[187]CHAPTER XVIIRHYME AND RHYTHM“I know of no sweeter emotion, and hardly of a greater one, than when a young man takes a sheaf of paper in his hand and, striding about his room, boldly resolves to turn it into MS.”—Jean Paul Richter.Inafter years, when two of her little maids were actually among the army of the makers of books, Mrs. Conway used often to try to recollect what had been their earliest essay with a pen.So far as her memory served, it was Dolly who first made the great plunge at the age of ten or eleven.The child was shy with her for three or four days, hung about her in odd, half-ashamed nervousness burdened with her secret. Finally she crept up close and hid her face on an arm that was busily engaged cutting out pinafores for Weenie.“I’ve—I’ve written something, mama,” she whispered, pink as a peony.The scissors went snip, snip, snip along the edge of the pattern.[188]“Have you, dear one?” the mother said, rather abstractedly; “is it another letter to me?”Dolly shook her head. Letters were very common things. She and Phyl were always writing them and posting them, for reading at all hours of the day, in their mother’s pocket. There were two there at the present time awaiting reading.“My dearest Mama” (Dolly wrote),“Isn’t it a lovely day? I love bright days when the little birds go twitter-tweet and the sun laughs and the flowers look like pink and red fires all over the garden. Jennie is not very well to-day; I wish we were going to the seaside, then she would soon be well! Oh I do love the sand, when it feels warm and crunchy, and you can let it go sliping, sliping through your fingers and the weeney bits of silver and gold and diamonds shine in the sun. Oh I wish we were there padling in the frothy waves and making houses with the sand and little shells.“I remain,“Your lovingest of loving daughters,“Dolly.”“Darling old Mother” (said Phyl),“I’ve been reading such a lovely story, it was on the paper that came wrapped round the ironing. Geraldine Montmorency was going to be married to the Duke of something—I can’t remember his[189]name—and she was very proud and only had black hair and there was a dear little governess and she had golden hair and she was ever so sweet and the children were horrid to her and Lady Geraldine used to be proud and haughty to her but the Duke kept noticing her and one day when he was walking in the wood he saw her sitting crying on the bank of a streme and all her beautiful golden hair had come undone and was streming down her back. And he asked her what was the matter and she wouldn’t tell him. And he said ‘Darling’ in a hoarse whisper and begged her to speak and took her little hand in his great broad one. And she kept on crying and he kept on begging her. And then she put her little head on his strong shoulders and told him she was weping because he was going to marry the haughty Lady Geraldine. And he said he wouldn’t because he didn’t love her a bit and was only going to marry her because he was impoverished and there were mortgages on the estate—what are mortgages, mother? And so instead he eloped with the governess, and it turned out she was the real Lady Geraldine and she had been changed in her cradle for the other Lady Geraldine who was only a common farmer’s daughter now.“Oh, it was such a lovely story!“I remain,“Ever your loving daughter,“Phyl.”[190]“Then what have you been writing if it isn’t a letter?” the mother said. “I hope a copy, Dolly; you and Phyl are the most shocking little writers I have ever seen.”“No; it isn’t a copy,” said Dolly. Her face grew redder than ever, and at last she produced from her pocket a scrap of paper whereon was writing in red ink.Mrs. Conway took it a little hurriedly, for the pinafores were badly needed, and read the following first poem of herdaughter:—“BY THE SEA.“Down in a mossy dellNear to a little wellA busy little wrenThus built its nest.First of all it broughtHay within its billThen to its young ones taughtTo gather quills.It wove them all togetherAnd then the nest was madeAnd then they all lay downTogether in the shade.”Dolly was regarding her with anxious eyes.“It—itisa poem, isn’t it, mother?” she said shyly.But the mother laughed,—for once in her life she was unsympathetic, and had no intuition as to the feelings of her little girl on this occasion. It seemed[191]only a funny thing to her that the child should write anything in verse.“Oh, you little goose, Dolly,” she said. “When did you ever see a bird’s nest built of quills?”Dolly looked a trifle saddened.[Illustration]“It—itisa poem, isn’t it, mother?”“It had to be something to go with bill,” she said, and sighed. She was recollecting the struggle she had had with the word, and even now one word had an “s” and the other was without; yet it was impossible to make bill plural or quills singular.The mother laughed again.“And why did you call it ‘By the Sea’?” she said. “There’s not a wave in it anywhere.”[192]“It sounded so nice,” Dolly said forlornly.“And all the birds I know of,” Mrs. Conway said, “build the nest before the young ones come. Did you ever see wrens wait till the young ones could help with the building?”Dr. Wise came in at this point, and Dolly slipped away, all the pleasurable elation at having “made something up” entirely gone. How could any one make up poetry if they had to be as careful of facts as this? It had seemed to her that as long as everything had “sounded right” nothing else mattered. Her cheeks burned as she ran away. She felt she had been silly again, and so ashamed was she that it was years before she ever attempted again to “drop into poetry.”Five years after Mrs. Wise’s death the little boys had a mother again, and into the quiet life of Dolly, Phyl, and Weenie there stepped five riotous and ready-made brothers.The lives of the two families had run too close together not to merge in the end.When at the end of three years of the wretchedly-paying school Mrs. Conway was forced to pack up and go back to try another bout with the Fates in Sydney, Dr. Wise, lonely himself, and in despair at the thought of his lads growing up in miserable Sunnymeade without her gentle influence, came also to the city and started a suburban practice close by the little home she had made.[193]The death of an aunt about this time brought Mrs. Conway a little legacy, seventy pounds a year perhaps. The house she rented had a spare room; she took two boarders, a student and a clerk, and once again was just able to make a living. But life was fuller and pleasanter in every way here than in Sunnymeade, so small privations pressed less heavily.It was after two years of this life that Dr. Wise finally persuaded the mother of the little maids to let who would take the house she had, and come into his that so sorely needed her.And so there was another revolution in those small girls’ lives, and once again fresh days and dreams presented themselves.
“I know of no sweeter emotion, and hardly of a greater one, than when a young man takes a sheaf of paper in his hand and, striding about his room, boldly resolves to turn it into MS.”—Jean Paul Richter.
“I know of no sweeter emotion, and hardly of a greater one, than when a young man takes a sheaf of paper in his hand and, striding about his room, boldly resolves to turn it into MS.”—Jean Paul Richter.
“I know of no sweeter emotion, and hardly of a greater one, than when a young man takes a sheaf of paper in his hand and, striding about his room, boldly resolves to turn it into MS.”—Jean Paul Richter.
“I know of no sweeter emotion, and hardly of a greater one, than when a young man takes a sheaf of paper in his hand and, striding about his room, boldly resolves to turn it into MS.”—Jean Paul Richter.
Inafter years, when two of her little maids were actually among the army of the makers of books, Mrs. Conway used often to try to recollect what had been their earliest essay with a pen.
So far as her memory served, it was Dolly who first made the great plunge at the age of ten or eleven.
The child was shy with her for three or four days, hung about her in odd, half-ashamed nervousness burdened with her secret. Finally she crept up close and hid her face on an arm that was busily engaged cutting out pinafores for Weenie.
“I’ve—I’ve written something, mama,” she whispered, pink as a peony.
The scissors went snip, snip, snip along the edge of the pattern.
[188]“Have you, dear one?” the mother said, rather abstractedly; “is it another letter to me?”
Dolly shook her head. Letters were very common things. She and Phyl were always writing them and posting them, for reading at all hours of the day, in their mother’s pocket. There were two there at the present time awaiting reading.
“My dearest Mama” (Dolly wrote),“Isn’t it a lovely day? I love bright days when the little birds go twitter-tweet and the sun laughs and the flowers look like pink and red fires all over the garden. Jennie is not very well to-day; I wish we were going to the seaside, then she would soon be well! Oh I do love the sand, when it feels warm and crunchy, and you can let it go sliping, sliping through your fingers and the weeney bits of silver and gold and diamonds shine in the sun. Oh I wish we were there padling in the frothy waves and making houses with the sand and little shells.“I remain,“Your lovingest of loving daughters,“Dolly.”
“My dearest Mama” (Dolly wrote),
“Isn’t it a lovely day? I love bright days when the little birds go twitter-tweet and the sun laughs and the flowers look like pink and red fires all over the garden. Jennie is not very well to-day; I wish we were going to the seaside, then she would soon be well! Oh I do love the sand, when it feels warm and crunchy, and you can let it go sliping, sliping through your fingers and the weeney bits of silver and gold and diamonds shine in the sun. Oh I wish we were there padling in the frothy waves and making houses with the sand and little shells.
“I remain,“Your lovingest of loving daughters,“Dolly.”
“I remain,“Your lovingest of loving daughters,“Dolly.”
“I remain,
“Your lovingest of loving daughters,
“Dolly.”
“Darling old Mother” (said Phyl),“I’ve been reading such a lovely story, it was on the paper that came wrapped round the ironing. Geraldine Montmorency was going to be married to the Duke of something—I can’t remember his[189]name—and she was very proud and only had black hair and there was a dear little governess and she had golden hair and she was ever so sweet and the children were horrid to her and Lady Geraldine used to be proud and haughty to her but the Duke kept noticing her and one day when he was walking in the wood he saw her sitting crying on the bank of a streme and all her beautiful golden hair had come undone and was streming down her back. And he asked her what was the matter and she wouldn’t tell him. And he said ‘Darling’ in a hoarse whisper and begged her to speak and took her little hand in his great broad one. And she kept on crying and he kept on begging her. And then she put her little head on his strong shoulders and told him she was weping because he was going to marry the haughty Lady Geraldine. And he said he wouldn’t because he didn’t love her a bit and was only going to marry her because he was impoverished and there were mortgages on the estate—what are mortgages, mother? And so instead he eloped with the governess, and it turned out she was the real Lady Geraldine and she had been changed in her cradle for the other Lady Geraldine who was only a common farmer’s daughter now.“Oh, it was such a lovely story!“I remain,“Ever your loving daughter,“Phyl.”
“Darling old Mother” (said Phyl),
“I’ve been reading such a lovely story, it was on the paper that came wrapped round the ironing. Geraldine Montmorency was going to be married to the Duke of something—I can’t remember his[189]name—and she was very proud and only had black hair and there was a dear little governess and she had golden hair and she was ever so sweet and the children were horrid to her and Lady Geraldine used to be proud and haughty to her but the Duke kept noticing her and one day when he was walking in the wood he saw her sitting crying on the bank of a streme and all her beautiful golden hair had come undone and was streming down her back. And he asked her what was the matter and she wouldn’t tell him. And he said ‘Darling’ in a hoarse whisper and begged her to speak and took her little hand in his great broad one. And she kept on crying and he kept on begging her. And then she put her little head on his strong shoulders and told him she was weping because he was going to marry the haughty Lady Geraldine. And he said he wouldn’t because he didn’t love her a bit and was only going to marry her because he was impoverished and there were mortgages on the estate—what are mortgages, mother? And so instead he eloped with the governess, and it turned out she was the real Lady Geraldine and she had been changed in her cradle for the other Lady Geraldine who was only a common farmer’s daughter now.
“Oh, it was such a lovely story!
“I remain,“Ever your loving daughter,“Phyl.”
“I remain,“Ever your loving daughter,“Phyl.”
“I remain,
“Ever your loving daughter,
“Phyl.”
[190]“Then what have you been writing if it isn’t a letter?” the mother said. “I hope a copy, Dolly; you and Phyl are the most shocking little writers I have ever seen.”
“No; it isn’t a copy,” said Dolly. Her face grew redder than ever, and at last she produced from her pocket a scrap of paper whereon was writing in red ink.
Mrs. Conway took it a little hurriedly, for the pinafores were badly needed, and read the following first poem of herdaughter:—
“BY THE SEA.“Down in a mossy dellNear to a little wellA busy little wrenThus built its nest.First of all it broughtHay within its billThen to its young ones taughtTo gather quills.It wove them all togetherAnd then the nest was madeAnd then they all lay downTogether in the shade.”
“BY THE SEA.“Down in a mossy dellNear to a little wellA busy little wrenThus built its nest.First of all it broughtHay within its billThen to its young ones taughtTo gather quills.It wove them all togetherAnd then the nest was madeAnd then they all lay downTogether in the shade.”
“Down in a mossy dellNear to a little wellA busy little wrenThus built its nest.
“Down in a mossy dell
Near to a little well
A busy little wren
Thus built its nest.
First of all it broughtHay within its billThen to its young ones taughtTo gather quills.
First of all it brought
Hay within its bill
Then to its young ones taught
To gather quills.
It wove them all togetherAnd then the nest was madeAnd then they all lay downTogether in the shade.”
It wove them all together
And then the nest was made
And then they all lay down
Together in the shade.”
Dolly was regarding her with anxious eyes.
“It—itisa poem, isn’t it, mother?” she said shyly.
But the mother laughed,—for once in her life she was unsympathetic, and had no intuition as to the feelings of her little girl on this occasion. It seemed[191]only a funny thing to her that the child should write anything in verse.
“Oh, you little goose, Dolly,” she said. “When did you ever see a bird’s nest built of quills?”
Dolly looked a trifle saddened.
[Illustration]“It—itisa poem, isn’t it, mother?”
“It—itisa poem, isn’t it, mother?”
“It had to be something to go with bill,” she said, and sighed. She was recollecting the struggle she had had with the word, and even now one word had an “s” and the other was without; yet it was impossible to make bill plural or quills singular.
The mother laughed again.
“And why did you call it ‘By the Sea’?” she said. “There’s not a wave in it anywhere.”
[192]“It sounded so nice,” Dolly said forlornly.
“And all the birds I know of,” Mrs. Conway said, “build the nest before the young ones come. Did you ever see wrens wait till the young ones could help with the building?”
Dr. Wise came in at this point, and Dolly slipped away, all the pleasurable elation at having “made something up” entirely gone. How could any one make up poetry if they had to be as careful of facts as this? It had seemed to her that as long as everything had “sounded right” nothing else mattered. Her cheeks burned as she ran away. She felt she had been silly again, and so ashamed was she that it was years before she ever attempted again to “drop into poetry.”
Five years after Mrs. Wise’s death the little boys had a mother again, and into the quiet life of Dolly, Phyl, and Weenie there stepped five riotous and ready-made brothers.
The lives of the two families had run too close together not to merge in the end.
When at the end of three years of the wretchedly-paying school Mrs. Conway was forced to pack up and go back to try another bout with the Fates in Sydney, Dr. Wise, lonely himself, and in despair at the thought of his lads growing up in miserable Sunnymeade without her gentle influence, came also to the city and started a suburban practice close by the little home she had made.
[193]The death of an aunt about this time brought Mrs. Conway a little legacy, seventy pounds a year perhaps. The house she rented had a spare room; she took two boarders, a student and a clerk, and once again was just able to make a living. But life was fuller and pleasanter in every way here than in Sunnymeade, so small privations pressed less heavily.
It was after two years of this life that Dr. Wise finally persuaded the mother of the little maids to let who would take the house she had, and come into his that so sorely needed her.
And so there was another revolution in those small girls’ lives, and once again fresh days and dreams presented themselves.