Little Bessie, the Careless Girl, or, Squirrels, Nuts, and Water-Cresses

  CHAPTER II.

  THE RIDE HOME.

  "SO you've been nutting, eh?" said Mr. Dart (for that was the farmer'sname), looking first on one side of him and then on the other, wherehis two companions sat.

  "Yes, sir," said Nelly, "and we have had real good luck too. Only seehow full our baskets are."

  "Dolly told me you were going to stop for her some time, to go nuttingwith you," said the farmer, turning round as he spoke, and putting acabbage that was jolting out of the wagon back into its place. "I amglad of that: I hope she will be able to accompany you. If you shouldchance to come on one of her well days, I guess she will."

  "Well days, sir?" asked Bessie.

  "Yes; she has the fever'n nager pretty bad, and that brings her a sickday and a well day, by turns. It's the natur' of the disease."

  "What! sick _every_ other day!" cried Bessie;--"well, if that is nottoo bad! And she seems so good too. Why, we owe this ride to her."

  "Yes," said the farmer, "Dolly is a pretty good little girl. Neverhad much trouble with Dolly in all her life. She's always willin' tohelp round the house as much as she can, and now that her mother isdown with the nager, I couldn't get along without her, anyway. In thesummer time Dolly makes garden with the best of us. Many is the fieldshe's sowed with grain, after I've ploughed it up. Half of these erecabbages Dolly cut and put in the wagon herself. You see that littlebasket back in the corner?"

  The children looked back in the wagon, and there, sure enough, was asmall covered basket, jolting around among the potatoes.

  "That's Dolly's water cresses," said Mr. Dart. "I haven't taken a loadto market for the last month without Dolly's basket of watercresses.She gathers them herself, down in our meadow, where the ground is wetand soft, and where they thrive like every thing. They seem to begetting poor now, and I don't believe Doll will be able to pick manymore this year. Why, the money that girl has made off them cresses iswonderful. I always hand it right over to her, and she puts it by tosave against a time of need. Cresses sell just like wildfire in ourmarket-place,--I mean, of course, fine ones like my Dolly's are intheir prime."

  "Cresses," said Bessie, with growing interest, "do people really paymoney for _cresses_? Why, the field back of our house is full of 'em!They have great, thick, green leaves, and they look as healthy aspossible."

  "Do they?" said the farmer, smiling at her kindly; "well, then I canjust tell you your folks are fortunate. They ought to sell 'em and makemoney out of them."

  "I wish we could," said Bessie, clasping her hands at the thought, "howglad mother would be if we could! Mother is sick, sir, and cannot doall the work she used, to earn money."

  "Ah," said the former, with a look of concern; "I am sorry to hearthat, my little girl. I know what it is to be sick, and have sick folksabout me. What's the matter? has she got the nager too?"

  "No, sir," said Bessie, "we don't have that down our way. I don't knowwhat _does_ ail mother. She sort o' wastes away and grows thin andpale."

  "Like enough it's the nager," said the farmer; "there is nothing likeit for making a body thin and pale."

  "That's Bessie's house," cried Nelly, as a sudden turn in the roadrevealed their two homes, at the foot of the hill, "that white one withthe smoke curling out of the left hand chimney."

  "And a nice little place it is too," said the farmer. "I pass right byit almost every day, and sometimes in the middle of the night, whenall little girls are in their beds and asleep."

  Bessie looked at the kind-hearted farmer, and wondered to herself whatcould bring him so near her home in the nighttime. As her thoughts bythis time were pretty well filled with what he called the "nager,"she concluded that it must be for the purpose of getting the doctorfor himself and his family. The farmer, however, who seemed fond oftalking, soon undeceived her.

  "You see," he began, "that it is a very long drive from my house totown, say eight miles, at the least, and when I start as I have to-day,about sundown, it takes me, with a heavy load, generally, till halfpast eight o'clock to get to the market. Well, then I unload, and sellout to a regular customer I have, a man who keeps a stand of all sortsof vegetables, and who generally buys them over night in this way. ThenI turn round and come back. It is often eleven o'clock when I reachhome and go to bed. Sometimes, again, according to the orders I havefrom town, Dobbin and I start--"

  "Dobbin?" interrupted Bessie, "is Dobbin the horse, sir?"

  The farmer nodded smilingly, and continued, "Dobbin and I start at fiveo'clock in the morning, and we go rattling into market, just in time tohave the things hurriedly sorted and in their places, before the buyersbegin to throng about the stalls. I stop there a while, but I get homebefore noon, and Dolly always has my dinner ready to rest me, whileDobbin eats his to rest _him_."

  "I wish Dolly could go to our school," said Nelly, after a pause. "MissMilly, our teacher, is so good to us all. She lives in this littlehouse that we are passing."

  The farmer looked round at the school-house, and Nelly thought sheheard him sigh as he did so. "Dolly is a smart girl, and a nice girl,"said he, gravely, "but I am afraid her mother and I can't give her muchbook larnin'. Wish I could: but times are hard and money scarce. Dollyknows how to read and write, and I guess she will have to be content.Her health isn't strong, either, and she couldn't stand study."

  "Here we are, sir, this is our house," cried Nelly, as the wagon nearedthe farm-house gate. "I'm very much obliged to you for my lift."

  The farmer handed down her basket of nuts, and told her she was quitewelcome. Bessie called out good-by, and the farmer drove on again. Ashort distance brought them to Bessie's house. As she in her turn wasgetting down, Mr. Dart asked her if she had any objections to show himthe water-cress field of which she had spoken. Bessie was delighted todo it, so Dobbin was tied to a tree, and the little girl led the way tothe back of the house.

  "Does the field belong to your mother?" asked the farmer.

  "Yes, sir," said Bessie, "this house and the garden and the wet meadowwhere the watercresses grow, mother owns them all. She's sick now, as Itold you, sir, and oftentimes she lies in her bed and cries to think wecan't get on better in the world. I'd help her, if I could, but I don'tknow any thing to do."

  It did not take long to reach the wet meadow, as Bessie called it.It lay only a stone's throw back of the house. It was called "wet,"because a beautiful brook coursed through it, and moistened the groundso much as to render it unprofitable for cultivation. The watercresseshad it all their own way. They grew wild over nearly the whole field,and extended down to the very edge of the brook, and leaned theirbeautiful bright leaves and graceful stems into the little stream, asit flowed over the pebbles.

  Bessie led the farmer to a large, flat stone, where they could standwith dry feet and survey the scene. The sun was just setting; theycould see the glow in the west through the grove of trees that skirtedthe outer edge of the field; the birds were just chirping theirmournful October songs, as they flew about, seeking for a shelter forthe coming night; the murmur of the brook added not a little to theserenity of the hour.

  The farmer stooped, and reaching his hand among the wet earth where thecresses grew, plucked one, and tasted it.

  "It is as fine as any I ever ate," said he, "and, as far as I see, yourmother's meadow is full of just such ones. The frost and the cold windshave spoiled ours, but yours are protected by that hill back there, andare first-rate."

  "Do you think we could get money for them?" cried Bessie, jumping upand down on the loose stone on which they stood, until it shook so asalmost to make her lose her balance and fall into the water; "do youthink people will _buy_ them?"

  "Certainly," said the farmer, giving his lips a final smack over theremnant of the cress, "certainly I do, and they are so clear from weedsit will be no trouble to gather them. What is your name, little girl?"

  "Bessie, sir, and my mother's name is that too. Wouldn't you like tocome in and see her for a moment, to tell her about the cresses?"

  "
Not to-day," said the farmer, shaking his head, and looking at thesinking sun; "it grows late, and I have a long journey to go, butI'll tell you what I _will_ do. I go to market again the day afterto-morrow, and I leave home at five o'clock in the morning, orthereabouts. Now, I'm sorry to hear of your mother's troubles, andI want to help her if I can. You tell her all I have said about thecresses bringing a good price, and see if she has any objections toyour gathering a big basket full, and having it ready to send to marketwhen I pass by. I can take one for you just as well as not, three orfour times a week. Leave it just inside the gate, and I will get it,for it will be too early for you to be up."

  "Yes, sir," said Bessie, her face perfectly radiant with smiles; "howgood you are to take so much trouble--how good you are! I'll tellmother all about you, be sure of that."

  "And now I must be off," said the farmer, stepping from the flat stoneinto the moist grass and picking his way as well as he could towardsthe house, and thence to the gate. Bessie followed him to the road, andwatched him untie old Dobbin. The tears came in her eyes as she calledout,

  "Good-by, sir, good-by."

  The farmer turned, half smiled to see how grateful the poor childlooked, and said kindly,

  "Good-by, Bessie."