The “nothing-to-do” morning had nearly slipped away, between the conversation with Aunt Judy, and the visit to Tawny Rachel; and when, soon after, a friend called to take No. 3 off on a fossil hunt, and he had to snatch a hasty morsel before his departure, he declared he was like the poor governess in the song, who was sure to
“Find out,
With attention and zeal,
That she’d scarcely have time
To partake of a meal,”
there was so much to do. “But you’re a capital fellow, Judy,” he added, kissing her, “and you’ll tell me a story when I come back;” and off he ran, shutting his ears to Aunt Judy’s declaration that she only told stories to the “little ones.”
Nor would she, on his return, and during the cozy evening “nothing-to-do” hour, consent to devote herself to his especial amusement only. So, after arguing the point for a time, he very wisely yielded, and declared at last that he would be a “little one” too, and listen to a “little one’s” story, if Aunt Judy would tell one.
It was rather late when this was settled, and the little ones had stayed up-stairs to play at a newly-invented game—bazaars—in the nursery; but when No. 3 strode in with the announcement of the story, there was a shout of delight, followed by the old noisy rush down-stairs to the dining-room.
It is not a bad thing to be a “little one” now and then in spirit. People would do well to try and be so oftener. Who that has looked upon a picture of himself as a “little one,” has not wished that he could be restored to the “little one’s” spirit, the “little one’s” innocence, the “little one’s” hopeful trust? “Of such is the kingdom of Heaven!” And though none of us would like to live our lives over again, lest our errors should be repeated, and so doubled in guilt, all of us, at the sight of what we once were, would fain, very fain, if we could, lie down to sleep, and awake a “little one” again. Never, perhaps, is the sweet mercy of an early death brought so closely home to our apprehension, as when the grown-up, care-worn man looks upon the image of himself as a child.
Happily, however—nay, more than happily, mercifully—the grown-up man, if he do but put on the humility, may gain something of the peace of a “little one’s” heart!
Aunt Judy had twisted up a roll of muslin for a turban on her head by the time they came down, “for,” said she, “this is to be an eastern tale, and I shall not be inspired—that is to say, I shall not get on a bit—unless there is a costume and manners to correspond, so you three little ones squat yourselves down Turkish-fashion on the floor, with your legs tucked under you. There now! that’s something like, and I begin to feel myself in the East. Nevertheless, I am rather glad there is no critical Eastern traveller at hand, listening through the key-hole to my blunders.
“However, errors excepted, here is the wonderful story of