do what he wants us to.”
“Well, I’d like to know what he wants me to do, for I can’t find out any way to make it short. It’s just hateful, and I wish there wasn’t any such day,” replied Becky, turning restlessly about.
“Why, Rebecca Sleeper, how can you talk so? One of the things he wants folks to do is to go to meetin’ regular. You ought to know that well enough.”
“Does he?” said Becky, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Seems to me, Aunt Hulda, you don’t mind very well.”
“Lor, child, I’m a poor, afflicted creeter. He don’t expect me to do much but bear my troubles patiently; and I’m sure I do that,” said Aunt Hulda, forcing a look of resignation into her face.
“Don’t think much of goin’ to meetin’ anyhow,” said Teddy. “They always pokes us up in the gallery, and won’t let us go to sleep; and if old Fox, the sexton, ketches a feller firin’ spitballs, he jest whacks him on the head.”
“Then there are other ways to make the day short – readin’ the Bible and other good books.”
“Yes; ‘Family Physician,’ I s’pose,” said Teddy. “I jest wish I had Robinson Crusoe: that’s a first rate one.”
“Then a goin’ to see sick folks, and carryin’ ’em little dainties, is another; and that makes the day short, I tell you,” continued Aunt Hulda. “When I was a helpin’ Mrs. Lincoln, years and years ago, she used to say to me Sunday afternoons, ‘Hulda, don’t you want to clap on your bonnet and run over to the widder Starns with the basket?’ or, ‘Hulda, don’t you want to carry this jelly round to Mr. Peters? He’s terrible sick.’ And I used to go and go, and never feel a bit tired, because it was charitable work; and Sundays used to go quicker than week-days, and I was glad when they come round again. Now there’s poor Mr. York, Silly York’s father; poor man, he’s most gone with the consumption; now, if you only had a nice little bit of somethin’ good to take over to him, you don’t know how good you would feel, and how the time would fly! O, dear, if I was only strong and well! But what’s the use of talkin’? Here I’ve got the rheumatics so I can’t walk, and the neuralogy so I can’t sit still, and I’m afraid there’s a cancer comin’ on the end of my tongue, and then I can’t talk.”
Here Aunt Hulda ran out her tongue, and commenced exploring it with her finger to find a small pimple which had made its appearance that day. Becky lay very quiet on the sofa, watching Aunt Hulda, who, after the examination of her tongue, plunged into “The Family Physician” with anxious interest.
“Did she ever delight in doing good?” thought Becky, as she studied Aunt Hulda’s face with renewed interest. “Everybody calls her a nuisance, and everybody laughs at her complaints. She take nice things to sick folks, and feel good in doing it! And she says this is the Lord’s day – this long, weary day, – and can be made short and pleasant like the other six! Why, she talks like a minister!”
Aunt Hulda was a new being in the girl’s eyes. She began to reverence the afflicted spinster. She lay there so quiet that Teddy looked round in astonishment. His sister had been lying perfectly still for fifteen minutes. Such an occurrence startled him.
“Becky, what’s the matter? Sick – hey?”
“No, Teddy,” replied Becky, startled in turn; “I’m thinking – that’s all.”
“Don’t do it. ’Twill make you sick – see if it don’t.”
“I guess not, Teddy,” replied Becky, jumping up. “I’m going into the kitchen.”
Teddy followed her as she left the room.
“Teddy,” said Becky, solemnly, after she had softly closed the kitchen door behind them, “I expect we’re awful wicked.”
“Do you, though?” said Teddy, with staring eyes. “What for?”
“Because Sunday’s such a long day. Didn’t you hear what Aunt Hulda said? It’s the Lord’s day, and we can make it short or long, just as we try to do what he wants us to.”
“Well, what’s he want us to do?”
“To go to church, and not stay at home and pitch quates.”
“How are we goin’ to church without clo’es? My elbows are all out; so’s my knees. They’d send us home quick, I tell you.”
“I suppose they would,” replied Becky, thoughtfully. “Well, there’s one thing we might do – carry something nice to sick folks.”
“We ain’t got nothin’ nice, and don’t know any sick folks,” replied matter-of-fact Teddy, who failed to see anything time-shortening in Becky’s project.
“We know Mr. York, who’s got the consumption.”
“Well, we might go and catch some fish and take to him – only I’ve lost my line.”
“No; something better than that, Teddy. Now you run and get a basket. I know what to take.”
Teddy went into the wood-shed and soon returned with a very dilapidated basket.
“That will do nicely. Now let’s see what we can find to put into it,” said Becky, as she opened the door of the cupboard. “Here’s a bottle of currant wine; I guess that’s good for consumption; we’ll take that. And here’s a jar of preserves; they always give them to sick folks; we’ll take that. And here’s a box of sardines. I don’t know about that. Well, we’ll take it, any way.”
“Why, Becky, these things are what Mrs. Thompson sent to Aunt Hulda,” said Teddy, a little alarmed at Becky’s proceedings.
“So they are;” and Becky wavered a moment. “No matter; she’ll send her some more, I guess. Besides, Aunt Hulda won’t care, for we’re going to do good with them. There’s a pair of chickens, too; but I guess they’re most too hearty for sick folks. Now let’s be off.”
With the basket between them, they crept into the wood-shed, from there into a pasture behind the house, crossed that, climbed a fence, and struck into the Foxtown road. The Yorks lived upon this road, a good mile and a half from Mrs. Sleeper’s. The basket was a heavy, unwieldy affair, in which the “good things” bounced about in a very unsatisfactory manner; and the couple “changed hands” many times before they reached their destination.
In answer to Becky’s knock, the door was opened by Mrs. York, a short, buxom woman with a very pleasant face.
“Becky Sleeper – of all things! What in the world brought you here? and what have you got there?”
“Thought we’d come over and bring something to Mr. York. He’s sick – ain’t he?” answered Becky.
“Why, you good little soul! Come right in; my poor man will be dreadful glad to see you.”
Becky and Teddy accepted the cordial invitation, and were ushered into the presence of the “poor man.” Mr. York was by no means so far gone as people imagined. True, there were about him symptoms of the dread disease which New England makes a specialty; but he was a very lazy man, and took advantage of any slight cold to house himself and be nursed by his wife. Mrs. York was not an idle woman; she washed, ironed, and scrubbed in the neighborhood, when her husband worked at his trade; the moment he “felt bad” she dropped
