"I to the hills will lift mine eyes —
The purple hills of Paradise."
That's all! Now laugh! And if you do, I shan't ever love you again. Father smiles and says that very likely I did put them together, but that the last line is in a book of poems by a man named Trowbridge.
Well, what if it is? Can't I think it and Mr. Trowbridge too? I never saw his old book. Why, I could not read then, and he couldn't know what a little girl was thinking, sitting down by Esk-waterside and watching the purple hills – till I was told to come in and haste-me-fast, because the dew was falling.
But of course I don't tell this to everybody. They would call it sentiment. But I pity the little lonely girl who doesn't have "thinks" like that all to herself, which she would die sooner than tell to anybody except to her Dear Diary.
After the boys got bigger and could romp, I didn't have nearly so many thinks – not time enough, I suppose. Boys need a heap of watching. At first they have no soul – only a mouth to be silly with, teeth to eat with, and a Little Imp inside each to make them pesterful and like boys.
Well, little by little, I made a collection of things that were of my color – all in my head, of course.
"League upon rolling league of imperial purple!"
I think it was father who wrote that, and I believe his heart was pretty big and proud within him, seeing his own heathery country spread out before him when he did it. I wonder if something went cluck-cluck (like a hen) at the bottom of his throat? It does in mine sometimes.
Then there is "the Purple Wine of the Balkans," and "the wine-hearted sea" – but that last I only heard of at school.
And I liked a story about an Irish patriot who, when they brought him an address of honor with a green cover, told them to take it away and bind it in purple, the color of the heather.
Also I loved to read about heroines with "eyes like the purple twilight," though just at present these are scarce in our part of the country. One of our forbears (funny word – for we are the Four Bears, the little ones! Somebody I know is the Big Big Growly – only don't tell him!) well, one of our ancestors – immediate ancestors, I mean – left us blue eyes, but as we grew older they all turned gray, which I think unfair.
Later on, I loved to be told about the "purple Codex" – that is, the Gospels written out on purple vellum in letters all gold. That must be lovely. I tried to stain a sheet with Amethystine ink, and print on it in gold paint. But it only looked blotchy and stupid – you never saw such a mess. So I thought it was better just to dream about the Codex.
I wasn't born in the purple myself, but I resolved early never to marry anybody that wasn't. And I should have a purple nursery, and purple bibs, and a purple "prim-pram," and a nurse with purple strings to her caps, and baby should live exclusively on preserved violets (candied) and beautiful purple jelly.
Then wouldn't she be a happy child? Not commonplace like me, and compelled to wear a clean white pinafore. They don't half know how to bring up children now-a-days.
Oh, how I do wish that I had been "born in the purple!"
But I wasn't, and white soils so easily. You see, if the purple were only dark enough, you wouldn't get scolded half so much, and they wouldn't all the time be telling you that milk food is "so wholesome"! Oh, how tired I am of being told that!
Still, after all, chocolate isn't bad, and you can easily make believe that it is purple instead of brown.
At least I can. And it tastes just the same.
Good-by, Dear, my Diary. There's Nurse calling.
III
PRESENTS
Still the Same Age. But no Date.
I wish we could choose our own presents, don't you?
People give you surprises, or think they do. For mostly you can tell pretty well by keeping an eye on the parcels and things as they come in. Or one of the servants tells you, or you hear the Grown-ups whispering when they think you are not attending. Attending! Why, you are always attending. How could you learn else? They did just the same themselves, only they forget.
Of all presents, I hate most "useful" ones – "to teach you how to keep your things tidy," and what "you will be sure to need by and by, you know, dear!"
For when the time comes you've had it so long that you don't care a button about it. I suppose there are some Miss Polly Prinks who like things to put on. But I haven't got to that yet. Nor yet money that you are told you mustn't spend. There ought to be a "Misfit Presents' Emporium," where you could take all the presents you don't care about and get them exchanged for what you do.
"Please, sir, can I have a nice lot of the newest books with the prettiest pictures for four Jack-in-the-boxes, eight dolls (three dressed), a windmill and a Noah's Ark, that only wants Noah and one of his son's wives' legs?"
"Let me see them, miss, please!"
"Can I look at the books on that shelf?"
"Oh, these are the adventure books for Grown-ups," says the man; "children don't read such thing now-a-days – something in the picture-book way, Miss —Little Sambo and the Seven Pious Pigs, or How many Blue Beans make Five?"
But I would know ever so much better, and would have down half-a-dozen Grown-up books that just make your eyes stand out of your head like currants in a ginger-bread bunny. That's what I like. No children's books for me. And I'd have them all chosen as soon as the Presents' Exchange man had made sure that none of the paws were knocked off the green kangaroo, and that the elephant still owned a trunk.
It is a good idea, isn't it? What do you think? About the Exchange, I mean.
Once my Uncle Tom got a birthday present from Aunt Margaret. It was a set of fire-irons for the drawing-room grate! And when her birthday came round Uncle Tom chose for her present —a pipe-rack for the smoking-room!
I think that was fine – and so does Hugh John.
Now I am not complaining. August the tenth is my birthday, and it is a good time for birthdays – being sufficiently long before Christmas. I pity the poor people who were born in early January. Also presents are good at our house, and there are enough of us to change round among ourselves if any mistakes do occur. But what I really want to tell you about is what happened to Little Sarah Brown, who lives just outside our gate.
Sarah's people are very poor and her father makes them poorer by going and drinking – as he says, "To drown Dull Care." My father says if he let Dull Care alone and drowned himself it would be better for every one all round. And that's a good deal for father to say, mind you, because he believes dreadfully in letting people alone.
Well, Little Sarah Brown's mother was ill most of the time. She had a cough and couldn't do washing, so Little Sarah came to our house to run messages and go to the post with big letters when father said so. It was pretty nice for Sarah too, because every second Saturday she got half-a-sovereign from father. He grabbled deep in his pocket until he found a piece of about the size, looked if it was gold, and handed it over to Little Sarah.
Just fancy carrying about real-for-true gold like that! Some people are dreadfully careless. Well, one time Little Sarah went up to the library to get her Saturday's money. Father was mooning about among his books, and shoved something at her, telling her gruffly to be off. He hadn't time to be thanked then, but would see about it on Monday!
And do you know – it was a whole big sovereign he had given her! Now of course he never knew. He wouldn't have found out in twenty centuries, and Little Sarah knew it. She did not notice till she was nearly home, and then she stopped under a lamp-post that was early lighted to look at what was in her hand.
Yes, it was a sovereign. Nothing less!
And, do you know, a bad, bad boy named Pete Bolton came behind Little Sarah and gave her hand a good knock up.
She