“Dear mother! don’t you remember it’s the 22nd of December; and her birthday is the day after to-morrow? Don’t you recollect now? But you never remember about birthdays, mamma. That was just what I was thinking of, that you never remember my sister Laura’s birthday, or-or-or MINE, mamma.”
“What do you mean my dear? I remember your birthday perfectly well.”
“Indeed! but you never KEEP it, though.”
“What do you mean by keeping your birthday?”
“Oh, mamma, you know very well — as Bell’s birthday is kept. In the first place, there is a great dinner.”
“And can Bell eat more upon her birthday than upon any other day?”
“No; nor I should not mind about the dinner, except the mince-pies. But Bell has a great many nice things — I don’t mean nice eatable things, but nice new playthings, given to her always on her birthday; and everybody drinks her health, and she’s so happy.”
“But stay, Rosamond, how you jumble things together! Is it everybody’s drinking her health that makes her so happy? or the new playthings, or the nice mince pies? I can easily believe that she is happy whilst she is eating a mince pie, or whilst she is playing; but how does everybody’s drinking her health at dinner make her happy?”
Rosamond paused, and then said she did not know. “But,” added she, “the
NICE NEW playthings, mother!”
“But why the nice new playthings? Do you like them only because they are
NEW?”
“Not ONLY — I do not like playthings ONLY because they are new; but Bell DOES, I believe — for that puts me in mind — Do you know, mother, she had a great drawer full of OLD playthings that she never used, and she said that they were good for nothing, because they were OLD; but I thought many of them were good for a great deal more than the new ones. Now you shall be judge, mamma; I’ll tell you all that was in the drawer.”
“Nay, Rosamond, thank you, not just now; I have not time to listen to you.”
“Well then, mamma, the day after to-morrow I can show you the drawer. I want you to judge very much, because I am sure I was in the right. And, mother,” added Rosamond, stopping her as she was going out of the room, “will you — not now, but when you’ve time — will you tell me why you never keep my birthday — why you never make any difference between that day and any other day?”
“And will you, Rosamond — not now, but when you have time to think about it — tell me why I should make any difference between your birthday and any other day?”
Rosamond thought, but she could not find out any reason; besides, she suddenly recollected that she had not time to think any longer; for there was a certain work-basket to be finished, which she was making for her cousin Bell, as a present upon her birthday. The work was at a stand for want of some filigree-paper, and, as her mother was going out, she asked her to take her with her, that she might buy some. Her sister Laura went with them.
“Sister,” said Rosamond, as they were walking along, “what have you done with your half-guinea?”
“I have it in my pocket.”
“Dear! you will keep it for ever in your pocket. You know, my godmother when she gave it to you, said you would keep it longer than I should keep mine; and I know what she thought by her look at the time. I heard her say something to my mother.”
“Yes,” said Laura, smiling; “she whispered so loud that I could not help hearing her too. She said I was a little miser.”
“But did not you hear her say that I was very GENEROUS? and she’ll see that she was not mistaken. I hope she’ll be by when I give my basket to Bell — won’t it be beautiful? There is to be a wreath of myrtle, you know, round the handle, and a frost ground, and then the medallions—”
“Stay,” interrupted her sister, for Rosamond, anticipating the glories of her work-basket, talked and walked so fast that she had passed, without perceiving it, the shop where the filigree-paper was to be bought. They turned back. Now it happened that the shop was the corner house of a street, and one of the windows looked out into a narrow lane. A coach full of ladies stopped at the door, just before they went in, so that no one had time immediately to think of Rosamond and her filigree-paper, and she went to the window where she saw her sister Laura looking earnestly at something that was passing in the lane.
Opposite to the window, at the door of a poor-looking house, there was sitting a little girl weaving lace. Her bobbins moved as quick as lightning, and she never once looked up from her work. “Is not she very industrious?” said Laura; “and very honest, too?” added she in a minute afterwards; for just then a baker with a basket of rolls on his head passed, and by accident one of the rolls fell close to the little girl. She took it up eagerly, looked at it as if she was very hungry, then put aside her work, and ran after the baker to return it to him. Whilst she was gone, a footman in a livery, laced with silver, who belonged to the coach that stood at the shop door, as he was lounging with one of his companions, chanced to spy the weaving pillow, which she had left upon a stone before the door. To divert himself (for idle people do mischief often to divert themselves) he took up the pillow, and entangled all the bobbins. The little girl came back out of breath to her work; but what was her surprise and sorrow to find it spoiled. She twisted and untwisted, placed and replaced, the bobbins, while the footman stood laughing at her distress. She got up gently, and was retiring into the house, when the silver laced footman stopped her, saying, insolently, “Sit still, child.”
“I must go to my mother, sir,” said the child; “besides, you have spoiled all my lace. I can’t stay.”
“Can’t you?” said the brutal footman, snatching her weaving-pillow again, “I’ll teach you to complain of me.” And he broke off, one after another, all the bobbins, put them into his pocket, rolled her weaving-pillow down the dirty lane, then jumped up behind his mistress’ coach, and was out of sight in an instant.
“Poor girl!” exclaimed Rosamond, no longer able to restrain her indignation at this injustice; “poor little girl!”
At this instant her mother said to Rosamond—”Come, now, my dear, if you want this filigree paper, buy it.”
“Yes, madam,” said Rosamond; and the idea of what her godmother and her cousin Bell would think of her generosity rushed again upon her imagination. All her feelings of pity were immediately suppressed. Satisfied with bestowing another exclamation upon the “Poor little girl!” she went to spend her half-guinea upon her filigree basket. In the meantime, she that was called the “little miser” beckoned to the poor girl, and, opening the window, said, pointing to the cushion, “Is it quite spoiled?”
“Quite! quite spoiled! and I can’t, nor mother neither, buy another; and I can’t do anything else for my bread.” A few, but very few, tears fell as she said this.
“How much would another cost?” said Laura.
“Oh, a great — GREAT deal.”
“More than that?” said Laura, holding up her half-guinea.
“Oh, no.”
“Then you can buy another with that,” said Laura, dropping the half- guinea into her hand; and she shut the window before the child could find words to thank her, but not before she saw a look of joy and gratitude, which gave Laura more pleasure probably than all the praise which could have been bestowed upon her generosity.
Late on the morning of her cousin’s birthday, Rosamond finished her work- basket. The carriage was at the door — Laura came running to call her; her father’s voice was heard at the same instant; so she was obliged to go down with her basket but half wrapped up in silver paper — a circumstance at which she was a good deal disconcerted; for the pleasure of surprising Bell would be utterly lost if one bit of the filigree should peep out before the proper time. As the carriage went on, Rosamond pulled the paper to one side and to the other, and by each of the four corners.
“It will never do, my dear,” said her father, who had been watching her operations. “I am afraid you will never make a sheet of pa
per cover a box which is twice as large as itself.”
“It is not a box, father,” said Rosamond, a little peevishly; “it’s a basket.”
“Let us look at this basket,” said he, taking it out of her unwilling hands, for she knew of what frail materials it was made, and she dreaded its coming to pieces under her father’s examination. He took hold of the handle rather roughly; when, starting off the coach seat, she cried, “Oh, sir! father! sir! you will spoil it indeed!” said she, with increased vehemence, when, after drawing aside the veil of silver paper, she saw him grasp the myrtle wreathed handle. “Indeed, sir, you will spoil the poor handle.”
“But what is the use of THE POOR HANDLE,” said her father, “if we are not to take hold of it? And pray,” continued he, turning the basket round with his finger and thumb, rather in a disrespectful manner, “pray, is this the thing you have been about all this week? I have seen you all this week dabbling with paste and rags; I could not conceive what you were about. Is this the thing?”
“Yes, sir. You think, then, that I have wasted my time, because the basket is of no use; but then it is a present for my Cousin Bell.”
“Your Cousin Bell will be very much obliged to you for a present that is of no use. You had better have given her the purple jar.”
“Oh, father! I thought you had forgotten that — it was two years ago; I’m not so silly now. But Bell will like the basket, I know, though it is of no use.”
“Then you think Bell is sillier now than you were two years ago, — well, perhaps that is true; but how comes it, Rosamond, now that you are so wise, that you are fond of such a silly person?”
“I, father?” said Rosamond, hesitating, “I don’t think I am VERY fond of her.”
“I did not say VERY fond.”
“Well, but I don’t think I am at all fond of her.”
“But you have spent a whole week in making this thing for her.”
“Yes, and all my half guinea besides.”
“Yet you think her silly, and you are not fond of her at all; and you say you know this thing will be of no use to her.”
“But it is her birthday, sir; and I am sure she will EXPECT something, and everybody else will give her something.”
“Then your reason for giving is because she expects you to give her something. And will you, or can you, or should you, always give, merely because others EXPECT, or because somebody else gives?”
“Always? — no, not always.”
“Oh, only on birthdays.”
Rosamond, laughing: “Now you are making a joke of me, papa, I see; but I thought you liked that people should be generous, — my godmother said that she did.”
“So do I, full as well as your godmother; but we have not yet quite settled what it is to be generous.”
“Why is it not generous to make presents?” said Rosamond.
“That is the question which it would take up a great deal of time to answer. But, for instance, to make a present of a thing that you know can be of no use to a person you neither love nor esteem, because it is her birthday, and because everybody gives her something, and because she expects something, and because your godmother says she likes that people should be generous, seems to me, my dear Rosamond, to be, since I must say it, rather more like folly than generosity.”
Rosamond looked down upon the basket, and was silent. “Then I am a fool, am I?” said she looking up at last.
“Because you have made ONE mistake? No. If you have sense enough to see your own mistakes, and can afterwards avoid them, you will never be a fool.”
Here the carriage stopped, and Rosamond recollected that the basket was uncovered.
Now we must observe, that Rosamond’s father had not been too severe upon Bell when he called her a silly girl. From her infancy she had been humoured; and at eight years old she had the misfortune to be a spoiled child. She was idle, fretful, and selfish; so that nothing could make her happy. On her birthday she expected, however, to be perfectly happy. Everybody in the house tried to please her, and they succeeded so well, that between breakfast and dinner she had only six fits of crying. The cause of five of these fits no one could discover: but the last, and most lamentable, was occasioned by a disappointment about a worked muslin frock; and accordingly, at dressing time, her maid brought it to her, exclaiming, “See here, miss, what your mamma has sent you on your birthday. Here’s a frock fit for a queen — if it had but lace round the cuffs.”
“And why has not it lace around the cuffs? mamma said it should.”
“Yes, but mistress was disappointed about the lace; it is not come home.”
“Not come home, indeed! and didn’t they know it was my birthday? But then I say I won’t wear it without the lace — I can’t wear it without the lace, and I won’t.”
The lace, however, could not be had; and Bell at length submitted to let the frock be put on.
“Come, Miss Bell, dry your eyes,” said the maid who educated her; “dry your eyes, and I’ll tell you something that will please you.”
“What, then?” said the child, pouting and sobbing.
“Why — but you must not tell that I told you.”
“No, — but if I am asked?”
“Why, if you are asked, you must tell the truth, to be sure. So I’ll hold my tongue, miss.”
“Nay, tell me, though, and I’ll never tell — if I AM asked.”
“Well, then,” said the maid, “your cousin Rosamond is come, and has brought you the most BEAUTIFULLEST thing you ever saw in your life; but you are not to know anything about it till after dinner, because she wants to surprise you; and mistress has put it into her wardrobe till after dinner.”
“Till after dinner!” repeated Bell, impatiently; “I can’t wait till then; I must see it this minute.” The maid refused her several times, till Bell burst into another fit of crying, and the maid, fearing that her mistress would be angry with HER, if Bell’s eyes were red at dinner time, consented to show her the basket.
“How pretty! — but let me have it in my own hands,” said Bell, as the maid held the basket up out of her reach.
“Oh, no, you must not touch it; for if you should spoil it, what would become of me?”
“Become of you, indeed!” exclaimed the spoiled child, who never considered anything but her own immediate gratification—”Become of YOU, indeed! what signifies that — I sha’n’t spoil it; and I will have it in my own hands. If you don’t hold it down for me directly, I’ll tell that you showed it to me.”
“Then you won’t snatch it?”
“No, no, I won’t indeed,” said Bell; but she had learned from her maid a total disregard of truth. She snatched the basket the moment it was within her reach. A struggle ensued, in which the handle and lid were torn off, and one of the medallions crushed inwards, before the little fury returned to her senses.
Calmed at this sight, the next question was, how she should conceal the mischief which she had done. After many attempts, the handle and lid were replaced; the basket was put exactly in the same spot in which it had stood before, and the maid charged the child, “TO LOOK AS IF NOTHING WAS THE MATTER.”
We hope that both children and parents will here pause for a moment to reflect. The habits of tyranny, meanness, and falsehood, which children acquire from living with bad servants, are scarcely ever conquered in the whole course of their future lives.
After shutting up the basket they left the room, and in the adjoining passage they found a poor girl waiting with a small parcel in her hand. “What’s your business?” said the maid.
“I have brought home the lace, madam, that was bespoke for the young lady.”
“Oh, you have, have you, at last?” said Bell; “and pray why didn’t you bring it sooner?” The girl was going to answer, but the maid interrupted her, saying—”Come, come, none of your excuses; you are a little idle, good-for-nothing thing, to disappoint Miss Bell upon her birthday. But now you have brought it, let us look at it!”
&
nbsp; The little girl gave the lace without reply, and the maid desired her to go about her business, and not to expect to be paid; for that her mistress could not see anybody, BECAUSE she was in a room full of company.
“May I call again, madam, this afternoon?” said the child, timidly.
“Lord bless my stars!” replied the maid, “what makes people so poor, I WONDERS! I wish mistress would buy her lace at the warehouse, as I told her, and not of these folks. Call again! yes, to be sure. I believe you’d call, call, call twenty times for twopence.”
However ungraciously the permission to call again was granted, it was received with gratitude. The little girl departed with a cheerful countenance; and Bell teazed her maid till she got her to sew the long wished-for lace upon her cuffs.
Unfortunate Bell! — All dinner time passed, and people were so hungry, so busy, or so stupid, that not an eye observed her favourite piece of finery. Till at length she was no longer able to conceal her impatience, and turning to Laura, who sat next to her, she said, “You have no lace upon your cuffs. Look how beautiful mine is! — is not it? Don’t you wish your mamma could afford to give some like it? But you can’t get any if she would, for this was made on purpose for me on my birthday, and nobody can get a bit more anywhere, if they would give the world for it.”
“But cannot the person who made it,” said Laura, “make any more like it?”
“No, no, no!” cried Bell; for she had already learned, either from her maid or her mother, the mean pride which values things not for being really pretty or useful, but for being such as nobody else can procure. “Nobody can get any like it, I say,” repeated Bell; “nobody in all London can make it but one person, and that person will never make a bit for anybody but me, I am sure. Mamma won’t let her, if I ask her not.”
“Very well,” said Laura, coolly, “I do not want any of it; you need not be so violent: I assure you that I don’t want any of it.”
“Yes, but you do, though,” said Bell, more angrily.
“No, indeed,” said Laura, smiling.
“You do, in the bottom of your heart; but you say you don’t to plague me, I know,” cried Bell, swelling with disappointed vanity. “It is pretty for all that, and it cost a great deal of money too, and nobody shall have any like it, if they cried their eyes out.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 308