Chapter III: Up in the Morning Early

"Sweet, eager promises bind him to this,
Never to do so again."

He woke early next morning. He had so much to think of, you see. So much that even his dreams were full of all he had heard yesterday.

"Him's been d'eaming him was in the big, big, 'normous boat, and zen him d'eamed of being shuttened up in a t'unk like _poor_ little mother," he confided to Denny.

He was forced to tell Denny a good many things, because they slept in the same room, and, of course, everybody knows that _whatever_ mammas and nurses say, going-to-sleep-in-bed time is _the_ time for talking. Waking-up-in-the-morning time is rather tempting, too, particularly in summer, when the sun comes in at the windows _so_ brightly and the birds are _so_ lively, chattering away to each other, and all the world is up and about, except "_us_," who _have_ to stay in bed till seven o'clock! Ah, it _is_ a trial! On the whole, I don't think chattering in the mornings is so much to be found fault with as chattering at night. It is only children who are so silly as to keep themselves awake when the time for going to sleep has come. The birds and the bees, and the little lambs even, all know when that time has come, and go to sleep without any worry to themselves or other people. But children are not always so sensible. I _could_ tell you a story--only I am afraid if she were to read it in this little book it would make her feel so ashamed that I should really be sorry for her, so I will not tell you her name nor where she lives--of a little girl who was promised two pounds, two whole gold pounds--fancy! if for one month she would go quietly to sleep at night when she was put to bed, and let her sister do the same; and she was to lose two shillings every night she forgot or disobeyed. Well, what do you think? at the end of two weeks the two pounds had come down already to nineteen shillings! She had forgotten already ten times, or ten and a half times--I don't quite understand how it had come to nineteen, but so it had; and at the end of the month--no I don't think I will tell you what it had come down to. Only this will show you how much more difficult it is to get out of a bad habit than to get into a good one, for this little girl is very sweet and good in many ways, and I love her dearly--_only_ she had got into this bad habit, and it was stronger, as bad habits so often are, than her real true wish to do what her mother told her.

But I have wandered away from Herr Baby, and I am afraid you won't be pleased. He was forced, I was saying, to tell Denny a good many things, because he was most with her. I don't think he would have told her as much but for that, for Denny's head was a very flighty one, and she never cared to think or talk about the same thing for long together, which was not _at all_ Herr Baby's way. _He_ liked to think a good deal about everything, and one thing lasted him a good while.

"Him's been d'eaming such a lot," he said to Denny this morning.

"I think dreams are very stupid," said Denny. "What's the good of them? If they made things come _real_ they would be some good. Like, you know, if I was to dream somebody gave me something awfully nice, and then when I woke up I was to see the thing on my bed, _then_ dreams would be some good."

"But if zou d'eamed somesing dedful, like being shuttened up in a t'unk like _poor_ little mother, _zen_ it wouldn't be nice for it to come zeal," said Baby, who never forgot to look at things from both sides.

"No, of course it wouldn't. How stupid you are!" said Denny. "And how your head does run on one thing. I'm quite tired of you talking about mother being shut up in the trunk. Do talk of something else."

"Him can't talk of somesing else when him's sinking of one sing," said Baby gravely.

"Well, then don't talk at all," said Denny sharply, "and indeed I think we'd better be quiet, or Lisa will be coming in, and scolding us. It's only half-past six."

Baby did not speak for a minute or two. Then he said solemnly,

"When us goes away ac'oss the sea in the 'normous boat, him _hopes_ him won't sleep in the same zoom as you any more."

"I'm sure I hope not," said Denny snappishly. There was some excuse for her this morning, she was really rather sleepy, and it is very tiresome to be wakened up at half-past six, when one is quite inclined to sleep till half-past seven.

But Baby could not go to sleep again. His mind was still running on packing. If he could but have a _little_ box of his own to pack his own treasures in, then he would be sure none would be forgotten. He did not want a _big_ trunk--not one in which he could be shuttened up like mother, but just a nice little one. If mother would give him one! Stay--where had he seen one, just what he wanted, was it in the nursery or in the cupboard where Fritz kept his garden-tools and his skates, and all the big boy things which Baby too hoped to have of his own some day? No, it was not there. It must have been--yes, it was in the pantry when he went to ask James for a glass of water. Up on a shelf, high up it stood, "a tiny _sweet_ little t'unk," said Herr Baby to himself, "wouldn't mother let him have it?" He would ask her this morning as soon as he saw her. Then he lay still and thought over to himself all the things he would pack in the tiny sweet little t'unk; his best Bible with his name

"Raymond Arthur Aylmer,"

in the gold letters on the back, should have the nicest corner, of course, and his "_scented_ purse," as he called the Russia leather purse which grandfather had given him on his last birthday, that would go nicely beside the Bible, and his watch that _really_ ticked as long as you turned the key in it--all those things would fit in, nicely packed in "totton wool," of course, and crushy paper. The thought of it all made Baby's fingers fidget with eagerness to begin his packing. If only mother would give him the box! It must be mother's, for if it was James's he would keep it in his own room instead of up on the pantry shelf among all the glasses and cups. If Baby could just see it again he would know 'ezackly if it would do!

Baby looked about him. Everything was perfectly still, he heard no one moving about the house--Denny had said it was only half-past six.

"Denny," said Baby softly.

No reply.

"_Denny_," a very little louder.

Still no reply; but Baby, by leaning over the edge of his cot a little, could see that Denny's eyes were shut, and her nose was half buried in the pillow in the way she always turned it when she went to sleep. Denny had gone to sleep again.

"Zes," said Herr Baby to himself; "her's a'leep--her's beazing so soft."

He looked about him again; he stuck one little warm white foot out of bed--it did feel _rather_ cold; he felt more than half inclined just to cuddle himself up warm again and lie still till Lisa came to dress him. But the thought of the little t'unk was too much for him.

"Him would so like just to _see_ it," he said to himself.

Then he stood right up in bed and clambered over the edge of the cot the way he had to do to get out of it by himself. He did not make much noise--not enough to waken Denny, and indeed he would not much have minded if she _had_ awakened, only that perhaps she would have wanted to go too, and Baby wished just to go down to the pantry this quiet time of the morning before any one was there and take a good look by himself.

It was cold on the stair--just at the edge, that is to say, where the carpet did not cover, and where he had stepped without thinking, not being used to trotting about on bare feet, you see. But in the middle, on the carpet, it was nice and soft and warm.

"It would be dedful to be poor boys wif no shoes and stockings," he said to himself, "'cept on the carpet. Him would like to buy lots of lubly soft carpets for zem poor boys."

And he pitied the poor boys still more when he got to the back passage leading to the pantry, where there was no carpet at all, only oilcloth. He pattered along as fast as he could; there was no sound to be heard but the ticking of the clock, and Baby wondered that he had never noticed before what a loud ticking clock it was; it did not come into his head that it was very late for none of the servants to be down, for such matters were not his concern, and if he had known the truth that Denny had made a mistake of an hour, and that it was only half-past five instead of half-past six, he would not have thought much about it.

He got to the pantry at last. It was darker in here than in the passage outside, which was a disappointment. The shutters were shut, that was the reason, and when Baby looked up at them and saw how strong and barred they were, even _he_ felt that it would be no use to try to open them. He climbed up on to the dresser that ran round one side of the wall to see better. Yes, there it was--the tiny, sweet, little t'unk--just as he had been fancying it. Not so very high up either. If he could but give it a little poke out he could almost reach it down--it could not be heavy, it was _such_ a tiny t'unk; and, oh, if he could carry it out to the passage, where it was light, how beautifully he could look at it! He stood up on tiptoe, and found he could almost reach it. A brush with a sticking-out handle was lying beside him. Baby took it, and found that by poking it in a little behind the box he could make it move out, and if it were moved out a very little way he could reach to lift it down. He moved it out enough, then he stretched up his two hands to lift it down--it was not very heavy, but still rather heavier than he had thought. But with the help of his curly head, which he partly rested it on, he got it out safely enough, and was just slipping it gently downwards to the dresser when _somehow_ the brush handle, which he had left on the shelf, caught him or the box, he could not tell which, and, startled by the feeling of something pushing against him, Baby lost his balance and fell! Off the dresser right down on to the hard floor, which had no carpet even to make it softer, he tumbled, and the little t'unk on the top of him. What a noise it made--even in the middle of his fright Baby could not help thinking what a tremendous noise he and the box seemed to make. He lay still for a minute; luckily the box, though it had come straight after him, had fallen a little to one side, and had not hit him. He was bruised enough by the floor already--any more bumps would have been _too_ much, would they not? But the poor box itself was to be pitied; it had come open in the fall, and all that was in it had naturally tumbled out. _That_ explained the noise and clatter. The box had held--indeed it had been made on purpose to hold them--two beautiful glass jugs, which had been sent to mother all the way from Italy! Baby had never seen them, because they were only used when mother and auntie wanted the dinner-table to look very nice, and of course Baby was too little ever to come down to dinner. And, alas, the beautiful jugs, so fine and thin that one could almost have thought the fairies had made them, were both broken, one of them, indeed, crushed and shivered into mere bits of glass lying about the pantry floor, and the box itself had lost its lid, for the hinges had been broken, too, in the fall.

For a minute or two Baby could not make out what had happened. He felt a little stupid with the fall, and sore too. But he never was ready to cry for bumps or knocks; he would cry much more quickly if any one spoke sharply to him than if he hurt himself. So at first he lay still, wondering what was the matter. Then he sat up and looked about him, and _then_, seeing the broken box and the broken glass, he understood that he had done some harm, and he burst into piteous sobbing.

"Him didn't mean," he cried; "him didn't know there was nuffin in the tiny t'unk. Oh, what shall him do?"

He cried and sobbed, and, being now very frightened, he cried the more when he saw that there was blood on his little white nightgown, and that the blood came from one of his little cold feet, which had been cut by a piece of the broken glass. Baby was much more frightened by the sight of blood than by anything else--when he climbed up on the nursery chest of drawers, and Denny told him he'd be killed if he fell down, he didn't mind a bit, but when Lisa said that he might hurt his face if he fell, and make it _bleed_, he came down at once--and now the sight of the blood was too much.

"Oh, him's hurt hisself, him's all bleeding!" he cried. "Oh, _what_ shall him do?"

He dared not move, for he was afraid of lifting the cut foot--he really did not know what to do--when he heard steps coming along the passage, pattering steps something like his own, and before he had time to think who it could be, a second little white-night-gowned figure trotted into the room.

"Baby, poor Baby, what's the matter?" and, looking up, Baby saw it was Fritz.

"Him's hurt hisself, him's tumbled, and the tiny t'unk is brokened, and somesing else is brokened. Him didn't mean," he sobbed; and Fritz sat down on the floor beside him, having the good sense to keep out of the way of the broken glass, and lifted the little bleeding foot gently.

"Must have some sticking-plaster," said Fritz. "There's some in mother's pocket-book in her room. We must go to mother, Baby."

"But him can't walk," said Baby piteously. "Him's foot bleedens dedful when him moves it."

"Then I must carry you," said Fritz, importantly.

With some difficulty he got Baby on to his back and set off with him. Baby had often ridden on Fritz's back before, in the nursery, for fun, and it seemed very nice and easy. But now, though he had only his nightgown on, Fritz was surprised to find how heavy he seemed after going a little way. He was obliged to rest after he had gone up a few steps, and Baby began to cry worse than before when he saw how tired poor Fritz was. I really don't know how they ever got to the door of mother's room, and, when their knocking brought her out, it was rather a frightening sight for her--Baby perched on Fritz's back, both little boys looking white and miserable, and the wounded foot covered with blood.

But mother knew better than to ask what was the matter till she had done something to put things to rights again.

"Him's foot" was the first thing Baby said, stretching out his poor little toes.

And the foot looked so bad that mother felt quite thankful when she had bathed it and found that the cut was not really a very deep one after all. And when it was nicely plastered up, and both little boys were tucked into mother's bed to get warm again, then mother had to hear all about it. It was not much Fritz could tell. He, too, had wakened early, and had heard Denny and Baby talking, for he slept in a little room near theirs. He had fallen half asleep again, and started up, fancying he heard a noise and a cry, and, getting out of bed, had found his way to the pantry, guided by Baby's sobs. But what Baby was doing in the pantry, or why he had wandered off there all alone so early in the morning, Fritz did not know.

So Baby had to tell his own story, which he did straight on in his own way. He never thought of _not_ telling it straight on; he was afraid mother would be sorry when she heard about the "somesing" that was broken, but it had never entered his little head that one could help telling mother "ezackly" all about anything. And so he told the whole--how he had been "sinking" about trunks and packing, and "d'eaming" about them too, how Denny had been "razer c'oss" and wouldn't talk, and how the thought of the tiny sweet t'unk had come into his head all of itself, and he had fancied how nice it would be to go downstairs and look at it on the pantry shelf, and then how all the misfortunes had come. At the end he burst into tears again when he had to tell of the "somesing brokened," now lying about in shiny fragments on the pantry floor.

Poor mother! She knew in a minute what it was that was broken, and I cannot say but that she was very sorry, more sorry perhaps than Baby could understand, for she had had the pretty jugs many years, and the thoughts of happy days were mingled with the shining of the rainbow glass. Baby saw the sorry look on her face, and stretched up his two arms to clasp her neck.

"Him is so sorry, so werry sorry," he said. "Him will take all the money of him's money-box to buy more shiny jugs for mother."

Mother kissed him, but told him that could not be.

"The jugs came from a far-away country, Baby dear," she said, "and you could not get them here. Besides, I cared for them in a way you can't understand. I had had them a long time, and one gets to care for things, even if they are not very pretty in themselves, when one has had them so long."

"Oh ses, him does understand," said Baby. "Him cares for old 'sings, far best."

"Yes," said Fritz, "he really does, mother. He cries when Lisa says she must put away his old shoes, and his old woolly lamb is dreadful--really dreadful, but he _won't_ give it away."

"It _has_ such a sweet face," said Baby.

"Well I don't care; I wish it was burnt up. He mustn't take it in the railway with us when we go away; must he, mother?"

"Couldn't it be washed?" said mother.

"I don't think so, and I don't believe Baby would like it as much if it was. Would you, Baby?" said Fritz.

Baby would not answer directly. He seemed rather in a hurry to change the subject.

"Mother," he said, "when we go away in the 'normous boat, won't we p'raps go to the country where the shiny jugs is made? And if him takes all the money in him's money-box, couldn't him buy some for you?"

"They wouldn't be the same ones," said Fritz.

Baby's face fell. Mother tried to comfort him.

"Never mind about the jugs any more just now," she said. "Some day, perhaps, when you are a big man you will get me some others quite as pretty, that I shall like for your sake. What will please me more than new jugs just now, Baby, is for you to promise me not to try to do things like that without telling any one. Just think how very badly hurt you might have been. If only you had waited to ask me about the little box all would have been right, and my pretty jugs would not have been broken."

"And mother told us that last night, you know, dear," said Fritz, in his proper big brother tone. "Don't you remember in the story about her when she was little? It all came of her not waiting for her big sister to see about the trunk."

Baby gave a deep sigh.

"If God hadn't put so much 'sinking into him's head, it would have been much better," he said. "Him 'sinks and 'sinks, and zen him can't help wanting to do 'sings zat moment minute."

"Then 'him' must learn what _patience_ means," said mother with a little smile. "But I'll tell you what _I've_ been thinking--that if we don't take care somebody else may be hurting themselves with the broken glass on the pantry floor."

"P'raps the cat," said Baby, starting up, "oh _poor_ pussy, if her was to cut her dear little foots. Shall him go downstairs again, mother, to shut the door? Why, him's foot's still _zather_ bleedy," he added, drawing out the wounded foot, which had a handkerchief wrapped round it above the plaster.

"No," said his mother, "it will be better for me to tell the servants myself," so she rang the bell, and as it was now about the time that Denny had thought it when Baby first woke up, in a few minutes her maid appeared, looking rather astonished. She looked still more astonished, and a little afraid too, when she caught sight of the two curly heads, one dark and one light, on mother's pillow.

"Is there anything wrong with the young gentlemen?" she said. "Shall I call Lisa, my lady?"

"No, not quite yet," said mother. "I rang to tell you to warn James and the others that there is some broken glass on the pantry floor, and they must be careful not to tread on it, and it must be swept up."

"Broken glass, ma'am," repeated the maid, who was rather what Denny called "'quisitive." "Was it the cat? I did think I heard a noise early this morning."

"No, it wasn't the cat," said mother. "It was an accident. James will see what is broken."

The light curly head had disappeared by this time under the clothes, for Baby had ducked out of sight, feeling ashamed of its being known that _he_ had been the cat. But as soon as the maid had left the room he came up again to the surface like a little fish, and a warm feeling of thanks to his mother went through his heart.

"You won't tell the servants it were him, will you?" he whispered, stretching up for another kiss.

"No, not if 'him' promises never to try to do things like reaching down boxes for himself. Herr Baby must ask mother about things like that, mustn't he?" she said.

Mother often called him "Herr Baby" for fun. The name had taken her fancy when he was a very tiny child, and Lisa had first come to be his nurse. For Lisa was _very_ polite; she would not have thought it at all proper to call him "Baby" all by itself.

Herr Baby kissed mother a third time, which, as he was not a very kissing person, was a great deal in one morning.

"Ses," he said, "him will always aks mother. Mother is so sweet," he added coaxingly.

"He calls everything he likes 'sweet,'" said Fritz. "Mother and the cat and the tiny trunk--they're all sweet.'"

But mother smiled, so Baby didn't mind.