Bessie on Her Travels

“What is ‘roam’?” asked Bessie, who must always inquire the meaning of every word she did not understand.

“To travel about. Just what we’re doing,” answered Maggie.

“Then why don’t you say travel? I think it’s the nicest word.”

“But it is not so uncommon,” said Maggie; “and you know when people write poetry they always put in all the uncommon words they can find.”

“Do they?” said Bessie, as if she did not quite approve of this rule.

“Yes, to be sure,” answered Maggie. “You know prose is just common talking; but poetry is uncommon talking, and you have to make it sound as fine as you can, and put words you don’t use every day.”

“Oh!” said Bessie. “Well, if you have done, I guess we’d better give papa back his book.”

Accordingly, the book was carried to papa, who had not had any idea that Maggie’s poetical fancy would carry her so far, and who was rather surprised to see several pages scribbled over with verses that were lined and interlined, scratched out and written over, in a manner which did not add to the beauty or neatness of the book.

However, he only laughed, and taking out his penknife carefully cut out the scribbled leaves and gave them to the little poetess, who rolled them up, and tying them round with a bit of twine, stowed them away in her satchel, till such time as she should be ready to copy and add to them.

But she did not find leisure for this till they had been at Niagara for two or three days; and then, when she looked in her travelling-bag for the precious poem, lo! it was gone! In vain did she and Bessie take out all the other contents from the satchel, shake it, and feel in each corner and pocket: no poem came to light, and great was the sorrowing over its loss.

“Then I s’pose I’ll never hear of it again,” said Bessie, regretfully, when mamma said she thought Maggie must have pulled it out with some of the other things her bag contained, and so dropped it, unseen.

But poor Maggie was to hear of her poem again; to hear a little too much of it.

The two parties spent a week or more at Niagara Falls, visiting many a point of interest and beauty, – sometimes together, sometimes apart; now standing below the level of the Rapids, and looking backward at their white foaming crests drawn sharply against the blue sky, as the mad waters went whirling and rushing over the slope; now, in the early morning, looking up to the top of the Great Fall, which shone and flashed like jewels in the rays of the sun, the gray mist curling below, and a glorious rainbow stretching from shore to shore; now taking the little steamer which plies to the foot of the cataract, into the very midst of the thick, blinding spray. Mamma did not think it best for Bessie to go on this expedition; but strong, hardy, little Maggie was allowed to go, well wrapped in water-proof, and held fast in papa’s or Uncle Ruthven’s arms. On the whole, however, Maggie did not enjoy this as much as she did the other excursions. In the first place, Bessie was not with her, and then she wanted to laugh at the droll, miserable-looking figures about her, but would not do so, lest she should “hurt their feelings, when they looked so very unhappy, and as if they wished they had not come.”

Then again they would pass over to some of the lovely little islands, which here and there break the rapids above the American Fall. Two of them, Ship and Brig Islands, had a special interest for the children, from their resemblance to ships under full sail. Even Bessie, who could never be persuaded to imagine any thing which she did not distinctly see, noticed this, and said she felt almost sorry for them, for it seemed as if they were “real live ships trying to sail out of the waters that were hurrying them away so fast.”

Mr. Bradford and Mr. Stanton had gone over to Goat Island one afternoon, taking the little girls with them. Here they were lying and sitting under the overarching trees, looking at the Hermit’s Cascade, and listening to the deep, never-ceasing voice of the great cataract, when they were joined by the younger portion of the Maynard party, – Kate and her brother, and Mr. and Miss Temple.

Maggie and Bessie had by this time taken Mr. Charlie Maynard into special favor, looking upon him with eyes nearly as friendly as those with which they regarded his sister; and they were glad to see both him and Kate. Miss Temple, too, a quiet, lady-like girl, they liked very well, and did not object to her; but they could very well have dispensed with her brother’s society. However, he did not on this occasion seem at first disposed to prove teasing or troublesome, but stretched himself upon the grass, with his head supported on his arm and his hat half over his eyes.

But, by and by, Mr. Bradford and Mr. Stanton, seeing an old friend at a little distance, went to speak to him; the former telling his little girls to remain where they were till he returned. They were scarcely out of hearing, when George Temple, turning lazily over so as to face Maggie, though he still kept his eyes shaded by his hat, said, —

“This is delightful! One could dream half one’s life away in this enchanting place and in such pleasant company. Have we not a poet or poetess among us to put it all into verse? What! no answer to the call? Then I shall have to try my hand at it.”

“You making verses!” said his sister, laughing, and playfully pulling the brown locks which escaped from beneath his hat. “You making verses! a lame style of poetry that would be, to be sure.”

“I don’t know,” said George. “Certainly I never appeared to have much talent that way; but no one can tell what he may be able to do when a fitting time arrives. I feel on the present occasion like the gifted authoress who says so touchingly, —

‘I have so very many mercies
I have to write them down in verses.’”

Maggie started, and looked up from the little bunch of wild flowers she was arranging to carry home to her mother.

Mr. Maynard and the young ladies laughed; and Charlie said, —

“What a gem! Who is your authoress?”

“She is Anon., I believe,” said George, sleepily. “She closes the couplet with, —

‘Because my heart in praise goes up
For such a full and heaped-up cup.’

Now I am in just such a frame of mind, and quite agree with her when she goes on to say, —

‘This world is all so beautiful,
We should be very gra-te-ful;
But then, you know, sometimes we’re not,
And do forget our happy lot.’”

“George,” said Miss Temple, “how can you be so foolish?” but she laughed again, and the others, too, went on laughing and joking him about his “nonsense;” while poor Maggie sat, – with downcast-eyes, changing color, and beating heart, – listening intently to every word her tormentor uttered, and wondering how much more pain he would put her through. As for Bessie, she had at first heard in wondering surprise those strangely familiar lines; but surprise soon changed to sympathy for her Maggie, and indignation against Mr. Temple.

Suddenly Kate turned her eyes towards the two little faces, and the expression of both left no room for doubt as to who was the author of the unfortunate verses. Maggie was in an agony of embarrassment: too well did Kate know the signs, and remember with shame how, not long since, she herself had found as much amusement in them as George Temple was probably now doing, since he was taking so much pains to excite them. But Kate had learned better, and had grown more thoughtful and considerate, more careful not to give pain to another for the sake of a little passing enjoyment to herself. How cruel Mr. Temple’s teasing seemed to her now, and how she felt for Maggie!

For Bessie, too, who she saw was trying to keep down her rising temper, she was very sorry. She must come to the rescue in some way.

“I might have known from the first,” she said to herself, “that those were Maggie’s verses. They sound just like her, – just like her happy, grateful, little heart, always so ready and eager to give praise and gratitude where they are due. They are not bad for such a child, either; but I must help her out of this. Poor little Maggie!”

“There’s another sentiment of the talented writer, to which I shall also say amen,” began Mr. Temple again, —

“‘And then I’ve lots of friends at home
From whom just now away I roam;
I hope they’ll all be safe and sound
When I again at home am found.’”

“I thought you meant to try your own powers of rhyming,” said Kate. “I am glad you have not, for I know you could not do nearly as well as the writer you quote; and I am sure you have not half as feeling a heart. But we have had enough.”

This was an unlucky speech of Kate’s; for it gave Mr. Temple an opportunity of doing still worse.

“A feeling heart!” he repeated: “well, I don’t know about that; her feelings seem to have been mixed, for she says, —

‘Alas! ’tis my unhappy fate
To see on board a man I hate:
I know I should not be so mad;
But he behaves so very bad.’

Now, I am in a much more amiable frame of mind; for I do not see in this present company a single person whom it is ‘my unhappy fate’ to hate. How is it with you, Maggie?”

But Maggie was overwhelmed, and could not possibly have answered if she had wished to do so ever so much.

“Maggie,” said Kate, seeing no way to spare the child further confusion but by taking her away, “you have not enough green with those flowers. Come over there, I see some pretty leaves, and we will gather them.”

Maggie sprang to her feet, letting the flowers fall to the ground, and seized eagerly upon the kind hand held out for her relief. The tears, which she had been struggling to hold back, flowed freely the moment she was beyond the sound of her tormentor’s voice; but she felt better for them and for Kate’s sympathy.

“Never mind, dear,” said Kate, soothingly. “I know the poetry is yours, Maggie, and it is very nice indeed; but I would not say so before Charlie and Mary. I thought you would not like it. George Temple could not have written it himself, and he ought to be ashamed to tease you so.”

“It’s too, too mean,” sobbed Maggie; “and that man is too horrid. I didn’t really mean I hated him; but now I most feel as if I did.”

Meanwhile Bessie, who had lingered a moment to pick up Maggie’s flowers, was receiving in dignified silence Mr. Temple’s questions as he asked “what ailed her sister?”