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Little Prudy's Sister Susy

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<h3>RUTHIE TURNER.</h3> <div class="pmidd"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "The darkest day, Wait till to-morrow, will have passed away." </div> </div></div> The next morning, Susy woke with a faint recollection that something unpleasant had occurred, though she could not at first remember what it was. "But I didn't do anything wrong," was her second thought. "Now, after I say my prayers, the next thing I'll feed—O, Dandy is dead!" "See here, Susy," said Percy, coming into the dining-room, just after breakfast; "did you ever see this cage before?" "Now, Percy! When you know I want it out of my sight!" Then, in the next breath, "Why, Percy Eastman, if here isn't your beautiful mocking-bird in the cage!" "Yes, Susy; and if you'll keep him, and be good to him, you'll do me a great favor." It was a long while before Susy could be persuaded that this rare bird was to be her "ownest own." It was a wonderfully gifted little creature. Susy could but own that he was just as good as a canary, only a great deal better. "The greater included the less." He had as sweet a voice, and a vast deal more compass. His powers of mimicry were very amusing to poor little Prudy, who was never tired of hearing him mew like a kitten, quack like a duck, or whistle like a schoolboy. Susy was still more delighted than Prudy. It was so comforting, too, to know that she was doing Percy "a great favor," by accepting his beautiful present. She wondered in her own mind how he could be tired of such an interesting pet, and asked her to take it, just to get rid of it! About this time, Mr. Parlin bought for Prudy a little armed-chair, which rolled about the floor on wheels. This Prudy herself could propel with only the outlay of a very little strength; but there were days when she did not care to sit in it at all. Prudy seemed to grow worse. The doctor was hopeful, very hopeful; but Mrs. Parlin was not. Prudy's dimpled hands had grown so thin, that you could trace the winding path of every blue vein quite distinctly. Her eyes were large and mournful, and seemed to be always asking for pity. She grew quiet and patient—"painfully patient," her father said. Indeed, Mr. Parlin, as well as his wife, feared the little sufferer was ripening for heaven. "Mamma," said she, one day, "mamma, you never snip my fingers any nowadays do you? When I'm just as naughty, you never snip my fingers!" Mrs. Parlin turned her face away. There were tears in her eyes, and she did not like to look at those little white fingers, which she was almost afraid would never have the natural, childish naughtiness in them any more. "I think sick and patient little girls don't need punishing," said she, after a while. "Do you remember how you used to think I snipped your hands to 'get the naughty out?' You thought the naughty was all in your little hands!" "But it wasn't, mamma," said Prudy, slowly and solemnly. "I know where it was: it was in my heart." "Who can take the naughty out of our hearts, dear? Do you ever think?" "Our Father in heaven. No one else can. He knows how to snip our hearts, and get the naughty out. Sometimes he sends the earache and the toothache to Susy, and the—the—lameness to me. O, he has a great many ways of snipping!" Prudy was showing the angel-side of her nature now. Suffering was "making her perfect." She had a firm belief that God knew all about it, and that somehow or other it was "all right." Her mother took a great deal of pains to teach her this. She knew that no one can bear affliction with real cheerfulness who does not trust in God. But there was now and then a bright day when Prudy felt quite buoyant, and wanted to play. Susy left everything then, and tried to amuse her. If this lameness was refining little Prudy, it was also making Susy more patient. She could not look at her little sister's pale face, and not be touched with pity. One afternoon, Flossy Eastman and Ruthie Turner came to see Susy; and, as it was one of Prudy's best days, Mrs. Parlin said they might play in Prudy's sitting-room. Ruthie was what Susy called an "old-fashioned little girl." She lived with a widowed mother, and had no brothers and sisters, so that she appeared much older than she really was. She liked to talk with grown people upon wise subjects, as if she were at least twenty-five years old. Susy knew that this was not good manners, and she longed to say so to Ruthie. Aunt Madge was in Prudy's sitting-room when Ruthie entered. Ruthie went up to her and shook hands at once. "I suppose it is Susy's aunt Madge," said she. "I am delighted to see you, for Susy says you love little girls, and know lots of games." There was such a quiet composure in Ruth's manner, and she seemed to feel so perfectly at home in addressing a young lady she had never seen before, that Miss Parlin was quite astonished, as well as a little inclined to smile. Then Ruthie went on to talk about the war. Susy listened in mute despair, for she did not know anything about politics. Aunt Madge looked at Susy's face, and felt amused, for Ruthie knew nothing about politics either: she was as ignorant as Susy. She had only heard her mother and other ladies talking together. Ruthie answered all the purpose of a parrot hung up in a cage, for she caught and echoed everything that was said, not having much idea what it meant. When aunt Madge heard Ruth laboring away at long sentences, with hard words in them, she thought of little Dotty, as she had seen her, that morning, trying to tug Percy's huge dog up stairs in her arms. "It is too much for her," thought aunt Madge: "the dog got the upper-hand of Dotty, and I think the big words are more than a match for Ruth." But Ruth did not seem to know it, for she persevered. She gravely asked aunt Madge if she approved of the "Mancimation of Proclapation." Then she said she and her mamma were very much "perplexed" when news came of the last defeat. She would have said "surprised" only surprised was an every-day word, and not up to standard of elegant English. Ruth was not so very silly, after all. It was only when she tried to talk of matters too old for her that she made herself ridiculous. She was very quiet and industrious, and had knit several pairs of socks for the soldiers. As soon as Miss Parlin could disentangle herself from her conversation with Ruthie, she left the children to themselves. "Let's keep school," said Prudy. "I'll be teacher, if you want me to." "Very well," replied Susy, "we'll let her; won't we, girls? she is such a darling." "Well," said Prudy, with a look of immense satisfaction, "please go, Susy, and ask grandma if I may have one of those shiny, white handkerchiefs she wears on her neck, and a cap, and play Quaker." Grandma was very glad that Prudy felt well enough to play Quaker, and lent her as much "costume" as she needed, as well as a pair of spectacles without eyes, which the children often borrowed for their plays, fancying that they added to the dignity of the wearer. When Prudy was fairly equipped, she was a droll little Quakeress, surely, and grandma had to be called up from the kitchen to behold her with her own eyes. The little soft face, almost lost in the folds of the expansive cap, was every bit as solemn as if she had been, as aunt Madge said, "a hundred years old, and very old for her age." She was really a sweet little likeness of grandma Read in miniature. "And their names are alike, too," said Susy: "grandma's name is Prudence, and so is Prudy's." "Used to be," said Prudy, gravely. "Rosy Frances" was now lifted most carefully into her little wheeled chair and no queen ever held a court with more dignity than she assumed as she smoothed into place the folds of her grandma's snowy kerchief, which she wore about her neck. "What shall we do first?" said Flossy and Susy. "Thee? thee?" Prudy considered "thee" the most important word of all. "Why, thee may behave; I mean, behave thyselves." The new teacher had not collected her ideas yet. "Let's get our books together," said Susy, "and then we'll all sit on the sofa and study." "Me, me," chimed in Dotty Dimple, dropping the little carriage in which she was wheeling her kitty; "me, too!" "Well, if you must, you must; snuggle in here between Flossy and me," said Susy, who was determined that to-day everything should go on pleasantly. "Sixteenth class in joggerphy," said Miss Rosy Frances, peeping severely over her spectacles. "Be spry quick!" The three pupils stood up in a row, holding their books close to their faces. "Thee may hold out your hands now, and I shall ferule thee—the whole school," was the stern remark of the young teacher, as she took off her spectacles to wipe the holes. ""Why, we haven't been doing anything," said Ruthie, affecting to cry. "No, I know it; but thee'd ought to have been doing something; thee'd ought to have studied thy lessons." "But, teacher, we didn't have time," pleaded Flossy; "you called us out so quick! Won't you forgive us!" "Yes, I will," said Rosy Frances, gently; "I will, if thee'll speak up 'xtremely loud, and fix thine eyes on thy teacher." The pupils replied, "Yes, ma'am," at the top of their voices. "Now," said Rosy Frances, appearing to read from the book, "where is the Isthmus of Susy?" The scholars all laughed, and answered at random. They did not know that their teacher was trying to say the "Isthmus of Suez." The next question took them by surprise:— "Is there any man in the moon?" "What a queer idea, Rosy," said Susy; "what made you ask that?" "'Cause I wanted to know," replied the Quaker damsel. "They said he came down when the other man was eatin' porridge. I should think, if he went back up there, and didn't have any wife and children, he'd be real lonesome!" This idea of Prudy's set the whole school to romancing, although it was in the midst of a recitation. Flossy said if there was a man in the moon, he must be a giant, or he never could get round over the mountains, which she had heard were very steep. Ruthie asked if there was anything said about his wife! Susy, who had read considerable poetry was sure she had heard something of a woman up there, named "Cynthia;" but she supposed it was all "moonshine," or "made up," as she expressed it. She said she meant to ask her aunt Madge to write a fairy story about it. Here their progress in useful knowledge was cut short by the disappearance of Dotty. Looking out of the window, they saw the little rogue driving ducks with a broomstick. These ducks had a home not far from Mrs. Parlin's, and if Dotty Dimple had one temptation stronger than all others, it was the sight of those waddling fowls, with their velvet heads, beads of eyes, and spotted feathers. When she saw them "marshin' along," she was instantly seized with a desire either to head the company or to march in the rear, and set them to quacking. She was bareheaded, and Susy ran down stairs to bring her into the house; and that was an end of the school for that day. Dotty Dimple was something like the kettle of molasses which Norah was boiling, very sweet, but very apt to boil over: she needed watching. When Norah's candy was brought up stairs, the little girls pronounced it excellent. "O, dear," said Flossy, "I wish our girl was half as good as Norah! I don't see why Electa and Norah ain't more alike when they are own sisters!" "What dreadful girls your mother always has!" said Susy; "it's too bad?" "I know of a girl," said Prudy, "one you'd like ever'n, ever so much, Flossy; only you can't have her." "Why not?" said Flossy; "my mother would go hundreds of leagues to get a good girl. Why can't she have her?" "O, 'cause, she's dead! It's Norah's cousin over to Ireland." They next played the little game of guessing "something in this room," that begins with a certain letter. Ruthie puzzled them a long while on the initial S. At last she said she meant "scrutau" (escritoire or scrutoire), pointing towards the article with her finger. "Why, that's a writing-desk," said Susy. "I don't see where you learn so many big worns, Ruthie." "O, I take notice, and remember them," replied Ruthie, looking quite pleased. She thought Susy was praising her. "Now let me tell some letters," said Prudy. "L.R. She lives at your house, Flossy." Nobody could guess. "Why, I should think that was easy enough," said Prudy: "it's that girl that lives there; she takes off the covers of your stove with a clothes-pin: it's 'Lecta Rosbornd.'" The little girls explained to Prudy that the true initials of Electa Osborne would be E. O., instead of L. R. But Prudy did not know much about spelling. She had known most of her letters; but it was some time ago, and they had nearly all slipped out of her head. She said, often, she wished she could "only, only read;" and Susy offered to teach her, but Mrs. Parlin said it would never do till Prudy felt stronger. I will tell you now why I think Susy did not understand her mother when she said Annie was not a suitable playmate. In the evening, after Ruthie and Flossy were gone, Susy said to her mother,— "I feel real cross with Ruthie, mamma: I think she puts herself forward. She goes into a room, and no matter how old the people are that are talking, she speaks up, and says, 'O, yes, I know all about it.' I never saw such an old-fashioned little girl." "Very well," said Mrs. Parlin; "if she is rude, take care that the same fault does not appear in yourself, Susy." "But, mother," said Susy, suddenly veering about and speaking in Ruth's favor, "I don't know but it's proper to do as Ruthy does. If you know something, and other people don't, ain't it right to speak up and say it?" "It is never right for little girls to monopolize conversation, Susy; that is, to take the lead in it, and so prevent older people from talking. Neither is it proper to pretend to know more than we do, and talk of things beyond our knowledge." "I knew you would say so, mother. I just asked to hear what you would say. I know Ruthie is ill-mannered: do you think I ought to play with her any more?" Mrs. Parlin looked at Susy in surprise. "Why, you know, mother, you wouldn't let me play with Annie Lovejoy. You said, 'evil communications corrupted good manners.'" "But can't you see any difference in the cases, Susy? What a muddy little head you must wear on your shoulders!" "Not much of any," said Susy, trying to think; "they're both bold; that's what you don't like." "Anything else, Susy?" "O, yes, mother; Ruthie's good, and Annie isn't. It was queer for me to forget that!" "I should think it was, Susy, since it is the only thing of much importance, after all. Now, it seems to me you are very ready to cast off your friends when their manners offend you. How would you like it to be treated in the same way? Suppose Mrs. Turner and Ruthie should be talking together this very minute. Ruthie says, 'That Susy Parlin keeps her drawers in a perfect tumble; she isn't orderly a bit. Susy Parlin never knit a stitch for the soldiers in her life. Mother, mayn't I stop playing with Susy Parlin?'" Susy laughed, and looked a little ashamed. "Well, mother," said she, twisting the corner of her handkerchief, "I guess I can't say anything about Ruthie Turner; she's a great deal better girl than I am, any way." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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