Part 9 (1/2)
Then they met again in the poorly-furnished parlour where they had parted. But they did not sit as near to each other as of old. For she had lived alone so long that she had grown old-maidish, and she was feeling vexed with him for having dirtied the carpet with his muddy boots. And he had worked so long earning money that he had grown hard and cold like the money itself, and was trying to think of something affectionate to say to her.
So for a while they sat, one each side of the paper ”fire-stove ornament,” both wondering why they had shed such scalding tears on that day they had kissed each other good-bye; then said ”good-bye” again, and were glad.
There is another tale with much the same moral that I learnt at school out of a copy-book. If I remember rightly, it runs somewhat like this:--
Once upon a time there lived a wise gra.s.shopper and a foolish ant. All through the pleasant summer weather the gra.s.shopper sported and played, gambolling with his fellows in and out among the sun-beams, dining sumptuously each day on leaves and dew-drops, never troubling about the morrow, singing ever his one peaceful, droning song.
But there came the cruel winter, and the gra.s.shopper, looking around, saw that his friends, the flowers, lay dead, and knew thereby that his own little span was drawing near its close.
Then he felt glad that he had been so happy, and had not wasted his life.
”It has been very short,” said he to himself; ”but it has been very pleasant, and I think I have made the best use of it. I have drunk in the suns.h.i.+ne, I have lain on the soft, warm air, I have played merry games in the waving gra.s.s, I have tasted the juice of the sweet green leaves. I have done what I could. I have spread my wings, I have sung my song. Now I will thank G.o.d for the sunny days that are pa.s.sed, and die.”
Saying which, he crawled under a brown leaf, and met his fate in the way that all brave gra.s.shoppers should; and a little bird that was pa.s.sing by picked him up tenderly and buried him.
Now when the foolish ant saw this, she was greatly puffed up with Pharisaical conceit. ”How thankful I ought to be,” said she, ”that I am industrious and prudent, and not like this poor gra.s.shopper. While he was flitting about from flower to flower, enjoying himself, I was hard at work, putting by against the winter. Now he is dead, while I am about to make myself cosy in my warm home, and eat all the good things that I have been saving up.”
But, as she spoke, the gardener came along with his spade, and levelled the hill where she dwelt to the ground, and left her lying dead amidst the ruins.
Then the same kind little bird that had buried the gra.s.shopper came and picked her out and buried her also; and afterwards he composed and sang a song, the burthen of which was, ”Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” It was a very pretty song, and a very wise song, and a man who lived in those days, and to whom the birds, loving him and feeling that he was almost one of themselves, had taught their language, fortunately overheard it and wrote it down, so that all may read it to this day.
Unhappily for us, however, Fate is a harsh governess, who has no sympathy with our desire for rosebuds. ”Don't stop to pick flowers now, my dear,”
she cries, in her sharp, cross tones, as she seizes our arm and jerks us back into the roadway; ”we haven't time to-day. We will come back again to-morrow, and you shall pick them then.”
And we have to follow her, knowing, if we are experienced children, that the chances are that we shall never come that way to-morrow; or that, if we do, the roses will be dead.
Fate would not hear of our having a houseboat that summer,--which was an exceptionally fine summer,--but promised us that if we were good and saved up our money, we should have one next year; and Ethelbertha and I, being simple-minded, inexperienced children, were content with the promise, and had faith in its satisfactory fulfilment.
As soon as we reached home we informed Amenda of our plan. The moment the girl opened the door, Ethelbertha burst out with:--”Oh! can you swim, Amenda?”
”No, mum,” answered Amenda, with entire absence of curiosity as to why such a question had been addressed to her, ”I never knew but one girl as could, and she got drowned.”
”Well, you'll have to make haste and learn, then,” continued Ethelbertha, ”because you won't be able to walk out with your young man, you'll have to swim out. We're not going to live in a house any more. We're going to live on a boat in the middle of the river.”
Ethelbertha's chief object in life at this period was to surprise and shock Amenda, and her chief sorrow that she had never succeeded in doing so. She had hoped great things from this announcement, but the girl remained unmoved. ”Oh, are you, mum,” she replied; and went on to speak of other matters.
I believe the result would have been the same if we had told her we were going to live in a balloon.
I do not know how it was, I am sure. Amenda was always most respectful in her manner. But she had a knack of making Ethelbertha and myself feel that we were a couple of children, playing at being grown up and married, and that she was humouring us.
Amenda stayed with us for nearly five years--until the milkman, having saved up sufficient to buy a ”walk” of his own, had become practicable--but her att.i.tude towards us never changed. Even when we came to be really important married people, the proprietors of a ”family,” it was evident that she merely considered we had gone a step further in the game, and were playing now at being fathers and mothers.
By some subtle process she contrived to imbue the baby also with this idea. The child never seemed to me to take either of us quite seriously.
She would play with us, or join with us in light conversation; but when it came to the serious affairs of life, such as bathing or feeding, she preferred her nurse.
Ethelbertha attempted to take her out in the perambulator one morning, but the child would not hear of it for a moment.
”It's all right, baby dear,” explained Ethelbertha soothingly. ”Baby's going out with mamma this morning.”
”Oh no, baby ain't,” was baby's rejoinder, in effect if not in words.
”Baby don't take a hand in experiments--not this baby. I don't want to be upset or run over.”