Little Grandfather

by Sophie May

Love, the only sister, and the eldest of the family, was almost as soothing and affectionate to Willy as Mrs. Parlin herself. She was tall, fair, and slender, like a lily, and you could hardly believe it possible that she would ever grow to be such a very large woman as her mother, or that Mrs. Parlin had once been thin and delicate, like Love.

There was another, besides these two, who petted Willy; and that was "Liddy," the housemaid. Lydia was a Quaker woman, and every "First Day" and "Fifth Day"—that is, Sunday and Thursday—she went off to a meeting, which was held over the river, three miles away, in a yellow "meeting-house" without any steeple. It was not always convenient to spare Lydia on "Fifth Day," for, Mr. Parlin kept a country hotel, or, as it was called in those days, a "tavern," and there was plenty of work to be done; but no matter how much company came, "Liddy" would leave her pies half rolled out on the board, or her goose half stuffed, and walk off to the Quaker settlement to meeting. But when she came back, she went steadily to work again, and was such a good, honest, pious woman, that nobody thought of finding any fault with her.

She was all the "regular help" Mrs. Parlin had; but Mrs. Knowles did the washing, and often Siller Noonin came in to help Lydia with an extra baking.

Caleb Cushing—or, as the country people called him, "Kellup"—was the man of all work, who took care of the sheep and cattle, and must always be ready to "put up" the horses of any traveller who happened to stop at the house.

Mr. and Mrs. Parlin, the four children, and Caleb and Lydia, made up the household, with the addition of great shaggy Fowler, the dog, and speckled Molly, the cat, with double fore-paws.

Grandfather Cheever, with his hair done up in a queue, came sometimes from Boston, and made a long visit; but you could hardly say he belonged to the family.

Now, my story is to be about Willy, and I would like to describe him; but how can I, when I have heard such various accounts of the child? I suppose, if you had questioned the family about him, you would have heard a different story from every one. His father would have shaken his head, and said, Willy was a "singular child; there was no regulation to him." Seth would have told you he was "impudent." Stephen would have called him "a cry-baby," and Caleb, "the laziest little chap he ever came across;" though "grandf'ther Cheever" thought him "very bright and stirring." Love would have said, "He is so affectionate!" which his father very much doubted. Lydia might possibly have called him a "rogue," because he would spy out her doughnuts and pies, no matter where she hid them away for safe keeping.

But I know very well how his mother would have answered your question about Willy. She would have said, "Don't talk of his faults; he is my own little darling."

And then she would have opened her arms wide, and taken him right in: that is the way it is with mothers.

Thus you see our Willy was not the same to everybody; and no child ever is. To those who loved him he was "sweet as summer;" but not so to those who loved him not.