The Thirteen Little Black Pigs, and Other Stories

It was a fine summer's day, almost too hot indeed, so the children had tea early and went out a walk afterwards, returning in time to spend half-an-hour with their mother, before she went to dress for dinner.

This half-hour was generally a very happy time for all the children. But to-day one little face was less bright than usual, and mamma's eyes were not slow to notice it, though she said nothing.

When the three little ones had gone off to bed, their mother glanced at the two elder girls.

"You are quite ready, I see, for coming into the drawing-room before dinner," she said.

"Yes, mamma," Lily replied, "all except washing our hands. They do get so quickly dirty in this hot weather, if we romp about at all."

"Then I think you might practise a little, papa likes to see one of you in the drawing-room when he comes in, and to-night Belle shall be with me while I'm dressing."

"Very well, mamma dear," said Lily, running off as cheerfully as usual. Being with their mother when she was dressing was a great treat, it didn't happen every night, and the little girls took it in turns. This evening I don't think Lily was at all sorry to be without her sister's company, for the little black dog, or at least his shadow, was still on Belle's shoulders.

Belle sat quietly in a corner of the room, her mother said very little to her, not even when Collins, the maid, had gone.

"You must wash your hands, I think, before coming down to the drawing-room," she said at last, as she poured some nice warm water into a pretty little basin with rose-buds round the edge, which the children admired very much.

"Thank you, mamma," said Belle, brightening up a little, "and may I use your beautiful pink scented soap, please?"

"Certainly dear," said her mother, and Belle set to work to wash her little brown hands, which, it must be confessed, were decidedly in need of it.

Rather to her surprise, her mother stood beside her looking on.

"Are you watching to see if I wash them quite clean, mamma?" asked the little girl.

"No, dear, I'm sure you will do that. I was wondering if it has ever struck you how prettily and kindly your little hands behave to each other. Right hand is the cleverest and quickest, of course, but left hand is always willing and ready too. They take care not to hurt or scratch each other, and if by chance one is ever hurt, the other is as tender as possible not to rub or touch the sore place."

Belle went on washing her hands, or rather bathing them in the water, for by this time they were quite clean. She looked at them as she did so, but she did not speak.

"And another thing," said her mother, "take one out of the water, and see how helpless the other is, even clever right hand can do very little without her sister, and it is the same in all the work you do, one hand would be very little use without the other."

Belle's face grew rosy.

"Mamma dear," she said, as her hands wiped each other dry on the nice soft towel, "I know what you mean. You're like a fairy, mamma, you can see into my heart. I didn't like that lady thinking Lily was your right hand, and me no good to you. It made me feel as if I didn't love Lily."

"But nobody said you were no good, Belle dear. You made that up in your own silly little head. For you know even though Lily is older, you can still help me a great deal, and even help her to help me," said her mother.

"Like as if you were the head, and we your two hands," answered Belle. "Well, mamma, I won't mind now even if you count me only your left hand, and I'll always remember what you've said."

She kissed her mother, quite happy now, and when they were going to bed that night she told Lily all about it.

"I am afraid," said Lily, looking sorry, "that I was too proud of what mamma said of me. But if each of us is always as kind to the other as right hand is to left hand, and left hand to right hand, it will be all right, won't it dear?"

A·SHILLING of HALFPENCE

She was a lonely little old lady. She was one of those who had "seen better days," as it is called. I am afraid there are a great many people in the world of whom this can be said, and the saddest part of it is that they are very, very often, old people.

It is sad to see anyone in want even of comforts, and still more of really needful things, but I think it is worst of all to see very old or very young folk deprived of what they should have. Middle-aged men and women seem more fit for the battle of life than those who are already tired by what they have come through, or those who have not yet got to their full strength and courage.

My little old lady was not what is commonly counted very poor. She had enough to eat – certainly her appetite was small – and enough to pay the rent of the two neat little rooms, furnished with what she had been able to keep of her own old furniture, which had once stood in a very different kind of house; and enough, with great care, to dress herself nicely; and, what she considered quite as important as any of these things, she managed to have enough to give her mite of help to those still poorer and more closely pressed than herself.

How I got to know her I am not at liberty to say. But I will tell you about the first time I ever saw her and him, the other person of this little story.

It was a cold, but for a wonder in London in the winter, a bright and dry morning. All the better, you will say – of course everybody must like nice clean streets and pavements much more than sloppy rain and mud. But no; not quite everybody. Think of the crossing-sweepers! Dirty, muddy days are their harvest-time, especially Sundays, when in the better parts of the town there are so many more rich and well-to-do foot passengers than on other days. It was a real disappointment, and worse than a disappointment – a real serious trouble to little Billy Harding, when, after the best breakfast his poor mother could give him – and that isn't saying very much – he hurried downstairs from the attic which was his home, brush in hand, to find the pavements dry as a bone, and the roads almost clean!

"I made sure it were going to rain beautiful," he said to himself, dolefully, "it looked so uncommon like it, last night."

But the wind had veered round to the east while Billy was fast asleep, and as everybody knows, the east wind, which "is neither good for man nor beast," hasn't even the good quality of bringing profitably dirty streets for the poor crossing-sweepers.

There was nothing for it but to go to his post, however, and there it was I saw him that same cold, dry, clean Sunday morning, when I myself was on my way to church. Very likely I should never have noticed him, nor her either, if I had met them separately, but it was the seeing them standing together, talking earnestly, that caught my attention, and the anxious, rather troubled expression on the little old lady's face, and the bright eager look on the boy's, made me wonder what it was all about. A dreadful idea crossed my mind for an instant – could he be a naughty boy? had he possibly been trying to pick the old lady's pocket, and was she talking to him in hopes of making him repentant, as is sometimes the way with tender-hearted old ladies, instead of giving him in charge to a policeman? (Not that there was any policeman in view!) But another instant made me feel ashamed of the thought – a second glance at the boy's honest face was enough.

Now I will tell you what had happened; how I came to know it does not matter.

I told you my little old lady always managed to give away something to others. One of her habits was to put one shilling into the box in the church porch "for the poor of the parish," the first Sunday of every month, and if you knew how very little she had to live on, you would agree with me that this shilling, which was not her only charity, was a good deal. The morning I am writing of was the first Sunday of the month, and as she set off for church she held in her thin old fingers inside her well-worn muff two coins – a shilling and a halfpenny, the halfpenny being intended for the first crossing-sweeper she met on her way. This was another of her little customs. She had some way to go to church, and she did not always choose the same streets, so she had no special pet crossing-sweeper, and this morning it was Billy into whose hand she dropped the coin she was holding in her tremulous fingers.

"Thank you, ma'am," said Billy, tugging at his ragged cap with the same hand in which he had received the money, for he had his brush in the other, and he was anxious to show his gratitude. It was his first receipt that morning!

"Poor boy," thought the old lady, "he does look cold. I wish I could have made it a penny."

But the kind wish had scarcely crossed her mind before she heard a voice beside her.

"Please ma'am," it said, "do you know what you give me just now?"

And Billy, red with running, held out a very unmistakeable shilling!

The old lady gasped, and drew out the coin she was firmly clasping in her muff. It was a rather extra worn halfpenny!

"Oh, my good boy!" she began, but Billy interrupted her. He saw at once how it was. And if he gave a little sigh, can you wonder? It would have been "jolly," if she had replied, "All right, my boy. I meant it for you," and as he had run after her he had thought it might be so. For Billy was wise in some things, as the poor learn to be. He knew that it is not by any means those who have most to give who give most.

But a glance at the troubled old face told him the truth.

"All right, ma'am," he said again. "'Twas a mistake. Mistakes will happen," and he dropped the silver piece back into her hand.

"Take the halfpenny at least, my boy," said she. "It was very good, very good indeed of you to tell me of my mistake. If it was money I could spare on myself – but – it is my rule to give this once a month at church, and – I could not make it up again."

"All right, ma'am," Billy repeated for the third time, anxious to be off before the old lady could hear the choke of disappointment in his voice.

(It was just then I passed them.)

"But I'll tell you what I'll do," she went on, brightening up. "I'll pay you the shilling in halfpence, every week. I'm sure I can manage that. So you look out for me each Sunday morning, and I'll have it ready," and off she trotted, quite happy at having thus settled the difficulty. "I shouldn't feel honest" she said to herself, "if I didn't make it up to him after really giving it to him. And a halfpenny a week even I can manage extra."

For of course Billy's halfpenny was not to interfere with her regular Sunday morning's dole to the first crossing-sweeper she met.

I think she was right. I am sure that the halfpennies he received so regularly till what she thought her debt to him was paid, helped to make and keep Billy Harding as honest as a man as he had been as a child.

The next winter saw no little old lady trotting along to church in the cold. She went away for her treat of the year – a fortnight in the country; but she fell ill the very day she came back, and never was able to go out again. It fell to my share – she asked me to do it – to tell the little crossing-sweeper when she died, and to give him a small present she had left him. He rubbed his sleeve across his eyes – he didn't want me to see he was crying.

"'Twill seem quite strange-like never to see her no more," he said. "I were just beginning to wonder when she'd be back. Twenty-four Sundays and she never missed, wet or dry! I'd have liked her to know I goes too, reg'lar, to church in the afternoons as she wanted me to."

And for his own sake, as well as for the dear old lady's, I never lost sight of poor Billy from that time.

A

FRIEND IN NEED

Laurence was a little English boy, though he lived in Paris. He had several older brothers and sisters, but none near him in age. So he was often rather lonely, for he was only six years old, and too young to do many lessons. Half-an-hour in the morning and half-an-hour in the afternoon made up his school time, though of course his next brother and sister, who were twelve and thirteen years old, had to do a great deal more than that.

I daresay they would not have minded doing a little less. I know they were always very pleased to have a holiday, or even a half-holiday, and in the evenings when their lessons were done they were very kind and ready to play with their little brother.

Laurence had a German nursery-maid. She was a good girl, but not very lively or quick, and she could not speak either French or English. When she first came to take care of Laurence he only knew a very few words of German, so you can imagine that his walks with Emma, as she was called, were not very amusing. But after a while Laurence got on with his German, much faster than Emma did with either French or English, which of course was as it should be, seeing that she had come on purpose to teach him her language. And then he and his nurse became very good friends in a quiet way. For he was rather an unusually quiet little boy, and he thought a great deal more than he spoke.

Still he did sometimes wish he had a brother or sister near his own age. It did not seem quite fair that he should be so alone in the family. Hugh and Isabel were such nice friends for each other, and so were the two still older sisters and the big brother of all, who was called Robert. Now and then when little Laurence was trotting along the street by Emma's side he would look with envy at other children, two and three together, and wish that one of them "belonged" to him.

But there were others alone, even more alone than he was. This he found out before long. At the corner of the "Avenue" where he lived, there was a large house opening into a court-yard, like all large houses in Paris, and just inside this court-yard Laurence often saw a little girl not much bigger than he was, always playing about by herself. She was the daughter of the "concierge," or porter, who took care of the big house, and though she was neat and tidy she was not at all a rich little girl. For though the house was a big one, it was not lived in by rich people, and the concierge and his wife and little girl had only two small rooms for their home.

Laurence did not know the little girl's name, but in his own fancy he called her "Gay." She always looked so bright and happy. And after a while the two children began to smile at each other as if they were friends, and sometimes Gay would call out, "Good morning, Sir. What a nice day!" or some little speech like that, to which Laurence would reply, "Good morning, Miss," like a little gentleman, lifting his cap as he spoke. Of course these remarks were made in French. In English they do sound rather odd, I must allow.

One day Laurence and Emma set off for rather a long walk. It was the day before Isabel's birthday, and he wanted to buy a present for her at one of the very large shops. He was not sure what the present was to be, but he thought that he would choose a pincushion, as he had seen some very pretty little fancy chairs and sofas not long ago at this same big shop, which Emma told him were pincushions. He knew exactly what part of the shop to go to, and he had his money – a whole franc – that is about tenpence of English money, in his little purse safe in his pocket.

They reached the shop without any adventure or misadventure, and soon Laurence, holding the maid's hand, was walking slowly past the counters or tables where lots of tempting pretty things were displayed. It was some time before they found the particular table where the fairy-like furniture was laid out. But at last Laurence gave a little cry of joy.

"There they are, Emma," he said in German, "the dear little armchairs and sofas and ottomans – blue and rose and white, and all with gold backs and legs. Now which would Isabel like?"

It was a great question, but at last they decided on a rose-coloured arm-chair. The price he was sure was all right, as Emma had seen that the things were all marked one franc. But alas, when the shopman gave Laurence the little paper bill, and the boy as proud as possible went to the desk where it was to be paid, the clerk held out his hand, —

"Five centimes more, if you please – one sou."

A sou is about the same as an English halfpenny, and it is often called a "five centime piece" – for there are ten centimes in each two-sous piece, just as there are four farthings in one English penny.

"Another sou?" said Laurence. "But I have not got one. Emma, have you got one?"

Emma had nothing at all in her pocket. It was stupid of her, but she had not thought of bringing her purse. However it was so little, and she began asking the clerk in her very bad French, mixed with German words, to let the little gentleman have the pincushion for a franc.

The clerk shook his head.

"At least," said poor Laurence, "let me have it now and I will bring the sou to-morrow, or my mamma will send it."

Again the man shook his head. Perhaps he was in a bad temper, perhaps he did not feel the more good-natured because he may have thought the boy and his nurse were German. For at that time the French nation did not love Germans. Let us hope they have learnt better since.

"Pass on, sir," he said sharply, "you are blocking the way," and the people standing round began to laugh. The tears rose to the little boy's eyes.

"Oh! what shall I do?" he cried, "and to-morrow is Isabel's birthday."

Then came a little voice beside him.

"Sir – may I offer it? Will you accept this sou from me?" and a small hand held out the coin. It was little Gay.

"Oh thank you, thank you," exclaimed Laurence joyfully, and the grim clerk received the sou and the parcel was handed to him.

How he thanked the kind little girl! She was there with her mother, and while the good woman was choosing an umbrella at a stand close by, Gay, as I must still call her, had noticed her little friend and wondered what he was in difficulty about. And of all the people near him in the shop, she alone had the kind thought of offering him the sou.

I need not tell you that after this the good little girl was looked upon by Laurence as quite a friend. He went with Emma the next morning to pay back the five centime piece, and when New Year's Day came, a pretty present for Gabrielle, which was her real name, was one of the gifts which Laurence and his mother had the greatest pleasure in choosing.

Was it not nice that the little girl was called "Gabrielle," for Laurence was able to go on calling her "Gay," as it made such a good short name for the real one.

PANSY'S PANSY

THE FLOWER MARKET

PART I

HERE was a flower-market once a week in the town of Northclough.

It was every Thursday, the regular market-day, when the country people came in to sell and to buy. But Northclough was not a pretty, old-fashioned country town, such as you would very likely fancy from the mention of markets and country folk. Once, long ago, it had been a village, a rather lonely and out-of-the-way village, though never a pretty one. For it was up in the north, as its name tells, in a bare and cold part of the world, where the grass is never very brightly green, and the skies much more often grey than blue.

And now, as far as looks go, any way, it had changed from bad to worse. The village had grown into a smoky town, where there were lots of high chimneys, and constant sounds of machinery booming away, and railway trains shrieking and whistling in and out of the stations. There was no longer any ivy on the old church, which the oldest people could remember almost buried in it. And the new churches which had been built since, already looked old themselves – no stones could keep clean or fresh in such smoky grimy air.

But some of the old customs still lingered on, and one was the weekly market, which was held just outside the old church walls – the walls of the church-yard, I should say – every Thursday, just as it had been since the village first grew into a small market town, more than a hundred years ago. And what some people would have done without the pleasure and amusement of this market, I should be afraid to say. I mean some little people, the children of the vicar, who lived with their parents in a grey old house, as grey and old as the church itself, which stood at one side of the market place.

It was grey and grim outside, but inside the father and mother made it as bright and cheery as they could. In winter I think they managed this better than in summer, for good blazing fires do a great deal, especially of an evening when the curtains are drawn and the cold north wind, howling and blustering outside as if in a rage at not being able to get in, only makes the house seem still cosier. And one of the good things about the north is that coals are cheap and plentiful, so that though the vicar was not rich, there was no need to go without comfortable fires.

But in summer it was sometimes not easy to make the old house look cheerful. Very little sunshine could get in, for on two sides the neighbouring houses almost shut out the light. And the sun had hard work, persevering though he is, to get through the murky air – murky even in summer – that hangs like a curtain over what is called a "manufacturing town." Then there was no garden of any kind, as the new schools had been built on what was once the vicarage lawn, though after all I hardly think a garden would have been much good, and perhaps the children's nurse was right when she said:

"Better without it, 'twould only have been a trap for more soots and smuts, and it's hard enough to keep the pinafores clean for half-an-hour together as it is."

Nurse had come with their mother from the south, and she didn't take kindly to the greyness, and the smokiness, and the grimness at all. But she took very kindly to the babies, which was after all of more consequence.

There were four of them – they were "leaving off being babies" now, as little Ruth, the youngest but one, said indignantly, when some one spoke of her and Charlie in that disrespectful way. "Charlie's three and I'm four, and Pansy's nearly six, and Bob's seven past."

That was Ruth's description of the family, and I think it will do very well, though some people might say it began at the wrong end.

And these were the little people who would have been badly off without the weekly market, which they looked forward to as the "next best" treat to having tea in the dining-room on Saturday evenings with mamma.

Their nursery windows overlooked the market place. The nurseries were the brightest rooms in the house, and as it was a large house, whatever its faults in other ways, there were three of them. The day nursery in the middle and a large bedroom on one side, and on the other a small one which was beginning to be called "Miss Pansy's room." And on Thursdays Pansy's room was in great request, as from its window one had the best view of all of the market, especially of the corner where the flowers were.

There was always something to be seen on the flower-stalls, even in winter, when there was nothing else there were evergreens, holly and mistletoe of course, in plenty, as Christmas came on. And though some other parts of the market might be more amusing and exciting, where the cocks and hens, and geese and ducks, were all to be heard gabbling, and quacking and clucking and crowing, for instance; or the railed-in place where there were generally a few calves or poor little frightened sheep bleating and baa-ing, yet the little girl's first thought was always the flower corner. First thing on Thursday morning, sometimes before it was light, she would lie wondering what sort of dear little plants there would be this week, and hoping it would be a fine day, so that nurse would let her poke her head out through the bars a tiny bit, so as to see better, without calling to her that she would catch cold.

Pansy's birthday was in May – she was going to be six. She liked having a birthday because mamma always invited herself to tea in the nursery, and if it happened to be one of papa's not very busiest days, he would sometimes join them too. That was delightful.