CONVERSATION VI
MIDNIGHT
One night, while Miss Anne was undressing Lucy, to put her to bed, she thought that her voice had a peculiar sound, somewhat different from usual. It was not hoarseness, exactly, and yet it was such a sort of sound as made Miss Anne think that Lucy had taken cold. She asked her if she had not taken cold, but Lucy said no.
Lucy slept in Miss Anne’s room, in a little trundle-bed. Late in the evening, just before Miss Anne herself went to bed, she looked at Lucy, to see if she was sleeping quietly; and she found that she was.
But in the night Miss Anne was awaked by hearing Lucy coughing with a peculiar hoarse and hollow sound, and breathing very hard. She got up, and went to her trundle-bed.
“Lucy,” said she, “what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Lucy, “only I can’t breathe very well.”
Here Lucy began to cough again; and the cough sounded so hoarse and hollow, that Miss Anne began to be quite afraid that Lucy was really sick. She put on a loose robe, and carried her lamp out into the kitchen, and lighted it, – and then came back into her room again. She found that Lucy was no better, and so she went to call her mother.
She went with the lamp, and knocked at her door; and when she answered, Miss Anne told her that Lucy did not seem to be very well, – that she had a hoarse cough, and that she breathed hard.
“O, I’m afraid it is the croup,” she exclaimed; “let us get up immediately.”
“We will get right up, and come and see her,” said Lucy’s father.
So Miss Anne put the lamp down at their door, and went out into the kitchen to light another lamp for herself. She also opened the coals, and put a little wood upon the fire, and hung the tea-kettle upon the crane, and filled it up with water; for Miss Anne had observed that, in cases of sudden sickness, hot water was one of the things most sure to be wanted.
After a short time, Lucy’s father and mother came in. After they had been with her a few minutes, her mother said,
“Don’t you think it is the croup?”
“No, I hope not,” said her father; “I presume it is only quinsy; but I am not sure, and perhaps I had better go for a doctor.”
After some further consultation, they concluded that it was best to call a physician. Lucy’s mother recommended that they should call up the hired man, and send him; but her father thought that it would take some time for him to get up and get ready, and that he had better go himself.
When he had gone, they brought in some hot water, and bathed Lucy’s feet. She liked this very much; but her breathing seemed to grow rather worse than better.
“What is the
croup
?” said Lucy to her mother, while her feet were in the water.
“It is a kind of sickness that children have sometimes suddenly in the night; but I
hope
you are not going to have it.”
“No, mother,” said Lucy; “I think it is only the quinsy.”
Lucy did not know at all what the quinsy was; but her sickness did not seem to her to be any thing very bad; and so she agreed with her father that it was probably only the quinsy.
When the doctor came, he felt of Lucy’s pulse, and looked at her tongue, and listened to her breathing.
“Will she take
ipecacuanha
?” said the doctor to Lucy’s mother.
“She will take anything you prescribe, doctor,” said her father, in reply.
“Well, that’s clever,” said the doctor. “The old rule is, that the child that will take medicine is half cured already.”
So the doctor sat down at the table, and opened his saddle-bags, and took out a bottle filled with a yellowish powder, and began to take some out.
“Is it good medicine?” said Lucy, in a low voice, to her mother. She was now sitting in her mother’s lap, who was rocking her in a rocking-chair.
“Yes,” said the doctor; for he overheard Lucy’s question, and thought that he would answer it himself. “Yes, ipecacuanha is a very good medicine, – an excellent medicine.”
As he said this, he looked around, rather slyly, at Miss Anne and Lucy’s father.
“Then I shall like to take it,” said Lucy.
“He means,” said her mother, “that it is a good medicine to cure the sickness with; the
taste
of it is not good. It is a very disagreeable medicine to take.”
Lucy said nothing in reply to this, but she thought to herself, that she wished the doctors could find out some medicines that did not taste so bad.
Miss Anne received the medicine from the doctor, and prepared it in a spoon, with some water, for Lucy to take. Just before it was ready, the door opened, and Royal came in.
“Why, Royal,” said his mother, “how came you to get up?”
“I heard a noise, and I thought it was morning,” said Royal.
“Morning? no,” replied his mother; “it is midnight.”
“Midnight?” said Lucy. She was quite astonished. She did not recollect that she had ever been up at midnight before, in her life.
“Is Lucy sick?” said Royal.
“No, not very sick,” said Lucy.
Royal came and stood by the rocking-chair, and looked into Lucy’s face.
“I am sorry that you are sick,” said he. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”
Lucy hesitated a moment, and then her eye suddenly brightened up, and she said,
“Yes, Royal, – if you would only just be so good as to take my medicine for me.”
Royal laughed, and said, “O Lucy! I guess you are not very sick.”
In fact, Lucy was breathing pretty freely then, and there was nothing to indicate, particularly, that she was sick; unless when a paroxysm of coughing came on. Miss Anne brought her medicine to her in a great spoon, and Royal said that he presumed that the doctor would not let him take the medicine, but that, if she would take it, he would make all the faces for her.
Accordingly, while she was swallowing the medicine, she turned her eyes up towards Royal, who had stood back a little way, and she began to laugh a little at the strange grimaces which he was making. The laugh was, however, interrupted and spoiled by a universal shudder which came over her, produced by the taste of the ipecacuanha.
Immediately afterwards, Lucy’s mother said,
“Come, Royal; now I want you to go right back to bed again.”
“Well, mother, – only won’t you just let me stop a minute, to look out the door, and see how midnight looks?”
“Yes,” said she, “only run along.”
So Royal went away; and pretty soon the doctor went away too. He said that Lucy would be pretty sick for about an hour, and that after that he hoped that she would be better; and he left a small white powder in a little paper, which he said she might take after that time, and it would make her sleep well the rest of the night.
It was as the doctor had predicted. Lucy was quite sick for an hour, and her father and mother, and Miss Anne, all remained, and took care of her. After that, she began to be better. She breathed much more easily, and when she coughed she did not seem to be so very hoarse. Her mother was then going to carry her into her room; but Miss Anne begged them to let her stay where she was; for she said she wanted to take care of her herself.
“The doctor said he thought she would sleep quietly,” said Miss Anne; “and if she should not be so well, I will come and call you.”
“Very well,” said her mother, “we will do so. But first you may give her the powder.”
So Miss Anne took the white powder, and put it into some jelly, in a spoon; and when she had covered the powder up carefully with the jelly, she brought it to Lucy.
“
Now
I’ve got some good medicine for you,” said Miss Anne.
“I am glad it is good,” said Lucy.
“That is,” continued Miss Anne, “the jelly is good, and you will not taste the powder.”
Lucy took the jelly, and, after it, a little water; and then her mother put her into her trundle-bed. Her father and mother then bade her good night, and went away to their own room.
Miss Anne then set the chairs back in their places, and carried out all the things which had been used; and after she had got the room arranged and in order, she came to Lucy’s bedside to see if she was asleep. She was not asleep.
“Lucy,” said Miss Anne, “how do you feel now?”
“O, pretty well,” said Lucy; “at least, I am better.”
“Do you feel sleepy?”
“No,” said Lucy.
“Is there any thing you want?” asked Miss Anne.
“Why, no, – only, – I should like it, – only I don’t suppose you could very well, – but I should like it if you could hold me a little while, – and rock me.”
“O yes, I can,” said Miss Anne, “just as well as not.”
So Miss Anne took Lucy up from her bed, and wrapped a blanket about her, and sat down in her rocking-chair, to rock her. She rocked her a few minutes, and sang to her, until she thought she was asleep. Then she stopped singing, and she rocked slower and slower, until she gradually ceased.
A moment afterwards, Lucy said, in a mild and gentle voice,
“Miss Anne, is it midnight now?”
“It is about midnight,” said Miss Anne.
“Do you think you could just carry me to the window, and let me look out, and see how the midnight looks? – or am I too heavy?”
“No, you are not very heavy; but, then, there is nothing to see. Midnight looks just like any other part of the night.”
“Royal wanted to see it,” said Lucy, “and I should like to, too, if you would be willing to carry me.”
When a child is so patient and gentle, it is very difficult indeed to refuse them any request that they make; and Miss Anne immediately began to draw up the blanket over Lucy’s feet, preparing to go. She did not wish to have her put her feet to the floor, for fear that she might take more cold. So she carried her along to the window, although she was pretty heavy for Miss Anne to carry. Miss Anne was not very strong.
Lucy separated the two curtains with her hands, and Miss Anne carried her in between them. There was a narrow window-seat, and she rested Lucy partly upon it, so that she was less heavy to hold.
“Why, Miss Anne,” said Lucy, “isn’t it any darker than this?”
“No,” said Miss Anne; “there is a moon to-night.”
“Where?” said Lucy. “I don’t see the moon.”
“We can’t see it here; we can only see the light of it, shining on the buildings.”
“It is pretty dark in the yard,” said Lucy.
“Yes,” said Miss Anne, “the yard is in shadow.”
“What do you mean by that, Miss Anne?” asked Lucy.
“Why, the moon does not shine into the yard; the house casts a shadow all over it.”
“Then I should think,” said Lucy, “that you ought to say that the shadow is in the yard, – not the yard is in the shadow.”
Miss Anne laughed, and said,
“I did not say that the yard was in
the
shadow, but in
shadow
.”
“And is not that just the same thing?” said Lucy.
“Not exactly; but look at the stars over there, beyond the field.”
“Yes,” said Lucy, “there’s one pretty bright one; but there are not a great many out. I thought there would be more at midnight.”
“No,” said Miss Anne, “there are no more stars at midnight than at any other time; and to-night there are fewer than usual, because the moon shines.”
“I don’t see why there should not be just as many stars, if the moon does shine.”
“There
are
just as many; only we can’t see them so well.”
“Why can’t we see them?” said Lucy.
But Miss Anne told Lucy that she was rather tired of holding her at the window, and so she would carry her back, and tell her about it while she was rocking her to sleep.
“You see,” said Miss Anne, after she had sat down again, “that there are just as many stars in the sky in the daytime, as there are in the night.”
“O Miss Anne!” exclaimed Lucy, raising up her head suddenly, as if surprised; “I have looked up in the sky a great many times, and I never saw any.”
“No, we cannot see them, because the sun shines so bright.”
“Did you ever see any, Miss Anne?”
“No,” said she.
“Did any body ever see any?”
“No,” said Miss Anne, “I don’t know that any body ever did.”
“Then,” said Lucy, “how do they know that there are any?”
“Well – that is rather a hard question,” said Miss Anne. “But they do know; they have found out in some way or other, though I don’t know exactly how.”
“I don’t see how they can
know
that there are any stars there,” said Lucy, “unless somebody has seen them. I guess they only
think
there are some, Miss Anne, – they only
think
.”
“I believe I don’t know enough about it myself,” said Miss Anne, “to explain it to you, – and besides, you ought to go to sleep now. So shut up your eyes, and I will sing to you, and then, perhaps, you will go to sleep.”
Lucy obeyed, and shut up her eyes; and Miss Anne began to sing her a song. After a little while, Lucy opened her eyes, and said,
“I rather think, Miss Anne, I should like to get into my trundle-bed now. I am rather tired of sitting in your lap.”
“Very well,” said Miss Anne; “I think it will be better. But would not you rather have me bring the cradle in? and then you can lie down, and I can rock you all the time.”
“No,” said Lucy; “the cradle has got so short, that I can’t put my feet out straight. I had rather get into my trundle-bed.”
So Miss Anne put Lucy into the trundle-bed, and she herself took a book, and sat at her table, reading. In a short time, Lucy went to sleep; and she slept soundly until morning.
CONVERSATION VII
JOANNA
The next morning, when Lucy waked up, she found that it was very light. The curtains of the room were up, and she could see the sun shining brightly upon the trees and buildings out of doors, so that she supposed that it was pretty late. Besides, she saw that Miss Anne was not in the room; and she supposed that she had got up and gone out to breakfast.
Lucy thought that she would get up too. But then she recollected that she had been sick the night before, and that, perhaps, her mother would not be willing to have her get up.
Her next idea was, that she would call out for Miss Anne, or for her mother; but this, on reflection, she thought would make a great disturbance; for it was some distance from the room which she was in to the parlor, where she supposed they were taking breakfast.
She concluded, on the whole, to wait patiently until somebody should come; and having nothing else to do, she began to sing a little song, which Miss Anne had taught her. She knew only one verse, but she sang this verse two or three times over, louder and louder each time, and her voice resounded merrily through all that part of the house.
Some children
cry
when they wake up and find themselves alone; some call out aloud for somebody to come; and others sing. Thus there are three ways; and the singing is the best of all the three; – except, indeed, for very little children, who are not old enough to sing or to call, and who, therefore, cannot do anything but cry.
They heard Lucy’s singing in the parlor, and Miss Anne came immediately to see her. She gave her a picture-book to amuse herself with for a time, and went away again; but in about a quarter of an hour she came back, and helped her to get up and dress herself.
Her mother told her that she must not go out of doors that day, but that she might play about in any of the rooms, just as she pleased.
“But what shall I do for my breakfast?” said Lucy.
“O, I will give you some breakfast,” said Miss Anne. “How should you like to have it by yourself, upon your little table, in the kitchen?”
“Well,” said Lucy, “if you will let me have my own cups and saucers.”
“Your cups won’t hold enough for you to drink, – will they?”
“O, I can fill them up two or three times.”
Miss Anne said she had no objection to this plan; and she told Lucy to go and get her table ready. So Lucy went and got her little table. It was just high enough for her to sit at. Her father had made it for her, by taking a small table in the house, which had been intended for a sort of a light-stand, and sawing off the legs, so as to make it just high enough for her.
Lucy brought this little table, and also her chair; and then Miss Anne handed her a napkin for a table-cloth, and told her that she might set her table, – and that, when it was all set, she would bring her something for breakfast; and so she left Lucy, for a time, to herself.
Lucy spread the napkin upon her table, and then went and got some of her cups and saucers, and put upon it. Joanna was ironing at the great kitchen table, and Lucy went to ask her how many cups and saucers she had better set.
“I should think it would take the whole set,” said Joanna, “to hold one good cup of tea.”
“But I am going to fill up my cup three times, Joanna; and if that isn’t enough, I shall fill it up four times.”
“O, then,” said Joanna, “I would not have but one cup, – or at most two. I think I would have two, because you may possibly have some company.”
“I wish you would come and be my company, Joanna.”
“No, I must attend to my ironing.”
“Well,” said Lucy, as she went back to her table, “I will have two cups, at any rate, for I may have some company.”
She accordingly put on two cups and a tea-pot; also a sugar-bowl and creamer. She placed them in various ways upon the table; first trying one plan of arrangement, and then another; and when at last they were placed in the best way, she went and called Miss Anne, to tell her that she was ready for her breakfast.
Miss Anne came out, according to her promise, to give her what she was to have to eat. First, she put a little sugar in her sugar-bowl; then some milk in her cream-pitcher; then some water, pretty hot, in her tea-pot.
“Could not you let me have a little real tea?” said Lucy.
“O, this will taste just as well,” said Miss Anne.
“I know it will taste just as well; but it will not
look
just right. Real tea is not white, like water.”
“Water is not white,” said Miss Anne; “milk is white; water is very different in appearance from milk.”
“What color is water, then?” said Lucy.
“It is not of any color,” said Miss Anne. “It is what we call colorless. Now, you want to have something in your tea-pot which is colored a little, like tea, – not perfectly colorless, like water.”
Lucy said yes, that that was exactly what she wanted. So Miss Anne took her tea-pot up, and went into the closet with it, and presently came out with it again, and put it upon the table. The reason why she took all this pains to please Lucy was, because she was so gentle and pleasant; and, although she often asked for things, she was not vexed or ill-humored when they could not be given to her.
Miss Anne then cut some thin slices of bread, and divided them into square pieces, so small that they could go on a small plate, which she brought from the closet. She also gave her a toasting-fork with a long handle, and told her that she might toast her own bread, and then spread it with butter. She gave her a little butter upon another plate.
When all these things were arranged, Miss Anne went away, telling Lucy that she had better make her breakfast last as long as she could, for she must remember that she could not go out at all that day; and that she must therefore economize her amusements.
“Economize? What do you mean by that, Miss Anne?” said Lucy.
“Why, use them carefully, and make them last as long as you can.”
Lucy followed Miss Anne’s advice in making the amusement of sitting at her own breakfast table last as long as possible. She toasted her little slices of bread with the toasting-fork, and poured out the tea from her tea-pot. She found that it had a slight tinge of the color of tea, which Miss Anne had given it by sweetening it a little, with brown sugar. Lucy enjoyed her breakfast very much.
While she was eating it, Joanna, who was much pleased with her for being so still, and so careful not to make her any trouble, asked her if she should not like a roasted apple.
“Yes,” said Lucy, “very much indeed.”
“I will give you one,” said Joanna, “and show you how to roast it, if you will go and ask your mother, if she thinks it will not hurt you.”
Lucy accordingly went and asked her mother. She said it would not hurt her at all, and that she should be very glad to have Joanna get her an apple.
Joanna accordingly brought a large, rosy apple, with a stout stem. She tied a long string to the stem, and then held the apple up before the fire a minute, by means of the stem. Then she got a flat-iron, and tied the other end of the string to the flat-iron. The flat-iron she then placed upon the mantle shelf, and the string was just long enough to let the apple hang down exactly before the fire.
When it was all arranged in this way, she took up the apple, and twisted the string for some time; and then, when she let the apple down again gently to its place, the weight of it began to untwist the string, and this made the apple itself turn round quite swiftly before the fire.
Joanna also put a plate under the apple, to catch any of the juice or pulp which might fall down, and then left Lucy to watch it while it was roasting.
Lucy watched its revolutions for some time in silence. She observed that the apple would whirl very swiftly for a time, and then it would go slower, and slower, and slower, until, at length, she said,
“Joanna, Joanna, it is going to stop.”
But, instead of this, it happened that, just at the very instant when Lucy thought it was going to stop, all at once it began to turn the other way; and, instead of going slower and slower, it went faster and faster, until, at length, it was revolving as fast as it did before.
“O no,” said she to Joanna; “it has got a going again.”
It was indeed revolving very swiftly; but pretty soon it began to slacken its speed again; – and again Lucy thought that it was certainly going to stop. But at this time she witnessed the same phenomenon as before. It had nearly lost all its motion, and was turning around very slowly indeed, and just upon the point of stopping; and in fact it did seem to stop for an instant; but immediately it began to move in an opposite direction, very slowly at first, but afterwards faster and faster, until it was, at length, spinning around before the hot coals, as fast as ever before. Pretty soon, also, the apple began to sing; and Lucy concluded that it would never stop, – at least not before it would have time to be well roasted.
“It goes like Royal’s top,” said Lucy.
“Has Royal got a top?” said Joanna.
“Yes,” said Lucy, “a large humming-top. There is a hole in it. It spins very fast, only it does not go first one way and then the other, like this apple.”
“
I
never saw a top,” said Joanna.
“Never saw one!” exclaimed Lucy. “Did not the boys have tops when you were little?”
“No boys that I ever knew,” answered Joanna.
“Did you have a tea-set when you were a little girl?” asked Lucy.
“No,” said Joanna, “I never saw any such a tea-set, until I saw yours.”
“What kind of playthings did you have, then, when you were a little girl?”
“No playthings at all,” said Joanna; “I was a farmer’s daughter.”
“And don’t the farmers’ daughters ever have any playthings?”
“
I
never did, at any rate.”
“What did you do, then, for play?”
“O, I had plenty of play. When I was about as big as you, I used to build fires in the stumps.”
“What stumps?” said Lucy.
“Why, the stumps in the field, pretty near my father’s house. I used to pick up chips and sticks, and build fires in the hollow places in the stumps, and call them my ovens. Then, when they were all heated, I used to put a potato in, and cover it up with sand, and let it roast.”
“I wish I had some stumps to build fires in,” said Lucy. “I should like to go to your house and see them.”
“O, they are all gone now,” said Joanna. “They have gradually got burnt up, and rotted out; and now it is all a smooth, green field.”
“O, what a pity!” said Lucy. “And an’t there any more stumps anywhere?”
“Yes, in the woods, and upon the new fields. You see, when they cut down trees, they leave the stumps in the ground; and pretty soon they begin to rot; and they rot more and more, until, at last, they tumble all to pieces; and then they pile up the pieces in heaps, and burn them. Then the ground is all smooth and clear. So I used to build fires in the stumps as long as they lasted. One day my hen laid her eggs in a stump.”
“Your hen?” said Lucy; “did you have a hen?”
“Yes,” replied Joanna; “when I was a little older than you are, my father gave me a little yellow chicken, that was
peeping
, with the rest, about the yard. I used to feed her, every day, with crumbs. After a time, she grew up to be a large hen, and laid eggs. My father said that I might have all the eggs too. I used to sell them, and save the money.”
“How much money did you get?” asked Lucy.
“O, considerable. After a time, you see, I let my hen sit, and hatch some chickens.”
“Sit?” said Lucy.
“Yes; you see, after hens have laid a good many eggs, they sit upon them, to keep them warm, for two or three weeks; and, while they keep them warm, a little chicken begins to grow in every egg, and at length, after they grow strong enough, they break through the eggs and come out. So I got eleven chickens from my hen, after a time.”
“Eleven?” repeated Lucy; “were there just eleven?”
“There were twelve, but one died,” replied Joanna. “And all these chickens were hatched in a stump.”
“How did that happen?” asked Lucy.
“Why, the hens generally used to lay their eggs in the barn, and I used to go in, every day, to get the eggs. I carried a little basket, and I used to climb about upon the hay, and feel in the cribs; and I generally knew where all the nests were. But once I could not find my hen’s nest for several days; and at last I thought I would watch her, and see where she went. I did watch her, and I saw her go into a hollow place in a great black stump, in the corner of the yard. After she came out, I went and looked there, and I found four eggs.”
“What did you do then?” said Lucy.
“Why, I concluded, on the whole, to let them stay, and let my hen hatch her eggs there, if she would. And I told my brother, that, if he would make a coop for me, around that stump, I would give him one of the chickens.”
“A
coop
? What is a coop?”
“O, a small house for hens to live in. My brother made me a coop. He made it im