The Party.
Poor, sick mother was holding her head with her hand as she spoke. I hated myself so that I wanted to scream.
"Hattie," stammered I, taking one of the tiny ones by the hand, "come out in the garden, and I'll get you some pretty posies." Of course the rest followed like a flock of sheep. But we had hardly reached the garden before I saw three or four more girls coming. It was of no use; something must be done at once. I left the A B C girls staring at the garden gate, and ran to the house for dear life.
"Mamma, mamma!" cried I, as soon as I could get my breath; and then I rolled myself up into a little ball of anguish on the parlor carpet.
"Where's the camfire?" exclaimed Mrs. Duffy, springing up; "that child's really a fainting off." Mother came to me and took my hands; she says I was so pale that it quite startled her. "Where do you feel sick, dear?" she asked tenderly.
That sympathetic tone broke me down entirely. My stubborn pride yielded at once, and so did that bitter feeling I had been cherishing so long in regard to the parasol.
"O, mamma!" sobbed I, catching the skirt of her dress and hiding my head in it, and forgetting all about Mrs. Duffy; "I don't care what you do, mamma. You may send 'em home, and tell 'em they didn't be invited; you may go to the front door and say it this minute."
"It's gone till her head," said Mrs. Duffy, laying down the hammer; "see her shuvver! She nades hot wather till her fate, poor thing."
"I don't care what you do to me, mamma; you may tie me to the bed-post, and sew me up in a bag and throw me in the river. You would, if you knew what I've been a doin'. I—I—I've got a party!"
Mother held her hand to her head and stared at me. Just then the door-bell rang.
"That's some of the party," wailed I. "And those little bits of girls were some, and this is some now, and more's a comin'. I'msoglad you didn't give me no pairsol, mamma."
"It can't be; Margaret, you haven't—"
"Yes, I have too. Yes, mamma, I've got a party! I'm wickeder 'n ever you heard of. Wont you put me in the river? I want you to. O, I'msoglad you didn't give me no pairsol."
Mother pulled the carpet and looked at me, and then pulled the carpet again. She was considering what to do. Ruthie had gone to the door when the bell rang; we heard her voice in the entry.
"Call Ruth in here to me," said mother, "and take your little girls into the garden."
I knew by that, that she didn't mean to send them home; and O, how I loved her. It seemed to me I loved her for the first time in my life, for I never knew before how good she was, or how beautiful! Her head was tied up in a handkerchief, and she wore a faded calico dress and a tow apron, but I thought she looked like an angel. I lay flat at her feet and adored her.
While I was taking my little girls into the garden and trying to play, mother was talking to Ruthie about this strange freak of mine. This I learned afterwards.
"I don't like to disappoint all these little children," said she, "and I don't like to expose my naughty daughter either. You see, Ruth, if they find out what a dreadful thing she has done, they will not like her any more, and their mothers will not let them come to see her. And that may make Margaret a worse girl, for she needs a great deal of love."
"I know it," said Ruthie; "she's got a big, warm heart of her own, and one can feel to forgive such children better than the cold, selfish ones; you know that yourself, Mrs. Parlin. Why, bless her, she never had an orange or a peach in her life, that she didn't give away half."
It gratified my poor mother to see Ruthie so ready to take my part. It was more than she liked to do to ask the tired girl to go to work again over the hot stove and prepare a supper for an army of children; but Ruthie did not wait to be asked; for love of mother and for love of me, she set herself about it with a hearty good-will. I do not remember much that was said or done for the rest of the afternoon; only, I know every single girl came that was invited, and they all said it was a nicer party than even Fel's; but Fel didn't care; she was glad of it. Of course it was nicer, for Ruthie spread the table in the front yard, and 'Ria was so kind as to adorn it with flowers, and lay wreaths of cedar round the plates. We had cup-custards and cookies, and, something I didn't expect, little "sandiges," with cold ham in the middle. But didn't I know it was more than I deserved? Didn't my heart swell with shame, and guilt, and gratitude? I remember rushing into the house in the very midst of the supper, just to hug mother and Ruthie.
The funny thing, the only funny thing there was to the whole party, was Lize Jane's present. In my agitation I had almost forgotten how anxious I was to see it. She came dressed very smartly in red calico, with a blue bow at her throat. Her hair was remarkably glossy, and she told us, in a loud whisper, she had "stuck it down with bear's grease and cologne." She brought her old tin pail, the very one she picked currants in, only it really had a cover on it now, andthatwas what she called "a covered dish." And guess what was in it?
Pumpkin sauce!The drollest looking mess. Dried pumpkin stewed in molasses. She said I never tasted anything like it before, and I am sure I never did, and never should want to again.
And that was the end of my party. Mother didn't sew me up in a bag and throw me in the river, for she was the most patient woman alive. She only forbade my going to anybody's house for a long time to come. It was a hard punishment; but I knew it was just, and I could not complain. My heart was really touched, and I had learned a lesson not easily forgotten. When I think of that party now, it is with a feeling of gratitude to my dear mother for her great forbearance, and her wise management of a wayward, naughty little girl.
Fel and I had begun to read before we were four years old, and by the time we were six we knew too much to go to the town school any more. I believe that was what we thought; but the fact was, Fel was very delicate, and her mother considered the walk to the school-house too long for her, and the benches too hard. She wished to have a governess come and live in the house, so the child could study at home. I thought this was too bad. I knew almost as much as Fel did. Why must I go to the town school if it wasn't good enough for her?
"Mamma, I wish I was del'cate," whined I. "Ned snipped off my finger in the corn-sheller,—don't that make me del'cate?"
"Delicate!" said Ned. "You're as tough as a pine knot."
I thought this was a cruel speech. He ought to be ashamed to snip off my finger, andthencall me tough.
In looking about for a governess, Madam Allen thought at once of dear Martha Rubie, who lived just across the garden from their house. Uncle John's wife was her sister, the aunt Persis I told you about, who thought I ought not to hear baby-talk. Aunt Persis wasn't willing her sister Martha should go away from home; she said Fel might trip across the garden and say her lessons at her house. Fel didn't like to do it, for she was afraid of aunt Persis—she wouldn't go unless I would go with her; and finally mother said I might; so it turned out just as well for me as if I was delicate. She wanted Gust to go too, and he wasn't willing. But if Fel set her heart on anything it generally came about.
"Augustus," said Madam Allen, smiling with her pleasant black eyes, which had a firm look in them, "you will recite to Miss Rubie if I wish it."
"Well, then, I want some of the other fellows to 'cite too," sniffed little Gust; "'tisn't fair for one boy to go to a patchwork school, long o' girls."
And thus it happened that several children joined us, and Miss Rubie had quite a sizable school.
And now I must tell you what sort of a house we went to; for the whole thing was very queer. In the first place, there was dear uncle John,—yes,youruncle John; but don't ask any questions; I'll tell you more by and by,—and his wife, that was aunt Persis; and his wife's sister, dear sweet Martha Rubie; and his little boy, Zed. Aunt Persis was an elegant, stately woman, but there was always something odd about her. I think myself it was odd she shouldn't like baby-talk.
She knit herself into my earliest recollections when she was Pauline Rubie, and after she married uncle John, she knit my stockings just the same, and uncle never interfered with the stripes, red and white, running round and round like a barber's pole. They were the pride of my life till Gust Allen said they made my little legs look like sticks of candy, good enough to eat. Then I hated them; but aunt Persis had got in the way of knitting stripes, and wouldn't stop it, beg as I might—for she always thought her way was right, and couldn't be improved.
Among other things she thought she knew all about medicine. There was a system called "hot crop," or "steaming," and she believed in it, and wanted everybody to take fiery hot drinks, and be steamed. That was the chief reason why we were so afraid of her.
Her house was a very pleasant, cosy one, or would have been if it hadn't had such a scent of herbs all through it. The first day we went to school aunt Persis met us at the door, and asked Fel to put out her tongue. Then she took us to a cupboard, and gave Fel something to drink, that we both thought was coffee; but it was stinging hot composition tea. Miss Rubie came into the kitchen just as Fel was catching her breath over the last mouthful, and said she,—
"O, Persis, how could you?"
We followed Miss Rubie into the school-room as fast as we could go. This school-room was right over a little cellar, just deep enough for a grown person to stand up in. It was called the "jelly-cellar," and when we were naughty Miss Rubie opened a trap-door and let us down. I was so restless and noisy that for a while I spent half my time in that cellar, surrounded by jars of jelly and jam. And I am afraid I could say sometimes, "How sweet is solitude!" for there was just light enough from the one window to give me a clear view of the jars, with their nice white labels, and more than once I did—I blush to confess it—I did put my fingers into a peach jar and help myself to preserves. I was old enough to know better; I resisted the temptation a great many days, but one unlucky morning I espied Dunie Foster coming up from the cellar with jelly stains on her white apron, and that set me to thinking.
"Ah, ha; Dunie eats perserves, and looks just as innocent's a lamb! Folks think she's better 'n me, but she isn't, she's amake-believer. I wonder if it's dreadful wicked to take perserves? Prehaps auntie spects us to eat 'em. Any way, Fel Allen never gets put down cellar, and it's real mean; and if I have to stay down there the whole time I ought to have something to make me feel better; I feel real hungry, and they ought tospectI'd eat perserves." So I did it; partly because Dunie did, partly because Fel wasn't punished and ought to be, and partly because it was most likely auntie put 'em there a-purpose! I think I never did it but three times; and the third time it was thoroughwort and molasses! Strong, I assure you, boiled down to a thick sirup. I had the jar at my lips, and had taken a long, deep draught, when I happened to look up, and there was aunt Persis going by the window, and looking straight down at me!
I was so startled by the bitter taste in my mouth and the sight of aunt Persis, both coming at the same time, that I gave a little scream, and pranced round and round the cellar like a wild animal. Miss Rubie heard me, and came down to see what was the matter. She did not ask if I had been meddling with the jars; but she must have known, for a sticky stream was trickling over my dress, and I had set the sirup down on the floor with the cover off. She bent a keen glance on me, and at the same time I saw a little twinkle in her eye. I suppose she thought my guilt would bring its own punishment, for she probably knew the thoroughwort would make me sick.
"Are you ready now to be a good, quiet girl?" said she. I had been shut down for noisiness.
"Yes'm," said I, meekly, and followed her up stairs.
But though my heart was heavy with shame, I could not help thinking, "What orful tastin' perserves!" and wondering if aunt Persis really was crazy, as Tempy Ann said she was.
Miss Rubie had had reason to think before that some of the children went to those jars, but she did not say so; she merely remarked,—
"It is nearly noon, children; you may lay aside your books now, and, if you like, I will tell you a story."
Everybody was pleased but me. I wanted to go home. The story was from the text, "Thou, God, seest me." It was about Adaline Singleton, a little girl who took her mother's cake without leave, and her mother counted the slices, and found her out.
I could not look up at Miss Rubie all the while she was talking, but I noticed Dunie Foster did. I was trying to rub that zigzag stream of sirup off my apron; and O, how sick I grew! Would she ever stop?
I knew God had seen me yesterday and day before, when I ate peach preserves, and I had no doubt it was to punish me that I had been allowed to swallow this bitter stuff to-day. But, O, if I could go home!
I never see that story of Adaline Singleton now among my books but it calls up a remembrance of guilt and nausea too. I would give a great deal, little Fly, if I hadn't so many bad things to remember. It is because I hope to do you good that I am willing to tell of them. May you have a purer childhood to look back upon!
Thankful was I when school was out that noon, but I wasn't able to go again in the afternoon; and my mother knew why!
It was the last time I was ever put in that cellar. Miss Rubie found another method of punishment; and I think I can say truthfully it was the last time I ever took sweetmeats without leave. I did other wrong things in plenty, but that I could never do again. When mother said I might go to the box and get "half a dozen raisins," I got half a dozen, and not a handful. Those solemn words rang in my ears,—"Thou, God, seest me,"—just as Miss Rubie had spoken them in her low, sweet tones.
For days I dared not meet aunt Persis's eye, but she treated me just the same, often loading me down with pennyroyal and spearmint to take home to mother. I did not know she was near-sighted, and had not seen me drinking her thoroughwort. It was the first medicine of hers I had ever taken, and that bitter taste in my mouth decided me, upon reflection, that shewascrazy. As it proved, I was not very far wrong.
There had been something the matter with her wits for two or three years, and she was growing queerer and queerer. People began to wonder what made her want to look at their tongues so much. She said now if she met people on her way to church, "Please, put out your tongue;" and sometimes said it on the very church steps. This was queer; but they did not know how much queerer she was at home. We children could have told how she came into the school-room and felt all our pulses, but we thought Miss Rubie would be sorry to have us tell.
Her little boy Zed, about four years old, had to take her dreadful medicines, of course, for medicine was the very thing auntie was crazy about. He carried some of his doses into school to drink at recess, and we all pitied him. Sometimes he ate dry senna and raisins mixed on a plate, and we teased away the raisins, and he had to chew the senna "bare." He cried then, and said we ought to help eat that too, and we did. I thought it had a crazy taste, like the thoroughwort, and was sorry Zed had a liver inside him, and wished that his mother hadn't found it out.
Miss Rubie was very good and patient with us, but we began to dread to go to school. I overheard Tempy Ann say to Polly Whiting,—
"The story is, that Mrs. Adams (aunt Persis) steamed her own mother out of the world."
"You don't say so!" said Polly. "How long since?"
"About two years ago. The poor old lady sailed off very easy, with a jug of hot water close to her nose."
That frightened us dreadfully. We knew aunt Persis steamed Zed, for he said so; and what if she should steam us all out of the world with jugs of hot water close to our noses? And she was always trying to make Fel swallow something bad, and always talking about her white face. "Tell your mother to let me have you for a month," said she, "and I'll put roses into your cheeks, my dear."
Fel was so afraid that she trembled when we went into the house, expecting auntie would spring out upon her, and set her over the fire to steam. But she was such a patient, still little thing that she never complained, even to her own mother, and I was too rattle-brained to think much about it, though if I myself had expected to be cooked, the whole town would have heard of it.
Zed grew paler and paler. I asked Miss Rubie, privately, "what made his mother boil him?" And she smiled, though not as if she was happy, and said,—
"She doesn't boil him when I can help it, dear."
About this time I heard my mother say to my father she wished uncle John was at home, for auntie acted so odd, and her eyes looked so strange.
"Yes, mamma," cried I, rushing in from the nursery, "she boils her little boy, and she wants to boil Fel. I should think you'd tell Fel's mother, for Fel dassent tell, she's so scared."
I think mother went right to Madam Allen with what I said, for the next night, when I was at Squire Allen's, and Fel was sitting in her mamma's lap, Madam Allen said,—
"Why didn't my little girl let me know she was afraid of Mrs. Adams? When darling feels unhappy about anything she must always tell mamma."
Fel was so glad somebody was going to protect her, that she threw her arms about her mother's neck, and sobbed for joy. "Don't let her hurt Zed either," said she. She was such a dear little soul, always thinking about others.
"Now tell me if that boy has got a name?" spoke up grandpa Harrington. That was what he always asked when any one spoke of Zed.
"Yes, sir; his name is Rosalvin Colvazart," said Madam Allen. "Zed is for short."
"I know, I know, Rose Albert Coffeepot," laughed grandpa. He had said that fifty times, but he always thought it a new joke.
That night, while we were all soundly asleep, we were suddenly roused by the sharp ringing of the door-bell. Squire Allen went to the door, and there, on the steps, stood our dear teacher, Martha Rubie, in her night dress, with a shawl over her shoulders.
"O, Mr. Allen! O, madam! come quick! My sister is worse. She has steamed Zed, and she was trying him with a fork; but I locked him into the closet. Do come and take care of her. She is putting lobelia down the cow's throat."
Fel and I screamed, and Tempy Ann had to come in and soothe us. Fel wasn't willing her father and mother should go; but I said, "Don't you be afraid; aunt Persis won't boil 'em; they're too big to get into the kettle."
Tempy Ann laughed in her shaky way—which always made me provoked.
"Tempy Ann," cried I, jumping over the foot-board, "I guessyouwouldn't laugh ifyoushould be doubled up, and put over the stove! You needn't think Fel and I are babies, and don' know what you said about her boiling her mother up the chimney, with a jug on her nose; but we do know, and it's so, and sober true, for we've seen the kettle."
But it wasn't of the least use to reason with Tempy Ann when she had one of those shaky spells. So silly as she was at such times, I almost wished she could be boiled half a minute, to see if it wouldn't sober her down.
It seems aunt Persis had really become very crazy indeed; and that dear, sweet, patient, good Martha had been trying to keep it a secret; but it couldn't be done any longer. She acted so badly that Martha couldn't manage her. When Squire Allen went into the house, she was stirring "Number Six" into some corn-meal for the hens, and was very angry with him because he made her leave off and go to bed.
Father and mother had to take care of her till uncle John came; but she was as sick as she was crazy, and did not live till October.
I remember looking at her beautiful, white face, the first I ever saw in death, and thinking,—
"How glad auntie is to be so still."
No one told me she was tired, but somehow I knew it, for she was always flying about in such a hurry, and I was sure it must rest her very much to go to sleep. I received then a pleasant, peaceful impression of death, which I never forgot.
Miss Rubie staid at Squire Allen's for some time, and taught Fel. Now she is a person whom you all know very well; but I shall not tell who she is till by and by.
And now I will skip along to the next summer, and come to the dreadful lie I told about the hatchet. You remember it, Horace and Prudy, how I saw your uncle Ned's hatchet on the meat block, and heedlessly took it up to break open some clams, and then was so frightened that I dared not tell how I cut my foot. "O, mamma," said I, "my foot slipped, and I fell and hit me on something; I don't know whether 'twas a hatchet or a stick of wood; but I never touched the hatchet."
It was very absurd. I think I did not know clearly what I was saying; but after I had once said it, I supposed it would not do to take it back, but kept repeating it, "No, mamma, I never touched the hatchet."
Mother was grieved to hear me tell such a wrong story, but it was no time to reason with me then, for before my boot could be drawn off I had fainted away. When I came to myself, and saw Dr. Foster was there, it was as much as they could do to keep me on the bed. I was dreadfully afraid of that man. I thought I had deceived mother, but I knew I couldn't deceive him.
"So, so, little girl, you thought you'd make me a good job while you were about it. There's no half-way work about you," said he. And then he laughed in a way that rasped across my feelings like the noise of sharpening a slate pencil, and said I mustn't be allowed to move my foot for days and days.
Every morning when he came, he asked, with that dreadful smile,—
"Let us see: how is it we cut our foot?"
And I answered, blushing with all my might, "Just the same as I did in the first place, you know, sir."
Upon which he would show all his white teeth, and say,—
"Well, stick to it, my dear; you remember the old saying, 'A lie well stuck to is better than the truth wavering.'"
I did not understand that, but I knew he was making fun of me. I understood what Ned meant; for he said flatly, "You've told a bouncer, miss."
I was so glad Gust Allen wasn't in town; he was a worse tease than Ned. When Abner came in to bring me apples or cherries, he always asked,—
"Any news from the hatchet, Maggie?" And then chucked me under the chin, adding, "You're a steam-tug for telling wrong stories. Didn't know how smart you were before."
Miss Rubie said nothing; she came in with Fel every day; but I presumed she was thinking over that solemn text, "Thou, God, seest me."
'Ria did not say anything either; but I always felt as if she was just going to say something, and dreaded to have her bring in my dinner.
I knew that father "looked straight through my face down to the lie;" but I still thought that mother believed in me. One day I found out my mistake. Ned had been saying some pretty cutting things, and I appealed to her, as she came into the room:—
"Mayn't Ned stop plaguing me, mamma?"
"No more of that, Edward," said mother, looking displeased. "It is too serious a subject for jokes. If Margaret has told us a wrong story, she is, of course, very unhappy. Do not add to her distress, my son. We keep hoping every day to hear her confess the truth; she may be sure there is nothing that would make us all so glad."
So mother knew! She must have known all along! She turned to bring me my dolly from the table, and I saw her eyes were red. I wanted to throw myself on her neck and confess; but there was Ned, and somehow I never saw mother alone after that when I could make it convenient.
She was right in thinking me unhappy, but she little dreamed how wretched I was. Horace and Prudy, you have heard something of this before; but I must tell it now to Dotty and Fly; for that hatchet affair was a sort of crisis in my life.
You know I had not always told the truth. My imagination was active, and I liked to relate wonderful stories, to make people open their eyes. It was not wrong in the first place, for I was a mere baby. The whole world was new and wonderful to me, and one thing seemed about as strange to me as another. I could not see much difference between the real and the unreal, between the "truly true" and the make believe. When I said my mamma had silk dresses, spangled with stars, I was thinking,—
"Perhaps she has. There'ssumpinin a trunk locked up, and Iguessit's silk dresses."
But as I grew older I learned better than to talk so. I found I must keep such wild fancies to myself, and only tell of what I knew to be true. Every time I wanted to utter a falsehood, a little voice in my soul warned me to stop.
Fly, you are old enough to know what I mean. Your eyes say so. You didn't hear that voice when you were patting round grandma's kitchen, making Ruthie's coffee-mill buzz. You were too little to hear it then. It had nothing to say to you when you stole your mamma's "skipt," and soaked it in the wash-bowl; or when you stuffed your little cheeks with 'serves without leave, or told lies, lies, lies, as often as you opened your sweet little lips.
"You don't 'member actin' so?"
O, no; it was "somanyyears ago!" But I was going to say you did all those dreadful things, and still you were not naughty. Nobody thinks any the worse of you to-day for all your baby-mischief. We only laugh about it, for you did not know any better. But if you were to do such things now, whatshouldwe say? Your soul-voice would tell you it was wrong, and it would be wrong.
My soul-voice talked to me, and I was learning to listen to it. I was not in the habit of telling lies; I had been hurried and frightened into this one, and now it seemed as if I could not stop saying it any more than a ball can stop rolling down hill.
It was dreadful. I had to lie there on mother's bed and think about it. I could not go out of doors, or even walk about the room. Fel had lain in her pretty blue chamber day after day, too sick to eat anything but broths and gruel; but then her conscience was easy. I wasn't sick, and could have as many nice things to eat as the rest of the family; still I was wretched.
My little friends came to see me, and were very sorry for me. I was glad to be remembered; but every time I heard the door open, I trembled for fear some one was going to say "hatchet."
And when I was alone again I would turn my face so I could watch the little clock on the mantel. It ticked with a far-away, dreamy sound, like a child talking in its sleep, and somehow it had always one story to tell, and never any other;—"You've told—a lie;—you've told—a lie."
"Well," thought I, "I know it; but stop plaguing me."
There was a pretty picture on the clock door of a little girl, with her apron full of flowers. It was to this little girl that I whispered, "Well, I know it; but you stop plaguing me." She went right on just the same,—"You've told—a lie; you've told—a lie." I turned my face to the wall to get rid of her, but always turned it back again, for there was a strange charm about that dreadful little girl. I could tell you now just how she was dressed, and which way she bent her head with the wreath of flowers on it. You have noticed the old clock in Ruth's room at grandpa's? That's the one. I never see it now but its slow tick-tock calls to mind my sad experience with the hatchet.
Days passed. I was doing my first real thinking. Up to that time I had never kept still long enough to think. It was some comfort to draw the sheet over my head, and make up faces at myself.
"You've told a lie, Mag Parlin. Just 'cause your afraid of getting scolded at for taking the hatchet. You're a little lie-girl. They don't believe anything what you say. God don't believe anything what you say. He saw you plain as could be when you cut your foot, and heard you plain as could be when you said you never touched the hatchet. And there he is up in heaven thinking about you, and not loving you at all! How can he? He don't have many such naughty girls in his whole world. If he did, there'd come a rain and rain all day, and all night, for as much as six weeks, and drown 'em all up 'cept eight good ones, and one of 'em's Fel Allen. But 'twouldn't be you, for you're a little lie-girl, and you know it yourself."
It is idle to say that children do not suffer. I believe I never felt keener anguish than that which thrilled my young heart as I lay on mother's bed, and quailed at the gaze of the little girl on the clock door.
Still no one seemed to remark my unhappiness, and I have never heard it alluded to since. Children keep their feelings to themselves much more than is commonly supposed, especially proud children. And of course I was not wretched all the time; I often forgot my trouble for hours together.
But it was not till long after I had left that room that I could bring my mind to confess my sin. I took it for granted I was ruined for life, and it was of no use to try to be good. I am afraid of tiring you, little Fly; but I want you to hear the little verse that grandpa taught me one evening about this time, as I sat on his knee:
"If we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins."
I see you remember it, Dotty. Is it not sweet? "God is faithful and just." I had always before repeated my verses like a parrot, I think; but this came home to me. I wondered if my dreadful sin couldn't be washed out, so I might begin over again. I knew what confess meant; it meant to tell God you were sorry. I went right off and told him; and then I went and told father, and I found he'd been waiting all this time to forgive me. It was just wonderful! My heart danced right up. I could look people in the face again, and wasn't afraid of the girl on the clock door, and felt as peaceful and easy as if I'd never told a lie in my life—only I hated a lie so. I can't tell you how I did hate it.
"I'll never, never, never tell another as long as I breathe," whispered I to the blue hills, and the sky, and the fields, and the river. And I knew God heard.
I suppose it is a little remarkable, Fly; but I believe this really was my last deliberate lie. Children's resolves are not always the firmest things in the world, and my parents did not know how much mine was good for. They did not dream it had been burnt into my soul with red-hot anguish.
I have always been glad, very glad, I was allowed to suffer so much, and learn something of the preciousness of truth. It is a diamond with a white light, children. There is no other gem so clear, so pure.
You are not to suppose from this that I became a good girl the very next day. No, nor the day after. I ceased from the wickedness of telling lies, just as I had stopped pilfering sweetmeats. This was all; but it was certainly better than nothing.
I was soon able to play once more, only I could not run as fast as usual. How pleasant it was out of doors, after my long stay in the house! The flowers and trees seemed glad to see me, and I knew the hens and cows were, and old Deacon Pettibone, the horse. I resumed my old business of hunting hens' nests, though it was some weeks before I dared jump off the scaffold, and it seemed odd enough to come down on the ladder.
"I'd twice rather have it be you that had cut your foot, Fel Allen," said I, "for you don't want to run and jump; and folks that don't want to, might just as well have a lame foot as not."
Fel couldn't quite understand that, though it was as clear tomeas A B C. And after all my suffering, she wouldn't own I was as "delicate" as she. I didn't like that.
"You don't remember how many bad things have happened to me," said I, waving my thimble-finger, which had lost its tip-end in the corn-sheller.
"Well, Ned's going to give you a gold thimble to pay for that, and I suppose you're glad it's cut off," said Fel, who had never met with an accident in her life, and was naturally ashamed of not having a single scar or bruise on her little white body, not so much as a wart or pimple to show me. I could not help feeling my superiority sometimes, for I had been cut and burnt, and smashed and scalded, and bore the marks of it, too.
"Well, but you don't have so bad headaches as me," said Fel, recovering her self-esteem. "Your mamma never has to put mustardpaceon your feet, and squeeze up burdock leaves and tie 'em on your head, now, does she?"
"I don' know but she did when I was a baby; I never heard her say," returned I, coolly. "Folks don't think much of headaches. Polly Whiting has 'em so she can't but just see out of her eyes. But that isn't like hurting a place on you so bad your mother doesn't dass do it up! I guess you'd think itwassomething if you cut your foot most in two, and the doctor had to come and stick it together!"
Squeezing Herdsgrass.
That silenced Fel, and I had the last word, as usual.
It was already quite late in the summer. One day Fel and I were snuggled in the three-cornered seat in the trees, trying to squeeze herdsgrass, to see which would be married first, when Ruthie came out at the side door to sweep off the steps.
"Maggie'll be pleased," said she; "but how we shall miss her little mill-clapper of a tongue."
She was talking to 'Ria, who was going back and forth, doing something in the kitchen.
"Yes, we shall miss her," said 'Ria; "but I shan't have her dresses to mend. I pity poor cousin Lydia; she'll think—"
Then 'Ria's voice sounded farther off, and I did not hear what cousin Lydia would think.
"Put your head down here, Fel Allen. I've found out something," whispered I, starting suddenly, and tearing my "tyer" on a nail.
"I'm going to cousin Lydia Tenney's."
"How do you know?"
"Why, didn't you hear 'Ria say she shouldn't have to mend my dresses? That means I shan't be here, of course."
"Perhaps it means you'll be a better girl, and not tear 'em."
"O, no, it don't. 'Ria knows better 'n that. Didn't you hear her say she pitied poor cousin Lydia? Well, it's because she'll havemein her house; and that's why 'Ria pities her."
"Then I wouldn't go to her house, if 'twill make her feel bad," said Fel.
"O, I know what makes you say that; its because you don't want me to go."
"Of course I don't. Who'd I have to play with?"
"Lize Jane Bean."
"H'm."
"Well, then, there's Dunie Foster; you think she's a great deal nicer 'n me."
"Now, Madge Parlin, I only said she kept her hair smoother; that's all I said."
"Well, there's Abby Gray and Sallie Gordon," added I, well pleased to watch the drooping of my little friend's mouth. "You can play with them while I'm gone. And there's your own brother Gust, thatyouthink's so much politer 'n Ned."
"You know there's nobody I like to play with so well as I do you," said Fel, laying her cheek against mine, and we sat a while, thinking how dearly we did love each other. Then we saw Abner wheeling the chaise out of the barn. I ran down the steps from the tree, and asked,—
"Is anybody going anywhere, Abner?"
"Well, yes; I believe your pa's going over yonder," said he, pointing off to the hills.
"Anybody—anybody going with him?"
"He talks of taking the Deacon," said Abner, dryly, as he began to wrench off the wheels, and grease them.
"Madge, Madge, where are you?" called 'Ria, from the side door. "Come into the house; I have something to tell you."
It was just as I expected. I was going to Bloomingdale to-morrow. The news had been kept from me till the last possible moment, for when I was excited about anything, I was noisier than ever, and as Ruthie said, "stirred up the house dreadfully."
Next morning father tucked me into the chaise, behind old Deacon. I didn't know why it was, but I couldn't help thinking about the hatchet, and wondering mother should have taken so much pains to get such a naughty girl ready. I had been told I might stay till after apple-gathering, and I was glad, for I wanted to make Fel as lonesome as she had made me those two weeks she spent in Boston. I had never been away from home but twice to stay over night, and my playmates couldn't any of them know my true value, of course.
But as I looked at the dear friends on the piazza, growing dearer every minute, especially mother, I had my doubts whether I cared much about cousin Lydia's apples.
"She'll be back with father," remarked Ned, "as homesick as a kitten."
"Just you see if I do!"
It was well we were driving away just then, for my brave laugh came very near ending in a sob.
"I'm on business," said father, whipping up the Deacon, "and shall come back to-morrow; but you can do as you please, Totty-wax—you can come with me, or wait a month or six weeks, and come with cousin Lydia."
I was disposing, privately, of a stray tear, and could not answer.
"Your cousin will take the cars," said he.
"Take the cars!" I slipped off the seat, and stood upright in my surprise. The railroad had only just been laid to one corner of Willowbrook, and I had never taken a car in my life; had never seen one; didn't even know how it looked. This had been a great mortification to me ever since Fel went to Boston.
"O, father," cried I, whirling round and getting caught in the reins, "did you say the cars? I s'posed cousin Lydia would come in a wagon, and I didn't know's I cared about staying.Didyou say the cars?"
"There, there; don't fall out over the Deacon's back. Did you ever hear what the water-wagtail said?"
Then I knew father was laughing at me. When I was so happy I couldn't keep still, he often asked me if I ever heard what a small bird, called the water-wagtail, said, who thought the world was made for him:—
"Twas for my accommodationNature rose when I was born;Should I die, the whole creationBack to nothing would return."
That was what the little bird said. But father was mistaken this time. I felt remarkably humble for me. I had been thinking so much about the hatchet that I couldn't have a very high opinion of myself, to save my life.
It was twenty miles to cousin Lydia's. When we got there she was looking for us. I knew her very well, but had never been at her house before. It was a pretty white cottage, with woodbines creeping over it, and Boston pinks growing by the front door-stone. There was a red barn and barnyard on one side of the house, and a woodshed on the other; and in front of the porch door, facing the street, was a well, with an old oaken bucket, hanging on a pole. I had never seen a well-sweep before, and supposed it must be far nicer than a pump.
Cousin Lydia had a farmer husband in a striped frock, and a beautiful old mother in a black dress and double-frilled cap. Then there were her husband's two sisters, who lived with her, and a cat and a dog; but not a child to be seen.
I didn't feel quite clear in my mind about staying; but cousin Lydia seemed to expect I would, and showed me a little cheese-hoop, about as big round as a dinner-plate, saying she would press a cheese in it on purpose for me, and I might pick pigweed to "green" it, and tansy to give it a fine taste. So I should almost make the cheese myself; what would my mother say to that? Then there were the beehives, which were filling with honey, and some late chickens, which were going to chip out of the shell in a week. Remarkable events, every one; but it was the tansy cheese which decided me at last, and I told father he might go without me; I wanted to stay and make a visit.
It was not till he was fairly out of sight that I remembered what a long visit it would be. Why, I shouldn't see mother for as much as a month! A new and dreadful feeling swept over me, as if I was left all alone in the great empty world, with nothing to comfort me as long as I lived.
Samantha, one of Mr. Tenney's sisters, found me an hour afterwards sitting beside a chicken-coop, crying into my apron. She asked me if I was homesick. I thought not; I only wanted to see my mother, and I felt bad "right here," laying my hand on the pit of my stomach. The feeling was not to be described, but I did not know homesickness was the name for it.
Samantha consoled me as well as she could with colored beads to string, and a barrel of kittens out in the barn. I felt a little better at dinner time, for the dinner was very nice; but my spirits were still low.
Julia, the other young lady, was not very fond of little girls, and had no box of trinkets as Samantha had, or, at any rate, did not show any to me. She seemed to be always talking privacy with her sister, or with cousin Lydia, and always sending me out of the room. Not that she ever told me, in so many words, to go away—but just as if I didn't know what she meant!
"Don't you want to go out in the barn and hunt for eggs?" said she.
No, I certainly didn't. If I had wanted to I should have found it out without her speaking of it. But I was only a little girl; so I had to go, and couldn't answer back. The neighbors' children were few and far between; and though I strolled about for hours behind cousin Joseph Tenney and the hired man, there were times when I liked to see what was going on in the kitchen, and it was vexing to hear Julia say,—
"If I was a little girl about your age, I never should get tired of looking at that speckled bossy out in the barn."
Indeed! I almost wished she had to be fastened into the stall a while, just toseeif she wouldn't get tired of that speckled bossy.
But when the time came to make my cheese, I had a right to stay in the house. Cousin Lydia let me look on, and see it all done. First, I picked the pigweed and tansy, or how could she have made the cheese? Then she strained some milk into a pan, and squeezed the green juices through a thin cloth. After that she put in a little rennet with a spoon.
"There," said she, "isn't that a pretty color? Watch it a few minutes, and you will see it grow thick, like blanc-mange, and that will be curd."
Then she made some white curd in another pan, without any green juice. After the curd "came," it was very interesting to cross it off with a pudding-stick, and this she let me do myself. Next morning she drained the curd in a cloth over a cheese-basket, and put on a stone to press out the whey. When it was drained dry enough, she let me cut it up in the chopping-tray, and she mixed the two curds together, the green and the white, salted them, and put them in that cunning hoop, and then set the hoop in the cheese-press, turned a crank, and weighed it down with a flatiron. There, that is the way to make a cheese. When it came out of the press it was a perfect little beauty, white, with irregular spots of green, like the streaks in marble cake. I knew then how that greedy Harry felt, in the story, when his mother sent him a plum cake, and he couldn't wait for a knife, but "gnawed it like a little dog."
Of course I did not gnaw the cheese, but I did want to have it cut open, to see if it tasted like any other I ever ate. But cousin Lydia covered it with tissue paper, and oiled it, and set it in a safe, and every day she oiled it again, and turned it. I would have spent half my time looking at it, only she said I must not open the dairy-room door to let the flies in.
Still, in spite of cheeses, beehives, bossies, and kittens, I had many lonesome hours, and sometimes cried after I went to bed. Samantha must have known it, for I slept with her; I was afraid to sleep alone.
There were times when I thought I would start off secretly, and go home on foot. I asked the hired man how long he supposed it would take a little girl to walk to Willowbrook, and what were the chances of her getting lost if she should try it? I thought I spoke in such a guarded way that Seth would not have the least idea what I meant; but he must have been very quick-witted, for he understood in a minute. He did not let me know it, though, and only answered coolly,—
"Wal, I should think now it would take her about a week's steady travel, and no knowing but she'd starve to death on the road. Why,youhain't heerd of a little gal that thinks of such a thing, I hope?"
"No; I don't see many little girls," said I, with a dismal sigh; "they don't have anything here but bossies and horses."
I did not know, till Seth nipped it in the bud, what a sweet hope I had been cherishing. Should I truly starve to death if I took my little cheese in a basket on my arm, and some doughnuts and turn-overs? But no, it would be stealing to take things out of cousin Lydia's cupboard, and run off with them. I would rather stay at Bloomingdale and suffer, than be a thief.
I know now that Seth told cousin Lydia what I said to him, and her kind heart was touched. I am sure she must have had a hard time with me, for she knew nothing about children, and was as busy as she could be with her dairy and her "fall work." I ought not to have been so unhappy. Some children at that age, with so much done for their amusement, would have felt perfectly contented; but I had naturally a restless disposition, and wanted, as Ned said, "sumpin diffunt."
Ah, Horace! very gallant in you to say I have "got bravely over it." Thank you, dear; I hope I have, to some degree; still I might have got over it much younger if I had only tried a little harder. A child of seven is old enough to be grateful to its friends, when they do all they can for its comfort and pleasure.
Cousin Lydia wrote mother about my state of mind; and it troubled her. She talked with Madam Allen, who was always full of plans. Madam thought a minute, and then said,—
"Poor Marjie, we can't have her homesick. Do you suppose she would like to have Ruphelle go there and stay with her?"
Of course mother knew I would be happy with Ruphelle.
Then Madam Allen wished mother would please write cousin Lydia, and ask if Fel might go to Bloomingdale a few weeks. She hoped the mountain air would be strengthening to the dear little girl, who seemed rather drooping.
Cousin Lydia was willing; and Madam Allen sent Ruphelle by cars, with a gentleman and lady who were going to Boston. Not a word was said to me; and when Seth harnessed the horse and went to the station to meet her, I supposed he was only "going to see his mother;" for that was what he always said when I asked any questions. It was about three miles to the flag station, and I believe his mother lived somewhere on the way.
I was not watching for him to come back, or thinking anything about him, when I happened to look out of the window and see him helping a little girl out of the wagon. The red and white plaid looked exactly like Fel's dress; and as the little girl turned around, there were the soft, brown eyes, and the dark, wavy hair, and the lovely pale face of Fel Allen herself!
I never expect to be much happier till I get to heaven than I was for the next hour or two. I danced and screamed, and laughed and cried, and wondered how Fel could keep so calm, when we hadn't seen each other for as much as three weeks.
"I don't see what's the matter with me," sobbed I; "I never was so glad in my life; but I can't help a-crying!"
Fel was not one of the kind to go wild. She usually knew what she was about. Supper was ready, and she sat at the table, and ate honey on her bread and butter, as if she really enjoyed it; also answered every one of cousin Lydia's many questions like a little lady.
I had no appetite, and could hardly have told what my name was if any one had asked me.
But from that time my homesickness was gone. I took my little friend all about the farm, which was a very nice place, only I had never thought of it before, and showed her the speckled bossy, which seemed to have grown handsomer all in one night.
"Here are some black currants, Fel; do you like 'em?"
"O, yes."
"Why, I don't; I just despise 'em."
"Well, I don't like 'emverywell," said Fel; for after our long separation she could not bear to disagree with me in anything.
"Cousin Lydia," said I, very soon after Fel came, "may we tell scare stories after we go to bed? She wants us to."
Cousin Lydia did not know what I meant by "scare stories."
"It's all the awful things we can think of," said I, eagerly. "And we like to, for we want to see 'f our hair 'll stand out straight."
Cousin Lydia laughed, and said "children were perfect curiosities."
"It makes us shiver all over. It's splendid," said I.
"Well, you may try it this once," said cousin Lydia, "if you'll stop talking the moment I tap on the wall."
So, as soon as we got into bed we began. "You tell first," said Ruphelle; "you can tell the orfulest, and then I'll tell."
"Mine'll be about the Big Giant," said I, clearing my throat.
"The Big Giant.
"Once upon a time he had three heads, and he roared so you could hear him a mile."
"That isn't anything," said Fel; "my hair don't stand out a bit."
"Why, I hadn't but just begun. You wait and see what comes next. Did I say the Big Giant had three heads? He had sixteen. And every one of 'em had three mouths, and some had ten; and they made a noise when he chewed grass like——like thunder."
"It don't scare me a bit," said Fel, stoutly.
"Did I say the Big Giant ate grass? He atefire; he ate live coals, theliverthe better."
"I should have thought 'twould have burnt him all up," said Fel.
"There, miss, you needn't pretend not to be scared! I'm so scared myself I can't but just tell!—No, it didn't burn him up; it came out at his great big nose. And when the Big Giant walked along the streets folks ran away, for he blazed so. And there wasn't enough water in Willowbrook to put him out!"
"He didn't live at Willowbrook?"
"O, yes, right between your house and my house;and lives there now!"
By that time Fel began to tremble and creep closer to me.
"Tell some more," said she, laughing. "It don't scare me a bit."
And I told, and I told. There was no end to the horrible things that Big Giant had done, was doing, or was going to do.
"Does your hair stand up, Fel?"
"No; feel and see if it does. But there's a creepy feeling goes over me; don't it over you?"
"Yes," said I, highly excited. "Got your eyes shut, Fel?"
"Yes, shut up tight."
"Open 'em," said I, solemnly; "for how do you know but that Big Giant's got into this room? Can't youseethe fire coming out of his nose?"
Fell couldn't, exactly.
"Get out," said I, "and get the wash-bowl and pitcher, and let's throw it at him kersplash."
"I dassent," said Fel, faintly.
"Nor I dassent neither."
By that time I was out of bed, much more frightened than Fel was, and calling "Cousin Lydia," as loud as I could shout. She came in in great surprise, and it was some time before she could succeed in calming us. I remember how heartily she laughed, and how my teeth chattered. I actually had to be wrapped in a blanket and dosed with ginger tea. I wonder how many times cousin Lydia said,—
"Well, childrenAREperfect curiosities."
We could not think of such a thing as spending the night alone after all this, and Samantha was obliged to get into our bed and sleep in the middle. Cousin Lydia said we made too much hard work for the family by telling "scare stories," and we must not do it again while we staid at her house.
"I have just found out, Marjie, why it is that you are afraid to sleep alone," said she; "it is because you allow yourself to think about such frightful things. Is it not so?"
"Yes'm," said I, quivering in the blanket.
"Well, child, you must stop it at once; it is a very foolish habit, and may grow upon you. Never think of dreadful things. Say your little prayer, asking God to take care of you, and then lie down in peace, for he will certainly do it. Ruphelle, are you ever afraid?"
"No'm, only when I'm with Marjie; but I like to hear her tell things; I ask her to."
Fel often said she had beautiful thoughts about angels after she went to bed, and dreamed that they came and stood by her pillow.
Ah, that was no common child; she lived very near the gates of heaven. Strange I could have associated with her so much, and still have been so full of wrong desires and naughty actions!
Julia Tenney, who was not very fond of children, certainly not of me, took a decided fancy to Fel the moment she saw her. I soon found this out, for she did not try to conceal it, and said more than once that "that child was too good for this world." I thought everybody liked her better than me, from Miss Julia down to the cat. I did not consider this at all strange; only I longed to do something to show myself worthy of praise, as well as she.
There was a panic at that time about small-pox, and the doctor came one day to vaccinate everybody in the house. We children looked on with great interest to see the lancet make a scratch in cousin Lydia's arm, and then in Miss Samantha's, and Miss Julia's.
"Now for the little folks," said the doctor, and drew Fel along to him; but she broke away in great alarm, and began to cry. "Well, well," said the doctor, turning to me, "here's a little lady that will come right up, I know she will;shewon't mind such a thing as a prick of a needle."
No, I really didn't mind it; why should I, when I had been gashed and slashed all my life? So I walked up very quickly to show my courage. I guessed they wouldn't laugh about my Big Giant now! I rolled back my sleeve with an air of triumph, and looked down on Fel, who shrank into a corner. Everybody was surprised, and said, "Well done!" and hoped I wasn'tallthe brave child there was in the house.
I walked on thrones, I assure you; for there was Fel crying, and begging to wait till after dinner. Why, she hadn't any more courage than a chicken. I was ashamed of her. The doctor said he would wait till after dinner if she would surely have it done then.
"O, you little scare-girl!" said I, as he walked out to talk with cousin Joseph, and we two children were left alone in the room.
The doctor had laid his lancet and the little quill of vaccine matter on the table, having no thought, I suppose, that such small children as we would dare touch them.
"I can waxerate as well as he can," said I, taking up the lancet, "for I watched him. Push up your sleeve, Fel, and I'll waxerate you, and then when the doctor does it, you'll get used to it, you know."
"Don't you,don'tyou touch that sharp thing, Madge Parlin."
"Poh! do you think I'm a little scare-girl like you?" returned I, proudly, for my little head was quite turned with flattery. "He didn't say folks musn't touch it, did he, Miss Fel? It's just like a needle; and who's afraid of a needle but you? I'll waxerateme, ifyoudon't dast. Just you look! When I've done it three times to me, will you let me do it to you?"
Fel wouldn't promise, but I went boldly to work. Let me count the scars—yes, twenty scratches I made above my elbow, never forgetting the vaccine, saying, as I stopped to take breath,—
"Ready now, Fel?"
She never was ready, but she stood looking on with such meekness and awe, that I was just as well satisfied. After the doctor was gone, and she was in cousin Lydia's lap, quite overcome by the fright of "waxeration," I told what I had done, expecting to be praised.
"Why, Maggie!" said cousin Lydia, really shocked, "what will you do next? It was very, very wrong for you to meddle with the doctor's lancet."
"Ah, well," said Miss Julia, "I guess she'll be a sick enough child when it 'takes.'"
I did not understand that, but I saw I had sunk again in everybody's esteem. And that very afternoon Miss Julia allowed Fel, who had been such a coward, to dress up in her bracelets, rings, pin, and even her gold watch, only "she must be sure and not let Maggie touch them."
Of course I see now what a heedless child I was, and don't wonder Miss Julia wished to preserve her ornaments from my fingers; still she ought not to have given them to Fel before my very eyes. I thought it was hard, after scratching myself so unmercifully, not to have either glory or kisses, or even a bosom-pin to wear half an hour. My arm smarted, and I felt cross. As Miss Julia went out of the room she patted Fel's head, but took no notice of me, and cousin Lydia did the very same thing two minutes afterwards. It was more than I could bear.
"Ho, littleborrow-girl," said I to Fel, "got a gold watch, too! 'Fore I'd wear other folks's things! I don't wear a single one thing on me but b'longs to me; you may count 'em and see!"
It seemed as if I could not let her alone; but such was the sweetness of nature in that dear little girl that she loved me through everything.
"I thought you wanted to go out doors and play with me," said I; "and if you do, you'd better take off your borrowed watch!"
Fel did not answer, but tucked the watch into her bosom; and we went out in no very pleasant mood.
Samantha and Julia were gone to a neighbor's that afternoon, and cousin Lydia was filling a husk-bed in the barn. There was no one at home but lame and half-blind grandma Tenney.
"I don't care if they are gone, for they all think I'm a naughty, bad girl," thought I. "O, why don't they love me? My mamma loves me, and hugs me every day when I'm home."
I walked along to the well, my eyes half-blinded by tears. That well-sweep had always fascinated me, and I had been allowed to play with it freely; but lately cousin Joseph had observed that the curb, or framework round the mouth of the well, was out of order; the boards were old, and the nails were loosened; he should put on new boards as soon as he could stop; but until he did so, I must let it alone. Would I remember?
"Yes, sir," said I, at the same time thinking in this wise: "Why, I drawed water day before yes'day, and he didn't say the boards were old. How could they grow old in one day?"
Still I fully intended to obey. I forgot myself when I said,—
"Fel, le's do a washing, and wash our dollies' clo'es. I'll go get a little tinpail to draw water with."
For I could not lift the bucket.
"Well," said she; "and I'll go get a cake o' soap."
She had heard nothing about the well-curb, and did not know we were doing wrong to draw water. She enjoyed swinging the pole just as much as I did, and we soon forgot our slight disagreement as we watched the little pail drop slowly into the well.
"There are stars down there," said I, "for I saw 'em once; they say it's stars, but I shouldn't wonder if 'twas pieces of gold—should you?"
I was letting the pail down as I spoke, and Fel was leaning against the curb, peeping into the well.
"O, I forgot," cried I; "cousin Joseph said—"
But even before I had finished the sentence, the rotten boards gave way, and Fel pitched suddenly forward into the well!
My brain reeled; but next moment my reason—all I ever had and more too—came to my aid. I can't account for it, but I felt as strong and brave as a little woman, and called out,—
"Take hold of the pole, Fel! take hold of the pole!"
I don't know whether she heard me or not, for her screams were coming up hoarse and hollow from the watery depths. All I know is, she did put out both her little hands, and clutch that short pole. The ten-quart pail was dangling from the end of the pole, within two feet of the water.
What was I to do? I could draw up the little tin pail, but not such a heavy weight as Fel. My hope was that I might keep her above water a while, and as long as I could, of course she would not drown. It was a wise thought, and showed great presence of mind in a child of my age. I am glad I have this one redeeming fact to tell of myself—I, who ran wild at the silly story of a make-believe Big Giant!
Yes, I held up that long pole with all the might of my little arms, crying all the while to Seth in the barn,—
"Come quick! come quick!"
It was just as much as I could do. I am sure strength must have been granted me for the task. For a long while, or what seemed to me a long while, nobody heard. Seth was making a great noise with his flail, and if my shout reached his ears he only thought it child's play; but when it kept on and on, so shrill and so full of distress, he dropped his flail at last and ran.
Not a moment too soon; my little strength was giving out.
"Jethro! what's this?" cried he, and caught the pole from my hand. "Well, you're a good one! Don't be scared, little dear." That was to Fel. "Hold on tight, and I'll fetch you up in a jiffy."
She did hold on; stupefied as she was, she still had sense enough to cling to the pole.
"There, there, that's a lady! Both arms round my neck! Up she comes!"
By that time cousin Lydia was on the spot, looking ashy white, and Seth, with Fel in his arms, was rocking her back and forth like a baby, and saying, "There, there, little girlie, don't cry."
"The Lord be praised!" exclaimed cousin Lydia; "the child's alive! the child's alive!"
"Yes, and this Marjie here is a good one," said Seth, pointing to me; "she's got the right stuff in her. I never saw a young one of that age do anything so complete in my life."
I cried then; it was the first time I could stop to cry. Cousin Lydia put her arms round me, and kissed me; and that kiss was sweet to my soul.
Seth carried Fel into the house. She was trembling and sobbing violently, and did not seem at first to understand much that was said to her. Cousin Lydia rubbed her, and gave her some cordial to drink, and I looked on, half proud and half ashamed. Seth kept saying there were five feet of water in the well, and if I hadn't held Fel up, she must have drowned before anybody could get to her. I knew I had been very brave, and had saved Fel's life. I knew it before Seth said so. But who drowned her in the first place? I expected every minute cousin Lydia would ask that question; but she didn't; she never seemed to think of it.
When the young ladies came home, Miss Julia took me in her lap, and said,—
"Well, Marjery, you're a smart child; there's no doubt about it—a very smart child."
Just think of that from Miss Julia! It wouldn't have been much from Miss Samantha, for she had a soft way with her; but Miss Julia! Why, it puffed me out, and puffed me out, till there was about as much substance to me as there is to a great hollow soap-bubble.
"Yes," said cousin Joseph, in his slow way, "Marjery is smart enough, but she ought to be very smart to make up for her heedlessness."
There, he had pricked the bubble that time! I twinkled right out.
And it was the last time Julia admired me; for she happened to think just then of her gold watch. It was not on Fel's neck; it had gone into the well where the stars were. Seth got it out, but it was battered and bruised, and something had happened to the inside of it, so it wouldn't tick.
Miss Julia never took me in her lap again; but she liked Fel as well as ever. She said Fel was not at all to blame. I knew she wasn't, and somehow, after that dreadful affair, I was willing people should love Fel better than me. I had been fairly frightened out of my crossness to her. O, what if Ihaddrowned her? Every time I wanted to snub her I thought of that, and stopped. I suppose I put my arms round her neck fifty times, and asked, "Do you love mejusthe same as if I hadn't drowned you?"
And she said "Yes," every time, the precious darling!
I had a very lame arm not long after this; it almost threw me into a fever. I was ashamed to have that doctor come, for they had told me what was the matter. It has always been my luck, children, if I ever tried to show off, to get nicely paid for it!
Now I think of it, Dotty, how easily Fel could have turned upon me at this time, and said, "Ho, little meddle-girl! Got a sore arm, too!"
But you may be sure she never thought of such a thing. It grieved her to see me lie in bed, and toss about with pain. She sat beside me, and patted my cheeks with her little, soft hands, and sometimes read to me, from a Sabbath school book, about a good girl, named Mary Lothrop,—she could read as well as most grown people, for she really was a remarkable child,—but I didn't like to hear about Mary Lothrop, and begged her to stop.
"She's too tremendous good," said I. "It killed her to be so good, and I'm afraid—"
I believe I never told Fel what I was afraid of; but it was, that she was "too tremendous good" herself, and would "die little," as Mary Lothrop did. I thought she seemed like Mary; and hadn't Miss Julia said she was too good for this world? O, what if God should want her up in heaven? I had thought of this before; but if I had really believed it, I should all along have treated her very differently. We should none of us speak unkindly if we believed our friends were soon going away from us, out of this world. What would I give now if I had never called the tears into that child's gentle eyes!
My arm got well, and the next thing that happened was a letter from home—to us two little chickens, Fel and me both. Seth brought it from the "post-ovviz," directed to Miss Ruphelle Allen and Miss Margaret Parlin, care of Joseph Tenney, Esq. Here it lies in my writing-desk, almost as yellow as gold, and quite as precious. How many times do you suppose we little girls read it and kissed it? How many times do you suppose we went to sleep with it under our pillows? We took turns doing that, and thought it brought us pleasant dreams.
Her mother wrote one page of the letter, and my mother another; 'Ria a few lines, and Ned these words, in a round hand:—