XXVII.
AUGUST 1
I HAVE just written to Mrs.Brown to know whether she will take us for the rest of the summer.A certain little man, not a very old little man either, has kept us in town till now.Since he has come, we are all very glad of him, though he came on his own invitation, brought no wardrobe with him, does not pay for his board, never speaks a word, takes no notice of us, and wants more waiting on than any one else in the house.The children are full of delicious curiosity about him, and overwhelm him with presents of the most heterogeneous character.
Sweet Briar Farm, AUG.9.-We got there this afternoon, bag and baggage.I had not said a word to Mrs.Brown about the addition to our family circle, knowing she had plenty of room, and as we alighted from the carriage, I snatched my baby from his nurse's arms and ran gaily up the walk with him in mine."If this splendid fellow doesn't convert her nothing will," I said to myself.At that instant what should I see but Mrs.Brown, running to meet me with a boy in her arms exactly like Mr.Brown, only not quite six feet long, and not sun-burnt.
"There!" I cried, holding up my little old man.
"There!" said she, holding up hers.
We laughed till we cried; she took my baby and I took hers; after looking at him I liked mine better than ever; after looking at mine she was perfectly satisfied with hers.
We got into the house at last; that is to say, we mothers did; the children darted through it and out of the door that led to the fields and woods, and vanished in the twinkling of an eye.
Mrs.Brown had always been a pretty woman, with bright eyes, shining, well-kept hair, and a color in her cheeks like the rose which had given its name to her farm.But there was now a new beauty in her face; the mysterious and sacred sufferings and joys of maternity had given it thought and feeling.
"I had no idea I should be so fond of a baby," she said, kissing it, whenever she stopped to put in a comma; "but I don't know how I ever got along without one.He's off at work nearly the whole day, and when I had got through with mine, and had put on my afternoon dress, and was ready to sit down, you can't think how lonesome it was.But now by the time I am dressed, baby is ready to go out to get the air;he knows the minute he sees me bring out his little hat that he is going to see his father and he's awful fond of his father.Though that isn't so strange, either, for his father's awful fond of him.
All his little ways are so pretty, and he never cries unless he's hungry or tired.Tell mother a pretty story now; yes, mother hears, bless his little heart!"Then when Mr.Brown came home to his supper, his face was a sight to see, as he caught sight of me at my open window, and came to it with the child's white arms clinging to his neck, looking as happy and as bashful as a girl.
"You see she must needs go to quartering this bouncing young one on to me," he said, "as if I didn't have to work hard enough before.
Well, maybe he'll get his feed off the farm; we'll see what we can do.""Mamma," Una whispered, as he went off his facsimile, to kiss it rapturously, behind a woodpile, "do you think Mrs.Brown's baby very pretty?
Which was so mild a way of suggesting the fact of the case, that Ikissed her without trying to hide my amusement.
AUG.10.-After being cooped up in town so large a part of the summer, the children are nearly wild with delight at being in the country once more.Even our demure Una skips about with a buoyancy I have never seen in her; she never has her ill turns when out of the city, and I wish, for her sake, we could always live here.As to Raymond and Walter, I never pretend to see them except at their meals and their bedtime; they just live outdoors, following the men at their work, asking all sorts of absurd questions, which Mr.Brown reports to me every night, with shouts of delighted laughter.Two gay and gladsome boys they are; really good without being priggish; I don't think I could stand that.People ask me how it happens that my children are all so promptly obedient and so happy.As if it chanced that some parents have such children, or chanced that some have not!
I am afraid it is only too true, as some one has remarked, that "this is the age of obedient parents!"' What then will be the future of their children? How can they yield to God who have never been taught to yield to human authority? And how well fitted will they be to rule their own households who have never learned to rule themselves?
AUG.31.-This has been one of those cold, dismal, rainy days which are not infrequent during the month of August.So the children have been obliged to give up the open air, of which.they are so fond, and fall back upon what entertainment could be found within the house.Ihave read to them the little journal I kept during the whole life of the brother I am not willing they should forget.His quaint and sagacious sayings were delicious to them; the history of his first steps, his first words sounded to them like a fairy tale.And the story of his last steps, his last words on earth, had for them such a tender charm, that there was a cry of disappointment from them all, when I closed the little book and told them we should have to wait till we got to heaven before we could know anything more about his precious life.
How thankful I am that I kept this journal, and that I have almost as charming ones about most of my other children! What I speedily forgot amid the pressure of cares and of new events is safely written down, and.will be the source of endless pleasure to them long after the hand that wrote has ceased from its.labors, and lies inactive and at rest.
Ah, it is a blessed thing to be a mother!
