The Parent's Assistant; Or, Stories for Children

'Hush,' said John, who was a year older than his brother, and very sage, 'you should not put him in mind of his being blind.'

'Though I am blind,' said the harper, 'I can hear, you know, and I heard from your sister herself all that I told you of her, that she was good-tempered and good-natured and fond of you.' 'Oh, that's wrong – you did not hear all that from herself, I'm sure,' said John, 'for nobody ever hears her praising herself.' 'Did not I hear her tell you,' said the harper, 'when you first came round me, that she was in a great hurry to go home, but that she would stay a little while, since you wished it so much? Was not that good-natured? And when you said you did not like the tune she liked best, she was not angry with you, but said, "Then play William's first, if you please," – was not that good-tempered?' 'Oh,' interrupted William, 'it's all true; but how did you find out that she was fond of me?' 'That is such a difficult question,' said the harper, 'that I must take time to consider.' The harper tuned his instrument, as he pondered, or seemed to ponder; and at this instant two boys who had been searching for birds' nests in the hedges, and who had heard the sound of the harp, came blustering up, and pushing their way through the circle, one of them exclaimed, 'What's going on here? Who are you, my old fellow? A blind harper! Well, play us a tune, if you can play ever a good one – play me – let's see, what shall he play, Bob?' added he, turning to his companion. 'Bumper Squire Jones.'

The old man, though he did not seem quite pleased with the peremptory manner of the request, played, as he was desired, 'Bumper Squire Jones'; and several other tunes were afterwards bespoke by the same rough and tyrannical voice.

The little children shrank back in timid silence, and eyed the brutal boy with dislike. This boy was the son of Attorney Case; and as his father had neglected to correct his temper when he was a child, as he grew up it became insufferable. All who were younger and weaker than himself dreaded his approach, and detested him as a tyrant.

When the old harper was so tired that he could play no more, a lad, who usually carried his harp for him, and who was within call, came up, and held his master's hat to the company, saying, 'Will you be pleased to remember us?' The children readily produced their halfpence, and thought their wealth well bestowed upon this poor, good-natured man, who had taken so much pains to entertain them, better even than upon the gingerbread woman, whose stall they loved to frequent. The hat was held some time to the attorney's son before he chose to see it. At last he put his hand surlily into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a shilling. There were sixpennyworth of halfpence in the hat. 'I'll take these halfpence,' said he, 'and here's a shilling for you.'

'God bless you, sir,' said the lad; but as he took the shilling, which the young gentleman had slily put into the blind man's hand, he saw that it was not worth one farthing. 'I am afraid it is not good, sir,' said the lad, whose business it was to examine the money for his master. 'I am afraid, then, you'll get no other,' said young Case, with an insulting laugh. 'It never will do, sir,' persisted the lad; 'look at it yourself; the edges are all yellow! you can see the copper through it quite plain. Sir, nobody will take it from us.' 'That's your affair,' said the brutal boy, pushing away his hand. 'You may pass it, you know, as well as I do, if you look sharp. You have taken it from me, and I shan't take it back again, I promise you.'

A whisper of 'that's very unjust,' was heard. The little assembly, though under evident constraint, could no longer suppress their indignation.

'Who says it's unjust?' cried the tyrant sternly, looking down upon his judges.

Susan's little brothers had held her gown fast, to prevent her from moving at the beginning of this contest, and she was now so much interested to see the end of it, that she stood still, without making any resistance.

'Is any one here amongst yourselves a judge of silver?' said the old man. 'Yes, here's the butcher's boy,' said the attorney's son; 'show it to him.' He was a sickly-looking boy, and of a remarkably peaceful disposition. Young Case fancied that he would be afraid to give judgment against him. However, after some moments' hesitation, and after turning the shilling round several times, he pronounced, 'that, as far as his judgment went, but he did not pretend to be a downright certain sure of it, the shilling was not over and above good.' Then turning to Susan, to screen himself from manifest danger, for the attorney's son looked upon him with a vengeful mien, 'But here's Susan here, who understands silver a great deal better than I do; she takes a power of it for bread, you know.'

'I'll leave it to her,' said the old harper; 'if she says the shilling is good, keep it, Jack.' The shilling was handed to Susan, who, though she had with becoming modesty forborne all interference, did not hesitate, when she was called upon, to speak the truth: 'I think that this shilling is a bad one,' said she; and the gentle but firm tone in which she pronounced the words for a moment awed and silenced the angry and brutal boy. 'There's another, then,' cried he; 'I have sixpences and shillings too in plenty, thank my stars.'

Susan now walked away with her two little brothers, and all the other children separated to go to their several homes. The old harper called to Susan, and begged that, if she was going towards the village, she would be so kind as to show him the way. His lad took up his harp, and little William took the old man by the hand. 'I'll lead him, I can lead him,' said he; and John ran on before them, to gather kingcups in the meadow.

There was a small rivulet which they had to cross, and as a plank which served for a bridge over it was rather narrow, Susan was afraid to trust the old blind man to his little conductor; she therefore went on the tottering plank first herself, and then led the old harper carefully over. They were now come to a gate, which opened upon the highroad to the village. 'There is the highroad straight before you,' said Susan to the lad, who was carrying his master's harp; 'you can't miss it. Now I must bid you a good evening; for I'm in a great hurry to get home, and must go the short way across the fields here, which would not be so pleasant for you, because of the stiles. Good-bye.' The old harper thanked her, and went along the highroad, whilst she and her brothers tripped on as fast as they could by the short way across the fields.

'Miss Somers, I am afraid, will be waiting for us,' said Susan. 'You know she said she would call at six; and by the length of our shadows I'm sure it is late.'

When they came to their own cottage door, they heard many voices, and they saw, when they entered, several ladies standing in the kitchen. 'Come in, Susan; we thought you had quite forsaken us,' said Miss Somers to Susan, who advanced timidly. 'I fancy you forgot that we promised to pay you a visit this evening; but you need not blush so much about the matter; there is no great harm done; we have only been here about five minutes; and we have been well employed in admiring your neat garden and your orderly shelves. Is it you, Susan, who keep these things in such nice order?' continued Miss Somers, looking round the kitchen.

Before Susan could reply, little William pushed forward and answered, 'Yes, ma'am, it is my sister Susan that keeps everything neat; and she always comes to school for us, too, which was what caused her to be so late.' 'Because as how,' continued John, 'she was loth to refuse us the hearing a blind man play on the harp. It was we kept her, and we hopes, ma'am, as you are– as you seem so good, you won't take it amiss.'

Miss Somers and her sister smiled at the affectionate simplicity with which Susan's little brothers undertook her defence, and they were, from this slight circumstance, disposed to think yet more favourably of a family which seemed so well united. They took Susan along with them through the village. Many neighbours came to their doors, and far from envying, they all secretly wished Susan well as she passed.

'I fancy we shall find what we want here,' said Miss Somers, stopping before a shop, where unfolded sheets of pins and glass buttons glistened in the window, and where rolls of many coloured ribbons appeared ranged in tempting order. She went in, and was rejoiced to see the shelves at the back of the counter well furnished with glossy tiers of stuffs, and gay, neat printed linens and calicoes.

'Now, Susan, choose yourself a gown,' said Miss Somers; 'you set an example of industry and good conduct, of which we wish to take public notice, for the benefit of others.'

The shopkeeper, who was father to Susan's friend Rose, looked much satisfied by this speech, and as if a compliment had been paid to himself, bowed low to Miss Somers, and then with alertness, which a London linendraper might have admired, produced piece after piece of his best goods to his young customer – unrolled, unfolded, held the bright stuffs and calendered calicoes in various lights. Now stretched his arm to the highest shelves, and brought down in a trice what seemed to be beyond the reach of any but a giant's arm; now dived into some hidden recess beneath the counter, and brought to light fresh beauties and fresh temptations.

Susan looked on with more indifference than most of the spectators. She was thinking much of her lamb, and more of her father.

Miss Somers had put a bright guinea into her hand, and had bid her pay for her own gown; but Susan, as she looked at the guinea, thought it was a great deal of money to lay out upon herself, and she wished, but did not know how to ask, that she might keep it for a better purpose.

Some people are wholly inattentive to the lesser feelings, and incapable of reading the countenances of those on whom they bestow their bounty. Miss Somers and her sister were not of this roughly charitable class.

'She does not like any of these things,' whispered Miss Somers to her sister. Her sister observed that Susan looked as if her thoughts were far distant from gowns.

'If you don't fancy any of these things,' said the civil shopkeeper to Susan, 'we shall have a new assortment of calicoes for the spring season soon from town.' 'Oh,' interrupted Susan, with a smile and a blush, 'these are all pretty, and too good for me, but – ' 'But what, Susan?' said Miss Somers. 'Tell us what is passing in your little mind.' Susan hesitated. 'Well then, we will not press you, you are scarcely acquainted with us yet; when you are, you will not be afraid, I hope, to speak your mind. Put this shining yellow counter,' continued she, pointing to the guinea, 'in your pocket, and make what use of it you please. From what we know, and from what we have heard of you, we are persuaded that you will make a good use of it.'

'I think, madam,' said the master of the shop, with a shrewd, good-natured look, 'I could give a pretty good guess myself what will become of that guinea; but I say nothing.'

'No, that is right,' said Miss Somers; 'we leave Susan entirely at liberty; and now we will not detain her any longer. Good night, Susan, we shall soon come again to your neat cottage.' Susan curtsied, with an expressive look of gratitude, and with a modest frankness in her countenance which seemed to say, 'I would tell you, and welcome, what I want to do with the guinea; but I am not used to speak before so many people. When you come to our cottage again you shall know all.'

When Susan had departed, Miss Somers turned to the obliging shopkeeper, who was folding up all the things he had opened. 'You have had a great deal of trouble with us, sir,' said she; 'and since Susan will not choose a gown for herself, I must.' She selected the prettiest; and whilst the man was rolling it in paper, she asked him several questions about Susan and her family, which he was delighted to answer, because he had now an opportunity of saying as much as he wished in her praise.

'No later back, ma'am, than last May morning,' said he, 'as my daughter Rose was telling us, Susan did a turn, in her quiet way, by her mother, that would not displease you if you were to hear it. She was to have been Queen of the May, which in our little village, amongst the younger tribe, is a thing that is thought of a good deal; but Susan's mother was ill, and Susan, after sitting up with her all night, would not leave her in the morning, even when they brought the crown to her. She put the crown upon my daughter Rose's head with her own hands; and, to be sure, Rose loves her as well as if she was her own sister. But I don't speak from partiality; for I am no relation whatever to the Prices – only a well-wisher, as every one, I believe, who knows them is. I'll send the parcel up to the Abbey, shall I, ma'am?'

'If you please,' said Miss Somers, 'and, as soon as you receive your new things from town, let us know. You will, I hope, find us good customers and well-wishers,' added she, with a smile; 'for those who wish well to their neighbours surely deserve to have well-wishers themselves.'

A few words may encourage the benevolent passions, and may dispose people to live in peace and happiness; a few words may set them at variance, and may lead to misery and lawsuits. Attorney Case and Miss Somers were both equally convinced of this, and their practice was uniformly consistent with their principles.

But now to return to Susan. She put the bright guinea carefully into the glove with the twelve shillings which she had received from her companions on May day. Besides this treasure, she calculated that the amount of the bills for bread could not be less than eight or nine and thirty shillings; and as her father was now sure of a week's reprieve, she had great hopes that, by some means or other, it would be possible to make up the whole sum necessary to pay for a substitute. 'If that could but be done,' said she to herself, 'how happy would my mother be. She would be quite stout again, for she certainly is a great deal better since I told her that father would stay a week longer. Ah! but she would not have blessed Attorney Case, though, if she had known about my poor Daisy.'

Susan took the path that led to the meadow by the water-side, resolved to go by herself and take leave of her innocent favourite. But she did not pass by unperceived. Her little brothers were watching for her return, and as soon as they saw her they ran after her, and overtook her as she reached the meadow.

'What did that good lady want with you?' cried William; but looking up in his sister's face he saw tears in her eyes, and he was silent, and walked on quietly. Susan saw her lamb by the water-side. 'Who are those two men?' said William. 'What are they going to do with Daisy?' The two men were Attorney Case and the butcher. The butcher was feeling whether the lamb was fat.

Susan sat down upon the bank in silent sorrow; her little brothers ran up to the butcher, and demanded whether he was going to do any harm to the lamb. The butcher did not answer, but the attorney replied, 'It is not your sister's lamb any longer; it's mine – mine to all intents and purposes.' 'Yours!' cried the children, with terror; 'and will you kill it?' 'That's the butcher's business.'

The little boys now burst into piercing lamentations. They pushed away the butcher's hand; they threw their arms round the neck of the lamb; they kissed its forehead – it bleated. 'It will not bleat to-morrow!' said William, and he wept bitterly. The butcher looked aside, and hastily rubbed his eyes with the corner of his blue apron. The attorney stood unmoved; he pulled up the head of the lamb, which had just stooped to crop a mouthful of clover. 'I have no time to waste,' said he; 'butcher, you'll account with me. If it's fat – the sooner the better. I've no more to say.' And he walked off, deaf to the prayers of the poor children.

As soon as the attorney was out of sight, Susan rose from the bank where she was seated, came up to her lamb, and stooped to gather some of the fresh dewy trefoil, to let it eat out of her hand for the last time. Poor Daisy licked her well-known hand.

'Now, let us go,' said Susan. 'I'll wait as long as you please,' said the butcher. Susan thanked him, but walked away quickly, without looking again at her lamb. Her little brothers begged the man to stay a few minutes, for they had gathered a handful of blue speedwell and yellow crowsfoot, and they were decking the poor animal. As it followed the boys through the village, the children collected as they passed, and the butcher's own son was amongst the number. Susan's steadiness about the bad shilling was full in this boy's memory; it had saved him a beating. He went directly to his father to beg the life of Susan's lamb.

'I was thinking about it, boy, myself,' said the butcher; 'it's a sin to kill a pet lamb, I'm thinking – any way, it's what I'm not used to, and don't fancy doing, and I'll go and say as much to Attorney Case; but he's a hard man; there's but one way to deal with him, and that's the way I must take, though so be I shall be the loser thereby; but we'll say nothing to the boys, for fear it might be the thing would not take; and then it would be worse again to poor Susan, who is a good girl, and always was, as well she may, being of a good breed, and well reared from the first.'

'Come, lads, don't keep a crowd and a scandal about my door,' continued he, aloud, to the children; 'turn the lamb in here, John, in the paddock, for to-night, and go your ways home.'

The crowd dispersed, but murmured, and the butcher went to the attorney. 'Seeing that all you want is a good, fat, tender lamb, for a present for Sir Arthur, as you told me,' said the butcher, 'I could let you have what's as good or better for your purpose.' 'Better – if it's better, I'm ready to hear reason.' The butcher had choice, tender lamb, he said, fit to eat the next day; and as Mr. Case was impatient to make his offering to Sir Arthur, he accepted the butcher's proposal, though with such seeming reluctance, that he actually squeezed out of him, before he would complete the bargain, a bribe of a fine sweetbread.

In the meantime Susan's brothers ran home to tell her that her lamb was put into the paddock for the night; this was all they knew, and even this was some comfort to her. Rose, her good friend, was with her, and she had before her the pleasure of telling her father of his week's reprieve. Her mother was better, and even said she was determined to sit up to supper in her wicker armchair.

Susan was getting things ready for supper, when little William, who was standing at the house door, watching in the dusk for his father's return, suddenly exclaimed, 'Susan! if here is not our old man!'

'Yes,' said the old harper, 'I have found my way to you. The neighbours were kind enough to show me whereabouts you lived; for, though I didn't know your name, they guessed who I meant by what I said of you all.' Susan came to the door, and the old man was delighted to hear her speak again. 'If it would not be too bold,' said he, 'I'm a stranger in this part of the country, and come from afar off. My boy has got a bed for himself here in the village, but I have no place. Could you be so charitable as to give an old blind man a night's lodging?' Susan said she would step in and ask her mother; and she soon returned with an answer that he was heartily welcome, if he could sleep upon the children's bed, which was but small.

The old man thankfully entered the hospitable cottage. He struck his head against the low roof, as he stepped over the door-sill. 'Many roofs that are twice as high are not half so good,' said he. Of this he had just had experience at the house of the Attorney Case, while he had asked, but had been roughly refused all assistance by Miss Barbara, who was, according to her usual custom, standing staring at the hall door.

The old man's harp was set down in Farmer Price's kitchen, and he promised to play a tune for the boys before they went to bed; their mother giving them leave to sit up to supper with their father. He came home with a sorrowful countenance; but how soon did it brighten when Susan, with a smile, said to him, 'Father, we've good news for you! good news for us all! – You have a whole week longer to stay with us; and perhaps,' continued she, putting her little purse into his hands, 'perhaps with what's here and the bread bills, and what may somehow be got together before a week's at an end, we may make up the nine guineas for the substitute, as they call him. Who knows, dearest mother, but we may keep him with us for ever!' As she spoke, she threw her arms round her father, who pressed her to his bosom without speaking, for his heart was full. He was some little time before he could perfectly believe that what he heard was true; but the revived smiles of his wife, the noisy joy of his little boys, and the satisfaction that shone in Susan's countenance, convinced him that he was not in a dream.

As they sat down to supper, the old harper was made welcome to his share of the cheerful though frugal meal.

Susan's father, as soon as supper was finished, even before he would let the harper play a tune for his boys, opened the little purse which Susan had given him. He was surprised at the sight of the twelve shillings, and still more, when he came to the bottom of the purse, to see the bright golden guinea.

'How did you come by all this money, Susan?' said he. 'Honestly and handsomely, that I'm sure of beforehand,' said her proud mother; 'but how I can't make out, except by the baking. Hey, Susan, is this your first baking?' 'Oh no, no,' said her father, 'I have her first baking snug here, besides, in my pocket. I kept it for a surprise, to do your mother's heart good, Susan. Here's twenty-nine shillings, and the Abbey bill, which is not paid yet, comes to ten more. What think you of this, wife? Have we not a right to be proud of our Susan? Why,' continued he, turning to the harper, 'I ask your pardon for speaking out so free before strangers in praise of my own, which I know is not mannerly; but the truth is the fittest thing to be spoken, as I think, at all times; therefore, here's your good health, Susan; why, by-and-by she'll be worth her weight in gold – in silver at least. But tell us, child, how came you by all this riches? and how comes it that I don't go to-morrow? All this happy news makes me so gay in myself, I'm afraid I shall hardly understand it rightly. But speak on, child – first bringing us a bottle of the good mead you made last year from your own honey.'

Susan did not much like to tell the history of her guinea-hen – of the gown and of her poor lamb. Part of this would seem as if she was vaunting of her own generosity, and part of it she did not like to recollect. But her mother pressed to know the whole, and she related it as simply as she could. When she came to the story of her lamb, her voice faltered, and everybody present was touched. The old harper sighed once, and cleared his throat several times. He then asked for his harp, and, after tuning it for a considerable time, he recollected – for he had often fits of absence – that he had sent for it to play the tune he had promised to the boys.