Mabel's Day
ALMOST hopeless as it seemed at times, Mabel and the silent brown
baby finally reached Dandelion Cottage. There they found Jean, seated
in a chair with her lovely little cousin Anne Halliday perched like
a pink and white blossom on the edge of the dining table before her,
tying Anne's bewitching yellow curls with wide pink ribbons. Anne was
a perpetual delight, for, besides being a picture during every moment
of the long day, her ways were so quaint and so attractive that no one
could help admiring her.
Marjory, her countenance carefully arranged to depict the deepest
sorrow, stood guard over the Marcotte twins, who, touchingly covered
with nasturtiums, were laid out on the parlor cozy corner, awaiting
burial. Their blue eyes blinked and their pink toes twitched; but, on
the whole, they played their parts in a most satisfactory manner.
Bettie, with two small but attractive Tucker babies clinging to her
brief skirts, was exclaiming: "These are my jewels," when tired, dusty
Mabel, pushing reluctant Rosa Marie before her, walked in.
"For mercy's sake, what's that!" gasped Jean, sweeping Anne Halliday
into her protecting arms.
"Is--is it something the cat dragged in?" asked Marjory.
"Is--_can_ it be a _real_ child?" demanded Bettie.
"This," announced Mabel, with dignity, "is _my_ child. Her name is Rosa
Marie--with all the distress on the _ee_."
"The distress seems to be all over both of you," giggled Marjory.
"That's just dust," explained Mabel.
"Did you both roll home like a pair of barrels?" queried Jean, "or did
the Village Improvement folks use you to dust the sidewalks?"
"What's the matter with that child's complexion?" demanded Marjory. "Is
she tanned?"
"Coming home took long enough for us both to get tanned," returned
Mabel, crossly, "but Rosa Marie's French, I guess."
"French! French nothing!" exclaimed Marjory. "She's nothing but a
little wild Indian. Look at her hair. Look at her small black eyes.
Look at her high cheekbones. Where in the world did you get her?"
Mabel explained. For once, the girls listened with the most flattering
attention. Anne Halliday bobbed her pretty head to punctuate each
sentence, the Tucker babies stood in silence with their mouths open,
even the nicely laid-out Marcotte twins on the sofa sat up to hear the
tale.
"And she's all mine until six o'clock," concluded Mabel, triumphantly.
"If she were mine," said Jean, "I'd give her a bath."
"I'd give her two," giggled Marjory.
So Mabel, assisted by Jean, Marjory, Bettie, little Anne, the two
Tucker babies and the now very much alive Marcotte twins gave Rosa
Marie a bath in the dish-pan. Although they changed the water as fast
as they could heat more in the tea-kettle, although they used a whole
bar of strong yellow soap, two teaspoonfuls of washing powder and a
_very_ scratchy washcloth lathered with Sapolio, Rosa Marie, who bore
it all with stolid patience, was still richly brown from head to heels,
when she emerged from her bath.
"Let's play Pocohontis!" cried Marjory, seizing the feather duster.
"Put feathers in her hair and drape her in my brown petticoat. I'll be
Captain John Smith in Bob Tucker's rubber boots."
"You won't either," retorted Mabel, indignantly. "I guess, after I
dragged this child all the way up here to play 'Mother' with, I'm not
going to have her used for any old Pocohontises. She's my child, and
I'm going to have the entire use of her while she lasts."
"After all," replied Marjory, cuttingly, "I don't want her. I'm sure
_I_ wouldn't care for any of _that_ colored children. The usual shade
is quite good enough for me."
But, while the novelty lasted and in spite of Marjory's declaration,
Rosa Marie was a distinct success. Little Anne Halliday's cunningest
ways and quaintest speeches went unheeded when Rosa Marie refused to
wear shoes and stockings. She had never worn a shoe, and, without
uttering a word, she made it plain that she had no intention of
hampering her pudgy brown feet with the cast-off footgear of the young
Tuckers.
Neither would she wear clothes, until Jean showed her the solitary
garment she had arrived in, now soaking in a pan of soapy water. After
they had arrayed her in a long-sleeved apron of Anne's--it didn't go
round, but had to be helped out with a cheese-cloth duster--it was
evident that the unaccustomed whiteness bothered her. She was not used
to being so remarkably stiff and clean.
The Marcotte twins, again prepared for burial, quarrelled most
engagingly as to which should be buried under the apple-tree, both
preferring that fruitful resting-place to the barren waste under
the snowball bush; but nobody listened because Rosa Marie was doing
extraordinary things with her bowl of bread and milk. Having lapped the
milk like a cat, she was deftly chasing the crumbs round the bowl with
a greedy and experienced tongue. It was plain that Rosa Marie had no
table manners.
As for the infantile Tuckers, they were an old story. On this occasion
they crawled into the corner cupboard and went to sleep and nobody
missed them for a whole hour, just because Rosa Marie was emitting
queer little startled grunts every time Marjory's best doll wailed
"Mam-mah!" "Pap-pah!" for her benefit. There was no doubt about it,
Rosa Marie was decidedly amusing.
The day passed swiftly; much too swiftly, Mabel thought. Very much
mothered Rosa Marie, who had obligingly consumed an amazing amount of
milk--all, indeed, that the Cottagers had been able to procure--started
homeward, towed by Mabel. That elated young person had declined all
offers of company; she coveted the full glory of returning Rosa Marie
to her rightful guardian. Mabel, indeed, was visibly swollen with
pride. She had given the Cottagers a most unusual treat. She had not
only surprised them by proving that she _could_ borrow a baby, but
had kept them amused and entertained every moment of the day. It had
certainly been a red-letter day in the annals of Dandelion Cottage.
Mabel more than half expected to meet Rosa Marie's mother at the very
first corner. The other real mothers had always seemed desirous--over
desirous, Mabel thought--of welcoming their home-coming babies back
to the fold; but the mother of Rosa Marie, apparently, was of a less
grudging disposition.
Mabel laboriously escorted her reluctant charge to the very door of the
shanty without encountering any welcoming parent. The borrower of Rosa
Marie knocked. No one came. She tried the door. It was locked.
"How queer!" said Mabel. "Seems to me I'd be on hand if I had an
engagement at exactly six o'clock. But then, I always _am_ late."
Dragging an empty wooden box to the side of the house, Mabel climbed to
the high, decidedly smudgy window and peered in.
There was no one inside. There was no fire in the battered stove. The
doors of a rough cupboard opposite the window stood open, disclosing
the fact that the cupboard was bare. There were no bedclothes in the
rough bunk that served for a bed; no dishes on the table; no clothing
hanging from the hooks on the wall. Both inside and outside the house
wore a strangely deserted aspect. It seemed to say: "Nobody lives here
now, nobody ever did live here, nobody ever will live here."