FORECASTING THE FUTURE.
Two of Mrs. Oliver's sitting-room windows looked out on the fig-trees,
and the third on a cosy piazza corner framed in passion-vines, where at
the present moment stood a round table holding a crystal bowl of Gold
of Ophir roses, a brown leather portfolio, and a dish of apricots.
Against the table leaned an old Spanish guitar with a yellow ribbon
round its neck, and across the corner hung a gorgeous hammock of
Persian colored threads, with two or three pillows of canary-colored
China silk in one end. A bamboo lounging-chair and a Shaker rocker
completed the picture; and the passer-by could generally see Miss Anita
Ferguson reclining in the one, and a young (but not Wise) man from the
East in the other. It was not always the same young man any more than
the decorations were always of the same color.
"That's another of my troubles," said Polly to her friend Margery
Noble, pulling up the window-shade one afternoon and pointing to the
now empty "cosy corner." "I don't mind Miss Ferguson's sitting there,
though it used always to be screened off for my doll-house, and I love
it dearly; but she pays to sit there, and she ought to do it; besides,
she looks prettier there than any one else. Isn't it lovely? The
other day she had pink oleanders in the bowl, the cushions turned the
pink side up,--you see they are canary and rose-color,--a pink muslin
dress, and the guitar trimmed with a fringe of narrow pink ribbons.
She was a dream, Margery! But she does n't sit there with her young
men when I am at school, nor when I am helping Ah Foy in the
dining-room, nor, of course, when we are at table. She sits there from
four to six in the afternoon and in the evening, the only times I have
with mamma in this room. We are obliged to keep the window closed,
lest we should overhear the conversation. That is tiresome enough in
warm weather. You see the other windows are shaded by the fig-trees,
so here we sit, in Egyptian darkness, mamma and I, during most of the
pleasant afternoons. And if anything ever came of it, we would n't
mind, but nothing ever does. There have been so many young men,--I
could n't begin to count them, but they have worn out the seats of four
chairs,--and why does n't one of them take her away? Then we could
have a nice, plain young lady who would sit quietly on the front steps
with the old people, and who would n't want me to carry messages for
her three times a day."
At the present moment, however, Miss Anita Ferguson, clad in a black
habit, with a white rose in her buttonhole, and a neat black derby with
a scarf of white _crêpe de chine_ wound about it, had gone on the mesa
for a horseback ride, so Polly and Margery had borrowed the cosy corner
for a chat.
Margery was crocheting a baby's afghan, and Polly was almost obscured
by a rumpled, yellow dress which lay in her lap.
"You observe my favorite yellow gown?" she asked.
"Yes, what have you done to it?"
"Gin Sing picked blackberries in the colander. I, supposing the said
colander to be a pan with the usual bottom, took it in my lap and held
it for an hour while I sorted the berries. Result: a hideous stain a
foot and a half in diameter, to say nothing of the circumference. Mr.
Greenwood suggested oxalic acid. I applied it, and removed both the
stain and the dress in the following complete manner;" and Polly put
her brilliant head through an immense circular hole in the front
breadth of the skirt.
"It 's hopeless, is n't it? for of course a patch won't look well,"
said Margery.
"Hopeless? Not a bit. You see this pretty yellow and white striped
lawn? I have made a long, narrow apron of it, and ruffled it all
round. I pin it to my waist thus, and the hole is covered. But it
looks like an apron, and how do I contrive to throw the public off the
scent? I add a yoke and sash of the striped lawn, and people see
simply a combination-dress. I do the designing, and my beloved little
mother there will do the sewing; forgetting her precious Polly's
carelessness in making the hole, and remembering only her cleverness in
covering it."
"Capital!" said Margery; "it will be prettier than ever. Oh dear! that
dress was new when we had our last lovely summer in the cañon. Shall
we ever go again, all together, I wonder? Just think how we are all
scattered,--the Winships traveling in Europe (I 'll read you Bell's
last letter by and by); Geoffrey Strong studying at Leipsic; Jack
Howard at Harvard, with Elsie and her mother watching over him in
Cambridge; Philip and I on the ranch as usual, and you here. We are so
divided that it does n't seem possible that we can ever have a complete
reunion, does it?"
"No," said Polly, looking dreamily at the humming-birds hovering over
the honeysuckle; "and if we should, everything would be different.
Bless dear old Bell's heart! What a lovely summer she must be having!
I wonder what she will do."
"Do?" echoed Margery.
"Yes; it always seemed to me that Bell Winship would do something in
the world; that she would never go along placidly like other girls, she
has so many talents."
"Yes; but so long as they have plenty of money, Dr. and Mrs. Winship
would probably never encourage her in doing anything."
"It would be all the better if she could do something because she loved
it, and with no thought of earning a living by it. Is n't it odd that
I who most need the talents should have fewer than any one of our dear
little group? Bell can write, sing, dance, or do anything else, in
fact; Elsie can play like an angel; you can draw; but it seems to me I
can do nothing well enough to earn money by it; and that is precisely
what I must do."
"You 've never had any special instruction, Polly dear, else you could
sing as well as Bell, or play as well as Elsie."
"Well, I must soon decide. Mamma says next summer, when I am
seventeen, she will try to spend a year in San Francisco and let me
study regularly for some profession. The question is, what?--or
whether to do something without study. I read in a magazine the other
day that there are now three hundred or three thousand, I can't
remember which, vocations open to women. If it were even three hundred
I could certainly choose one to my liking, and there would be two
hundred and ninety-nine left over for the other girls. Mrs. Weeks is
trying to raise silkworms. That would be rather nice, because the
worms would be silent partners in the business and do most of the work."
"But you want something without any risks, you know," said Margery
sagely. "You would have to buy ground for the silkworms, and set out
the mulberries, and then a swarm of horrid insects might happen along
and devour the plants before the worms began spinning."
"'Competition is the life of trade,'" said Polly. "No, that is n't
what I mean--'Nothing venture, nothing have,' that's it. Then how
would hens do? Ever so many women raise hens."
"Hens have diseases, and they never lay very well when you have to sell
the eggs. By the way, Clarence Jones, who sings in the choir,--you
know, the man with the pink cheeks and corn-silk hair,--advertises in
the 'Daily Press' for a 'live partner.' Now, there 's a chance on an
established hen-ranch, if he does n't demand capital or experience."
"It's a better chance for Miss Ferguson. But she does n't like Mr.
Jones, because when he comes to call, his coat-pockets are always
bulging with brown paper packages of a hen-food that he has just
invented. The other day, when he came to see her, she was out, and he
handed me his card. It had a picture and advertisement of 'The Royal
Dish-faced Berkshire Pig' on it; and I 'm sure, by her expression when
she saw it, that she will never be his 'live partner.' No, I don't
think I 'll have an out-of-door occupation, it's so trying to the
complexion. Now, how about millinery? I could be an apprentice, and
gradually rise until I imported everything direct from Paris."
"But, Polly," objected Margery, "you know you never could tie a bow, or
even put a ribbon on your sailor hat."
"But I could learn. Do you suppose all the milliners were called to
their work by a consciousness of genius? Perish the thought! If that
were true, there wouldn't be so many hideous hats in the shop windows.
However, I don't pine for millinery; it's always a struggle for me to
wear a hat myself."
"You 've done beautifully the last year or two, dear, and you 've
reaped the reward of virtue, for you 've scarcely a freckle left."
"Oh, that isn't hats," rejoined Polly, "that's the law of compensation.
When I was younger, and did n't take the boarders so much to heart, I
had freckles given to me for a cross; but the moment I grew old enough
to see the boarders in their true light and note their effect on mamma,
the freckles disappeared. Now, here 's an idea. I might make a
complexion lotion for a living. Let me see what I 've been advised by
elderly ladies to use in past years: ammonia, lemon-juice, cucumbers,
morning dew, milk, pork rinds, kerosene, and a few other household
remedies. Of course I 'm not sure which did the work, but why could
n't I mix them all in equal parts,--if they would mix, you know, and
let those stay out that would n't,--and call it the 'Olivera Complexion
Lotion'? The trade-mark might be a cucumber, a lemon, and a morning
dew-drop, _rampant_, and a frightened little brown spot _couchant_.
Then on the neat label pasted on the bottles above the trade-mark there
might be a picture of a spotted girl,--that's Miss Oliver before using
her lotion,--and a copy of my last photograph,--that's Miss Oliver
radiant in beauty after using her lotion."
Margery laughed, as she generally did at Polly's nonsense.
"That sounds very attractive, but if you are anxious for an elegant and
dignified occupation which shall restore your mother to her ancestral
position, it certainly has its defects."
"I know everything has its defects, everything except one, and I won't
believe that has a single weak point."
"Oh, Polly, you deceiver! You have a secret leaning toward some
particular thing, after all!"
"Yes; though I have n't talked it over fully yet, even with mamma, lest
she should think it one of my wild schemes; but, Margery, I want with
all my heart to be a kindergartner like Miss Mary Denison. There would
be no sting to me in earning my living, if only I could do it by
working among poor, ragged, little children, as she does. I run in and
stay half an hour with her whenever I can, and help the babies with
their sewing or weaving, and I always study and work better myself
afterward,--I don't know whether it's the children, or Miss Denison, or
the place, or all three. And the other day, when I was excused from my
examinations, I stayed the whole morning in the kindergarten. When it
was time for the games, and they were all on the circle, they began
with a quiet play they call 'Silent Greeting,' and oh, Margery, they
chose me to come in, of their own accord! When I walked into the
circle to greet that smallest Walker baby my heart beat like a
trip-hammer, I was so afraid I should do something wrong, and they
would never ask me in again. Then we played 'The Hen and Chickens,'
and afterward something about the birds in the greenwood; and one of
the make-believe birds flew to me (I was a tree, you know, a whispering
elm-tree), and built its nest in my branches, and then I smoothed its
feathers and sang to it as the others had done, and it was like heaven!
After the play was over, we modeled clay birds; and just as we were
making the tables tidy, Professor Hohlweg came in and asked Miss
Denison to come into the large hall to play for the marching, as the
music-teacher was absent. Then what did Miss Denison do but turn to me
and say, 'Miss Oliver, you get on so nicely with the children, would
you mind telling them some little story for me? I shall be gone only
ten or fifteen minutes.' Oh, Margery, it was awful! I was more
frightened than when I was asked to come into the circle; but the
children clapped their hands and cried, 'Yes, yes, tell us a story!' I
could only think of 'The Hen that Hatched Ducks,' but I sat down and
began, and, as I talked, I took my clay bird and molded it into a hen,
so that they would look at me whether they listened or not. Of course,
one of the big seven-year-old boys began to whisper and be restless,
but I handed him a large lump of clay and asked him to make a nest and
some eggs for my hen, and that soon absorbed his attention. They
listened so nicely,--you can hardly believe how nicely they listened!
When I finished I looked at the clock. It had been nine minutes, and I
could n't think what to do the other dreadful minutes till Miss Denison
should come back. At last my eye fell on the blackboard, and that gave
me an idea. I drew a hen's beak and then a duck's, a hen's foot and
then a duck's, to show them the difference. Just then Miss Denison
came in softly, and I confess I was bursting with pride and delight.
There was the blackboard with the sketches, not very good ones, it is
true, the clay hen and nest and eggs, and all the children sitting
quietly in their wee red chairs. And Miss Denison said, 'How charming
of you to carry out the idea of the morning so nicely! My dear little
girl, you were made for this sort of thing, did you know it?'"
"Well, I should n't think you had patience enough for any sort of
teaching," said Margery candidly.
"Neither did I suppose so myself, and I have n't any patience to spare,
that is, for boarders, or dishes, or beds; but I love children so
dearly that they never try my patience as other things do."
"You have had the play side of the kindergarten, Polly, while Miss
Denison had the care. There must be a work-a-day side to it; I'm sure
Miss Denison very often looks tired to death."
"Of course!" cried Polly. "I know it 's hard work; but who cares
whether a thing is hard or not, if one loves it? I don't mind work; I
only mind working at something I dislike and can never learn to like.
Why, Margery, at the Sunday-school picnics you go off in the broiling
sun and sit on a camp-chair and sketch, while I play Fox and Geese with
the children, and each of us pities the other and thinks she must be
dying with heat. It 's just the difference between us! You carry your
easel and stool and paint-boxes and umbrella up the steepest hill, and
never mind if your back aches; I bend over Miss Denison's children with
their drawing or building, and never think of my back-ache, do you see?"
"Yes; but I always keep up my spirits by thinking that though I may be
tired and discouraged, it is worth while because it is Art I am working
at; and for the sake of being an artist I ought to be willing to endure
anything. You would n't have that feeling to inspire and help you."
"I should like to know why I would n't," exclaimed Polly, with flashing
eyes. "I should like to know why teaching may not be an art. I
confess I don't know exactly what an artist is, or rather what the
dictionary definition of art is; but sit down in Miss Burke's room at
the college; you can't stay there half an hour without thinking that,
rather than have her teach you anything, you would be an ignorant
little cannibal on a desert island! She does n't know how, and there
is nothing beautiful about it. But look at Miss Denison! When she
comes into her kindergarten it is like the sunrise, and she makes
everything blossom that she touches. It is all so simple and sweet
that it seems as if anybody could do it; but when you try it you find
that it is quite different. Whether she plays or sings, or talks or
works with the children, it is perfect. 'It all seems so easy when you
do it,' I said to her yesterday, and she pointed to the quotation for
the day in her calendar. It was a sentence from George MacDonald:
'Ease is the lovely result of forgotten toil.' Now it may be that Miss
Mary Denison is only an angel; but I think that she 's an artist."
"On second thoughts, perhaps you are right in your meaning of the word,
though it does n't follow that all teachers are artists."
"No; nor that all the painters are," retorted Polly. "Think of that
poor Miss Thomas in your outdoor class. Last week, when you were
sketching the cow in front of the old barn, I sat behind her for half
an hour. Her barn grew softer and softer and her cow harder and
harder, till when she finished, the barn looked as if it were molded in
jelly and the cow as if it were carved in red sandstone."
"She ought not to be allowed to paint," said Margery decisively.
"Of course she ought n't! That's just what I say; and I ought not to
be allowed to keep boarders, and I won't!"
"I must say you have wonderful courage, Polly. It seems so natural and
easy for you to strike out for yourself in a new line that it must be
you feel a sense of power, and that you will be successful."
Polly's manner changed abruptly as she glanced in at her mother's empty
chair before she replied.
"Courage! Sometimes I think I have n't a morsel. I am a gilded sham.
My knees tremble whenever I think of my future 'career,' as I call it.
Mamma thinks me filled with a burning desire for a wider sphere of
action, and so I am, but chiefly for her sake. Courage! There 's
nothing like having a blessed, tired little mother to take care of,--a
mother whom you want to snatch from the jaws of a horrible fate. That
's a trifle strong, but it's dramatic! You see, Margery, a woman like
my mother is not going to remain forever in her present rank in her
profession,--she is too superior; she is bound to rise. Now, what
would become of her if she rose? Why, first, she would keep a country
hotel, and sit on the front piazza in a red rocker, and chat with the
commercial travelers; and then she would become the head of a summer
resort, with a billiard-room and a bowling-alley. I must be
self-supporting, and 'I will never desert Mr. Micawber,' so I should
make beds and dust in Hotel Number One, and in Hotel Number Two
entertain the guests with my music and my 'sprightly manners,'--that's
what Mr. Greenwood calls them, and the only reason I am sorry we live
in a republic is that I can't have him guillotined for doing it, but
must swallow my wrath because he pays twenty dollars a week and seldom
dines at home. Finally, in Hotel Number Three I should probably marry
the ninepin-man or the head clerk, so as to consolidate the management
and save salaries, and there would end the annals of the Olivers! No,
Margery!" cried Polly, waving the scissors in the air, "everybody is
down on the beach, and I can make the welkin ring if I like, so hear
me: The boarders must go! How, when, and where they shall go are
three problems I have n't yet solved; and what I shall find to take the
place of them when they do go is a fourth problem, and the knottiest
one of all!"