Here is a characteristic little story told by Mrs. Pierson—
“At the house of an old friend the other day I met a young married lady with her baby. We were talking of Miss Buss, and she said, ‘I only saw her once, when I was five years old, but I have never forgotten her. She saved me from a cruel nurse who ran away from me, and hid in the coal-yards near Chalk Farm Station, while I cried because I was lost. A lady came by and took my hand and comforted me and asked me where I lived. “Near some mountains—red mountains,” I said, and her quick perception divined that I meant some new houses being built near Primrose Hill. She took me in the direction of Oppidan’s Road, where I soon recognized my home; and, after her interview with my mother, I need not say the nurse had to leave.’”
It is delightful to read Miss Buss’ holiday letters about the children, who were often with their aunt while their parents went for rest and change. While the world was standing in awe of the “eminent educationalist” she was inditing sweet letters full of babytalk, of wise counsel hid in nonsense, or of the affection of which her heart was so full—
“1865.
“My dear little Mother,
“Oh! what a boy is ours! to talk about ‘jolly’! Naughty little monkey! We want a three-year old, not a grown-up boy. Kiss him thousands of times for his loving Arnie, whose heart goes out to him twenty times a day at least. She pictures to herself, over and over again, the sweet little shy face on the pier, and her boy waiting to throw himself into her arms when she lands.
“I went last night to see Léonie, more especially to get a kiss of Nina.”
“Stockholm, August 30, 1871.
“My dear little Mother,
“You do not deserve, by the way, to be the mother of sons! You want sweet little goody children—girls—who will sit still, and be made fine, always do what they are told (in public!), never make a noise, and be clever, well-informed children, who will answer any question (provided it be given in the form printed in their books), write beautifully, and spell splendidly! Thank goodness! ‘my’ child is not one of those dear darling little humbugs. Why, I am quite proud of his writing, and his spelling wants time, of course. How many of Miss F.’s class spell better than he? None, of course. Nor do Nina and May-May spell better. Their French bothers them. Frank is a sensible, well-informed lad for his age, and, above all, he has a desire for knowledge. Education is not reading and writing, but means a desire to acquire information. As for Arthur, he is a darling; kiss him for his Arnie.”