This audio was created with an artificial voice for the audiobook initiative on Sermon Audio. Chapter Four A Holiday Days passed on, slowly at first but soon more rapidly. It was on Monday that I had arrived at Hazelmere Hall, and now Saturday was here. I had grown to feel at home in the new place, and already I was stronger and learning to be more active. In the little lodging-house I had had no chance of using such strength as I possessed, but here in this great house, with its large rooms and spacious hall all on a level, I could hobble about on my crutches easily enough, and soon learn to be quite nimble and adventurous. Fresh air, fresh milk, and all the other fresh, good things of life which used to be unattainable, helped on wonderfully. Aunt Mary's loving and judicious encouragement and approval were a great incentive to wholesome exertion. I had been rather proud of my weakness in past days, and had clung to my invalid habits. Now I began to feel ashamed of them, and to try to throw them off. His raptures over flowers and leaves I could as yet hardly understand, but I could appreciate his pride and joy when he brought me, carefully shielded in his cap, four or five little wee chickens, like variegated balls of floss silk, and told me that they were his own hens laying and hatching, and that there were eleven of them in all. He told me he had a sitting of duck's eggs under another of his hens, and that he was going to buy another as soon as he had collected money enough. Somebody had offered him a fine sitting of Aylesbury duck's eggs at half a crown, and he was very keen about them. I never could make out whether his love for plants or his love for animals was the greater. From the windows or the veranda I was for ever seeing him tramping over the fields and park, always with his great mastiff king at his heels, and often with half a dozen smaller dogs in full cry after him, His beautiful little black horse, which he had broken himself, Ted told me, would follow him about like a dog, and when mounted on his back, sometimes without saddle or bridle, there seemed nothing he would not dare. They flew over the ground like the wind, clearing hedges and ditches in their course. Nothing seemed to daunt them. Ted would say admiringly that Geoffrey could do anything. He had an honest belief in his brother, which I thought very generous, and he never seemed the least bit jealous of his superior strength and courage. But I must continue my story. The Saturday after my arrival was a day long to be remembered, for upon that day I made my first acquaintance with real fields and woods. Saturday was always a holiday with my little companions, and this particular day rose so wonderfully bright And the sun shone with such heat and power that Aunt Mary said, as I was growing used to the outside air, I might have a drive in the pony chaise and be out of doors from 11 till 3, provided the sun still kept out, and that we might take our dinner with us and have it in the woods. The prospect was enchanting and filled me with excitement and delight. I had no idea what country lanes were like, nor what woods looked like in the early springtime. The pony chaise came to the door, drawn by a pretty glossy brown pony, which was quite to be trusted to Jeffrey's guidance. I sat beside him, well wrapped up and covered all over by the great fur carriage rug. And Ted, perched up behind on the back seat, with the basket of provisions at his feet, kept us all alive by his merry chatter as we drove along. I had never seen anything like it. I could hardly speak or listen, so absorbed was I by the fresh, tender loveliness of everything around. Geoffrey's eyes were everywhere, spying out at each turn some marvellous indication of the early season. How he could distinguish one plant from another by their tiny green leaves, nestling down in bank or ditch, was more than I could even guess. It seemed almost uncanny to my untrained eyes. And then we reached the wood, not a very dense one, and not gloomy or dark, for the trees were yet leafless, only showing by their swelling buds that summer was drawing near. The undergrowth was rather thick, but it was not yet green, only budding, and beneath, on the soft brown turf and moss, sprouting from amongst their veil of fallen leaves and dry wood, were clumps of pale primroses, of deep golden daffodils, and, more shy and sweet still, purple and white violets, nestling down in sheltered hollows among the great tree-roots. The sun shone warmly in through the network of branches and made a soft quivering light which was like nothing I had ever seen before. I held my breath to gaze. Geoffrey had turned off from the main road and was driving slowly down a rough grass-grown track that was evidently but little used. When we seemed to be in the heart of the wood he stopped and said, Now, Ted, jump down. You help Arnold along to the brook where we always camp. It isn't very far, nor very rough. I'll leave the basket here and take the pony to the inn, and then I'll run back and carry it along with me." But Ted's bright face clouded suddenly. Oh, Jeff, don't do that. Why should you? Why, it's a mile and a half to the inn, and you'll be half the time we have, coming and going, two journeys. Let's take Brownie out of the shafts. He'll never run away. We can tether him up too, and you know how to harness him when we have to go. We always used to do so with the old donkey. Yes," assented Geoffrey. Then he added doubtfully, but didn't Papa say we weren't to do so with the pony? I'm almost sure he did. Ted made no answer just at once, and then his face and voice alike took their most sweet and coaxing expression as he said, Never mind this once, Jeff. I'm sure Papa wouldn't mind just this time. Besides, we're not quite sure he ever said it. It will quite spoil our day if you are away so long. Arnold has never been in a wood before, and you can tell him so much more about the things than I can. Do stay, dear Geoff." Geoffrey hesitated and seemed reluctant to yield, although the proposition was very much to his liking, but he never could resist Ted's pleading, and the younger brother carried the day triumphantly. I could see that Geoffrey's conscience pricked him, and that he was not easy in his mind, but, boy-like, he quickly forgot all discomfort in the delights of a holiday in the woods. I shall never forget the beauty and glorious freedom of that day. Had I been able to run about and play, I could not have been more utterly content and wonder-stricken. You boys who have run wild in the woods all your lives can never understand one tithe of what I experienced, and I shall not try to describe my sensations. No one could have been a better companion on such a day than Geoffrey. He seemed unable to tire of answering questions and responding to my raptures, For once I found him more sympathetic than Ted, who grew weary from time to time of our talk, and would wander away in search of other amusement. "'Jeffrey,' I said suddenly on one of these occasions. I was of a speculative turn, often puzzled by strange fancies, with which I liked to puzzle others in turn. "'Jeffrey, when you look round at all this, and see the sun and the trees and the flowers, and hear the birds, and look up right away into the sky, what do you think about?' What is it makes you feel happy and glad? Tell me what you feel. It is all strange to me. I can't understand myself. Geoffrey looked at me and knitted his brow, and then he gazed slowly all round him, and his answer came presently, spoken with a certain thoughtful deliberation, not like his usual impetuous enthusiasm. You mean you want to know what makes it all seem so beautiful? What makes us feel that we have to be glad and may be glad? What is the best part of all? Why, yes, I suppose so, I answered, perplexed by the change that had come over Geoffrey's face, which I could not comprehend in its joyous serenity. Well, I think the best of it all is that God made it, and that he likes us to enjoy it and to be happy, don't you?" The answer was so unexpected, and was spoken so quietly and as a matter of course that I was quite taken aback. It was about the last idea I should have expected to hear from Geoffrey's lips, and certainly nothing had been further from my own thoughts. I looked blank and said nothing, and was glad that Ted returned the next minute. We must be going, said Geoffrey. It is nearly three, and Aunt Mary only gave us till then. Ted pleaded for another half hour, and was sure Aunt Mary would not mind, but this time Geoffrey was firm, and we were soon in marching order. Ted carried the empty basket and the flowers and treasures we had collected, and Geoffrey helped me carefully over the rough ground. I was surprised to find him so strong, so gentle and so thoughtful. The pony and chaise were safe enough where we had left them, and the business of harnessing Brownie was set in motion. Now Brownie was well enough used to a game of play with his little masters, but he did not understand that they were not playing now. He capered and frisked, and tossed up his head and his heels, and in fact did everything that he ought not, and nothing that he ought. I, looking on at the three, saw pretty plainly that if Geoffrey had been alone he could have managed the creature well enough. But with Ted dancing about, laughing, shouting and clapping his hands, he could not make the pony stand still for a moment. At last, by dint of great exertions, they managed to get him between the shafts. When, with a sudden last display of energy, he threw his heels once more into the air and kicked a great hole right through the splash board. And the pony shays had only just been done up for the season. Both boys stood aghast for a moment, and then Jeffrey, without a word, began to fasten the straps and secure the pony in the traces. Jeffrey, what shall we do? Get home as fast as we can. He has not done anything to stop us. It is only the splashboard that is hurt. But Jeff, what will Papa say? He will be so angry. Yes, it was disobedience. That always makes him angry. Jeff, what shall you do? Shall you tell him? Of course I shall. But I mean all about it. Why should you? He would think it just an accident and not be angry. Hush, Ted, said Geoffrey with a quick look of pain, which the thought of his father's displeasure had failed to awaken. I shall tell him. It was my fault. I am the eldest. Come, Arnold, let me help you in. And he is coming home tonight, murmured Ted, looking ruefully at the broken carriage. The drive home was a silent one. End of chapter four, A Holiday. This audio was created with an artificial voice for the audiobook initiative on Sermon Audio. There may be mispronunciations or occasional repetitions. To report a mistake, please email us at info at sermonaudio.com and include the sermon ID or title of the message and the time at which the error occurs. We will do our best to get it corrected for future listeners.