Amidst these various amusements passed the day. It began at 8 A. M., when Sunshine and her mamma usually appeared on the terrace in front of the house. They two were “early birds,” and so they got “the worm,”—that is, a charming preliminary breakfast of milk, bread and butter, and an egg, which they usually ate on the door-step. Sometimes the rest, who had had their porridge, the usual breakfast of Scotch children,—and very nice it is, too,—gathered around for a share; which it was pleasant to give them, for they waited so quietly, and were never rough or rude.
Nevertheless, sometimes difficulties arose. The tray being placed on the gravel, Maurice often sat beside it, and his worms would crawl out of his pocket and on to the bread and butter. Then Eddie now and then spilt the milk, and Austin Thomas would fill the salt-cellar with sand out of the gravel walk, and stir it all up together with the egg-spoon; a piece of untidiness which Little Sunshine resented extremely.
She had never grown reconciled to Austin Thomas. In spite of his burly good-nature, and his broad beaming countenance (which earned him the nickname of “Cheshire,” from his supposed likeness to the Cheshire Cat in “Alice’s Adventures”), she refused to play with him; whenever he appeared, her eye followed him with distrust and suspicion, and when he said “Danmamma,” she would contradict him indignantly.
“It isn’t grandmamma, it’s my mamma, my own mamma. Go away, naughty boy!” If he presumed to touch the said mamma, it was always, “Take me up in your arms, in your own arms,”—so as to prevent all possibility of Austin Thomas’s getting there.
But one unlucky day Austin tumbled down, and, though more frightened than hurt, cried so much that, his own mamma being away, Sunny’s mamma took him and comforted him, soothing him on her shoulder till he ceased sobbing. This was more than human nature could bear. Sunny did nothing at the time, except pull frantically at her mamma’s gown, but shortly afterward she and Austin Thomas were found by themselves, engaged in single combat on the gravel walk. She had seized him by the collar of his frock, and was kicking him with all her might, while he on his part was pommelling at her with both his little fat fists, like an infant prize-fighter. It was a pitched battle, pretty equal on both sides; and conducted so silently, in such dead earnest, that it would have been quite funny,—if it had not been so very wrong.
Of course such things could not be allowed, even in babies under three years old. Sunny’s mamma ran to the spot and separated the combatants by carrying off her own child right away into the house. Sunny was so astonished that she did not say a word. And when she found that her mamma never said a word either, but bore her along in total silence, she was still more surprised. Her bewilderment was at its height, when, shutting the bedroom door, her mamma set her down, and gave her—not a whipping: she objects to whippings under any circumstances—but the severest scolding the child had ever had in her life.
When I say “scolding,” I mean a grave, sorrowful rebuke, showing how wicked it was to kick anybody, and how it grieved mamma that her good little girl should be so exceedingly naughty. Mamma grieved is a reproach under which little Sunny breaks down at once. Her lips began to quiver; she hung her head sorrowfully.
“Sunny had better go into the cupboard,” suggested she.
“Yes, indeed,” mamma replied. “I think the cupboard is the only place for such a naughty little girl; go in at once.”