Home Scenes and Home Influence; a series of tales and sketches

"Yes, wait a moment, and I'll give you more," she said.

"More toffee, ma!" in a louder voice.

"Yes, in a moment."

"More toffee, ma!" This time louder and more impatiently.

To keep the peace, a second cup of milk and water had to be prepared, and then Mrs. Pelby finished waiting on her company. But it soon appeared that the second cup had not really been wanted, for now that he had it, the child could not swallow more than two or three draughts. His amusement now consisted in playing in his saucer with a spoon, which being perceived by his mother, she said to him—

"There now, Henry, you didn't want that, after all. Come, let me pour your tea back into the cup, and set the cup on the waiter, or you will spill it;" at the same time making a motion to do what she had proposed. But—

"No! no! no!" cried the child, clinging to the saucer, and attempting to remove it out of his mother's reach. This he did so suddenly, that the entire contents were thrown into Mrs. Little's lap.

"Bless me, Mrs. Little!" exclaimed Mrs. Pelby, really distressed; "that is too bad! Come, Henry, you must go away from the table;" at the same time attempting to remove him. But he cried—

"No! no! no!" so loud, that she was constrained to desist.

"There, let him sit; he won't do so any more," said Mr. Pelby. "That was very naughty, Henry. Come, now, if you want your tea, drink it, or let me put it away."

Henry already knew enough of his father to be convinced that when he spoke in a certain low, emphatic tone, he was in earnest; and so he very quietly put his mouth down to his saucer and pretended to drink, though it would have been as strange as pouring water into a full cup without overflowing it, as for him to have let any more go down his throat, without spilling a portion already there out at the top.

Tea was at last over, and Mrs. Little, on rising from the table, had opportunity and leisure to examine her beautiful silk, now worn for the second time. Fortunately, it was of a colour that tea would not injure, although it was by no means pleasant to have a whole front breadth completely saturated. Mrs. Pelby made many apologies, but Mr. Pelby called it a "family accident," and one of a kind that married people were so familiar with, as scarcely to be annoyed by them.

"Come here, Henry," said he. "Just see what you have done! Now go kiss the lady, and say, 'I'm sorry.'"

The little fellow's eye brightened, and going up to Mrs. Little, he pouted out his cherry lips, and, as she kissed him, he said, with a suddenly-assumed demure, penitent look—"I torry."

"What's Henry sorry for?" asked Mrs. Little, instantly softening towards the child, and taking him on her knee.

"I torry," he repeated, but in a much livelier tone, at the same time that he clambered up and stood in her lap, with his little hands again crushing her beautiful French collar.

"Come here, Henry," said Mr. Manly, who saw that Mrs. Little was annoyed at this; but Henry would not move. He had espied a comb in Mrs. Little's head, and had just laid violent hands upon it, threatening every moment to flood that lady's neck and shoulders with her own dishevelled tresses.

"Come and see my watch," said Mr. Manly.

This was enough. Henry slid from Mrs. Little's lap instantly, and in the next minute was seated on Mr. Manly's knee, examining that gentleman's time-keeper. Between opening and shutting the watch, holding it first to his own and then to Mr. Manly's ear, Henry spent full a quarter of an hour. Even that considerate, kind-hearted gentleman's patience began to be impaired, and he could not help thinking that his friend, Mr. Pelby, ought to be thoughtful enough to relieve him. Once or twice he made a movement to replace the watch in his pocket, but this was instantly perceived and as promptly resisted. The little fellow had an instinctive perception that Mr. Manly did not wish him to have the watch, and for that very reason retained possession of it long beyond the time that he would have done if it had been fully relinquished to him.

At last he tired of the glittering toy, and returned to annoy Mrs. Little; but she was saved by the appearance of a servant with fruit and cakes.

"Dim me cake! dim me cake!" cried Henry, seizing hold of the servant's clothes, and pulling her so suddenly as almost to cause her to let fall the tray that was in her hands.

To keep the peace, Henry was helped first of all to a slice of pound-cake.

"Mo' cake," he said, in a moment or two after, unable to articulate with any degree of distinctness, for his mouth was so full that each cheek stood out, and his lips essayed in vain to close over the abundant supply within. Another piece was given, and this disappeared as quickly. Then he wanted an apple, and as soon as he got one, he cried for a second and a third. Then—

But we will not chronicle the sayings and doings of little Henry further; more than to say, that he soon, from being allowed to sit up beyond the accustomed hour, grew fretful and exceedingly troublesome, preventing all pleasant intercourse between the visitors and visited, and that at nine o'clock he was carried off screaming to his bed.

"If that were my child," said Mr. Little, pausing at his own door, and turning round to Mr. and Mrs. Manly, who had accompanied his wife thus far on their way home, "I would teach him better manners, or I would half kill him. I never saw such an ill-conditioned little imp in my life!"

"Children are children, you know," was Mr. Manly's quiet reply.

"Yes, but children may be made to behave, if any pains at all be taken with them. It is really unpardonable for any one to let a child like that worry visitors as he did us this evening."

"Few children of his age, Mr. Little, unless of a remarkably quiet and obedient disposition, are much better than Pelby's little boy."

"As to that, Mr. Manly," broke in Mrs. Little, "there's our Tommy, a fine boy of twelve, as you know. He never acted like that when he was a child. I never had a bit of trouble with him when we had company. We could bring him down into the parlour when he was of Henry Pelby's age, and he would go round and kiss all the ladies so sweetly, and then go off to bed, like a little man, as he was."

"Ah, Mrs. Little, you forget," said Mr. Manly, laughing.

"Oh, no, indeed, Mr. Manly. I don't forget these things. We could do any thing with Tommy at his age, and it was because we managed him rightly. You can do any thing with children you please."

"Indeed, then, Mrs. Little, it is more than I can say," remarked Mrs. Manly. "If my children could be made any thing at all of, they would have been different from what they are; and yet, I believe," she added, with a feeling of maternal pride, "they are not the worst children I have ever seen."

"Good-nights" were now exchanged, and, after Mr. and Mrs. Manly had walked a few steps, the former said,

"Well, this is a curious world that we live in. Ten years ago, Pelby, then a trim bachelor, as nice and particular as any of the tribe, said, in allusion to Tommy Little—'If that were my child, I would half kill him but what I'd make a better boy of him!'"

"He did?"

"Yes, those were his very words. We were spending an evening at Mr. and Mrs. Little's, and when Tommy was about two years old or so; and Pelby was terribly annoyed by him. He acted pretty much as all children do—that is, pretty much as Henry did to-night. But Pelby couldn't endure it with any kind of patience."

"Ha! ha!" laughed out Mrs. Manly, in spite of herself. "How completely the tables have been turned!"

"Yes, they have been, certainly. But what is a little singular is, that neither of the parties concerned seem to have gained wisdom by their experience. Pelby forgets how other people's children once annoyed him, and Mr. and Mrs. Little seem to be entirely unconscious that their paragon was very much like all other little boys when he was only about two or three years old. For my part, I think we should be careful not to let our children trespass upon visitors. None can feel the same interest in them that we do, or exercise the same forbearance towards their faults. Faults they all have, which need especial care in their correction; and these should be suffered to appear as rarely as possible under circumstances which prevent a salutary check being placed upon them. For this reason, you know, we have made it a matter of concert not to let our children, while, too young to understand something of propriety, be present, but for a very short time, when we had company. The moment they become rude or too familiar, they were quietly taken from the room."

"Yes; and knowing as I do," said Mrs. Manly, "how very restless some children with active minds are, I am never disposed to look with unfavourable eyes upon any, even when wild, turbulent, and heedless. They act as they feel; and so far as evil affections show themselves, we know they are inherited, and that it is not in the power of the child to remove them. We should then be moved, it seems to me, with a purer affection for them; with something of pity mixed with our love, and, instead of suffering their wrong actions to repulse us, we should draw towards them with a desire to teach them what is wrong, and impart to them some power to overcome evil."

"If all thought as you, Mary," said Mr. Manly, as they gained their own doors, "we should hear no one railing out against other people's children, while he indulged his own. A fault too common with most parents."

I WILL!

"YOU look sober, Laura. What has thrown a veil over your happy face?" said Mrs. Cleaveland to her niece, one morning, on finding her alone and with a very thoughtful countenance.

"Do I really look sober?" and Laura smiled as she spoke.

"You did just now. But the sunshine has already dispelled the transient cloud. I am glad that a storm was not portended."

"I felt sober, aunt," Laura said, after a few moments—her face again becoming serious.

"So I supposed, from your looks."

"And I feel sober still."

"Why?"

"I am really discouraged, aunt."

"About what?"