Nine Little Goslings

  LADY QUEEN ANNE.

  "WHERE is Annie?" demanded old Mrs. Pickens.

  "I'm sure I don't know. Not far away, for I heard her voice just nowsinging in the woods near the house."

  "That child is always singing, always," went on Mrs. Pickens in amelancholy voice. "What she finds to sing about in this miserable placeI cannot imagine. It's really unnatural!"

  "Oh, no! mother,--not unnatural. Remember what a child she is. Shehardly remembers the old life, or misses it. The sun shines, and shesings,--she can't help it. We ought to be glad instead of sorry that shedoesn't feel the changes as we do."

  "Well, I _am_ glad," responded the old lady. "You needn't take me up sosharply, Susan. All I say is that it seems to me _unreasonable_."

  Miss Pickens glanced about the room, and suppressed a sigh. It was,indeed, a miserable dwelling, scarcely better than a hut. Very few ofyou who read this have ever seen a place so comfortless or so poor. Theroof let in rain. Through the cracked, uneven floor the ground could bedistinctly seen. A broken window-pane was stopped by an old hat thrustinto the hole. For furniture was only a rusty stove, a table, threechairs, a few battered utensils for cooking, and a bed laid on the floorof the inner room,--that was all. And the dwellers in this wretchedhome, for which they were indebted to the charity of friends scarcelyricher than themselves, were ladies born and bred, accustomed to all thecomforts and enjoyments of life.

  It was the old story,--alas! too common in these times,--the story of aSouthern family reduced to poverty by the ravages of war. Six yearsbefore, all had been different. Then the fighting was not begun, and theSouthern Confederacy was a thing to boast over and make speeches about.The gray uniforms were smart and new then; the volunteers eager and fullof zeal. All things went smoothly in the stately old house known toCharleston people as the "Pickens Mansion." The cotton was regularlyharvested on the Sea Islands, and on the Beaufort plantation, whichbelonged to Annie; for little Annie, too, was an heiress, with acres andnegroes of her own. War seemed an easy thing in those days, and aglorious one. There was no lack felt anywhere; only a set of fresh andexciting interests in lives which had always been interesting enough.Mrs. Pickens and the other Charleston ladies scraped lint and rolledbandages with busy fingers; but they smiled at each other as they didso, and said that these would never be needed, there would never be anyreal fighting! They stood on their balconies to cheer and applaud theincoming regiments,--regiments of gallant young men, their own sons andthe sons of neighbors: and it was like the opening chapter of a story.Ah! the story had run through many chapters since then, and whatdifferent ones! The smart uniforms had lost all their gloss, blood wasupon the flags, the glory had changed to ashes; every family woremourning for somebody. The pleasant Charleston home, where Mrs. Pickenshad stood on the balcony to watch the gray-coated troops pass by, andlittle Annie had fluttered her mite of a handkerchief, and laughed asthe gay banners danced in air, where was it? Burned to the ground; onlya sorry heap of ruin marked where once it stood. No more cotton balescame from the Sea Islands. First one army, then the other, had sweptover the Beaufort plantation, trampling its fields into mire. It hadbeen seized, confiscated, retaken, re-confiscated, sold to this personand that. Nobody knew exactly to whom it belonged nowadays; but it wasnot to little Annie, rightful heiress of all. Stripped of every thing,reduced to utter want, Mrs. Pickens and her daughter took refuge in alonely village, far up among the Carolina hills, where some formerfriends, also ruined by the war, offered them the wretched home wherenow we find them. Little Annie, sole blossom left upon the blasted tree,went with them. It was a miserable life which they led. The pinch ofpoverty is never so keenly felt as when the recollection of better daysmixes with it like a perpetual sting. All the bright hopes of six yearsbefore were over, and the poor ladies could have said, "Behold, was eversorrow like unto my sorrow!" They grieved for themselves; they grievedmost of all for their beautiful little Annie, but Annie did notgrieve,--not she!

  Never was a happier little maiden,--as blithe and merry in her coarsecotton frock and bare feet as though the cotton were choicest satin. Shewas as pretty too. No frock could spoil that charming little face framedin thick chestnut curls, or hide the graceful movements which would havemade her remarkable anywhere. Her eyes, which were brown like her curls,danced continually. Her mouth was always smiling. The dimples came andwent with every word she spoke. And, however shabby might be her dress,she was a little lady always. No one could mistake it, who listened toher sweet voice and prettily chosen words. The pitiful sadness of herGrandmother, the rigid melancholy of her Aunt, passed over her as acloud drifts over a blue sky on a summer's day, leaving the blueundimmed. She loved them, and was sorry when they were sorry; but Godhad given her such a happy nature, that happy she must be in spite ofall. Just to be alive was pleasant enough, but there were many otherpleasant things beside. The woods were full of flowers, and Annie lovedflowers dearly. Then there were the beautiful pine forests themselves,with their cool shades and fragrant smell. There was sunshine too, andnow and then a story, when Aunty felt brighter than usual. The negroesin the neighborhood were all fond of little "Missy Annie." They wouldcatch squirrels for her, or climb for birds' eggs; and old Samboscarcely ever passed the hut without bringing some little gift offlowers or nuts. There was Beppo, also, a large and handsome houndbelonging to a distant plantation, who came now and then to make Annievisits. It was a case of pure affection on his part, for she was notallowed to give him any thing to eat, not even a piece of corn bread,for food was too precious with the stricken family to be shared withdogs. But Beppo came all the same, and seemed to like to race and rompwith Annie just as well as though the entertainment had wound up withsomething more substantial. Oh! there were many pleasant things to do,Annie thought.

  When Aunty went out to call her that day, she was sitting under a treewith a lap full of yellow jessamines, which she was tying into a bunch.As she worked she sang.

  "Who are those for, Annie?" asked Miss Pickens.

  "I was going to give them to Mrs. Randolph, Aunty. She came yesterday tothe camp, Juba says. I thought she'd like them."

  Miss Pickens looked rigid, but she made no reply. "The Camp" was a depotof United States supplies, established for the relief of the poorblacks and whites of the region, and Major Randolph was the officer incharge of it. In her great poverty, Miss Pickens had been forced toapply with the rest of her neighbors for this aid, going every week witha basket on her arm, and receiving the same rations of bacon andcorn-meal which the poorest negroes received. It was bitter bread; butwhat can one do when one is starving? Major Randolph was sorry for thepoor lady, and kind and courteous always, but Miss Pickens could not begrateful; he was one of the Northern invaders who had helped to crushher hopes and that of her State, and to bring them to this extremity;and though she took the corn-meal, she had no thanks in her heart.

  "We are going to the village this afternoon, aren't we, Aunty?" went onAnnie.

  "Yes, we must," replied her Aunt. "I came to tell you to get ready. And,Annie, don't sing so loud when you are near the house. Grandmammadoesn't like to hear it."

  "Doesn't she?" said Annie wondering. "I'll try to remember, Aunty. Butsometimes I don't know when I am singing. It just sings of itself."

  "Getting ready" consisted of tying on two faded, flapping sun-bonnets,to which Miss Pickens added an old ragged India shawl, relic of pastgrandeur. Annie's feet were bare, her Aunt wore army shoes made ofcow-skin, part of the Bureau supply. She was a tall, thin woman, and,with the habit of former days, carried her head high in air as shewalked along. Little fairy Annie danced by her side, now stopping togather a flower, now to listen to a bird, chatting and laughing all theway, as though she were a bird herself, and never heeding Aunty'smelancholy looks or short answers.

  "Who _are_ those people?" asked Mrs. Randolph of her husband, as shewatched the odd-looking pair come along the road. "Do look, Harry. Sucha strange woman, and--I do declare, the prettiest child I ever saw in mylife.
Tell me who they are?"

  "Oh, that's my little pet, Annie Pickens," replied the Major. Then hehastily told his wife the story.

  "The poor ladies suffer dreadfully both in pride and in pocket, I fear,"he added. "But Annie, bless her! she doesn't know what suffering means,any more than if she were a bird or a squirrel. I thought you'd take afancy to her, Blanche; and perhaps you can think of some way to helpthem. Women know how to set about such things. I'm such a clumsy fellowthat all I dared attempt was to deal out as much meal and bacon as theAunt could carry."

  Blanche Randolph found it easy to "take a fancy" to the sweet littlecreature who lifted to her such beaming eyes as she made her offering ofthe yellow jessamines. "Oh, dear!" she said to herself, "how I wish shebelonged to me." She kissed and fondled her, and while Miss Pickenstransacted her business, Annie sat on Mrs. Randolph's lap and talked toher, quite as though they were old acquaintances.

  "What do you do all day, dear? Have you any one to play with?"

  "Oh, yes, I have Beppo. That's Mr. Ashley's dog, you know. He runs overto see me almost every week, and we have such nice times."

  "And don't you study any lessons?" asked Mrs. Randolph.

  "No, not now. I used to, but Aunty is so busy now that she says shehasn't time to teach me. Beside, all my books were burned up."

  "Come, Annie, it is time to go," said Miss Pickens, moving away, with acurt bow to Mrs. Randolph.

  Annie lingered to kiss her new friend.

  "I shall pick you some fresh flowers next time we come," she said.

  "I'll tell you what, Harry," said Mrs. Randolph, "that is the most_pathetically_ sweet little darling I ever saw."

  "Pathetic? Why she's as happy as the day is long."

  "Ah, you don't understand! That's the very reason. 'I feel to cry' overher, as old Mauma Sally would say."

  Medville was a quiet, lonely place. All the people, black and whitealike, were very poor. Nobody called to see Mrs. Randolph; there were noparties to go to; and after a while she learned to look forward tolittle Annie's visit as the pleasantest thing in the whole week. Annielooked forward to it also. Her new friend was both kind and gay. Alwayssome little treat was prepared for her coming,--a book, a parcel ofcakes, or a picture-paper with gay colored illustrations. Mrs. Randolphchose these gifts carefully, because she was afraid of offending MissPickens, but Miss Pickens was not offended; she loved Annie too dearlyfor that, and became almost gracious as she thanked Mrs. Randolph forher kindness. After some time Mrs. Randolph ventured to walk out to thecottage. What she saw there horrified her, but I can best tell what thatwas by quoting a letter which she wrote about that time to her sister,Mrs. Boyd, who was spending the summer in England:--

  "Fancy, dear Mary, a miserable log hut not one bit better than those inwhich the negroes dwell. In fact, it used to be a negro hut, some say apig-pen; but that is too bad, I cannot believe it. The roof lets inwater, the floor is broken away, the windows are stuffed with rags andan old hat. Every thing is perfectly clean inside, swept and scrubbedcontinually by the poor ladies, and they are real ladies, Mary. It waspitiful to see old Mrs. Pickens sitting in her wooden chair in a dresswhich her former cook would have disdained, and yet with all the dignityand sad politeness of a duchess in difficulties. They make no secret oftheir extreme poverty; they cannot, in fact, for it stares you in theface; but they ask for nothing, and you would scarcely dare to offeraid. I was so shocked that I could not restrain my tears. Miss Pickensbrought me a tin cupful of water, and I think my sympathy touched her,for she has thawed a little since, and has permitted Annie to accept agingham frock which I made for her, and some stockings and shoes. Suchdainty little feet as hers are, and such a lovely child! I have scarcelyever seen one so beautiful, and it is not common beauty, but of therarest sort, with elegance and refinement in every feature and movement.It is a thousand pities that she should be left here to grow up inpoverty without education, or any of the things she was born to, for, asI told you in my last, the family was once wealthy, and Annie herselfwould be a great heiress had not the war ruined them all."

  When Mrs. Boyd received this letter, she was making a visit to somefriends who lived in a villa on the banks of the Thames. Mr. and Mrs.Grant were the names of these friends. They were all sitting on the lawnwhen the post came in. The sunset cast a pink glow on the curves of thebeautiful river; the roses were in perfect bloom; overhead andunderfoot the grass and trees were of that rich and tender green whichis peculiar to England. The letter interested Mrs. Boyd so much that sheread it aloud to her friends, who were rich and kind-hearted people,with one little boy of their own.

  Mrs. Grant almost cried over the letter. It was the saddest thing thatshe had ever heard of, and all that evening she and her husband couldtalk of nothing else. Little Annie, sound asleep in her Carolina cabin,did not dream that, three thousand miles away, two people, whom she hadnever heard of, were spending half the night in the discussion of herfate and fortunes! Long after their guest had gone to bed, the Grantssat up together conversing about Annie; and in the morning they camedown with a proposal so astonishing, that Mrs. Boyd could hardly believeher ears when she heard it.

  "We have been talking in a vague way for years past of adopting a littlegirl," said Mr. Grant. "We always wished for a daughter, and felt surethat to have a sister would be the best thing in the world for Rupert,who is an affectionate little fellow, and would enjoy such a playmate ofall things. But you can easily guess that there have been difficultiesin the way of these plans, especially as to finding the right child, sowe have done nothing about it. Now it strikes my wife, and it strikes mealso, that this story of your sister's is a clear leading of Providence.Here is a child who wants a home, and here are we who want a child. Sowe have made up our minds to send to America for Annie, and, if herrelatives will consent, to adopt her as our own. Will you give me Mrs.Randolph's exact address?"

  "But it is so sudden. Are you sure you won't repent?" asked Mrs. Boyd.

  "I don't think we shall. And it seems less sudden to us than to you,because, as I have explained, this idea has been in our minds for a along time."

  You can fancy the excitement of Major and Mrs. Randolph when Mr.Grant's letter reached Medville. He offered to adopt Annie, and treather in every respect as though she were his own daughter, provided herGrandmother and Aunt would give her up entirely, and promise never againto claim her as theirs.

  "If they will consent to this," wrote Mr. Grant, "I will settle ahundred pounds a year on them for the rest of their lives. I will alsoemploy a lawyer to see if any thing can be done towards getting back apart of the confiscated property. But all this is only on condition thatthe child is absolutely made over to me. I am not willing to take herwith any loop-hole left open by which she may, by and by, be claimedback again just as we have learned to consider her our own. I beg thatMajor Randolph will have this point most clearly understood, and willattend to the drawing up of a legal paper which shall put it beyond thepossibility of dispute."

  The day after this letter came, Mrs. Randolph put it in her pocket andwalked out to the mountain hut. She felt very nervous as she tapped atthe door.

  "It was a terrible thing to do," she wrote afterwards to her sister."There were the two poor ladies as stately as ever, and little Annie sobright and winning. It was like asking for the only happy thing left intheir lives. I explained first about my letter to you, and how youhappened to be staying with the Grants when you received it, and then Igave Miss Pickens Mr. Grant's letter. Her face was like iron as she readit, and she swallowed hard several times, but she never uttered oneword. When she had done, she thought for several minutes; then she said,in a choked voice, 'If you will leave this with us, Madam, you shallhave an answer to-morrow.' I came away. Dear little Annie walked halfway down the hill with me. I hope, oh, so much, that they will let hergo. The life they lead is too sad for such a child, and in every way itis better for them all; but oh, dear! I am so sorry for them that Idon't know what to do."

  N
ext day Miss Pickens walked down alone to the Relief Station.

  "My mother and I have talked it over," she said briefly, "and we havedecided. Annie must go."

  "I am glad," said Mrs. Randolph. "Glad for her, but very sorry for you."

  "It is like cutting out my heart," said the poor Aunt. "But what can wedo? I am not able to give the child proper food even, or decent clothes.If we keep her she must grow up in ignorance. These English strangersoffer every thing; we have nothing to offer. If we could count on thebare necessaries of life,--no more than those,--I would never, nevergive up Annie. As it is, it would be sinning against her to refuse."

  "Mr. Grant's assistance will do much to make your own lives morecomfortable," suggested Mrs. Randolph.

  "I don't care about that. We could go on suffering and not say a word,if only we might keep Annie. But she would suffer too, and more andmore as she grows older. No, Annie must go."

  "The Grants are thoroughly good people, and will be kindness itself, Iam sure. The only danger is that they may spoil your dear little girlwith over-indulgence."

  "She can stand a good deal, having had none for so long a time," repliedMiss Pickens with a sad smile. "But Annie is not that sort of child;nothing could spoil her. When must she go, Mrs. Randolph?"

  "Mr. Grant spoke of the 'Cuba,' on which some friends of his are tosail. She leaves on the 24th."

  "The 24th. That is week after next."

  "If it seems to you too soon--"

  "No. The sooner it is over the better for us all."

  "I half feel as if I had done you a wrong," said Mrs. Randolph, withtears in her eyes.

  "No, you have done us no wrong. It is in our own hands, you see. Wecould say no, even now. Oh, if I dared say it! But I dare not,--that isworst of all,--I dare not." She gave a dry sort of sob and walked awayrapidly. Mrs. Randolph, left behind, broke down and indulged in a goodfit of crying.

  Dear little Annie! she was partly puzzled, partly pleased, partly painedby the news of what was going to befall her. She clung to her Aunty, anddeclared that she could not go. Then Mrs. Randolph talked with her andexplained that Aunty would be better off, and Grandmamma have a morecomfortable house to live in--making pictures of the sweet English home,the kind people, the dear little brother waiting for her on the otherside of the sea, till Annie felt as if it would be pleasant to go. Therewas not much time for discussion; every thing was done in a hurry. Mrs.Randolph sewed all day long on her machine, making little underclothesand a pretty blue travelling dress. Miss Pickens patched up one of herfaded silks, for she was to accompany Annie to New York and see hersail, Mr. Grant paying all the expenses of the journey for both of them.Grandmamma cried all night, but in the daytime her face looked set andhard. There were papers to sign and boxes to pack. Beppo seemed to smellin the air that something was about to happen. All day long he hungaround the hut, whining and sniffing. Now and then he would throw backhis head and give a long, sorrowful bay, which echoed from some distantpoint in the pine wood. The last day came,--the last kisses. It was likea rapid whirling dream, the journey, the steam cars, the arrival in NewYork, and Annie only seemed to wake up when she stood on the steamer'sdeck and felt the vessel throb and move away. On the wharf, among thethrong of people who had come down to say good-by, stood Aunty's tallfigure in her faded silk and ragged shawl, looking so different from anyone else there. She did not wave her handkerchief or make any sign, butfixed her eyes on Annie as if she could never look away, and there wassomething in the expression of her face which made Annie suddenly burstinto tears. She wiped them fast, but before she could see clearly, thewharf was far distant, and Aunty's face was only a white spot amongother white spots, which were partly faces and partly flutteringhandkerchiefs. A few minutes more and the spots grew dim, the wharfcould no longer be seen, the vessel began to rock and plunge in thewaves, and the great steamer was fairly at sea.

  Do you suppose that Annie cried all the voyage? Bless you, no! It wasnot in her to be sorrowful long. In a very little while her tears dried,smiles came back, and the trustful brown eyes were as bright as ever.Everybody on board noticed the dear little girl and was kind. TheCaptain, who had little girls of his own at home, would walk with her onthe deck for an hour at a time, telling her stories which he called"yarns," and which were very interesting. The old sailors would coax thelittle maiden amidships and tell her "yarns" also, about sharks andwhales and albatrosses. One of them was such a nice old fellow. His namewas "Jack," and he won Annie's affections completely, by catching aflying-fish in a bucket and making her a present of it. Did you ever seea flying-fish? Annie's did not seem at all happy in the bucket, so shethrew him into the sea again, but none the less was she pleased thatJack gave him to her. She liked to watch the porpoises turn and wheel inthe water, and the gulls skim and dive; but most of all she delighted inthe Mother Carey's chickens, which on stormy days fluttered in and out,rocking on the waves, and never seeming afraid, however hard the windmight blow. Going to sea was to Annie as pleasant as all the otherpleasant things in her life. She would have laughed hard enough hadanybody asked whether unpleasant things had never happened to her, andwould have said "No!" in a minute.

  The voyage ended at Liverpool. Annie felt sorry and homesick at leavingthe vessel, as travellers are apt to do. But pretty soon a gentlemancame on board, and a pretty little boy. It was Mr. Grant and Rupert,come down to meet her, and they were so pleasant and so glad to seeAnnie that she forgot all her home-sickness at once.

  "What a funny carriage," she exclaimed, when, after they had all landed,Mr. Grant helped her into a cab.

  "It's a Hansom," explained Rupert. "Papa engaged one because I askedhim. It's such fun to ride in 'em, I think. Don't they have any inAmerica where you live?"

  "No,--not any carriages at all where I live," replied Annie, nestlingdown among the cushions,--"only mule carts and--wheelbarrows--and--oh,yes--Major Randolph had an ambulance. There were _beau_-tiful carriagesin New York though, but I didn't see any like this."

  "Don't you like it?"

  "Oh, yes,--very much," replied Annie, cuddling cosily between her newPapa and Brother.

  "Isn't she pretty?" whispered Rupert to his father. "None of the otherfellows at our school have got such a pretty sister as she is. And she'sa jolly little thing, too," he added confidentially.

  Mrs. Grant had grown a little anxious about the first meeting. "If we_should_ be disappointed!" she thought. But when the carriage drove upand her husband lifted Annie out, a glance made her easy. "I can lovethat child," she said to herself, and her embrace was so warm that Annierested in her arms with the feeling that here was real home and a realMamma, and that England was just as nice as America.

  You can guess how she enjoyed the lawn with its roses, and the beautifulriver. Fresh from the poor little cabin on the hill-top, shenevertheless fell with the greatest ease into the ways and habits of hernew life. It did not puzzle or disturb her in the least to live inlarge rooms, be waited on by servants, or have nice things about her;she took to all these naturally. For a few days Mr. and Mrs. Grantwatched with some anxiety, fearing to discover a flaw in their treasure,but no flaw appeared. Not that Annie was faultless, but hers were honestlittle faults; there was nothing hidden or concealed in her character,and in a short time her new friends had learned to trust her and to loveher entirely.

  So here was our little girl fairly settled in England, with daintydresses to wear, a governess coming every day to give her lessons,masters in French and music, a carriage to ride in, and half a dozenpeople at least ready to pet and make much of her all the time. Do youthink she was happier than she had been before? How could she be? Onecannot be more than happy. She was happy then, she was happy now,--nomore, no less.

  Rupert used to talk to her sometimes about that old life, which seemedto him so strange and dismal.

  "How you must have hated it!" he said once. "I can't bear to have youtell me any more. What's corn-meal? It sounds very nasty! And didn't youhave anybody to play with, not
anybody at all, or any fun, ever?"

  "Fun!" cried Annie; "I should think so! Why, Rupert, our woods were fullof squirrels. Such dear little things!--you never saw such prettysquirrels. One of them got so tamed that he used to eat out of my hand.His name was Torpedo. I named him myself. Then there was Beppo, thedearest dog! I wish you knew him. We used to run races and have thegreatest fun. And Aunty and I had nice times going down to the camp."

  "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" sighed Rupert. He could not see the fun at all.

  When Annie had been three years with the Grants, Major and Mrs. Randolphcame to London, and drove down to the villa to see her. It was a greatpleasure to them all. Annie had a thousand questions to ask aboutGrandmamma and Aunty, who no longer lived in the hut, but in Medville,where Mr. Grant had hired a small house for them.

  "They are quite comfortable now," said Mrs. Randolph. "Aunty has gaineda little flesh, and Grandmamma is stronger, and able to walk outsometimes. Old Sambo came down the very night before we left with a boxof birds' eggs, which he wished to send to 'Missy Annie.' They are inthe carriage; you shall have them presently. And here is a long letterfrom Aunty."

  "Annie, you look just the same," remarked the Major; "only you aregrown, and the sunburn has worn off and left you as fair as a lily. Youused to be brown as a bun when I knew you first. I needn't ask if youare happy here?"

  "Oh! very, very happy," said Annie warmly.

  "A great deal happier than you were when you lived with Grandmamma andAunty?" inquired Mrs. Randolph.

  "Why, no!" cried Annie wonderingly; "not any happier than _that_. I usedto have lovely times then; but I have lovely times here too."

  "That child will never lack for happiness," said the Major, as theydrove back to London. "She's the brightest little being I ever saw."

  "Yes," replied his wife; "rain or shine, it's all one with Annie. Hercheer comes from within, and is so warm and radiant that, whatever skyis overhead, she always rejoices. Let the clouds do what they may, itmakes no difference: Annie will always sit in the sun,--the sunshine ofher own sweet, happy little heart."