“I won’t kiss you, mamma; but I will show Miss Grey my schoolroom, and my new books.”
“And my schoolroom, and my new books, Tom,” said Mary Ann. “They’re mine too.”
“They’re mine,” replied he decisively. “Come along, Miss Grey—I’ll escort you.”
When the room and books had been shown, with some bickerings between the brother and sister that I did my utmost to appease or mitigate, Mary Ann brought me her doll, and began to be very loquacious on the subject of its fine clothes, its bed, its chest of drawers, and other appurtenances; but Tom told her to hold her clamour, that Miss Grey might see his rocking-horse, which, with a most important bustle, he dragged forth from its corner into the middle of the room, loudly calling on me to attend to it. Then, ordering his sister to hold the reins, he mounted, and made me stand for ten minutes, watching how manfully he used his whip and spurs. Meantime, however, I admired Mary Ann’s pretty doll, and all its possessions; and then told Master Tom he was a capital rider, but I hoped he would not use his whip and spurs so much when he rode a real pony.
“Oh, yes, I will!” said he, laying on with redoubled ardour. “I’ll cut into him like smoke! Eeh! my word! but he shall sweat for it.”
This was very shocking; but I hoped in time to be able to work a reformation.
“Now you must put on your bonnet and shawl,” said the little hero, “and I’ll show you my garden.”
“And mine,” said Mary Ann.
Tom lifted his fist with a menacing gesture; she uttered a loud, shrill scream, ran to the other side of me, and made a face at him.
“Surely, Tom, you would not strike your sister! I hope I shall never see you do that.”
“You will sometimes: I’m obliged to do it now and then to keep her in order.”
“But it is not your business to keep her in order, you know—that is for—”
“Well, now go and put on your bonnet.”
“I don’t know—it is so very cloudy and cold, it seems likely to rain;—and you know I have had a long drive.”
“No matter—you must come; I shall allow of no excuses,” replied the consequential little gentleman. And, as it was the first day of our acquaintance, I thought I might as well indulge him. It was too cold for Mary Ann to venture, so she stayed with her mamma, to the great relief of her brother, who liked to have me all to himself.
The garden was a large one, and tastefully laid out; besides several splendid dahlias, there were some other fine flowers still in bloom: but my companion would not give me time to examine them: I must go with him, across the wet grass, to a remote sequestered corner, the most important place in the grounds, because it contained his garden. There were two round beds, stocked with a variety of plants. In one there was a pretty little rose-tree. I paused to admire its lovely blossoms.
“Oh, never mind that!” said he, contemptuously. “That’s only Mary Ann’s garden; look, this is mine.”
After I had observed every flower, and listened to a disquisition on every plant, I was permitted to depart; but first, with great pomp, he plucked a polyanthus and presented it to me, as one conferring a prodigious favour. I observed, on the grass about his garden, certain apparatus of sticks and corn, and asked what they were.
“Traps for birds.”
“Why do you catch them?”
“Papa says they do harm.”
“And what do you do with them when you catch them?”
“Different things. Sometimes I give them to the cat; sometimes I cut them in pieces with my penknife; but the next, I mean to roast alive.”
“And why do you mean to do such a horrible thing?”
“For two reasons: first, to see how long it will live—and then, to see what it will taste like.”
“But don’t you know it is extremely wicked to do such things? Remember, the birds can feel as well as you; and think, how would you like it yourself?”
“Oh, that’s nothing! I’m not a bird, and I can’t feel what I do to them.”
“But you will have to feel it some time, Tom: you have heard where wicked people go to when they die; and if you don’t leave off torturing innocent birds, remember, you will have to go there, and suffer just what you have made them suffer.”
“Oh, pooh! I shan’t. Papa knows how I treat them, and he never blames me for it: he says it is just what he used to do when he was a boy. Last summer, he gave me a nest full of young sparrows, and he saw me pulling off their legs and wings, and heads, and never said anything; except that they were nasty things, and I must not let them soil my trousers: and Uncle Robson was there too, and he laughed, and said I was a fine boy.”
“But what would your mamma say?”
“Oh, she doesn’t care! she says it’s a pity to kill the pretty singing birds, but the naughty sparrows, and mice, and rats, I may do what I like with. So now, Miss Grey, you see it is not wicked.”
“I still think it is, Tom; and perhaps your papa and mamma would think so too, if they thought much about it. However,” I internally added, “they may say what they please, but I am determined you shall do nothing of the kind, as long as I have power to prevent it.”
He next took me across the lawn to see his mole-traps, and then into the stack-yard to see his weasel-traps: one of which, to his great joy, contained a dead weasel; and then into the stable to see, not the fine carriage-horses, but a little rough colt, which he informed me had
