Mary: A Nursery Story for Very Little Children

Mary: A Nursery Story for Very Little Children
Mrs. Molesworth

Mrs.Molesworth

Mary

Chapter One.

A Birthday Morning

One morning Mary awoke very early. It was in the month of May, and the mornings were light, and sometimes the sun shone in through the windows very brightly. Mary liked these mornings. The sunshine made everything in the room look so pretty; even the nursery furniture, which was no longer very new or fresh, seemed quite shiny and sparkling, as if fairy fingers had been rubbing it up in the night.

“I wonder what day it is,” thought Mary. It was difficult for her to remember the days, for she was not yet four years old. She was only going to be four soon. Mamma had told her her birthday would come in May, and that this year it would be on a Thursday. And every day, ever since Mary knew that May had come, she wondered if it was Thursday. But it was rather puzzling. Two Thursdays had come without it being her birthday.

“P’raps mamma has made a mistook,” thought Mary. “P’raps my birfday isn’t going to be in May this time.”

For if it changed about from one day to another – last year it was Wednesday, and next year it would be – oh, it was too difficult to remember that – mightn’t it change out of May too? Mary didn’t think months were quite so difficult to remember as days, for different things came in months. In April there were showers, and in May flowers. Nurse had told her that, and when the months with the long names came it would be winter.

“I hope it isn’t a mistook,” thought Mary. “I’d like it best to be in May. ‘MAY’ is such a nice short little word, and only one letter more makes it ‘Mary.’ No, I think it can’t be a mistook.” Mary could read very well, and she could spell little words. She had learnt to read when she was so little that she could not remember it. She thought knitting and cross-stitch work were much harder than reading. But she had to learn them, because mamma said too much reading was not good for such a little girl, and would make her head ache, and mamma bought her pretty coloured wools and nice short knitting needles, and Mary had made a carpet for the drawing-room of her doll-house. But though it looked very pretty Mary still liked reading best. She had also worked a kettle-holder for grandmamma: that is to say she had worked the stitches all round the picture of a kettle, which was already on the canvas when mamma bought it. Mamma called it “grounding it,” and while she was working it, Mary often wondered what “grounding” it meant, for a kettle-holder was not meant to lie on the ground. She might have asked mamma to explain, but somehow she did not. She was not a very asking child. Big people did not always understand, not even mamma quite always, and it made Mary feel very strange when they did not understand; it almost made her cry. Though even that she did not mind as much as when they told her she would know when she got big. She did not want to wait to know things till when she got big. It made her feel all hot to think what a lot of knowing there would be to do then, it seemed like a very big hill standing straight up in front of her which she would never get to the top of. She thought she would rather go up it in what she called “a roundy-round way.” Papa had shown her that way once when it took her breath away to climb up one of the “mountings” – Mary always called hills “mountings” – in grandmamma’s garden, and Mary had never forgotten it. She thought the hill of knowing would be much nicer to go up that way, and that she might begin it now – just a little bit at a time. She thought this all quite plain inside her own mind, but she could not have told it to anybody. Very often it is not till children are quite big that they can tell their own thoughts, looking back upon them. And Mary did not know that she was going up the hill of knowing already, a little bit at a time, just as she fancied she would like to go.

Mary felt glad when she had settled it in her mind that it could not be a mistake about her birthday coming on a Thursday, and she lay quite still, watching the sunshine. It had got on to her bed by now, and it made all sorts of nice things on the counterpane. Mary’s bed was rather a big one for such a little girl, for the cot she used to have was now her brother Artie’s; Artie slept now in Leigh’s room, and there was only a corner there for quite a small bed. Leigh was the big brother of Artie and Mary. He was eight years old.

Yes, the sunshine made the counterpane very pretty. It was quite white, and as Mary’s home was in the country, white things did not get a grey dull look as they do in London. There were patterns all over the counterpane, and if Mary bumped up her knees she could make fancies to suit the patterns – like garden paths leading to beautiful castles, or robber caves – the boys told her stories of robber caves which were very interesting, though rather frightening. And this morning the light shone on a pattern she had never noticed so much before. It was a round ring, just in the middle, and flowers and leaves seemed growing inside it.

“It’s a fairy ring,” thought Mary; “I wonder if the fairies p’raps come and dance on it when I’m asleep.” For she had seen fairy rings on the grass in the fields sometimes when she and her brothers were out walking, and nurse had told her about them. Mary had often wished she could get up in the night and go down to the fields to see the fairies, but she knew she could not. She would never be able to open the big door. Besides, it would be naughty to go out without mamma’s and nurse’s leave. And it would be very cold – even if the moon were shining it would be cold. For Mary had stood in the moonlight once or twice and she knew it did not warm like the sun.

“I suppose they don’t burn such big fires in the moon,” she thought.

The fancy about the fairy ring on the counterpane was very nice, for she could think about it and “pertend” she saw the fairies dancing without getting out of her warm nest at the top of the bed at all. She thought she would tell Artie about it and perhaps he would help to make some nice stories of fairy rings. Artie was not always very “listening” to Mary’s fancies. He did really like them, but he was afraid of Leigh laughing at him. When Leigh was away, and Artie and Mary were alone together, it was very nice. But very often Leigh wanted Artie to play big things with him, and then Mary had to amuse herself alone. Leigh was not an unkind big brother; he would carry Mary if she was tired, and would have read stories to her, if she had not liked best to read them to herself. But he had quite boy ways, and thought little girls were not much more good than the pretty china figures in his mother’s cabinets in the drawing-room.

So Mary was often alone. But she did not mind. She had lots of friends of different kinds. Now and then nurse would say to her, “It would be nice, Miss Mary, if you had a little sister, wouldn’t it?”

But Mary shook her head. She did not think so.

“No, zank you,” she would say, “I doesn’t want a little sister.”

The waking so early and the thinking about the sun and the moon and fairy rings and how soon it would be her birthday, began to make Mary rather tired at last. And after a while she fell asleep again without knowing it.

When she woke up for the second time the sun was still shining, though not so brightly as before. And she heard voices talking in the next room, that was the day-nursery. There was a door open between it and the night-nursery where Mary slept.

“Thursday, 18th May,” said one of the voices. “May’s a nice month for a baby, and all the summer before it. ‘Thursday’s child has far to go.’ Perhaps little Missie will marry a hofficer and travel to the Injies. Who can say?”

Then there was a little laugh.

“That’s Old Sarah,” said Mary to herself. Sarah was the housemaid – the upper housemaid, and though she was not very old, the children called her so because her niece, who was also called Sarah, was the nursery-maid. “Little Sarah,” they sometimes called her. Her father was the gardener, and he and her mother lived in a cottage which the children thought the prettiest house in the world. And sometimes they were allowed, for a very great treat, to go there to tea.

It was Little Sarah who was talking to Old Sarah just now. Mary heard her voice, but as she spoke rather low she could not quite tell what the nursery-maid said. She only heard the last words – it was something about “nurse will tell her.”

This put it into Mary’s mind that, though it was quite morning now, she had not seen nurse, and yet she must be up and dressed.

“Nurse,” she called out in her little clear voice. “Nurse, where are you?”

The two Sarahs popped their heads in at the door.

“Are you awake, Miss Mary?” asked Little Sarah.

“In course I’m awake. You heard me calling,” said Mary.

She thought Little Sarah was very stupid sometimes.

“I’m calling nurse,” Mary went on, “I don’t want you, Little Sarah. You can go and dress Master Artie.”

If Little Sarah was rather stupid, she was also very good-natured. She glanced at Mary with a smile, but with rather an odd look on her face too.

“What does you want? What is you looking at me for?” said Mary.

“Oh, nothing,” said Sarah. “I was only thinking whatever would you do without nurse if – if nurse was busy and couldn’t be so much with you, Miss Mary.”

“Nurse wouldn’t never be busy like that,” said Mary.

“Oh, well, never mind. I’ll dress Master Artie and I dare say nurse – ” began Sarah, but she stopped short. Nurse just then came into the room.

“Here’s Miss Mary worretting for you,” said the girl.

Nurse hurried up to the little girl’s bed.

“Have you been awake long, my dear?” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nurse,” whispered Mary, pulling nurse’s head close down so that she could whisper to her, “I heard Old Sarah and Little Sarah talking, and Old Sarah sayed ‘Thursday’ and ‘May.’ Is it my birfday comed, nurse? Mamma sayed it was coming in May, and it would be Thursday.”

“My dearie,” said nurse, “you’ve guessed right. It is your birthday – the 18th of May.”

Mary felt pleased, but also a little disappointed. She had been waiting for her birthday and thinking about it for such a long time that now she could scarcely believe it had come. For it seemed just like other days. No, not quite like other days, not as nice. For nurse had got up so early and Old Sarah and Little Sarah had been talking in the nursery – she did not like anybody to talk like that in the nursery.

“Dress me quick, please, nurse,” she said, “and then I’ll go to mamma’s room, and then p’raps my birfday will begin. I don’t think it can have beginned yet. I thought – ” and then she stopped and her lips quivered a little.

“What, my dearie?” said nurse.

She was a very kind, understanding nurse always, but this morning she spoke even more kindly than other mornings to Mary.

“I don’t know,” said Mary. “I think I thought mamma would come to kiss me in bed like a fairy, and – and – I thought there’d be stockings or somefin’ like that – like Kissimas, you know.”

Nurse had lifted Mary out of her bath by this time, and was rubbing her with a nice large “soft-roughey” towel – “soft-roughey” was one of Mary and Artie’s words – it meant the opposite of “prick-roughey.” They did not like “prick-roughey” things. She wrapped Mary all round in the big towel for a minute; it was nice and warm, for it had been hanging in front of the fire; then she gave Mary a little hug.

“You mustn’t be unhappy, dear Miss Mary,” she said. “Mamma meant to come, I’m sure, but she’s fast asleep – and when she wakes I’m afraid she’ll have a headache. So I’m afraid your birthday won’t be quite like what you planned. But I’m sure there’ll be some pretty presents for you – quite sure.”

But Mary looked up with her lips quivering still more, and the tears beginning to come too.

“It isn’t presents I want,” she said. “Not presents like that way. I – I want mamma. Mammas shouldn’t have headaches. It takes away all the birfday-ness.”