Squib and His Friends

by Evelyn Everett-Green

Squib laughed aloud as he watched the quickly-moving pencil.

“Oh, Seppi, how clever you are! I wish I could draw like that! Who taught you?”

“Nobody, exactly. It seems to be in my fingers. But the Herr Adler told me many things that helped, and he gave me a box of pencils when he was here last, and left me all his paper when he went away. It’s nearly done now. I have to be very careful. But if he comes again this summer perhaps he’ll give me some more. He is so very kind.”

Squib could not linger longer. It was time he went back. But as he pursued his homeward way his face was glowing with happiness and with a generous purpose.

A new page of history had been turned before Squib’s eyes that day; a new world had been opened out before him. Hitherto he had lived amongst those to whom all the good things of this world come as a matter of course. He himself had had every reasonable pleasure and enjoyment ever since he could remember, and although his nurses and parents had told him from time to time that other little boys were not so well off as himself, he had not yet realized how wide was the gulf which separated his lot from that of the majority of those about him.

At home he had heard of poverty and trouble; he had always been used to go in and out of the cottages on his father’s estate and talk to the people in them, but he had always fancied that it must be very nice to live as they did. He found them smiling and content. He knew that in sickness and trouble they were cared for; nothing in their condition aroused his pity or compassion. He used often to think he should like to have one of the cottages himself, and work on the farm instead of going to school. All the conditions of life which he had seen in England were too familiar to have aroused speculation, but with this little mountain goat-herd everything seemed different.

He did not quite understand what the difference was, but in talking to Seppi he had realized it more than once with singular clearness. He had gleaned that Seppi hardly knew the taste of meat, that he and all his family lived with a frugality almost unknown in England. The bit of black rye-bread and morsel of goat’s cheese which had been Seppi’s dinner gave him a better idea of what life in the chalets was like than he had had before. He had shared his own dainties with the wondering Seppi, who had plainly never tasted anything approaching such luxuries before, and could hardly believe that the little Herr fed like that every day. As for Squib, he had eaten a portion of the hard bread and cheese with a certain heroic relish, pleased with the novelty of sharing a real goat-herd’s Swiss dinner, but he could not honestly feel that he should like such fare every day, and he secretly had no small admiration for the boy who seemed to take these things as a matter of course.

And then to think that Seppi could not even obtain pencil or paper for himself, and could indulge his favourite occupation only through the kindness of a chance visitor! Why, to Squib such things came as naturally as the food he ate or the clothes he wore. It would never have occurred to him that there could be any difficulty in getting pencils. Squib spoilt or lost a dozen pencils in the year, and as for paper—why, there was always an endless store at home. And Seppi had to be careful of his meagre supply because he could get no more unless Herr Adler came back.

The child’s eyes glowed with a mixture of feelings as he realized this, and he hurried home as fast as his legs would carry him, full of a new purpose and plan.

Up to his room he hastened by the little outer stairway which was such a source of delight to him, and straight to the cupboard where all his treasures were stored. This cupboard was in a state of quaint disorder, but Squib always knew where to find what he wanted, though the object he was searching for now was hidden away almost at the bottom of the receptacle. He drew it forth at last, however, with a look of pride and delight. It was nothing more or less than a big square sketch-book, with thick drawing-paper of different soft tints filling its stout black covers. Squib set to work to count the leaves, and found that there were fifty.