Young Folks' Treasury, Volume 3 — Simple Susan: Good News

GOOD NEWS

When they came to their own cottage-door, they heard voices, and they saw, when they entered, two ladies standing in the kitchen.

"Come in, Susan," said Miss Somers, "I fancy you forgot that we promised to pay you a visit this evening; but you need not blush so much, there is no great harm done; we have only been here about five minutes and we have been admiring your neat garden and your tidy shelves.

Is it you, Susan, who keeps these things in such nice order?"

went on Miss Somers, looking round the kitchen.

Before Susan could reply, little William pushed forward and answered, "Yes, ma'am, it is my sister Susan that keeps everything neat; and she always comes to school for us too, which was what caused her to be so late."

"Because," went on John, "she would not refuse to let us hear a blind man play on the harp.

It was we who kept her, and we hope, ma'am, as you seem so good, you won't take it amiss."

Miss Somers and her sister smiled as they listened to Susan's little brothers, but what they heard made them feel sure that Susan was indeed as kind a sister as the housekeeper had said.

When the ladies left the cottage, they took Susan with them through the village.

"I fancy we shall find what we want here," said Miss Somers, stopping before a shop-window where ribbons of all colors were displayed, and where lace collars, glass buttons and sheets of pins were laid out in order.

They went in, and on the shelves behind the counter saw gay, neat linens and calicoes.

"Now, Susan, choose yourself a gown," said Miss Somers.

"Because you are a busy girl and behave well, we wish others to see that such is the conduct we approve."

The shopkeeper was the father of Susan's friend, Rose.

He stretched his arm to the highest shelf, then dived into drawers beneath the counter, sparing no pains to show the best goods to his customers.

Susan did not show the interest that might have been expected.

She was thinking much of her lamb and more of her father.

Miss Somers had put a bright guinea into her hand and told her to pay for her own gown.

But Susan felt that this was a great deal of money to spend upon a frock for herself, and yet she did not know how to ask if she might keep it for a better purpose.

Although Susan said nothing, Miss Somers read in her face that she was perplexed.

"She does not like any of these things," whispered the lady to her sister.

"She seems to be thinking of something else," was the low reply.

"If you do not fancy any of these calicoes," said the shopkeeper to Susan, "we shall have a larger choice soon."

"Oh," answered Susan, with a smile, and a blush, "these are all too good for me, but--" "But what, Susan?"

asked Miss Somers.

"Tell us what is passing in your little mind."

Susan said nothing.

"Well then, it does not matter.

You do not know us very well yet.

When you do, you will not, I am sure, be afraid to be frank.

Put the guinea in your pocket and make what use of it you please.

From what we know and from what we have heard of you, we are sure you will make a good use of it."

"I think, madam," said the shopkeeper, "I have a pretty good guess what will become of that guinea, but I say nothing."

"No, that is right," said Miss Somers; "we leave Susan to do just as she likes with it, and now we must not keep her any longer.

Good night, Susan, we shall soon come again to your neat cottage."

Susan courtesied and looked gratefully at the ladies, but did not speak.

She wished to say, "I cannot explain to you here, with people around, what I want to do with my guinea, but when you come to our cottage you shall know all."

After Susan had left, Miss Somers turned to the obliging shopkeeper who was folding up all the goods he had opened.

"You have had a great deal of trouble," she said, "and as Susan will not choose a gown for herself, I must find one for her," and she chose the prettiest.

While the man rolled up the parcel, Miss Somers asked him many questions about Susan, and he was only too glad to be able to tell what he knew about the good girl.

"No later than last May morning," he said, "Susan acted as it will please you to hear.

She was to have been Queen of the May, which among the children in our village is a thing a good deal thought of.

But Susan's mother was ill, and Susan, after being up with her all night, would not go out in the morning, even when they brought the crown to her.

She put it upon my daughter Rose's head with her own hands, and to be sure Rose loves her as well as if she were her own sister.

If I praise Susan it is not that I am any relation of the Prices, but just that I wish her well, as does every one that knows her.

I'll send the parcel up to the Abbey, shall I, ma'am?"

"If you please," said Miss Somers, "and as soon as your new goods come in, let us know.

You will, I hope, find us good customers and well-wishers," she added, with a smile, "for those who wish others well surely deserve to have well-wishers themselves."

But to return to Susan.

When she left the shop she carefully put the bright guinea into the purse with the twelve shillings her little friends had given her on Mayday.

She next added, as far as she could remember them, the bills for bread that were owing to her, and found they came to about thirty-eight shillings.

Then she hoped that by some means or other she might, during the week her father was to remain at home, make up the nine guineas that would enable him to stay with them altogether.

"If that could but be," she said to herself, "how happy it would make my mother!

She is already a great deal better since I told her my father would stay for a week longer.

Ah!

but she would not have blessed Attorney Case, if she had known about my poor Daisy."

Susan had now reached the path that led to the meadow by the river-side.

She wanted to go there alone and take leave of her lamb.

But her little brothers, who were watching for her return, ran after her as soon as they saw her and overtook her as she reached the meadow.

"What did that good lady want with you?"

cried William; but looking up in his sister's face, he saw tears in her eyes, and he was silent and walked on quietly.

Susan saw her lamb by the water-side.

"Who are those two men?"

said William.

"What are they going to do with Daisy?"

The two men were Attorney Case and the butcher.

The butcher was feeling whether the lamb was fat.

Susan sat down upon the bank in silent sorrow.

Her little brothers ran up to the butcher and asked whether he was going to do any harm to the lamb.

The butcher did not answer, but the Attorney replied, "It is not your sister's lamb any longer; it's mine."

"Yours!"

cried the children with terror; "and will you kill it?"

"No, that is what the butcher will do."

The little boys now burst into loud cries.

They pushed away the butcher's hand; they threw their arms round the neck of the lamb; they kissed its forehead.

It bleated.

"It will not bleat to-morrow!"

said William, and he wept bitterly.

The butcher looked aside, and hastily rubbed his eyes with the corner of his blue apron.

The Attorney stood unmoved; he pulled up the head of the lamb, which had just stooped to crop a mouthful of clover.

"I have no time to waste," he said.

"Butcher, I leave it to you.

If it's fat--the sooner the better.

I've nothing more to say."

And he walked off, deaf to the prayers of the poor children.

As soon as the Attorney was out of sight, Susan rose from the bank where she was seated, came up to her lamb, and stooped to gather some of the fresh dewy clover, that she might feed her pet for the last time.

Poor Daisy licked the well-known hand.

"Now, let us go," said Susan.

"I'll wait as long as you please," said the butcher.

Susan thanked him, but walked away quickly, without looking back.

Her little brothers begged the man to stay a few minutes, for they had gathered a handful of blue speedwell and yellow crowsfoot, and they were decking the poor animal.

As it followed the boys through the village, the children looked after them as they passed, and the butcher's own son was among the number.

The boy remembered Susan's firmness about the shilling, for it had saved him a beating.

He went at once to his father to beg him to spare the lamb.

"I was thinking about it myself," said the butcher.

"It's a sin to kill a pet lamb, I'm thinking.

Anyway, it's what I'm not used to, and don't fancy doing.

But I've a plan in my head and I'm going straightway to Attorney Case.

But he's a hard man, so we'll say nothing to the boys, lest nothing comes of it.

Come, lads," he went on, turning to the crowd of children, "it is time you were going your ways home.

Turn the lamb in here, John, into the paddock for the night."

The butcher then went to the Attorney.

"If it's a good, fat, tender lamb you want for Sir Arthur," he said, "I could let you have one as good or better than Susan's and fit to eat to-morrow."

As Mr. Case wished to give the present to Sir Arthur as soon as he could, he said he would not wait for Susan's lamb, but would take the one offered by the butcher.

In the meantime Susan's brothers ran home to tell her that the lamb was put into the paddock for the night.

This was all they knew, but even this was some comfort to the poor girl.

Rose was at Farmer Price's cottage that evening, and was to have the pleasure of hearing Susan tell her father the good news that he might stay at home for one week longer.

Mrs. Price was feeling better and said that she would sit up to supper in her wicker armchair.

As Susan began to get ready the meal, little William, who was standing at the house-door watching for his father's return, called out suddenly, "Susan, why here is our old man!"

"Yes," said the blind harper, "I have found my way to you.

The neighbors were kind enough to show me where-abouts you lived; for, though I didn't know your name, they guessed who I meant by what I said of you all."

Susan came to the door, and the old man was delighted to hear her speak again.

"If it would not be too bold," said he, "I'm a stranger in this part of the country, and come from afar off.

My boy has got a bed for himself here in the village; but I have no place.

Could you be so kind as to give an old blind man a night's lodging?"

Susan said she would step in and ask her mother, and she soon returned with an answer that he was heartily welcome, if he could sleep upon the children's bed, which was but small.

The old man entered thankfully, and, as he did so, struck his head against the low roof.

"Many roofs that are twice as high do not shelter folk so kind," he said.

For he had just come from the house of Mr. Case, and Barbara, who had been standing at the hall-door, said he could have no help there.

The old man's harp was set down in Farmer Price's kitchen, and he promised to play a tune for the boys before they went to bed, as their mother had given them leave to sit up to supper with their father.

The farmer came home with a sad face, but how soon did it brighten, when Susan, with a smile, said to him, "Father, we've good news for you!

good news for us all!

--You have a whole week longer to stay with us; and perhaps," she went on, putting her little purse into his hands--"perhaps with what's here, and the bread-bills, and what may somehow be got together before a week's at an end, we may make up the nine guineas.

Who knows, dearest mother, but we may keep him with us for ever!"

As she spoke, she threw her arms round her father, who pressed her to him without speaking, for his heart was full.

It was some little time before he could believe that what he heard was true;

but the smiles of his wife, the noisy joy of his little boys, and the delight that shone in Susan's face at last convinced him that he was not in a dream.

As they sat down to supper, the old harper was made welcome to his share of the simple meal.

Susan's father, as soon as supper was finished, even before he would let the harper play a tune for his boys, opened the little purse which Susan had given him.

He was surprised at the sight of the twelve shillings, and still more, when he came to the bottom of the purse to see the bright golden guinea.

"How did you come by all this money, Susan?"

said he.

"How, I can't make out, except by the baking," said her proud mother.

"Hey, Susan, is this your first baking?"

"Oh, no, no," said her father, "I have the money for her first baking snug here, besides, in my pocket.

I kept it for a surprise, to do your mother's heart good, Susan.

Here's twenty-nine shillings, and the Abbey bill, which is not paid yet, comes to ten more.

What think you of this, wife?

Have we not a right to be proud of our Susan?

Why," he went on, turning to the harper, "I ask your pardon for speaking before strangers in praise of my own child; but the truth is the fittest thing to be spoken, I think, at all times.

Here's your good health, Susan.

Why, by and by she'll be worth her weight in gold--in silver at least.

But tell us, child, how came you by all this wealth, and how comes it that I don't go to-morrow?

The happy news makes me so gay, I'm afraid I shall hardly understand it rightly.

Speak on, child--but first bring us a bottle of the good mead you made last year from your own honey."

Susan did not like to tell the story of her guinea-hen, of the gown, and of her poor lamb.

Part of this would seem as if she were speaking of her own good deeds, and part of it she did not like to remember.

But her mother begged to know the whole, and she told it as simply as she could.

When she came to the story of her lamb, her voice faltered, and everybody present was touched.

The old harper sighed once, and cleared his throat several times.

He then asked for his harp, and after tuning it for long, he played the air he had promised to the boys.

VIII