Joanna Mathews - Bessie on Her Travels

“I don’t think it’s fair to tease the poor man,” said Bessie, “he has to be so stupid all the time, and he is so dutiful too. Let’s go away, Captain Brooks, and not let him be teased any more.”

So the captain took them away in search of other novelties; but Maggie and Bessie did not forget “the poor, stupid man,” as the latter called him, meaning only that she thought he passed his time in such a dull, uninteresting manner; and they set their young wits to work to see if they could not do him some kindness.

“I don’t see the good of it,” said Lily. “The captain said he was a surly old fellow, any way, and didn’t care to talk much when he could. I guess we’d better just let him alone.”

“We oughtn’t to judge by appearances,” said Maggie, gravely. “Bessie and I have learned that.”

“But not till we’d performed some pretty bad mistakes,” said Bessie: “so take a lesson of us.”

“Tell us about them,” said Belle; and accordingly Belle and Lily were much interested in hearing of Lem and the silver cup, and of Aunt Patty; Maggie also confessing how she had for a long time misjudged Mrs. Jones, of Quam Beach, because she had a disagreeable manner.

Old ocean seemed to wish to make amends, during the last two days of the short voyage, for the tossing and rolling he had given our friends during the first. It was as smooth as a river almost, and broke itself up into little wavelets which seemed formed only to sparkle and catch the sunshine. The weather was warm and summer-like, growing more and more so the farther south they went; and the children spent the whole of their time on deck, even taking their meals there: for though Maggie declared herself “all right now,” she could not eat when taken below, and it was “such fun” to have breakfast, dinner, and tea, sent up to them and eaten on deck in such impromptu fashion, that the others were only too glad of the excuse of bearing her company. Mamma and Mrs. Norris preferred it too; so they had quite a sociable, cosey time of it.

As for Bessie, she wanted “no better contentment” than to sit watching the sea. The sky; the waves; the white sea-gulls, which now and then came sailing round on their snowy wings; the other vessels they saw in the far distance, or sometimes near at hand; the huge porpoises which threw themselves with a sudden leap and plunge out from the water and back again, – each and all had their charm for her; and, if undisturbed, she would sit for hours, her doll clasped in her arms, gazing her fill, and thinking her own thoughts. Happy, peaceful thoughts they were too, if one might judge by the expression of her sweet little face.

“How my Bessie loves the sea, does she not?” said her father, sitting down beside her one time when he found her thus absorbed.

“Yes, papa, dearly; but then I love the real sea better.”

“But this is the real sea, darling.”

“But I mean the real, real sea, papa; the true, very sea,” said the little girl.

“I do not know how you could have more real sea than this, dear,” said her father, rather at a loss to know what she could mean. “We are many, many miles from land. You can see none on any side. It is water, water, the real true ocean, all around us, as far and farther than our eyes can reach. You do not mean that you would have it rough and stormy?”

“Oh, no, papa!” Bessie answered, rather puzzled herself how to make her meaning plain to her father; “but I mean that kind of sea where the waves come slowly, slowly on the beach, all white and curly, and make that nice sound I like so much. It does not come in this kind of a sea.”

“Oh, ho!” said her father, “I understand. It is the seashore you are longing for, even more than the open sea itself. Well, perhaps one of these days, you may be there again.”

“Oh! do you think I might be, papa? Oh, that would be so delightful!” and she turned her little, eager, wistful face to her father with such a sparkle in her eye.

“I think it more than likely that such a thing will come to pass, Bessie,” said Mr. Bradford; but he did not tell her what a pleasant surprise awaited her in the course of her summer travels.

“Papa,” she said again presently, “do not these dear little waves we have to-day make you think of our Maggie? They seem just like her, as if they were dancing and laughing, and so glad and gay.”

“Yes,” said her father, pleased at the pretty conceit of the affectionate little sister, “and God’s sunshine, pouring down upon these merry waves and touching them with light and sparkle, is like the love and tenderness which make our Maggie’s heart so gay and happy.”

“And I am a little bit of Maggie’s sunshine: am I not, papa?” asked the sweet Bessie.

The reply came in a squeeze, half a dozen smothering kisses, and a squeal meant to express affection and delight, from Maggie herself, who, coming up behind them and hearing Bessie’s question, answered after her own peculiar fashion.

Yes: they were both true sunbeams, these two dear little girls: sunbeams as all children may be, because they were happy; happy because they were good and generous and loving; sunbeams to one another and to all around them, shedding light and brightness wherever they passed.

“Bessie,” said Maggie, when she had done hugging and kissing her sister, “I’ve made a very surprising discovery. Do you see that little girl sitting over there? I’ve seen her before.”

“Yes,” answered Bessie. “She’s a kind of errand girl and helps the stewardess. Yesterday morning when you were so sick she brought some ice for you; but I didn’t speak to her, ’cause I felt so bad about you.”

“But, do you know who her father is, Bessie?”

“No,” said Bessie. “Who?”

“That man downstairs, the steam-clock man. Isn’t that very curious?”

“Why, yes. How did you find out, Maggie?”

“Well, Belle and Lily and I were there, while you looked at the water, and that child came and stood by us; and she looked so very wishful at our dolls, that I told her she might hold Bessie Margaret Marion a little while if she would be careful of her; and you don’t know how pleased she seemed then; and, Bessie, what do you think, the poor child never had a doll in her life, ’cept only a rag one, and she has no mother or sisters or any one but her father; and the captain lets her live with her father on board the steamer; and she tries to help the stewardess and run about; and she don’t like the sea a bit, she is so tired of being on it most all the time; and she’s just my age, only a year older; and Lily asked her if her father was a cross patch to her, and she was rather mad at that, and said no: he was good and kind as could be, and she loved him dearly. And so I told her Lily did not mean to make her mad, – only we thought perhaps she did not find him very interesting ’cause he would not talk much. But she did not seem to like that very much either: so I said, very quickly, that maybe the reason her father did not talk much was because he had so much thinking to do; and then she looked pleased again, and said yes, that was it, but he always talked enough to her. And then I told her I felt so very sorry for him, ’cause he had to walk up and down that little place, with nothing to do but to look at those old clock things; and I knew I never could be so strict with my duty, for I would be sure to laugh or talk or something.”

“And didn’t she look pleased when you said that about her father?” asked Bessie, when Maggie had come to the end of this long story.

“Oh, yes! And she said he did not like to do it, but he had to make a living,” answered Maggie.