THE CHILDREN'S FAIR.
It was now vacation. Mahla was too ill to go out; and, as for the
other girls, they said they had the "sleeps;" and, instead of working
for the soldiers, they preferred to lie under the trees and dream away
the summer days.
Not so Grace Clifford. She saw so much of the sick men, and heard so
much of them from Lieutenant Lazelle, that she was resolved to give
the R. S. S. a good shaking, and wake it up. Quiet was Grace's
abomination. She made a speech before the society--an off-hand
effort, which I will record, first remarking that Grace could have
done vastly better if she had stopped two minutes to think.
_The Queen's Address._
DEAR PRINCESSES: In our early youth, while in the morning of life, and
with the dew yet sparkling upon us like down on the cheek of a
beautiful peach, I think (_we_ think, I mean) it's our glorious duty,
as little girls of the _eighteenth_ century (_nineteenth_, I mean), to
put our shoulder to the plough of our dear country! O, my Princesses,
will we let the rebels, with glaring eyeballs, set their iron hoofs
upon our necks, and choke, and grind, and crush, and trample us
into--powder? Will we fold our idle arms, and shut our idle ears, and
listen to the cry of their war-whoop, which goes rolling over and over
the hills and down into the valleys of our glorious Union? Will we see
the furious and howling enemy seize, plunder, and wring off the neck
of our American Eagle,--that golden, glorious bird; and, while he
screams with hoarse, cavernous echoes, pluck the noble eyes out of his
head--his _bald_ head, O Princesses!
(The queen looked round her for sympathy, and not in vain: she was
carrying her audience away with her.)
Think of our great, great, very great grandpas, how they fought and
bled in freedom's cause. Hail, ye heroes!--No, I mean to say, Friends,
countrymen, _girls_, let's put on our--helmets, and fight for dear
life! Are we too weak to fire cannonades? Will we be forbidden to pour
out our hearts' blood? And are our limbs too tender to be broken in a
thousand pieces? Then we'll fight with our _needles_! We'll make our
glorious, splendid, poor, miserable, dying soldier-boys comfortable!
If that's all we can do, we'll do that!--Now, girls, I'll tell you
what it is, continued the queen, suddenly dropping from her airy
flight, let's work like spiders, won't we? and buy jellies, and
broths, and things! I'll not have a new dress forever if I can help
it. Who's in for a Fair? All that are agreed say, _Ay!_
It "was a vote." The girls concluded to shake off the "sleeps," and go
to work. Mahla, who was duly informed of all that went on, was
delighted with the project, and promised to make lace bags and a few
little things at home.
At Mahla's urgent request, poor Isa was taken back as a member of the
society. She had been wretched enough to satisfy all ideas of justice,
and could do no harm now by disclosing secrets. Isa was tolerably
subdued and grateful, but a trifle sullen, withal. Her manner said,
plainly,--
"O, girls, I'll do anything to make you trust me and like me once
more. That's the way I feel; but I don't want you to know it; so I'm
trying to look as if I didn't care."
The Princesses were rather youthful, but they had this advantage--they
were old enough to know their own ignorance. They chose their mothers
for advisers--the wisest thing they could have done.
Twice a week they held meetings in a large chamber at Mrs. Clifford's.
Here they kept their pieces of work, each girl having a separate
basket. Articles accumulated: unfinished pincushions, babies' socks,
bookmarks, dolls' bodies, kettle-holders, and garments of "domestic
muslin," known in New England as "factory cloth."
Mrs. Clifford, who was not only a patriotic lady, but an accomplished
needlewoman, had a general oversight of matters, and spent an hour or
two each afternoon with the children, making suggestions and adding
finishing touches.
Before long, a dozen girls from the High School joined the R. S. S.
Fancy articles grew apace. It was even hoped now that the Fair could
be held before the opening of the schools in September.
Grace was fathoms deep in business. She wanted Horace to work too, and
thought he and Phebe should be ready at all hours to run of errands,
drive nails, or hold skeins of silk. Horace ought never be complain
when called away from play; for what did she ask of him but to help
the poor, bleeding soldiers? All he did for the R. S. S. was so much
done for his country. Horace had his own opinion upon this subject,
forgot his errands, and when sent shopping, stupidly asked if
sewing-silk was "cloth," and if tape came in "skeins"? He was willing
to work when he could manage for himself, but didn't like to be
"anybody's waiter."
Grace's patience sometimes failed; but Cassy could effect wonders with
her smiling--"Now, please, Horace." When _Cassy_ wanted anything, the
wilful boy put on what his sister called "his heroics," and went to
work with a will.
To be sure, the "cup and saucer" were buried in cares; yet somehow
they could steal time for long chats "down by the acorn-tree," their
heads under an umbrella or a shawl. While thus pleasantly engaged, it
was natural that Grace should think she had no time to assist her
brother in pasting his scrap-books or making his kites.
"See, now," said Horace, when, after a search, he had found Grace and
Cassy under the acorn-tree, "you make mighty small of some folks!
Can't lift a finger to help _me_; but when _you_ want some work done,
it's 'Horace, dear,' and 'O, you darling!' Reckon I know a thing or
two!"
The girls' friendship flowed on smoothly. It was hardly in the power
of the most designing person to make any more mischief between them.
Grace's highest hopes for her baby-sister were, that she might grow up
as "smart and good as Cassy."
All this while, though Mahla Linck never lost interest in the society,
she was growing weaker every day. Her little nerveless hands dropped
the work they had attempted. She had no more use for her crutch, which
lay on the table beside her bed, taking a long rest.
Grace and Cassy made daily visits to their sick friend. Mahla assured
them that her writing-desk was one of her greatest comforts: it was
almost as good as a sister. When she was too feeble to sit up, it was
placed on the bed near her elbow, and she would lie and look over its
contents, counting the sheets of perfumed note-paper, and feeling
their gloss with her fingers.
When strong enough to write, she liked to copy poems in a neat round
hand with her gold pen.
"See how she that desk does love!" said Mrs. Linck, breaking her
English into small pieces, as she always did when very earnest. "O,
Miss Grace, your kindness forget never I shall."
Grace felt inclined to kiss Mahla and to cry. "O, Mahla," said she,
"if you're only well, won't we girls have good times in the upper room
when school takes up?"
Mahla smiled sadly. "I'm going some-place else."
"Some-place else? O, Mahla, you're too sick!"
"Not too sick to go to heaven, Gracie!"
Grace shuddered, and hid her face in Mahla's bosom.
"It don't frighten me a bit, Gracie."
"But, Mahla, darling, it's so far off!"
"O, Gracie, no, indeed; it seems as if heaven was right in this room."
"So dark and cold down there," sobbed Grace.
"But I'll not be there!" Mahla whispered. "Not in the grave a minute!
I don't know what way I'll go up to heaven, but the Lord will know. O,
he loves me so!"
After this conversation, Grace and Cassy walked home together very
quietly. Grace looked at the fair, green earth and soft sky, and
remembered some of the poetry Mahla had copied:--
"The world is lovely. O, my God, I thank Thee that I live."
As Grace repeated these lines to herself, she drew closer to her
friend.
"O, Cassy, it's so lonesome to be in the grave!"
Yet Mahla, whom she pitied, was happier on her sick bed than even
these joyous girls. Her clinging trust in God was more delightful than
opal skies, and ruddy health, and even the dearest friendships.
The Children's Fair was held in the Music Hall, and was fully
attended. Robin said there was no room for more people, unless you
drove up some nails.
The benevolent enterprise had been undertaken by a handful of young
girls, who had worked with great zeal in the very warmest days of
summer; and since this fact was well known, it was enough in itself to
bring a crowd of people out of mere curiosity.
The little heroines of the evening, dressed in white, with wreaths on
their heads, looked as fresh as lilies, but kept modestly in the
background, leaving the management of affairs to older people.
It was very much like other fairs--ice cream, cake, chicken salad,
sandwiches, saucers of peaches and cream; then singing, some of which
"jingled," Horace said, and he liked it.
Grace held up her hands in horror.
"You queer boy, a 'jingle,' as you call it, is a discord, and it sets
my ears on edge! It's worse than the creaking of a horrid grindstone!"
Then there were patriotic remarks, no speaker omitting to praise the
"fair and noble young misses" who had been the means of raising
hundreds of dollars for the soldiers. If these enthusiastic gentlemen
had used less flattery, it might have been wiser; for I fear that some
of the Princesses went home that night fancying their own little heads
and hearts to be running over with wisdom and benevolence.
The very next day Mahla Linck passed quietly away to the Saviour who
"loved her so."
It did not seem like death. Grace and Cassy looked at the face which
Mahla had once lighted up. It was quite still, now, and changeless;
but the sweet, trusting look was there yet--the very look she gave,
her Saviour when she saw him coming to take her in his arms and bless
her, and bear her away to heaven.
Grace kissed the cold forehead, but it no longer thrilled to her
touch. The purified spirit of little Mahla was not there.
"O, Cassy, do you remember what she said?" whispered Grace through a
mist of tears. "She said heaven was right in this room; and seems to
me I can feel it!"
The quiet of the spot was indeed hallowed. One might almost believe
that the peace which had filled little Mahla's heart still lingered
about her sleeping form.
"She loved God dearly," thought Grace. "O, I wish I loved Him so!"
Mrs. Linck took Grace's hand and laid it upon the beautiful
writing-desk which stood on a table by the bed. "Keep it," said she;
"my Mahla said it must to you belong. She will not, in heaven, need it
any more."
Grace sobbed out her thanks, and said she would "always love that
desk, and never, never part with it."
She preserves it now among her choicest treasures. It reminds her of
the blessed Golden Rule; and she thinks--though I hope never with
pride--of the happiness she was once able to give a tired and sick
little friend.
It is yet fresh and new; but the years pass so swiftly, that only a
little while, and that very desk will be a relic of the past, which
another generation of young people will regard as a sacred memento of
Grace Clifford's happy girlhood.
[Transcriber's note: Many of the characters in this book speak in
dialect or mispronounce words. The many misspellings in the text,
including "declar" for "declare" and "mountainious" for "mountainous"
have been carefully checked against the hardcopy. The all-caps YOU
near the end of the story also appears, as such, in the hardcopy.]
End of Project Gutenberg's Little Prudy's Cousin Grace, by Sophie May