Bessie on Her Travels

“Dearest child!” said Mrs. Bradford when she could speak for laughing. “I never supposed you had any idea of taking such a quantity.”

“I told you I wanted quite a good deal, mamma,” answered Maggie, beginning to quake for the success of her plan, when she saw how astonished and amused the grown people were.

Poor Maggie! So many of her fine plans had come to grief lately, and still she must always be forming new ones.

“And how do you propose carrying all this home, Maggie?” asked Mr. Bradford.

“Oh! Belle says there are boxes under all the seats of the carriage, papa; and we can carry it to the hotel in these. And then I thought maybe you could find some way to send it home in the steamer, when Mr. Powers sends the sweet potatoes and things to grandmamma.”

“And if there’s too much to go into the carriage boxes, we have a great many baskets, and we will lend Maggie some,” said Belle.

“And we are all going to carry some on our laps, we are anxious for Bessie to have her bower,” said Lily.

“I’d like it very much, mamma,” pleaded Bessie, last of all.

“My dear children,” said Mrs. Bradford, “I am sorry to disappoint you; but it would be impossible to carry all that moss home. Not the half of it could go in the carriage, even if we all made ourselves uncomfortable for the sake of carrying it; and you would soon grow tired of such a bower.”

“But it is useful as well as ornamental, mamma,” said Maggie, with an air as if this quite settled the matter in her favor; “for Belle says the poor people here make beds of it, and if we ever do grow tired of it we could give it to some poor person, and they might be very glad of it.”

“And I never will be tired of it, mamma, even when I’m grown up, Maggie made it,” said Bessie.

“My darlings,” said mamma, “it is impossible. You may carry home a basket full if you will, but I could not allow your room to be filled with it, and it would be too much trouble to pack such a quantity, and send it to New York. You must rest content with a little, dear Maggie. There are a great many reasons why your plan will not do, though it was kind in you to think of pleasing Bessie; but we will find some other way of doing that.”

Maggie’s disappointment was very great, as was that of all the little girls; but when mamma said a thing, it was to be; and Maggie knew she would never deprive them of any pleasure that was best for them to have. So she tried to bear it as cheerfully as she might, though there were tears in her eyes, and she gave a sigh which seemed to come from her very shoes, as she dropped the arm of the wheelbarrow.

“I’m afraid you would have to call your room the ‘Spider’s Bower,’ if you decked it with that moss, Maggie,” said Mr. Powers; “for those insects are very fond of it, and will gather where it is.”

“Ugh!” said Maggie; and the Spanish moss at once lost half its charm for her, for she had a great dislike to spiders.

Seeing that she bore her disappointment so well, Mr. Bradford took an opportunity of telling Maggie a secret, which went a great way towards consoling her. But she had some time to wait before this secret bore fruit; and as we are not going back with Maggie and Bessie to their city home, perhaps you would like to know what it was.

In the autumn when their travels were ended, and they reached home, where a great deal of papering and painting had been done during their absence, they found their own little room decked forth with the most enchanting wall-paper that ever was seen. On a pearl-colored ground ran a vine of green leaves, and bright berries, and here and there, perched upon the stems, or hovering over and pecking at the berries, were the most brilliant colored birds. Never was seen a prettier paper, or one more suited to a little girls’ room; and both Maggie and Bessie were quite satisfied with such a “bower” as it made of their cosey little nook; and the Spanish moss, well beaten and shaken, to destroy all spiders who might have found a retreat therein, was consigned to the boys’ play-room in the top story of the house. Though by that time it had lost its first novelty and charm, both Maggie and Bessie still had a clinging to it, as a memento of their pleasant visit to Belle’s beautiful Southern home.

Maggie was still farther consoled that evening when they reached the city, by finding two letters awaiting her, and one for Bessie. Maggie’s were from Uncle Ruthven and Fred, and Bessie’s was from Harry.

You shall have them all. Uncle Ruthven says, —

“I cannot tell you, dear little Maggie, how much we all miss you and darling Princess. I do not like to go to your house and find no smiling faces looking out of the window, or running to the front door, or head of the stairs when Uncle Ruthven comes. So I do not go very often; only now and then to see that all is going right during your absence. I hear nothing from the William Tells and Rip Van Winkles, and therefore conclude they are still enjoying their long nap.

“Our house is quite gay, however, what with the three boys, Flossy, and Marygold, all of whom are flourishing.

“Flossy was very mopish for a day or two after you left; and kept himself hidden under sofas and behind curtains, in a most melancholy manner, refusing to play, and eating very little. He is in better spirits now, however, though not as frisky as usual; and Harry and Fred take him out every day for a walk; but when they come towards home, he always insists on turning into your street; and when they take him up and bring him to our house, he falls into low spirits again, and retires into private life until the next meal-time.

“Marygold is well, and sings away as merrily as he did in your own room at home. Aunt Annie wanted to put him in the conservatory with the other birds, but grandmamma said, no: he must hang in the bow-window of her own sitting-room; for since she could not have you, she must have something which belonged to you about her. So there he swings and sings, reminding us constantly of our Maggie and Bessie so far away.

“As for Frankie, he is as mischievous and roguish as ever, and pretty saucy into the bargain. He seems very much afraid that grandmamma will think she is to take his mamma’s place altogether; and every morning when he comes down to breakfast, enters the room with, —

“‘Damma, I’ll stay wis oo, and mind oo des dis one more day. Den I do back my mamma’s house and mind her.’

“If grandmamma tells him to do or not to do any thing, he says: ‘Yes, I’ll mind oo dis once; but oo’re not my mamma.’

“‘But she is my mamma, and I make all little boys mind her,’ I said to him this morning.

“He looked gravely at me for a moment, and then said, ‘Den be a dood boy ouself, and den I will see ’bout it.’

“The rogue gave us a good fright yesterday. I was writing letters in the library, when he came in, and asked if he might stay with me. I gave him leave, provided he was quiet; and for a wonder, he was so; standing for some time looking out of the window, till he saw a poor drunken man go by, when he turned to me and said, —

“‘When tipseys walk, they run.’

“After that he came down, and I gave him the great book of animals you know so well, with which he amused himself for some time, telling the animals about the ‘poor tipseys.’ He was very sweet and good, and being much engaged with my letters, I did not pay much attention to him. But, after a time, I looked around to see if he was in mischief, and he was nowhere to be seen.

“The book lay open on the floor, and one or two toys beside it, but no Frankie. The door stood open, and thinking he must have slipped out, I went in search of him. He was not to be found. Grandmamma, your two aunts, and all the servants were soon alarmed, and joined in the search, but all in vain; and we were just about sending to mamma’s house, to see if he had run away there, when Aunt Bessie saw a little fat hand peeping out of the almost closed door of one of the bookcases. She ran and pulled it open, and there lay our lost boy, fast asleep. He had crept in among the papers and pamphlets, and, drawing the door nearly to, had fallen asleep without meaning to, in his quiet nook. He woke to find us all looking at him, and was very angry at himself for going to sleep; exclaiming, ‘I des b’lieve I went to seep, and I tates no more naps in de daytime. I ’samed of myself.’

“Harry and Fred are going to write to you, so I will leave them to speak for themselves. We are all well here, and last evening had the great pleasure of reading the letters you and Bessie wrote to the Colonel and Mrs. Rush, and which they kindly brought around to us.

“Write to me soon, and tell all your adventures to your affectionate uncle,

    “Ruthven Stanton.”

Harry’s letter to Bessie came next, and ran thus: —

“Precious Pet Princess, – It seems to me as if it were two months instead of two weeks since you went away, and I can’t tell you how I want to see you. But it is all right, for I know you are having first-rate times, and dear mamma is getting ever so much good. We’re not having such a bad time either, though it’s not like having you all home. Uncle Ruthven is a first-rate fellow to stay with, I can tell you, and when we have finished our lessons, he always has some fun on hand for us. So we don’t have time to feel very lonely. But I am glad for your sakes that you and Mag were not left behind, for you would have felt worse about it than Fred and I do.

“Last Saturday we all went to Riverside, we boys on our ponies, of course, and had a famous day. Uncle John has a new boat, and he and Uncle Ruthven rowed us across the river, – they let Fred and me take an oar by turns, too, – and we went up the Palisades. Isn’t there a splendid view up there, though? You can see ever and ever so far. There were lots of Bob Whites about, and we heard them all round us, and we came upon two fellows with dogs and guns hunting them. I hope they didn’t have much luck, the old rascals!

“Haven’t we had a time this afternoon? I don’t know just how it happened, but I think Master Marygold must have opened the door of his cage himself, – for we have seen him pecking away at the catch several times lately; and Uncle Ruthven, only this morning, told Jane to twist a piece of wire round it when she cleaned the cage. But Jane forgot it, and so this afternoon Frankie came running in saying, ‘Marydold’s few away;’ and sure enough the cage was empty and no Marygold to be seen. But after awhile we heard a saucy ‘cheep,’ and there, on the top of grandpapa’s picture, sat my gentleman as independent as you please; and, before we had time to shut the window, out he flew into the yard. Weren’t we in a way though, thinking what you and Maggie would say to come home and find him lost. He hopped around for a while, flying off every time any one went near him, and at last flew clear away over the neighbors’ gardens, and we gave him up for lost.

“Grandmamma put his cage outside, hoping he would grow homesick and come back. And sure enough; for she was taking a nap in her bow-window about sunset, when she was waked by a ‘cheep, cheep,’ and there was Marygold hopping about on her work-table, and asking pardon for his naughtiness as plainly as any bird could. She brought his cage, and in he popped, glad enough to be at home. So he’s all safe once more, and his cage made secure, so he can’t try that dodge again.

“You know Colonel Rush has taken a house at Newport for the summer, and he wants us all to come there when we get through with our other wanderings. Won’t it be jolly? Then you know we are to spend October at dear, old Chalecoo; so you will have change enough for one six months. What travelled young ladies you and Maggie will be!

“I think I have written the most correct and proper letter in the world, and hope your dear little highness will not find any ‘unproper impressions,’ as you once said when Fred used some slang word; and that it will altogether suit your notions. Lots of love and kisses to all from

    “Your loving brother,
    “Harry.”

Here is Fred’s letter to Maggie.

“Dear old Midget, – Don’t I wish you were here that I might give you a good squeeze and hear you call out, ‘O Fred! you are cur-r-rushing me!’ I’ll play the bear in the matter of hugs, when I do get you back, – that is certain. By the way, there’s a mean chap leading a poor, old, black bear about the streets here, making him dance, and scrape a fiddle, and other jigs of that kind. It is not a bit of fun to see the poor, poky, old thing perform, and he must have been beaten ever so much before he could be taught. You can see that by the way he is frightened when his master lifts his stick. It’s a mean shame, so it is. Don’t you say so, Mag?

“What jolly times you are having! so are we for the matter of that. Uncle Ruthven is a regular brick, – though I always knew that, – and so are grandmamma and the colonel, and all the rest. School breaks up the twentieth of June, and then, hurrah! for the country. Uncle John has invited Tom Norris to go with us to Riverside, and stay all the time that we stay. First-rate in him, wasn’t it? Tom is the jolliest good boy I ever saw: you never catch him in the least thing that isn’t just up to the right, and yet he’s the best company and merriest fellow in the world. He keeps me out of a heap of mischief, many a time, dear, old chap! that’s so, I know. Dear, old, steady-going Hal! he often wonders at my tantrums, I know; but he’s good too, and it is awful hard work to keep out of scrapes in school when you’ve a quick temper like mine, and not too much thought. I’ll tell you a secret, Mag: I believe it has helped me a good deal to see you and Queen Bess take so much pains to cure yourselves of those two very faults, – you, with your carelessness, and Bessie, with her passionate temper. I thought it was a shame if you two little girls did it, that a great fellow like me shouldn’t. And for that reason I’m going to let you tell dear mamma some thing that will make her dear eyes dance. Mr. Peters called me to him this morning, – and I thought for sure I must be in some row, though I didn’t see what, – and he said he wanted to tell me that no boy in the school had improved in character, or taken so much pains with his faults, as I had during the last year. I don’t want to be puffed up, but didn’t I feel some pumpkins; but I could most have cried that mamma wasn’t home for me to tell the good news to. However, when I went home, there sat grandmamma, the dear, precious, old soul, so sweet and good and loving; so I just pitched into her and gave her the news, and a tight squeeze into the bargain. She was as pleased as could be, but then she isn’t mamma; so just you tell the darling mother, and bid her shut her eyes, and do you give her a good choke for me, just as I do, Ducky-Daddles! and see if she don’t gasp out, ‘Oh, my dear boy!’ and you write it to me, Mag. And tell papa, Mr. Peters told me if I turned out such a man as my father, – a true Christian, a perfect gentleman, and a thorough scholar, – no one could ask more for me. I never expect to be all that, but it’s something to have one’s father spoken of that way, and, Mag, do you believe, I just bawled. And old Peters – I’ll never call him that again if I remember, only it comes so handy – asked me to go of a little errand for him. I knew that it was just that he knew I didn’t want to go back to the school-room with red eyes, and I was all right again before I came back. He’s a jolly old soul, if he is strict. But I just tell you, you and her royal highness can take some of the credit to yourselves; for I know you have helped me without meaning it. And Uncle Ruthven is as pleased as any thing, and he said he had seen it himself, and he had meant to give me a handsome pony for taking pains with myself; but as papa had given me one when he gave Hal a watch just before you went away, he would let me say what the present should be.

“And so, Midget, I told him I should like him to give you and Bess the pony between you; and he said I had better take a couple of days to think it over, and he would give me leave to change my mind. I suppose he thinks I’ll slink out of it; but I shan’t, so you two may just count on a pony of your own. I guess there’ll be a side-saddle too, for Uncle Ruth don’t do things by halves. I’m awfully sleepy, and anybody but you would be tired of this long letter.

    “Your loving brother,
    “Frederick Talbot Bradford, Esq.”

Maggie answered her Uncle Ruthven’s letter the very next morning in these words: —