Fanny Gossip and Susan Lazy;
A DIALOGUE.
Susan. Well, Fanny, I was on my way to your house. I thought I never should see your face again. Did you ever know such a long, stupid storm? nothing but rain, rain, rain for three everlasting days!
Fanny. And in vacation-time too! it did seem too bad. If our house had not been on the street, so that I could see something stirring, I believe I should have had the blues.
Susan. And I did have the blues outright. I never was so dull in my life, moping about the house. Mother won’t let me touch such books as I like to read, and the boys went to school all day, so I had nothing on earth to do but look at the drops of rain racing down the windows, and watch the clouds to see if it was going to clear up. I assure you I fretted from morning till night, and mother got out of all patience with me, and said I was a perfect nuisance in the house; but I am sure it was not my fault.
Fanny. Well! I was a little better off. I sat half the time making fun of all the shabby cloaks and umbrellas that turned out in the rain. There was Mr. Skimmer went by every day with a cotton umbrella; and Mr. Saveals with an old faded silk one, three of the whalebones started out on one side, as if he wanted to poke people’s eyes out, and a great slit to let the rain through:—both of them misers, I know! And there was Miss Goodbody! she goes to see sick poor folks in all weathers, and won’t take a carriage, though she can afford it, because she says that would be ridiculous. I wish you had seen her come paddling through the wet! such shoes, and such stockings! I do think it is unladylike. Then, when everything else failed to amuse me, there were our neighbors opposite to be speculated upon.
Susan. Ah! Laura Busy lives just across the street, I believe?
Fanny. Yes, and there she sat at the window, on purpose to be seen, stitching away, and reading, and setting herself up as a pattern to the whole neighborhood.
Susan. I would not have such a strict mother as she has for all the world. I don’t believe she enjoys her vacation at all.
Fanny. I dare say it is her mother that keeps her at it so close. I should think she was bringing her up to be a seamstress; and yet, considering that everybody knows Mr. Busy is not rich, they dress Laura extravagantly. Did you see that beautiful French calico she wore on examination day?
Susan. Yes, I saw it across the room, and thought I would go over and look at it, but couldn’t take the trouble.
Fanny. Why, how you do gape, Susan!
Susan. I know it; mother says I have a terrible trick of gaping. But I do get so tired.
Fanny. Tired of what?
Susan. I don’t know; I am tired of the vacation, I believe: and before the term was over I was wishing so for it! I was tired to death of school, and dare say I shall be so again in a fortnight.
Fanny. Here comes Laura, glad enough to get away from mamma’s workbasket. Just see how fast she walks;—ah ha! she is going to the circulating library; look at that novel under her arm.
Susan. I shall tell my mother of that; she thinks everything right that the Busy family do.
(Enter Laura.)
Fanny. Well, Laura, poor thing! you are so glad to get out of the house that I suppose you are running away from it as fast as you can.
Laura. I am not quite running, I believe, but you know I always walk fast.
Susan. I can’t think why, I am sure.
Laura. It saves a deal of time, and the exercise does me more good than if I were to go sauntering along.
Susan. Saves time? and in the vacation too? why, of what consequence is time now, when you have no school-hours to mind?
Laura. Because if I don’t take care I shall not get through what I have planned. Only think how fast the vacation is going! Next Monday school begins.
Fanny. So the studious Miss Laura Busy is sorry the vacation is almost over. I thought you told the master, when school broke up, that you wished there was no vacation.
Laura. I did wish so then, for I thought vacation would be a dull time.
Susan. I am sure it has been horrid dull to me, and I should think it must have been worse yet for you.
Laura. Why?
Susan. Because your mother keeps you at work all the time.
Laura. Indeed she does not. She sent me out to walk this very afternoon, and she always makes me put my work away at just such hours, for fear I should sit too close at my needle.
Susan. Mercy! do you love to sew? oh, I suppose you are learning fancy work: well, I don’t know but I might like that for a little while.
Laura. No, mother says I must not learn fancy work till I can do plain sewing extremely well. I was thinking how I should manage to pass the vacation, and I took it into my head that I would try to make a shirt by a particular time, and that is Saturday, my birthday. I shall be twelve years old next Saturday, and then I shall present my father with a shirt of my own making.
Susan. Did you do all the fine stitching yourself?
Laura. To be sure.
Susan. I am sure I would not make myself such a slave.
Laura. There is no slavery about it; it was my own pleasure; and you cannot think how fast it has made the time go. I set myself a task every day, and then, you see, trying to get just so much done by twelve o’clock, made me feel so interested!
Fanny. And the rest of the time you have been reading novels, I see.
Laura. No, indeed; I never read one in my life. Did you think this library-book was a novel?
Fanny. Let me see it; “Astoria;” is not that the name of some heroine? let me look at it a little. (Turning over the leaves.)
Laura. You can’t think how interesting it is. It gives an account of a place away on the western coast of North America; and of all that the people suffered to get there; and about the very wildest Indians, and the trappers, and the Rocky Mountains; and here is a map, you see, Susan.
Susan. Oh, well! it is a sort of geography-book, I suppose.
Laura. Such books will make your geography pleasanter than ever, I am sure; do read it.
Susan. Not I; I have hardly touched a book or a needle this vacation, and I have no idea of it. These long summer days are tedious enough without that.
Laura. But I do believe they would be pleasanter if you were only occupied about something or other.
Fanny. And so, Laura, you have really spent this whole vacation without a bit of amusement? I must say I think there is a little affectation in that.
Laura. Oh no, indeed! I do not like to sit still from morning till night any better than you do; and mother would not let me if I did. I have taken a long, brisk walk every day.
Fanny. What, alone? I hate walking alone.
Laura. Not alone, very often; sister Helen sometimes walks over the bridge into the country with me, and we get wild flowers, and she explains all about them; that we call going botanizing, and it makes the walks much more pleasant. It really made me stare when she pulled a common head of clover to pieces and showed me how curiously it is made up of ever so many florets, as she calls them; and even the dandelion is very queer.
Susan. And did you go botanizing in the rain too?
Laura. No; of course we could not stir out then.
Susan. Then I rather think you found the last three days as dull as any of us.
Fanny. Not she, Susan. No doubt it was very pleasant to sit perched up at the window all day, for the passers to admire her industry.
Laura. O, Fanny, how can you be so uncharitable! if you had not been at the window so much yourself you would not have seen me.
Fanny. But I was not making a display of myself, with a book or a needle forever in my hand.
Laura. No, Fanny; if you had been occupied, however, you would not have been making such unkind remarks about your neighbors, would you? Did you not observe that my mother sat at the window with me? The reason was, we cannot see to work in any other part of the room when it is cloudy. You know our little breakfast-room has only one window.
Susan. So for the last three days you have been reading and poking your needle in and out from morning till night? Well! it would be the death of me. (Gaping.)
Laura. Why no; I tell you I do not like sitting still forever, any more than you do; I like to use my feet every day as well as my hands, and I presume they expect it. Too much stitching gives me a stitch in my side; so when rainy weather came I played battledoor and shuttlecock with father when he came home to dinner, and one day we kept it up to five hundred and two. Then before tea I used to skip rope along the upper entry sometimes; and then there was something else—but I suppose Fanny will tell all the girls in school and make them laugh at me; but I really enjoyed it best of anything.
Fanny. What was it? tell us, do. I hate secrets.
Laura. You like to find them out, I am sure; but it is no mighty secret, after all; and I don’t know why I need be ashamed to tell, for my father and mother made no objection. I went up into the nursery every evening before the little ones went to bed, and played blind man’s buff with them.
Fanny. And could you take any pleasure in it?
Laura. To be sure.
Fanny. Then I must say I had no idea you were such a baby. Mr. Teachall’s best scholar playing romping games with little children! I am six months younger than you, Laura, but I hold myself rather too much of a woman for blind man’s buff! I gave that up three years ago!
Laura. Well! it seemed to make the children enjoy their fun all the better, and I am sure it did me a deal of good, and did nobody any harm; so I am content to be called a baby.
Susan. I don’t see how you could take the trouble; it tires me just to think of going racing about the room at that rate. I should as soon think of sitting down to study French for amusement.
Fanny. I wonder you did not do that too, Miss Busy. I declare she looks as if she had! Who would have thought of that?
Laura. I see no harm. You know how terrible hard those last lessons were before the term ended, and I was afraid I should forget them; so I have been reviewing the last thirty pages with sister Helen, to keep what I had got, as she says, and make the next come easier.
Susan. A pretty vacation, to be sure! How upon earth did you find time for it all?
Laura. Why, I don’t know. There are no more hours in my day than there are in yours, Susan. But good-by, girls; I am going to see if aunt Kindly has come to town again.
Fanny. Stop a minute, Laura; I am going shopping, and I want to know where your mother bought that lovely French cambric. I mean to tease my mother for one just like it.
Laura. Mother did not buy it; she would not think of getting me anything so expensive. Aunt Kindly sent it to me.
Fanny. Oh ho! a present, was it? I never thought of that. I wonder what put it into her head.
Laura. I believe she was pleased because, when mother was fitting out two poor boys to go to sea, I did some plain sewing for them. Your mother helped too, Susan.
Susan. Why, that was before the vacation, and you never missed school a single day: how could you find time then?
Laura. I used to go at it before breakfast, and at every odd moment; sometimes I could sew quarter of an hour while I was waiting for something or somebody, and even that helped on the work. I think that is a great advantage we girls have over boys. Mother says the needle darns up idle minutes, that are like holes in our time. Good-by; you creep so like snails, I should think you would fall asleep. (Exit.)
Susan. Well, Laura always looks so lively! but I would not lead such a life for anything.
Fanny. I begin to think I would, Susan! she really makes me ashamed of myself; and I should think you would be so too, when you know your mother is always grieving at your laziness. I have heard her tell my mother twenty times that your indolence makes your life a burden to you, and that she is mortified when she thinks what kind of woman you will make.
Susan. It is better to be idle than to be always talking about people, Fanny! (Pouting.)
Fanny. You are incurable, I do believe; but I am not, and I am going home this minute to find some work, and mind my own affairs.
Susan. Why, I thought we were going shopping!
Fanny. But I am not in want of anything; I was only going to kill time and pick up some news. I will try the experiment, at any rate; I will lead Laura’s life a couple of days and see how I like it. I really think the time will not hang so heavy on my hands, and my tongue will not get me into so many difficulties. Good-by, Susan.
Susan. Good-by. Oh dear! I wonder what I shall do with myself now!
“In this country,” says an English editor, “it is considered the height of folly for a man to get drunk and lie across a railroad with the idea of obtaining repose.” The same opinion obtains to a considerable extent in America.