Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 (16 page)

 
          
           
'Sing, Tessa; sing! Quick!
quick
!' cried Tommo,
twanging away with all his might, and showing his white teeth, as he smiled
back at the little gentle-folk.

 
          
           
Bless us! How Tessa did tune up at that! She chirped away like a real bird,
forgetting all about the tears on her cheeks, the ache in her hands, and the
heaviness at her heart. The children laughed, and clapped their hands, and
cried 'More!
more
! Sing another, little girl! Please
do!' And away they went again, piping and playing, till Tessa's breath was
gone, and Tommo's stout fingers tingled well.

 
          
           
'Mamma says, come to the door; it's too muddy to throw the money into the
street!' cried out a kindly child's voice as Tessa held up the old cap, with
beseeching eyes.

 
          
           
Up the wide stone steps went the street musicians, and the whole flock came
running down to give a handful of silver, and ask all sorts of questions. Tessa
felt so grateful that, without waiting for Tommo, she sang her sweetest little
song all alone. It was about a lost lamb, and her heart was in the song;
therefore she sang it well, so well that a pretty young lady came down to
listen, and stood watching the bright-eyed girl, who looked about her as she
sang, evidently enjoying the light and warmth of the fine hall, and the sight
of the lovely children with their gay dresses, shining hair, and dainty little
shoes.

 
          
           
'You have a charming voice, child. Who taught you to sing?' asked the young
lady kindly.

 
          
           
'My mother.
She is dead now; but I do not forget,'
answered Tessa, in her pretty broken English.

 
          
           
'I wish she could sing at our tree, since Bella is ill,' cried one of the
children peeping through the banisters.

 
          
           
'She is not fair enough for the angel, and too large to go up in the tree. But
she sings sweetly, and looks as if she would like to see a tree,' said the
young lady.

 
          
           
'Oh, so much!' exclaimed Tessa; adding eagerly, 'my sister Ranza is small and
pretty as a baby-angel. She could sit up in the fine tree, and I could sing for
her from under the table.'

 
          
           
'Sit down and warm
yourself
, and tell me about Ranza,'
said the kind elder sister, who liked the confiding little girl, in spite of her
shabby clothes.

 
          
           
So Tessa sat down and dried the big boots over the furnace, and told her story,
while Tommo stood modestly in the background, and the children listened with
faces full of interest.

 
          
           
'O Rose!
let
us see the little girl; and if she will
do, let us have her, and Tessa can learn our song, and it will be splendid!'
cried the biggest boy, who sat astride of a chair, and stared at the harp with
round eyes.

 
          
           
'I'll ask mamma,' said Rose; and away she went into the dining-room close by.
As the door opened, Tessa saw what looked to her like a fairy feast,—all silver
mugs and flowery plates and oranges and nuts and rosy wine in tall glass
pitchers, and smoking dishes that smelt so deliciously she could not restrain a
little sniff of satisfaction.

 
          
           
'Are you hungry?' asked the boy, in a grand tone.

 
          
           
'Yes, sir,' meekly answered Tessa.

 
          
           
'I say, mamma; she wants something to eat. Can I give her an orange?' called
the boy, prancing away into the splendid room, quite like a fairy prince, Tessa
thought.

 
          
           
A plump motherly lady came out and looked at Tessa, asked a few questions, and
then told her to
come
to-morrow with Ranza, and they
would see what could be done. Tessa clapped her hands for joy,—she didn't mind
the chilblains now,—and Tommo played a lively march, he was so pleased.

 
          
           
'Will you come, too, and bring your harp? You shall be paid, and shall have
something from the tree, likewise,' said the motherly lady, who liked what
Tessa gratefully told about his kindness to her.

 
          
           
'Ah, yes; I shall come with much gladness, and play as never in my life
before,' cried Tommo, with a flourish of the old cap that made the children
laugh.

 
          
           
'Give these to your brothers,' said the fairy prince, stuffing nuts and oranges
into Tessa's hands.

 
          
           
'And these to the little girl,' added one of the young princesses, flying out
of the dining-room with cakes and rosy apples for Ranza.

 
          
           
Tessa didn't know what to say; but her eyes were full, and she just took the
mother's white hand in both her little grimy ones, and kissed it many times in
her pretty Italian fashion. The lady understood her, and stroked her cheek
softly, saying to her elder daughter, 'We must take care of this good little
creature. Freddy, bring me your mittens; these poor hands must be covered.
Alice
,
get your play-hood; this handkerchief is all wet; and, Maud, bring the old
chinchilla tippet.'

 
          
           
The children ran, and in a minute there were lovely blue mittens on the red
hands, a warm hood over the black braids, and a soft 'pussy' round the sore
throat.

 
          
           
'Ah!
so
kind, so very kind! I have no way to say
"thank you;" but Ranza shall be for you a heavenly angel, and I will
sing my heart out for your tree!' cried Tessa, folding the mittens as if she
would say a prayer of thankfulness if she knew how.

 
          
           
Then they went away, and the pretty children called after them, 'Come again,
Tessa!
come
again, Tommo!' Now the rain didn't seem
dismal, the wind cold,
nor
the way long, as they
bought their gifts and hurried home, for kind words and the sweet magic of
charity had changed all the world to them.

 
          
           
I think the good spirits who fly about on Christmas Eve, to help the loving
fillers of little stockings, smiled very kindly on Tessa as she brooded
joyfully over the small store of presents that seemed so magnificent to her.
All the goodies were divided evenly into three parts and stowed away in
father's three big socks, which hung against the curtain. With her three
dollars, she had got a pair of shoes for Nono, a knit cap for Sep, and a pair
of white stockings for Ranza; to her she also gave the new hood; to Nono the
mittens; and to Sep the tippet.

 
          
           
'Now the dear boys can go out, and my Ranza will be ready for the lady to see,
in her nice new things,' said Tessa, quite sighing with pleasure to see how
well the gifts looked pinned up beside the bulging socks, which wouldn't hold
them all. The little mother kept nothing for herself but the pleasure of giving
everything away; yet, I think, she was both richer and happier than if she had
kept them all. Her father laughed as he had not done since the mother died,
when he saw how comically the old curtain had broken out into boots and hoods,
stockings and tippets.

 
          
           
'I wish I had a gold gown and a silver hat for thee, my Tessa, thou art so
good. May the saints bless and keep thee always!' said Peter Benari tenderly, as
he held his little daughter close, and gave her the good-night kiss.

 
          
           
Tessa felt very rich as she crept under the faded counterpane, feeling as if
she had received a lovely gift, and fell happily asleep with chubby Ranza in
her arms, and the two rough black heads peeping out at the foot of the bed. She
dreamed wonderful dreams that night, and woke in the morning to find real
wonders before her eyes. She got up early, to see if the socks were all right,
and there she found the most astonishing sight. Four socks, instead of three;
and by the fourth, pinned out quite elegantly was a little dress, evidently
meant for her—a warm, woollen dress, all made, and actually with bright buttons
on it. It nearly took her breath away; so did the new boots on the floor, and
the funny long stocking like a grey sausage, with a wooden doll staring out at
the top, as if she said, politely, 'A Merry Christmas, ma'am!' Tessa screamed
and danced in her delight, and up tumbled all the children to scream and dance
with her, making a regular carnival on a small scale. Everybody hugged and
kissed everybody else, offered sucks of orange, bites of cake, and exchanges of
candy; every one tried on the new things, and pranced about in them like a
flock of peacocks. Ranza skipped to and fro airily, dressed in her white socks
and the red hood; the boys promenaded in their little shirts, one with his
creaking new shoes and mittens, the other in his gay cap and fine tippet; and
Tessa put her dress straight on, feeling that her father's 'gold gown' was not
all a joke. In her long stocking she found all sorts of treasures; for Tommo
had stuffed it full of queer things, and his mother had made gingerbread into
every imaginable shape, from fat pigs to full omnibuses.

 
          
           
Dear me! What happy little souls they were that morning; and when they were
quiet again, how like a fairy tale
did Tessa's story sound
to them. Ranza was quite ready to be an angel; and the boys promised to be
marvellously good, if they were only allowed to see the tree at the 'palace,'
as they called the great house.

 
          
           
Little Ranza was accepted with delight by the kind lady and her children, and
Tessa learned the song quite easily. The boys
were
asked; and, after a happy day, the young Italians all returned,
to play their parts at the fine Christmas party. Mamma and Miss Rose drilled
them all; and when the folding-doors flew open, one rapturous 'Oh!' arose from
the crowd of children gathered to the festival. I assure you, it was splendid;
the great tree glittering with lights and gifts; and, on her invisible perch,
up among the green boughs, sat the little golden-haired angel, all in white,
with downy wings, a shining crown on her head, and the most serene satisfaction
in her blue eyes, as she stretched her chubby arms to those below, and smiled
her baby smile at them. Before any one could speak, a voice, as fresh and sweet
as a lark's, sang the Christmas Carol so blithely that every one stood still to
hear, and then clapped till the little angel shook on her perch, and cried out,
'Be 'till, or me'll fall!' How they laughed at that; and what fun they had
talking to Ranza, while Miss Rose stripped the tree, for the angel could not
resist temptation, and amused herself by eating all the bonbons she could reach,
till she was taken down, to dance about like a fairy in a white frock and red
shoes. Tessa and her friends had many presents; the boys were perfect lambs,
Tommo played for the little folks to dance, and every one said something
friendly to the strangers, so that they did not feel shy, in spite of shabby
clothes. It was a happy night: and all their lives they remembered it as
something too beautiful and bright to be quite true. Before they went home, the
kind mamma told Tessa she should be her friend, and gave her a motherly kiss,
which warmed the child's heart and seemed to set a seal upon that promise. It
was faithfully kept, for the rich lady had been touched by Tessa's patient
struggles and sacrifices; and for many years, thanks to her benevolence, there
was no end to Tessa's Surprises.

 
          
           
"Here's your breakfast, miss. I hope
it's
right.
Your mother showed me how to fix it, and said I'd find a cup up here."

 
          
           
"Take that blue one. I have not much appetite, and can't eat if things are
not nice and pretty. I like the flowers. I've been longing for some ever since
I saw them last night."

 
          
           
The first speaker was a red-haired, freckle-faced girl, in a brown calico dress
and white apron, with a tray in her hands and an air of timid hospitality in
her manner; the second a pale, pretty creature, in a white wrapper and blue
net, sitting in a large chair, looking about her with the languid interest of
an invalid in a new place. Her eyes brightened as they fell upon a glass of
rosy laurel and delicate maidenhair fern that stood among the toast and eggs,
strawberries and cream, on the tray.

 
          
           
"Our laurel is jest in blow, and I'm real glad you come in time to see it.
I'll bring you a lot, as soon's ever I get time to go for it."

 
          
           
As she spoke, the plain girl replaced the ugly crockery cup and saucer with the
pretty china ones pointed out to her, arranged the dishes, and waited to see if
anything else was needed.

 
          
           
"What is your name, please?" asked the pretty girl, refreshing
herself with a draught of new milk.

 
          
           
"Rebecca. Mother thought I'd better wait on you; the little girls are so
noisy and apt to forget. Wouldn't you like a piller to your back?
you
look so kind of feeble seems as if you wanted to be
propped up a mite."

 
          
           
There was so much compassion and good-will in the face and voice, that Emily
accepted the offer, and let Rebecca arrange a cushion behind her; then, while
the one ate daintily, and the other stirred about an inner room, the talk went
on,—for two girls are seldom long silent when together.

 
          
           
"I think the air is going to suit me, for I slept all night and never woke
till Mamma had been up ever so long and got things all nicely settled,"
said Emily, graciously, when the fresh strawberries had been enjoyed, and the
bread and butter began to vanish.

 
          
           
"I'm real glad you like it; most folks do, if they don't mind it being
plain and quiet up here. It's gayer down at the hotel, but the air ain't half
so good, and delicate folks generally like our old place best," answered
Becky, as she tossed over a mattress and shook out the sheet with a brisk,
capable air pleasant to see.

 
          
           
"I wanted to go to the hotel, but the doctor said it would be too noisy
for me, so Mamma was glad to find rooms here. I didn't think a farm-house COULD
be so pleasant. That view is perfectly splendid!" and Emily sat up to gaze
delightedly out of the window, below which spread the wide intervale, through
which the river ran with hay-fields on either side, while along the green
slopes of the hills lay farm-houses with garden plots, and big barns waiting
for the harvest; and beyond, the rocky, wooded pastures dotted with cattle and
musical with cow-bells, brooks, and birds.

 
          
           
A balmy wind kissed a little color into the pale cheeks, the listless eyes
brightened as they looked, and the fretful lines vanished from lips that smiled
involuntarily at the sweet welcome Nature gave the city child come to rest and
play and grow gay and rosy in her green lap.

 
          
           
Becky watched her with interest, and was glad to see how soon the new-comer
felt the charm of the place, for the girl loved her mountain home, and thought
the old farm-house the loveliest spot in the world.

 
          
           
"When you get stronger I can show you lots of nice views round here.
There's a woodsy place behind the house that's just lovely. Down by the laurel
bushes is MY favorite spot, and among the rocks is a cave where I keep things
handy when I get a resting-spell now and then, and want to be quiet. Can't get
much at home, when
there's
boarders and five children
round in vacation time."

 
          
           
Becky laughed as she spoke, and there was a sweet motherly look in her plain
face, as she glanced at the three little red heads bobbing about the door-yard
below, where hens cackled, a pet lamb fed, and the old white dog lay blinking
in the sun.

 
          
           
"I like children; we have none at home, and Mamma makes such a baby of me
I'm almost ashamed sometimes. I want her to have a good rest now, for she has
taken care of me all winter and needs it. You shall be my nurse, if I need one;
but I hope to be so well soon that I can see to myself. It's so tiresome to be
ill!" and Emily sighed as she leaned back among her pillows, with a glance
at the little glass which showed her a thin face and shorn head.

 
          
           
"It must be! I never was sick, but I have taken care of sick folks, and
have a sight of sympathy for 'em. Mother says I make a pretty good nurse, being
strong and quiet," answered Becky, plumping up pillows and folding towels
with a gentle despatch which was very grateful to the invalid, who had dreaded
a noisy, awkward serving-maid.

 
          
           
"Never ill!
how
nice
that must be! I'm always having colds and headaches, and fusses of some kind.
What do you do to keep well, Rebecca?" asked Emily, watching her with interest,
as she came in to remove the tray.

 
          
           
"Nothing but work; I haven't time to be sick, and when I'm tuckered out, I
go and rest over yonder. Then I'm all right, and buckle to again, as smart as
ever;" and every freckle in Becky's rosy face seemed to shine with
cheerful strength and courage.

 
          
           
"I'm 'tuckered out' doing nothing," said Emily, amused with the new
expression, and eager to try a remedy which showed such fine results in this
case. "I shall visit your pet places and do a little work as soon as I am
able, and see if it won't set me up. Now I can only dawdle, doze, and read a
little. Will you please put those books here on the table? I shall want them
by-and-by."

 
          
           
Emily pointed to a pile of blue and gold volumes lying on a trunk, and Becky
dusted her hands as she took them up with an air of reverence, for she read on
the backs of the volumes names which made her eyes sparkle.

 
          
           
"Do you care for poetry?" asked Emily, surprised at the girl's look
and manner.

 
          
           
"Guess I do!
don't
get much except the pieces I
cut out of papers, but I love 'em, and stick 'em in an old ledger, and keep it
down in my cubby among the rocks. I do love THAT man's pieces. They seem to go
right to the spot somehow;" and Becky smiled at the name of
Whittier
as if the sweetest of our poets was a dear old friend of hers.

 
          
           
"I like Tennyson better. Do you know him?" asked Emily, with a
superior air, for the idea of this farmer's daughter knowing anything about poetry
amused her.

 
          
           
"Oh yes, I've got a number of his pieces in my book, and I'm fond of 'em.
But this man makes things so kind of true and natural I feel at home with HIM.
And this one I've longed to read, though I guess I can't understand much of it.
His 'Bumble Bee' was just lovely; with the grass and columbines and the yellow
breeches of the bee. I'm never tired of that;" and Becky's face woke up
into something like beauty as she glanced hungrily at the Emerson while she
dusted the delicate cover that hid the treasures she coveted.

 
          
           
"I don't care much for him, but Mamma does. I like romantic poems, and
ballads, and songs; don't like descriptions of clouds and fields, and bees, and
farmers," said Emily, showing plainly that even Emerson's simplest poems
were far above her comprehension as yet, because she loved sentiment more than
Nature.

 
          
           
"I do, because I know 'em better than love and the romantic stuff most
poetry tells about. But I don't pretend to judge, I'm glad of anything I can
get. Now if you don't want me I'll pick up my dishes and go to work."

 
          
           
With that Becky went away, leaving Emily to rest and dream with her eyes on the
landscape which was giving her better poetry than any her books held. She told
her mother about the odd girl, and was sure she would be amusing if she did not
forget her place and try to be friends.

 
          
           
"She is a good creature, my dear, her mother's main stay, and works beyond
her strength, I am sure. Be kind to the poor girl, and put a little pleasure
into her life if you can," answered Mrs. Spenser, as she moved about,
settling comforts and luxuries for her invalid.

 
          
           
"I shall HAVE to talk to her, as there is no other person of my age in the
house. How are the school marms?
shall
you get on with
them, Mamma? It will be so lonely here for us both, if we don't make friends
with some one."

 
          
           
"Most intelligent and amiable women all three, and we shall have pleasant
times together, I am sure. You may safely cultivate Becky; Mrs. Taylor told me
she was a remarkably bright girl, though she may not look it."

 
          
           
"Well, I'll see. But I do hate freckles and big red hands, and round
shoulders. She can't help it, I suppose, but ugly things fret me."

 
          
           
"Remember that she has no time to be pretty, and be glad she is so neat
and willing. Shall we read, dear? I'm ready now."

 
          
           
Emily consented, and listened for an hour or two while the pleasant voice
beside her conjured away all her vapors with some of Mrs. Ewing's charming
tales.

 
          
           
"The grass is dry now, and I want to stroll on that green lawn before
lunch. You rest, Mamma dear, and let me make discoveries all alone,"
proposed Emily, when the sun shone warmly, and the instinct of all young
creatures for air and motion called her out.

 
          
           
So, with her hat and wrap, and book and parasol, she set
forth to explore the new land in which she found herself.

 
          
           
Down the wide, creaking stairs and out upon the door-stone she went, pausing
there for a moment to decide where first to go. The sound of some one singing
in the rear of the house led her in that direction, and turning the corner she
made her first pleasant discovery. A hill rose steeply behind the farm-house,
and leaning from the bank was an old apple-tree, shading a spring that trickled
out from the rocks and dropped into a mossy trough below. Up the tree had grown
a wild grape-vine, making a green canopy over the great log which served as a
seat, and some one had planted maidenhair ferns about both seat and spring to
flourish beautifully in the damp, shady spot.

 
          
           
"Oh, how pretty!
I'll go and sit there. It looks
clean, and I can see what is going on in that big kitchen, and hear the singing.
I suppose it's Becky's little sisters by the racket."

 
          
           
Emily established herself on the lichen-covered log with her feet upon a stone,
and sat enjoying the musical tinkle of the water, with her eyes on the delicate
ferns stirring in the wind, and the lively jingle of the multiplication-table
chanted by childish voices in her ear.

 
          
           
Presently two little girls with a great pan of beans came to do their work on
the back doorstep, a third was seen washing dishes at a window, and Becky's
brown-spotted gown flew about the kitchen as if a very energetic girl wore it.
A woman's voice was heard giving
directions,
as the
speaker was evidently picking chickens somewhere out of sight.

 
          
           
A little of the talk reached Emily and both amused and annoyed her, for it
proved that the country people were not as stupid as they looked.

 
          
           
"Oh, well, we mustn't mind if she IS notional and kind of wearing; she's
been sick, and it will take time to get rid of her fretty ways. Jest be pleasant,
and take no notice, and that nice mother of hers will make it all right,"
said the woman's voice.