Days and weeks passed. The snowflakes, which had fallen from time to time, and kept themselves busy making a patchwork quilt for mother Earth, now melted away, and the white quilt was torn into shreds. The bare ground was all there was to be seen, except now and then a dot of the white coverlet. It was Spring, and everything began to wake up. The sun wasn't half so sleepy, and didn't walk off over the western hills in the middle of the afternoon to take a nap.
The sleighing was gone long ago. The roads were dismal swamps. "Wings" would have a rest till "settled going." Susy's skates were hung up in a green baize bag, to dream away the summer.
The mocking-bird performed his daily duties of entertaining the family, besides learning a great many new songs. Susy said she tried not to set her heart on that bird.
"I'll not give him a name," she added, "for then he'll be sure to die! My first canary was Bertie, and I named the others Berties, as fast as they died off. The last one was so yellow that I couldn't help calling him Dandelion; but I wish I hadn't, for then, perhaps, he'd have lived."
Susy had caught some whimsical notions about "signs and wonders." It is strange how some intelligent children will believe in superstitious stories! But as soon as Susy's parents discovered that her young head had been stored with such worse than foolish ideas, they were not slow to teach her better.
She had a great fright, about this time, concerning Freddy Jackson. He was one of the few children who were allowed to play in "Prudy's sitting-room." He did not distract the tired nerves of "Rosy Frances," as her cousin Percy and other boys did, by sudden shouts and loud laughing. Prudy had a vague feeling that he was one of the little ones that God thought best to punish by "snipping his heart." She knew what it was to have her heart snipped, and had a sympathy with little Freddy.
Susy loved Freddy, too. Perhaps Percy was right, when he said that Susy loved everything that was dumb; and I am not sure but her tender heart would have warmed to him all the more if he had been stone-blind, as well as deaf.
Freddy had a drunken father, and a sad home; but, for all that, he was not entirely miserable. It is only the wicked who are miserable. The kind Father in heaven has so planned it that there is something pleasant in everybody's life.
Freddy had no more idea what sound is than we have of the angels in heaven; but he could see, and there is so much to be seen! Here is a great, round world, full of beauty and wonder. It stands ready to be looked at. Freddy's ears must be forever shut out from pleasant sound; but his bright eyes were wide open, seeing all that was made to be seen.
He loved to go to Mrs. Parlin's, for there he was sure to be greeted pleasantly; and he understood the language of smiles as well as anybody.
When grandma Read saw him coming she would say,—
"Now, Susan, thee'd better lay aside thy book, for most likely the poor little fellow will want to talk."
And Susy did lay aside her book. She had learned so many lessons this winter in self-denial!
These "silent talks" were quite droll. Little Dotty almost understood something about them; that is, when they used the signs: the alphabet was more than she could manage. When Freddy wanted to talk about Dotty, he made a sign for a dimple in each cheek. He smoothed his hair when he meant Susy, and made a waving motion over his head for Prudy, whose hair was full of ripples.
Prudy said she had wrinkled hair, and she knew it; but the wrinkles "wouldn't come out."
Grandma Read sat one evening by the coal-grate, holding a letter in her hand, and looking into the glowing fire with a thoughtful expression. Susy came and sat near her, resting one arm on her grandma's lap, and trying in various ways to attract her attention.
"Why, grandma," said she, "I've spoken to you three times; but I can't get you to answer or look at me."
"What does thee want, my dear? I will try to attend to thee."
"O, grandma, there are ever so many things I want to say, now mother is out of the room, and father hasn't got home. I must tell somebody, or my heart will break; and you know, grandma dear, I can talk to you so easy."
"Can thee? Then go on, Susy; what would thee like to say?"
"O, two or three things. Have you noticed, grandma, that I've been just as sober as can be?"
"For how long, Susan?"
"O, all day; I've felt as if I couldn't but just live!"
Grandma Read did not smile at this. She knew very well that such a child as Susy is capable of intense suffering.
"Well, Susan, is it about thy sister Prudence?"
"O, no, grandma! she's getting; better; isn't she?"
"Are thy lessons at school too hard for thee, Susan?"
Mrs. Read saw that Susy was very reluctant about opening her heart, although she had said she could talk to her grandmother "so easy."
"No, indeed, grandma; my lessons are not too hard. I'm a real good scholar—one of the best in school for my age."
This was a fact. Some people would have chidden Susy for it; but Mrs. Read reflected that the child was only telling the simple truth, and had no idea of boasting. She was not a little girl who would intrude such remarks about herself upon strangers. But when she and her grandma were talking together confidentially, she thought it made all the difference in the world; as indeed it did.
"I have a great deal to trouble me," said Susy, and the "evening-blue" of her eyes clouded over, till there were signs of a shower. "I thought my pony would make me happy as long as I lived; but it hasn't. One thing that I feel bad about is—well, it's turning over a new leaf. When New Year's comes, I'm going to do it, and don't; so I wait till my birthday, and then I don't. It seems as if I'd tried about a thousand New Years and birthdays to turn over that leaf."
Grandma smiled, but did not interrupt Susy.
"I think I should be real good," continued the child, "if it wasn't such hard work. I can't be orderly, grandma—not much; and then Dotty upsets everything. Sometimes I have to hold my breath to keep patient.
"Well, grandma, my birthday comes to-morrow, the 8th of April. I like it well enough; only there's one reason why I don't like it at all, and that is a Bible reason. It's so dreadful that I can't bear to say it to you," said Susy, shuddering, and lowering her voice to a whisper; "I don't want to grow up, for I shall have to marry Freddy Jackson."
Grandma tried to look serious.
"Who put such a foolish idea into thy head, child?"
"Cousin Percy told me last night," answered Susy, solemnly. "How can you laugh when it's all in the Bible, grandma? I never told anybody before. Wait; I'll show you the verse. I've put a mark at the place."
Susy brought her Bible to her grandmother, and, opening it at the thirty-first chapter of Proverbs, pointed, with a trembling finger, to the eighth verse, which Mrs. Read read aloud,—
"Open thy mouth for the dumb in the cause of all such as are appointed to destruction."
"Now Percy says that's a sure sign! I told him, O, dear! Freddy ought to marry a dumb woman; that would be properest; but Percy says no—anything has got to 'come to pass' when it's foreordinationed!"
"And could thee really believe such foolishness, my sensible little Susan? Does thee suppose the good Lord ever meant that we should read his Bible as if it were a wicked dream-book?"
"Then you don't think I shall have to marry Freddy Jackson," cried Susy, immensely relieved. "I'm so glad I told you! I felt so sober all day, only nobody noticed it, and I was ashamed to tell!"
"It is a good thing for thee to tell thy little troubles to thy older friends, Susan: thee'll almost always find it so," said grandma Read, stroking Susy's hair.
"Now, my child, I have a piece of news for thee, if thee is ready to hear it: thy cousin, Grace Clifford, has a little sister."
"A baby sister? A real sister? Does mother know it?"
"Yes, thy mother knows it."
"But how could you keep it to yourself so long?"
"Thee thinks good news is hard to keep, does thee? Well, thee shall be the first to tell thy father when he comes home."
Susy heard steps on the door-stone, and rushed out, with the joyful story on her lips. It proved to be not her father, but callers, who were just ringing the bell; and they heard Susy's exclamation,—
"O, have you heard? Grace has a new sister, a baby sister, as true as you live!" with the most provoking coolness.
But when Mr. Parlin came, he was sufficiently interested in the news to satisfy even Susy.
Prudy was really getting better. Mrs. Parlin said she should trust a physician more next time. The doctor declared that all the severe pain Prudy had suffered was really necessary.
"Believe me, my dear madam," said he, "when the poor child has complained most, she has in fact been making most progress towards health. When the sinews are 'knitting together,' as we call it, then the agony is greatest."
This was very comforting to Mrs. Parlin, who thought she would not be discouraged so easily again; she would always believe that it is "darkest just before day."
There was really everything to hope for Prudy. The doctor thought that by the end of three months she would walk as well as ever. He said she might make the effort now, every day, to bear her weight on her feet. She tried this experiment first with her father and mother on each side to support her; but it was not many days before she could stand firmly on her right foot, and bear a little weight on her left one, which did not now, as formerly, drag, or, as she had said, "more than touch the floor." By and by she began to scramble about on the carpet on all fours, partly creeping, partly pushing herself along.
It was surprising how much pleasure Prudy took in going back to these ways of babyhood.
Faint blush roses began to bloom in her cheeks as soon as she could take a little exercise and go out of doors. Her father bought a little carriage just suitable for the pony, and in this she rode every morning, her mother or Percy driving; for Mrs. Parlin thought it hardly safe to trust Susy with such a precious encumbrance as this dear little sister.
She had been willing that Susy should manage Wings in a sleigh, but in a carriage the case was quite different; for, though in a sleigh there might be even more danger of overturning, there was not as much danger of getting hurt. Indeed, Susy's sleigh had tipped over once or twice in turning too sharp a corner, and Susy had fallen out, but had instantly jumped up again, laughing.
She would have driven in her new carriage to Yarmouth and back again, or perhaps to Bath, if she had been permitted. She was a reckless little horsewoman, afraid of nothing, and for that very reason could not be trusted alone.
But there was no difficulty in finding companions. Percy pretended to study book-keeping, but was always ready for a ride. Flossy was not steady enough to be trusted with the reins, but Ruth Turner was as careful a driver as need be; though Susy laughed because she held the reins in both hands, and looked so terrified.
She said it did no good to talk with Ruth when she was driving; she never heard a word, for she was always watching to see if a carriage was coming, and talking to herself, to make sure she remembered which was her right hand, so she could "turn to the right, as the law directs."
Prudy enjoyed the out-of-doors world once more, and felt like a bird let out of a cage. And so did Susy, for she thought she had had a dull season of it, and fully agreed with Prudy, who spoke of it as the "slow winter."
But now it was the quick spring, the live spring. The brooks began to gossip; the birds poured out their hearts in song, and the dumb trees expressed their joy in leaves
The frogs took severe colds, but gave concerts a little way out of the city every evening. The little flowers peeped up from their beds, as Norah said, "like babies asking to be took;" and Susy took them; whenever she could find them, you may be sure, and looked joyfully into their faces. She could almost say,—
She said, "I don't suppose they know much, but perhaps they know enough to have a good time: who knows?"
Susy took long walks to Westbrook, and farther, coming home tired out, but loaded with precious flowers. There were plenty of friends to give them to her from their early gardens: broad-faced crocuses, jonquils, and lilies of the valley, and by and by lilacs, with "purple spikes."
She gathered snowdrops, "the first pale blossoms of the unripened year," and May-flowers, pink and white, like sea-shells, or like "cream-candy," as Prudy said. These soft little blossoms blushed so sweetly on the same leaf with such old experienced leaves! Susy said, "it made her think of little bits of children who hadn't any mother, and lived with their grandparents."
Dotty was almost crazy with delight when she had a "new pair o' boots, and a pair o' shaker," and was allowed to toddle about on the pavement in the sunshine. She had a green twig or a switch to flourish, and could now cry, "Hullelo!" to those waddling ducks, and hear them reply, "Quack! quack!" without having such a trembling fear that some stern Norah, or firm mamma, would rush out bareheaded, and drag her into the house, like a little culprit.
It was good times for Dotty Dimple, and good times for the whole family. Spring had come, and Prudy was getting well. There was a great deal to thank God for!
It is an evening in the last of May. A bit of a moon, called "the new moon," is peeping in at the window. It shines over Susy's right shoulder, she says. Susy is reading, Prudy is walking slowly across the floor, and Dotty Dimple is whispering to her kitty, telling her to go down cellar, and catch the naughty rats while they are asleep. When kitty winks, Dotty thinks it the same as if she said,—
"I hear you, little Miss Dotty: I'm going."
I think perhaps this is a good time to bid the three little girls good-by, or, as dear grandma Read would say, "Farewell!"