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NINE LITTLE GOSLINGS.
by
SUSAN COOLIDGE,
Author of "The New Year's Bargain," "Mischief's Thanksgiving," "What
Katy Did," "What Katy Did at School."
With Illustrations.
CURLY LOCKS.
GOOSEY, GOOSEY GANDER.
LITTLE BO-PEEP.
MISTRESS MARY.
LADY BIRD.
ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE.
RIDE A COCK-HORSE.
LADY QUEEN ANNE.
UP, UP, UP, AND DOWN, DOWN, DOWN-Y.
[Illustration]
Boston:
Roberts Brothers.
1893.
Copyright, 1875.
By Roberts Brothers.
[Illustration]
University Press . John Wilson & Son,
Cambridge.
_When nursery lamps are veiled, and nurse is singing
In accents low,
Timing her music to the cradle's swinging,
Now fast, now slow,--_
_Singing of Baby Bunting, soft and furry
In rabbit cloak,
Or rock-a-byed amid the toss and flurry
Of wind-swept oak;_
_Of Boy-Blue sleeping with his horn beside him,
Of my son John,
Who went to bed (let all good boys deride him)
With stockings on;_
_Of sweet Bo-Peep following her lambkins straying;
Of Dames in shoes;
Of cows, considerate, 'mid the Piper's playing,
Which tune to choose;_
_Of Gotham's wise men bowling o'er the billow,
Or him, less wise,
Who chose rough bramble-bushes for a pillow,
And scratched his eyes,--_
_It may be, while she sings, that through the portal
Soft footsteps glide,
And, all invisible to grown-up mortal,
At cradle side_
_Sits Mother Goose herself, the dear old mother,
And rocks and croons,
In tones which Baby hearkens, but no other,
Her old-new tunes!_
_I think it must be so, else why, years after,
Do we retrace
And mix with shadowy, recollected laughter
Thoughts of that face;_
_Seen, yet unseen, beaming across the ages,
Brimful of fun
And wit and wisdom, baffling all the sages
Under the sun?_
_A grown-up child has place still, which no other
May dare refuse;
I, grown up, bring this offering to our Mother,
To Mother Goose;_
_And, standing with the babies at that olden,
Immortal knee,
I seem to feel her smile, benign and golden,
Falling on me._
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP PAGE
I. CURLY LOCKS 1
II. GOOSEY, GOOSEY GANDER 40
III. LITTLE BO-PEEP 65
IV. MISTRESS MARY 101
V. LADY BIRD 137
VI. ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE 165
VII. RIDE A COCK-HORSE 197
VIII. LADY QUEEN ANNE 228
IX. UP, UP, UP, AND DOWN, DOWN, DOWN-Y 259
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CURLY LOCKS.
WHEN a little girl is six and a little boy is six, they like pretty much
the same things and enjoy pretty much the same games. She wears an
apron, and he a jacket and trousers, but they are both equally fond of
running races, spinning tops, flying kites, going down hill on sleds,
and making a noise in the open air. But when the little girl gets to be
eleven or twelve, and to grow thin and long, so that every two months a
tuck has to be let down in her frocks, then a great difference becomes
visible. The boy goes on racing and whooping and comporting himself
generally like a young colt in a pasture; but she turns quiet and shy,
cares no longer for rough play or exercise, takes droll little
sentimental fancies into her head, and likes best the books which make
her cry. Almost all girls have a fit of this kind some time or other in
the course of their lives; and it is rather a good thing to have it
early, for little folks get over such attacks more easily than big ones.
Perhaps we may live to see the day when wise mammas, going through the
list of nursery diseases which their children have had, will wind up
triumphantly with, "Mumps, measles, chicken-pox,--and they are all over
with 'Amy Herbert,' 'The Heir of Redclyffe,' and the notion that they
are going to be miserable for the rest of their lives!"
Sometimes this odd change comes after an illness when a little girl
feels weak and out of sorts, and does not know exactly what is the
matter. This is the way it came to Johnnie Carr, a girl whom some of you
who read this are already acquainted with. She had intermittent fever
the year after her sisters Katy and Clover came from boarding-school,
and was quite ill for several weeks. Everybody in the house was sorry to
have Johnnie sick. Katy nursed, petted, and cosseted her in the
tenderest way. Clover brought flowers to the bedside and read books
aloud, and told Johnnie interesting stories. Elsie cut out paper dolls
for her by dozens, painted their cheeks pink and their eyes blue, and
made for them beautiful dresses and jackets of every color and fashion.
Papa never came in without some little present or treat in his pocket
for Johnnie. So long as she was in bed, and all these nice things were
doing for her, Johnnie liked being ill very much, but when she began to
sit up and go down to dinner, and the family spoke of her as almost well
again, _then_ a time of unhappiness set in. The Johnnie who got out of
bed after the fever was not the Johnnie of a month before. There were
two inches more of her for one thing, for she had taken the opportunity
to grow prodigiously, as sick children often do. Her head ached at
times, her back felt weak, and her legs shook when she tried to run
about. All sorts of queer and disagreeable feelings attacked her. Her
hair had fallen out during the fever so that Papa thought it best to
have it shaved close. Katy made a pretty silk-lined cap for her to wear,
but the girls at school laughed at the cap, and that troubled Johnnie
very much. Then, when the new hair grew, thick and soft as the plumy
down on a bird's wing, a fresh affliction set in, for the hair came out
in small round rings all over her head, which made her look like a
baby. Elsie called her "Curly," and gradually the others adopted the
name, till at last nobody used any other except the servants, who still
said "Miss Johnnie." It was hard to recognize the old Johnnie, square
and sturdy and full of merry life, in poor, thin, whining Curly, always
complaining of something, who lay on the sofa reading story-books, and
begging Phil and Dorry to let her alone, not to tease her, and to go off
and play by themselves. Her eyes looked twice as big as usual, because
her face was so small and pale, and though she was still a pretty child,
it was in a different way from the old prettiness. Katy and Clover were
very kind and gentle always, but Elsie sometimes lost patience entirely,
and the boys openly declared that Curly was a cross-patch, and hadn't a
bit of fun left in her.
One afternoon she was lying on the sofa with the "Wide Wide World" in
her hand. Her eyelids were very red from crying over Alice's death, but
she had galloped on, and was now reading the part where Ellen
Montgomery goes to live with her rich relatives in Scotland.
"Oh, dear," sighed Johnnie. "How splendid it was for her! Just think,
Clover, riding lessons, and a watch, and her uncle takes her to see all
sorts of places, and they call her their White Rose! Oh, dear! I wish
_we_ had relations in Scotland."
"We haven't, you know," remarked Clover, threading her needle with a
fresh bit of blue worsted.
"I know it. It's too bad. Nothing ever does happen in this stupid place.
The girls in books always do have such nice times. Ellen could leap, and
she spoke French _beau_tifully. She learned at that place, you know, the
place where the Humphreys lived."
"Litchfield Co., Connecticut," said Clover mischievously. "Katy was
there last summer, you recollect. I guess they don't _all_ speak such
good French. Katy didn't notice it."
"Ellen did," persisted Johnnie. "Her uncle and all those people were so
surprised when they heard her. Wouldn't it be grand to be an adopted
child, Clover?"
"To be adopted by people who gave you your bath like a baby when you
were thirteen years old, and tapped your lips when they didn't want you
to speak, and stole your Pilgrim's Progresses? No, thank you. I would
much rather stay as I am."
"I wouldn't," replied Johnnie pensively. "I don't like this place very
much. I should love to be rich and to travel in Europe."
At this moment Papa and Katy came in together. Katy was laughing, and
Papa looked as if he had just bitten a smile off short. In his hand was
a letter.
"Oh, Clovy," began Katy, but Papa interposed with "Katy, hold your
tongue;" and though he looked quizzical as he said it, Katy saw that he
was half in earnest, and stopped at once.
"We're about to have a visitor," he went on, picking Johnnie up and
settling her in his lap,--"a distinguished visitor. Curly, you must put
on your best manners, for she comes especially to see you."
"A visitor! How nice! Who is it?" cried Clover and Johnnie with one
voice. Visitors were rare in Burnet, and the children regarded them
always as a treat.
"Her name is Miss Inches,--Marion Joanna Inches," replied Dr. Carr,
glancing at the letter. "She's a sort of godmother of yours, Curly;
you've got half her name."
"Was I really named after her?"
"Yes. She and Mamma were school-friends, and though they never met after
leaving school, Mamma was fond of her, and when little No. 4 came, she
decided to call her after her old intimate. That silver mug of yours was
a present from her."
"Was it? Where does she live?"
"At a place called Inches Mills, in Massachusetts. She's the rich lady
of the village, and has a beautiful house and grounds, where she lives
all alone by herself. Her letter is written at Niagara. She is going to
the Mammoth Cave, and writes to ask if it will be convenient for us to
have her stop for a few days on the way. She wants to see her old
friend's children, she says, and especially her namesake."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Johnnie, ruffling her short hairs with her fingers.
"I wish my curls were longer. What _will_ she think when she sees me?"
"She'll think
"There is a little girl, and she has a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead;
When she is good she is very, very good,
And when she is bad she is horrid--"
said Dr. Carr, laughing. But Johnnie didn't laugh back. Her lip
trembled, and she said,--
"I'm not horrid _really_, am I?"
"Not a bit," replied her father; "you're only a little goose now and
then, and I'm such an old gander that I don't mind that a bit."
Johnnie smiled and was comforted. Her thoughts turned to the coming
visitor.
"Perhaps she'll be like the rich ladies in story-books," she said to
herself.
Next day Miss Inches came. Katy was an experienced housekeeper now, and
did not worry over coming guests as once she did. The house was always
in pleasant, home-like order; and though Debby and Alexander had
fulfilled Aunt Izzie's prediction by marrying one another, both stayed
on at Dr. Carr's and were as good and faithful as ever, so Katy had no
anxieties as to the dinners and breakfasts. It was late in the afternoon
when the visitor arrived. Fresh flowers filled the vases, for it was
early June, and the garden-beds were sweet with roses and lilies of the
valley. The older girls wore new summer muslins, and Johnnie in white,
her short curls tied back with a blue ribbon, looked unusually pretty
and delicate.
Miss Inches, a wide-awake, handsome woman, seemed much pleased to see
them all.
"So this is my name-child," she said, putting her arm about Johnnie.
"This is my little Joanna? You're the only child I have any share in,
Joanna; I hope we shall love each other very deeply."
Miss Inches' hand was large and white, with beautiful rings on the
fingers. Johnnie was flattered at being patted by such a hand, and
cuddled affectionately to the side of her name-mamma.
"What eyes she has!" murmured Miss Inches to Dr. Carr. She lowered her
voice, but Johnnie caught every word. "Such a lambent blue, and so full
of soul. She is quite different from the rest of your daughters, Dr.
Carr; don't you think so?"
"She has been ill recently, and is looking thin," replied the prosaic
Papa.
"Oh, it isn't _that_! There is something else,--hard to put into words,
but I feel it! You don't see it? Well, that only confirms a theory of
mine, that people are often blind to the qualities of their nearest
relations. We cannot get our own families into proper perspective. It
isn't possible."
These fine words were lost on Johnnie, but she understood that she was
pronounced nicer than the rest of the family. This pleased her: she
began to think that she should like Miss Inches very much indeed.
Dr. Carr was not so much pleased. The note from Miss Inches, over which
he and Katy had laughed, but which was not shown to the rest, had
prepared him for a visitor of rather high-flown ideas, but he did not
like having Johnnie singled out as the subject of this kind of praise.
However, he said to himself, "It doesn't matter. She means well, and
jolly little Johnnie won't be harmed by a few days of it."
Jolly little Johnnie would not have been harmed, but the pale,
sentimental Johnnie left behind by the recently departed intermittent
fever, decidedly _was_. Before Miss Inches had been four days in Burnet,
Johnnie adored her and followed her about like a shadow. Never had
anybody loved her as Miss Inches did, she thought, or discovered such
fine things in her character. Ten long years and a half had she lived
with Papa and the children, and not one of them had found out that her
eyes were full of soul, and an expression "of mingled mirth and
melancholy unusual in a childish face, and more like that of _Goethe's
Mignon_ than any thing else in the world of fiction!" Johnnie had never
heard of "_Mignon_," but it was delightful to be told that she resembled
her, and she made Miss Inches a present of the whole of her foolish
little heart on the spot.
"Oh, if Papa would but give you to me!" exclaimed Miss Inches one day.
"If only I could have you for my own, what a delight it would be! My
whole theory of training is so different,--you should never waste your
energies in house-work, my darling, (Johnnie had been dusting the
parlor); it is sheer waste, with an intelligence like yours lying fallow
and only waiting for the master's hand. Would you come, Johnnie, if
Papa consented? Inches Mills is a quiet place, but lovely. There are a
few bright minds in the neighborhood; we are near Boston, and not too
far from Concord. Such a pretty room as you should have, darling, fitted
up in blue and rose-buds, or--no, Morris green and Pompeian-red would be
prettier, perhaps. What a joy it would be to choose pictures for
it,--pictures, every one of which should be an impulse in the best Art
direction! And how you would revel in the garden, and in the fruit! My
strawberries are the finest I ever saw; I have two Alderney cows and
quantities of cream. Don't you think you could be happy to come and be
my own little Curly, if Papa would consent?"
"Yes, yes," said Johnnie eagerly. "And I could come home sometimes,
couldn't I?"
"Every year," replied Miss Inches. "We'll take such lovely journeys
together, Johnnie, and see all sorts of interesting places. Would you
like best to go to California or to Switzerland next summer? I think, on
the whole, Switzerland would be best. I want you to form a good French
accent at once, but, above all, to study German, the language of
_thought_. Then there is music. We might spend the winter at
_Stuttgard_--"
Decidedly Miss Inches was counting on her chicken before hatching it,
for Dr. Carr had yet to be consulted, and he was not a parent who
enjoyed interference with his nest or nestlings. When Miss Inches
attacked him on the subject, his first impulse was to whistle with
amazement. Next he laughed, and then he became almost angry. Miss Inches
talked very fast, describing the fine things she would do with Johnnie,
and for her; and Dr. Carr, having no chance to put in a word, listened
patiently, and watched his little girl, who was clinging to her new
friend and looking very eager and anxious. He saw that her heart was set
on being "adopted," and, wise man that he was, it occurred to him that
it might be well to grant her wish in part, and let her find out by
experiment what was really the best and happiest thing. So he did not
say "No" decidedly, as he at first meant, but took Johnnie on his knee,
and asked,--
"Well, Curly, so you want to leave Papa and Katy and Clover, and go away
to be Miss Inches' little girl, do you?"
"I'm coming home to see you every single summer," said Johnnie.
"Indeed! That will be nice for us," responded Dr. Carr cheerfully. "But
somehow I don't seem to feel as if I could quite make up my mind to give
my Curly Locks away. Perhaps in a year or two, when we are used to being
without her, I may feel differently. Suppose, instead, we make a
compromise."
"Yes," said Miss Inches, eagerly.
"Yes," put in Johnnie, who had not the least idea of what a compromise
might be.
"I can't _give_ away my little girl,--not yet,"--went on Dr. Carr
fondly. "But if Miss Inches likes I'll _lend_ her for a little while.
You may go home with Miss Inches, Johnnie, and stay four months,--to the
first of October, let us say." ("She'll miss two weeks' schooling, but
that's no great matter," thought Papa to himself.) "This will give you,
my dear lady, a chance to try the experiment of having a child in your
house. Perhaps you may not like it so well as you fancy. If you do, and
if Johnnie still prefers to remain with you, there will be time enough
then to talk over further plans. How will this answer?"
Johnnie was delighted, Miss Inches not so much so.
"Of course," she said, "it isn't so satisfactory to have the thing left
uncertain, because it retards the regular plan of development which I
have formed for Johnnie. However, I can allow for a parent's feelings,
and I thank you very much, Dr. Carr. I feel assured that, as you have
five other children, you will in time make up your mind to let me keep
Johnnie entirely as mine. It puts a new value into life,--this chance of
having an immortal intelligence placed in my hands to train. It will be
a real delight to do so, and I flatter myself the result will surprise
you all."
Dr. Carr's eyes twinkled wickedly, but he made Miss Inches the politest
of bows, and said: "You are very kind, I am sure, and I hope Johnnie
will be good and not give you much trouble. When would you wish her
visit to commence?"
"Oh--now, if you do not object. I should so enjoy taking her with me to
the Mammoth Cave, and afterward straight home to Massachusetts. You
would like to see the Cave and the eyeless fish, wouldn't you, darling?"
"Oh yes, Papa, yes!" cried Johnnie. Dr. Carr was rather taken aback, but
he made no objection, and Johnnie ran off to tell the rest of the family
the news of her good fortune.
Their dismay cannot be described. "I really do think that Papa is
crazy," said Clover that night; and though Katy scolded her for using
such an expression, her own confidence in his judgment was puzzled and
shaken. She comforted herself with a long letter to Cousin Helen,
telling her all about the affair. Elsie cried herself to sleep three
nights running, and the boys were furious.
"The _idea_ of such a thing," cried Dorry, flinging himself about, while
Phil put a tablespoonful of black pepper and two spools of thread into
his cannon, and announced that if Miss Inches dared to take Johnnie
outside the gate, he would shoot her dead, he would, just as sure as he
was alive!
In spite of this awful threat, Miss Inches persisted in her plan.
Johnnie's little trunk was packed by Clover and Katy, who watered its
contents with tears as they smoothed and folded the frocks and aprons,
which looked so like their Curly as to seem a part of herself,--their
Curly, who was so glad to leave them!
"Never mind the thick things," remarked Dr. Carr, as Katy came through
the hall with Johnnie's winter jacket on her arm. "Put in one warmish
dress for cool days, and leave the rest. They can be sent on _if_
Johnnie decides to stay."
Papa looked so droll and gave such a large wink at the word "if," that
Katy and Clover felt their hearts lighten surprisingly, and finished the
packing in better spirits. The good-by, however, was a sorry affair. The
girls cried; Dorry and Phil sniffed and looked fiercely at Miss Inches;
old Mary stood on the steps with her apron thrown over her head; and Dr.
Carr's face was so grave and sad that it quite frightened Johnnie. She
cried too, and clung to Katy. Almost she said, "I won't go," but she
thought of the eyeless fish, and didn't say it. The carriage drove off,
Miss Inches petted her, everything was new and exciting, and before long
she was happy again, only now and then a thought of home would come to
make her lips quiver and her eyes fill.
The wonderful Cave, with its vaults and galleries hung with glittering
crystals, its underground river and dark lake, was so like a fairy tale,
that Johnnie felt as if she _must_ go right back and tell the family at
home about it. She relieved her feelings by a long letter to Elsie,
which made them all laugh very much. In it she said, "Ellen Montgomery
didn't have any thing half so nice as the Cave, and Mamma Marion never
taps my lips." Miss Inches, it seemed, wished to be called "Mamma
Marion." Every mile of the journey was an enjoyment to Johnnie. Miss
Inches bought pretty presents for her wherever they stopped: altogether,
it was quite like being some little girl taking a beautiful excursion in
a story-book, instead of plain Johnnie Carr, and Johnnie felt that to be
an "adopted child" was every bit as nice as she had supposed, and even
nicer.
It was late in the evening when they reached Inches Mills, so nothing
could be seen of the house, except that it was big and had trees around
it. Johnnie went to sleep in a large bedroom with a huge double bed all
to herself, and felt very grown-up and important.
The next day was given to unpacking and seeing the grounds; after that,
Miss Inches said they must begin to lead a regular life, and Johnnie
must study. Johnnie had been to school all winter, and in the natural
course of things would have had holidays now. Mamma Marion, however,
declared that so long an idle time would not do at all.
"Education, my darling, is not a thing of periods," she explained. "It
should be like the air, absorbed, as it were, all the time, not like a
meal, eaten just so often in the day. This idea of teaching by paroxysms
is one of the fatal mistakes of the age."
So all that warm July Johnnie had French lessons and German, and lessons
in natural philosophy, beside studying English literature after a plan
of Miss Inches' own, which combined history and geography and geology,
with readings from various books, and accounted for the existence of
all the great geniuses of the world, as if they had been made after a
regular recipe,--something like this:--
TO MAKE A POET.
Take a political situation, add a rocky soil, and
the western slope of a great water-shed, pour into
a mould and garnish with laurel leaves. It will be
found delicious!
The "lambent blue" of Johnnie's eyes grew more lambent than ever as she
tried to make head and tail of this wonderful hash of people and facts.
I am afraid that Mamma Marion was disappointed in the intelligence of
her pupil, but Johnnie did her best, though she was rather aggrieved at
being obliged to study at all in summer, which at home was always
play-time. The children she knew were having a delightful vacation
there, and living out of doors from morning till night.
As the weeks went on she felt this more and more. Change of air was
making her rosy and fat, and with returning strength a good deal of the
old romping, hearty Johnnie came back; or would have come, had there
been anybody to romp with. But there was nobody, for Miss Inches
scarcely ever invited children to her house. They were brought up so
poorly she said. There was nothing inspiring in their contact. She
wanted Johnnie to be something quite different.
So Johnnie seldom saw anybody except "Mamma Marion" and her friends, who
came to drink tea and talk about "Protoplasm," and the "Higher Education
of Women," which wasn't at all interesting to poor Curly. She always sat
by, quietly and demurely, and Miss Inches hoped was listening and being
improved, but really she was thinking about something else, or longing
to climb a tree or have a good game of play with real boys and girls.
Once, in the middle of a tea-party, she stole upstairs and indulged in a
hearty cry all to herself, over the thought of a little house which she
and Dorry and Phil had built in Paradise the summer before; a house of
stumps and old boards, lined with moss, in which they had had _such_ a
good time.
Almost as soon as they got home, Miss Inches sent to Boston for papers
and furniture, and devoted her spare time to fitting up a room for her
adopted child. Johnnie was not allowed to see it till all was done, then
she was led triumphantly in. It was pretty--and queer--perhaps queerer
than pretty. The walls were green-gray, the carpet gray-green, the
furniture pale yellow, almost white, with brass handles and hinges, and
lines of dull red tiles set into the wood. Every picture on the walls
had a meaning, Miss Inches explained.
"Some of these I chose to strengthen your mind, Johnnie, dear," she
said. "These portraits, for example. Here are Luther, Mahomet, and
Theodore Parker, three of the great Protestants of the world. Life, to
be worthy, must be more or less of a protest always. I want you to
renumber that. This photograph is of Michael Angelo's Moses. I got you
that too, because it is so strong. I want you to be strong. Do you like
it?"
"I think it would be prettier without the curl-papers," faltered the
bewildered Johnnie.
"Curl-papers! My dear child, where are your eyes? Those are horns. He
wore horns as a law-giver."
"Yes, ma'am," said Johnnie, not daring to ask any more questions for
fear of making more mistakes.
"These splendid autotypes are from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in
Rome, the glory of the world," went on Miss Inches. "And here, Johnnie,
is the most precious of all. This I got expressly for you. It is an
education to have such a painting as that before your eyes. I rely very
much upon its influence on you."
The painting represented what seemed to be a grove of tall yellow-green
sea-weeds, waving against a strange purple sky. There was a path between
the stems of the sea-weeds, and up this path trotted a pig, rather soft
and smudgy about his edges, as if he were running a little into the
background. His quirly tail was smudgy also; and altogether it was more
like the ghost of a pig than a real animal, but Miss Inches said _that_
was the great beauty of the picture.
Johnnie didn't care much for the painted pig, but she liked him better
than the great Reformers, who struck her as grim and frightful; while
the very idea of going to sleep in the room with the horned Moses scared
her almost to death. It preyed on her mind all day; and at night, after
Johnnie had gone to bed, Miss Inches, passing the door, heard a little
sob, half strangled by the pillows. She went in.
"What _is_ the matter?" she cried.
"It's that awful man with horns," gasped Johnnie, taking her head out
from under the bedclothes. "I can't go to sleep, he frightens me so."
"Oh, my darling, what, _what_ weakness," cried Mamma Marion.
She was too kind, however, to persist in any plan which made Johnnie
unhappy, so Moses came down, and Johnnie was allowed to choose a picture
to fill his place. She selected a chromo of three little girls in a
swing, a dreadful thing, all blue and red and green, which Miss Inches
almost wept over. But it was a great comfort to Johnnie. I think it was
the chromo which put it into Mamma Marion's head that the course of
instruction chosen for her adopted child was perhaps a little above her
years. Soon after she surprised Johnnie by the gift of a doll, a boy
doll, dressed in a suit of Swedish gray, with pockets. In one hand the
doll carried a hammer, and under the other arm was tucked a small
portfolio.
"I like to make your sports a little instructive when I can," she said,
"so I have dressed this doll in the costume of Linnaeus, the great
botanist. See what a nice little herbarium he has got under his arm.
There are twenty-four tiny specimens in it, with the Latin and English
names of each written underneath. If you could learn these perfectly,
Johnnie, it would give you a real start in botany, which is the most
beautiful of the sciences. Suppose you try. What will you name your
doll, darling?"
"I don't know," replied Johnnie, glaring at the wax-boy with very
hostile feelings.
"Linnaeus? No, I don't quite like to give that name to a doll. Suppose,
Johnnie, we christen him _Hortus Siccus_. That's the Latin name for a
herbal, and will help you to remember it when you form one of your own.
Now take him and have a good play."
How was it possible to have a good play with a doll named _Hortus
Siccus_? Johnnie hated him, and could not conceal the fact. Miss Inches
was grieved and disappointed. But she said to herself, "Perhaps she is
just too old for dolls and just too young to care for pictures. It isn't
so easy to fix a child's mental position as I thought it would be. I
must try something else."
She really loved Johnnie and wished to make her happy, so the thought
occurred of giving her a child's party. "I don't approve of them," she
told her friends. "But perhaps it may be possible to combine some
instruction with the amusements, and Johnnie is _so_ pleased. Dear
little creature, she is only eleven, and small things are great at that
age. I suppose it is always so with youth."
Twenty children were asked to the party. They were to come at four, play
for two hours in the garden, then have supper, and afterward games in
the parlor.
Johnnie felt as if she had taken a dose of laughing-gas, at the sight of
twenty boys and girls all at once, real boys, real girls! How long it
was since she had seen any! She capered and jumped in a way which
astonished Miss Inches, and her high spirits so infected the rest that a
general romp set in, and the party grew noisy to an appalling degree.
"Oh, Johnnie dear, no more 'Tag,'" cried poor Mamma Marion, catching
her adopted child and wiping her hot face with a handkerchief. "It is
really too rude, such a game as that. It is only fit for boys."
"Oh, please!--please!--_please_!" entreated Johnnie. "It is splendid.
Papa always let us; he did indeed, he always did."
"I thought you were my child now, and anxious for better things than
tag," said Miss Inches gravely. Johnnie had to submit, but she pouted,
shrugged her shoulders, and looked crossly about her, in a way which
Mamma Marion had never seen before, and which annoyed her very much.
"Now it is time to go to supper," she announced. "Form yourselves into a
procession, children. Johnnie shall take this tambourine and Willy
Parker these castanets, and we will march in to the sound of music."
Johnnie liked to beat the tambourine very much, so her sulks gave place
at once to smiles. The boys and girls sorted themselves into couples,
Miss Inches took the head of the procession with an accordion, Willy
Parker clashed the castanets as well as he could, and they all marched
into the house. The table was beautifully spread with flowers and grapes
and pretty china. Johnnie took the head, Willy the foot, and Dinah the
housemaid helped them all round to sliced peaches and cream.
Miss Inches meanwhile sat down in the corner of the room and drew a
little table full of books near her. As soon as they were all served,
she began,--
"Now, dear children, while you eat, I will read aloud a little. I should
like to think that each one of you carried away one thought at least
from this entertainment,--a thought which would stay by you, and be, as
it were, seed-grain for other thoughts in years to come. First, I will
read 'Abou Ben Adhem,' by Leigh Hunt, an English poet."
The children listened quietly to Abou Ben Adhem, but when Miss Inches
opened another book and began to read sentences from Emerson, a deep
gloom fell upon the party. Willy Parker kicked his neighbor and made a
face. Lucy Hooper and Grace Sherwood whispered behind their napkins, and
got to laughing till they both choked. Johnnie's cross feelings came
back; she felt as if the party was being spoiled, and she wanted to cry.
A low buzz of whispers, broken by titters, went round the table, and
through it all Miss Inches' voice sounded solemn and distinct, as she
slowly read one passage after another, pausing between each to let the
meaning sink properly into the youthful mind.
Altogether the supper was a failure, in spite of peaches and cream and a
delicious cake full of plums and citron. When it was over they went into
the parlor to play. The game of "Twenty Questions" was the first one
chosen. Miss Inches played too. The word she suggested was "iconoclast."
"We don't know what it means," objected the children.
"Oh, don't you, dears? It means a breaker of idols. However, if you are
not familiar with it we will choose something else. How would 'Michael
Angelo' do?"
"But we never heard any thing about him."
Miss Inches was shocked at this, and began a little art-lecture on the
spot, in the midst of which Willy Parker broke in with, "I've thought of
a word,--'hash'?"
"Oh, yes! Capital! Hash is a splendid word!" chorussed the others, and
poor Miss Inches, who had only got as far as Michael Angelo's fourteenth
year, found that no one was listening, and stopped abruptly. Hash seemed
to her a vulgar word for the children to choose, but there was no help
for it, and she resigned herself.
Johnnie thought hash an excellent word. It was so funny when Lucy asked
whether the thing chosen was animal, vegetable, or mineral? and Willy
replied, "All three," for he explained in a whisper, there was always
salt in hash, and salt was a mineral. "Have you all seen it?"
questioned Lucy. "Lots of times," shouted the children, and there was
much laughing. After "Twenty Questions," they played "Sim says
wiggle-waggle," and after that, "Hunt the Slipper." Poor, kind, puzzled
Miss Inches was relieved when they went away, for it seemed to her that
their games were all noisy and a fearful waste of time. She resolved
that she would never give Johnnie any more parties; they upset the child
completely, and demoralized her mind.
Johnnie _was_ upset. After the party she was never so studious or so
docile as she had been before. The little taste of play made her dislike
work, and set her to longing after the home-life where play and work
were mixed with each other as a matter of course. She began to think
that it would be only pleasant to make up her bed, or dust a room again,
and she pined for the old nursery, for Phil's whistle, for Elsie and the
paper-dolls, and to feel Katy's arms round her once more. Her letters
showed the growing home-sickness. Dr. Carr felt that the experiment had
lasted long enough. So he discovered that he had business in Boston, and
one fine September day, as Johnnie was forlornly poring over her lesson
in moral philosophy, the door opened and in came Papa. Such a shriek as
she gave! Miss Inches happened to be out, and they had the house to
themselves for a while.
"So you are glad to see me?" said Papa, when Johnnie had dried her eyes
after the violent fit of crying which was his welcome, and had raised
her head from his shoulder. His own eyes were a little moist, but he
spoke gaily.
"Oh, Papa, _so_ glad! I was just longing for you to come. How did it
happen?"
"I had business in this part of the world, and I thought you might be
wanting your winter clothes."
Johnnie's face fell.
"_Must_ I stay all winter?" she said in a trembling voice. "Aren't you
going to take me home?"
"But I thought you wanted to be 'adopted,' and to go to Europe, and have
all sorts of fine things happen to you."
"Oh, Papa, don't tease me. Mamma Marion is ever so kind, but I want to
come back and be your little girl again. Please let me. If you don't, I
shall _die_--" and Johnnie wrung her hands.
"We'll see about it," said Dr. Carr. "Don't die, but kiss me and wash
your face. It won't do for Miss Inches to come home and find you with
those impolite red rims to your eyes."
"Come upstairs, too, and see my room, while I wash 'em," pleaded
Johnnie.
All the time that Johnnie was bathing her eyes, Papa walked leisurely
about looking at the pictures. His mouth wore a furtive smile.
"This is a sweet thing," he observed, "this one with the pickled
asparagus and the donkey, or is it a cat?"
"Papa! it's a pig!"
Then they both laughed.
I think there was a little bit of relief mixed with Miss Inches'
disappointment at hearing of Johnnie's decision. The child of theory was
a delightful thing to have in the house, but this real child, with moods
and tempers and a will of her own, who preferred chromos to Raphael, and
pined after "tag," tried her considerably. They parted, however, most
affectionately.
"Good-by, dear Mamma Marion," whispered Johnnie. "You've been just as
good as good to me, and I love you so much,--but you know I am _used_ to
the girls and Papa."
"Yes, dear, I know. You're to come back often, Papa says, and I shall
call you my girl always." So, with kisses, they separated, and Miss
Inches went back to her old life, feeling that it was rather comfortable
not to be any longer responsible for a "young intelligence," and that
she should never envy mammas with big families of children again, as
once she had done.
"So we've got our Curly Locks back," said Katy, fondly stroking
Johnnie's hair, the night after the travellers' return. "And you'll
never go away from us any more, will you?"
"Never, never, never!" protested Johnnie, emphasizing each word by a
kiss.
"Not even to be adopted, travel in Europe, or speak Litchfield Co.
French?" put in naughty Clover.
"No. I've been adopted once, and that's enough. Now I'm going to be
Papa's little girl always, and when the rest of you get married I shall
stay at home and keep house for him."
"That's right," said Dr. Carr.
GOOSEY, GOOSEY GANDER.
[Illustration]
"BUT why must I go to bed? It isn't time, and I'm not sleepy yet,"
pleaded Dickie, holding fast by the side of the door.
"Now, Dickie, don't be naughty. It's time because I say that it's time."
"Papa never tells me it's time when it's light like this," argued
Dickie. "_He_ doesn't ever send me to bed till seven o'clock. I'm not
going till it's a great deal darker than this. So there, Mally Spence."
"Oh, yes, you are, Dickie darling," replied Mally coaxingly. "The reason
it's light is because the days are so long now. It's quite late
really,--almost seven o'clock,--that is," she added hastily, "it's past
six (two minutes past!), and sister wants to put Dickie to bed, because
she's going to take tea with Jane Foster, and unless Dick is safe and
sound she can't go. Dickie would be sorry to make sister lose her
pleasure, wouldn't he?"
"I wiss you didn't want me to go," urged Dick, but he was a
sweet-tempered little soul, so he yielded to Mally's gentle pull, and
suffered her to lead him in-doors. Upstairs they went, past Mally's
room, Papa's,--up another flight of stairs, and into the attic chamber
where Dick slept alone. It was a tiny chamber. The ceiling was low, and
the walls sloped inward like the sides of a tent. It would have been too
small to hold a grown person comfortably, but there was room in plenty
for Dickie's bed, one chair, and the chest of drawers which held his
clothes and toys. One narrow window lighted it, opening toward the West.
On the white plastered wall beside it, lay a window-shaped patch of warm
pink light. The light was reflected from the sunset. Dickie had seen
this light come and go very often. He liked to have it there; it was so
pretty, he thought.
Malvina undressed him. She did not talk as much as usual, for her head
was full of the tea-party, and she was in a hurry to get through and be
off. Dickie, however, was not the least in a hurry. Slowly he raised one
foot, then the other, to have his shoes untied, slowly turned himself
that Mally might unfasten his apron. All the time he talked. Mally
thought she had never known him ask so many questions, or take so much
time about every thing.
"What makes the wall pink?" he said. "It never is 'cept just at
bedtime."
"It's the sun."
"Why doesn't the sun make it that color always?"
"The sun is setting now. He is not setting always."
"That's an improper word. You mustn't say it."
"What's an improper word?"
"Papa _said_, when I said 'setting on the door-steps,' that it wasn't
proper to say that. He said I must say _sitting_ on the door steps."
"That isn't the same thing, Goosey Gander," cried Mally laughing. "The
sun sets and little boys sit."
"I'm not a goosey gander," responded Dickie. "And Papa _said_ it wasn't
proper."
"Never mind," said Mally, whipping on his night-gown: "you're a darling,
if you are a goosey. Now say your prayers nicely."
"Yes," replied Dick, dreamily. He knelt down and began his usual prayer.
"Please, God, bless Papa and Mally and Gwandmamma and--" "make Dick a
good boy" should have come next, but his thoughts wandered. "Why don't
the sun sit as well as little boys?" he asked.
"Oh, Dickie, Dickie!" cried the scandalized Malvina. "You're saying your
prayers, you know. Good children don't stop to ask questions when
they're saying their prayers."
Dickie felt rebuked. He finished the little prayer quickly. Mally lifted
him into bed. "It's so warm that you won't want this," she said, folding
back the blanket. Then she stooped to kiss him.
"Tell me a story before you go," pleaded Dickie, holding her tight.
"Oh, not to-night, darling, because I shall be late to Jane's if I do."
She kissed him hastily.
"I don't think it's nice at all to go to bed when the sun hasn't sit,
and I'm not sleepy a bit, and there isn't nothing to play with,"
remarked Dick, plaintively.
"You'll fall asleep in a minute or two, Goosey, then you won't want any
thing to play with," said Mally, hurrying away.
"I'm _not_ a goosey," shouted Dick after her. Ten minutes later, as she
was tying her bonnet strings, she heard him calling from the top of the
stairs.
"What is it, Dickie?"
"I'm not a goose. Goosies has feathers. They say 'quack.'"
"You're the kind that hasn't feathers and doesn't say quack," replied
Mally from below. "No, darling, you're not a goose; you're Mally's good
boy. Now, run back to bed."
"Yes, I will," replied Dick, satisfied by this concession. He climbed
into bed again, and lay watching the pink patch on the wall. Yellow bars
began to appear and to dance in the midst of the pink.
"Like teeny-weeney little ladders," thought Dick. There was a ladder
outside his door, at top of which was a scuttle opening on to the roof.
Dickie turned his head to look at the ladder. The scuttle-door stood
open; from above, the pink light streamed in and lay on the rungs of the
ladder.
"I did go up that ladder once," soliloquized Dick. "Papa took me. It was
velly nice up there. I wiss Papa would take me again. Mally, she said it
was dangewous. I wonder why she said it was dangewous? Mally's a very
funny girl, I think. She didn't ought to put me to bed so early. I can't
go to sleep at all. Perhaps I sha'n't ever go to sleep, not till
morning,--then she'd feel sorry.
"If I was a bird I could climb little bits of ladders like that," was
his next reflection. "Or a fly. I'd like to be a fly, and eat sugar, and
say b-u-z-z-z all day long. Only then perhaps some little boy would get
me into the corner of the window and squeeze me all up tight with his
fum." Dickie cast a rueful look at his own guilty thumb as he thought
this. "I wouldn't like that! But I'd like very much indeed to buzz and
tickle Mally's nose when she was twying to sew. She'd slap and slap,
and not hit me, and I'd buzz and tickle. How I'd laugh! But perhaps
flies don't know how to laugh, only just to buzz.
"'Pretty, curious, buzzy fly.'
That's what my book says."
The pink glow was all gone now, and Dick shifted his position.
"I _wiss_ I could go to sleep," he thought. "It isn't nice at all to be
up here and not have any playthings. Mally's gone, else she'd get me
something to amoose myself with. I'd like my dwum best. It's under the
hall table, I guess. P'waps if I went down I could get it."
As this idea crossed his mind, Dickie popped quickly out of bed. The
floor felt cool and pleasant to his bare little feet as he crossed to
the door. He had almost reached the head of the stairs when, looking up,
something so pretty met his eyes that he stopped to admire. It was a
star, shining against the pure sky like a twinkling silver lamp. It
seemed to beckon, and the ladder to lead straight up to it. Almost
without stopping to think, Dickie put his foot on the first rung and
climbed nimbly to the top of the ladder. The star was just as much out
of reach when he got there as it had been before, but there were other
beautiful sights close at hand which were well worth the trouble of
climbing after.
Miles and miles and miles of sky for one thing. It rose above Dickie's
head like a great blue dome pierced with pin-pricks of holes, through
which little points of bright light quivered and danced. Far away
against the sky appeared a church spire, like a long sharp finger
pointing to Heaven. One little star exactly above, seemed stuck on the
end of the spire. Dickie wondered if it hurt the star to be there. He
stepped out on to the roof and wandered about. The evening was warm and
soft. No dew fell. The shingles still kept the heat of the sun, and felt
pleasant and comfortable under his feet. By-and-by a splendid
rocker-shaped moon came from behind the sky's edge where she had been
hiding away, and sailed slowly upward. She was a great deal bigger than
the stars, but they didn't seem afraid of her in the least. Dickie
reflected that if he were a star he should hurry to get out of her way;
but the stars didn't mind the moon's being there at all, they kept their
places, and shone calmly on as they had done before she came.
He was standing, when the moon appeared, by the low railing which
guarded the edge of the roof. The railing was of a very desirable
height. Dickie could just rest his chin on top of it, which was nice.
Suddenly a loud "Maau-w!" resounded from above. Dickie jumped, and gave
his poor chin a knock against the railing. It couldn't be the moon,
could it? Moons didn't make noises like that.
He looked up. There, on the ridge pole of the next roof, sat a black
cat, big and terrible against the sky. "Ma-a-uw," said the cat again,
louder than before.
"Why, pussy, what's the matter?" cried Dick. His voice quavered a
little, but he tried to speak boldly. Pussy was displeased at the
question. She hissed, put up her back, swelled her tail to a puff, and
fled to a distant part of the roof, where, from some hidden ambush, Dick
could hear her scolding savagely.
"She's a cwoss cat, I guess," he remarked philosophically. "Why, this
chimney is warm," he cried, as his arm touched the bricks. "It's 'cause
there used to be a fire in there. But there isn't any smoke coming out.
I wonder if all the chimneys are warm too, like this one."
There was another chimney not far off, and Dick hastened to try the
experiment. To do this he was obliged to climb a railing, but it was low
and easy to get over. The second chimney was cold, but a little farther
on appeared a third, and Dick proceeded to climb another railing.
But before he reached this third chimney, a surprising and interesting
sight attracted his attention. This was a scuttle door just like the
one at home, standing open, with a ladder leading down into a garret
below.
Dick peered over the edge of the scuttle. There was no little chamber in
this attic like his at home. It was all an open space, crammed with
trunks, furniture, boxes, and barrels. He caught sight of a
rocking-horse standing in a corner; a rocking-horse with a blue saddle
on his wooden back, and a fierce bristling mane much in need of brush
and comb. Drawn by irresistible attraction, Dickie put, first one foot,
then the other, over the scuttle's edge, crept down the ladder, and in
another moment stood by the motionless steed. Thick dust lay on the
saddle, on the rockers, and on the stiffly stretched-out tail, from
which most of the red paint had been worn away. It was evidently a long
time since any little boy had mounted there, chirruped to the horse, and
ridden gloriously away, pursuing a fairy fox through imaginary fields.
The eye of the wooden horse was glazed and dim. Life had lost its
interest to the poor animal, turned out, as it were, to pasture as best
he might in the dull, silent garret.