Mary Erskine

CHAPTER VII.

HOUSE-​KEEP­ING.

One of the great­est plea­sures which Mary Bell en­joyed, in her vis­its at Mary Er­sk­ine's at this pe­ri­od, was to as­sist in the house-​keep­ing. She was par­tic­ular­ly pleased with be­ing al­lowed to help in get­ting break­fast or tea, and in set­ting the ta­ble.

She rose ac­cord­ing­ly very ear­ly on the morn­ing af­ter her ar­rival there from the woods, as de­scribed in the last chap­ter, and put on the work­ing-​dress which Mary Er­sk­ine had made for her, and which was al­ways kept at the farm. This was not the work­ing-​dress which was de­scribed in a pre­ced­ing chap­ter as the one which Mary Bell used to play in, when out among the stumps. Her play­ing among the stumps was two or three years be­fore the pe­ri­od which we are now de­scrib­ing. Dur­ing those two or three years, Mary Bell had whol­ly out­grown her first work­ing-​dress, and her mind had be­come im­proved and en­larged, and her tastes ma­tured more rapid­ly even than her body had grown.

She now no longer took any plea­sure in dab­bling in the brook, or plant­ing pota­toes in the sand,--or in heat­ing sham ovens in stumps and hol­low trees. She had be­gun to like re­al­ities. To bake a re­al cake for break­fast or tea, to set a re­al ta­ble with re­al cups and saucers, for a re­al and use­ful pur­pose, or to as­sist Mary Er­sk­ine in the care of the chil­dren, or in mak­ing the morn­ing ar­range­ments in the room, gave her more plea­sure than any species of child's play could pos­si­bly do. When she went out now, she liked to be dressed neat­ly, and take pleas­ant walks, to see the views or to gath­er flow­ers. In a word, though she was still in fact a child, she be­gan to have in some de­gree the tastes and feel­ings of a wom­an.

“What are you go­ing to have for break­fast?” said Mary Bell to Mary Er­sk­ine, while they were get­ting up.

“What should you like?” asked Mary Er­sk­ine in re­ply.

“Why I should like some roast pota­toes, and a spi­der cake,” said Mary Bell.

The spi­der cake re­ceived its name from be­ing baked be­fore the fire in a flat, iron ves­sel, called a spi­der. The spi­der was so called prob­ably, be­cause, like the an­imal of that name, it had sev­er­al legs and a great round body. The iron spi­der, how­ev­er, un­like its liv­ing name­sake, had a long straight tail, which, ex­tend­ing out be­hind, served for a han­dle.

The spi­der cake be­ing very ten­der and nice, and com­ing as it usu­al­ly did, hot up­on the ta­ble, made a most ex­cel­lent break­fast,--though this was not the prin­ci­pal rea­son which led Mary Bell to ask for it. She liked to _make_ the spi­der cake; for Mary Er­sk­ine, af­ter mix­ing and prepar­ing the ma­te­ri­al, used to al­low Mary Bell to roll it out to its prop­er form, and put it in­to the spi­der. Then more than all the rest, Mary Bell liked to _bake_ a spi­der cake. She used to take great plea­sure in car­ry­ing the cake in her two hands to the fire-​place, and lay­ing it care­ful­ly in its place in the spi­der, and then set­ting it up be­fore the fire to bake, lift­ing the spi­der by the end of the tail. She al­so took great sat­is­fac­tion af­ter­ward in watch­ing it, as the sur­face which was pre­sent­ed to­ward the fire be­came browned by the heat. When it was suf­fi­cient­ly baked up­on one side it had to be turned, and then set up be­fore the fire again, to be baked on the oth­er side; and ev­ery part of the long op­er­ation was al­ways watched by Mary Bell with great in­ter­est and plea­sure.

Mary Er­sk­ine con­sent­ed to Mary Bell's pro­pos­al in re­spect to break­fast, and for an hour Mary Bell was dili­gent­ly em­ployed in mak­ing the prepa­ra­tions.

[Il­lus­tra­tion: MARY BELL GET­TING BREAK­FAST.]

She put the pota­toes in the bed which Mary Er­sk­ine opened for them in the ash­es. She rolled out the spi­der cake, and put it in­to the spi­der; she spread the cloth up­on the ta­ble, and took down the plates, and the cups and saucers from the cup­board, and set them in or­der on the ta­ble. She went down in­to the lit­tle cel­lar to bring up the but­ter. She skimmed a pan of milk to get the cream, she mea­sured out the tea; and at last, when all else was ready, she took a pitch­er and went down to the spring to bring up a pitch­er of cool wa­ter. In all these op­er­ations Bel­la ac­com­pa­nied her, al­ways ea­ger to help, and Mary Bell, know­ing that it gave Bel­la great plea­sure to have some­thing to do, called up­on her, con­tin­ual­ly, for her aid, and al­lowed her to do ev­ery thing that it was safe to en­trust to her. Thus they went on very hap­pi­ly to­geth­er.

At length, when the break­fast was ready they all sat down around the ta­ble to eat it, ex­cept the ba­by. He re­mained in the trun­dle-​bed, play­ing with his play-​things. His play-​things con­sist­ed of three or four smooth peb­ble stones of dif­fer­ent col­ors, each be­ing of about the size of an egg, which his moth­er had cho­sen for him out of the brook, and al­so of a short piece of bright iron chain. The chain was orig­inal­ly a part of a har­ness, but the har­ness had be­come worn out, and Al­bert had brought in the chain and giv­en it to the ba­by. The ba­by liked these play-​things very much in­deed,--both the peb­bles and the chain. When he was well, and nei­ther hun­gry nor sleepy, he was nev­er tired of play­ing with them,--try­ing to bite them, and jin­gling them to­geth­er.

“Now,” said Mary Er­sk­ine to the chil­dren, as they were sit­ting at the ta­ble, at the close of the break­fast, and af­ter Thomas had gone away, “you may go out and play for an hour while I fin­ish my morn­ing work, and put the ba­by to sleep, and then I want you to come in and have a school.”

“Who shall be the teach­er?” said Mary Bell.

“You shall be _one_,” said Mary Er­sk­ine.

“Are you go­ing to have two teach­ers?” asked Mary Bell. “If you do, then we can't have any schol­ars;--for the ba­by is not old enough to go to school.”

“I know it,” said Mary Er­sk­ine, “but we can have three schol­ars with­out him.”

“Who shall they be?” asked Mary Bell.

“You and I, and Bel­la,” an­swered Mary Er­sk­ine. “I will tell you what my plan is. I ex­pect that I shall con­clude to stay here, and live in this house alone for some years to come, and the chil­dren can not go to school, for there is now no­body to take them, and it is too far for them to go alone. I must teach them my­self at home, or else they can not learn. I am very sor­ry in­deed now that I did not learn to read and write when I was a child: for that would have saved me the time and trou­ble of learn­ing now. But I think I _can_ learn now. Don't you think I can, Mary?”

“Oh, yes, in­deed,” said Mary Bell, “I am sure you can. It is very easy to read.”

“I am go­ing to try,” con­tin­ued Mary Er­sk­ine, “and so I want you to teach me. And while you are teach­ing me, Bel­la may as well be­gin at the same time. So that you will have two schol­ars.”

“Three--you said three schol­ars,” re­joined Mary Bell.

“Yes,” said Mary Er­sk­ine. “You shall be the third schol­ar. I am go­ing to teach you to draw.”

“Do you know how to draw?” asked Mary Bell, sur­prised.

“No,” said Mary Er­sk­ine, “but I can show _you_ how to learn.”

“Well,” said Mary Bell, “I should like to learn to draw very much in­deed. Though I don't see how any body can teach a thing un­less they can do it them­selves.”

“Some­times they can,” said Mary Er­sk­ine. “A man may teach a horse to can­ter, with­out be­ing able to can­ter him­self.”

Mary Bell laughed at the idea of a man at­tempt­ing to can­ter, and said that she should be very glad to try to learn to draw. Mary Er­sk­ine then said that af­ter they had fin­ished their break­fast the chil­dren might go out an hour to walk and play, and that then when they should come in, they would find ev­ery thing ready for the school.

Mary Bell con­clud­ed to take a walk about the farm dur­ing the time which they were al­lowed to spend in play, be­fore the school was to be­gin. So she and Bel­la put on their bon­nets, and bid­ding Mary Er­sk­ine good morn­ing, they sal­lied forth. As they came out at the great stoop door their at­ten­tion was ar­rest­ed by the sound of a cow-​bell. The sound seemed to come from the barn-​yard.

“Ah,” said Mary Bell, “there is Queen Bess go­ing to pas­ture this morn­ing. How glad I was to see her yes­ter­day in the woods! Let us go and see her now.”

So say­ing she led the way around the cor­ner of the house, by a pleas­ant path through the high grass that was grow­ing in the yard, to­ward the barns. Bel­la fol­lowed her. They passed through a gate, then across a lit­tle lane, then through a gate on the oth­er side of the lane, which led in­to the barn-​yards. The barns, like the house, were built of logs, but they were very neat­ly made, and the yards around them were at this sea­son of the year dry and green.

Mary and Bel­la walked on across the barn-​yard un­til they got to the back side of the barn, when they found Thomas turn­ing the cows in­to a lit­tle green lane which led to the pas­ture. It was not very far to the pas­ture bars, and so Mary Bell pro­posed that they should go and help Thomas drive the cows. They ac­cord­ing­ly went on, but they had not gone far be­fore they came to a brook, which here flowed across the lane. The cows walked di­rect­ly through the brook, while Thomas got across it by step­ping over some stones at one side. Mary Bell thought that the spaces were a lit­tle too wide for Bel­la to jump over, so she con­clud­ed not to go any far­ther in that di­rec­tion.

Bel­la then pro­posed that they should go and see the new house. This Mary Bell thought would be an ex­cel­lent plan if Bel­la's moth­er would give them leave. They ac­cord­ing­ly went in to ask her. They found her in the back stoop, em­ployed in strain­ing the milk which Thomas had brought in. She was strain­ing it in­to great pans. She said that she should like to have the chil­dren go and see the new house very much in­deed, and she gave them the key, so that they might go in­to it. The chil­dren took the key and went across the fields by a wind­ing path un­til they came out in­to the main road again, near the new house. The house was in a very pleas­ant place in­deed. There was a green yard in front of it, and a place for a gar­den at one side. At the oth­er side was a wide yard open to the road, so that per­sons could ride up to the door with­out the trou­ble of open­ing any gate. The chil­dren walked up this open yard.

They went to the door, in­tend­ing to un­lock it with their key, but they were sur­prised to find that there was not any key hole. Mary Bell said that she sup­posed the key hole was not made yet. They tried to open the door, but they could not suc­ceed. It was ob­vi­ous­ly fas­tened on the in­side.

“Now how can we get in?” said Bel­la.

“I don't see,” replied Mary Bell, “and I can't think how they locked the door with­out any key-​hole.”

“Could not we climb in at one of the win­dows?” said Mary Bell,--“on­ly they are so high up!”

The chil­dren looked around at the win­dows. They were all too high from the ground for them to reach. There was, how­ev­er, a heap of short blocks and boards which the car­pen­ters had left in the yard near the house, and Mary Bell said that per­haps they could build up a “climb­ing pile” with them, so as to get in at a win­dow. She ac­cord­ing­ly went to this heap, and by means of con­sid­er­able ex­er­tion and toil she rolled two large blocks--the ends of sticks of tim­ber which the car­pen­ters had sawed off in fram­ing the house--up un­der the near­est win­dow. She placed these blocks, which were about two feet long, at a lit­tle dis­tance apart un­der the win­dow, with one end of each block against the house. She then, with Bel­la's help, got some short boards from the pile, and placed them across these blocks from one to the oth­er, mak­ing a sort of a floor­ing.

“There,” said Mary Bell, look­ing at the work with great sat­is­fac­tion, “that is _one_ sto­ry.”

Then she brought two more blocks, and laid them up­on the floor­ing over the first two, plac­ing the sec­ond pair of blocks, like the first, at right an­gles to the house, and with the ends close against it to keep them steady. On these blocks she laid a sec­ond floor­ing of short boards, which made the sec­ond sto­ry. She then stepped up up­on the stag­ing which she had thus built, to see if it was steady. It was very steady in­deed.

“Let _me_ get up on it,” said Bel­la.

Bel­la ac­cord­ing­ly climbed up, and she and Mary Bell danced up­on it to­geth­er in great glee for some time to show how steady it was.

Mary Bell then at­tempt­ed to open the win­dow. She found that she could open it a lit­tle way, but not far enough to get in. So she said that she must make one more “sto­ry.” They then both went back to the pile, and got two more blocks and an­oth­er board to lay across up­on the top of them for a floor­ing, and when these were placed, Mary Bell found that she could raise the win­dow very high. She got a long stick to put un­der it to hold it up, and then tried to climb in.

She found, how­ev­er, that the win­dow sill over which she was to climb was still rather too high; but, at length, af­ter var­ious con­sul­ta­tions and ex­per­iments, _Bel­la_ suc­ceed­ed in get­ting up by means of the help which Mary Bell, who was large and strong, gave her, by “boost­ing her,” as she called it, that is, push­ing her up from be­low while she climbed by means of her arms clasped over the win­dow sill above. Bel­la be­ing thus in the house, took the key, which Mary Bell hand­ed her for the pur­pose, and went along to the en­try to un­lock the door, while Mary Bell, step­ping down from the scaf­fold­ing, went to the door on the out­side, ready to en­ter when it should be opened. The chil­dren had no doubt that there was a key-​hole in the lock on the in­side, al­though there was none made in the door on the out­side.

When, how­ev­er, Bel­la reached the door on the in­side, she called out to Mary Bell, through the door, to say that she could not find any key-​hole.

“It is in the lock,” said Mary Bell.

“But there is not any lock,” said Bel­la.

“Is not there any thing?” asked Mary Bell.

“Yes,” said Bel­la, “there is a bolt.”

“Oh, very well, then, open the bolt,” replied Mary Bell.

Af­ter a great deal of tug­ging and push­ing at the bolt, Bel­la suc­ceed­ed in get­ting it back, but even then the door would not come open. It was new, and it fit­ted very tight. Bel­la said that Mary Bell must push from the out­side, while she held up the latch. Mary Bell ac­cord­ing­ly pushed with all her force, and at length the door flew open, and to their great joy they found them­selves both fair­ly ad­mit­ted to the house.

They ram­bled about for some time, look­ing at the dif­fer­ent rooms, and at the var­ious con­ve­niences for house-​keep­ing which Al­bert had planned, and which were all just ready for use when Al­bert had died. There was a sink in the kitchen, with a lit­tle spout lead­ing in­to it, from which the wa­ter was run­ning in a con­stant stream. It came from an aque­duct of logs brought un­der ground. There was a tin dip­per there up­on the top of the post which the wa­ter-​spout came out of, and Mary Bell and Bel­la had an ex­cel­lent drink from it the first thing. The kitchen floor was cov­ered with shav­ings, and the chil­dren played in them for some time, un­til they were tired. Then they went and got an­oth­er drink.

When they at last got tired of the kitchen, they went to a win­dow at the back side of the sit­ting-​room, which looked out to­ward the gar­den, and com­mand­ed al­so a beau­ti­ful prospect be­yond. They opened this win­dow in or­der to see the gar­den bet­ter. A fresh and de­light­ful breeze came in im­me­di­ate­ly, which the chil­dren en­joyed very much. The breeze, how­ev­er, in draw­ing through the house, shut all the doors which the chil­dren had left open, with a loud noise, and then hav­ing no longer any egress, it ceased to come in. The air seemed sud­den­ly to be­come calm; the chil­dren stood for some time at the win­dow, look­ing out at the gar­den, and at the pond, and the moun­tains be­yond.

At length they shut the win­dow again, and went to the door at which they had en­tered, and found it shut fast. They could not open it, for there was now no one to push up­on the out­side. Mary Bell laughed. Bel­la looked very much fright­ened.

“What shall we do?” said she. “We can't get out.”

“Oh, don't be afraid,” said Mary Bell, “we will get out some way or oth­er.”

She then tried again to open the door, ex­ert­ing all her strength in pulling up­on the latch, but all in vain. They were fi­nal­ly obliged to give up the at­tempt as ut­ter­ly hope­less.

Mary Bell then led the way to the win­dow where Bel­la had got in, and looked out up­on the lit­tle scaf­fold­ing. It looked as if the win­dow was too high above the scaf­fold­ing for them to get down there safe­ly. One of them might, per­haps, have suc­ceed­ed in de­scend­ing, if the oth­er had been out­side to help her down; but as it was, Mary Bell her­self did not dare to make the at­tempt.

“I will tell you what we will do,” said Mary Bell. “We will go to an­oth­er win­dow where there are no blocks be­low, and throw all the shav­ings out from the kitchen. That will make a soft bed for us to jump up­on.”

“Well,” said Bel­la, “let us do that.”

So they went to the kitchen, and open­ing one of the win­dows, they be­gan to gath­er up the shav­ings in their arms from off the floor, and to throw them out. They worked very in­dus­tri­ous­ly at this un­der­tak­ing for a long time, un­til the kitchen floor was en­tire­ly cleared. They picked out care­ful­ly all the sticks, and blocks, and pieces of board which were mixed with the shav­ings, be­fore throw­ing them out, in or­der that there might be noth­ing hard in the heap which they were to jump up­on. When the work was com­plet­ed, and all the shav­ings were out, they went to the win­dow, and lean­ing over the sill, they looked down.

“I wish we had some more shav­ings,” said Mary Bell.

“Yes,” said Bel­la, “that is too far to jump down. We can't get out any way at all.” So say­ing, she be­gan to cry.

“Don't cry, Bel­la,” said Mary Bell, in a sooth­ing tone. “It is no mat­ter if we can't get out, for your moth­er knows that we came here, and if we don't come home in an hour, she will come for us and let us out.”

“But per­haps there is a lad­der some­where,” added Mary Bell, af­ter a short pause. “Per­haps we can find a lad­der that the car­pen­ters have left some­where about. If there is, we can put it out the win­dow, and then climb down up­on it. Let us go and look.”

“Well,” said Bel­la, “so we will.”

The two chil­dren ac­cord­ing­ly set off on an ex­plor­ing tour to find a lad­der. Mary Bell went to­ward the front part of the house, and Bel­la in­to the back kitchen. They looked not on­ly in the rooms, but al­so in the pas­sage-​ways and clos­ets, and in ev­ery cor­ner where a lad­der could pos­si­bly be hid. At length, just as Mary Bell was go­ing up the stairs, in or­der to look in­to the lit­tle at­tic cham­bers, she heard Bel­la call­ing out from the back part of the house, in a tone of voice ex­pres­sive of great ex­ul­ta­tion and joy.

“She has found the lad­der,” said Mary Bell, and leav­ing the stairs she went to meet her.

She found Bel­la run­ning through the kitchen to­ward the en­try where Mary Bell was, call­ing out with great ap­pear­ance of de­light,

“I've found the key-​hole, Mary Bell! I've found the key-​hole!”

This was in­deed true. The lock to which the key that Mary Er­sk­ine had giv­en the chil­dren be­longed, was up­on the _back_ door, the prin­ci­pal door of the house be­ing fas­tened by a bolt. Mary Bell went to the back door, and eas­ily opened it by means of the key. Glad to dis­cov­er this mode of es­cape from their thral­dom, the chil­dren ran out, and ca­pered about up­on the back stoop in great glee. Present­ly they went in again and shut all the win­dows which they had opened, and then came out, lock­ing the door af­ter them, and set out on their re­turn home.

When they ar­rived, they found that Mary Er­sk­ine had got ev­ery thing ready for the school.