Aunt Judys Tales | Page 8

there was--above all--" here Aunt Judy became very impressive, "the WASHING misery, which consisted in their being obliged to make themselves clean and comfortable with soap and water whenever they happened to be dirty, whether with playing at knuckle- bones on the floor, or anything else, and which was considered SO HARD that--"
But here a small hand was laid on Aunt Judy's mouth, and a gentle voice said, "Stop, Aunt Judy, now!" on which the rest shouted, "Stop! stop! we won't hear any more," in chorus, until all at once, in the midst of the din, there sounded outside the door the ominous knocking, which announced the hour of repose to the juvenile branches of the family.
It was a well-known summons, but on this occasion produced rather an unusual effect. First, there was a sudden profound silence, and pause of several seconds; then an interchange of glances among the little ones; then a breaking out of involuntary smiles upon several young faces; and at last a universal "Good-night, Aunt Judy!" very quietly and demurely spoken.
"If the little Victims were only here to see how YOU behave over the GOING-TO-BED misery, what a lesson it would be!" suggested Aunt Judy, with a mischievous smile.
"Ah, yes, yes, we know, we know!" was the only reply, and it came from No. 8, who took advantage of being the youngest to be more saucy than the rest.
Aunt Judy now led the little party into the drawing-room to bid their father and mother good-night too. And certainly when the door was opened, and they saw how bright and cosy everything looked, in the light of the fire and the lamps, with mamma at the table, wide awake and smiling, they underwent a fearful twinge of the GOING-TO-BED misery. But they checked all expression of their feelings. Of course, mamma asked what Aunt Judy's story had been about, and heard; and heard, too, No. 6's little trouble lest she should have been guilty of the sin of real ingratitude; and, of course, mamma applauded Aunt Judy's explanation about the want of thought, very much indeed.
"But, mamma," said No. 6 to her mother, "Aunt Judy said something about grown-up people having to learn to be thankful. Surely you and papa never cry for nonsense, and things you can't have?"
"Ah, my darling No. 6," cried mamma earnestly, "grown-up people may not CRY for what they want exactly, but they are just as apt to wish for what they cannot have, as you little ones are. For instance, grown-up people would constantly like to have life made easier and more agreeable to them, than God chooses it to be. They would like to have a little more wealth, perhaps, or a little more health, or a little more rest, or that their children should always be good and clever, and well and happy. And while they are thinking and fretting about the things they want, they forget to be thankful for those they have. I am often tempted in this way myself, dear No. 6; so you see Aunt Judy is right, and the lesson of learning to be thankful never ends, even for grown-up people.
"One other word before you go. I dare say you little ones think we grown-up people are quite independent, and can do just as we like. But it is not so. We have to learn to submit to the will of the great Keeper of Heaven and earth, without understanding it, just as Aunt Judy's little Victims had to submit to their keepers without knowing why. So thank Aunt Judy for her story, and let us all do our best to be obedient and contented."
"When I am old enough, mother," remarked No. 7, in his peculiarly mild and deliberate way of speaking, and smiling all the time, "I think I shall put Aunt Judy into a story. Don't you think she would make a capital Ogre's wife, like the one in 'Jack and the Bean- Stalk,' who told Jack how to behave, and gave him good advice?"
It was a difficult question to say "No" to, so mamma kissed No. 7, instead of answering him, and No. 7 smiled himself away, with his head full of the bright idea.

VEGETABLES OUT OF PLACE.

"But any man that walks the mead, In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humours lead, A meaning suited to his mind." TENNYSON.
It was a fine May morning. Not one of those with an east wind and a bright sun, which keep people in a puzzle all as day to whether it is hot or cold, and cause endless nursery disputes about the keeping on of comforters and warm coats, whenever a hoop-race, or some such active exertion, has brought a universal puggyness over the juvenile frame--but it was a