Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
MaryBy Mrs MolesworthIllustrations by Leslie BrookePublished by Macmillan and Co, London and New York.This edition dated 1893.
Mary, by Mrs Molesworth.
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________________________________________________________________________MARY, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.
CHAPTER ONE.
A BIRTHDAY MORNING.
One morning Mary awoke very early. It was in the month of May, and themornings were light, and sometimes the sun shone in through the windowsvery brightly. Mary liked these mornings. The sunshine made everythingin the room look so pretty; even the nursery furniture, which was nolonger very new or fresh, seemed quite shiny and sparkling, as if fairyfingers had been rubbing it up in the night.
"I wonder what day it is," thought Mary. It was difficult for her toremember the days, for she was not yet four years old. She was onlygoing to be four soon. Mamma had told her her birthday would come inMay, and that this year it would be on a Thursday. And every day, eversince Mary knew that May had come, she wondered if it was Thursday. Butit was rather puzzling. Two Thursdays had come without it being herbirthday.
"P'raps mamma has made a mistook," thought Mary. "P'raps my birfdayisn't going to be in May this time."
For if it changed about from one day to another--last year it wasWednesday, and next year it would be--oh, it was too difficult toremember that--mightn't it change out of May too? Mary didn't thinkmonths were quite so difficult to remember as days, for different thingscame in months. In April there were showers, and in May flowers. Nursehad told her that, and when the months with the long names came it wouldbe winter.
"I hope it isn't a mistook," thought Mary. "I'd like it best to be inMay. `MAY' is such a nice short little word, and only one letter moremakes it `Mary.' No, I think it can't be a mistook." Mary could readvery well, and she could spell little words. She had learnt to readwhen she was so little that she could not remember it. She thoughtknitting and cross-stitch work were much harder than reading. But shehad to learn them, because mamma said too much reading was not good forsuch a little girl, and would make her head ache, and mamma bought herpretty coloured wools and nice short knitting needles, and Mary had madea carpet for the drawing-room of her doll-house. But though it lookedvery pretty Mary still liked reading best. She had also worked akettle-holder for grandmamma: that is to say she had worked the stitchesall round the picture of a kettle, which was already on the canvas whenmamma bought it. Mamma called it "grounding it," and while she wasworking it, Mary often wondered what "grounding" it meant, for akettle-holder was not meant to lie on the ground. She might have askedmamma to explain, but somehow she did not. She was not a very askingchild. Big people did not always understand, not even mamma _quite_always, and it made Mary feel very strange when they did not understand;it almost made her cry. Though even that she did not mind as much aswhen they told her she would know when she got big. She did not want towait to know things till when she got big. It made her feel all hot tothink what a lot of knowing there would be to do then, it seemed like avery big hill standing straight up in front of her which she would neverget to the top of. She thought she would rather go up it in what shecalled "a roundy-round way." Papa had shown her that way once when ittook her breath away to climb up one of the "mountings"--Mary alwayscalled hills "mountings"--in grandmamma's garden, and Mary had neverforgotten it. She thought the hill of knowing would be much nicer to goup that way, and that she might begin it now--just a little bit at atime. She thought this all quite plain inside her own mind, but shecould not have told it to anybody. Very often it is not till children_are_ quite big that they can tell their own thoughts, looking back uponthem. And Mary did not know that she _was_ going up the hill of knowingalready, a little bit at a time, just as she fancied she would like togo.
Mary felt glad when she had settled it in her mind that it could not bea mistake about her birthday coming on a Thursday, and she lay quitestill, watching the sunshine. It had got on to her bed by now, and itmade all sorts of nice things on the counterpane. Mary's bed was rathera big one for such a little girl, for the cot she used to have was nowher brother Artie's; Artie slept now in Leigh's room, and there was onlya corner there for quite a small bed. Leigh was the big brother ofArtie and Mary. He was eight years old.
Yes, the sunshine made the counterpane very pretty. It was quite white,and as Mary's home was in the country, white things did not get a greydull look as they do in London. There were patterns all over thecounterpane, and if Mary bumped up her knees she could make fancies tosuit the patterns--like garden paths leading to beautiful castles, orrobber caves--the boys told her stories of robber caves which were veryinteresting, though rather frightening. And this morning the lightshone on a pattern she had never noticed so much before. It was a roundring, just in the middle, and flowers and leaves seemed growing insideit.
"It's a fairy ring," thought Mary; "I wonder if the fairies p'raps comeand dance on it when I'm asleep." For she had seen fairy rings on thegrass in the fields sometimes when she and her brothers were outwalking, and nurse had told her about them. Mary had often wished shecould get up in the night and go down to the fields to see the fairies,but she knew she could not. She would never be able to open the bigdoor. Besides, it would be naughty to go out without mamma's andnurse's leave. And it would be very cold--even if the moon were shiningit would be cold. For Mary had stood in the moonlight once or twice andshe knew it did not warm like the sun.
"I suppose they don't burn such big fires in the moon," she thought.
The fancy about the fairy ring on the counterpane was very nice, for shecould think about it and "pertend" she saw the fairies dancing withoutgetting out of her warm nest at the top of the bed at all. She thoughtshe would tell Artie about it and perhaps he would help to make somenice stories of fairy rings. Artie was not always very "listening" toMary's fancies. He did really like them, but he was afraid of Leighlaughing at him. When Leigh was away, and Artie and Mary were alonetogether, it was very nice. But very often Leigh wanted Artie to playbig things with him, and then Mary had to amuse herself alone. Leighwas not an unkind big brother; he would carry Mary if she was tired, andwould have read stories to her, if she had not liked best to read themto herself. But he had quite boy ways, and thought little girls werenot much more good than the pretty china figures in his mother'scabinets in the drawing-room.
So Mary was often alone. But she did not mind. She had lots of friendsof different kinds. Now and then nurse would say to her, "It would benice, Miss Mary, if you had a little sister, wouldn't it?"
But Mary shook her head. She did not think so.
"No, zank you," she would say, "I doesn't want a little sister."
The waking so early and the thinking about the sun and the moon andfairy rings and how soon it would be her birthday, began to make Maryrather tired at last. And after a while she fell asleep again withoutknowing it.
When she woke up for the second time the sun was still shining, thoughnot so brightly as before. And she heard voices talking in the nextroom, that was the day-nursery. There was a door open between it andthe night-nursery where Mary slept.
"Thursday, 18th May," said one of the voices. "May's a nice month for ababy, and all the summer before it. `Thursday's child has far to go.'Perhaps little Missie will marry a hofficer and travel to the Injies.Who can say?"
Then there was a little laugh.
"That's Old Sarah," said Mary to herself. Sarah was the housemaid--theupper housemaid, and
though she was not _very_ old, the children calledher so because her niece, who was also called Sarah, was thenursery-maid. "Little Sarah," they sometimes called her. Her fatherwas the gardener, and he and her mother lived in a cottage which thechildren thought the prettiest house in the world. And sometimes theywere allowed, for a very great treat, to go there to tea.
It was Little Sarah who was talking to Old Sarah just now. Mary heardher voice, but as she spoke rather low she could not quite tell what thenursery-maid said. She only heard the last words--it was somethingabout "nurse will tell her."
This put it into Mary's mind that, though it was quite morning now, shehad not seen nurse, and yet she must be up and dressed.
"Nurse,"