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Little Prudy's Sister Susy

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<h3>FAREWELL.</h3> 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 <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "The bobolink, on the mullein-stalk, Would rattle away like a sweet girl's talk." </div> </div> 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,— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes." </div> </div> 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!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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