Gran’ma catch sight of what he had done than she got up, went to the fireplace, gravely lifted the slipper, and poured Buzz out on to the hearth-rug, replaced the slipper where it would warm, and went back, to find, five minutes later, that the kitten had fitted himself into the other slipper, with only his back visible, ready to be poured out again. Then, in a half-sulky, cattish way, Buzz would go and seat himself on his square cushion, and watch, while, to guard them from any more such intrusions, Gran’ma picked up the slippers and held them to her breast until such time as her father came home.
Those were joyous times at the old house, till one day there was a report spread in the village that little Gran’ma was ill. The doctor’s carriage was seen every day at the gate, and then twice a day, and there were sorrow and despair where all had been so happy. Dinny went alone with Grant to feed the rabbits; and there were no more joyous rushes round the garden, for the dog would lie down on the doorstep with his head between his paws, and watch there all day, and listen for the quiet little footstep that never came. Every day old John, the gardener, brought up a bunch of flowers for the little child lying fevered and weak, with nothing that would cool her burning head, and three anxious faces were constantly gazing for the change that they prayed might come.
For the place seemed no longer the same without those pattering feet. Cook had been found crying in a chair in the kitchen; and when asked why, she said it was because Grant had howled in the night, and she knew now that dear little Gran’ma would never be seen walking so sedately round the garden again.
It was of no use to tell her that Grant had howled because he was miserable at not seeing his little mistress: she said she knew better.
“Don’t tell me,” she cried; “look at him.” And she pointed to where the dog had just gone down to the gate, for a carriage had stopped, and the dog, after meeting the doctor, walked up behind him to the house, waited till he came out, and then walked down behind him to the gate, saw him go, and came back to lie down in his old place on the step, with his head between his paws.
They said that they could not get Grant to eat, and it was quite true, for the little hands which fed him were not there; and the house was very mournful and still, even Dinny having ceased to shout and laugh, for they told her she must be very quiet, because Gran’ma was so ill.
From that hour Dinny went about the place like a mouse, and her favorite place was on the step by Grant, who, after a time, took to laying his head in her lap, and gazing up at her with his great brown eyes.
And they said that Gran’ma knew no one now, but lay talking quickly about losing the rabbits and about Dinny and Grant; and then there came a day when she said nothing, but lay very still as if asleep.
That night as the doctor was going, he said softly that he could do no more, but that those who loved the little quiet child must pray to God to spare her to them; and that night, too, while tears were falling fast, and there seemed to be no hope, Grant, in his loneliness and misery, did utter a long, low, mournful howl.
But next morning, after a weary night, those who watched saw the bright glow of returning day lighting up the eastern sky, and the sun had not long risen before Gran’ma woke as if from a long sleep, looked up in her mother’s eyes as if she knew her once more, and the great time of peril was at an end.
All through the worst no hands but her mother’s had touched her; but now a nurse was brought in to help—a quiet, motherly, North-country woman who one day stood at the door, and held up her hands in astonishment, for she had been busy down-stairs for an hour, and now that she had returned there was a great reception on the bed: Buzz was seated on the pillow purring; the rabbits all three were playing at the bed being a warren, and loping in and out from the valance; Grant was seated on a chair with his head close up to his mistress’s breast; and Dinny was reading aloud from a picture storybook like this, but the book was upside down, and she invented all she said.
“Bless the bairn! what does this mean?” cried nurse.
It meant that Dinny had brought up all Gran’ma’s friends, and that the poor child was rapidly getting well.
