Christmas gold, p.418
Christmas Gold, page 418
"Di'n't it go this way?" said Dotty, smoothing the sheet with her little hand, "and this way?"
"What? What?" Susy roused herself and rubbed her eyes. "O, yes, it went in checks; and I was at grandma Parlin's, and Grace—Grace—O, Grace and I went into the pasture where there were a couple of cows, a gray cow and a red cow."
"Now you must say what is couple," says Dotty.
"Then what is couple?"
"Gray cow," answers Dotty, very gravely.
"So when the cows saw us coming, they—they—O, they threw up their heads, and stopped eating grass—in the air. I mean—threw—up—their heads." Susy was nearly asleep.
"Up in the air?"
"Yes, of course, up in the air. (There, I will wake up!) And the gray cow began to run towards us, and Grace says to me, 'O, my, she thinks you're a pumpkin!'"
"You?"
"Yes, me, because my dress was so yellow. I was just as afraid of the cow as I could be."
"Good cow! He wouldn't hurt!"
"No, the cow was good, and didn't think I was a pumpkin, not the least speck. But I was so afraid, that I crept under the bars, and ran home."
"To grandma's house?"
"Yes; and grandma laughed."
"Well, where was me?" was the next question, after a pause.
Then, when the duty of story-telling was performed, Susy would gladly have gone back to "climbing the dream-tree;" but no, she must still listen to Dotty, though she answered her questions in an absent-minded way, like a person "hunting for a forgotten dream."
One morning she was going to ride with her cousin Percy. It had been some time since she had seen Wings, except in the stable, where she visited him every day.
But Dotty had set her heart on a rag-baby which Susy had promised to dress, and Prudy was anxious that Susy should play several games of checkers with her.
"O, dear," said the eldest sister, with the perplexed air of a mother who has disobedient little ones to manage. "I think I have about as much as I can bear. The children always make a fuss, just as sure as I want to go out."
The old, impatient spirit was rising; that spirit which it was one of the duties of Susy's life to keep under control.
She went into the bathing-room, and drank off a glass of cold water, and talked to herself a while, for she considered that the safest way.
"Have I any right to be cross? Yes, I think I have. Here Dotty woke me up, right in the middle of a dream, and I'm sleepy this minute. Then Prudy is a little babyish thing, and always was—making a fuss if I forget to call her Rosy Frances! Yes, I'll be cross, and act just as I want to. It's too hard work to keep pleasant; I won't try."
She walked along to the door, but, by that time, the better spirit was struggling to be heard.
"Now, Susy Parlin," it said, "you little girl with a pony, and a pair of skates, and feet to walk on, and everything you want, ain't you ashamed, when you think of that dear little sister you pushed down stairs—no, didn't push—that poor little lame sister!—O, hark! there is your mother winding up that hard splint! How would you feel with such a thing on your hip? Go, this minute, and comfort Prudy!"
The impatient feelings were gone for that time; Susy had swallowed them, or they had flown out of the window.
"Now Rosy Frances Eastman Mary," said she, "if your splint is all fixed, I'll comb your hair."
The splint was made of hard, polished wood and brass. Under it were strips of plaster an inch wide, which wound round and round the poor wounded limb. These strips of plaster became loose, and there was a little key-hole in the splint, into which Mrs. Parlin put a key, and wound up and tightened the plaster every morning. This operation did not hurt Prudy at all.
"Now," said Susy, after she had combed Prudy's hair carefully, and put a net over it, until her mother should be ready to curl it, "now we will have a game of checkers."
Prudy played in high glee, for Susy allowed her to jump all her men, and march triumphantly into the king-row, at the head of a victorious army.
"There, now, Rosy," said Susy, gently, "are you willing to let me go out riding? I can't play any more if I ride, for I must dress Dotty's doll, and feed my canary."
"O, well," said Prudy, considering the matter, "I'm sick; I tell you how it is, I'm sick, you know; but—well, you may go, Susy, if you'll make up a story as long as a mile."
Susy really felt grateful to Prudy, but it was her own gentle manner which had charmed the sick child into giving her consent.
Then Susy proceeded to dress Dotty's doll in a very simple fashion, with two holes for short sleeves, and a skirt with a raw edge; but she looked kind and pleasant while she was at work, and Dotty was just as well pleased as if it had been an elegant costume she was preparing. And it was really good enough for a poor deformed rag-baby, with a head shaped like a stove-pipe.
Susy was delighted to find how well a little patience served her in amusing "the children." Next, she went to give Dandy his morning bath. Mrs. Parlin still thought it a dangerous practice, but had not seen Mrs. Mason, to question her about it, and Susy was too obstinate in her opinion to listen to her mother.
"I must do it," said Susy; "it has been ever so long since Dandy was bathed, and I shouldn't take any comfort riding, mamma, if I didn't leave him clean."
Susy plunged the trembling canary into his little bathing-bowl, in some haste. He struggled as usual, and begged, with his weak, piping voice, to be spared such an infliction. But Susy was resolute.
"It'll do you good, Ducky Daddles; we mustn't have any lazy, dirty birdies in this house."
Ducky Daddies rolled up his little eyes, and gasped for breath.
"O, look, mother!" cried Susy, laughing; "how funny Dandy acts! Do you suppose it's to make me laugh? O, is he fainting away?"
"Fainting away! My dear child, he is dying!"
This was the sad truth. Mrs. Parlin fanned him, hoping to call back the lingering breath. But it was too late. One or two more throbs, and his frightened little heart had ceased to beat; his frail life had gone out as suddenly as a spark of fire.
Susy was too much shocked to speak. She stood holding the stiffening bird in her hands, and gazing at it.
Mrs. Parlin was very sorry for Susy, and had too much kindness of feeling to add to her distress by saying,—
"You know how I warned you, Susy."
Susy was already suffering for her obstinacy and disregard of her mother's advice; and Mrs. Parlin believed she would lay the lesson to heart quite as well without more words. It was a bitter lesson. Susy loved dumb creatures dearly, and was just becoming very fond of Dandy.
In the midst of her trouble, and while her eyes were swollen with tears, her cousin Percy came with Wings and the sleigh to give her the promised ride. Susy no longer cared for going out: it seemed to her that her heart was almost broken.
"Well, cousin Indigo, what is the matter?" said Percy; "you look as if this world was a howling wilderness, and you wanted to howl too. What, crying over that bird? Poh! I can buy you a screech-owl any time, that will make twice the noise he could in his best days. Come, hurry, and put your things on!"
Susy buried her face in her apron.
"I'll compose a dirge for him," said Percy.
"My bird is dead, said Susy P.,
My bird is dead; O, deary me!
He sang so sweet, te whee, te whee;
He sings no more; O, deary me!
Go hang his cage up in the tree,
That cage I care no more to see.
My bird is dead, cried Susy P."
These provoking words Percy drawled out in a sing-song voice. It was too much. Susy's eyes flashed through her tears.
"You've always laughed at me, Percy Eastman, and plagued me about Freddy Jackson, and everything, and I've borne it like a—like a lady. But when you go to laughing at my poor little Dandy that's dead, and can't speak—"
Susy was about to say, "Can't speak for himself," but saw in time how absurdly she was talking, and stopped short.
Percy laughed.
"Where are you going with that cage?"
"Going to put it away, where I'll never see it again," sobbed poor Susy.
"Give it to me," said Percy: "I'll take care of it for you."
If Susy's eyes had not been blinded by tears, she would have been surprised to see the real pity in Percy's face.
He was a rollicking boy, full of merriment and bluster, and what tender feelings he possessed, he took such a wonderful amount of pains to conceal, that Susy never suspected he had any. She would have enjoyed her ride if she had not felt so full of grief. The day was beautiful. There had been a storm, and the trees looked as if they had been snowballing one another; but Susy had no eye for trees, and just then hardly cared for her pony.
Percy put the cage in the sleigh, under the buffalo robes; and when they reached his own door, he carried the cage into the house, while Susy drew a sigh of relief. He offered to stuff Dandy, or have him stuffed; but Susy rejected the idea with horror.
"No, if Dandy was dead, he was all dead; she didn't want to see him sitting up stiff and cold, when he couldn't sing a speck."
Chapter VIII.
Annie Lovejoy
Table of Contents
But the day was not over yet. The bright sun and blue sky were doing what they could to make a cheerful time of it, but it seemed as if Susy fell more deeply into trouble, as the hours passed on.
There are such days in everybody's life, when it rains small vexations from morning till night, and when all we can do is to hope for better things to-morrow.
It was Wednesday; and in the afternoon, Flossy Eastman came over with a new game, and while the little girls, Flossy, Susy and Prudy were playing it, and trying their best to keep Dotty Dimple's prying fingers and long curls out of the way, in came Miss Annie Lovejoy.
This was a little neighbor, who, as the children sometimes privately declared, was "always 'round." Mrs. Parlin had her own private doubts about the advantages to be derived from her friendship, and had sometimes gone so far as to send her home, when she seemed more than usually in the way.
Annie's mother lived next door, but all Mrs. Parlin knew of her, was what she could see and hear from her own windows; and that little was not very agreeable. She saw that Mrs. Love joy dressed in gaudy colors, and loaded herself with jewelry; and she could hear her scold her servants and children with a loud, shrill voice.
The two ladies had never exchanged calls; but Annie, it seemed, had few playmates, and she clung to Susy with such a show of affection, that Mrs. Parlin could not forbid her visits, although she watched her closely; anxious, as a careful mother should be, to make sure she was a proper companion for her little daughter. So far she had never known her to say or do anything morally wrong, though her manners were not exactly those of a well-bred little girl.
This afternoon, when the new game was broken up by the entrance of Annie, the children began the play of housekeeping, because Prudy could join in it. Susy found she enjoyed any amusement much more when it pleased the little invalid.
"I will be the lady of the house," said Annie, promptly, "because I have rings on my fingers, and a coral necklace. My name is Mrs. Piper. Prudy,—no, Rosy,—you shall be Mrs. Shotwell, come a-visiting me; because you can't do anything else. We'll make believe you've lost your husband in the wars. I know a Mrs. Shotwell, and she is always taking-on, and saying, 'My poor dear husband,' under her handkerchief; just this way."
The children laughed at the nasal twang which Annie gave to the words, and Prudy imitated it to perfection, not knowing it was wrong.
"Well, what shall I be?" said Susy, not very well pleased that the first characters had been taken already.
"O, you shall be a hired girl, and wear a handkerchief on your head, just as our girl does; and you must be a little deaf, and keep saying, 'What, ma'am?' when I speak to you."
"And I," said Florence, "will be Mr. Peter Piper, the head of the family."
"Yes," returned Annie, "you can put on a waterproof cloak, and you will make quite a good-looking husband; but I shall be the head of the family myself, and have things about as I please!"
"Well, there," cried Flossy, slipping her arms into the sleeves of her cloak, "I don't know about that; I don't think it's very polite for you to treat your husband in that way."
Flossy wanted to have the control of family matters herself.
"But I believe in 'Woman's Rights,'" said Annie, with a toss of the head, "and if there's anything I despise, it is a man meddling about the house."
Here little Dotty began to cause a disturbance, by sticking a fruit-knife into the edges of the "what-not," and making a whirring noise.
"I wouldn't do so, Dotty," said Susy, going up to her; "it troubles us; and, besides, I'm afraid it will break the knife."
"I don't allow my hired girl to interfere with my children," said Annie, speaking up in the character of Mrs. Piper; "I am mistress of the house, I'd have you to know! There, little daughter, they shan't plague her; she shall keep on doing mischief; so she shall!"
Dotty needed no coaxing to keep on doing mischief, but hit the musical knife harder than ever, giving it a dizzy motion, like the clapper in a mill.
Prudy was quite annoyed by the sound, but did not really know whether to be nervous or not, and concluded to express her vexation in groans: the groans she was giving in memory of the departed Mr. Shotwell, who had died of a "cannon bullet."
"My good Mrs. Shotwell," said Mrs. Piper, trying to "make conversation," "I think I have got something in my eye: will you please tell me how it looks?"
"O," said Prudy, peeping into it, "your eye looks very well, ma'am; don't you 'xcuse it; it looks well enough for me."
"Ahem!" said Mrs. Piper, laughing, and settling her head-dress, which was Susy's red scarf: "are your feet warm, Mrs. Shotwell?"
"Thank you, ma'am," replied Prudy, "I don't feel 'em cold. O, dear, if your husband was all deaded up, I guess you'd cry, Mrs. Piper."
Susy and Flossy looked at each other, and smiled. They thought Prudy seemed more like herself than they had known her for a long time.
"You must go right out of the parlor, Betsey," said Mrs. Piper, flourishing the poker; "I mean you, Susy—the parlor isn't any place for hired girls."
"Ma'am?" said Susy, inclining her head to one side, in order to hear better.
"O, dear! the plague of having a deaf girl!" moaned Mrs. Piper. "You don't know how trying it is, Mrs. Shotwell! That hired girl, Betsey, hears with her elbows, Mrs. Shotwell; I verily believe she does!"
"O, no, ma'am," replied Prudy; "I guess she doesn't hear with her elbows, does she? If she heard with her elbows, she wouldn't have to ask you over again!"
This queer little speech set Mr. Piper and his wife, and their servant, all to laughing, and Betsey looked at her elbows, to see if they were in the right place.
"Will you please, ma'am," said Prudy, "ask Betsey to hot a flatiron? I've cried my handkerchief all up!"
"Yes; go right out, Betsey, and hot a flatiron," said Mrs. Piper, very hospitably. "Go out, this instant, and build a fire, Betsey."
"Yes, go right out, Betsey," echoed Mr. Piper, who could find nothing better to do than to repeat his wife's words; for, in spite of himself, she did appear to be the "head of the family."
"It was my darlin' husband's handkerchief," sobbed Prudy.
"Rather a small one for a man," said Mr. Piper, laughing.
"Well," replied Prudy, rather quick for a thought, "my husband had a very small nose!"
Mrs. Piper tried to make more "conversation."
"O, Mrs. Shotwell, you ought to be exceeding thankful you're a widow, and don't keep house! I think my hired girls will carry down my gray hairs to the grave! The last one I had was Irish, and very Catholic."
Prudy groaned for sympathy, and wiped her eyes on that corner of her handkerchief which was supposed to be not quite "cried up."
"Yes, indeed, it was awful," continued Mrs. Piper; "for she wasalways going to masses and mass-meetings; and there couldn't anybody die but they must be 'waked,' you know."
"Why, I didn't know they could be waked up when they was dead," said Prudy, opening her eyes.
"O, but they only make believe you can wake 'em," said Mrs. Piper; "of course it isn't true! For my part, I don't believe a word an Irish girl says, any way."
"Hush, my child," she continued, turning to Dotty, who was now sharpening the silver knife on the edges of the iron grate. "Betsey, why in the world don't you see to that baby? I believe you are losing your mind!"
"That makes me think," said Prudy, suddenly breaking in with a new idea; "what do you s'pose the reason is folks can't be waked up? What makes 'em stay in heaven all the days, and nights, and years, and never come down here to see anybody, not a minute?"
"What an idea!" said Annie. "I'm sure I don't know."
"Well, I've been a thinkin'," said Prudy, answering her own question, "that when God has sended 'em up to the sky, they like to stay up there the best. It's a nicer place, a great deal nicer place, up to God's house."
"O, yes, of course," replied Annie, "but our play—"
"I've been a thinkin'," continued Prudy, "that when I go up to God's house, I shan't wear the splint. I can run all over the house, and he'll be willing I should go up stairs, and down cellar, you know."
Prudy sighed. Sometimes she almost longed for "God's house."
"Well, let's go on with our play," said Annie, impatiently. "It's most supper-time, Mrs. Shotwell. Come in, Betsey."
"Ma'am?" said Betsey, appearing at the door, and turning up one ear, very much as if it were a dipper, in which she expected to catch the words which dropped from the lips of her mistress. "Betsey, have you attended to your sister—to my little child, I mean? Then go out and make some sassafras cakes, and some eel-pie, and some squirrel-soup; and set the table in five minutes: do you hear?"
"Ma'am?" said the deaf servant; 'what did you say about ginger-bread?"
Susy did not like her part of the game; but she played it as well as she could, and let Annie manage everything, because that was what pleased Annie.
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