“Oh no; I fell into a very sound sleep after it. Why, it must have been two or three hours before I woke again. What do you find to do?”
“Oh, everything you can think of. I feed Clover, and milk her. You must get acquainted with Clover; she is just the gentlest, most intelligent little beast you ever saw, and I make a great pet of her. Mother laughs at the time I spend in getting her breakfast ready every morning, and says she believes I put eggs and sugar in her com-cake. I don’t quite do that; but then Clover expects something nice, and I love to give it to her. She has beautiful, great, soft eyes, and looks at me with such gratitude when I feed her! She would be glad to lick my hand; but her tongue is rather too rough. Poor Clover, she doesn’t know that! But you ought to see the milk she gives! By and by perhaps you would like to come down to my spring-house and see my pans of milk and cream.”
“And do you really make butter?”
“Certainly; I made this that yon are eating.”
“What, this morning?”
“No, yesterday; but I stamped it this morning on purpose for your breakfast. It has a pansy on it, you see; Brother Jim cut my stamp for me, — he has quite a taste for such things.”
“Dear me!” said Emily, “how much you must have to do! I think I must be quite a trouble to you, with all your engagements; I think Dr. Hardhack ought to have let me bring a maid.”
“Oh, she would only be in the way,” said Pussy; “you had a great deal better let me take care of you.”
“But you must have so much to do” —
“Oh, my work for to-day is about all done; I have nothing to do really. The butter is made, and set away to cool, and the dinner all put up for the men to take to the field; and they won’t come home till night. This is my time for sewing, and reading and writing, and doing all things in general. And so, now, when you feel like it, I’ll show you about over the premises.”
So the two girls put on their hats, and Pussy began to lead her frail young friend about with her.
First, they went down along by the side of the brook, at the bottom of the garden, to the spring-house. It seemed refreshingly cool, and the brook pattered its way through it with a gentle murmur. On either side was a wide shelf set full of pans of milk, on which the soft, yellow cream was rising, and there was a little rustic seat at one end.
“There is my seat,” said Pussy, pointing it out. “Here’s where I sit to work my butter, and do all sorts of things. It’s always cool here, — even in the hottest days.” Then Pussy showed Emily her chum, and the long row of bright tin pans that were sunning on a board on the outside.
All this was perfectly new to Emily; she had never in her life thought how or where butter was made, and it was quite a new interest to her to see all about it. “If only you didn’t make it so very early,” she said, “I should like to see you do it.”
“It is right pretty work,” said Pussy, “and it is a delight always new to see the little golden flakes of butter begin to come in the cream! Perhaps, by and by, when you grow stronger, you might get up early for one morning. You have no idea what beautiful things there are to be seen and heard early in the morning, that never come at any other time of day. But now let’s go to the bam. Wouldn’t you like me to take you to ride while it’s cool? There is old Whitefoot left that the men are not using. I can have him whenever I please.”
“But you say the men are all gone,” said Emily.
“Oh, I’ll harness him,” said Pussy; “Whitefoot knows me, and will let me do anything I please with him. I do believe he’d buckle his own girths, and harness himself up to oblige me if he could, — poor Whitefoot!”
So saying, they came into the large, clean, sweet-smelling bam, now fragrant with the perfume of new hay. It had great wide doors on either side, and opened upon a most glorious picture of the mountains.
“Now,” said Pussy, “you must need rest awhile, and I’m going to get you up into my more particular haunt, — up this ladder.”
“Oh, dreadful! I couldn’t go up there,” said Emily, “it would set my heart beating so.”
“Oh, never mind your heart,” said Pussy; “just let me get my arm round your waist, and put your foot there,” — and before Emily could remonstrate she found herself swung lightly up, and resting softly in a fragrant couch of hay.
“You didn’t know how easy it was to get up here,” said Pussy.
“No, to be sure I didn’t,” said Emily. “What a nice, queer old place, and how sweet the hay smells!”
“Now,” said Pussy, “let me carry you to my boudoir, and put you on my sofa.”
There was a great open door above, where the hay was pitched in, and opposite this door Pussy placed Miss Emily, with a mountain of sweet-smelling hay at her back, and a soft couch of it under her.
“There, now!” said Pussy, “you are accommodated like a duchess. Now, say if I haven’t a glorious prospect from my boudoir. We can look quite up that great valley, and count all those cloudy blue old mountains, and see the clouds sailing about in the sky, and dropping their shadows here and there on the mountains. I have my books out here, and some work, and I sit here hours at a time. Perhaps you’ll like to come here days, with me, and read and sew.”
Now, to tell the truth, Emily had never been fond of reading, and as for sewing, she had scarcely ever taken a needle in her hand; but she said nothing about this, and only asked to look at Pussy’s books. There were Longfellow’s “Evangeline,” Bryant’s Poems, Prescott’s “Ferdinand and Isabella,” and “Paul and Virginia” in French.
“So you read French,” said Emily, in a tone of slight surprise.
“A little; I don’t suppose I pronounce it well, for I never really heard a French person speak. Perhaps, by and by, when you are better, you will give me a few lessons.”
Emily blushed, — for she remembered how very negligent of her studies she had been at school; but she answered, “I never was a very good scholar, but they used to say I had a very good accent; one cannot be years in a French school without acquiring that.”
“And that is just what I need,” said Pussy, “so it all happens just right; and you will give me a lesson every day, won’t you?”
“You are so kind to me,” said Emily, “that I should be glad to do anything I can.”
“Then it’s all settled,” said Pussy, exultingly. “We will come and sit here with our books, and breathe the fresh air, and be all still and quiet by ourselves, and I will read to you, — that is,” she said, blushing, “if you like to be read to.”
“Oh, you are very kind,” said Emily; “I should like it of all things.”
“And now,” said Pussy, “if you would like a little drive before the heat of the day comes on, I’ll just speak to Whitefoot.”
“You ‘re not really in earnest in saying you can harness him?” said Emily.
“To be sure I am; how should we women folk ever get about if I couldn’t? I can push out the wagon, and have him in in a twinkling.”
And, sure enough, Miss Emily, looking through a crack, saw old Whitefoot come out of his stable at the call of his young mistress, and meekly bend his sober old head to her while she put on the harness, and backed him between the shafts of the carriage, and then proceeded to fasten and buckle the harness, till, finally, all was ready.
“Now let me bring you down,” said Pussy.
“You seem to think I am only a bale of goods,” said Emily, laughing.
“Well, you are not to exert yourself too much at first. Mother told me I must be very careful about you, because I am so strong, and not expect you could do anything like me at first.”
“Well, I think I shall try to help myself down,” said Emily; “it was only foolish nonsense that made me afraid. I can hold to that ladder as well as you, if I only choose.”
“To be sure. It is the best way, because, if one feels that way, one can’t fall.”
Emily had never done so much for herself before, and she felt a new sensation in doing
it, — a new feeling of power over herself; and she began to think how much better the lively, active, energetic life of her young friend was, than her own miserable, dawdling existence hitherto.
The two girls took a very pleasant drive that morning. First to mill, where Pussy left a bag of com to be ground into meal, and where Emily saw, for the first time, the process of making flour. Emily admired the little cascade, with its foamy fall of dark water, that turned the old, black, dripping mill-wheel; she watched with somewhat awe-struck curiosity the great whirling stones that were going round and round, and the golden stream of meal that was falling from them. She noticed all along on the road that everybody knew Pussy, and had a smile and a word for her.
“Oh, here ye be!” said the old miller; “why, I’m glad to see ye; it’s as good as sunshine any day to see you a-comin’.” And in return, Pussy had inquiries for everybody’s health, and for all their employments and interests.
So the first day passed in various little country scenes and employments, and when Emily came to go to bed at night, although she felt very tired, she found that she had thought a great deal less of her ailments and troubles that day than common. She had eaten her meals with a wonderful appetite, and, before she knew it, at night was sound asleep.
CHAPTER XIII
WELL, my dear girls who read this story, I want now just to ask you, seriously and soberly, which you would rather be, as far as our story has gone on, — little Miss Pussy Willow, or little Miss Emily Proudie.
Emily had, to be sure, twice or three times as much of all the nice things you ever heard of to make a girl happy as little Pussy Willow; she had more money, a larger and more beautiful house, more elegant clothes, more brilliant jewelry, — and yet of what use were these so long as she did not enjoy them?
And why didn’t she enjoy them? My dear little girl, can you ever remember, on a Christmas or Thanksgiving day, eating so much candy, ice-cream, and other matters of that nature, that your mouth had a bitter taste in it, and you loathed the very sight of cake or preserves, or anything sweet? What earthly good did it do, when you felt in that way, for you to be seated at a table glittering with candy pyramids? You could not look at them without disgust.
Now all Emily’s life had been a candy pyramid. Ever since she was a little girl, her eyes had been dazzled, and her hands filled with every pretty thing that father, mother, aunts, uncles, and grandmothers could get for her, so that she was all her time kept in this state of weariness by having too much. Then everything had always been done for her, so that she had none of the pleasures which the good God meant us to have in the use of our own powers and faculties. Pussy Willow enjoyed a great deal more a doll that she made herself, carving it ont of a bit of white wood, painting its face, putting in beads for eyes, and otherwise bringing it into shape, than Emily did the whole army of her dolls, with all their splendid clothes. This was because our Heavenly Father made us so that we should find a pleasure in the exercise of the capacities he has given us.
So when the good fairies which I have told you about, who presided over Pussy’s birth, gave her the gift of being pleased with all she had and with all she did, they knew. what they were about, and they gave it to a girl that was going to grow up and take care of herself and others, and not to a girl that was going to grow up to have others always taking care of her.
But now here at sixteen are the two girls; and as they are sitting, this bright June morning, up in the barn-chamber, working and reading, I want you to look at them, and ask, What has Miss Emily gained by her luxurious life of wealth and ease, that Pussy Willow has not acquired in far greater perfection by her habits of self-helpfulness?
When the two girls stand up together, you may see that Pussy Willow is every whit as pretty and as genteel in her appearance as Emily. Because she has been an industrious country girl, and has always done the duty next her, you are not to suppose that she has grown up coarse and blowsy, or that she has rough, red hands, or big feet. Her complexion, it is true, is a healthy one; her skin, instead of being waxy-white, like a dead japonica, has a delicate shade of pink in its whiteness, and her cheeks have the vivid color of the sweet-pea, bright and clear and delicate; and she looks out of her wide clear blue eyes with frankness and courage at everything. She is every whit as much a lady in person and manners and mind as if she had been brought up in wealth and luxury. Then, as to education, Miss Emily Boon found that in all real solid learning Pussy was far beyond her. A girl that is willing to walk two miles to school, summer and winter, for the sake of acquiring knowledge, is quite apt to study with energy. Pussy had gained her knowledge by using her own powers and faculties, studying, reading, thinking, asking questions. Emily had had her knowledge put into her, just as she had had her clothes made and put on her; she felt small interest in her studies, and the consequence was that she soon forgot them.
But this visit that she made in the country opened a new chapter in Emily’s life. I told you, last month, that she had a new sensation when she was climbing down the ladder from the hay-mow. The sensation was that of using her own powers. She was actually so impressed with the superior energy of her little friend, that she felt as if she wanted to begin to do as she did; and, instead of being lifted like a cotton-bale, she put forth her own powers, and was surprised to find how nicely it felt.
The next day, after she had been driving about with Pussy in the old farm-wagon, and seeing her do all her errands, she said to her, “Do you know that I think that my principal disease hitherto has been laziness? I mean to get over it. I’m going to try and get up a little earlier every morning, and to do a little more every day, till at least I can take care of myself. I have determined that I won’t always lie a dead weight on other people’s hands. Let me go round with you, Pussy, and do every day just some little thing myself. I want to learn how you do everything as you do.”
Of course, this good resolution could not be carried out in a day; but after Emily had been at the farm a month, you might have seen her, between five and six o’clock one beautiful morning, coming back with Pussy from the spring-house, where she had been helping to skim the cream, and awhile after she actually sent home, to her mother’s astonishment, some little pats of butter that she had churned herself.
Her mother was amazed, and ran and told Dr. Hardhack. “I wish you would caution her, Doctor; I’m sure she’s over-exerting herself.”
“Never fear, my dear madam; it’s only that there’s more iron getting into her blood, — that’s alL Let her alone, or — tell her to do it more yet!”
“But, Doctor, may not the thing be carried too far?”
“For gentility, you mean? Don’t you remember Marie Antoinette made butter, and Louis was a miller out at Marly? Poor souls! it was all the comfort they got out of their regal life, that sometimes they might be allowed to use their own hands and heads like common mortals.” Now Emily’s mother didn’t remember all this, for she was not a woman of much reading; but the Doctor was so positive that Emily was in the right way, that she rested in peace. Emily grew happier than ever she had been in her life. She and her young friend were inseparable; they worked together, they read and studied together, they rode out together in the old farm-wagon. “I never felt so strong and well before,” said Emily, “and I feel good for something.”
There was in the neighborhood a poor young girl, who by a fall, years before, had been made a helpless cripple. Her mother was a hard-working woman, and often had to leave her daughter alone while she went out to scrub or wash to get money to support her. Pussy first took Emily to see this girl when she went to carry her some nice things which she had made for her. Emily became very much interested in the poor patient face and the gentle cheerfulness with which she bore her troubles.
“Now,” she said, “every week I will make something and take to poor Susan; it will be a motive for me to learn how to do things,” — and so she did. Sometimes she carried to her a nice little print of yellow batter arranged with fresh gree
n leaves; sometimes it was a little mould of blanc-mange, and sometimes a jelly. She took to cutting and fitting and altering one of her own wrappers for Susan’s use, and she found a pleasure in these new cares that astonished herself.
“You have no idea,” she said, “how different life looks to me, now that I live a little for somebody besides myself. I had no idea that I could do so many things as I do, — it’s such a surprise and pleasure to me to find that I can. Why have I always been such a fool as to suppose that I was happy in living such a lazy, useless life as I have lived?”
Emily wrote these thoughts to her mother. Now her mother was not in the least used to thinking, and new thoughts made a troublesome buzzing in her brain; so she carried her letters to Dr. Hardhack, and asked what he thought of them.
“Iron in her blood, my dear madam, — iron in her blood! Just what she needs. She’ll come home a strong, bouncing girl, I hope.”
“Oh, shocking!” cried her mother.
“Yes, bouncing,” said Dr. Hardhack, who had a perverse and contrary desire to shock fine ladies. “Why shouldn’t she bounce? A ball that won’t bounce has no elasticity, and is good for nothing without a bat to bang it about. I shall give you back a live daughter in the fall, instead of a half-dead one; and I expect you’ll all scream, and stop your ears, and run under beds with fright because you never saw a live girl before.”
“Isn’t Dr. Hardhack so original?” said mamma to grandmamma.
“But then, you know, he’s all the fashion now,” said grandmamma.
CHAPTER XIV
OUR little friend, Miss Emily Proudie, had on the whole a very pleasant summer of it at the farm. By the time that huckleberries were ripe, in August, she could take her basket on her arm, and, in company with Pussy, take long walks, and spend whole afternoons in the pastures, sitting down on the great wide cushions of white foamy moss, such as you always find in huckleberry pastures, and picking pailfuls of the round, shining black fruit. She never found herself tired and panting for breath, as she used to in her city life; for there were no bandages or strings around her lungs to confine her breathing, and in place of the hot, close air of city pavements there were the spicy odors of the sweet-fern and the pine-trees and the bayberry-bushes.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 581