CHAPTER VIII
THE NEW COMPANION
Miss Schuyler was a very active, industrious lady, and her time was fully occupied. She had her house and grounds to attend to, her business affairs, her domestic duties, and her poor people—for paradise or fairy-land, whichever Phil chose to call his present abode, was not without its poor—and so, during the day, Lisa was mostly with Phil; but he and Miss Rachel had always a pleasant chat after breakfast; and in the evening many a long talk made known to Miss Rachel more of Phil's character than he had any idea of; and the more she knew of the boy, the warmer her heart became towards him, and the more thankful she was that she had been able to do for him just what was wanted, and just at the right time.
Already there was a little color in his pale
cheeks, and an eagerness for his meals. He could endure more fatigue, and he suffered less pain. Indeed, Dr. Smith, who lived half a mile off, had promised to send his son, a lad of twelve, down to see Phil in his stead. "For," said he, "Graham does not know one bone from another, and will soon help Phil to forget all about his, or whether they ache or not."
And so Graham Smith, a ruddy-cheeked fellow, full of life and spirit, came to see Phil.
It was a warm June day when they first saw each other.
Phil was sketching, and Lisa was sitting beside him sewing. Joe was Phil's model, standing patiently by the hour to be made into studies of heads, arms, trunk, or the whole man.
Suddenly there was a loud bark of welcome from Nep, the Newfoundland dog—who greeted tramps with growls—and Graham Smith came up the garden path, followed by Nep, leaping frantically upon and about him.
He nodded in a brusque way to Lisa and Phil, and without a word bent down over the sketch, gave a long, low whistle, and said, "Isn't that bully?"
"If I knew what bully meant, I could answer
you, perhaps," replied Phil, gazing up with admiration at the brown and red cheeks, the clear blue eyes, and the tough, hardy-looking frame of his new acquaintance.
"I'm not sure I can tell you; only you can beat all the boys I know at this sort of work," said Graham. "Where did you learn how to do it?"
"Oh, I have not learned yet; I am only just beginning."
"Haven't you had any lessons?"
"No; it comes naturally to me to draw. I wish I could do it better, that's all," said Phil, with a little sigh.
"I wouldn't want to do any better than that," said Graham.
"Oh yes, you would," replied Phil, very much pleased, however, with such heartfelt admiration of his drawing.
Just then Nep made another leap upon Graham, and the two, after a friendly tussle, had a race down to the lake, where Graham tossed a stick, and sent the dog after it.
"That is something I cannot do," said Phil, as the boy came up to him again; "And yet you do it as easily as I draw."
"What—shy that stick off on the water? Then you don't play ball?"
"I don't even walk," said Phil.
Graham seemed both astonished and sorry, so he turned it off with, "but you are going to, you know, when you get well—and you can do more than any of us now. Let's go out on the water. May we?" he asked, turning to Lisa.
"Oh yes," said Lisa; and Joe was glad to get the Flyaway ready for a start.
Phil was placed in the stern, where Graham promised to show him how to steer. Phil was an apt scholar, and delighted to be of use. Joe addressed Graham as "Captain," and complimented him on the fine feathering of his oar. The lad was a good oarsman, and made the boat respond to her name.
"Where shall we go, mate?" asked Graham of Phil.
"The Captain must give orders," was Phil's reply.
"Have you been down to Point of Rocks?" asked Graham, directing Phil's eyes to a distant promontory.
"No, I have not been so far yet."
"There are lots of water-lilies there."
"Oh, do go there, then! I want some to copy."
"All right. Pull on your starboard oar, Joe; there, that will do. Now we will soon reach it."
It was a lovely little nook where grew the lilies, after they had turned around the jutting stones which gave a name to the spot, and Phil soon had his hands full of fragrant buds. The water was so clear that he could see their long green stems away down to the black mud from which they sprang. They moored the boat, and Graham got out to ramble, returning with ferns and mosses and wild-flowers for Phil.
"Now," said he, "If you don't mind, I'm going to have a swim just around the rocks here where the water is deeper and not so full of weeds. I wish you could come."
"So do I," said Phil, watching with admiration every movement of his lively companion. Besides admiration, too, there was a twinge of envy, which he really did not know to be that hateful fault; but it passed in a moment, and he laughed loudly to see Graham's antics in the water.
The bath over, they turned homeward. Miss Rachel was entertaining guests in the parlor.
Lisa had gone off for a walk. Graham had to go home, but promised frequent visits; and as Phil was tired, Joe carried him up and laid him on his bed, putting his mosses on the table, and the water-lilies in an oblong vase which was usually filled with fragrant flowers. The wind harp was there, too, and as Phil, with closed eyes, was resting in the half-twilight made by shut blinds, there came from it a little murmur, which grew into a long, sad monotone. He dared not move, and would not speak, but between his eyelids, partly raised, he thought he saw the familiar little winged creature who had comforted and entertained him in his wretched city home.
"How little people know what they are doing when they pull up ferns and mosses in the woods!" said the soft voice. "I was sleeping soundly on the nicest bed imaginable, having travelled far for just a whiff of water-lily odor that I thought might refresh a poor little hospital patient tossing with fever in the city, when with a violent wrench I found myself borne off from my sheltered and dusky resting-place, and tossed into a boat in the blinding glare of the
sun. Fortunately, I had wrapped myself in some broad grape-vine leaves, and was mistaken for a moth cocoon; else, dear Phil, I had not been here."
"I am so glad, so very glad, to see you again!" murmured Phil, softly.
"And I am so glad you are in the country! You could not have lived long in the city. What are you doing now?"
"Getting well, they tell me."
"Do you ever think of the ones who cannot do that?"
"No, I do not," said Phil, in some surprise.
"Ah, there are so many. I see them often—little creatures who are friendless and helpless. You should not forget them."
"It is not that I forget, I do not think of them at all. I suppose I would if I saw them."
"Well, you must think of them, and do something for them. Oh yes, I know you do not believe you can, but the way will come if you try. All that I do is to whisper soft songs in their ears, or give them a little waft of summer freshness, but it sometimes stops their painful tossing, and brings sleep to their tired eyes."
"I will think; I will try," said Phil.
"That is right," replied the fairy. "Now I will call some of my friends, the flower fairies, hidden in these water-lilies, and you shall see them dance." She clapped her hands softly together, and out of each lily crept a tiny shape of radiant whiteness and lily-like grace, so pure, so exquisite, that they did indeed seem to be the very essence and spirit of the flower. And now began another of those fantastic movements which Phil had before witnessed. Now in wreaths, now apart, and again in couples, they swayed about in an ecstasy of mirth, and the wind harp gave out strains of wild and melodious sound. They nodded to each other in their glee, and Phil could hardly tell whether they really were fairies or flowers, for they looked just as the flowers might when blown about in a breeze. As he gazed, his eyelids began to droop. He was very tired. The music grew fainter and fainter. He seemed to be again in the boat, listening to the water lapping its sides, and Graham seemed to be with him, reaching out for lilies; and then all faded, and Phil was fast asleep.
CHAPTER IX
A VISIT FROM THE YOUNG DOCTOR
"Now, Phil," said Miss Rachel, "I am not going to be so busy for a while, and though you cannot study yet, for the doctors say you must not, I shall read aloud to you a little every day. Graham has promised to come often to visit you, and with our boating and driving, and pleasant friends coming to stay with us, I think we shall have rather a nice summer. What do you think?"
Phil's face lighted up with a grateful smile, which grew into rather a sober expression.
"I think it is all delightful; but—"
"But what, my dear; are you not contented?"
"Oh yes, more than that: I am as happy as I can be; but—"
"Another but."
"Miss Rachel, what becomes of all the poor sick children in the city who have no such friend as you are to me?"
"They suffer sadly, dear Phil."
"Then don't you think I ought to remember them sometimes?"
"Yes, in your prayers."
"Is there no other way?"
"I am not sure that there is for a child like you. Perhaps there may be, and we will think about it; but you must not let such a thought oppress you; it is too much for a sick child to consider. Be happy; try to get well; do all you can to make everybody about you glad that you are here, by pleasant looks and good-nature. There, that is a little sermon which you hardly need, dear, for you are blessed with a sweet and patient temper, and are far less troublesome than many a well child."
"I suppose I do not deserve any praise if I was made so," said Phil, laughing.
"No, not a bit; the poor cross little things who fret and tease and worry are the ones who should be praised when they make an effort not to be disagreeable. But I am not going to preach any more. I am going down-stairs to make some sponge-cake for the picnic you and Lisa and I are going to have to-morrow."
"A picnic! a real one in the woods?"
"Yes, and here comes Graham with a basket.
I wonder what is in it. Good-bye. I will send him up to you."
Graham came up in a few moments with the basket on his arm.
"Guess what I have here, Phil."
"How can I?"
"Oh yes, you can—just guess."
"Something to eat?"
"No, little piggy; or rather yes, if you choose."
"Well, chickens or eggs?"
"No, neither."
"Fruit?"
"Guess again."
"Medicine for some of your father's sick people?"
"No."
"Flowers? Oh no, one cannot eat flowers if they choose. I give it up."
"Well, then, watch," and lifting the cover slowly, three cunning white rabbits poked their little twitching noses over the edge of the basket.
Phil gazed at them delightedly. "And you call those little darlings something to eat, do you?"
"If you choose, yes."
"As if any one could choose to be such a cannibal! What precious little beauties they are! Oh, how pretty they look!"
"They are for you."
"Really! Oh, thank you, Graham. But you must ask Miss Schuyler."
"I did, and I am to build them a hutch. Until I do, there is an empty box in the barn where they can stay."
"And you can build—handle tools like a carpenter? How nice that must be!"
"Oh, that's nothing; all boys can do that."
Graham forgot that Phil was one boy who could not, but seeing the shade come over his friend's face made him repent his hasty speech.
"I beg your pardon," he said, in a low voice.
"No, you need not, Graham. I must get used to being different from other boys. Well, these are just the loveliest little things I ever saw. What do they live on?"
"Almost any green thing; they are very fond of lettuce. When you are able you must come and see my lop-ears."
"Have you many rabbits?"
"Yes, quite a number. Let me see: there's
Neb (he's an old black fellow—Nebuchadnezzar), and Miss Snowflake, Aunt Chloe (after the one in Uncle Tom's Cabin), Fanny Elssler (because she jumps about so), and Mr. Prim—- he is the stillest old codger you ever saw."
"What other pets have you?"
"I've lots of chickens, three dogs, two cats, a squirrel, and a parrot."
"A large family."
"Yes, almost too large; they will have to be given up soon."
"How soon?"
"In the fall, I suppose; I am going to boarding-school."
"What fun!"
"You would be amused with Polly. She is a gay old thing—laughs, sings, and dances."
"Oh, Graham, can she do all that?"
"Indeed she can; sometimes she sings like a nurse putting a child to sleep, in a sort of humming hush-a-by-baby way; then she tries dance-music, and hops first on one foot, then on the other—this way," and Graham began mimicking the parrot, and Phil laughed till the tears came.
"She screams out 'Fire!' like an old fury, but she is as serene as a May day when she gets her cup of coffee."
"Is that your parrot, Graham?" asked Miss Schuyler.
"Yes, ma'am, that's our green-and-golden Polly."
"We will have to pay it a visit. Can you join our picnic to-morrow? it is Phil's first one."
"Really! why, he has a good deal to learn of our country ways."
"Yes, and I have a little plan to propose in which you may help us. Promise you will come."
"Oh, I am always ready, thank you, Miss Schuyler. Shall we go by boat?"
"To be sure, to Eagle Island."
"Then we will go early, I suppose, as it is quite a long pull. What must I bring, Miss Schuyler?"
"Only your arms, Graham, for alone Joe will perhaps find the rowing a little too much in the warm sun. I am Commissary-General for the party. That means, Phil, that I furnish the provisions: a Commissary-General has to see that his troops are well fed."
"There is no danger about that, I am sure," said Graham, gallantly, "If Miss Schuyler leads us."
"Well, then, to-morrow at nine, before the sun is too high—earlier would not do for Phil. And now be off with yourself: and your bunnies, Graham, leave them in the barn; and tell your good, kind father that you are an excellent substitute for himself, that Phil is improving even faster with your visits than he did with his."
"Good-bye, then, Phil; good-bye, Miss Schuyler. To-morrow at nine."