bundles for something fine to end off with.
'I know! I've got something!' and away hurried Lizzie, who was there, and much interested in the work.
She came hopping back again, presently, with a roll in her hand, which she proudly spread out, saying—
'There! mother gave me that ever so long ago, but I never had any quilt to use it for, and now it's just what you want. You can't buy such chintz now-a-days, and I'm so glad I had it for you.'
'It's regularly splendid!' cried Patty, in a rapture; and so it was, for the pink and white was all covered with animals, and the blue was full of birds and butterflies and bees flying about as naturally as possible. Really lovely were the little figures and the clear, soft colours, and Aunt Pen clapped her hands, while Patty hugged her friend, and declared that the quilt was perfect now.
Mrs. Brown begged to be allowed to quilt it when the patches were all nicely put together, and Patty was glad to have her, for that part of the work was beyond her skill. It did not come home till the morning Patty left, and Aunt Pen packed it up without ever unrolling it.
'We will look at it together when we show it to mamma,' she said: and Patty was in such a hurry to be off that she made no objection.
A pleasant journey, a great deal of hugging and kissing, some tears and tender laments for baby, and then it was time to show the quilt, which mamma said was just what she wanted to throw over her feet as she lay on the sofa.
If there were any fairies, Patty would have been sure they had done something to her bed-cover, for when she proudly unrolled it, what do you think she saw?
Right in the middle of the white star, which was the centre-piece, delicately drawn with indelible ink, was a smiling little cherub, all head and wings, and under it these lines—
'While sister dear lies asleep,
Baby careful watch will keep.'
Then in each of the four gay squares that were at the corners of the strip that framed the star, was a white bit bearing other pictures and couplets that both pleased and abashed Patty as she saw and read them.
In one was seen a remarkably fine bun, with the lines—
'Who stole the hot bun
And got burnt well?
Go ask the lilac bush,
Guess it can tell.'
In the next was a plump, tailless bird, who seemed to be saying mournfully—
'My little tail, my little tail!
This bitter loss I still bewail;
But rather ne'er have tail again
Than Patty should deceive Aunt Pen.'
The third was less embarrassing, for it was a pretty bunch of flowers so daintily drawn one could almost think they smelt them, and these lines were underneath—
'Every flower to others given,
Blossoms fair and sweet in heaven.'
The fourth was a picture of a curly-haired child sewing, with some very large tears rolling down her cheeks and tumbling off her lap like marbles, while some tiny sprites were catching and flying away with them as if they were very precious—
'Every tender drop that fell,
Loving spirits caught and kept;
And Patty's sorrows lighter grew,
For the gentle tears she wept.'
'Oh, aunty! what does it all mean?' cried Patty, who had looked both pleased and ashamed as she glanced from one picture to the other.
'It means, dear, that the goods and bads got into the bed-quilt in spite of you, and there they are to tell their own story. The bun and the lost tail, the posy you took to poor Lizzie, and the trouble you bore so sweetly. It is just so with our lives, though we don't see it quite as clearly as this. Invisible hands paint our faults and virtues, and by-and-bye we have to see them, so we must be careful that they are good and lovely, and we are not ashamed to let the eyes that love us best read there the history of our lives.'
As Aunt Pen spoke, and Patty listened with a thoughtful face, mamma softly drew the pictured coverlet over her, and whispered, as she held her little daughter close—
'My Patty will remember this; and if all her years tell as good a story as this month, I shall not fear to read the record, and she will be in truth my little comforter.'
Volume 2
Table of Contents
PREFACE.
There is a sort of fate about writing books of travel which it is impossible to escape. It is vain to declare that no inducement will bribe one to do it, that there is nothing new to tell, and that nobody wants to read the worn-out story: sooner or later the deed is done, and not till the book is safely shelved does peace descend upon the victim of this mysterious doom.
The only way in which this affliction may be lightened to a long-suffering public is to make the work as cheerful and as short as possible. With this hope the undersigned bore has abstained from giving the dimensions of any church, the population of any city, or description of famous places, as far as in her lay; but confined herself to the personal haps and mishaps, adventures and experiences, of her wanderers.
To explain the undue prominence given to Miss Lavinia, it should be stated that she is an old and intimate friend of the compiler of this frivolous work; and therefore her views on all subjects, though less valuable, were easier to obtain than those of the younger and more interesting shawl-strappists.
L.
