"This is the parlor, hey?" soliloquized old Mrs. Hall, as she seated
herself on the sofa. "A few dollars laid out here, I guess."
Not so fast, my dear madam. Examine closely. Those long, white curtains,
looped up so prettily from the open windows, are plain, cheap muslin;
but no artist could have disposed their folds more gracefully. The
chairs and sofas, also, Ruth covered with her own nimble fingers: the
room has the fragrance of a green-house, to be sure; but if you examine
the flowers, which are scattered so profusedly round, you will find they
are _wild_ flowers, which Ruth, basket in hand, climbs many a stone
fence every morning to gather; and not a country boy in the village
knows their hiding-places as well as she. See how skilfully they are
arranged! with what an eye to the blending of colors! How dainty is
that little tulip-shaped vase, with those half opened wild-rose buds!
see that little gilt saucer, containing only a few tiny green leaves;
yet, mark their exquisite shape and finish. And there are some wood
anemonies; some white, with a faint blush of pink at the petals; and
others blue as little Daisy's eyes; and see that velvet moss, with its
gold-star blossoms!
"Must take a deal of time to gather and fix 'em," muttered the old lady.
Yes, my dear madam; but, better pay the shoe-maker's than the doctor's
bill; better seek health in hunting live flowers, than ruin it by
manufacturing those German worsted abortions.
You should see your son Harry, as he ushers a visitor in through the low
door-way, and stands back to mark the surprised delight with which he
gazes upon Ruth's little fairy room. You should see how Harry's eyes
glisten, as they pass from one flower vase to another, saying, "Who but
Ruth would ever have spied out _that_ tiny little blossom?"
And little Daisy has caught the flower mania, too; and every day she
must have _her_ vase in the collection; now withdrawing a rose and
replacing it with a violet, and then stepping a pace or two back and
looking at it with her little head on one side, as knowingly as an
artist looks at the finishing touches to a favorite picture.
But, my dear old lady, we beg pardon; we are keeping you too long from
that china closet, which you are so anxious to inspect; hoping to find
a flaw, either in crockery or cake. Not a bit! You may draw those prying
fingers across the shelves till you are tired, and not a particle of
dust will adhere to them. Neither cups, saucers, tumblers, nor plates,
stick to your hands; the sugar-bowl is covered; the cake, in that tin
pail, is fresh and light; the preserves, in those glass jars, tied down
with brandy papers, are clear as amber; and the silver might serve for
a looking-glass, in which you could read your own vexation.
Never mind! A great many people keep the _first_ floor spick and span;
mayhap you'll find something wrong _up_ stairs. Walk in; 'tis the "best
chamber." A gilt arrow is fastened to the wall, and pretty white lace
curtains are thrown (tent fashion) over it; there is a snow-white quilt
and a pair of plump, tempting pillows; the furniture and carpet are of
a light cream color; and there is a vase of honeysuckle on the little
light-stand. Nothing could be more faultless, you see.
Now, step into the nursery; the floor is strewed with play-things;
thank God, there's a child in the house! There is a broken doll; a torn
picture-book; a little wreath of oak leaves; a dandelion chain; some
willow tassels; a few acorns; a little red shoe, full of parti-colored
pebbles; the wing of a little blue-bird; two little, speckled eggs, on
a tuft of moss; and a little orphan chicken, nestling in a basket of
cotton wool, in the corner. Then, there is a work-basket of Ruth's with
a little dress of Daisy's, partly finished, and a dicky of Harry's, with
the needle still sticking in it, which the little gypsey wife intends
finishing when she comes back from her wood ramble.
The old lady begins to think she must give it up; when, luckily, her eye
falls on a crouching "Venus," in the corner. Saints and angels! why, she
has never been to the dress-makers! There's a text, now! What a pity
there is no appreciative audience to see the glow of indignation with
which those half averted eyes regard the undraped goddess!
"Oh, Harry! is this the end of all my teachings? Well, it is all
_Ruth's_ doings--_all_ Ruth's doings. Harry is to be pitied, not
blamed;" and the old lady takes up, at length, her _triumphant_ march
for home.