DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS, — I want the corner to myself this month, to tell you about one of our Sunday School Treats. You who live in the country, and who know the smell of the lilac and the sweet-scented May, whose lovely robe of whiteness seems even whiter beside the golden ringlets of its neighboring laburnum, can hardly imagine the pleasure of a look at the green fields, and the still greater pleasure of a good romp and revel in them. In some parts of London there are beautiful parks and gardens, but there are streets wherein hundreds and hundreds of children live who are not near these places, and who never see a cowslip or buttercup growing, except when they go out “with the treat.” Our school was in such a neighborhood, and it was good news to 250 boys and girls one Sunday afternoon to hear that they were to go by train thirty miles in the country and spend a day in a gentleman’s park.
The day came at last, after a fortnight’s wishings and counting of hours. The train at London Bridge was waiting at nine o’clock, with all the carriage doors open, and soon swallowed up the chatterboxes, and at a given signal we steamed out amid banners flying and rejoicings from the merry little throats that were piping so cheerfully. Steam was up, and away we went, and it was a matter of inquiry which was moving the fastest, the hedges and trees or the train; how they did seem to fly by us, and the stations, too, as though they wanted to get out of the way. And now we had a beautiful view of the real country — hills and dales, gardens and orchards, rivers and lakes, and it was a feast to little eyes; it did us teachers good to hear the notes of surprise and wonderment. But flowers and fields don’t fill hungry bellies, and so the sandwiches, and bread and treacle, and buttered rolls began to come out from all sorts of places. Sally Brown’s large “reticule” had seen better days. Some could only boast of a paper wrapper; but where two or three in a family came, a shiny bag contained provisions for the lot. Some had no lunch at all, and were reserving themselves for the tea in the park, “free, gratis, for nothing,” as they said.
A loud whistle three times, and a cry, “Here we are!” brought all the heads out of the windows it was possible to get through. And what a funny picture it looked! — with all the variety of combed and uncombed, straight and curly, and of all kinds and shades one sees in a hairdresser’s window, only not quite so proper looking! A few minutes more, and we are marching out of the station, two and two. A shout, announcing our arrival, brings the quiet cottagers to their doors, and sends the peaceful rooks flying from their leafy houses, cawing disapprobation at the intrusion.
A good brisk walk, and we are in the park, with its massive old oaks and solemn-looking elms, and after a winding path and climbing a hill; we are under a beautiful avenue of tall trees; and here we are met with a welcome from the lady and gentleman who are going to spew us “how to spend a happy day.” We come opposite the cottage near which the tents are fixed, and it is such a hot day, that the demand for water keeps a few hands drawing a supply — bucket after bucket — of, oh! such cold water! it does relish! we think it a treat, indeed. Then we are told that we can roam wherever we like, and do what we like.
But, better than that, we saw a donkey-load of playthings drive up — bats and balls, skipping-ropes, whistles, battledores and shuttlecocks, and bats and traps, and more than I can remember. As for the swings in the trees, they were just delightful. Some of the boys had never seen a park before, and what a fine sight to behold the graceful deer in companies fleeing to some distant glen, scared away by the little intruders. So every one did according to his fancy. Some fancied lingering by the tents, where the operation of cutting up bread and butter and prime currant cake was going on, although I’m sure anticipation was not the best part in that matter. Others went among the poultry; and the cackling of fowls and quacking of ducks and ducklings and gobblings of turkeys, were sounds quite new to their cars. Then, again, to have a romp among the sweet smelling hay, and tumble and toss each other amongst it, or under the haycocks, was delightful; and so the merry hours glided away, till the gong sounded the crowning triumph of the day.
Tables on the grass covered with white tablecloths, beautiful nosegays here and there on the tables, with heaps and heaps of prime bread and fresh butter, and cans of new milk and smoking tea. We all stood and sung our thanksgiving, and then began the battle between hungry boys and girls and cake and bread and butter. Column after column of the enemy fell, and still the officer brought up fresh supplies. The war waged for a considerable time, and if there had not been a good reserve, the boys and girls would have beaten; but as it was, cake and bread and butter finally got the victory, and had sole possession of the field. “Couldn’t eat a bit more,” was the sad confession of many a little one that had battled famously.
Another good run, then we collect together, and the old park rings with songs of praise. After a hearty shout — and a good many of them — to our kind friends, we get ready to march; but every little hand has a good bun put into it, and every mouth a good drink of lemonade. The ride home seemed longer — all the courage or spirits had oozed out up in the park. But that was a day long to be remembered.; it was a proper treat, and I think few enjoyed it more than your affectionate friend,
DOT.