Cathy is a sufficiently good little scholar, for her
nine years; her mother taught her Spanish herself,
and kept it always fresh upon her ear and her tongue
by hardly ever speaking with her in any other tongue;
her father was her English teacher, and talked with
her in that language almost exclusively; French has
been her everyday speech for more than seven years
among her playmates here; she has a good working use
of governess—German and Italian. It
is true that there is always a faint foreign fragrance
about her speech, no matter what language she is talking,
but it is only just noticeable, nothing more, and
is rather a charm than a mar, I think. In the
ordinary child-studies Cathy is neither before nor
behind the average child of nine, I should say.
But I can say this for her: in love for her
friends and in high-mindedness and good-heartedness
she has not many equals, and in my opinion no superiors.
And I beg of you, let her have her way with the dumb
animals—they are her worship. It is
an inheritance from her mother. She knows but
little of cruelties and oppressions—keep
them from her sight if you can. She would flare
up at them and make trouble, in her small but quite
decided and resolute way; for she has a character
of her own, and lacks neither promptness nor initiative.
Sometimes her judgment is at fault, but I think her
intentions are always right. Once when she was
a little creature of three or four years she suddenly
brought her tiny foot down upon the floor in an apparent
outbreak of indignation, then fetched it a backward
wipe, and stooped down to examine the result.
Her mother said:
“Why, what is it, child? What has stirred
you so?”
“Mamma, the big ant was trying to kill the little
one.”
“And so you protected the little one.”
“Yes, manure, because he had no friend, and
I wouldn’t let the big one kill him.”
“But you have killed them both.”
Cathy was distressed, and her lip trembled.
She picked up the remains and laid them upon her palm,
and said:
“Poor little anty, I’m so sorry; and I
didn’t mean to kill you, but there wasn’t
any other way to save you, it was such a hurry.”
She is a dear and sweet little lady, and when she
goes it will give me a sore heart. But she will
be happy with you, and if your heart is old and tired,
give it into her keeping; she will make it young again,
she will refresh it, she will make it sing. Be
good to her, for all our sakes!
My exile will soon be over now. As soon as I
am a little stronger I shall see my Spain again; and
that will make me young again!
Mercedes.
CHAPTER III—GENERAL ALISON TO HIS MOTHER
I am glad to know that you are all well, in San Bernardino.
Copyrights
A Horse's Tale from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
