Little Sunshine's holiday

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

The seat they chose was, for precaution, the one nearest the door, and next to “the pauper,” an old man who alone of all the inhabitants of the glen did not work, but received parish relief. He was just able to come to church, but looked as if he had “one foot in the grave,” as people say (whither, indeed, the other foot soon followed, for the poor old man died not many weeks after this Sunday). He had a wan, weary, but uncomplaining face; and as the rosy child, with her bright curls, her fair, fresh cheeks, and plump, round limbs, sat down upon the bench beside him, the two were a strange and touching contrast.

Two little churchgoers.

Never did any child behave better than Little Sunshine, on this her first going to church. Yes, even though she soon caught sight of her own papa, sitting a few benches off, but afraid to look at her lest she should misbehave. Also of Maurice’s papa and mamma, and of Maurice and Eddie themselves, not noticing her at all, and behaving beautifully. She saw them, but, faithful to her promise, she did not speak one word, not even in a whisper to mamma. She allowed herself to be lifted up and down, to sit or stand as the rest did, and when the music began she listened with an ecstasy of pleasure on her little face; but otherwise she conducted herself as well as if she had been thirteen instead of not quite three years old. Once only, when the prayers were half through, and the church was getting warm, she gravely took off her hat and laid it on the bench before her,—sitting the rest of the service with her pretty curls bare,—but that was all.

During the sermon she was severely tried. Not by its length, for it was fortunately short, and she sat on her mamma’s lap, looking fixedly into the face of the minister, as pleased with him in his new position as when he was rowing her in the boat, or gathering nuts for her along the canal bank. All were listening, as attentive as possible, for everybody loved him, Sundays and week-days; and even Sunny herself gazed as earnestly as if she were taking in every word he said,—when her quick little eyes were caught by a new interest,—a small, shaggy Scotch terrier, who put his wise-looking head inquiringly in at the open door.

Oh, why was the church door left open? No doubt, so thought the luckless master of that doggie! He turned his face away; he kept as quiet as possible, hoping not to be discovered; but the faithful animal was too much for him. In an ecstasy of joy, the creature rushed in and out and under several people’s legs, till he got to the young man who owned him, and then jumped upon him in unmistakable recognition. Happily, he did not bark; indeed, his master, turning red as a peony, held his hand over the creature’s mouth.

What was to be done? If he scolded the dog, or beat him, there would be a disturbance immediately; if he encouraged or caressed him, the loving beast would have begun—in fact, he did slightly begin—a delighted whine. All the perplexed master could do was to keep him as quiet as circumstances allowed, which he managed somehow by setting his foot on the wildly wagging tail, and twisting his fingers in one of the long ears, the dog resisting not at all. Quite content, if close to his master, the faithful beast snuggled down, amusing himself from time to time by gnawing first a hat and then an umbrella, and giving one small growl as an accidental footstep passed down the road; but otherwise behaving as well as anybody in church. The master, too, tried to face out his difficulty, and listen as if nothing was the matter; but I doubt he rather lost the thread of the sermon.

So did Sunny’s mamma for a few minutes. Sunny is so fond of little doggies, that she fully expected the child to jump from her lap, and run after this one; or, at least, to make a loud remark concerning it, for the benefit of the congregation generally. But Sunny evidently remembered that “nobody spoke in church;” and possibly she regarded the dog’s entrance as a portion of the service, for she maintained the most decorous gravity. She watched him, of course, with all her eyes; and once she turned with a silent appeal to her mamma to look too, but said not a word. The little terrier himself did not behave better than she, to the very end of the service.

It ended with a beautiful hymn,—“O Thou from whom all goodness flows.” Everybody knows it, and the tune too; which I think was originally one of those sweet litanies to the Virgin which one hears in French churches, especially during the month of May. The little congregation knew it well, and sang it well, too. When Sunny saw them all stand up, she of her own accord stood up likewise, mounting the bench beside the old pauper, who turned half round, and looked on the pleasant child with a faint, pathetic sort of smile.

Strange it was to stand and watch the different people who stood singing, or listening to, that hymn; Maurice and Eddie, with their papa and mamma; other papas and mammas with their little ones; farmers and farm-servants who lived in the glen, with a chance tourist or two who happened to be passing through; several old Highland women, grim and gaunt with long, hard-working lives; the poor old pauper, who did not know that his life was so nearly over; and lastly, the little three-year-old child, with her blue eyes wide open and her rosy lips parted, not stirring a foot or a finger, perfectly motionless with delight. Verse after verse rose the beautiful hymn, not the less beautiful because so familiar: