Little Sunshine's holiday

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

The clergyman was often one of the nutting-party. He knew every nook and corner of the country around, was equally good at an oar or a fishing-rod, could walk miles upon miles across the mountains, and scramble over rocks as light as a deer. Besides, he was so kind to children, and took such pleasure in pleasing them, that he earned their deepest gratitude, as young things understand gratitude. But they are loving, anyhow, to those that love them, and to have those little boys climbing over him, and hanging about him, and teasing him on all occasions to give them “a low,” was, I dare say, sufficient reward for the good minister.

Sunny liked him, too, very much, and was delighted to go out with him. But there was such dangerous emulation between her and the boys in the matter of “fishing” for dead leaves with a stick, which involved leaning over the boat’s side and snatching at them when caught, and mamma got so many frights, that she was not sorry when the minister announced that every nut-tree down the canal had been “harried” of its fruit, and henceforward people must content themselves with dry land and blackberries.

This was not an exciting sport, and one day the gentlemen got so hard up for amusement that they spent half the morning in watching some gymnastics of Maurice and Eddie, which consisted in climbing up to their papa’s shoulder and sitting on his head. (A proceeding which Sunny admired so, that she never rested till she partly imitated it by “walking up mamma as if she was a tree,” which she did at last like a little acrobat.)

Children and parents became quite interested in their mutual performances; everybody laughed a good deal, and forgot to grumble at the weather, when news arrived that a photographer, coming through the glen, had stopped at the house, wishing to know if the family would like their portraits taken.

Now, anybody, not an inhabitant, coming through the glen, was an object of interest in this lonely place. But a photographer! Maurice’s papa caught at the idea enthusiastically.

“Have him in, by all means. Let us see his pictures. Let us have ourselves done in a general group.”

“And the children,” begged their mamma. “Austin Thomas has never been properly taken, and baby not at all. I must have a portrait of baby.”

“Also,” suggested somebody, “we might as well take a portrait of the mountains. They’ll sit for it quiet enough; which is more than can be said for the children, probably.”

It certainly was. Never had a photographer a more hard-working morning. No blame to the weather, which (alas, for the salmon-fishers!) was perfect as ever; but the difficulty of catching the sitters and arranging them, and keeping them steady, was enormous.

First the servants all wished to be taken; some separately, and then in a general group, which was arranged beside the kitchen door, the scullery being converted into a “dark room” for the occasion. One after the other, the maids disappeared, and re-appeared full-dressed, in the most wonderful crinolines and chignons, but looking not half so picturesque as a Highland farm-girl, who, in her woollen striped petticoat and short gown, with her dark red hair knotted up behind, sat on the wall of the yard contemplating the proceedings.