Little Sunshine's holiday

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

CHAPTER VII.

Life at the glen went on every day alike, in the simplest, happiest fashion, a sort of paradise of children, as in truth it was. Even the elders lived like children; and big people and little people were together, more or less, all day long. A thing not at all objectionable when the children are good children, as these were.

The boys were noisy, of course, and, after the first hour of the morning, clean faces, hands, and clothes became a difficulty quite insurmountable, in which their mother had to resign herself to fate; as the mamma of five boys, running about wild in the Highlands, necessarily must. But these were good, obedient, gentlemanly little fellows, and, had it been possible to keep them clean and whole, which it wasn’t, very pretty little fellows, too.

Of course they had a few boyish propensities, which increased the difficulty. Maurice, for instance, had an extraordinary love for all creeping things, and especially worms. On the slightest pretence of getting bait to fish with, he would go digging for them, and stuff them into his pockets, whence, if you met him, you were as likely as not to see one or two crawling out. If you remonstrated, he looked unhappy, for Maurice really loved his worms. He cherished them carefully, and did not in the least mind their crawling over his hands, his dress, or his plate. Only, unfortunately, other people did. When scolded, he put his pets meekly aside, but always returned to them with the same love as ever. Perhaps Maurice may turn out a great naturalist some day.

The one idea of Eddie’s life was boats. He was for ever at the little pier waiting a chance of a row, and always wanting to “low” somebody, especially with “two oars,” which he handled uncommonly well for so small a child. Fortunately for him, though not for his papa and the salmon-fishers, the weather was dead calm, so that it was like paddling on a duck-pond; and the loch being shallow just at the pier, except a few good wettings, which he seemed to mind as little as if he were a frog, bright, brave, adventurous Eddie came to no harm.

Nor Franky, who imitated him admiringly whenever he could. But Franky, who was rather a reserved little man, and given to playing alone, had, besides the pier, another favourite play-place, a hollow cut out in the rock to receive the burn which leaped down from the hillside just behind the house. Being close to the kitchen door, it was put to all sorts of domestic uses, being generally full of pots and pans, saucepans and kettles,—not the most advisable playthings, but Franky found them charming. He also unluckily found out something else,—that the hollow basin had an outlet, through which any substance, sent swimming down the swift stream, swam away beautifully for several yards, and then disappeared underground. And the other end of this subterraneous channel being in the loch, of course it disappeared for ever. In this way there vanished mysteriously all sorts of things,—cups and saucers, toys, pinafores, hats; which last Franky was discovered in the act of making away with, watching them floating off with extreme delight. It was no moral crime, and hardly punishable, but highly inconvenient. Sunny’s beloved luggie, which had been carried about with her for weeks, was believed to have disappeared in this way, and, as it could not sink, is probably now drifting somewhere about on the loch, to the great perplexity of the fishes.

Little Phil, alas! was too delicate to be mischievous. He crept about in the sunshine, not playing with anybody, but just looking on at the rest, with his pale, sweet, pensive face. He was very patient and good, and he suffered very much. One day, hearing his uncle at family prayers pray that God would make him better, he said, sadly, “If He does, I wish He would make haste about it.” Which was the only complaint gentle, pathetic little Phil was ever heard to utter.

Sunny regarded him with some awe, as “the poor little boy who was so ill.” For herself, she has never yet known what illness is; but she is very sympathetic over it in others. Anybody’s being “not well” will at once make her tender and gentle; as she always was to Phil. He in his turn was very kind to her, lending her his “music,” which was the greatest favour he could bestow or she receive.

This “music” was a box of infantile instruments, one for each boy,—trumpet, drum, fife, etc., making a complete band, which a rash-minded but affectionate aunt had sent them, and with which they marched about all day long, to their own great delight and the corresponding despair of their elders. Phil, who had an ear, would go away quietly with his “music,”—a trumpet, I think it was,—and play it all by himself. But the others simply marched about in procession, each making the biggest noise he could, and watched by Sunny with admiration and envy. Now and then, out of great benevolence, one of the boys would lend her his instrument, and nobody did this so often as Phil, though of them all he liked playing his music the best. The picture of him sitting on the door-step, with his pale fingers wandering over his instrument, and his sickly face looking almost contented as he listened to the sound, will long remain in everybody’s mind. Sunny never objected to her mamma’s carrying him, as he often had to be carried; though he was fully six years old. He was scarcely heavier than the little girl herself. Austin Thomas would have made two of him.

Austin’s chief peculiarity was this amiable fatness. He tumbled about like a roly-poly pudding, amusing everybody, and offending no one but Little Sunshine. But his persistent pursuit of her mamma, whom he insisted on calling “Danmamma” (grandmamma), and following whenever he saw her, was more than the little girl could bear, and she used to knit her brows and look displeased. However, mamma never took any notice, knowing what a misery to itself and all about it is a jealous child.