OCR Text |
Show THE BASKET OF SHAVINGS. "Becky Fairweather, where have you been all this while?" It was a shrill woman's tongue that put the question; and it was a timid child's voice that replied, "I've just been playing in the court here along with the girls. Please don't whip me, Aunt Nora! Please don't!" Little Becky stood trembling at the door, with a face full of terror and entreaty, while the woman advanced upon her with a lowering look, whose dreadful meaning the child knew too well. "There!" said Aunt Nora, giving the little shoulders a rude shake. "Now stop your crying. I'll teach you to be out playing with the girls when I want you!" "I didn't know you wanted me, Aunt Nora!" sobbed the child. "You might have known. Hush your noise. Now take the basket and go over to the Dimmock house for shavings, and don't let me hear another word out of your head, if you know what's good for yourself." <br><br> "O aunt! It's getting so dark. I'm afraid to go." "What are you afraid of? There's nothing to hurt good girls, and if you're a bad child, it's your own fault. You might have gone before sundown. Come, I shall want the shavings to kindle the fire in the morning; and the longer you wait the darker it will be." "O aunt! I can't go into that old house. The last time I was there I heard something, and it wasn't half so dark as it is to-night. I'll get up early and go in the morning, if you'll let me. O aunt, do!" <br><br> The aunt made no reply, but turned to take down from its place on the entry hooks a switch, whose marks poor little Becky's hands and arms had carried many a day. At sight of it, she caught up the basket, and ran out of the house. "Well, you better!" said the woman, grimly. "You're old enough not to be afraid of the dark. You can see well enough; and there's nothing under the sun to be afraid of. Now don't you come back into this house without the shavings, or you'll get such a whipping as you never had in all your life!" which was saying a good deal, if Aunt Nora only knew it. Not that she meant to be a harsh or unmotherly guardian to her little motherless niece. But cares and toil had worn out about all the health and patience she ever had; and it was no wonder that she, who so often had angry words for her own children, should have kept something worse for the orphan, whose coming into her house she had always regarded as a bitter trial. It seemed as if she had never forgiven Becky for it, or for being a child with all a child's thoughtlessness and love of play. She expected more of her than she did of her own girls, who were older; and could never understand why Becky should not contentedly settle down into the quiet, womanly drudge she wished her to be. Yet Becky was only eleven years old. <br><br> The child went off with the basket, sobbing with fear and despair at the thought of what she had to do. It was really not very dark, only deep twilight on a pleasant summer evening. No doubt her aunt was right in saying there was really nothing for her to be afraid of; yet the sensitive, imaginative child could not help being afraid. The old Dimmock house stood in a lonely lot, back from the street; it was undergoing repairs, and Becky had more than once been there for shavings, which the carpenters allowed her to carry away. She was not afraid when the men were there. Oh, why, she thought had she not left her play, and gone an hour before, when she could have got some other girl to go with her, and have made the task a pleasure? <br><br> Poor Becky was always doing some such thoughtless thing, which was sure to provoke her aunt, and give herself all the more trouble and pain; yet she never could learn wisdom. She blamed herself a little; but she blamed others much more. Her aunt might have waited for the shavings till morning; or she might have sent Tom for them-cousin Tom, who was fourteen years old, and not afraid of anything. But Tom was a proud, wilful boy; he wouldn't be seen going through the streets with a basket of shavings. His sisters, Josephine and Laura, who were almost young ladies, could not, of course, be expected to do such a thing; but poor little <br><br> Becky presumed to think such errands-especially after dark-belonged to Tom. She met Tom on the street with two other boys. He had the stump of a cigar in his mouth, and he was talking loud, and swaggering. "Tom!" she called to him, imploringly. "What do you want of Tom?" he retorted, not deigning to turn his head but just putting out his chin sidewise toward her, and puffing away at his cigar stump in loiterish fashion. "Please go with me for the shavings won't you? Do, Tom!" <br><br> "Hi-hi-hi" Tom snickered. "Go with you for shavings! That's a good joke." "I'm afraid!" she pleaded. "Afraid, you goose! What are you afraid of? The old house is full of ghosts, but they never hurt anybody, only silly little girls that are afraid of ‘em; they scare them almost to death sometimes! Hi-hi-hi come along!" cried Tom to his companions, putting back into his teeth the stump, which he had flourished in his fingers whilst making this foolish speech. Ghosts in the old house! <br><br> Poor Becky knew well enough that Tom never let a lie stand in the way of any mischief or sport of his, and she wouldn't have minded at all what he said, if she hadn't been so frightened. But now all her vague fears of the darkness and solitude of the deserted house took shape to her fancy, and became horrible specters. She stopped at the door, crying desolately. She would not have had strength to go a step farther, if the certainty that it was growing darker all the while, and that she would be whipped if she should go home without the shavings, had not given her momentary resolution. Tom had said that the ghosts scared only little girls who were afraid of them. Then she wouldn't be afraid. She would be brave for once. <br><br> So she nerved herself. Breathless, trembling, cold shivers of fear creeping over her from head to foot, she mounted the steps, paused a moment to listen in the dim entry, then glided softly into the room where the shavings were. There she paused again. She could see nothing but the faint outline of the work-bench, the bare wall, and the windows through which the evening light came. Suddenly she heard a rustle in the shavings. It may have been caused by a prowling cat, or perhaps by some beggar who had crawled in there for a night's lodging. But to poor little Becky, it was the rising of the ghosts, and she really fancied she saw a huge head with horns and fiery eyes, starting out of the darkness. All her courage, which had cost her so much, was gone in an instant. She dropped her basket and ran. <br><br> Out of the house and down the steps she went and along the street until she began to meet people. Then she came to herself a little, and remembered the basket, and the whipping she was sure to get, if she went home without it. She stopped, and finally turned back towards the old house. But she could not summon courage to enter it a second time; neither durst she go home to her aunt; and thus, between two fears, she wandered to and fro, the most wretched little girl in all the world that night. <br><br> At last, tired our, and not knowing what to do, she sat down on a doorstep and cried. A woman approaching the house saw her there, and started back. "What! Becky Fairweather, is it you?" "Yes'm, if you please," said Becky, meekly. "I didn't know it was your doorstep, Mrs. Cary. I'll go away." "No, you won't," cried the woman, "not until you've told me what's the matter anyway. Has your aunt turned you out?" "She hasn't turned me out, not quite, but she made me go to the old house for shavings in the dark, and I got scared, and left the basket, and she said I wasn't to go home without it full of shavings; if I did, she'd whip me worse than ever." <br><br> So Becky, amid sobs, told her story. Mrs. Cary put her arm kindly about her, and spoke so pityingly that the child cried all the more. "You needn't go home without it, nor with it, if you don't want. She isn't fit to bring up a child like you; I've known it, and the neighbors have known it, a long while. So if you'll come with me, I'll take you and give you a home till I can find a better one for you. So don't think of the basket, but come along with me." <br><br> Mrs. Cary's house was not far off; and there the orphan found comfort and kindness, such as she had not known since her mother died. Only one great fear now troubled her. It seemed as though she might as well die at once as let the time come for her aunt to light the fire in the morning, without the basket of shavings. But children soon forget their troubles, when blessed bedtime comes; and Becky slept well that night, in spite of her anxious thoughts. <br><br> The next day Mrs. Cary kept her in the house; and on the day following, two strangers called to see her-a gentleman and a lady-who talked to her kindly, and regarded her with an interest which Becky could not understand. At last the lady said.-"Becky, we like you pretty well. Mrs. Cary has told us a good deal about you; and, as we have not children of our own, we would like to have you go and live with us, and be our little girl. What do you say?" <br><br>"O Mrs. Cary!" cried Becky, turning to her friend, in terrified surprise. "Yes, dear," said Mrs. Cary, cheerfully. "I know these good friends very well; and it is for this that I have sent for them. They will give you a good home, and all the advantages a girl can ask. They live in another city, and you will begin a new and happier life with them." "But," Becky faltered, joy and hope getting the better of her astonishment, "my aunt!" "She has no real claim upon you; and it will be best that you should not see her again, I think." "Oh! and then I shan't get whipped for not carrying home the basket." "No, no, child!" said the lady, taking the girl in her arms. "I am so glad!" exclaimed Becky. "Only-dear Mrs. Cary-I shall want to see you sometimes; you have been so good to me." <br><br> Aunt Nora was very angry that first evening, at Becky's long delay in bringing the basket of shavings. Then as it grew late, and the child did not come, she was alarmed about her, and perhaps a little conscience-smitten at the thought of her own harsh treatment of the orphan girl. Tom found the empty basket the next morning, in the old Dimmock house; but nothing was heard of Becky for two days. Then came a letter from some unknown person; in which were these words. "Do not be anxious about the child. She has a home among friends who will be kind to her. They are as glad to receiver her as you will, no doubt, be, to know that you are relieved of a burden of which you have so often complained." <br><br> "Good riddance!" was Aunt Nora's first petulant exclamation, on reading this letter. But she was not long in finding our that Becky had been, after all, less burden than a help. When the dishes were to be washed, or errands to be done, the good woman scolded well, because she missed the services of her little drudge. Finally, however; seeing every day how proud and ungrateful her own daughters were she began to cherish very tender, regretful thoughts of poor Becky, and to hold her up as a pattern to Josephine and Laura. "Becky never would have answered me in that way!" she would say; or, "Becky would have been kinder to her aunt than you are to your own mother." <br><br> "Why didn't you treat her decently then, and keep her, if she was so lovely!" the young ladies would retort. "It was to make ladies of you that I made a slave of her, and this is all the thanks I get for it!" was the usual reply winding up with a sob. Years passed; and never a word did the aunt hear from the lost one. <br><br> Meanwhile, the world did not prosper with the poor woman. Tom turned out a spendthrift; when in want he would always come back to his mother; just as he was always sure to desert her again when she was most in need of him. Josephine, too, forsook her, but afterwards came home to die in her forgiving arms. Laura married an actor, and finally accompanied him to California, leaving two young children to be cared for by her mother. <br><br> Fortunately, Aunt Nora owned the house she lived in, and by letting every part of it except two small rooms, she managed to live, though in a miserable way. But at last, to help Tom out of one of his scrapes, and save him from prison, she had to raise money by mortgaging her house. This money the scoundrel promised [line unreadable] pay, but, of course, he never did. It is not easy for a young man to change bad habits formed in boyhood. Tom could not. Perhaps he had not character enough left even to try. For that is the most terrible punishment of wrong-doing; one loses the power, often even the wish, to do right. The end was what the neighbors foresaw. The interest on the mortgage could not be paid, and the house was advertised to be sold. <br><br> The day of the auction arrived. Aunt Nora had no shavings, nor anything else, to kindle a fire with that morning; and she, and the little ones Laura had left with her, would have fared badly, had not the neighbors kindly sent in something for them to eat. The poor woman was sick and in despair. She was no longer able even to take care of herself, and in a few hours she would be without a home. She sat moaning in her chair, rocking sadly to and fro. The children were at play in the court. The doors were open, for it was pleasant summer weather. <br><br> Suddenly Aunt Nora heard a voice, and looked up. A young lady, tall and well dressed, stood on the doorstep, bearing in her hand an object which presented the strangest contrast to her cultivated manners and fashionable attire. "Aunt Nora, may I come in?" she said pleasantly. "I've brought the basket of shavings!" <br><br> "Becky!" the poor woman shrieked, starting to her feet. "No, it can't be. It can't be my little Becky." "It is Becky, but not your little Becky, and longer," said the lady setting down her basket, and supporting the form that tottered towards her. "I am married, and I have a happy home, and I-I thought I would come and see you. But, as I wasn't ever to enter your house again without-" <br><br>"O, child, child!" cried Aunt Nora, weeping passionately, "you do right to remind me; I was cruel to you. But I didn't know it at the time-only since my own children-dear! dear!" she went on brokenly. I hope you have forgiven me!" <br><br>"Dear aunt, I have forgiven you, long ago!" said Becky, making the poor woman sit down again, but still holding her hand affectionately. "And do you know? I think it was a truly providential thing for both of us that I left you as I did. I am able to do for you now what I fear I never could have done, if I had always staid [stayed] with you." <br><br> "I heard of your condition only a few days ago. My husband is out here in the carriage; would you like to see him? He went into a carpenter's shop as we were passing, and got the shavings; but see, Aunt Nora, there is something else in the basket-something for you and the children. And my husband will buy the house for you this afternoon." <br><br> Aunt Nora could hardly speak a word, so great was her gratitude and joy. The child her unkindness had driven from her had returned like an angel of mercy. Her home was still preserved, and she could still keep Laura's children. "Dear, dear! is it all a dream?" she asked. "Oh no," laughed Becky. "I am really I; and this is really my husband; and, don't you see, there are the shavings!"-Youth's Companion. WEDDING rings-the bells. |