Aunt Judy's Tales

by Mrs. Alfred Gatty

“Now, then, a good groan for the dinner misery,” exclaimed Aunt Judy in conclusion.

The order was obeyed, but somewhat reluctantly, and then Aunt Judy proceeded with her tale.

“On one occasion of the dinner misery,” resumed she, “there happened to be a stranger lady present, who seemed to be very much shocked by what the Victims had to undergo, and to pity them very much; so she said she would set them a nice little puzzle to amuse them till the second course arrived. But now, what do you think the puzzle was? It was a question, and this was it. ‘Which is the harder thing to bear—to have to wait for your dinner, or to have no dinner to wait for?’

“I do not think the little Victims would have quite known what the stranger lady meant, if she had not explained herself; for you see they had never gone without dinner in their lives, so they had not an idea what sort of a feeling it was to have no dinner to wait for. But she went on to tell them what it was like as well as she could. She described to them little Tommy Brown, (whom they envied so much for having no lessons to do,) eating his potatoe soaked in the dripping begged at the squire’s back-door, without anything else to wait—or hope for. She told them that he was never teazed as to how he sat, or even whether he sat or stood, and then she asked them if they did not think he was a very happy little boy? He had no trouble or bother, but just ate his rough morsel in any way he pleased, and then was off, hungry or not hungry, into the streets again.

“To tell you the truth,” pursued Aunt Judy, “the Victims did not know what to say to the lady’s account of little Tommy Brown’s happiness; but as the roast meat came in just as it concluded, perhaps that diverted their attention. However, after they had all been helped, it was suddenly observed that one of them would not begin to eat. He sat with his head bent over his plate, and his cheeks growing redder and redder, till at last some one asked what was amiss, and why he would not go on with his dinner, on which he sobbed out that he had ‘much rather it was taken to little Tommy Brown!’”

“That was a very good little Victim, wasn’t he?” asked No. 8.

“But what did the keepers say?” inquired No. 5, rather anxiously.

“Oh,” replied Aunt Judy, “it was soon settled that Tommy Brown was to have the dinner, which made the little Victim so happy, he actually jumped for joy. On which the stranger lady told them she hoped they would henceforth always ask themselves her curious question whenever they sat down to a good meal again. ‘For,’ said she, ‘my dears, it will teach you to be thankful; and you may take my word for it, it is always the ungrateful people who are the most miserable ones.’”

“Oh, Aunt Judy!” here interposed No. 6, somewhat vehemently, “you need not tell any more! I know you mean us by the little Victims! But you don’t think we really mean to be ungrateful about the beds, or the dinners, or anything, do you?”

There was a melancholy earnestness in the tone of the inquiry, which rather grieved Aunt Judy, for she knew it was not well to magnify childish faults into too great importance: so she took No. 6 on her knee, and assured her she never imagined such a thing as their being really ungrateful, for a moment. If she had, she added, she should not have turned their little ways into fun, as she had done in the story.