In the play of "Miss Multon" a number of children are required for the
first act. They are fortunately supposed to be the children of the poor,
and they come to a Christmas party. As I had that play in my
_repertoire_ for several years, I naturally came in contact with a great
number of little people, and that's just what they generally were,
little men and women, with here and there at long intervals a _real_
child.
They were of all kinds and qualities,--some well-to-do, some very poor,
some gentle and well-mannered, some wild as steers, some brazen-faced
and pushing, some sweet and shy and modest. I had one little child--a
mere tot--take hold of the ribbon with which I tied my cape and ask me
how much it was a yard; she also inquired about the quality of the
narrow lace edge on my handkerchief, and being convinced that it was
real, sharply told me to look out "it didn't get stoled." One little
girl came every night, as I sat waiting for my cue, to rub her fingers
up and down over the velvet collar of my cape. Touching the soft
yielding surface seemed to give her exquisite pleasure, and I caught the
same child standing behind me when I wore the rich red dress, holding
her hands up to it, as to a fire, for warmth. Poor little soul! she had
sensibility and imagination both.
The play requires that one child should be very small; and as it was no
unusual thing for the little one to get frightened behind the scenes, I
used to come to the rescue, and as I found a question about "Mamma" won
their attention the quickest, I fell into the habit of saying, first
thing: "Where's mamma? Is she here? Show me, where." And having once won
attention, it had gone hard with me indeed had I failed to make friends
with the youngster.
One Monday evening as I came to my place, I saw the new baby standing
all forlorn, with apparently no one at all to look after her, not even
one of the larger children. She was evidently on the very verge of
frightened tears, and from old habit I stooped down and said to her,
"Where's mamma, dear?"
She lifted two startled blue eyes to my face and her lips began to
tremble. I went on, "Is mamma here?" The whole little face drew up in a
distressed pucker, and with gasps she whispered, "She's in er box."
I raised my head and glanced across the stage. An old gentleman sat in
the box opposite, and I knew a merry young party had the one on our own
side, so I answered: "Oh, no, dear, mamma's not in the box; she's--"
when the poor baby cried, "Yes, she is, my mamma's in a box!" and buried
her curly head in the folds of my skirt and burst into sobs.
At that moment a hard-voiced, hard-faced, self-sufficient girl pushed
forward, and explained in a patronizing way: "Oh, she's too little to
say it right. She ain't got no mother; she's dead, and it's the coffin
Annie means by the box."
Oh, poor baby, left behind! poor little scrap of humanity!
In another city the child was older, nearly five, but so very small that
she did nicely in the tiny trousers (it is a boy's part, as I should
have said before), and when the act was over, I kissed the brightly
pretty face and offered her a little gift. She put out her hand eagerly,
then swiftly drew it back again, saying, "It's money."
"Yes," I answered. "It's for you, take it."
[Illustration: _"Little Breeches"_]