_LONG-HEADED WILLIE._
“De biskits is cold, and de steaks is cold as--as--ice, and dinner’s
spiled!” said Curlypate, a girl about three years old, as Mr. Blake
came in from his forenoon of visiting. She tried to look very much
vexed and “put out,” but there was always either a smile or a cry
hidden away in her dimpled cheek.
“Pshaw! Curlypate,” said Mr. Blake, as he put down his cane, “you don’t
scold worth a cent!” And he lifted her up and kissed her.
And then Mamma Blake smiled, and they all sat down to the table. While
they ate, Mr. Blake told about his morning visits, and spoke of Parm’ly
without coal, and Peter Sitles with no broom-machine, and described
little Ben Sitles’s hungry face, and told how he had visited the widow
Martin, who had no sewing-machine, and who had to receive help from the
overseer of the poor. The overseer told her that she must bind out her
daughter, twelve years old, and her boy of ten, if she expected to have
any help; and the mother’s heart was just about broken at the thought
of losing her children.
Now, while all this was taking place, Willie Blake, the minister’s
son, a boy about thirteen years of age, sat by the big porcelain
water-pitcher, listening to all that was said. His deep blue eyes
looked over the pitcher at his father, then at his mother, taking in
all their descriptions of poverty with a wondrous pitifulness. But he
did not say much. What went on in his long head I do not know, for his
was one of those heads that projected forward and backward, and the top
of which overhung the base, for all the world like a load of hay. Now
and then his mother looked at him, as if she would like to see through
his skull and read his thoughts. But I think she didn’t see anything
but the straight, silken, fine, flossy hair, silvery white, touched a
little bit,--only a little,--as he turned it in looking from one to the
other, with a tinge of what people call a golden, but what is really a
sort of a pleasant straw color. He usually talked, and asked questions,
and laughed like other boys; but now he seemed to be swallowing the
words of his father and mother more rapidly even than he did his
dinner; for, like most boys, he ate as if it were a great waste of time
to eat. But when he was done he did not hurry off as eagerly as usual
to reading or to play. He sat and listened.
“What makes you look so sober, Willie?” asked Helen, his sister.
“What you thinkin’, Willie?” said Curlypate, peering through the
pitcher handle at him.
“Willie,” broke in his father, “mamma and I are going to a wedding out
at Sugar Hill”--
“Sugar Hill; O my!” broke in Curlypate.
“Out at Sugar Hill,” continued Mr. Blake, stroking the Curlypate, “and
as I have some calls to make, we shall not be back till bedtime. I am
sorry to keep you from your play this Saturday afternoon, but we have
no other housekeeper but you and Helen. See that the children get their
suppers early, and be careful about fire.”
I believe to “be careful about fire” is the last command that every
parent gives to children on leaving them alone.
Now I know that people who write stories are very careful nowadays not
to make their boys too good. I suppose that I ought to represent Willie
as “taking on” a good deal when he found that he couldn’t play all
Saturday afternoon, as he had expected. But I shall not. For one thing,
at least, in my story, is true; that is, Willie. If I tell you that he
is good you may believe it. I have seen him.
He only said, “Yes, sir.”
Mrs. Blake did not keep a girl. The minister did not get a small
fortune of a salary. So it happened that Willie knew pretty well how to
keep house. He was a good brave boy, never ashamed to help his mother
in a right manly way. He could wash dishes and milk the cow, and often,
when mamma had a sick-headache, had he gotten a good breakfast, never
forgetting tea and toast for the invalid.
So Sancho, the Canadian pony, was harnessed to the minister’s rusty
buggy, and Mr. and Mrs. Blake got in and told the children good-bye.
Then Sancho started off, and had gone about ten steps, when he was
suddenly reined up with a “Whoa!”
“Willie!” said Mr. Blake.
“Sir.”
“Be careful about fire.”
“Yes, sir.”
And then old blackey-brown Sancho moved on in a gentle trot, and Willie
and Helen and Richard went into the house, where Curlypate had already
gone, and where they found her on tiptoe, with her short little fingers
in the sugar-bowl, trying in vain to find a lump that would not go to
pieces in the vigorous squeeze that she gave it in her desire to make
sure of it.
So Willie washed the dishes, while Helen wiped them, and Richard put
them away, and they had a merry time, though Willie had to soothe
several rising disputes between Helen and Richard. Then a glorious
lot of wood was gotten in, and Helen came near sweeping a hole in the
carpet in her eager desire to “surprise mamma,” Curlypate went in the
parlor and piled things up in a wonderful way, declaring that she, too,
was going to “_susprise_ mamma.” And doubtless mamma would have felt no
little surprise if she could have seen the parlor after Curlypate “put
it to rights.”
Later in the evening the cow was milked, and a plain supper of bread
and milk eaten. Then Richard and Curlypate were put away for the night.
And presently Helen, who was bravely determined to keep Willie company,
found her head trying to drop off her shoulders, and so she had to give
up to the “sand man,” and go to bed.