REST COTTAGE
Not long after my father died our family deserted the old brown house
which remains in my memory still as the one independent home I have
known in life. The old building has long since flown away on wings of
fire and smoke, but I recall every nook and cranny in it from cellar to
garret. There we children came to consciousness of ourselves, got
acquainted with one another as a family, and played, quarreled, made up
again until the old house must have known us very intimately. I prize
very highly having had this early love for a house--it redeems somewhat
those bad traits in my character which were so deplored.
An interim home was found for us in the village proper until an addition
for our use could be built to my grandmother's house, not far from the
main street.
One of my teachers, while we lived in the interim house, was a distant
relative, who had a home a few doors removed from ours. I also went to
the public school, at intervals, but of my teachers at that time I
remember best Miss B----. She taught my older sister and myself such
things as it interested her to teach, and in a way we got a smattering
knowledge, at least, of History, Art, Mathematics (a plague on them!)
and, I think, French. Nothing that the good dame taught us, however,
ever made the impression on me that certain of her mannerisms did. She
was a spinster, no longer young, and her mannerisms were doubtless the
result of living much alone. An expression which she constantly used, in
and out of season, was "For that." Putting a book down on the table, or
straightening a disordered desk, called forth a "For that" after every
move she made. It had no significance or meaning at any time that I
heard her use it, but if she used it once in a day she did so a hundred
times at least. I finally came to call her "Miss For That."
She was furthermore the cause of my coining a word which is still used
in our immediate family. Some one asked me, one afternoon, how Miss
B---- impressed me, and I am alleged to have replied: "She's so
_spunctuated_." To the rest of the family it seemed a very good
characterization of the lady, they understanding the word apparently
quite as well as I thought that I did. Later I was often asked what I
meant by the word, and it has never been easy to tell exactly; our
family took it in and harbored it because they knew Miss B---- and
seemed to grasp immediately my meaning. What the word conveyed to me was
this: that Miss B---- was inordinately prim and orderly, and that as in
a written sentence, with its commas, and semi-colons, her verbal
sentences needed just so many "For Thats" to satisfy her sense of
neatness. I even found her form of punishment for me, when I had been
unruly, "spunctuated." I had to sit in the coal hod on such occasions,
and the way Miss B---- ordered me into the bucket, with an inevitable
"For that" or two, sandwiched in with the command, increased her
"spunctuatedness" in my estimation very noticeably.
The good woman eventually married, and I think lost some of her painful
primness; but the word she helped me to invent still survives. I have
been told that friends who have visited our home and could appreciate
the word's meaning, have also incorporated it in their vocabularies. In
some ways human beings the world over could be divided up into the
"spunctuated" and the "unspunctuated."
In the annex attached to my grandmother's home my village life and early
boyhood found their completion. When we left this home the family became
scattered, one going one way and the others some other way; we have
never all been together since the break-up. My brother, for instance, I
have not seen in nearly twenty years, and have no idea where he is
to-day. He also was possessed of _Wanderlust_, indeed we might as well
call ourselves a _Wanderlust_ family, because every one of us has
covered more territory at home and abroad than the average person can
find time, or cares, to explore. While living in the interim house my
mother tried an experiment with me. She sent me away to a boys' boarding
school about fifty miles north of Chicago. There had been a general
family council of grandparents, uncles and aunts, and it was hoped that
a change of control and discipline would achieve changes for the better
in me.
The school was in the hands of an old English pastor and his wife, and
they had succeeded in giving a certain English look to the old white
building and grounds. My mother and I arrived at this institution of
learning, so-called, one evening about supper time. The other boys,
twenty-odd in number, ranging in years from ten to eighteen, were in the
dining room munching their bread and molasses. It seemed to me at the
time that I should certainly die when my mother left, and I should be
alone with that rabble. Compromises and taking a back seat were to be
inevitable in all intercourse with the larger boys, and the lads of my
own age looked able to hold their own with me in any struggle that might
occur. It was plain that I could bully no longer, and there was a
possibility that the tables would be turned, and that I should be the
one bullied. These thoughts busied me very much that night, which I
spent with the master in his room. By morning I had half-a-dozen escapes
well planned, leading back to the home village, and they lightened the
parting from my mother, who seemed quite pleased with the school.
Getting acquainted with the other scholars proved a less arduous task
than I had anticipated, which may be partly explained by the fact that
my room-mate had arrived on the same day that I did, and we were able to
feel our way together, as it were. As a lad, and to-day as well, if
there is any strange territory to be covered, or an investigation is on,
I feel pretty much at a loss without some kind of a companion, either
human or canine.
The experience at the school, however, fairly pleasant and instructive
though it became as I got over a preliminary homesickness, made such a
faint impression on my character, one way or the other, that there is
but little of interest, beyond my abrupt French leave-taking, to report.
There had been several abortive attempts to get away before the final
departure, but we--I always had companions in these adventures--were
invariably overhauled and brought back. A well-meant "lecture" followed
our capture, that was all. Indeed the days spent in the school were the
only days of my early boyhood free of whippings. They were sometimes
promised, but the good old pastor relented at the last moment and let me
off with a reprimand.
The runaway trip that finally succeeded was most carefully planned and
executed. For days four of us discussed routes, places where we could
get something to eat, and railway time-tables; and the boy who knew
Chicago best arranged for our reception there, if we should get that
far. This time we were not going to take to the railroad near the
village; we had failed there too often. We knew of another railroad some
eight miles inland, and this became our first objective. We left the
school at night when the master and the scholars were asleep. Carrying
our shoes in our hands, our pockets stuffed with surplus socks and
handkerchiefs, we stole out of the old white building unobserved, and on
into a cornfield, where we put on our shoes and made sure once again
that we had not been followed. Then, light-hearted and happy in the
thought that we were free, we tramped rapidly to the railroad. Reaching
a good sized station about one o'clock, we awaited an express train due
in an hour or so. It came thundering along on schedule time, and two
boys "made" the "blind baggage," while the Chicago boy and I perched
ourselves just behind the cow-catcher. After this dare-devil fashion we
rode into Chicago, arriving there just as the milkman and baker-boy were
going their rounds. The darkness, of course, had helped us immensely. We
had no money for car-fare, and had to pick our way through a labyrinth
of streets before we found our Chicago companion's barn, where we rolled
ourselves up in some very dirty carpets on the floor and fell asleep to
dream of freedom and its delights.
This escape, so thorough and cleancut, satisfied my mother that the
school was not the place for me, and I was taken back to the village,
the new home adjoining my grandmother's, and handed over to the tender
mercies of tutors again. A new life began for me, a new life in a number
of ways. Although the two houses were connected, and our family could
pass over into grandmother's quarters and _vice versa_, we children were
cautioned to keep on our own side of the fence most of the time.
Nevertheless, our grandmother was almost always accessible, particularly
when her daughter, our noted aunt, was away on a lecturing tour. This
was a great boon in many respects, because our mother was in the city
all day, and we certainly used to get tired of the governess.
This grandmother of mine stands out in my memory of childhood more
distinctly than any other character, except, of course, my mother. She
was one of the most remarkable women it has been my good fortune to know
well. A famous English lady, who visited my aunt years after our
particular family had scattered, insisted on calling my grandmother
"Saint Courageous," and I have always thought that she well deserved
this title. For years, while my aunt was traveling over the country,
lecturing on temperance and woman's rights, my grandmother would live
patiently alone with a Swedish servant, glorying in her daughter's fame
and usefulness, and carefully pasting press notices of her work in a
scrapbook.
My brother, "Rob," was grandmother's pet. He was her son's firstborn and
her first grandchild, and what Rob did, good or bad, found praise and
excuses in her eyes. We other children had to take a back seat, so to
speak, when Rob was at home, but this was only intermittently, after he
undertook to be a civil engineer. When I last saw him he had
experimented with about as many activities as he had lived years, and he
was still very undecided about any one of them. In a way this has been a
family characteristic among us children, at any rate among us boys.
Mother early noticed this tendency, and literally begged of us to let
her see us through college, as did our grandmother, so that, whatever we
undertook later on, we might have educational qualifications for any
opportunity that presented itself. She was doomed to disappointment in
this matter in the case of all four. Each one of us has experimented
with college life, and I, as will be told later on in detail, smuggled
myself into the Berlin University as a student of political economy, but
there is not a diploma to-day among the four of us.
My grandmother's room on her side was in the front, and here she spent
most of her time, reading, tending her scrapbook and flowers, keeping
track of her famous daughter's travels, and nearly every day receiving
visits from some of us children. I have spent some of the happiest hours
of my life in that quaint room, telling grandmother about my school
life, what I wanted to be, and reading to her such things, usually
verses, as she or I liked. She thought that I read well, and if the
"piece" was pathetic, I used to gauge my rendering of it by the flow of
tears from grandmother's eyes. I watched them furtively on all pathetic
occasions. Gradually the lids would redden, a tear or two would drop,
her dear old lips would quiver--and I had succeeded. Grandmother seemed
to enjoy the weeping as much as I enjoyed its implied praise. These
"sittings" in her room have overcome many and many an impulse on my part
to run away; and I can recall purposely going to her room and society to
try and conquer the temptation that was besetting me, although I did not
tell her what I had come to her for. What she meant to the other
children I do not know, but, my mother being away so much, and the
governess representing solely discipline and control, grandmother
became almost as dear to me as my mother. Strange to relate, however, I
was never demonstratively affectionate with her, nor she with me,
whereas I was very distinctly so with my mother when I was trying to be
good. They tell a story about me to-day of how, when after supper mother
had settled herself in one of the large chairs near the stove, I would
climb into her lap and say: "Hug me, mother, I need it." Probably no lad
ever needed mothering more than I did, but out on the road, curiously
enough, while still quite young, I could dig a hole in a hay-stack and
fall asleep as easily as at home in my own bed, which goes to show what
a bundle of contrasts and mixtures I was. One day, as tractable a
scholar and playmate as the village contained; the next, very possibly,
irritable, cross, moody and wavering, like a half-balanced stick,
between a vamose or home.
Grandmother's visits to our side of the house were comparatively
infrequent--she loved to be in her room--but when we children got to
fighting, her tall, majestic form and earnest face were sure to appear.
"Children, children!" she would cry, "'tis for dogs and cats to bark and
bite. Josiah, leave Robert alone!" On one occasion the governess had
been utterly powerless to control us, and my older sister and I were
determined to "do up" Rob, grandmother's pet, once and for all. We
thought that he had been teasing us unmercifully, and we went at him,
sister unarmed and I with a stove poker. How I managed it at the time I
cannot say now, for he was decidedly stronger and larger than I was;
but I succeeded somehow, with sister's help, in getting him down on the
floor, where I was whacking him manfully with the poker, sister looking
on well satisfied, when grandmother appeared. "Josiah!" she shouted,
stamping her foot, "let your brother up." Whack went the poker, and, of
course, Rob yelled. Indeed, the noise made during this fisticuff
exceeded that of any previous encounter, and the neighbors probably
said: "Those Flynt children are at it again." "Josiah!" my grandmother
roared this time, "I'll have the police, this can't go on. Release your
brother instantly." I gave him a final whack, and judiciously retreated
with the poker and my sister. Rob was for renewing the attack, but
grandmother led him off to her room for repairs, and the physical
victory at least was ours.
But all of our days were not accompanied by battles. Several days,
perhaps, could go by, without even harsh words being spoken, and peace
reigned on both sides of the house, which, before we children got into
it, was gladly known as and called "Rest Cottage." In name, and except
when our quarrels went echoing through the older side, grandmother's
part was also in fact a haven of rest for herself and my much traveled
aunt. But I have often thought that if some of the many pilgrims who
have gone to the village merely to see the house could have surprised us
children in one of our quarrels, they would have scouted the propriety
of the cottage's name.
When my brother was away, which was the case more often than not, after
he refused to continue his schooling, I was inclined to idealize him,
and when he had been absent, say for several months and news came of his
home-coming, I was very proud and happy. On one occasion he came back
with his voice much changed, it had begun to take on a mannish tone, and
I was prodigiously impressed with this metamorphosis, running secretly
to grandmother, and whispering: "Rob's back! His voice has gone way down
deep," and I put my hand on my stomach by way of illustration. My
brother's elevation on a pedestal in my imagination, however, never
lasted long, because we invariably crossed tempers within a few days,
and that meant vulgar familiarity.
For years, nevertheless, I persisted in using him as a bluff in all
threatening fisticuffs with playmates of my size, whether he was at home
or not. "If I can't lick you," I was wont to say, "Bob can, and he'll do
it, too." For a time this boast kept me out of all serious
entanglements, but I had posed so long as a winner, and had bragged so
much about what Bob could do, that a Waterloo was inevitable, and at
last it came. Bob was unfortunately for me away from home at the time.
The fight was a fixed-up affair among three brothers, the second oldest
being desirous of giving me a good hiding as a preliminary advertisement
of his prowess. The four of us met by agreement in the alley behind
"Rest Cottage," and my antagonist and I were soon at it. He was easily a
half-head taller than I was, and a good deal stockier, but I think that
I had said that I could whip him, and I honestly tried to make good. He
remained cool and collected, delivering well directed and telling blows
on my physiognomy. The gore ran from my nose, and tears of rage from my
eyes, as never before or since. But I fought on blindly, hitting my
adversary only occasionally, and even then with very little force. At
last, utterly beaten and exposed, I ran from the field-of-battle,
shouting back over my shoulder, "Bob'll do you all up, you spalpeens."
My grandmother mopped my battered face, and tried to console me, but it
was a hard task. I knew what she didn't know, that my bluff had been
called, and that I was no longer an uncertain quantity in the village
fighting world; I had been "shown up." For days I shunned my regular
playmates, and I can say that after that defeat I never fought another
mill, and I never expect to fight one again. In five minutes I was
completely converted to the peace movement, and have earnestly advocated
its principles from the day of the fight to this very moment.
When my aunt was at home "Rest Cottage," or rather her side of it, was a
regular beehive of industry. Secretaries and typewriters were at work
from morning till night, while my aunt caught up with her voluminous
correspondence in her famous "Den." Although we did not always get on
well together, almost invariably through my waywardness, I desire to say
now, once and forever, that she was one of the most liberal minded women
I ever knew; and as a speaker and organizer, I doubt whether in her
time there was any woman who excelled her. Had she devoted her life to
more popular subjects than temperance and woman's rights, literature,
for instance, she would take very high rank to-day in the lists of great
orators and writers. She preferred by conviction to devote herself
unreservedly to the unpopular agitations, and her following was
therefore found principally among women who agreed with her at the
start, or who were won over to her opinions by her persuasive gift of
language. In England, she was not infrequently likened unto Gladstone,
and in Edinburgh, where she spoke during one of her visits to Great
Britain, the students, after the meeting, unhooked the horses and
themselves pulled her carriage to her hotel. Her statue in Statuary Hall
in the capitol at Washington is the only statue of a woman found there;
it was presented by the State of Illinois.
To live in a celebrity's home of this character was a privilege which, I
fear, we children did not appreciate. It was a Mecca for reformers of
all shades and grades from all over the world, and we children grew up
in an atmosphere of strong personalities. The names of many of the men
and women who visited our house have escaped me, but I recall very
distinctly John B. Gough. On this occasion he was entertained by my
mother, my aunt being absent from home. He was an old man with white
hair and beard, and was in charge of a niece, if I remember correctly,
who tended him like a baby. A local organization had hired him to speak
for them in the "Old First." His speech was as successful as usual, and
the church was crowded, but the old gentleman was tired out when he got
back to the house, and was rather querulous. My mother had prepared a
light supper for him of milk, bread and butter and the like, but it was
not to his taste. "I need tea," he declared in no uncertain tones, and
tea had to be made, the delay increasing the old agitator's impatience.
On getting it, he found it too weak, or too strong, or too hot, and the
upshot of the affair was that he left us rather out of sorts, but not
before receiving $200, his fee for the lectures. He tucked the roll
carelessly into a small overcoat pocket, and then took his leave. Old
age had begun to tell on him very plainly, and not many years after he
died.
Francis Murphy, John P. St. John, nearly all the later candidates for
the Presidency on the Prohibition ticket, and of course the prominent
women agitators of the time, found their way to "Rest Cottage," sooner
or later. The place itself, although comfortable and cozy, was very
modest in appearance, but it probably sheltered at one time or another
during the last fifteen years of my aunt's life, more well-known persons
than any other private home of the Middle West. My aunt also kept in
touch with a great many people through her correspondence. She believed
in answering every letter received even if the reply were shipped back
with deficient postage, and she knew by letter or personal acquaintance
all the great men and women of her day, that I have ever heard of. If an
author's book pleased her, she wrote him to that effect, and often _vice
versa_. On the appearance of Edward Bellamy's "Looking Backward" she
was distressed that he had not eliminated alcoholic beverages from the
programme of his Utopia, and wrote him to this effect. He replied, very
simply, that the thought had not occurred to him, which must be his
excuse, if excuse were necessary, for overlooking the matter.
In the village my aunt was easily the main citizen of the place so far
as fame went. There were many who did not agree with her notions of
reform, but the village, as a whole, was proud to have such a
distinguished daughter.
When criticising my escapades and backslidings, my aunt, I have been
told, was wont to say that, "Josiah has character and will power, but he
wills to do the wrong things." No doubt I did. If companions joined me
in a runaway bout, it was I, as a rule, who planned the "get-away"; only
on one or two occasions was I persuaded by others. More or less the same
motives actuated me in running away from "Rest Cottage" as had formerly
prevailed when living in the old brown house, but I am inclined to think
now that, consciously or unconsciously, I would get tired of living
entirely with women, and that this also may have had something to do in
starting me off. Except when my brother was at home, which was at this
time only infrequently, I was the only male human being living at "Rest
Cottage"; from grandmother down to my younger sister all the other
inmates were females, and there was a feminine atmosphere about things
which used to get on my nerves more than my mother realized. My dogs--I
generally had two--were males, and many is the consolatory stroll we
have taken if for no other reason than to consolidate our forces.
My love of dogs goes back as far as I can remember, and I have always
tried to have some representative of this species around me. The dog who
stood by me at "Rest Cottage" and helped me to increase the masculine
forces, was called "Major." Not only because he was my constant
companion, but also because he was the source of one or two "spats"
between my aunt and myself, determines me to tell his story, or at least
what I know of it.
One evening, my mother returned late from the city accompanied by a
burly, black dog. I afterwards decided that he was a cross between a
Shepherd and a Newfoundland. "I've brought you a dog," said mother, and
I jumped up with glee, being quite dogless at the time. The dog snarled,
and drew close to my mother. In fact, he sat at her feet throughout the
evening meal, refusing to have anything to do with me, although he
accepted in very friendly fashion the advances of my sisters. I
concluded with disappointment that he had been a _woman's_ dog. My
mother told us how she had come by him. "On leaving the depot in town,"
she said, "and starting for my office, this dog jumped suddenly before
me, barked, and evidently, from his actions, took me for his mistress. I
patted him, and went along to the office--the dog followed. He went up
to my office, and when I took my seat at my desk, he made a place for
himself near-by. At noon time I shared my lunch with him. He spent the
afternoon very decorously either under or near the desk.
"When it came train time I thought that surely the dog would scent his
way home, but no; he followed me to the station, as if I was the only
one in the world that he knew, or cared to know. It seemed too bad to
cast such a dog adrift, and I asked the baggageman of the train what he
thought I ought to do. 'Take him home, Missus,' he said, 'he's worth
while and'll make you a good beast.' We got him into the car, and he lay
quiet until we got here. The minute he was turned loose, however, he
scooted around in front of the engine and up toward the Ridge as hard as
he could go. I said to the baggageman: 'There goes both dog and the
quarter for his fare.' 'The ungrateful beast,' the baggageman replied,
'but perhaps he'll come back,' and sure enough he did, after the train
had pulled out again. He followed me here to the house all right, and,
Josiah, I am going to give him to you."
It was the biggest dog I had ever owned, but possession, despite my
mother's statement, looked doubtful--the dog had decided that he
belonged to mother. That same evening my mother and I went out to call,
taking the dog with us. It was very dark, and before we had gone a
block, we missed the dog. "There," I exclaimed, when we moved on after
fruitless whistles and calls, "there, I told you to leave him at home,
and now you see I was wise. He's lit out." "Oh, I guess not," my mother
consoled me, and she was right, for, on returning to our home, there was
that big, black dog on the rug waiting to be let in.
He stayed with us without a break for seven years, learned to accept me
as his master, and whip him though I would at times, he won my respect
and love as no other dog ever had at that time. He was not young when we
got him, probably six years old at least, so he lived to a respectable
old age. In saying that he was companionable, honest, more or less
discreet, and fond of us all, I have told about all that is necessary
about his personality. Tricks he had none, and he was too dignified and
rheumatic to learn any from me. He merely wanted to be sociable, keep
guard at night, and, if it suited our convenience, his "three squares" a
day, but he very seldom asked for them, nor did he need to. He had his
likes and dislikes of course, like all dogs, but if left alone, except
when unusually rheumatic and irritable, he bothered nobody.
He came to cause trouble between me and my aunt in this way: She was at
home a good deal, one winter, when I was vainly trying to teach "Major"
to haul me on my sled. He disliked this occupation very much, and the
only way I could get him to pull me at all, was to take him to the far
end of the village, near our old brown house, hitch him to the sled, and
then let him scoot for home. It's a wonder that he didn't dash my brains
out against trees and passing vehicles, but we always got home without a
mishap.
One morning, I was bent on a ride, and "Major" was on the back porch,
nursing, or rather pretending to, as I thought, his rheumatic legs. I
treated him rather severely, convinced that he was shamming, and he set
up a most uncanny howling. My aunt came rushing down the stairs, saw
what I was trying to do, and gave me one of her very few scoldings--a
chillier one I have seldom received. Unless I could be more merciful to
dumb animals, she warned me in her clearcut way, "Major" would be sent
away; at any rate I was to desist immediately from all further sledding
with him, and I did.
"Major's" end came after I had left the village. He took a violent
dislike to the groceryman, and when the latter appeared in the backyard,
was wont to snap at the man's heels. Complaint was lodged against him
with the police, and one morning the chief came up, and ended "Major's"
rheumatism and further earthly struggle with a bullet.
If I loved anything or anybody sincerely, and I think that I did, I
loved that dog. He was the first to greet me when I would return home
from my travels, and he was usually the last to say good-bye. I hope his
spiritual being, if he had one, is enjoying itself, rheumatic-less and
surrounded by many friends.
My liking for children, particularly young boys, between three and five,
if we can get on together, has developed as my wandering tendencies have
died out. In early youth I cannot be said to have been very fond of
them. Indeed, I recall a most cruel thing I did to a little baby girl,
living near our old brown house. As I look back over the disgraceful
affair now, it seems to me one of the insanest things I ever did; but I
have heard another member of my family complain of being similarly
tempted at least, when young. The girl was perhaps two or three years
old, a chubby little creature with fat, red cheeks, and large blue eyes
like saucers. She used to sit every morning in a high chair alone in her
mother's bedroom. I was at liberty to roam over this house quite as
freely as over our own, and was accustomed to make early morning calls
to find out what my friend "Charley's" plans for the day were, and if
the coast was clear, to visit the little girl upstairs. Only
infrequently was I tempted to make the child cry, but when this
temptation came, I would pinch the girl's red cheeks quite hard. At
first she would look at me in astonishment, a captivating look of wonder
entering her eyes. Another pinch, and still harder. The child's little
lips would begin to tremble, and the look of wonder gave way to one of
distress. I watched the different facial changes with the same interest
that a physician observes a change for the better or worse in his
patient. Sometimes it seemed as if I were literally glued to the spot,
so fascinating did the child's countenance become. A final pinch of both
cheeks severer than either of the other two, and my purpose was
achieved, the aggrieved girl giving vent to her pain and sorrow in lusty
screams and big, hot round tears. Then I would try to pacify her,
usually succeeding, and take my departure, nobody the wiser about it all
in spite of the crying. I can only compare this cruel performance on my
part, in purpose and intention at least, to the alleged cannibal feasts
which certain African explorers have been accused of ordering and paying
for. They obviously wanted to see a human being cooked, served and eaten
out of curiosity. A similar motive impelled me to make those early
morning calls and pinch that innocent child's cheeks--her velvety skin
seemed to me to be made for pinching, and it was interesting to watch
her preliminary antics previous to yielding completely to her emotions.
I am glad to report that this cruelty was not long practiced by me, and
that to-day actual physical suffering in man or beast distresses me very
much.
By the time our family had moved into the annex to "Rest Cottage" my
younger sister had grown in years and stature so that she made a very
acceptable playmate. I recall very distinctly memories of her childhood
which show that the spirit of independence was pretty strong in all of
us children.
On the first occasion my sister was perhaps six years old. My mother had
sentenced her to confine her play to the front and back yards for the
day; under no circumstances was she to be seen in the street. I had
received a similar punishment.
What was my horror, or what I pretended to be such, to discover "Mame"
in the afternoon, well outside the prescribed bounds, hobnobbing
unconcernedly with her girl friends as if punishment was something
utterly foreign to her life. Pointing my finger scornfully at her, I
shouted: "You unexemplified hyena, come back within bounds. You'll get
licked to-night."
"Mame" barely deigned to look at me, remarking proudly:
"You don't suppose that I am one of those girls that always mind, do
you?"
On the second occasion my mother was at home and able to correct my
sister's disobedience instanter. The day before, without a word of
counsel with my mother, "Mame" had gone to her particular girl friends,
perhaps twenty in number, and invited them to a party at our house, a
party which existed solely in her imagination. At the appointed hour, on
the day following, the children began to appear in their best clothes,
asking naturally for their young hostess. It did not take my mother long
to find out the truth, but she bided her time until all the guests had
arrived. Then, my sister being forced to be present, the young ladies
were told that "Mame" had invited them to something which did not exist,
and, although she was very sorry, she would have to send them away with
that explanation. A severer rebuke to "Mame" could not have been
administered, and the party escapade was one of the very few
disobediences I remember her being connected with. She was without doubt
the most tractable and well-behaved member of our quartette.
I shall never forget her conduct at my grandfather's--my mother's
father--deathbed. An uncle had come to "Rest Cottage," warning us that
grandfather was dying, and telling us to go over to the sickroom where
grandmother and many of the other relatives were gathered. "Mame" and I
took rear seats, on a doorstep, if I recall correctly. My grandfather
was unconscious, and his sweet wife, my mother's mother, an invalid, sat
in her rolling chair, watching her mate and father of her children,
dying, the most lovely embodiment of resignation and desire "that God's
will be done," that I can recall having seen. Of course, the women and
children were sobbing, and "Mame" and I joined them. Pretty soon, I
noticed that there was a lull in the sobbing--my grandfather had
breathed his last and his suffering was over--but "Mame" had not noticed
it, and continued to cry pretty noisily. "Let up, Mame," she claims that
I whispered to her. "The others have stopped." I don't remember making
this observation and advising "Mame" about it, but no doubt I did, for
"Mame" was nothing if not honest.