Bessie among the Mountains. Mathews Joanna Hooe

Bessie among the Mountains

      I.

      UP THE MOUNTAIN

      UP, up! What a height it was, and how the horses toiled as they drew the heavy wagons up the mountain side. Whenever they came to a very steep place, the boys and all the gentlemen, except Colonel Rush, would jump out and walk, so as to lighten the load. Aunt Annie and Aunt Bessie, who was really Aunt Bessie now, for she was Uncle Ruthven's wife, also tried this; but they soon tired, and were glad to take their seats in the wagon again.

      Maggie thought she must take her turn too, and asked papa to lift her out. Papa consented, warning her, however, that she would find it harder work than she imagined to clamber up these steep ascents on her own two small feet. But Maggie thought she would like to be "a relief to the horses," so papa took her out.

      Then Bessie's sweet little voice piped up from the snug corner, where she sat nestled between Colonel Rush and his wife.

      "Mamma, bettn't I walk a little too, on 'count of the poor horses?"

      At which Mr. Porter who walked beside the wagon, holding the reins, and now and then chirruping to the willing creatures who needed no whip or harsh command, turned his head towards the tiny figure with a merry twinkle in his eye.

      "I think not, darling," said mamma; "by the time we are at the Lake House you will be more than tired enough with this long day's journey."

      "I do not wish to walk, mamma," said Bessie, "only for the horses."

      "The horses don't make much account of your weight, I reckon," said Mr. Porter, good-naturedly, "and though this seems mighty hard work to you, they are used to it, and don't mind it so much. Besides, they know that every pitch takes them nearer to their stable, where they'll have a good rest and a feed of oats. They'd rather go up than down any day."

      "How do they know it?" asked Bessie, who had already made friends with Mr. Porter.

      "Well," said Mr. Porter, taking off his hat and fanning himself with it, "I can't just say how; certain it is they do know it."

      "Maybe it's their instinct," said Bessie.

      "That's about it," he answered, with a smile.

      "These are fine teams of yours, Mr. Porter," said Colonel Rush.

      "You may say that, sir," answered the old man, looking with pride at the noble beasts, "and this is the best of the lot. These are Vermont horses, sure-footed as goats, as they need to be on these mountain roads; strong as elephants, and wiser than many a creature that goes on two feet. Why, I could tell you stories of this fellow," and he nodded towards the horse nearest him, "that maybe you'll find it hard to believe. I named him 'Solomon,' thinking it suitable; but the boys they shortened it to 'Sol,' and that's what he goes by. I tell you, he knows a thing or two, that horse."

      Mr. Porter paused for breath, and Bessie, after waiting a moment or two in hopes of the stories of old Sol, said, —

      "We'll believe you, Mr. Porter, if you tell us those stories."

      "So I will," he answered, "but not now. It takes the breath out of a man trudging up these hills, and I can't tell you long stories now. But you come into the kitchen some evening, and I'll tell you a bushel full."

      Maggie had found that "trudging up the hills" took the breath out of a little girl, and papa's words soon proved themselves true; but she plodded along perseveringly, flushed and panting, holding to papa's hand, and happy in her belief that she was sparing the horses by her own exertions.

      And now they came to a level spot where all might rest. A beautiful resting place it was, a perfect bower of the wild clematis, rock ivy and briar rose, the latter now in full flower. The long, slender sprays flung themselves from tree to tree, or ran climbing over the rocks, while the delicate pink blossoms hung, many of them, within the children's reach. Uncle Ruthven's warning checked Maggie's too eager fingers until he could cut them carefully with his knife, and place them in her hands stripped of their sharp little thorns. Maggie thanked him for his thoughtful kindness when she saw the misfortune which had happened to Hafed; for the little Persian, always anxious to please his "Missys," had grasped too heedlessly the tempting branches, and was now wringing his fingers as he danced about, half laughing, half crying, and saying, —

      "Prettys no good, no good."

      Maggie and Bessie were quite distressed for him, until his master, having taken out the thorns, bade him wash his bleeding fingers in the brook which ran by the roadside. Bessie had been taken from the wagon that she might rest herself by running about a little after her long ride, and now she and Maggie, as well as Hafed, forgot pricks and scratches in the pleasure of watching the brook, and feeling its cool, clear waters trickle through their fingers. What a noisy, merry, frolicksome stream this was, gurgling and splashing, rushing and tumbling in its rocky bed; now leaping gracefully in a miniature waterfall over some narrow ledge, now rippling and singing about the roots of the trees and over the pebbles that lay in its course, now flashing in the sunlight, and now hiding in a crevice of the rocks as if it were playing at Bopeep.

      "What a fuss it makes about nothing," said Harry, as he dipped his fingers into the water, and carried some of the clear, sparkling drops to his lips, "One would think it was doing a wonderful lot of work."

      "So it does," said Maggie, following her brother's example.

      "What work does it do?" asked Harry, always ready to listen to any of Maggie's new ideas.

      "Sometimes it gives a thirsty boy a drink, and he is very ungrateful, and says it makes a fuss about nothing," said Maggie, mischievously.

      Harry playfully sprinkled her with the drops which hung from his fingers. "And what else?"

      "It waters the flowers and mosses and trees," said Maggie; "and the birds and squirrels can come and take a drink too, if they like."

      "And it makes a pretty waterfall for us to see, and a nice, pleasant noise for us to listen to," said Bessie.

      "All that is no better than play," said Harry.

      "And it helps to make the sea," said Bessie. "Mamma said so."

      "Ho!" said Fred; "much this little brook does towards filling the sea, Queen Bess."

      "But it helps, and does all it can, Fred."

      "Yes," said Maggie; "one little brook runs on until it finds another little brook, and then they join, and run on together, and then they meet another and another till they all make a small river, and that joins other little rivers and brooks, till there is a very large one like that we sailed on this morning, and that runs into the great, great sea that we used to see at Quam Beach last summer."

      "Hallo, Midge!" said Fred; "where did you find out so much?"

      "It's not my own finding out," said Maggie; "the other day my geography lesson was about rivers, and mamma told me all that, and Bessie heard too; so when we first saw this brook farther down the mountain, we remembered what mamma said, and Aunt May said a very nice thing."

      "What was it?" asked Harry.

      "She said little children might be like the brooks and springs. Not one could do a great deal by himself, but every little helped in the work God gave his creatures to do for him, just as every brook helped to fill the great sea to which it ran; and if we were good and sweet, it made everything bright and pleasant about us, just like a clear and running stream. But cross and naughty children were like the muddy brooks and dull pools, which no one could drink, or make of any use. I hope I won't be like an ugly, muddy pool that does no good to any one, but just stands still, and looks disagreeable all the day long, and has toads and things in it."

      The boys laughed at the ending of Maggie's speech, so like herself, and Uncle Ruthven as he dipped a drinking cup into the flashing stream, said, —

      "I do not think we need fear that, little Maggie."

      "No," said Harry; "there is rather too much sunshine and sparkle about Maggie to think that she would become a stagnant pool, full of ugly tempers and hateful faults, like 'toads and things.'"

      "Yes," laughed Fred, "and she could not stand still with nothing to do; could you, Midget