Bessie on Her Travels

by Joanna H. Mathews

Yes: there it was, the “true sea,” as she called it, or more properly the seashore she loved so much. Her friends watched her for a moment with smiling interest. They had expected to see her so pleased; and, wishing to be present when she first beheld it, Mrs. Rush had so arranged that she and Maggie should be on the other side of the house on the first morning, and nurse and Jane had been told to keep them as much as possible from the sight and sound of the sea.

The Colonel rose, and, taking her hand, led her out upon the broad piazza, where she might see the whole extent of land and water which the magnificent view afforded.

The house stood on very high ground, overlooking a cliff in front, which fell sheer down to the water. To the left, was a broad, sweeping curve of beach, on which the waves were breaking; the long white rollers, with their curling tops, following one another in grand procession, and making beautiful and solemn music as their march was ended. Away to the right lay a wilder, but hardly a grander, scene. Here were great, rugged rocks, among and over which dashed and foamed the waves, whose course they barred. Some were hidden beneath the surface of the water, and the feathery foam which boiled and bubbled over their jagged faces, alone told where they lay. Beyond, and far away, stretched the boundless ocean, the sea Bessie so loved; the white crests of its waves flashing and sparkling in the glorious sunshine of that bright morning; the blue and cloudless sky, overhead. And the hymn which the grand old king was sounding in Bessie’s ear, was still that she had so loved two summers ago, the chant of praise which bids all who can hear, “remember our Father who made it.”

She stood holding the Colonel’s hand, gazing and listening, as though eye and ear could not take their fill; breakfast was unheeded, and it was not till grandmamma reproachfully asked if she was to be forgotten for the sea, that Bessie could be persuaded to turn away.

Maggie, too, was delighted to be once more at the seashore; but she had not the longing for it that Bessie had, and all places were about equally pleasant to her, provided she had those she loved with her.

But now May Bessie was brought, and even the sea was for the time forgotten in the pleasure of seeing her and noticing how much she had grown and improved. When a little life is counted by months, two of these make a great difference, and it was as long as that since Maggie and Bessie had seen Mrs. Rush’s baby. She was a sweet, bright, little thing; and it might have been thought that she had seen the children every day, so speedily did she make friends with them. Indeed, Bessie was sure the baby recognized them, and intended to show she was glad to see them; and no one cared to disturb this belief, in which she took great satisfaction. It was funny to see the patronizing airs which little Annie put on towards the younger baby, and the care which she showed for her. She called her “Dolly,” and seemed to think it hard and strange that she was not allowed to pull and carry her about as she would have done a real doll. Aunt Patty, who had taken a great fancy to Mrs. Rush, had made several toys and pretty things for her baby’s use, and among them was a worsted doll, in all respects like the lost Peter Bartholomew.

May Bessie had not the same objections to this gentleman that little Annie had to hers, but opened great eyes, and cooed and crowed at him; and altogether showed more pleasure in him than in any other plaything she possessed. Not so Annie, when he was introduced to her.

“See here, baby. Who is this?” said Mrs. Bradford, wishing to see if she would recognize it, and she held up the doll before the eyes of her by no means gratified baby daughter.

The pet drew up her rose-bud of a mouth into the most comical expression of astonishment and disgust at the sight of the old object of her dislike; for, as was quite natural, she took it to be the very same Peter Bartholomew. Then, taking him from her mother’s hand, she gravely marched with him to the hearth-rug, and, tucking him beneath it, sat down upon it, saying, “Tit on Peter,” in a tone of triumph, as though she thought she had now altogether extinguished the unlucky offender. Great was her indignation when, later in the day, she was brought in from her drive, and found Peter Bartholomew No. 2 had reappeared. Finding the hearth-rug was not a safe hiding-place, she was from this time constantly contriving ways and means for putting him out of sight; but only to find that he as constantly turned up again. In vain did she throw him out of windows, and behind doors; poke him through the banisters, and let him fall in the hall below: tuck him behind sofa-cushions, and squeeze him into the smallest possible corners, with all manner of things piled on top of him: he still proved a source of trouble to her. The other children found great amusement in this, and in pretending to hunt for Peter, while they knew very well where he was.

But on the third day they really hunted in vain. Peter Bartholomew the second seemed to be as thoroughly “all don,” as his namesake who had been left on the far-away Southern railroad; and the nurses joined in the search with no better success. Annie seemed to have accomplished her object this time; and the little one herself could not be persuaded to say where she had put him. Her mother tried to make her tell; but the child seemed really to have forgotten, and the matter was allowed to rest.