Tell Me a Story

manhood; and it is to his littlegrand-nephews and nieces that wee Janet's daughter has been telling thissimple story of a long-ago little girl, and a long-ago doll, poor oldMary Ann Jolly!

  CHAPTER SIX.

  TOO BAD.

  "It is the mynd that maketh good or ill, That maketh wretch or happie, rich or poore."

  _Spenser_.

  "It's too bad!" said Miss Judy; "I declare it's really _too bad_!" andshe came stumping along the road; after her nurse, looking decidedly"put out."

  "It would be something new if it wasn't too bad with you, Miss Judy,about something or other," said, nurse coolly.

  Miss Judy was a kind-hearted, gentle-mannered little girl. She waspretty and healthy and clever--the sort of child any parents might havebeen proud of, any brothers and sisters fond of, had not all herniceness been spoiled by one most disagreeable fault. She was _always_grumbling. The hot days of summer, the cold days of winter, the rain,the wind, the dust, might, to hear her speak, have been expresslycontrived to annoy her. When it was fine, and the children were to goout a walk, Miss Judy was sure to have something she particularly wantedto stay in for; when it rained, and the house was evidently the bestplace for little people, Miss Judy was quite certain to have set herheart upon going out. She grumbled at having to get up, she grumbled athaving to go to bed, she grumbled at lessons, she grumbled at play; she_could_ not see that little contradictions and annoyances come toeverybody in the world, and that the only way to do is to meet thembravely and sensibly. She really seemed to believe that nobody had somuch to bear as she; that on her poor little shoulders all thetiresomenesses and disappointments, and "going the wrong way" of things,were heaped in double, and more than double quantities, and shepersuaded herself that everybody she saw was better off in every waythan herself, and that no one else had such troubles to bear. So,children, you will not be surprised to hear that poor Miss Judy was notloved or respected as much as some little girls who perhaps _really_deserved love and respect less. For this ugly disagreeable fault ofhers hid all her good qualities; and just as flowers cannot flourishwhen shaded from the nice bright sun by some rank, wide-spreading weed,so Judy's pretty blossoms of kindness and unselfishness andtruthfulness, which were all really _there_, were choked and withered bythis poisonous habit of grumbling.

  I do not really remember what it was she was grumbling at thisparticular morning. I daresay it was that the roads were muddy, for itwas autumn, and Judy's home was in the country. Or, possibly, it wasonly that nurse had told her to walk a little quicker, and thatimmediately her boots began to hurt her, or the place on her heel whereonce there _had been_ a chilblain got sore, or the elastic of her hatwas too loose, and her hat came flopping down on to her face. It mighthave been any of these things. Whatever it was, it was "too bad."_That_, whenever Miss Judy was concerned, you might be quite, quite sureof.

  They were returning home from rather a long walk. It was autumn, as Isaid, and there had been a week or two of almost constant rain, andcertainly country lanes are _not_ very pleasant at such times. If Judyhad not grumbled so at everything, she might have been forgiven for thisspecial grumble (if it was about the roads), I do think. It was gettingchilly and raw, and the clouds looked as if the rain was more than halfthinking of turning back on its journey to "Spain," or wherever it wasit had set off to. Nurse hurried on; she was afraid of the little onesin the perambulator catching cold, and she could not spare time to talkto Miss Judy any longer.

  Judy came after her slowly; they were just passing some cottages, and atthe door of one of them stood a girl of about Judy's age, with her mouthopen, staring at "the little gentry." She had heard what had passedbetween Judy and her nurse, and was thinking it over in her own way.Suddenly Judy caught sight of her.

  "What are you staring at so?" she said sharply. "It's too bad of you.You are a rude little girl. I'll tell nurse how rude you are."

  Judy did not generally speak so crossly, especially not to poorchildren, for she had really nice feelings about such things, but shewas very much put out, and ashamed too, that her ill-natured words tonurse should have been overheard, so she expressed her vexation to thefirst object that came in her way. The little girl did not leave offstaring at her; in fact she did so harder than before. But she answeredJudy gently, growing rather red as she did so; and Judy felt herirritation cool.

  "I didn't mean no offence," she said. "I were just looking at you, andthinking to be sure how nice you had everything, and a wondering how itcould be as you weren't pleased."

  "Who said I wasn't pleased?" said Judy.

  "You said as something was a deal too bad," replied the child.

  "Well, so it was,--it must have been, I mean,--or else I wouldn't havesaid so," answered Judy, who, to tell the truth, had by this time quiteforgotten what particular trouble had been the cause of her lastgrumble. "How do you mean that I have everything so nice?"

  "Your things, miss--your jacket and your frock, and all them things.And you live in such a fine house, and has servants to do for you andall. O my! wouldn't I change with you. Nothing would never be too badfor _me_ if _I_ was you, miss."

  "I daresay you think so," said Judy importantly, "but that just showsthat you don't know better. _I_ can tell you I have a great, great manytroubles and things to bear that you have no idea of. Indeed, I daresayyou are _far_ happier than I. You are not bothered about keeping yourfrocks clean, and not getting your feet wet, and all those horriblethings. And about lessons--I daresay you have no trouble at all aboutlessons. You don't go to school, do you?"

  "Not now, miss. It's more than six months since I've been. Mother'swanted me so badly to mind baby. Father did say as perhaps I should goagain for a bit come Christmas," answered the little girl, who wasgrowing quite at ease with Judy.

  "And do you like going?" said Judy.

  "Pretty well, but it's a long walk--winter time 'specially," said thechild; "not but what most things is hard then to them as lives in placeslike ours. 'Tisn't like for you, miss, with lots of fires, and no needfor to go out if it's cold or wet."

  "Indeed _I_ have to go out very often--indeed, always almost when Idon't want," retorted Judy. "Not that I should mind the walk, toschool. I should like it; it would be far nicer than horrid lessons athome, cooped up in the same room all the time, with no change. Youdon't understand a bit; I am quite _sure_ you haven't as many troublesas I." The little girl smiled, but hardly seemed convinced. "Seems tome, miss, as if you couldn't hardly know, unless you tried, what thingsis like in places like ours," she said.

  But before Judy could reply, a voice from inside the cottage called out,"Betsy my girl, what are you about so long? Father'll be in directly,and there's the tea to see to."

  The voice was far from unkind, but its effect on Betsy wasinstantaneous.

  "I must go, miss," she said; "mother's calling;" and off she ran.

  "How nice and funny it must be to set the tea for her father," thoughtJudy, as she walked on. "I should like that sort of work. What a sillygirl she is not to see how much fewer troubles she has than I. I onlywish--"

  "_What_ did you say you wished?" interrupted a voice that seemed to comeout of the hedge, so suddenly did its owner appear before Judy.

  "I didn't say I wished anything--at least I didn't know I was speakingaloud," said the little girl, as soon as she found voice to reply.

  The person who had spoken to her was a little old woman, with a scarletcloak that nearly covered her. She had a basket on her arm, and lookedas if she was returning from market. There was nothing very remarkableabout her, and yet Judy felt startled and a little frightened, she didnot quite know why.

  "I didn't know I was speaking aloud," she repeated, staring half timidlyat the old woman.

  "Didn't you?" she replied. "Well, now I think of it, I don't remembersaying that you did. There's more kinds of speaking than with tongueand words. What should you say if I were to tell you what it was youwere wishing just now?"

&nbs
p; "I don't know," said Judy, growing more alarmed "I think, please, I hadbetter run on. Nurse will be wondering where I am."

  "You didn't think of that when you were standing chattering to littleBetsy just now," said the old woman.

  "Did you hear us?" asked Judy, her astonishment almost overcoming heralarm. "Where were you standing? I didn't see you."

  "I daresay not. There's many things besides what _you_ see, my dear.For instance, you don't see why Betsy should think it would be a finething to be you, and