Tell Me a Story

“I don’t care,” she said to herself stoutly, as she wriggled first into one garment and then into another. “I don’t care. Any way I shall have no lessons to learn, and I shall not be bothered about keeping my frock clean. But I do wish the fairy had left me my own hair,” she went on regretfully, examining the thick dark locks that hung round her face, and kept tumbling into her eyes, “my hair is much nicer. I don’t believe Betsy ever has hers properly brushed, it is so tuggy. And what brown hands I’ve got, and such crooked nails. I wonder if Betsy’s mother will cut them for me; I wonder if – ”

She was interrupted by another summons.

“Betsy, girl, what are you after this morning? I be getting downright cross with you, child. There’s father’ll be back for breakfast directly, and you not helped me by a hand’s turn this blessed morning.” Judy started. She only stopped to fasten the last button of her little dark cotton frock, and calling out, “I’m coming,” opened the rough door of the little bed-room, and found herself in the kitchen. There sat Betsy’s mother, with the baby on her knee, and the baby but one tumbling about at her feet, while she vainly tried to fasten the frock of another little fellow of three, who sturdily refused to stand still.

“You must finish dressing Jock,” she said, on catching sight of Judy; “Jock’s a naughty boy, won’t stand still for mammy to dress him; naughty Jock,” she continued, giving him a little shake as she got up, which sent him howling across the room to Judy. “It’s too bad of you, Betsy, to be so lazy this morning, and me so tired with no sleep, and the little ones all crying; if I tell father he’ll be for giving it thee, lass, to make thee stir about a bit quicker.”

“He’ll give me what?” said Judy, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

“Hold thy tongue; I’ll have none of that answering back, child,” said Betsy’s mother, tired and out of patience, poor woman, though you must not think she was either harsh or unkind, for she was a very kind, good mother.

“Jock, let me dress you,” said Judy, turning to the little boy, with a vague idea that it would be rather amusing to act nurse to him. Jock came towards her willingly enough, but Judy found the business less easy than she had expected. There was a button missing on his little petticoat, which she did not find out in time to prevent her fastening it all crooked; and when she tried to undo it again, Jock’s patience was exhausted, and he went careering round the kitchen, Judy after him, till the mother in despair caught hold of him, and completed the task.

“Your fingers seem to be all thumbs this morning,” she said testily. “You’ve not swep’ up a bit, nor made th’ fire, nor nothing. Go and fetch water now to fill th’ kettle, or father’ll be in afore it’s on the boil.”

Judy turned to the fireplace, and, with some difficulty, managed to lug the heavy old kettle as far as the front door. Just outside stood the pump, but try as she might she could not get the water to flow. She was ready to cry with vexation, pumping had always seemed such nice easy work; she had often watched the children of these very cottages filling their kettles and jugs, and had envied them the fun; but now when she had it to do she found it very different —very poor fun, if indeed fun at all! At last she got the water to begin to come, a poor miserable little trickle; at this rate the kettle would never be filled, and her tears were preparing to descend, when a rough hearty voice made her jump. It was Betsy’s father.

“Pump’s stiff this morning, is it, my lass?” he called out as he came up the path. “Let’s have a hand at it;” and with his vigorous pull the water quickly appeared. He lifted the kettle into the kitchen, greatly to Judy’s relief; but Betsy’s mother took a different view of the matter.

“I don’t know what’s come to Betsy this morning,” she said. “Lazy’s no word for her. The porridge is ready, but there’ll be no time to make thee a cup of coffee, father. She’s been close upon a quarter of an hour filling the kettle, and baby’s so cross this morning I can’t put her down.”

“I must make my breakfast of porridge then,” said the father; “but Betsy, girl, it’s new for thee to be lazy, my lass.”

Judy felt humbled and mortified, but she said nothing. Somehow she felt as if she could not defend herself, though she knew she had honestly done her best. The words “too bad” rose to her lips, but she did not utter them. She began to wonder how little Betsy managed to get through her daily tasks, easy as she had imagined them to be.

The porridge was not much to her taste, but she tried to eat it. Perhaps it was not so much the porridge itself, for it was good of its kind, which took away her appetite, as the want of the many little things to which she was so accustomed that their absence made her for the first time think of them at all. The nice white tablecloth and silver spoons on the nursery table, the neat, pretty room, and freshly dressed little brothers and sisters – all were very different from the rough board, and the pewter spoons, and Betsy’s father and big brothers hurriedly devouring the great bowls of porridge, while the three little ones cried or quarrelled incessantly. “After all,” thought Judy, “perhaps it is a good thing to have rather a strict nurse, even if she is very fussy about being neat and all that.”

But yet she felt very sorry for Betsy’s mother, when she looked at her thin, careworn face, and noticed how patient she was with the babies, and how cheerfully she answered all “father’s” remarks. And there began to dawn in the little girl’s mind a faint idea that perhaps there were troubles and difficulties in the world such as she had never dreamt of, that there are a good many “too bads” in other people’s lots as well as in Miss Judy’s.

Breakfast over, her troubles began again. It was washing-day, and just as she was looking forward to a ramble in the fields in glorious independence of nurse’s warnings about spoiling her frock, her dreams were put an end to by Betsy’s mother’s summoning her to take her place at the tub. And oh, my dears, real washing is very different work from the dolls’ laundressing – standing round a wash-hand basin placed on a nursery chair, and wasting ever so much beautiful honey-soap in nice clean hot water, and then when the little fat hands are all “crumply” and puffy “like real washerwomen’s,” rinsing out the miniature garments in still nicer clean cold water, and hanging them round the nursery guard to dry, and most likely ending up by coaxing nurse to clear away all the mess you have made, and to promise to let you iron dolly’s clean clothes the next wet afternoon – which you think so delightful. Judy’s arms ached sorely, sorely, and her head ached too, and she felt all steamy and hot and weary, when at last her share of it was over, and, “for a change,” she was instructed to take the two youngest out for a walk up the lane, while mother boiled the potatoes for dinner.

The babies were very tiresome, and though Judy was quite at liberty to manage them in her own way, and to punish them as she had never ventured to punish Lena and Harry at home, she did not find it of much use. She wondered “how ever the real Betsy did;” and I fancy the babies too wondered a good deal in their own way as to what had come over their big sister to-day. Altogether the walk was very far from a pleasure to any of the three, and when at last Judy managed to drag her weary self, and her two hot, cross little charges home again to the cottage, she was by no means in an amiable humour. She would have liked to sit down and rest, and she would have liked to wash her face and hands, and brush her hair – Judy who at home always grumbled at nurse’s summons to “come and be tidied” – but there was no time for anything of the kind. Dinner – the potatoes, that is to say – was ready, and the table must be set at once, ready for father and the boys, and Betsy’s mother told her to “look sharp and bustle about,” in a way that Judy felt to be really a great deal “too bad.” She was hungry, however, and ate her share of potatoes, flavoured with a little dripping and salt, with more appetite than she had sometimes felt for roast mutton and rice pudding, though all the same she would have been exceedingly glad of a little gravy, or even of a plateful of sago pudding, which generally was by no means a favourite dish of hers.

“Me and the boys won’t be home till late,” said the father, as he rose to go; “there’s a piece o’ work master wants done this week, and he’ll pay us extray to stay a couple of hours. Betsy must bring us our tea.”

Judy’s spirits rose. She would have a walk by herself any way, unplagued by babies, and the idea of it gave her some patience for the afternoon’s task of darning stockings, which she found was expected of her. Just at first the darning was rather amusing, but after a while she began to be sadly tired of it. It was very different from sitting still for a quarter of an hour, with nurse patiently instructing her, and praising her whenever she did well; these stockings were so very harsh and coarse, and the holes were so enormous, and the basketful so huge!

“I’ll never get them done,” she exclaimed at last. “I think it’s too bad to make a little girl like me or Betsy do such hard work; and I think her father and brothers must make holes in their horrid stockings on purpose, I do. I’ll not do any more.”

She shoved the basket into a corner, and looked about for amusement. The babies were asleep, and Jock was playing in a corner, and mother, poor body, was still busy in the wash-house – Judy could find nothing to play with. There were no books in the cottage, except an old Farmers’ Almanac, a Bible and Prayer-book, and one or two numbers of a People’s Miscellany, which Judy looked into, but found she could not understand. How she wished for some of her books at home! Even those she had read two or three times through, and was always grumbling at in consequence, would have been a great treasure; even a history or geography book would have been better than nothing.

Suddenly the clock struck, and Betsy’s mother called out from the wash-house, —

“It’s three o’clock – time for you to be going with the tea. Set the kettle on, Betsy, and I’ll come and make it and cut the bread. It’ll take you more nor half-an-hour to walk to Farmer Maxwell’s where they’re working this week.”

Judy was staring out of the window. “It’s beginning to rain,” she said dolefully.

“Well, what if it is,” replied Betsy’s mother, “Father and boys can’t want their tea because it’s raining. Get thy old cloak, child. My goodness me!” she went on, as she came into the kitchen, “she hasn’t got the kettle on yet? Betsy, it’s too bad of thee, it is for sure; there’s not a thing but what’s been wrong to-day.”

Judy’s conscience pricked her about the stockings, so, without attempting to defend herself, she fetched the old cloak she had seen hanging in Betsy’s room, and, drawing the hood over her head, stood meekly waiting, while the mother cut the great hunches of bread, made the tea, and poured it into the two tin cans, which the little girl was to carry to the farm.

It did not rain much when she first set off, so though it was a good two miles’ walk, she was only moderately wet when she got to the farm. One of the boys was on the look-out for her, or rather for their tea, which he at once took possession of and ran off with, advising Judy to make haste home, it was going to rain like blazes. But poor Judy found it no easy matter to follow his counsel; her arms were still aching with the weight of the baby in the morning, and her wrist was chafed with the handle of one of the tin pails, which she could not manage otherwise to carry, the old cloak was poor protection against the driving rain, and, worst of all, Betsy’s old boots had several holes in them, and a sharp stone had made its way through the sole of the left one, cutting and hurting her foot. She stumbled along for some way, feeling very miserable, till at last, quite unable to go farther, she sat down under the hedge, and burst into tears.

“So you haven’t found things quite so pleasant as you expected, eh, Miss Judy? You don’t find walking in Betsy’s shoes quite such an easy matter after all?” said a voice at her side; and, looking up, lo and behold! there, standing before her, Judy saw the old woman with the scarlet cloak.

“I don’t think it is kind of you to laugh at me,” she sobbed.

“It’s ‘too bad,’ is it, eh, Miss Judy?”

Judy sobbed more vigorously, but did not answer.

“Come, now,” said the old woman kindly. “Let’s talk it over quietly. Are you beginning to understand that other people’s lives have troubles and difficulties as well as yours – that little Betsy, for instance, might find things ‘too bad’ a good many times in the course of the day, if she was so inclined?”

“Yes,” said Judy humbly.

“And on the whole,” continued the fairy, “you would rather be yourself than any one else – eh, Miss Judy?”

“Oh yes, yes, a great deal rather,” said Judy eagerly. “Mayn’t I be myself again now this very minute, and go home to tea in the nursery? Oh, I would so like! It seems ever so long since I saw Lena and Harry and nurse, and you said yesterday I needn’t keep on being Betsy if I didn’t like.”

“Not quite so fast, my dear,” said the old woman. “It’s only four o’clock; you must finish the day’s work. Go back to the cottage and wait patiently till bed-time, and then – you know what to do – you haven’t lost your apple?”

“No,” said Judy, feeling in her pocket. “I have it safe.”

“That’s all right. Now jump up, my dear, and hasten home, or Betsy’s mother will be wondering what has become of you.”

Judy got up slowly. “I’m so wet,” she said, “and oh! my foot’s so sore. These horrible boots! I think it’s too – ”

“Hush!” said the fairy. “How would you like me to make you stay as you are, till you quite leave off that habit of grumbling. I’m not sure but what it would be a good thing for her,” she added, consideringly, as if thinking aloud.

“O no, please don’t,” said Judy, “please, please don’t. I do beg your pardon; I didn’t mean to say it, and I won’t say it any more.”

“Then off with you; your foot won’t be so bad as you think,” said the fairy.

“Thank you,” replied Judy, fancying already that it hurt her less. She had turned to go when she stopped.

“Well,” said the old woman, “what’s the matter now?”

“Nothing,” answered Judy, “but only I was thinking, if I am myself again to-morrow morning, and Betsy’s herself, what will they all think? nurse and all, I mean; and if I try to explain, I’m sure they’ll never believe me – they’ll say I’m talking nonsense. Nurse always says ‘rubbish’ if we make up fairy stories, or anything like that.”

The old woman smiled curiously.

“Many wiser people than nurse think that ‘rubbish’ settles whatever they don’t understand,” she said. “But never you mind, Judy. You needn’t trouble your head about what any one will think. No one ever will be the wiser but you and I. When Betsy wakes in her own little bed in the morning, she will only think she has had a curious dream – a dream, perhaps, which will do her no harm – and nurse will think nothing but that Miss Judy has been cured of grumbling in a wonderful way. For if you’re not cured it will be my turn to say it’s too bad! – will it not?”

“Yes,” said Judy, laughing. “Thank you so much, kind fairy. Won’t you come and see me again sometimes?”

But the last words were spoken to the air, for while Judy was uttering them the old woman had disappeared, and only the little field-mouse again, with bright sparkling eyes, ran across the path, looking up fearlessly at Judy as it passed her.

And Judy never did see the old woman again. She went back to the cottage, bearing bravely the pain of her wounded foot, which was not so very bad after all, and the discomfort of her wet clothes.

And though Betsy’s mother scolded her for having been so slow about her errand, she did not grumble or complain, but did her best to help the poor woman with the evening’s work. All the same, I can tell you, she was very glad to get to bed at night, and you may be sure she did not forget to take a great big bite of her apple.

“When I am myself again, I’ll spend the six shillings I have in my money-box to buy Betsy a nice new print frock instead of that ugly old one that got so soaked to-day,” was her last thought before she fell asleep.

And oh! my dears, can you imagine how delightful it was to find herself in the morning, her real own self again? She felt it was almost too good to be true. And, since then, it has been seldom if ever, that Miss Judy has been heard to grumble, or that anything has been declared to be “too bad.”