Little Sunshine's holiday

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

“Mamma!” she said, and smiled her own beaming smile, and sat up and looked about her. “It’s daylight. Sunny wants to get up.”

That getting up was a most amusing affair. It lasted as long as mamma’s ingenuity could possibly make it last, without any assistance from poor, worn-out Lizzie, who was left to sleep her fill. First, Sunny’s face and hands had to be washed with a damp sponge, and wiped with mamma’s pocket-handkerchief. Then her hair was combed and brushed, with a brush that had a looking-glass on the back of it; in which she contemplated herself from time to time, laughing with exceeding merriment. Lastly, there was breakfast to be got ready and eaten.

A most original breakfast! Beginning with a large pear, out of a basketful which a kind old gentleman had made up as a special present to Sunny; then some ham sandwiches,—from which the ham was carefully extracted; then a good drink of milk. To uncork the bottle in which this milk had been carried, and pour it into the horn cup without spilling, required an amount of skill and care which occupied both mamma and Sunny for ever so long. In fact, they spent over their dressing and breakfasting nearly an hour; and by this time they were both in the best of spirits, and benignly compassionate to Lizzie, who slept on, and wanted no breakfast.

And when the sun at last came out, a watery and rather melancholy orb, not at all like the sun of the Highlands, the child was as bright and merry as if she had not travelled at all, and played about in the railway-carriage just as if it were her own nursery.

This was well, for several weary hours had still to be passed; the train was far behind its time; and what poor mamma would have done without the unfailing good temper of her “sunshiny child,” she could not tell. When London was reached, and the benevolent guard once more put his head into the carriage, with “Here we are at last. I should think you’d had enough of it, ma’am,” even he could not help giving a smile to the “little Missy” who was so merry and so good.

In London was an hour or two more of weary delay; but it was under a kindly roof, and Sunny had a second beautiful breakfast, all proper, with tea-cups and a table-cloth; which she did not seem to find half so amusing as the irregular one in the railway-carriage. But she was very happy, and continued happy, telling all her adventures in Scotland to a dear old Scotchwoman whom she loves exceedingly, and who loves her back again. And being happy, she remained perfectly good, until once more put into a “puff-puff,” to be landed at her own safe home.

Home. Even the child understood the joy of going home. She began talking of “Sunny’s nursery;” “Sunny’s white pussy;” “Sunny’s little dog Rose;” and recalling all the servants by name, showing she forgot nothing and nobody, though she had been absent so long. She chattered all the way down, till some ladies who were in the carriage could hardly believe she had been travelling all night. And when the train stopped, she was the first to look out of the window and call out, “There’s godmamma!”

So it was! Sunny’s own, kind godmamma, come unexpectedly to meet her and her tired mamma at the station; and oh, they were both so glad!

“Glad” was a small word to express the perfect and entire felicity of getting home,—of finding the house looked just as usual; that the servants’ cheerful faces beamed welcome; that even the doggie Rose barked, and white pussy purred, as if both were glad Little Sunshine was back again. She marched up-stairs, lifting her short legs deliberately one after the other, and refusing to be carried; then ran into her nursery just as if she had left it only yesterday. And she “allowed” her mamma to have dinner with her there, sitting at table, as grand as if she were giving a dinner-party; and chattering like a little magpie to the very end of the meal. But after that she collapsed. So did her mamma. So did her Lizzie. They were all so dreadfully tired that human nature could endure no more. Though it was still broad daylight, and with all the delights of home around them, they went to bed, and slept straight on,—mamma “all around the clock,” and the child and her Lizzie for fourteen hours!

Thus ended Little Sunshine’s Holiday. It is told just as it happened, to amuse other little people, who no doubt are as fond as she is of hearing “stories.” Only this is not a story, but the real truth. Not the whole truth, of course, for that would be breaking in upon what grown-up people term “the sanctities of private life.” But there is no single word in it which is not true. I hope you will like it, little people, simple as it is. And so, good-bye!