 
It was a fine May morning. Not one of those with an east wind and a bright sun, which keep people in a puzzle all as day to whether it is hot or cold, and cause endless nursery disputes about the keeping on of comforters and warm coats, whenever a hoop-race, or some such active exertion, has brought a universal puggyness over the juvenile frame—but it was a really mild, sweet-scented day, when it is quite a treat to be out of doors, whether in the gardens, the lanes, or the fields, and when nothing but a holland jacket is thought necessary by even the most tiresomely careful of mammas. It was not a day which anybody would have chosen to be poorly upon; but people have no choice in such matters, and poor little No. 7, of our old friends “the little ones,” was in bed ill of the measles. The wise old Bishop, Jeremy Taylor, told us long ago, how well children generally bear sickness. “They bear it,” he says, “by a direct sufferance;” that is to say, they submit to just what discomfort exists at the moment, without fidgetting about either “a cause or a consequence,” and decidedly without fretting about what is to come. For a grown-up person to attain to the same state of unanxious resignation, is one of the high triumphs of Christian faith. It is that “delivering one’s self up,” of which the poor speak so forcibly on their sick-beds. No. 7 proved a charming instance of the truth of Jeremy Taylor’s remark. He behaved in the most composed manner over his feelings, and even over his physic. During the first day or two, when he sat shivering by the fire, reading “Neill D’Arcy’s Life at Sea,” and was asked how he felt, he answered with his usual smile; “Oh, all right; only a little cold now and then.” And afterwards, when he was in bed in a darkened room, and the same question was put, he replied almost as quietly, (though without the smile,) “Oh—only a little too hot.” Then over the medicine, he contested nothing. He made, indeed, one or two by no means injudicious suggestions, as to the best method of having the disagreeable material, whether powdery or oleaginous, (I will not particularize further!) conveyed down his throat: commonly said, “Thank you,” even before he had swallowed it; and then shut his eyes, and kept himself quiet. Fortunately No. 1, and Schoolboy No. 3, had had the complaint as well as papa and mamma, so there were plenty to share in the nursing and house matters. The only question was, what was to be done with the little ones while Nurse was so busy; and Aunt Judy volunteered her services in their behalf. Now it will easily be supposed, after what I have said, that the nursing was not at all a difficult undertaking; but I am grieved to say that Aunt Judy’s task was by no means so easy a one. The little ones were very sorry, it is true, that No. 7 was poorly; but, unluckily, they forgot it every time they went either up-stairs or down. They could not bear in their minds the fact, that when they encouraged the poodle to bark after an India-rubber ball, he was pretty sure to wake No. 7 out of a nap; and, in short, the day being so fine, and the little ones so noisy, Aunt Judy packed them all off into their gardens to tidy them up, she herself taking her station in a small study, the window of which looked out upon the family play-ground. Her idea, perhaps, was, that she could in this way combine the prosecution of her own studies, with enacting policeman over the young gardeners, and “keeping the peace,” as she called it. But if so, she was doomed to disappointment. The operation of “tidying up gardens,” as performed by a set of “little ones,” scarcely needs description. It consists of a number of alterations being thought of, and set about, not one of which is ever known to be finished by those who begin them. It consists of everybody wanting the rake at the same moment, and of nobody being willing to use the other tools, which they call stupid and useless things. It consists of a great many plants being moved from one place to another, when they are in full flower, and dying in consequence. (But how, except when they are in flower, can anyone judge where they will look best?) It consists of a great many seeds being prevented from coming up at all, by an “alteration” cutting into the heart of the patch just as they were bursting their shells for a sprout. It consists of an unlimited and fatal application of the cold-water cure. And, finally, it results in such a confusion between foot-walks and beds—such a mixture of earth and gravel, and thrown-down tools—that anyone unused to the symptoms of the case, might imagine that the door of the pigsty in the yard had been left open, and that its inhabitant had been performing sundry uncouth gambols with his nose in the little ones’ gardens. Aunt Judy was quite aware of these facts, and she had accordingly laid down several rules, and given several instructions to prevent the usual catastrophe; and all went very smoothly at first in consequence. The little ones went out all hilarity and delight, and divided the tools with considerable show of justice, while Aunt Judy nodded to them approvingly out of her window, and then settled down to an interesting sum in that most peculiar of all arithmetical rules, “The Rule of False,” the principle of which is, that out of two errors, made by yourself from two wrong guesses, you arrive at a discovery of the truth! When Aunt Judy first caught sight of this rule, a few days before, at the end of an old summing-book, it struck her fancy at once. The principle of it was capable of a much more general application than to the “Rule of False,” and she amused herself by studying it up. It is, no doubt, a clumsy substitute for algebra; but young folks who have not learnt algebra, will find it a very entertaining method of making out all such sums as the following old puzzler, over which Aunt Judy was now poring: “There is a certain fish, whose head is 9 inches in length, his tail as long as his head and half of his back, and his back as long as both head and tail together. Query, the length of the fish?” But Aunt Judy was not left long in peace with her fish. While she was in the thick of “suppositions” and “errors,” a tap came at the window. “Aunt Judy!” “Stop!” was the answer; and the hand of the speaker went up, with the slate-pencil in it, enforcing silence while she pursued her calculations. “Say, back 42 inches; then tail (half back) 21, and head given, 9, that’s 30, and 30 and 9, 39 back.—Won’t do! Second error: three inches—What’s the matter, No. 6? You surely have not begun to quarrel already?” “Oh, no,” answered No. 6, with her nose flattened against the window-pane. “But please, Aunt Judy, No. 8 won’t have the oyster-shell trimming round his garden any longer, he says; he says it looks so rubbishy. But as my garden joins his down the middle, if he takes away the oyster-shells all round his, then one of my sides—the one in the middle, I mean—will be left bare, don’t you see? and I want to keep the oyster-shells all round may garden, because mamma says there are still some zoophytes upon them. So how is it to be?” What a perplexity! The fish with his nine-inch head, and his tail as long as his head and half of his back, was a mere nothing to it. Aunt Judy threw open the window. “My dear No. 6,” answered she, “yours is the great boundary-line question about which nations never do agree, but go squabbling on till some one has to give way first. There is but one plan for settling it, and that is, for each of you to give up a piece of your gardens to make a road to run between. Now if you’ll both give way at once, and consent to this, I will come out to you myself, and leave my fish till the evening. It’s much too fine to stay in doors, I feel; and I can give you all something real to do.” “I’ll give way, I’m sure, Aunt Judy,” cried No. 6, quite glad to be rid of the dispute; “and so will you, won’t you, No. 8?” she added, appealing to that young gentleman, who stood with his pinafore full of dirty oyster-shells, not quite understanding the meaning of what was said. “I’ll what?” inquired he. “Oh, never mind! Only throw the oyster-shells down, and come with Aunt Judy. It will be much better fun than staying here.” No. 8 lowered his pinafore at the word of command, and dropped the discarded oyster-shells, one by one—where do you think?—why—right into the middle of his little garden! an operation which seemed to be particularly agreeable to him, if one might judge by his face. He was not sorry either to be relieved from the weight. “You see, Aunt Judy,” continued No. 6 to her sister, who had now joined them, “it doesn’t so much matter about the oyster-shell trimming; but No. 8’s garden is always in such a mess, that I must have a wall or something between us!” “You shall have a wall or a path decidedly,” replied Aunt Judy: “a road is the next best thing to a river for a boundary-line. But now, all of you, pick up the tools and come with me, and you shall do some regular work, and be paid for it at the rate of half-a-farthing for every half hour. Think what a magnificent offer!” The little ones thought so in reality, and welcomed the arrangement with delight, and trudged off behind Aunt Judy, calculating so hard among themselves what their conjoint half-farthings would come to, for the half-hours they all intended to work, and furthermore, what amount or variety of “goodies” they would purchase, that Aunt Judy half fancied herself back in the depths of the “Rule of False” again! She led them at last to a pretty shrubbery-walk, of which they were all very fond. On one side of it was a quick-set hedge, in which the honeysuckle was mixed so profusely with the thorn, that they grew and were clipped together. It was the choicest spot for a quiet evening stroll in summer that could possibly be imagined. The sweet scent from the honeysuckle flowers stole around you with a welcome as you moved along, and set you a dreaming of some far-off region where the delicious sensations produced by the odour of flowers may not be as transient as they are here. There was an alcove in the middle of the walk—not one of the modern mockeries of rusticity—but a real old-fashioned lath-and-plaster concern, such as used to be erected in front of a bowling-green. It was roofed in, was open only on the sunny side, and was supported by a couple of little Ionic pillars, up which clematis and passion-flower were studiously trained. There was a table as well as seats within; and the alcove was a very nice place for either reading or drawing in, as it commanded a pretty view of the distant country. It was also, and perhaps especially, suited to the young people in their more poetical and fanciful moods. The little ones had no sooner reached the entrance of the favourite walk, than they scampered past Aunt Judy to run a race; but No. 6 stopped suddenly short. “Aunt Judy, look at these horrible weeds! Ah! I do believe this is what you have brought us here for!” It was indeed; for some showers the evening before, had caused them to flourish in a painfully prominent manner, and the favourite walk presented a somewhat neglected appearance. So Aunt Judy marked it off for the little ones to weed, repeated the exhilarating promise of the half-farthings, and seated herself in the alcove to puzzle out the length of the fish. At first it was rather amusing to hear, how even in the midst of their weeding, the little ones pursued their calculations of the anticipated half-farthings, and discussed the niceness and prices of the various descriptions of “goodies.” But by degrees, less and less was said; and at last, the half-farthings and “goodies” seemed altogether forgotten, and a new idea to arise in their place. The new idea was, that this weeding-task was uncommonly troublesome! “I’m sure there are many more weeds in my piece than in anybody else’s!” remarked the tallest of the children, standing up to rest his rather tired back, and contemplate the walk. “I don’t think Aunt Judy measured it out fair!” “Well, but you’re the biggest, and ought to do the most,” responded No. 6. “A little the most is all very well,” persisted No. 5; “but I’ve got too much the most rather—and it’s very tiresome work.” “What nonsense!” rejoined No. 6. “I don’t believe the weeds are any thicker in your piece than in mine. Look at my big heap. And I’m sure I’m quite as tired as you are.” No. 6 got up as she spoke, to see how matters were going on; not at all sorry either, to change her position. “I’ve got the most,” muttered No. 8 to himself, still kneeling over his work. But this was, it is to be feared, a very unjustifiable bit of brag. “If you go on talking so much, you will not get any half-farthings at all!” shouted No. 4, from the distance. A pause followed this warning, and the small party ducked down again to their work. They no longer liked it, however; and very soon afterwards the jocose No. 5 observed, in subdued tones to the others:— “I wonder what the little victims would have said to this kind of thing?” “They’d have hated it,” answered No. 6, very decidedly. The fact was, the little ones were getting really tired, for the fine May morning had turned into a hot day; and in a few minutes more, a still further aggravation of feeling took place. No. 6 got up again, shook the gravel from her frock, blew it off her hands, pushed back a heap of heavy curls from her face, set her hat as far back on her head as she could, and exclaimed:— “I wish there were no such things as weeds in the world!” Everybody seemed struck with this impressive sentiment, for they all left off weeding at once, and Aunt Judy came forward to the front of the alcove. “Don’t you, Aunt Judy?” added No. 6, feeling sure her sister had heard. “Not I, indeed,” answered Aunt Judy, with a comical smile: “I’m too fond of cream to my tea.” “Cream to your tea, Aunt Judy? What can that have to do with it?” The little ones were amazed. “Something,” at any rate, responded Aunt Judy; “and if you like to come in here, and sit down, I will tell you how.” Away went hoes and weeding-knives at once, and into the alcove they rushed; and never had garden-seats felt so thoroughly comfortable before. “If one begins to wish,” suggested No. 5, stretching his legs out to their full extent, “one may as well wish oneself a grand person with a lot of gardeners to clear away the weeds as fast as they come up, and save one the trouble.” “Much better wish them away, and save everybody the trouble,” persisted No. 6. “No: one wants them sometimes.” “What an idea! Who ever wants weeds?” “You yourself.” “I? What nonsense!” But the persevering No. 5 proceeded to explain. No. 6 had asked him a few days before to bring her some groundsel for her canary, and he had been quite disappointed at finding none in the garden. He had actually to “trail” into the lanes to fetch a bit. This was a puzzling statement; so No. 6 contented herself with grumbling out:— “Weeds are welcome to grow in the lanes.” “Weeds are not always weeds in the lanes,” persisted No. 5, with a grin: “they’re sometimes wild-flowers.” “I don’t care what they are,” pouted No. 6. “I wish I lived in a place where there were none.” “And I wish I was a great man, with lots of gardeners to take them up, instead of me,” maintained No. 5, who was in a mood of lazy tiresomeness, and kept rocking to and fro on the garden-chair, with his hands tucked under his thighs. “A weed—a weed,” continued he; “what is a weed, I wonder? Aunt Judy, what is a weed?” Aunt Judy had surely been either dreaming or cogitating during the last few minutes, for she had taken no notice of what was said, but she roused up now, and answered:— “A vegetable out of its place.” “A vegetable,” repeated No. 5, “why we don’t eat them, Aunt Judy.” “You kitchen-garden interpreter, who said we did?” replied she. “All green herbs are vegetables, let me tell you, whether we eat them or not.” “Oh, I see,” mused No. 5, quietly enough, but in another instant he broke out again. “I’ll tell you what though, some of them are real vegetables, I mean kitchen-garden vegetables, to other creatures, and that’s why they’re wanted. Groundsel’s a vegetable, it’s the canary’s vegetable. I mean his kitchen-garden vegetable, and if he had a kitchen-garden of his own, he would grow it as we do peas. So I was right after all, No. 6!” That twit at the end spoilt everything, otherwise this was really a bright idea of No. 5’s. “Aunt Judy, do begin to talk yourself,” entreated No. 6. “I wish No. 5 would be quiet, and not teaze.” “And he wishes the same of you,” replied Aunt Judy, “and I wish the same of you all. What is to be done? Come, I will tell you a story, on one positive understanding, namely, that whoever teazes, or even twits, shall be turned out of the company.” No. 5 sat up in his chair like a dart in an instant, and vowed that he would be the best of the good, till Aunt Judy had finished her story. “After which—” concluded he, with a wink and another grin. “After which, I shall expect you to be better still,” was Aunt Judy’s emphatic rejoinder. And peace being now completely established, she commenced: “There was once upon a time—what do you think?”—here she paused and looked round in the children’s faces. “A giant!” exclaimed No. 8. “A beautiful princess!” suggested No. 6. “Something,” said Aunt Judy, “but I am not going to tell you what at present. You must find out for yourselves. Meantime I shall call it something, or merely make a grunting—hm—when I allude to it, as people do to express a blank.” The little ones shuffled about in delighted impatience at the notion of the mysterious “something” which they were to find out, and Aunt Judy proceeded:— “This—hm—then, lived in a large meadow field, where it was the delight of all beholders. The owner of the property was constantly boasting about it to his friends, for he maintained that it was the richest, and most beautiful, and most valuable—hm—in all the country round. Surely no other thing in this world ever found itself more admired or prized than this something did. The commonest passer-by would notice it, and say all manner of fine things in its praise, whether in the early spring, the full summer, or the autumn, for at each of these seasons it put on a fresh charm, and formed a subject of conversation. ‘Only look at that lovely—hm—’ was quite a common exclamation at the sight of it. ‘What a colour it has! How fresh and healthy it looks! How invaluable it must be! Why, it must be worth at least—’ and then the speaker would go calculating away at the number of pounds, shillings, and pence, the—hm—would fetch, if put into the money-market, which is, I am sorry to say, a very usual, although very degrading way of estimating worth. “To conclude, the mild-eyed Alderney cow, who pastured in the field during the autumn months, would chew the cud of approbation over the—hm—for hours together, and people said it was no wonder at all that she gave such delicious milk and cream.” Here a shout of supposed discovery broke from No. 5. “I’ve guessed, I know it!” But a “hush” from Aunt Judy stopped him short. “No. 5, nobody asked your opinion, keep it to yourself, if you please.” No. 5 was silenced, but rubbed his hands nevertheless. “Well,” continued Aunt Judy, “that ‘something’ ought surely to have been the most contented thing in the world. Its merits were acknowledged; its usefulness was undoubted; its beauty was the theme of constant admiration; what had it left to wish for? Really nothing; but by an unlucky accident it became dissatisfied with its situation in a meadow field, and wished to get into a higher position in life, which, it took for granted, would be more suited to its many exalted qualities. The ‘something’ of the field wanted to inhabit a garden. The unlucky accident that gave rise to this foolish idea, was as follows:— “A little boy was running across the beautiful meadow one morning, with a tin-pot full of fishing bait in his hand, when suddenly he stumbled and fell down. “The bait in the tin-pot was some lob-worms, which the little boy had collected out of the garden adjoining the field, and they were spilt and scattered about by his fall. “He picked up as many as he could find, however, and ran off again; but one escaped his notice and was left behind. “This gentleman was insensible for a few seconds; but as soon as he came to himself, and discovered that he was in a strange place, he began to grumble and find fault. “‘What an uncouth neighbourhood!’ Such were his exclamations. ‘What rough impracticable roads! Was ever lob-worm so unlucky before!’ It was impossible to move an inch without bumping his sides against some piece of uncultivated ground. “Judge for yourselves, my dears,” continued Aunt Judy, pathetically, “what must have been the feelings of the ‘something’ which had lived proudly and happily in the meadow field for so long, on hearing such offensive remarks. “Its spirit was up in a minute, just as yours would have been, and it did not hesitate to inform the intruder that travellers who find fault with a country before they have taken the trouble to inquire into its merits, are very ignorant and impertinent people. “This was blow for blow, as you perceive; and the teaze-and-twit system was now continued with great animation on both sides. “The lob-worm inquired, with a conceited wriggle, what could be the merits of a country, where gentlemanly, gliding, thin-skinned creatures like himself were unable to move about without personal annoyance? Whereupon the amiable ‘something’ made no scruple of telling the lob-worm that his betters found no fault with the place, and instanced its friend and admirer the Alderney cow. “On which the lob-worm affected forgetfulness, and exclaimed, ‘Cow? cow? do I know the creature? Ah! Yes, I recollect now; clumsy legs, horny feet, and that sort of thing,’ proceeding to hint that what was good enough for a cow, might yet not be refined enough for his own more delicate habits. “‘It is my misfortune, perhaps,’ concluded he, with mock humility, ‘to have been accustomed to higher associations; but really, situated as I am here, I could almost feel disposed to—why, positively, to wish myself a cow, with clumsy legs and horny feet. What one may live to come to, to be sure!’ “Well,” Aunt Judy proceeded, “will you believe it, the lob-worm went on boasting till the poor deluded ‘something’ believed every word he said, and at last ventured to ask in what favoured spot he had acquired his superior tastes and knowledge. “And then, of course, the lob-worm had the opportunity of opening out in a very magnificent bit of brag, and did not fail to do so. “Travellers can always boast with impunity to stationary folk, and the lob-worm had no conscience about speaking the truth. “So on he chattered, giving the most splendid account of the garden in which he lived. Gorgeous flowers, velvet lawns, polished gravel-walks, along which he was wont to take his early morning stroll, before the ruder creatures of the neighbourhood, such as dogs, cats, &c. were up and about, were all his discourse; and he spoke of them as if they were his own, and told of the nursing and tending of every plant in the lovely spot, as if the gardeners did it all for his convenience and pleasure. “Of the little accidents to which he and his race have from time immemorial been liable from awkward spades, or those very early birds, by whom he ran a risk of being snapped up every time he emerged out of the velvet lawns for the morning strolls, he said just nothing at all. “All was unmixed delight (according to his account) in the garden, and having actually boasted himself into good humour with himself, and therefore with everybody else, he concluded by expressing the condescending wish, that the ‘something’ in the field should get itself removed to the garden, to enjoy the life of which he spoke. “‘Undeniably beautiful as you are here,’ cried he, ‘your beauty will increase a thousand fold, under the gardener’s fostering care. Appreciated as you are now in your rustic life, the most prominent place will be assigned to you when you get into more distinguished society; so that everybody who passes by and sees you, will exclaim in delight, ‘Behold this exquisite—hm—!’” “Oh dear, Aunt Judy,” cried No. 6, “was the ‘hum,’ as you will call it, so silly as to believe what he said?” “How could the poor simple-minded thing be expected to resist such elegant compliments, my dear No. 6?” answered Aunt Judy. “But then came the difficulty. The ‘something’ which lived in the field had no more legs than the lob-worm himself, and, in fact, was incapable of locomotion.” “Of course it was!” ejaculated No. 5. “Order!” cried Aunt Judy, and proceeded:— “So the—hm—hung down its graceful head in despair, but suddenly a bright and loving thought struck it. It could not change its place and rise in life itself, but its children might, and that would be some consolation. It opened its heart on this point to the lob-worm, and although the lob-worm had no heart to be touched, he had still a tongue to talk. “If the—hm—would send its children to the garden at the first opportunity, he would be delighted, absolutely charmed, to introduce them in the world. He would put them in the way of everything, and see that they were properly attended to. There was nothing he couldn’t or wouldn’t do. “This last pretentious brag seemed to have exhausted even the lob-worm’s ingenuity, for, soon after he had uttered it, he shuffled away out of the meadow in the best fashion that he could, leaving the ‘something’ in the field in a state of wondering regret. But it recovered its spirits again when the time came for sending its children to the favoured garden abode. “‘My dears,’ it said, ‘you will soon have to begin life for yourselves, and I hope you will do so with credit to your bringing up. I hope you are now ambitious enough to despise the dull old plan of dropping contentedly down, just where you happen to be, or waiting for some chance traveller (who may never come) to give you a lift elsewhere. That paradise of happiness, of which the lob-worm told us, is close at hand. Come! it only wants a little extra exertion on your part, and you will be carried thither by the wind, as easily as the wandering Dandelion himself. Courage, my dears! nothing out of the common is ever gained without an effort. See now! as soon as ever a strong breeze blows the proper way, I shall shake my heads as hard as ever I can, that you may be off. All the doors and windows are open now, you know, and you must throw yourselves out upon the wind. Only remember one thing, when you are settled down in the beautiful garden, mind you hold up your heads, and do yourselves justice, my dears.’ “The children gave a ready assent, of course, as proud as possible at the notion; and when the favourable breeze came, and the maternal heads were shaken, out they all flew, and trusted themselves to its guidance, and in a few minutes settled down all over the beautiful garden, some on the beds, some on the lawn, some on the polished gravel-walks. And all I can say is, happiest those who were least seen!” “Grass weeds! grass weeds!” shouted the incorrigible No. 5, jumping up from his seat and performing two or three Dervish-like turns. “Oh, it’s too bad, isn’t it, Aunt Judy,” cried No. 6, “to stop your story in the middle?” Whereupon Aunt Judy answered that he had not stopped the story in the middle, but at the end, and she was glad he had found out the meaning of her—hm—! But No. 6 would not be satisfied, she liked to hear the complete finish up of everything. “Did the ‘hum’s’ children ever grow up in the garden, and did they ever see the lob-worm again?” “The—hm’s—children did spring up in the garden,” answered Aunt Judy, “and did their best to exhibit their beauty on the polished gravel-walks, where they were particularly delighted with their own appearance one May morning after a shower of rain, which had made them more prominent than usual. ‘Remember our mother’s advice,’ cried they to each other. ‘This is the happy moment! Let us hold up our heads, and do ourselves justice, my dears.’ “Scarcely were the words spoken, when a troop of rude creatures came scampering into the walk, and a particularly unfeeling monster in curls, pointed to the beautiful up-standing little—hms—and shouted, ‘Aunt Judy, look at these horrible weeds!’ “I needn’t say any more,” concluded Aunt Judy. “You know how you’ve used them; you know what you’ve done to them; you know how you’ve even wished there were no such things in the world!” “Oh, Aunt Judy, how capital!” ejaculated No. 6, with a sigh, the sigh of exhausted amusement. “‘The hum was a weed too, then, was it?” said No. 8. He did not quite see his way through the tale. “It was not a weed in the meadow,” answered Aunt Judy, “where it was useful, and fed the Alderney cow. It was beautiful Grass there, and was counted as such, because that was its proper place. But when it put its nose into garden-walks, where it was not wanted, and had no business, then everybody called the beautiful Grass a weed.” “So a weed is a vegetable out of its place, you see,” subjoined No. 5, who felt the idea to be half his own, “and it won’t do to wish there were none in the world.” “And a vegetable out of its place being nothing better than a weed, Mr. No. 5,” added Aunt Judy, “it won’t do to be too anxious about what is so often falsely called, bettering your condition in life. Come, the story is done, and now we’ll go home, and all the patient listeners and weeders may reckon upon getting one or more farthings apiece from mamma. And as No. 6’s wish is not realized, and there are still weeds |
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