The Boys and I: A Child's Story for Children

"'To be sure, to be sure,' she said. 'I know who is the young lady's grandmother;' and up she got, and put away her lace, and took Marie by the hand to lead her home. Marie was just a little frightened at first to go out into the street again, for fear the lion should be coming that way; but the old woman told her she was sure he wouldn't be, and really, you know, though Marie didn't know it, she had far more reason to be afraid of the gipsy girl than of the poor lion, who had only been roaring to amuse himself in his cage. But they got on quite well through the streets, and just as they came to the corner near where was Marie's grandmother's house, there they saw her grandmother and the nurse, and Babette behind them, and the cook behind her, and the gardener last of all, all coming hurry-scurrying out of the house, all to go different ways to look for Marie. Her grandmother had come home, you see, thinking perhaps Marie had found her way there; but she and the nurse were most dreadfully frightened, and you can fancy how delighted they were when they found her. Only all the time of the fair after that, Marie's grandmother would not let her go out except in the garden, which was a big one though, for fear the gipsy dancing girl should try to steal her again."

"But she didn't?" said Racey, drawing a long breath.

"No, of course she didn't. If she had, I couldn't have told you the story."

"Oh I'm so glad she didn't," said Racey again. "Oh Audrey, I'm so glad nobody stolened her, and that no lionds eated her. Oh, it makes me s'iver to think of dipsies and lionds."

"You little stupid," said Tom. Really he was very tiresome about teasing poor Racey sometimes.

"You're not to tease him, Tom," I said; "and now it's your turn to tell a story."

"Well," said Tom, "it's about a boy that was dedfully frightened of li – "

"Oh Audrey, he's going to make up a' ugly story about me," said Racey, beseechingly.

"No, no, I'm not," said Tom, "I was only teasing. My story's very nice, but it's very short. Once there was a bird that lived in a garden – Pierson told me this story – but when it came winter the bird went away to some place where it was always summer. I think, but I'm not quite sure – I think the bird went to the sun, Pierson said."

"Oh no, it couldn't be that. The sun's much too far away. I've heard about those birds. They don't go to the sun, they go to countries at the other side of the world, where the sun always shines, that's what you're thinking of, Tom."

"Well, perhaps that was it," said Tom, only half satisfied, "though it would be much nicer to say they went to the sun. Well, this bird had a nest in the garden, and there was a girl that lived in the garden – I mean in the house where the garden was – that used to look at the birds, 'cause she liked them very much. And she liked this bird best, 'cause its nest was just under her window, and she heard it singing in the morning. And when it began to come winter she knew the bird would go away, so what do you think she did? She got it catched one day, and she tied a very weeny, weeny ribbon under its wing, some way that it couldn't come undone, and then she let it go. And soon it went away to that other country, and the winter came. And the girl was very ill that winter. I don't know if it was measles she had," said Tom, looking very wise, "but I should think it was. And they thought she was going to die after the winter was gone. And she kept wishing the birds would come back, 'cause she thought she'd die before they comed. But at last one morning she heard a little squeaking – no I don't mean squeaking – I mean chirping, just outside her window, and she called the servants, and told them she was sure her bird had come back, and they must catch it. And her nurse catched it some way, and brought it to her, and what do you think? when she looked under its wing, there was the weeny ribbon she had tied. It was the very same bird. Wasn't it clever to know to come back to the very same window even? It's quite true, Pierson knowed the girl."

"And did she die?" I asked Tom.

"Oh no; she was so glad the bird had come back, that she jumped out of bed, and got quite well that very minute."

"That very minute, Tom," I said; "she couldn't get well all in a minute."

"Oh, but she just did; and if you don't believe it, you needn't. Pierson knowed her. I think it's a very nice story, not frightening at all."

"Yes, it's very nice," I said. "Thank you, Tom. Now, Racey, it's your turn."

CHAPTER VII.

TOAST FOR TEA

"Did you hear the children say.Life is rather out of tune?"

"Mine's very stupid," said Racey.

"Never mind, I dare say it'll be very nice," said Tom and I encouragingly.

"It's about a fly," said Racey. "It was a fly that lived in a little house down in the corner of a window, and when it was a fine day it comed out and walked about the glass, and when it was a bad day it stayed in its bed. And one day when it was walking about the glass there was a little boy standing there and he catched the fly, and he thought he'd pull off its wings, 'cause then it couldn't get away – that was dedfully naughty, wasn't it? – and he was just going to pull off its wings when some one came behind him and lifted him up by his arms and said in a' awful booing way – like a giant, you know – 'If you pull off flies' wings, I'll pull off your arms,' and then he felt his arms tugged so, that he thought they'd come off, and he cried out – 'Oh please, please, I won't pull off flies' wings if you'll let me go.' And then he was let go; but when he turned round he couldn't see anybody – wasn't it queer? – only the fly was very glad, and he never tried to hurt flies any more."

"But who was it that pulled the boy's arms?" said Tom, whose interest had increased as the story went on.

Racey looked rather at a loss. "I don't know," he said. "I should think it was a' ogre. It might just have been the boy's papa, to teach him not to hurt flies, you know."

"That would be very stupid," said Tom.

"Well, it might have been a' ogre," said Racey. "I made the story so quick I didn't quite settle. But I'll tell you another if you like, all about ogres, kite real ones and awful dedful."

"No, thank you," said Tom, "I don't care for your stories, Racey. They're all muddled."

Racey looked extremely hurt.

"Then I'll never tell you any more," he said. "I'll tell them all to Audrey, and you sha'n't listen."

"Indeed," said Tom, "I can listen if I choose. And when the new nurse comes she won't let you go on like that. She'll be vrezy cross, I know."

Racey turned to me, his eyes filled with tears.

"Audrey, will the new nurse be like that?"

I turned to Tom.

"Tom," I said, "why do you say such unkind things to Racey?"

Tom nodded his head mysteriously.

"It's not unkinder to Racey than it is to us," he replied. "I'm sure the new nurse will be cross, because I heard Mrs. Partridge say something to Uncle Geoff on the stair to-day about that we should have somebody 'vrezy strict.' And I know that means cross."

"When did you hear that?" I asked.

"'Twas this afternoon. Uncle Geoff hadn't time to come up. He just called out to Mrs. Partridge to ask how we were getting on. And she said in that horrid smiley way she speaks sometimes – 'Oh, vrezy well, sir. Much better since their nurse is gone. They need somebody much stricter.' Isn't she horrid, Audrey?"

"Never mind," I said. But that was all I would say. I would not tell the boys all I was feeling or thinking; they could hardly have understood the depth of my anger and wounded pride, though I really don't think it was a very bad kind of pride. I had always been trusted at home. When I was cross or ill-tempered, mother spoke seriously to me, sometimes even sternly, but she seemed to believe that I wanted to be good, and that I had sense to understand things. And now to be spoken of behind my back, and before my face too, as if I was a regularly naughty child who didn't want to be good, and who had to be kept down by strictness, and who wanted to make the boys naughty too – it was more than I could bear or than I would bear.

"Mother told me to make the boys happy," I said to myself, "and I will. I'll write to Pierson – to-night, when nobody can see, I'll write to her."

Tom and Racey saw that I was unhappy, though I only said "never mind," and when they saw that, it made them leave off quarrelling, and they both came to me to kiss me and ask me not to look "so sorry."

Just then Sarah came up with our tea-tray. She spoke very kindly to us, and told us she had begged Mrs. Partridge to send us some strawberry jam for our tea. And to the boys' great delight, there it was. As for me, I was too angry with Mrs. Partridge to like even her jam, but I did think it kind of Sarah.

"I'm sure you deserve it, you poor little things," she said. "And I don't see what any one has to find fault with in any of you. You've been as quiet as any three little mice to-day."

"Sarah," I said, encouraged by her way of speaking, "have you heard anything about the new nurse that is coming?"

Sarah shook her head.

"I don't think there's any one decided on," she said. "Mrs. Partridge has written to somewhere in the country, and I think she's expecting a letter. She said to-day that if to-morrow's fine, I must take you all out a walk."

Then she arranged our tea on the table and we drew in our chairs.

"I wish we had a tea-pot," I said. "I know quite well how to pour it out. It's horrid this way."

"This way," was an idea of Mrs. Partridge's. Since we had had no nurse, she had been unwilling to trust me with the tea-making, so she made it down-stairs and poured the whole – tea, milk, and sugar – into a jug, out of which I poured it into our cups. It wasn't nearly so nice, it had not the hot freshness of tea straight out of a tea-pot, and besides it did not suit our tastes, which were all a little different, to be treated precisely alike. Racey liked his tea so weak that it was hardly tea at all, Tom liked his sweet, and I liked hardly any sugar, so the jug arrangement suited none of us; Racey the best, perhaps, for it was certainly not strong, and sweeter than I liked, any way. But this evening the unexpected treat of the strawberry jam made the boys less difficult to please about the tea.

"It was rather kind of Mrs. Partridge to send us the jam," said Tom. He spoke timidly; he didn't quite like to say she was kind till he had, as it were, got my leave to do so.

"It isn't her jam," I said. "It's Uncle Geoff's, and indeed I shouldn't wonder if the strawberries were from our garden. I remember mother always used to say 'We must send some fruit to Geoff.'"

"Yes," said Tom, "I remember that too." He was just about biting into a large slice of bread and butter without jam – I had kept to old rules and told the boys they must eat one big piece "plain," first – when a new idea struck him.

"Audrey," he said, "do you know what would be lovely? Supposing we made toast. I don't think there's anything so nice as toast with strawberry jam."

Tom looked at me with so touching an expression in his dark eyes – he might have been making some most pathetic request – that I really could not resist him. Besides which, to confess the truth, the proposal found great favour in my own eyes. I looked consideringly at the ready-cut slices of bread and butter.

"They're very thick for toast," I said, "and the worst of it is they're all buttered already."

"That wouldn't matter," said Tom, "it'd be buttered toast. That's the nicest of all."

"It wouldn't, you stupid boy," I said, forgetting my dignity; "the butter would all melt before the bread was toasted, and there'd be no butter at all when it was done. But I'll tell you what we might do; let's scrape off all the butter we can, and then spread it on the toast again when it's ready, before the fire. That's how I've seen Pierson do. I mean that she spread it on before the fire – of course she didn't have to scrape it off first."

"I should think not," said Tom; "it's only that horrid Mrs. Partridge makes us have to do such things."

We set to work eagerly enough however, notwithstanding our indignation. With the help of our tea-spoons we scraped off a good deal of butter and put it carefully aside ready to be spread on again.

"The worst of it is it'll be such awfully thick toast," I said, looking at the sturdy slices with regret. "I wish we could split them."

"But we can't," said Tom, "we've no knife. What a shame it is not to let us have a knife, not even you, Audrey, and I'm sure you are big enough."

"I've a great mind to keep one back from dinner to-morrow," I said, "I don't believe they'd notice. Tom, it's rather fun having to plan so, isn't it? It's something like being prisoners, and Mrs. Partridge being the – the – I don't know what they call the man that shuts up the prisoners."

"Pleeceman?" said Racey.

"No, I don't mean that. The policeman only takes them to prison, he doesn't keep them when they are once there. But let's get on with the toast, or our tea'll be all cold before we're ready for it."

It was no good thinking of splitting the slices, we had to make the best of them, thick as they were. And it took all our planningness to do without a toasting-fork. The tea-spoons were so short that it burnt our hands to hold them so near the fire, and for a minute or two we were quite in despair. At last we managed it. We made holes at the crusty side of the slices, and tied them with string – of which, of course, there were always plenty of bits in Tom's pockets; I believe if he'd been in a desert island for a year he still would have found bits of string to put in his pockets – to the end of the poker and to the two ends of the tongs. They dangled away beautifully; two succeeded admirably, the third unfortunately was hopelessly burnt. We repeated the operation for another set of slices, which all succeeded, then we spread them with the scraped butter in front of the fire by means of the flat ends of our tea-spoons, and at last, very hot, very buttery, very hungry, but triumphant, we sat round the table again to regale ourselves with our tepid tea, but beautifully hot toast, whose perfection was completed by a good thick layer of strawberry jam.

We had eaten three slices, and were just about considering how we could quite fairly divide the remaining two among the three of us, – rather a puzzle, for Tom's proposal that he and I should each take a slice and give Racey half, didn't do.

"That would give Racey a half more than us – at least a quarter more. No, it wouldn't be a quarter either. Any way, that wouldn't do," I said. "Let's cut each slice into three bits and each take two."

"And how can we cut without a knife?" said Tom.

"'How can he marry without a wife?'" I quoted out of the nursery rhyme, which set us all off laughing, so that we didn't hear a terrible sound steadily approaching the door. Stump, stump, it came, but we heard nothing till the door actually opened, and even then we didn't stop laughing all at once. We were excited by our toast-making; it was the first time since we were in London that our spirits had begun to recover themselves, and it wasn't easy to put them down again in a hurry. Even the sight of Mrs. Partridge's very cross face at the door didn't do so all at once.

I dare say we looked very wild, we were very buttery and jammy, and our faces were still broiling, our hair in confusion and our pinafores crumpled and smeared. Then the fender was pulled away from the fire, and the poker, tongs, and shovel strewed the ground, and somehow or other we had managed to burn a little hole in the rug. There was a decidedly burny smell in the room, which we ourselves had not noticed, but which, it appeared, had reached Mrs. Partridge's nose in Uncle Geoff's bedroom on the drawing-room floor, where, unfortunately, she had come to lay away some linen. And she had really been seriously frightened, poor old woman.

Being frightened makes some people cross, and finding out they have been frightened for no reason makes some people very cross. Mrs. Partridge had arrived at being cross on her way up-stairs; when she opened the nursery door and saw the confusion we had made, and heard our shouts of laughter, she naturally became very cross.

She came into the room and stood for a minute or two looking at us without speaking. And in our wonder – for myself I can't say "fear," I was too ready to be angry to be afraid, but poor Tom and Racey must have been afraid, for they got down from their chairs and stood close beside me, each holding me tightly – in our wonder as to what was going to happen next, our merriment quickly died away. We waited without speaking, looking up at the angry old woman with open-mouthed astonishment. And at last she broke out.

"Oh, you naughty children, you naughty, naughty children," she said. "To think of your daring to behave so after my kindness in sending you jam for your tea, and the whole house upset to take you in. How dare you behave so? Your poor uncle's nice furniture ruined, the carpet burnt to pieces as any one can smell, and the house all but set on fire. Oh, you naughty, naughty children! Come away with me, sir," she said, making a dive at Tom, who happened to be the nearest to her, "come away with me that I may take you to your uncle and tell him what that naughty sister of yours has put into your head – for that it's all her, I'm certain sure."

Tom dodged behind me and avoided Mrs. Partridge's hand. When he found himself at what he considered a safe distance he faced round upon her.

"Audrey isn't naughty, and you sha'n't say she is. None of us is naughty – not just now any way. But if it was naughty to make toast, it was me, and not Audrey, that thought of it first."

"You impertinent boy," was all Mrs. Partridge could find breath to say. But she did not try to catch Tom again, and indeed it would have been little use, for he began a sort of dancing jig from side to side, which would have made it very difficult for any one but a very quick, active person to get hold of him. "You rude, impertinent boy," she repeated, and then, without saying anything more, she turned and stumped out of the room.

Tom immediately stopped his jig.

"I wonder what she's going to do, Audrey," he said.

"To call Uncle Geoff, I expect," I said quietly. "He must be in, because she said something about taking you down to him."

Tom looked rather awestruck.

"Shall you mind, Audrey?" he asked.

"No, not a bit. I hope she has gone to call him," I said. "We've not done anything naughty, so I don't care."

"But if she makes him think we have, and if he writes to papa and mother that we're naughty, when they did so tell us to be good," said Tom, very much distressed. "Oh, Audrey, wouldn't that be dreadful?"

"Papa and mother wouldn't believe it," I persisted. "We've not been naughty, except that we quarrelled a little this afternoon. I'll write a letter myself, and I know they'll believe me, and I'll get Pierson to write a letter too."

"But Pierson's away," said Tom.

"Well, I can write to her too."

This seemed to strike Tom as a good idea.

"How lucky it is you've got your desk and paper, and embelopes and everything all ready," he said. "You can write without anybody knowing. If I could make letters as nice as you, Audrey, I'd write too."

"Never mind. I can say it all quite well," I said, "but I won't do it just yet for fear Mrs. Partridge comes back again."

I had hardly said the words when we heard a quick, firm step coming up-stairs. We looked at each other; we knew who it must be.

Uncle Geoff threw open the door and walked in.

"Children," he said, "what is all this I hear? I am very sorry that all of you – you Audrey, especially, who are old enough to know better, and to set the boys a good example – should be so troublesome and disobedient. I cannot understand you. I had no idea I should have had anything like this."

He looked really puzzled and worried, and I would have liked to say something gentle and nice to comfort him. But I said to myself, "What's the use? He won't believe anything but what Mrs. Partridge says," and so I got hard again and said nothing.

"Where is the burnt carpet?" then said Uncle Geoff, looking about him as if he expected to see some terrible destruction.

I stooped down on the floor and poked about till I found the little round hole where the spark had fallen.

"There," I said, "that's the burnt place."

Uncle Geoff stooped too and examined the hole. The look on his face changed. I could almost have fancied he was going to smile. He began sniffing as if he did not understand what he smelt.

"That can't have made such a smell of burning," he said.

"No, it was the slice of toast that fell into the fire that made most of the smell," I said. "It had some butter on. We were toasting our bread – that was what made Mrs. Partridge so angry."

"How did you toast it?"

Tom, who was nearest the fireplace, held up the poker and tongs, on which still hung some bits of string.

"We made holes in the bread and tied it on," he said.

At this Uncle Geoff's face really did break into a smile. All might have ended well, had it not unfortunately happened that just at this moment Mrs. Partridge – who had taken till now to arrive at the top of the stairs – came stumping into the room. Her face was very red, and she looked, as she would have said herself, very much "put about."

"Oh dear, sir," she exclaimed, when she saw Uncle Geoff on his knees on the floor, "oh dear, sir, you shouldn't trouble yourself so."

"I wanted to see the damage for myself," he said, getting up as he spoke, "it isn't very bad after all. Your fears have exaggerated it, Partridge."

Mrs. Partridge did not seem at all pleased.

"Well, sir," she said, "it's natural for me to have felt upset. And even though not much harm may have been done to the carpet, think what might be, once children make free with the fire. And it isn't even that, I feel the most, sir – children will be children and need constant looking after – but it's their rudeness, sir – the naughty way they've spoken to me ever since they came. From the very first moment I saw that Miss Audrey had made up her mind to take her own way, and no one else's, and it's for their own sake I speak, sir. It's a terrible pity when children are allowed to be rude and disobedient to those who have the care of them, and it's a thing at my age, sir, I can't stand."

Uncle Geoff's face clouded over again. Mrs. Partridge had spoken quite quietly and seemingly without temper. And now that I look back to it, I believe she did believe what she said. She had worked herself up to think us the naughtiest children there ever were, and really did not know how much was her own prejudice. No doubt it had been very "upsetting" to her to have all of a sudden three children brought into the quiet orderly house she had got to think almost her own, even though of course it was really Uncle Geoff's, and no doubt too, from the first, which was partly Pierson's fault, though she hadn't meant it, the boys and I had taken a dislike to her and had not shown ourselves to advantage. I can see all how it was quite plainly now – now that I have so often talked over this time of troubles with mother and with aunt – (but I am forgetting, I mustn't tell you that yet). But at the time, I could see no excuse for Mrs. Partridge. I thought she was telling stories against us on purpose, and I hated her for telling them in the quiet sort of way she did, which I could see made Uncle Geoff believe her.

All the smile had gone out of his face when he turned to us again.

"Rudeness and disobedience," he repeated slowly, looking at us – at Tom and me especially, "what an account to send to your parents! I do not think there is any use my saying any more. I said all I could to you, Audrey, this morning, and you are the eldest. I trusted you to do your utmost to show the boys a good example. Partridge, we must do our best to get a firm, strict nurse for them at once. I cannot have my house upset in this way."