Mary: A Nursery Story for Very Little Children

"Why don't you answer, Mary?" said Leigh. "I know what _I'd_ say, if papa offered to do anything I wanted, and I think you might remember what we're all wanting so much."

Mary's face cleared.

"I didn't understand," she said. "But I do now. O papa dear, will you come and see the sweet little doggie at the smiffy? We've been waiting and waiting."

"Oh dear," said her father, "I'd forgotten all about it. Yes, of course I'll take a look at it. Let's see: they're retriever pups, aren't they?" Leigh did not answer for a moment. To tell the truth, he was not quite sure what kind of dogs Yakeman's were, though he did not like to say so. "They are brown and curly," he said at last. "And the top of our one's head is nearly as soft as--as baby," added Mary.

"Baby would be flattered," said her father. "We're going to call it Fuzzy," Mary went on. "It are so very soft."

"And oh, by the by," said papa, "you've never chosen a name for your little sister, so mamma and I have had to fix on one. What do you think of Dorothea?"

The children looked at their father doubtfully.

"Dorothea," said Leigh.

"Doro--" began Artie, stopping in the middle, as he forgot the rest.

"Dodo--" said Mary, stopping too. "It's a difficult name, papa."

"And I don't think it's very pretty," said Leigh.

"Wait a minute," said papa. "You'll like it when I explain about it. You know that baby came on Mary's birthday?"

"Yes," said Mary. "She were my best birfday present."

"That's just it," her father went on. "`Dorothea' means a present--a present from God, which must mean the best kind of present."

"Oh," said Mary, "that's very nice! Please say it again, papa, and I'll try to learn it. Dodo--"

"No," said Artie, looking very superior. "Doro--not Dodo."

"You needn't look down upon Mary," said Leigh, "if you can't get any further than that. It's Dorothea. I can say it well enough of course, but I do think it's a very long name, papa, for such a very little baby."

"She'll grow up to be a big girl some day, I hope," said their father. "But you're all in such a hurry you won't let me finish explaining. Besides having a nice meaning, we like Dorothea because there's such a pretty way of shortening it. We're going to call your little sister `Dolly.'"

"That's not difficult," said Mary. "Only it seems as if she was a dolly."

"No it doesn't," said Leigh. "Your dolls have all got their own names. I like Dolly very much, papa, and I think we'll better call her it now. `Baby' is so common, there's such lots of babies."

"There's a baby at the baker's shop," said Artie, who did not like being left out of the conversation. "It's a lot bigger than our baby, it goes in a sitting-up perambulator all alone."

"Dear me," said his father. "How very curious! I should like to see it! We shall be having babies riding tricycles next."

Artie stared, he did not understand, but Leigh began to laugh.

"How funny you are, papa," he said. "Of course, Artie doesn't mean that it pushes itself along, though _I_ think that pushing a perambulator is very stupid. If I had a baby I know what I'd do."

"On the whole, I'd rather not be your baby, I think, Leigh. But if we're going to the smithy this morning, we'd better set off. Run and get ready, boys."

Leigh and Artie scampered off, and their father was following them, when a sudden sound made him stop short. It was a wail from Mary.

"What is the matter, my darling?" he said, turning back to her.

"I does so want to come too," said Mary through her tears. "'Cos the little dog were for me."

"You shall come, dear," said her father; "but why didn't you ask me without beginning to cry? That's not being a sensible girl."

Mary's face was very like an April day. She smiled up at her father in a minute.

"I won't cry," she said, "I'll be very good. Will you wait for me if nurse dresses me very quick, papa?" and she set off after her brothers, mounting upstairs as fast as she could, though "could" was not very fast, as right leg was obliged to wait on each step till left leg made up to it.

CHAPTER SIX.

"FUZZY."

Yakeman at the smithy looked very pleased to see his visitors, especially as their father was with the children.

"The puppies are getting on finely," he said. "Two of them are going to their new masters to-morrow. But I've held on to the one as Miss Mary fancied, thinking you'd be looking in some day soon."

"We've wanted to come ever so often," said Leigh.

"We was waiting for papa," added Mary. "And we didn't come round this way 'cos it made us want the dear little dog so much."

Yakeman listened gravely.

"I thought I hadn't seen you passing the last few days," he said. "But I wouldn't have let the dog go, not without sending up to ask you."

"Oh, we knowed you'd keep him," said Mary, and then Yakeman led the way round to the side of the house again, where the four puppies were rolling and tumbling about in perfect content, their mother watching their gambols with great pride.

Suddenly a new thought struck Mary.

"Won't her be very unhappy when them all goes away?" she asked Yakeman anxiously. "And won't them cry for their mamma?"

The smith smiled.

"They're getting old enough to do without her now," he said. "But she'll miss them, no doubt, will poor old Beauty," and he patted the retriever's head as he spoke. "It's the way of the world, bain't it, sir?" turning to the children's father. "Dogs and humans. The young ones leave the old ones cheery enough. It's the old ones as it's hard on!"

Mary did not quite understand what he meant, but something made her catch hold of her father's hand.

"You won't never let me go away, will you, papa?" she whispered. "Not _never_, will you?"

"Not unless you want to go, certainly," said her father, smiling down at her. "But now show me which is the puppy you'd like to have."

Mary looked rather puzzled, and so, though they would not have owned it, were the boys.

"I think," began Leigh, not at all sure of what he was going to say, but just then, luckily, Yakeman came to their help by picking up one of the puppies.

"This here is Miss Mary's one. We've called it hers--the missis and I, ever since the last time you was here."

He gave a little laugh, though he did not say what he was laughing at. To tell the truth, Mrs Yakeman and he had called the puppy "Miss Mary!"

Mary rubbed her nose, as she had done before, on the puppy's soft curly head.

"It are so sweet," she said. "We're going to call him `Fuzzy.' But, oh papa!" and her voice began to tremble. "Oh Leigh and Artie, I don't think we should have him if it would make his poor mother unhappy to be leaved all alone."

"It won't be so bad as that, Miss Mary," said the smith, who, though he was such a big man, had a very tender heart, and could not bear to see the little girl's face clouded. "We're going to keep Number 4 for ourselves, and after a day or two Beauty will be quite content with him. You can look in and see for yourselves when you're passing."

"Of course," said Leigh, in his wise tone. "It'll be all right, Mary. And we can bring Fuzzy to see his mother sometimes, to pay her a visit, you know."

Mary's face cleared. Yakeman and Leigh must know best, and papa would not let them have the dog if it was unkind. It was not what _she'd_ like--to live in a house across the fields from mamma, only to pay her a morning call now and then. But still, dogs were different, she supposed.

All this time papa had been looking at Fuzzy, as I think we may now begin to call him.

"He's a nice puppy," he said, "a very nice little fellow. Of course, he'll want to be properly taken care of, and careful training. But I can trust Mellor--you know Mellor, of course, the coachman?" he went on to the smith. "He's not bad with dogs."

"No, sir, I should say he's very good with 'em," Yakeman replied. "Feedin's a deal to do with it--there's a many young dogs spoilt with over feedin'."

"I'll see to that," said Mr Bertram. "Now, children, we must be moving on, I think."

But the three stood there looking rather strange.

"I thought--" began Leigh.

"Won't we--" began Artie.

"Oh, papa," began Mary.

"What in the world is the matter?" said their father in surprise. "Aren't you pleased about the puppy? I'll send Mellor to fetch him to-morrow."

"It's just that," said Leigh.

"Yes," said Artie.

"We thought he'd be ours, our very own," said Mary, at last explaining what they were in trouble about. For though the three had said nothing to each other, each knew that the others were thinking and feeling the same.

"We meant to fetch him ourselves," said Leigh again.

"We was going to give him his breakfast and dinner and tea in the nursery," chimed in Artie.

"I was p'annin'," added Mary, "that he'd sleep in our beds in turns. I didn't tell Leigh and Artie. I were going to 'apprise them. But I meaned to let it be in turns."

Papa began to laugh. So did Yakeman. They could not help it.

"Sleep in your cots," said papa. "There wouldn't be much left of the cots or you by the morning."

"He wouldn't _eat_ us," said Leigh, looking rather startled.

"Not exactly," said his father. "But if he took to rolling on the top of you and making hay of the bedclothes--just look at him now tumbling about in the straw with his brothers--you would not be likely to have a very good night."

"And if he had three meals a day in the nursery, there'd not be much left of _he_ in a week or less," said Yakeman.

The children looked very surprised.

"_We_ always have breakfast and dinner and tea," said Artie, "and little dogs is hungry too."

"Ah! yes," said the smith; "but they couldn't do with as much as that. And it'd never do neither for the puppy to eat all as you eats, Master Artie. Puppies isn't little young gentlemen and ladies, and every creature has its own ways. He'll be all right in the stable, never you fear, and Mr Mellor'll see as he has all he should."

But still the three faces did not clear. Leigh moved away as if he were going to the gate, flicking his boots with a little whip he had in his hand, to seem as if he did not care, though in reality he was very nearly crying. And Artie's and Mary's faces grew longer and longer.

"I don't think I want to have him," she said at last. "Zank you, Mr Yakeman, and zank you, papa; but him wouldn't be _nours_--him'd be Mellor's," and then there came a little choke in Mary's voice and a misty look in her eyes, and in a moment Artie's pocket-handkerchief was out of his pocket and he was rubbing her cheeks with all his might.

"_Don't_ cry, Mary," he said; "_please_, don't cry. P'raps papa won't--"

I am not quite sure what he was going to say. I am not sure that he knew himself. But whatever it was, he was interrupted. For before Mary's tears had had time to begin their journey down her face, papa had picked her up in his arms and was busy comforting her. He could not bear to see her cry! Really, it was rather a wonder that she was not spoilt.

"My pet," he said, "there is truly nothing to cry about. The puppy-- what is it you call him, Fudge or Fuss--"

Mary could not help laughing a little. Fancy calling a puppy "Fudge."

"No, papa dear; _Fuzzy_--that's what we was going to call him."

"Well, darling, Fuzzy shall be your very own. You shall go to see him in the stables whenever you like; I'll tell Mellor. And he will go out walks with you--the puppy, I mean, not Mellor--as soon as ever he has learnt to follow." This made Mary laugh again. The idea of Mellor going out a walk with them all, following behind like a well-behaved dog. For Mellor was not very young, and he had a broad red face and was rather fat.

Papa was pleased to hear Mary laughing, even though it was rather a shaky little laugh, and he went on to explain more.

"You see he's not the sort of dog that you can have in the house, particularly not in the nursery," he said. "Indeed, I hardly think that any dog except a very old and tried one is safe in a nursery, above all, where there's such a little baby as--"

"Dolly," said Mary quietly, to show that she had not forgotten what baby was to be called.

"Yes, as Dolly," her father went on. "They would be two babies together, and they might hurt each other without meaning it. Dolly might pull Fuddle's hair--"

At this all three children burst out laughing, quite a hearty laugh this time.

"Oh, papa dear," said Mary, "what a very bad mem'ry you've got! It isn't _Fuddle_! Can't you say _Fuzzy_?"

"Fuzzy, _Fuzzy_, Fuzzy," said papa, speaking like the three bears turned the wrong way. "There, now, I think I've got it into my stupid old head at last. Well, as I was saying, Miss Dolly might pull Master Fuzzy's hair, without meaning to hurt him of course, and he might turn round and snap at her, not exactly meaning to hurt her either, but still--it might be rather bad, you see." Mary's face grew very grave.

"I never thought of that," she said solemnly. "It would be dedful for dear little baby Dolly to be hurted, though I'm kite sure Fuzzy wouldn't mean it."

"But when Dolly's a good bit bigger, and when Fuzzy is quite a trained dog, he may come into the house sometimes, mayn't he?" said Leigh.

"At Auntie Maud's," said Artie, "there's _free_ dogs always lying in the hall. They get up and come and sniff you when you go in. When I was a little boy I was frightened of them, but they never bit me."

"Ah! well," said his father, "when Dolly's a big girl and Fuzzy's a big dog, we'll see. Some dogs are very good indeed with little children; I hope he'll be. I remember seeing a great Newfoundland that let his master's children ride on his back, just as if he was a little pony. He stalked along as steadily as possible."

"And in some countries," said Leigh eagerly, "dogs are taught to draw little carriages, aren't they? I've seen pictures of them, up where there's such lots of snow near the top of the world. Squim--something, those people are called."

"Esquimaux, you mean, I suppose," said his father laughing. He had put down Mary by this time, and they were walking on slowly up the hill towards the Lavender Cottages. "Yes, and in other countries not so far off I've seen dogs drawing little carts as soberly as possible."

"I _would_ like to see that!" said Artie, his eyes sparkling.

"And so would I!" said Mary.

And Leigh, though he said nothing, took the idea into his mind more than either of the others.

By this time they were close to the top of the little hill where stood the cottages of which we have spoken so often--the Lavender Cottages as they were called; because once, a good many years ago, an old man lived there, whose lavender was famed all about that part of the country. He had a garden, almost like a little field, quite full of it. This garden belonged to one of the end cottages, and it was now a regular cottage kitchen-garden, with potatoes and cabbages and other vegetables growing in it, though in one corner there was still a nice little stock of the old lavender bushes. Here lived an old woman and her son, named Sweeting. Mrs Sweeting had once been cook at the hall when the children's father was a little boy, and she was always pleased to have a visit from any of them.

"I hear poor old Mrs Sweeting has been ill," said papa; "I'll just go in for a minute or two to see her. You children can wait outside for me."

The boys and Mary were not sorry to do so. They were always fond of coming to the Lavender Cottages, not only to see Mrs Sweeting who was very kind to them, but because they were much interested in the family of children who lived next door. There were such a lot of them! The cottage would never have held them all; but luckily, in the third cottage, at the other end again, lived the grandfather and grandmother of the large family, and some of the bigger boys had a room in their house. Still there were plenty left in the middle cottage, as you will hear.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE PERRY FAMILY AND PAPA'S STORY.

Besides the three big boys, the children had counted six more young Perrys in the middle one of the Lavender Cottages, and by degrees they had found out most of their names. The eldest girl was about twelve, and her name was a very funny one--it was Comfort.

"How tired she must be of people saying to her that they hope she's a comfort to her father and mother," said Leigh, when he first heard her name. I think nurse told it him, for she knew something of the Perrys, and the odd name had taken her fancy.

Comfort was rather a tall girl for her age, and she was clever at school, where she often got prizes. But the next to her, a short, rosy-faced child called Janie, who was generally seen carrying about the baby, a very motherly little girl, seemed as if her elder sister's name would have suited her better. After Janie came Ned, and after Ned three little creatures so near each other that they all looked like babies together, and it was difficult to tell whether they were boys or girls. The quite youngest--the one that all the rest of them called "baby"-- spent most of its life seemingly in Janie's arms. I _suppose_ Janie went to school sometimes, but, anyway, the Bertram children never passed the cottages or met the little Perrys in the lanes without seeing the baby in its usual resting-place. The other two babies seemed to spend their lives in a queer old-fashioned kind of double perambulator. It was made of wicker; and in fine weather, and indeed sometimes in weather that was not so very fine, was almost always to be seen standing at the cottage-door or just outside the gate leading into the little garden, with the two small people tied into it, one at each side.

To-day they were there as usual. There, too, was Janie with number three baby in her arms, while Comfort was strolling about with a book in her hand, out of which she seemed to be learning something.

"Good-morning," said Leigh, by way of opening the conversation. "Where's Ned? He can't be at school; it's a half-holiday, isn't it?"

"Please, sir--no, sir, if Ned was at school, Comfort and me would be at school too," said Janie.

And Comfort, hearing the talking, came up to where they were standing. They were all in the lane just outside the little garden.

"Ned's run in just to get a bit of cord," said the elder girl. "We're goin' a walk in the woods. We must take the little ones, 'cos mother's washing's got late this week, and she wants them out of the way."

It was rather curious that Mrs Perry's washing often did get late. She was a kind, good-natured woman, but "folks said," according to nurse, not the best of good managers.

"What's Ned going to do with the cord?" asked Leigh, Artie and Mary standing by, listening with the greatest interest, and holding each other's hands tightly, as they felt just a little shy.

"Oh, it's a notion of Ned's," said Janie, rather scornfully. "It's just his nonsense: he don't like pushing p'ram, 'cos he says it's girls' work, and Comfort don't hold with pushing it neither, 'cos she wants to be reading her book."

Here Comfort broke in.

"'Tisn't that I'm so taken up with my book," she said,--"leastways not to please myself; but I want to get moved up after next holidays. When I'm big enough I'm to be a pupil teacher."

"That would be very nice," said Leigh. "And then, when you're quite big, you'll get to be a schoolmistress, I suppose."

Comfort murmured something and got very red. To be a schoolmistress was the greatest wish she had.

"But I don't see," Leigh went on, "what Ned and the cord's got to do with it."

"Bless you, sir," said Janie, "he's going to make hisself into a pony to draw the p'ram, so as Comfort need do nothing but walk behind pushing with one hand and a-holding of the book with the other, and no need to look out where they're going."