REFLECTIONS AND RESOLUTIONS.
There is no place so conducive to reflection as the quiet of one's bedchamber, when confined to it by sickness. It is true, when the illness is violent, pain for the time excludes every thought beyond that of the actual suffering,—for pain makes us all very, very selfish; but when the bodily suffering is over, and our meditations come back into their usual channel; when we are in a state of convalescence, and are about shortly to resume our intercourse with the world, a crowd of thoughts comes trooping from our brains, and we live over again much of our former lives, and imagine beforehand scenes of our life to come.
At least it was so with me. When I had recovered from the fever into which the disagreeable events related in the last Chapter had thrown me, I ran over in my recollection everything that had occurred to me up to the present time. I was again a thoughtless Kitten, gamboling on the green, playing with my own tail, or resisting with all my might the efforts of my poor mother to lick me clean! Again I wandered in the fields with my young companions, clambered trees for birds, or hid myself away in solitary places for stray rats! I once more hearkened to my dead cousin's voice, as she warbled one of her pretty songs; and as I still went on reflecting, I was again sitting in the arbour, listening to the deep tones of Senhor Dickie, until the malicious face of my neighbour's daughter, peering at us from the broken paling, broke in upon my thoughts, and I heard the vile malicious screams and hisses of the ill-bred Cats which had caused his abrupt departure and my present confinement. It was a bitter recollection; and, as I recalled the scene, I hid my face in my paws and mewed aloud.
As I got calmer I meditated upon what was best to be done. I would have despised the reports of cruelty which I was sure were spread abroad against me, and have continued my school, if my scholars had felt inclined to resume their lessons; but as they had not come back after the first day, that resource was denied me. Without some occupation, I felt certain I could not bear the being at war with my neighbours; for although I had done nothing unkind, they evidently believed I had; and as there was no opportunity of convincing them of the truth, I suffered just as much as if I had been guilty.
One road was yet open to me; and as I thought of it my eyes brightened up, and a low purr of satisfaction unconsciously broke from my bosom—I could travel! This idea had no sooner entered my head than it took entire possession of me, and drove everything else out of my thoughts. I wished to be at once well and strong, in order to carry out my new-formed resolution. The prospect of a speedy change, and the thought of seeing new countries and other animals, produced at once a favourable effect, and not many days elapsed before I was able to sit up and resume some of my usual habits.
I did not venture into the garden, for fear of again exciting the remarks of my rude neighbours; but I sat by the door, and looked out upon the green trees, and the blue sky, and the lively birds, with a delight I cannot describe.
How beautiful does all nature seem after we have been deprived for some time, by illness, of the pleasure of looking upon it! How delicious is the air! how sweet the perfume of the flowers! and how agreeable to the sense the hum of each fly as it basks in the sunshine, cleaning its glittering wings, or darts in and out and round and round in chase of some companion! It is worth being ill, to enjoy such pure happiness, and to feel the gratitude which gushes up from our hearts at being permitted to see again the loveliness of creation.