Young Folks Treasury Volume 3 (of 12) - Hamilton Wright Mabie (classic books to read .txt) 📗

be turned out of the farm at any time. I must keep it to show to Sir Arthur. I have no doubt he will want me to look after things for him as I did for his brother. Now perhaps you wish you had quietly let me add the field to my garden."

Farmer Price said nothing, but dragged himself home a sad man.


III

SUSAN'S GUINEA-FOWL


When Susan had heard her father's story, she quite forgot the loss of her guinea-hen, and thought only of her poor mother who, try as she might, could not bear the bad news. In the middle of the night Susan was roused, as Mrs. Price had become ill, and it was not until early morning that the poor woman fell asleep, her daughter's hand locked fast in hers. Susan remained sitting by the bedside, breathing quietly. Then seeing the candle burn low, she gently withdrew her hand, and on tiptoe went to put out the light, lest the unpleasant smell should wake her mother. All was silent. The gray light of dawn stole into the little room; the sun rose slowly, and Susan peered through the small panes of the lattice window at the glorious sight. A few birds began to chirp, and as the little girl listened to them, her mother started and spoke in her sleep. Susan quickly hung up a white apron before the window to keep out the light, and at the same moment she heard in the distance the voices of the village children singing their Mayday songs. Soon she could see them, Philip leading the way playing upon his pipe and tabor, the others following with nosegays and garlands in their hands. They were coming towards the cottage. Quickly but quietly Susan unlatched the door and ran to meet them.

"Here she is!-here's Susan!" they exclaimed joyfully.

"Here's the Queen of the May!"

"And here's her crown!" cried Rose, pressing forward.

But Susan put her finger to her lips, and pointed to her mother's window. Philip's pipe stopped at once.

"Thank you," said Susan, "but my mother is ill. I can't leave her, you know." Then as she gently put aside the crown, her companions asked her to say who should wear it for her.

"Will you, dear Rose?" she said, placing the garland upon her friend's head. "It's a charming May morning," she added, with a smile; "good-by. We shall not hear your voices or the pipe when you have turned the corner into the village, so you need only stop till then, Philip."

"I shall stop for all day," said Philip: "I've no wish to play any more."

"Good-by, poor Susan! It is a pity you can't come with us," said all the children.

Little Mary ran after Susan to the cottage door. "I forgot to thank you," she said, "for the cowslips. Look how pretty they are, and smell how sweet the violets are that I wear, and kiss me quick or I shall be left behind."

Susan kissed the little breathless girl, and returned softly to the side of her mother's bed. "How grateful that child is to me for a cowslip only! How can I be grateful enough to such a mother as this?" she said to herself, as she bent over the pale face of her sleeping mother.

Her mother's unfinished knitting lay upon a table near the bed, and Susan sat down in her wicker armchair, and went on with the row, in the middle of which Mrs. Price had stopped the evening before. "She taught me to knit, she taught me everything that I know," thought Susan, "and best of all, she taught me to love her, to wish to be like her." Mrs. Price, when she awoke, felt much better, but slowly there came back to her memory the sad news she had heard the evening before. She asked herself if it could have been a dream, but no, it was all too true. She could recall her husband's look as he had said, "I must leave you in three days." Then suddenly she roused herself. "Why! he'll want, he'll want a hundred things," she said. "I must get his linen ready for him. I'm afraid it's very late. Susan, why did you let me sleep so long?"

"Everything shall be ready, dear mother; only don't hurry," said Susan. And indeed her mother was not able to bear any hurry, or to do any work that day. Susan's loving help was never more wanted. She understood so well, she obeyed so exactly, and when she was left to herself, judged so wisely, that her mother had little trouble in directing her. She said that Susan never did too little or too much.

Susan was mending her father's linen, when Rose tapped softly at the window, and beckoned to her to come out. She went.

"How is your mother, in the first place?" said Rose.

"Better, thank you."

"That is nice, and I have a little bit of good news for you besides-here," she said, pulling out a purse, in which there was money. "We'll get the guinea-hen back again-we have all agreed about it. This is the money that has been given to us in the village this May morning. At every door they gave silver. See how generous they have been-twelve shillings. Now we are a match for Miss Barbara. You won't like to leave home, so I'll go to her, and you shall see your guinea-hen in ten minutes."

Rose hurried away, filled with joy at the thought that soon she would return to Susan with her lost bird.

Miss Barbara's maid, Betty, was the first person she saw on reaching the Attorney's house. Rose said she must see Barbara and was shown into a parlor where the young lady sat reading a book.

"How you startled me! Is it only you?" she said, looking up and seeing no one but the maid. Then, as she caught sight of Rose, she went on, "You should have said I was not at home. Pray, my good girl, what do you want?" she said, turning to Rose. "Is it to borrow or to beg that you are here?"

"The person from whom I come does not wish either to borrow or to beg, but to pay for what she asks," answered Rose. Then opening her well-filled purse, she held out to Barbara a bright shilling, saying, "Now please be so good as to give me Susan's guinea-hen."

"You may keep your shilling," replied Barbara. "It would have been enough if it had been paid yesterday when I asked for it, but I told Susan that as it was not paid then I should keep the hen, and I shall. You may go back and tell her so."

While Barbara spoke she had been looking into the open purse in Rose's hand. She thought she could count at least ten shillings. Could she not manage to get at least five of them for the guinea-hen, she wondered?

Rose little guessed what was going on in Barbara's mind, and exclaimed angrily, "We must have Susan's favorite hen, whatever it costs. If one shilling won't do, take two. If two won't do, take three," and she flung the coins one after the other on the table.

"Three won't do," said Barbara.

"Then take four."

Barbara shook her head.

A fifth shilling was offered, but Barbara, seeing that she had the game in her own hands, was silent.

Then Rose threw down shilling after shilling, till twelve bright pieces lay on the table, and her purse was empty.

"Now you may take the guinea-hen," said Barbara.

Rose pushed the money towards the greedy girl, but at the same moment remembered that it had not belonged to herself alone. At once she seized the silver coins, and saying that she must first see if the friends with whom she shared them were willing to part with them, she ran off.

When the children heard Rose's story, they were amazed, that even Barbara could be so mean, but they all agreed that at any cost the guinea-fowl must be set free. In a body they went to Susan and told her so, at the same time handing her the purse. Then they ran off without waiting to be thanked. Rose only stayed behind. Susan knew that she must accept the present gladly, just as she would give one gladly. She was much touched by the kindness of her friends, but she took the purse as simply as she would have given it.

"Well," said Rose, "shall I go back for the guinea-hen?"

"The guinea-hen!" said Susan, starting from a dream into which she had fallen as she looked at the purse. "Certainly I do long to see my pretty guinea-hen once more; but I was not thinking of her just then-I was thinking of my father."

Now Susan had often that day heard her mother wish that she had but money enough in the world to pay to the man who was willing to be trained to fight instead of her husband.

"This, to be sure, will go but a little way," thought Susan; "but still it may be of some use." She told her thought to Rose, and ended by saying that if the money was given to her to spend as she pleased, she would give it to her father.

"It is all yours, my dear, good Susan!" cried Rose. "This is so like you!-but I'm sorry that Miss Bab must keep your guinea-hen. I would not be her for all the guinea-hens, or guineas either, in the whole world. Why, the guinea-hen won't make her happy, and you'll be happy even without it, because you are good. Let me come and help you to-morrow," she went on, looking at Susan's work, "if you have any more mending to do-I never liked work till I worked with you. I won't forget my thimble or my scissors," she added, laughing-"though I used to forget them when I was a wilder girl. I assure you I am clever with my needle now-try me."

Susan told her friend that she would most gladly accept her help, but that she had finished all the needlework that was wanted at present. "But do you know," she went on, "I shall be very busy to-morrow. I won't tell you what it is that I have to do, for I am afraid I shall not succeed, but if I do succeed, I'll come and tell you directly, because you will be so glad."


IV

SUSAN VISITS THE ABBEY


Susan, who had always been attentive to what her mother taught her, and who had often helped her when she was baking bread and cakes for the family at the Abbey, now thought that she could herself bake a batch of bread. One of the new servants from the Abbey had been sent all round the village in the morning in search of loaves, and had not been able to procure any that were eatable. Mrs. Price's last baking had failed for want of good yeast. She was not now strong enough to attempt another herself, and when the brewer's boy came to tell her that he had some fine fresh yeast, she thanked him, but sighed and said she feared it would be of little use to her. But Susan went to work with great care, and the next morning when her bread came out of the oven, it was excellent: at least her mother said so, and she was a good judge. It was sent to the Abbey, and as the