Little Sunshine's holiday

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

“Mamma, is that church? Is that my papa singing?”

Mamma did not think it was, but it might be Maurice’s papa, and his mamma, and Lizzie, and several other people; Sunny must listen and be quite quiet, so as not to disturb them.

So she did, good little girl! sitting as mute as a mouse all the while the music lasted, and when it ceased, playing about, still quietly; building pebble mountains, and gathering a few withered leaves to stick on the top of them. For she and her mamma were sitting on the gravel walk of the schoolmaster’s garden, beside a row of flowerpots, still radiant with geraniums and fuchsias. They were so close to the open window under which stood the pulpit, that mamma was able to hear almost every word of the sermon,—and a very good sermon it was.

When it ended, the friendly little congregation shook hands and talked a little; then separated, half going up and the other half down the road. The minister came home to dinner, walking between Maurice and Eddie, of whom he was a particular friend. They always looked forward to this weekly visit of his as one of the Sunday enjoyments, for he was an admirable hand at an oar, and Eddie, who tyrannised over him in the most affectionate way, was quite sure of “a low” when the minister was there.

So, after dinner, all went out together, parents and children, pastor and flock, in two boats, and rowed peacefully up and down the loch, which had fallen into the cool gray shadow of evening, with the most gorgeous sunset light, resting on the mountains opposite, and gradually fading away, higher and higher, till the topmost peaks alone kept the glow. But that they did to the very last; like a good man who, living continually in the smile of God, lives cheerfully on to the end.

Sunny and her mamma watched the others, but did not go out, it being near the child’s bedtime; and unless it is quite unavoidable, nobody ever puts Sunny to bed, or hears her say her little prayers, except her own mamma. She went to sleep quite happily, having now almost forgotten to ask for Tommy Tinker, or any other story. The continual excitement of her life here left her so sleepy that the minute she had her little nightgown on, she was ready to shut her eyes, and go off into what mamma calls “the land of Nod.”

And so ended, for her, the first Sunday in the glen, which, in its cheerful, holy peace, was a day long to be remembered. But the little boys, Maurice and Eddie, who did not go to bed so early, after the loch grew dark, and the rowing was all done, spent a good long evening in the drawing-room, climbing on the minister’s knees, and talking to him about boats and salmon, and all sorts of curious things: he was so very kind to little children. And after the boys were gone to bed, he and the elder folk gathered around the not unwelcome fire, and talked too. This good minister, who spent his life in the lonely glen, with very little money,—so little that rich Southern people would hardly believe an educated clergyman could live upon it at all,—and almost no society, except that of the few cottagers and farmers scattered thinly up and down, yet kept his heart up, and was cheerful and kindly, ready to help old and young, rich and poor, and never complaining of his dull life, or anything else—this gentleman, I say, was a pattern to both great folk and small.

The one only subject of discontent in the house, if anybody could feel discontent in such a pleasant place and amid such happy circumstances, was the continued fine weather. While the sky remained unclouded, and the loch as smooth as glass, no salmon would bite. They kept jumping up in the liveliest and most provoking way; sometimes you could see their heads and shoulders clean out of water, and of course they looked bigger than any salmon ever seen before. Vainly did the master of the house and his guests go after them whenever there was the least cloud on the sky, and coax them to bite with the most fascinating flies and most alluring hooks; they refused to take the slightest notice of either. Only trout, and they not big ones, ever allowed themselves to be caught.

The children and mammas, delighting in the warm sunshiny weather, did not grieve much, but the gentlemen became quite low in their spirits, and at last, for their sakes, and especially for the sake of that one who only cared for fishing, and had come so far to fish, the whole household began to watch the sky, and with great self-sacrifice to long for a day—a whole day—of good, settled, pelting rain.

And on the Monday following this bright Sunday, it seemed likely. The morning was rather dull, the sunshiny haze which hung over the mountains melted away, and they stood out sharp and dark and clear. Toward noon, the sky clouded over a little,—a very little! Hopefully the elders sat down to their four o’clock dinner, and by the time it was over a joyful cry arose: