Lewie by Cousin Cicely

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"I'm sure I can't tell, child. Who is it?"

"Why, Santa Claus himself, with all his presents around him."

"Is, hey?" said cousin Betty; "well, I shall be mighty glad to see him,
I can tell you; for, old as I am, I've never seen him yet."

"I'm so glad you've come, cousin Betty!" said Effie; "we want you to go
with us some day over to the farm-house, and tell us about our
great-grandfather, whose house stood where the farm-house stands now;
and how his house was burnt down by the Indians, and he was carried off.
Agnes wants to hear it so much."

"Does! Well, I will go over there, and tell you the story, some day. But
I can't walk over there while the weather is so cold; I should get the
rheumatiz."

"I'll drag you over on my sled, if that will do, cousin Betty," said
Robert.

The children laughed so heartily at the picture presented to their
imagination of little old cousin Betty riding on Robert's sled, that
Grace actually rolled out of her chair.

"Why wouldn't it do to tell the story here, Effie?" asked Agnes.

"Oh, because it is a great deal more interesting, told on the spot you
know. Cousin Betty has heard it all over and over again from grandmamma,
and she can point out, from one window of the farm-house, all the places
where all those dreadful things happened."

Some warm dinner was now brought in for cousin Betty, and the children
went off to tie up and label the gifts for Santa Claus.

"What shall we do with the presents we have for papa and mamma?" asked
Grace.

"Oh, we cannot hand those in to the study," said Effie; "we must
contrive some way to give them afterwards."

And now the children, one after the other, with their arms laden with
packages, were making their way to their father's study; Emily and
Agnes, too, had several contributions to make to the heap of bundles
which was piled up on the study table; and before six o'clock, Mr.
Wharton said he had taken in enough articles to stock a very
respectable country store. At six o'clock the study door was locked, and
there was no more admittance.

An hour or two after this, the whole family were assembled in the two
large parlors, which were brilliantly lighted for the occasion, and all
were on the tiptoe of expectation.

"I should like to know how he is coming," said Albert; "he'll be likely
to get well scorched, if he comes down either chimney."

At this moment there was a slight tap at one of the windows opening on
to the piazza, which Mr. Wharton immediately proceeded to open, and in
walked St. Nicholas.

He was a jolly, merry-looking, little old gentleman, with beard and
whiskers as white as snow, and enveloped in furs from head to foot.
Around his neck, around his waist, over his shoulders, down his back,
and even on the top of his head, were presents and toys of every
description. Behind him he dragged a beautiful sled, which was loaded
with some articles too bulky to be carried around his person. Every
pocket was full; and as he passed through the rooms, he threw sugar
plums and mottoes, nuts and raisins, on all sides, causing a great
scrambling and screaming and laughing among the children.

Then he began to disengage the presents, which were pinned about him,
and tied to the buttons of his coat; and as he did so, he looked at the
label, and threw it at the one for whom it was intended. It would be
hard for one who was not there to imagine the lively scene which was now
presented in the great parlors at Brook Farm; the presents flying round
in all directions; the children dodging, and diving, and catching, while
shouts and screams of laughter made the house ring.

"But who is he?--who can he be?" was the question which each asked of
the other a great many times during this merry scene. Mr. Wharton and
Mr. Ellison, "Aunt Fanny's" husband, were both in the room, and they
were sure there was no other gentleman in the house.

Just then Robert screamed, "Oh, I know now! It's cousin Tom! He throws
left-handed!" And now the effort was made to pull off the mask, but
Santa Claus avoided them with great dexterity, still continuing his
business of distributing the presents.

At the feet of Agnes he placed a work-box, much handsomer than that
which Lewie had destroyed; at Emily's, a writing-desk, and some valuable
books; and when his sled was emptied, he drew the sled, and left it with
little Harry, for whom it was intended.

"My goodness gracious!" said cousin Betty, as a beautiful muff "took her
in the head," as Albert said, and sadly disarranged the set of her odd
little turban.

"And now I believe old Santa Claus has finished his labors," said Mr.
Wharton.

"Oh no, not yet," cried Effie; "he must come with us for a new supply.
But I feel a little afraid of him yet. If I only could be sure it was
cousin Tom!"

"You need not doubt that, Effie," said Robert; "nobody else ever threw
like cousin Tom. I've seen him play snow-ball often enough."

And now Santa Claus was taken captive by the children, and in a few
minutes he re-appeared, laden with gifts, but this time for the older
members of the family; and the products of the children's industry made
quite a display, and much astonished those for whom they were intended,
the children having kept their secrets well.

And now, as the rooms were warm, old Santa Claus was quite willing to
get rid of his mask and his furs; and this done, he straightened up, and
cousin Tom stood revealed.

"And how did you come, and where have you been?" asked the children.

"Oh, I came this afternoon, and stopped at the farm house," answered
cousin Tom, or Mr. Thomas Wharton, for it is time he should be
introduced by his true name to the reader. "And after it was dusk I
slipped over here, and went round to uncle's study door while you were
at tea. I sent word by Aunt Fanny that you might expect Santa Claus
to-night."

And now began a game of romps, which lasted for an hour or more, and
then little bodies began to be stumbled over, and were found under
tables, and on sofas fast asleep, and were taken off to bed. Mrs.
Ellison's baby being roused by the noise, had awaked, and persisted in
keeping awake, and his mother came back to the parlor bringing him in
her arms, with his night-gown on, and his cheeks as red as roses.

"Isn't he a splendid fellow?" said she, holding him up before cousin
Tom.

"A very comfortable looking piece of flesh certainly," he answered; "but
then they are all alike. I think you might divide all babies into two
class, the fat and the lean; otherwise, there is no difference in them
that I can see."

"Pshaw, how ridiculously you talk; there is a great deal more difference
between two babies, than between you and all the other young dandies who
walk Broadway. They are all alike, the same cut of the coat and collar,
and whiskers; the same tie of the neck-cloth, and shape of the boot:
when you have seen one, you have seen all. But now just take a good look
at this magnificent baby, and confess; wouldn't you like to kiss him?"

"Excuse me, my dear aunty, but that is a thing I haven't been left to do
very often. I've no fancy for having my cheeks and whiskers converted
into spitoons. It is really astonishing now," continued cousin Tom,
"what fools such a brat as that will make of very sensible people."

"Are your allusions personal, sir?" asked Mrs. Ellison, laughing.

"No, not just now; but I was thinking of a man in our place, who used to
be really a _very_ sensible fellow; and though quite an old bachelor, he
was the life of every party he attended, and more of a favorite than
most of the young men. Well, when he was about fifty years old he got
married, and he's got a young one now about two years old. And what kind
of an exhibition do you suppose that man made of himself the other day.
Why, this refractory young individual couldn't be persuaded to walk
towards home in any other way, when they had him out for an airing, and
what does this old friend of mine do, but allow a handkerchief to be
pinned to his coat-tail, and go prancing along the street like a horse
for the spoiled brat to drive. The calf! I declare, before I'd make such
a fool of myself as that, I'd eat my head! What are you writing there,
uncle?"

"Only taking notes of these remarks, Tom," answered Mr. Wharton, "for
your benefit on some future occasion."

There was only one in that Christmas party who could not heartily join
in the glee; it was poor Emily, to whom this scene brought back so
vividly other holiday seasons passed with those who had "gone from earth
to return no more," that only by a strong effort could she prevent her
own sadness from casting a shade over the happiness of others; for they
all loved cousin Emily so dearly, that they could not be merry when she
was sad. Emily was usually so quiet, that in their noisy play they did
not miss her as she retired to the sofa and shaded her eyes with her
hand; but her kind uncle noticed her, and readily understood the reason
of her sadness. Taking a seat by her he put his arm around her, and took
her hand in his. This act of tenderness was too much for poor Emily's
already full heart, and laying her head on her uncle's shoulder, she
sobbed out her grief unchecked.

IV.

Cousin Betty.

"Come, wilt thou see me ride!"--HENRY VIII.

Cousin Betty was a little bit of a woman, with a face as full of
wrinkles as a frozen apple, and a pair of the busiest and most twinkling
little black eyes you ever saw, a prominent and parrot like nose, with a
chin formed on the very same pattern, only that it turned up instead of
down, the two so very nearly meeting that the children said they had "to
turn their faces sideways to kiss her." She had some very unaccountable
ways too, which no one understood, and which she never made any attempt
to explain, perhaps because she did not understand them herself.

For instance, whenever meals were ready, and the family prepared to sit
down, though cousin Betty might have been hovering round for an hour or
two before, she was often missing at that very moment, and when a search
was instituted she was sometimes found taking a stroll in the garret
where she could have no possible business, and sometimes poking about in
the darkest corner of the dark cellar, without the slightest conceivable
object. If her thimble or spectacles were lost, she has often been known
to go to the pantry and lift up every tumbler and wine-glass on the
shelf, one after the other, and look under it as if she really expected
to find the missing article there; and to take off the cover of
vegetable dishes to look for her snuff-box, or open the door of the
stove, if her work-bag, or knitting were missing, apparently with the
confident expectation of finding them unharmed amidst the blazing fire.

Cousin Betty had a very uncomfortable fashion of _dying_ too, every
little while, which at first alarmed her friends so much that
restoratives were speedily procured; but as she never failed to come to
life again, they became, after a time, accustomed to the parting scene,
so that there was great danger that when she really did take her
departure, nobody would believe it.

"My dear," said she one night to Effie, "I feel very unwell; very
unwell, indeed; I think it's more'n likely I shan't last the night
through. I wish you wouldn't leave me alone this evening, and then if
I'm suddenly taken worse, you know you can call the family. I should
like to see them all before I go."

Effie promised she would not leave her, and bringing her book, she
seated herself by the stove in cousin Betty's room. In about a hour she
appeared in the parlor, her face purple with the effort to suppress the
inclination to laugh, and said, "Oh, do all of you please to come to
cousin Betty's room a few moments."

"What, is she dying?" they asked.

"Oh, no! but just come; very quietly; there's a sight for you to see."

Cousin Betty always tied a large handkerchief about her head when she
went to bed, and on the night in question, the two ends of the
handkerchief being tied in a knot stood up from her head like two
enormous ears. She was bolstered up by pillows, as she declared she
could not breathe in any other position, and at every breath she drew
she opened and shut her mouth with a sudden jerk. Effie had looked up
from her reading suddenly, and caught the reflection of cousin Betty's
profile, thrown by the light, greatly magnified upon the wall, and
stuffing her handkerchief in her mouth to prevent a sudden explosion of
laughter, by which cousin Betty might be awakened, she ran to call the
family. No pen-sketch but an actual profile would give the slightest
idea of the extraordinary and most ludicrous appearance of the image
thus thrown upon the wall; with the enormous ears standing up, and the
mouth and chin snapping together like the claws of a lobster. One by one
they rushed from the room, till at length a smothered cacchination from
one of the little ones awoke cousin Betty, who exclaimed:

"Who is sobbing there? My dear friends do not distress yourselves, I
find myself considerably more comfortable."

This "clapped the climax," and the room was unavoidably deserted for a
few minutes; but at length Effie found courage to return, and, by
placing the light in another position, was enabled to keep watch for the
remainder of the evening.

There were some very amusing stories told in the family of cousin
Betty's adventures, one of which I will relate here. She was at one time
making one of her long visits at Mr. Wharton's, when, getting out of
yarn, and not being willing to remain long idle, she began to worry
about some way to get over to the village. The horses were all out at
work upon the farm, except Old Prancer, a superannuated old horse, who
was never used except for Mrs. Wharton or the girls to drive; for,
whatever claims "Prancer" may once have had to his name, it had been a
misnomer for some years past, and no one suspected him of having a spark
of spirit.

When Mr. Wharton came in to dinner, and cousin Betty consulted him as
to the best means of getting over to the village, he told her that the
best thing he could do for her would be to put the side-saddle on to Old
Prancer, and let her ride over. To this cousin Betty consented, not
without a slight trepidation, for she had never been much of a
horse-woman, but still, as she had known Prancer for many years, and he
had always borne the character of a staid, steady-going animal, she
thought there could surely be no risk in trusting herself to him.

Soon after dinner, cousin Betty, with a very short and very scanty
skirt, was mounted on the back of Old Prancer. She felt quite timid at
first at finding herself upon so lofty an elevation, (for Prancer was an
immense animal;) but when she found how steadily and sedately he went
on, and that neither encouragement nor blows could induce him to break
into a trot, she lost all her fears, and began to enjoy her ride saving
that the pace was rather a slow one.

But just as cousin Betty began to ascend the hill leading into the
village, the sound of martial music burst upon her ear, and she
remembered hearing the children say that this was "general training
day." Cousin Betty did not know that Prancer had once belonged to a
militia officer; and if she had, it would have made no difference, as
all the fire of youth seemed to have died out with Prancer years ago.
But early associations are strong; and as the "horse scenteth the battle
afar off," so did Prancer prick up his ears and quicken his pace at the
spirit-stirring sounds of the fife and drum; and now he began to make an
awkward attempt to dance sideways upon the points of his hoofs; and as
he neared the brow of the hill, his excitement became more intense, and
his curveting and prancing more animated. Cousin Betty was almost
terrified to death. Throwing away her whip, and grasping the reins, she
endeavored to stop him; but he only held in his head, and danced
sideways up the street with more animation and spirit than ever. She
thought of throwing herself off, but the immense height rendered such a
feat utterly unsafe; she endeavored to rein the horse up to the
side-walk; but now he had caught sight of the motley array of trainers,
and of the gay horses and gayer uniforms of the officers, and,
regardless alike of bit and rein, he started off at full speed, to join
the long-forgotten but once familiar spectacle.

Cousin Betty had by this time dropped the reins, and was clinging with
both arms to Old Prancer's neck; and as he turned his face to the
company, and backed gallantly down the street, the sight was too
irresistibly ludicrous. Shouts and laughter, and expressions of
encouragement to poor cousin Betty, were heard on all sides; till at
length a militia officer, taking pity upon her helpless condition, led
the unwilling Prancer to the tavern, and assisted her to alight. Here
cousin Betty remained till sun-down, and all was quiet; and then,
requesting the tavern-keeper to lead the horse out of town while she
walked, she again, with much fear and trembling, mounted when beyond
the precincts of the village.

Prancer, however, walked slowly home, with his head drooping, as if
thoroughly mortified at the excesses into which he had been betrayed;
and cousin Betty, when she once got safely home, declared that she'd go
without yarn another time, if it was a whole year, before she would
mount such a "treacherous animal as that 'ere."

But, with all her oddities, cousin Betty was sometimes a very amusing
companion. She had many stories of her youth stowed away in her memory,
which, when wanted, could be found and brought to light much more
readily than the articles she was so constantly missing now; and though
these stories were not told in the purest English, they were none the
less interesting to the children for that.

There came, early in February, some pleasant, mild days, which soon made
a ruin of the boys' palace of snow; and though cousin Betty had been in
a dying state for an hour or two the night before, she was so far
revived that morning, that she was easily persuaded by the children to
go over with them to the farm-house, and tell them the story of their
great-grandfather, and his capture by the Indians; which same, though a
very interesting story to the children, might not be so to my readers;
and after changing my mind about it several times, I have concluded to
leave it out, as having nothing to do with the rest of my story.

V

Home Again.

"Deal very, very gently with a young child's tender heart."

With a face beaming with joy, little Agnes took her place in the cutter
by her uncle on Christmas morning, and nodded good-bye to her cousins,
who were crowded at the window to see her off.

"Mind you come back to dinner!" screamed little Grace, knocking with her
knuckles on the window pane.

Agnes nodded again, and they were gone. Many a time during the short
ride did Agnes take out of her little muff the paper in which her
needle-case for her mother was rolled up, to see if it was all safe; and
she never let go for a moment of the basket in which were some toys for
Lewie, which she and her cousins had purchased at the village. As she
drove up the road from the gate to her mother's house, it seemed to her
so long since she had been away, that she expected to see great changes.
She had never been from home so long before, and a great deal had
happened in that fort night.

Mrs. Elwyn was reading again; indeed, she had resumed that very
yellow-covered book, the reading of which Lewie's sickness had
interrupted; so she had not much time for a greeting for Agnes, though
she did allow her to kiss her cheek, and of course laid aside her book,
out of compliment to Mr. Wharton. But little Lewie, who was sitting in
his cradle, surrounded by toys, was in perfect ecstasies at the return
of Agnes.

He stretched his little arms towards her; and as she sprang towards him,
and stooped to kiss him, he threw them around her neck, and clasped his
little hands together, as if determined never to let her go again.

"Sister come! sister come!" he exclaimed over and over again, with the
greatest glee; "sister stay with Lewie now."

"Sister will stay a little while," said Agnes, kissing over and over
again her beautiful little brother.

"No, sister _stay_!--sister shall not go!" said Lewie, in the best
manner in which he could express it; but exactly _how_, we must be
excused from making known to the reader, having a great horror of
_baby-talk_ in books.

"But I _must_ go, darling; all my things are at uncle's, and I want to
get some books cousin Emily is going to give me; but I will come back
very soon to stay with Lewie."

"No! sister _shall_ not go!" was still the cry; and Mrs. Elwyn settled
the matter by saying:

"Agnes, if Lewie wants you here so much, you may as well take off your
things; you cannot return to Brook Farm; besides, I want you to amuse
Lewie." Agnes thought of some of the consequences of her endeavors to
amuse Lewie, and sighed.

"If your mother insists upon your remaining, Agnes," said her uncle, "I
will bring over your things, and Emily shall come with me, to bring the
books, and tell you how to study."

"Oh, thank you, dear uncle!" said Agnes, her face brightening at once.

In the first scene in which our little hero is introduced to the reader,
he certainly does not appear to advantage, as few persons would in the
first stages of a fever. He was not always so hard to please, or so
recklessly destructive, as he was that day; and had an intimation ever
been conveyed to his mind, that it was a possible thing for any desire
of his to remain ungratified, he might have grown up less supremely
selfish than he did.

But the natural selfishness of his nature being constantly fed and
ministered to by his doating mother, led the little fellow to understand
very early that no wish of his was to be denied; and before he was two
years old, he fully understood the power he held in his hands.

He was a beautiful boy; "as handsome as a picture," as Mammy said; but,
for my part, I have seldom seen a picture of a child that could at all
compare with Lewie Elwyn, with his golden curls, and deep blue eyes, and
brilliant color. He was warm-hearted and affectionate, too, and might
have been moulded by the hand of love into a glorious character. But
selfishness is a deformity which early attention and care may remedy,
and the grace of God alone may completely subdue; but, if allowed to
take its own course, or worse, if encouraged and nurtured, it grows with
wonderful rapidity, and makes a horrid shape of what might be the
fairest.

Upon this text, or something very like it, Mr. Wharton spake to Mrs.
Elwyn, when Agnes had carried Lewie into the next room to spin his top
for him.

"Lewie is a most beautiful little fellow, certainly," said he; "but,
Harriet, take care; he is getting the upper hand of you already. It is
time already--indeed, it has long been time--to make him understand
that his will is to be _subservient_ to those who are older."

To which Mrs. Elwyn replied, "How absurd, Mr. Wharton, to talk of
governing a child like that!"

"There are other ways of governing, Harriet, besides the whip and the
lock and key, neither of which do I approve of, except in extreme cases.
Lewie could very easily be guided by the hand of love, and it rests with
you now to make of him almost what you choose. A mother's gentle hand
hath mighty power."

"Well, Mr. Wharton, to tell you the truth, nothing seems to me so absurd
as all these ideas of nursery education; and the people who write books
on the subject seem to think there is but one rule by which all children
are to be governed."

"I perfectly agree with you, Harriet, that it is very ridiculous to
suppose that one set of rules will answer for the education of all,
except, of course, so far as the Bible rule is the foundation for all
government. I think the methods adopted with children should be as
numerous and different as the children themselves, each one, by their
constitution and disposition, requiring different treatment; but still
there are some general rules, you must admit, which will serve for all.
One of these is a rule of very long standing; it is this--'Honor thy
father and thy mother;' and another--'Children, obey your parents in the
Lord.' Now, how can you expect your son, as he grows up, to honor,
respect, or obey you, if you take the trouble to teach him, every day
and hour, that _he_ is the master, and you only the slave of his will.
There is another saying in that same old book from which these rules are
drawn, which tells you that 'A child left to himself bringeth his mother
to shame.'"

Mrs. Elwyn, during this conversation, kept up a series of polite little
bows, but could not altogether conceal an expression of weariness, and
distaste at the turn the conversation had taken. She had a sincere
respect, however, for Mr. Wharton, who always exercised over her the
power which a strong mind exercises over a weak one, and she felt in
her heart that he was a real friend to her, and one who had the
interests of herself and her children at heart.

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