Little Prudy's Sister Susy

by Sophie May

It was worst at night. Hour after hour, she would lie awake, and listen to the ticking of the clock. Susy thought it a pitiable case, when she, heard the clock strike once; but little Prudy heard it strike again and again. How strangely it pounded out the strokes in the night! What a dreary sound it was, pealing through the silence! The echoes answered with a shudder. Then, when Prudy had counted one, two, three, four, and the clock had no more to say at that time, it began to tick again: "Prudy's sick! Prudy's sick! O, dear me! O, dear me!"

Prudy could hardly believe it was the same clock she saw in the daytime. She wondered if it felt lonesome in the night, and had the blues; or what could ail it! The poor little girl wanted somebody to speak to in these long, long hours. She did not sleep with Susy, but in a new cot-bed of her own, in aunt Madge's room; for, dearly as she loved to lie close to any one she loved, she begged now to sleep alone, "so nobody could hit her, or move her, or joggle her."

It was a great comfort to have aunt Madge so near. If it had been Susy instead, Prudy would have had no company but the sound of her breathing. It was of no use to try to wake Susy in the dead of night. Pricking her with pins would startle her, but she never knew anything even after she was startled. All she could do was to stare about her, cry, and act very cross, and then—go to sleep again.

But with aunt Madge it was quite different. She slept like a cat, with one eye open. Perhaps the reason she did not sleep more soundly, was, that she felt a care of little Prudy. No matter when Prudy spoke to her, aunt Madge always answered. She did not say, "O, dear, you've startled me out of a delicious nap!" She said, "Well, darling, what do you want?" Prudy generally wanted to know when it would be morning? When would the steamboat whistle? What made it stay dark so long? She wanted a drink of water, and always wanted a story.

If aunt Madge had forgotten to provide a glass of water, she put on her slippers, lighted the little handled lamp, and stole softly down stairs to the pail, which Norah always pumped full of well-water the last thing in the evening.

Or, if Prudy fancied it would console her to have a peep at her beautiful doll which "would be alive if it could speak," why, down stairs went auntie again to search out the spot where Susy had probably left it when "she took it to show to some children."

The many, many times that kind young lady crept shivering down stairs to humor Prudy's whims! Prudy could not have counted the times; and you may be sure aunt Madge never would.

Then the stories, both sensible and silly, which Prudy teased for, and always got! Aunt Madge poured them forth like water into the sieve of Prudy's mind, which could not hold stories any better than secrets. No matter how many she told, Prudy insisted that she wanted "one more," and the "same one over again."

It touched Susy to the heart to see how much her little sister suffered, and she spent a great deal of time at first in trying to amuse her. Aunt Madge told stories in the night; but Susy told them in the daytime, till, as she expressed it, her "tongue ached." She cut out paper dolls when she wanted to read, and played go visiting, or dressed rag babies, when she longed to be out of doors. But while the novelty lasted, she was quite a Florence Nightingale.

Her Wednesday and Saturday after-noons were no longer her own. Before Prudy's lameness, Susy had used her new skates a great deal, and could now skim over the ice quite gracefully, for a little girl of her age. The reason she learned to skate so well, was because she was fearless. Most children tremble when they try to stand on the ice, and for that very reason are nearly sure to fall; but Susy did not tremble in the face of danger: she had a strong will of her own, and never expected to fail in anything she undertook.