Mary: A Nursery Story for Very Little Children

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a whole year for that,” he said. “Next year, if all’s well, your birthday and baby’s will come together.”

“Oh, that will be nice,” said Mary, but then for a minute or two she forgot all about baby, as her father lifted her on to her mother’s bed to get the birthday kiss waiting for her.

“My pet,” said her mother, “are you pleased with your presents, and are you having a happy day?” Mary put up her little hand and stroked her mother’s forehead, on which some little curls of pretty brown were falling.

“Mamma dear,” she said, “your hair isn’t very tidy. Shall I call Larkin to brush it smoove?” and she began to scramble off the bed to go to fetch the maid.

“What a little fidget you are,” said her mother. “Never mind about my hair. I want you to tell me what you think of your little sister.”

“I think her sweet,” said Mary. “And her curls is somefin like yours, mamma. But Leigh says hers like little ducks, and Artie says hers like a pink monkey.”

Mamma began to laugh at this, quite loud. But just then the nurse put her head in at the door.

“Baby’s opening her eyes so wide, Miss Mary,” she said. “Do come and look at her, and you, Master Leigh and Master Artie too. You shall come and see your mamma again in the afternoon.”

So they all three went back into the other room to have another look at baby.

“I say, children,” called their father after them. “We’ve got to fix what baby’s to be called. It’ll take a lot of thinking about, so you must set your wits to work, and tell me to-morrow what name you like best.”

Chapter Four.

Babies

There was plenty to think of all that day. Mary’s little head had never been so full, and before bedtime came she began to feel quite sleepy.

It had been a very happy day, even though everything seemed rather strange. Their father would have liked to stay with them, but he was obliged to go away. Nurse – I mean Artie’s and Mary’s own nurse – was very good to them, and so were cook and all the other servants. The birthday dinner was just what Mary liked – roast chicken and bread-sauce and little squirly rolls of bacon, and a sponge-cake pudding with strawberry jam. And there was a very nice tea, too; the only pity was that baby could not have any of the good things, because, as nurse explained, she had no teeth.

“She’ll have some by next birthday, won’t she?” asked Leigh.

“I hope so, poor dear,” said nurse, “though she’ll scarcely be able to eat roast chicken by then.”

“Why do you say ‘poor dear’?” asked Leigh.

“Because their teeth coming often hurts babies a good deal,” said nurse.

“It would be much better if they were all ready,” said Leigh. “I don’t see why they shouldn’t be. Baby’s got hands and eyes and everything else – why shouldn’t she have teeth?”

“I’m sure I can’t say, Master Leigh,” nurse answered. “There’s many things we can’t explain.”

Mary opened her mouth wide and began tugging at her own little white teeth.

“Them doesn’t hurt me,” she said.

“Ah but they did, Miss Mary,” said nurse. “Many a night you couldn’t sleep for crying with the pain of them, but you can’t remember it.”

“It’s very funny,” said Mary.

“What’s funny?” asked Leigh.

“About ’amembering,” answered Mary, and a puzzled look came into her face. “Can you ’amember when you was a tiny baby, nurse?”

“No, my dear, nobody can,” said nurse. “But don’t worry yourself about understanding things of that kind.”

“There’s somefin in my head now that I can’t ’amember,” said Mary, “somefin papa said. It’s that that’s teasing me, nurse. I don’t like to not ’amember what papa said.”

“You must ask him to-morrow, dearie,” nurse answered. “You’ll give yourself a headache if you go on trying too hard to remember.”

“Isn’t it funny how things go out of our minds like that?” said Leigh. “I’ll tell you what I think it is. I think our minds are like cupboards or chests of drawers, and some of the things get poked very far back so that we can’t get at them when we want them. You see the newest things are at the front, that’s how we can remember things that have just happened and not things long ago.”

“No,” said Artie, “’tisn’t quite like that, Leigh. For I can remember what we had for dinner on my birthday, and that was very long ago, before last winter, much better than what we had for dinner one day last week.”

“I can tell you how that is,” said nurse, “what you had for dinner on your birthday made a mark on your mind because it was your birthday. Everything makes marks on our minds, I suppose, but some go deeper than others. That’s how it’s always seemed to me about remembering and forgetting. And if there’s any name I want to remember very much I say it out loud to myself two or three times, and that seems to press it into my mind. Dear, dear, how well I remember doing that way at school when I was a little girl. There was the kings and queens, do what I would, I couldn’t remember how their names came, till I got that way of saying two or three together, like ‘William and Mary, Anne, George the First,’ over and over.”

The children listened with great interest to nurse’s recollections, the boys especially, that is to say; the talk was rather too difficult for Mary to understand. But her face looked very grave; she seemed to be listening to what nurse said, and yet thinking of something behind it. All at once her eyes grew bright and a smile broke out like a ray of sunshine.

“I ’amember,” she said joyfully. “Nursie said her couldn’t ’amember names. It was names papa said. He said us was to fink of a name for baby.”

“Oh, is that what you’ve been fussing about?” said Leigh. “I could have told you that long ago. I’ve fixed what I want her to be called. I’ve thought of a very pretty name.”

Mary looked rather sorry.

“I can’t fink of any names,” she said; “I can only fink of ‘Mary.’ Can’t her be called ‘Mary,’ ’cos it’s my birfday?”

Leigh and Artie both began to laugh.

“What a silly girl you are,” said Leigh; “how could you have two people in one family with the same name? Whenever we called ‘Mary,’ you’d never know if it was you or the baby we meant.”

“You could say ‘baby Mary,’” said Mary, who did not like to be called a silly girl.

“And when she was big,” said Leigh, “how would she like to be called ‘baby’?”

Mary had not thought of this, still she would not give in.

“Peoples has the same names,” she said. “Papa’s name’s ‘Leigh,’ and your name’s ‘Leigh,’ – there now – ” and as another idea struck her, “and us all is called Bertum. Papa’s Mr Bertum and mamma’s Mrs Bertum and – and – ”

“And you’re ‘Miss Bertum,’” said Leigh, laughing. “But that’s because Bertram is our family name, you see, Mary. We’ve each got a first name too. It doesn’t much matter papa and me being the same, except that sometimes I think mamma’s calling me when she means papa, but it would never do if Artie and I had the same name. Fancy, if we were both called ‘Artie,’ we’d never know which you meant.”

“No,” said Mary, laughing too, “it would be a very bad plan. I never thought of that. But I can’t think of a pitty name for dear little baby.”

“There’s lots,” said Artie, who had been sitting very silent – to tell the truth, he had forgotten all about choosing a name, but he did not want to say so. So he had been thinking of all the names he could, so that he might seem quite as ready as Leigh. “There’s Cowslip and Buttercup and Firefly and – ”

“Nonsense,” said Leigh, “considering you’re six years old, Artie, you’re sillier than Mary. Those are cows’ names, and – ”

“They’re not – not all of them,” said Artie, “Firefly’s a pony’s name. It’s little Ella Curry’s pony’s name, and I think it’s very pretty.”

“For a pony perhaps,” said nurse, “but then you see, Master Artie, your little sister isn’t a pony.”

“I wish she was,” said Leigh, and when nurse looked up astonished he looked rather ashamed. “Of course I don’t mean that it isn’t nice for her to be a little girl,” he went on, “but I do so wish we had a pony.”