Part 1 (1/2)
Nearly Bedtime.
by H. Mary Wilson.
PREFACE.
My motive in putting together these few short stories is twofold. I wish to help some elder sisters who have, like myself, occasionally found it difficult to keep the little ones happy when sleepiness is beginning to a.s.sert its claims--with pride in attendance to scorn any hint of weariness. For this reason the stories are quite short--of different lengths--and the time that they take in reading aloud is noted in the index. But I wish also, if I can, to add a little to the genuine happiness of that pleasant time when ”big and little people” for a while are equals--before nurse comes to the door and says--
”If you please, miss, it is the children's bedtime.”
Of course, when the summons does come, they all say ”Good night” without any grumbling, and run away with bright faces, like my little Maggie, Dora, and Douglas.
KENLEY, 1888.
[Printer's decoration]
NEARLY BEDTIME.
_GENTLEMAN PHIL._
”He is gentil that doth gentil dedes.”--CHAUCER.
The birds have been awake, chirping and twittering for more than an hour, and the sun has stolen the first cool freshness from the clear dewdrops, as a pair of small feet come scudding across the lawn and down the gravel path.
Phil is up betimes to-day. He had opened his eyes as he heard cook's heavy, deliberate tread on the stairs--she is stout and old, and he knows her step well--and then he knew that it must be quite early, about half-past five.
Very gaily he tumbled out of his bed, and struggled into his white summer suit.
He grew rather mixed over the b.u.t.tons. There seemed so many along the top of his small knickerbockers! What could be the use of them all?
_One_ was quite enough to hold the things together, and he made up his mind to ask nurse to cut off all the others.
Not _now_, though! Oh no! He only peeped into her room through the half-open door, with a mischievous smile on his sweet bonny face, and looked at her still sleeping figure, until she stirred a little. Then he promptly drew back his head, and s.n.a.t.c.hing up his garden shoes, ran noiselessly down the stairs.
He watched from behind the hall curtain until cook had opened the garden door, and gone to fetch her pail.
Now came his opportunity! Pulling on his shoes, he was quickly scuttling over the gra.s.s, looking very like a small white rabbit, as he disappeared among the trees and shrubs.
I don't think that my little motherless, six-year-old friend knew that he was doing anything naughty when he escaped in this way from the vigilance of his lawful guardians.
There was an honest, unselfish desire in his heart which had prompted this deeply laid plan, and he had been waiting for several days, with a patience rarely seen in a child his age, for an opportunity to carry it into effect.
As he trotted past his own strip of garden, at the further end of the Rose Walk, he was thinking to himself--
”Of course, n.o.body must see me do it. Gentlemen never do things because they want to be thanked. I should _hate_ it so if she said 'thank you,'
even once.”