a bad scissors, Tommy, all oily and dirty. Nice little boys don't want
to play with such dirty scissors as that."
"Yes, they do," whined Tommy, quite unconvinced.
"Now, children," continued Mell, "I'm going upstairs to make the beds.
You must play just here, and not go outside the gate till I come down
again. I shall be at the window, and see you all the time. Will you
promise to be good and do as I tell you?"
"Es," lisped Gabella Sarah.
"Es," said Isaphine.
"Yes, yes," clamored the others, headed by Tommy, who was a child of
promise if ever there was one. All the time his eyes were fixed on the
table drawer!
Mell went upstairs. First into the children's room, then into her own.
She put her head out of the window once or twice. The children were
playing quietly; Tommy had gone in for something, they said. Last of
all, Mell went to her step-mother's room. She had just begun to smooth
the bed, when an astonishing sight caught her eyes. _The key was in the
lock of the big chest!_
Yes, actually, the fairy treasury, home of so many fancies, was left
unlocked! How Mrs. Davis came to do so careless a thing will never be
known, but that she had done so was a fact.
Mell thought at first that her eyes deceived her. She stole across the
room and touched the key timidly with her forefinger to make sure. Then
she lifted the lid a little way and let it fall again, looking over her
shoulder as if fearing to hear a sharp voice from the stairs. Next,
grown bolder, she opened the lid wide. There lay the red shawl, just as
she remembered it, the coral beads in their lidless box, the blue paper
parcels, and, forgetting all consequences in a rapture of curiosity,
Mell sat down on the floor, lifted out the red shawl, tied the coral
beads round her neck, and plunged boldly into the contents of the big
chest.
Such a delightful chest as it proved to be! Mell thought it a great deal
better than any fairy tale, as one by one she lifted out and handled the
things which it contained. First and most beautiful was a parasol. It
was covered with faded pink silk trimmed with fringe, and had a long
white handle ending in a curved hook. Mell had never seen a parasol so
fine. She opened it, shut it, opened it again; she held it over her head
and went to the glass to see the effect. It was gorgeous, it was like
the parasols of Fairy-land, Mell thought. She laid it on the floor close
beside her, that she might see it all the while she explored the chest.
Below the parasol was a big paper box. Mell lifted the lid. A muff and
tippet lay inside, made of yellow and brown fur like the back of a
tortoise-shell cat. These were beautiful, too. Then came rolls of
calico and woollen pieces, some of which were very pretty, and would
make nice doll's dresses, Mell thought.
A newspaper parcel next claimed her attention. It held an old-fashioned
work-bag made of melon seeds strung on wire, and lined with green. Mell
admired this exceedingly, and pinned it to her waist. Then she found a
fan of white feathers with pink sticks. This was most charming of all.
Mell fanned herself a long time. She could not bear to put it away.
Princesses, she thought, must use fans like that. On the paper which
wrapped the fan was something written in pencil. Mell spelled it out.
"For my little Melicent" was what the writing said.
Was the fan really hers? Perhaps the parasol was hers too, the coral
beads, the muff and tippet! All sorts of delightful possibilities
whirled through her brain, as she tossed and tumbled the parcels in the
chest out on to the floor. More bundles of pieces, some
knitting-needles, an old-fashioned pair of bellows (Mell did not know
what these were), a book or two, a package of snuff, which flew up into
her face and made her sneeze. Then an overcoat and some men's clothes
folded smoothly. Mell did not care for the overcoat, but there were two
dresses pinned in towels which delighted her. One was purple muslin, the
other faded blue silk; and again she found her own name pinned on the
towel,--"For my little Mell." A faint pleasant odor came from the folds
of the blue silk dress. Mell searched the pocket, and found there a
Tonquin bean, screwed up in a bit of paper. It was the Tonquin bean
which had made the dress smell so pleasantly. Mell pressed the folds
close to her nose. She was fond of perfumes, and this seemed to her the
most delicious thing she ever smelt.
Suddenly the clock downstairs struck something very long, and Mell,
waking up as it were, recollected that it was a good while since she had
heard any sounds from the children in the yard. She jumped up and ran
to the window. No children were there.
"Children, children, where are you?" she called; but nobody answered.
"Tiresome little things," thought Mell. "They've gone round to the pump
again. I must hurry, or they will be all sopping wet." She seized the
parasol, which she could not bear to part with, and, leaving the other
things on the floor, ran downstairs. The red shawl, which had been lying
in her lap, trailed after her as far as the kitchen, and then fell, but
Mell did not notice it.
"What!" she cried, looking at the clock, "noon already! Why, where has
the morning gone to?"
Where had the children gone to? was another question. Back yard, side
yard, front yard, cellar, shed, Mell searched. There were no small
figures ranged about the pump, no voices replied to her calls. Mell ran
to the gate. She strained her eyes down the road, this way, that way;
not a sign of the little flock was visible in any direction.
Now Mell _was_ frightened. "What _will_ mother say?" she thought, and
began to run distractedly along the road, crying and sobbing as she
went, and telling herself that it wasn't her fault, that she only went
upstairs to make the beds,--but here her conscience gave a great prick.
It was but ten o'clock when she went upstairs to make the beds!
"Oh, dear!" she sobbed. "If only Tommy isn't drowned!" Drowning came
into her head first, because her step-mother was always in an agony
about the pond. The pond was a mile off at least, but Mrs. Davis never
let the children even look that way if she could help it.
Toward the pond poor Mell bent her way; for she thought as Tommy had
been strictly forbidden to go there, it was probably the very road he
had taken. The sun beat on her head and she put up the parasol, which
through all her trouble she had grasped firmly in her hand. Even under
these dreadful circumstances, with the children lost, and the certainty
of her step-mother's wrath before her, there was joy in carrying a
parasol like that.
By and by she met a farmer with a yoke of oxen.
"Oh, please," said Mell, "have you seen five children going this
way,--four girls and one little boy?"
The farmer hummed and hawed. "I did see some children," he said at last.
"It was a good piece back, nearly an hour ago, I reckon. They was making
for the pond?"
"Oh, dear!" sighed Mell. She thanked the farmer, and ran on faster than
ever.
"Have you passed any children on this road?" she demanded of a boy with
a wheelbarrow, who was the next person she met.
"Boys or girls?"
"One boy and four girls."
"Do they belong to you?"
"Yes, they're my brothers and sisters," said Mell. "Where did you see
them?"
"Haven't seen 'em," replied the boy. He grinned as he spoke, seized his
barrow, and wheeled rapidly away.
Mell's tears broke forth afresh. What a horrid boy!
The pond was very near now. It was a large pond. There were hills on one
side of it; on the other the shore was low, and covered with thick
bushes. In and out among these bushes went Mell, hunting for her lost
flock. It was green and shady. Flowers grew here and there; bright
berries hung on the boughs above her head; birds sang; a saucy squirrel
ran to the end of a branch, and chippered to her as she passed. But Mell
saw none of these things. She was too anxious and unhappy to enjoy what
on any other day would have been a great pleasure; and she passed the
flowers, the berries, and the chattering squirrel unheeded by.
No signs of the children appeared, till at last, in a marshy place, a
small shoe was seen sticking in the mud. Belinda's shoe! Mell knew it
in a minute.
She picked up the shoe, wiped the mud from it with a tuft of dried
grass, and, carrying it in her hand, went forward. She was on the track
now, and here and there prints of small feet in the earth guided her.
She called "Tommy! Isaphine! Belinda!" but no answer came. They were
either hidden cleverly, or else they had wandered a longer distance than
seemed possible in so short a time.
Suddenly Mell gave a shriek and a jump. There on the path before her lay
a snake, or what looked like one. It did not move. Mell grew bold and
went nearer. Alas! alas! it was not a snake. It was a pigtail of braided
hair,--Isaphine's hair: the red color was unmistakable. She seized it. A
smell of kerosene met her nose. Oh that Tommy!
With the pigtail coiled inside of the lost shoe, Mell ran on. She was
passing a thicket of sassafras bushes, when a sound of crying met her
ears. Instantly she stopped, and, parting the bushes with her hands,
peered in. There they were, sitting in a little circle close
together,--Arabella and Gabella Sarah fast asleep, with their heads in
Belinda's lap; Isaphine crying; Tommy sitting a little apart, an evil
smile on his face, in his hand a pair of scissors!
"You naughty, naughty, naughty boy," screamed Mell, flinging herself
upon him.
With a howl of terror, Tommy started up and prepared to flee. Mell
caught and held him tight. Something flew from his lap and fell to the
ground. Alas! alas! three more pigtails. Mell looked at the children.
Each little head was cropped close. What _would_ mother say?
"He cut off my hair," sobbed Isaphine.
"So did he cut mine," whined Belinda. "He took those nassy scissors you
told him not to take, and he cut off all our hairs. Boo-hoo! boo-hoo!
Tommy's a notty boy, he is."
"I'm going to tell Ma when she comes home, see if I don't," added
Isaphine.
"I ain't a bad boy," cried Tommy. "Stop a-shaking of me, Mell Davis. We
was playing they was sheep. I was a-shearing of em."
"O Tommy, Tommy!" cried poor Mell, hot, angry, and dismayed, "how could
you do such a thing?"
"They was sheep," retorted Tommy sulkily.
"Boo-hoo! boo-hoo!" blubbered Belinda. "I don't like my hair to be cut
off. It makes my head feel all cold."
"He didn't play nice a bit," sobbed Isaphine. "He's always notty to us."
"I'll cut off your head," declared Tommy, threatening with the scissors.
Mell seized the scissors, and captured them, Tommy kicking and
struggling meantime. Then she waked up the babies, tied on Belinda's
shoe, collected the unhappy pigtails, and said they must all go home.
Home! The very idea made her sick with fright.
I don't suppose such a deplorable little procession was ever seen
before. Isaphine and Belinda went first; then the little ones, very
cross after their nap; and, lastly, Mell, holding Tommy's arm, and
driving the poor little shorn sheep before her with the handle of the
parasol, which she used as a shepherdess uses her crook. They were all
tired and hungry. The babies cried. The sun was very hot. The road
seemed miles long. Every now and then Mell had to let them sit down to
rest. It was nearly four o'clock when they reached home; and, long
before that, Mell was so weary and discouraged that it seemed as if she
should like to lie down and die.
They got home at last. Mell's hand was on the garden gate, when suddenly
a sight so terrible met her eyes that she stood rooted to the spot,
unable to move an inch further. There in the doorway was Mrs. Davis. Her
face was white with anger as she looked at the children. Mell felt the
coral beads burn about her throat. She dropped the parasol as if her arm
was broken, the guilty tails hung from her hand, and she wished with
all her heart that the earth could open and swallow her up.
It was a full moment before anybody spoke. Then "What does this mean?"
asked Mrs. Davis, in an awful voice.
Mell could not answer. But the children broke out in full chorus of
lament.
"Tommy was so bad to us." "He lost us in the woods." "He stole the
scissors, and they were dirty scissors." "Mell went away and left us all
alone."
"Yes," cried Mrs. Davis, her wrath rising with each word, "I know very
well what you were up to, miss. All my things upset. As soon as I found
out that I had forgotten my key, I knew very well--" her voice died away
into the silence of horror. She had just caught sight of Belinda's
cropped head.
"Tommy did it. He cut off all our hairs," blubbered Belinda.
Mell shut her eyes tight. She was too frightened to move. She felt
herself clutched, dragged in-doors, upstairs, and her ears boxed, all
in a moment. Mrs. Davis pushed her violently forward, a door banged, a
key turned.
"There you stay for a week, and on bread and water," cried a voice
through the keyhole; and Mell, opening her eyes, found herself in the
dark and alone. She knew very well where she was,--in the closet under
the attic stairs; a place she dreaded, because she had once seen a mouse
there, and Mell was particularly afraid of mice.
"Oh, don't shut me up here! Please don't; please let me out, please,"
she shrieked. But Mrs. Davis had gone downstairs, and nobody replied.
"They'll come and eat me up as soon as it grows dark," thought Mell; and
this idea so terrified her that she began to beat on the door with her
hands, and scream at the top of her voice. No one came. And after a
while she grew so weary that she could scream no longer; so she curled
herself up on the floor of the closet and went to sleep.
When she woke the closet was darker than ever. Mell felt weak and ill
for want of food. Her head ached; her bones ached from lying on the hard
floor; she was feverish and very miserable.
"It's dark; she's going to leave me here all night," sobbed Mell. "Oh!
won't somebody come and let me out?" Now _would_ have been a chance to
play that she was a princess shut up in a dark dungeon! But Mell didn't
feel like playing. She was a real little girl shut up in a closet, and
it wasn't nice at all. There was no "make believe" left in her just
then.
Suddenly a fine scratching sound began in the wall close to her head.
"The mouse, the mouse," thought Mell, and she gave a shriek so loud that
it would have scared away a whole army of mice. The shriek sounded all
over the house. It woke the children in their beds, and rang in the ears
of Mrs. Davis, who was sitting down to supper in the kitchen with
somebody just arrived,--a big, brown, rough-bearded somebody, who smelt
of salt-water; Mell's father, in short, returned from sea.
"What's that?" asked Captain Davis, putting down his cup.
Mrs. Davis was frightened. In the excitement of her husband's sudden
return she had quite forgotten poor Mell in her closet.
"Some of the children," she answered, trying to speak carelessly. "I'll
run up."
Another terrible shriek. Captain Davis seized a candle, and hurried
upstairs after his wife.
He was just in time to see her unlock the closet door, and poor Mell
tumble out, tear-stained, white, frightened almost out of her wits. She
clutched her step-mother's dress with both hands.
"Oh, don't make me go in there again!" she pleaded. "I will be good.
I'll never meddle with the things in the chest any more. There are mice
in there, hundreds of 'em; they'll run all over me; they'll eat me up.
Oh, _don't_ make me go in there again!"
"Why, it's my little Mell!" cried the amazed Captain. "Shiver my
timbers! what does this mean?" He lifted Mell into his arms and looked
sternly at his wife.
"She's been a _very_ naughty girl," said Mrs. Davis, trying to speak
boldly. "So naughty that I had to shut her up. Stop crying so, Mell. I
forgive you now. I hope you'll never be so bad again."
"Oh, may I come out?" sobbed Mell, clinging to her father's neck. "You
said I must stay a week, but I couldn't do that, the mice would kill me.
Mice are so awful!" She shuddered with horror as she spoke.
"This ain't a pleasant welcome for a man just in from sea," remarked
Captain Davis.
Mrs. Davis explained and tried to smooth the matter over, but the
Captain continued very sober all that evening. Mell thought it was
because he was angry with her, but her step-mother knew very well that
she also was in disgrace. The truth was that the Captain was thinking
what to do. He was not a man of many words, but he felt that affairs at
home must go very wrong when he was away, and that such a state of
things was bad for his wife, and very bad for Mell.
So in a day or two he went off to Cape Cod, "to see his old mother," as
he said, in reality to consult her as to what should be done. When he
came back, he asked Mell how she would like to go and live with
Grandmother and be her little girl.
"Will she shut me up in closets?" asked Mell apprehensively.
"No, she'll be very kind to you if you are a good girl. Grandma's an old
lady now. She wants a handy child about the house to help, and sort of
pet and make much of."
"I--guess--I'll--like--it," said Mell slowly. "It's a good way from
here, isn't it?"
"Yes,--a good way."
Mell nodded her head in a satisfied manner. "_She'll_ not often come
there," she thought. "She" meant Mrs. Davis.
Mrs. Davis was unusually pleasant for the few remaining days which Mell
spent at home. I do not think she had ever meant to treat Mell unkindly,
but she had a hot temper, and the care of five unruly children is a good
deal for one woman to undertake, without counting in a little
step-daughter with a head stuffed with fairy stories. She washed and
ironed, mended and packed for Mell as kindly as possible, and did not
say one cross word, not even when her husband brought the coral necklace
from the big chest and gave it to Mell for her very own. "The child had
a right to her mother's necklace," he said. All was peaceful and serene,
and when Mell said good-by she surprised herself by feeling quite sorry
to go, and kissed Gabella Sarah's small face with tears in her eyes.
Grandmother was just such a dear old woman as one reads about in books.
Her cheeks were all criss-crossed with little wrinkles, which made her
look as if she were always smiling. Her forehead was smooth, her eyes
kind and blue. She was small, thin, and wiry. Her laugh was as fresh as
a young woman's. Mell loved her at once, and was sure that she should be
happy to live with her and be her little girl.
"Why, Bethuel, you've brought me a real good helper," said Grandmother,
as Mell ran to and fro, setting the tea-table, cutting bread, and
learning where things were kept. "I shall sit like a lady and do nothing
but rock in my cheer now that I've got Mell." Mell heard the kind words,
and sprang about more busily than ever. It was a new thing to be
praised.
Before Captain Davis went next day he walked over to Barnstable, and
came back with a parcel in his hand. The parcel was for Mell. It
contained the Fairy Tales,--all new and complete, bound in beautiful red
covers.
"You shall read them aloud to me in the evenings," said Grandmother.
That night, if anybody had peeped through the window of Grandmother's
little house he would have seen a pleasant sight. The kitchen was all
in order; the lamp burned clear; Grandmother sat in her rocking-chair
with a smile on her kind old face, while Mell, at her feet on a little
stool, opened the Fairy Tales, and prepared to read. "Once upon a time
there lived a beautiful Princess," she began;--then a sudden sense of
the delightfulness of all this overcame her. She dropped the book into
her lap, clasped her hands tight, and said, half to herself, half to
Grandmother, "_Isn't_ it nice?"
[Illustration]
MISTRESS MARY.
IT was the first of May; but May was in an April mood,--half cloudy,
half shiny,--and belied her name. Sprinkles of silvery rain dotted the
way-side dust; flashes of sun caught the drops as they fell, and turned
each into a tiny mirror fit for fairy faces. The trees were raining too,
showers of willow-catkins and cherry-bud calyxes, which fell noiselessly
and strewed the ground. The children kicked the soft brown drifts aside
with their feet as they walked along.
The doors of the Methodist meeting-house at Valley Hill stood open, and
crowds of men and women and children were going into them. It was not
Sunday which called the people together: it was the annual Conference
meeting; and all the country round was there to hear the reports and
learn where the ministers were to be sent for the next two years.
Methodist clergymen, you know, are not "called" by the people of the
parish, as other clergymen are. They go where the church sends them, and
every second year they are all changed to other parishes. This, it is
thought, keeps the people and pastors fresh and interested in each
other. But I don't know. Human beings, as well as vegetables, have a
trick of putting down roots; and even a cabbage or a potato would resent
such transplanting, and would refuse to thrive.
Sometimes, when a parish has become attached to its minister, it will
plead to have him stay longer. Now and then this request is granted;
but, as a rule, the minister has to go. And it is a hard rule for his
wife and children, who have to go too.
The Valley Hill people "thought a heap" of their minister, Mr. Forcythe,
and had begged hard that he might stay with them for another term.
Everybody belonging to the church had come to the meeting feeling
anxious, and yet pretty certain that the answer would be favorable. All
over the building, people were whispering about the matter, and heads
were nodding and bowing. The bonnets on these heads were curiously
alike. Mrs. Perry, the village milliner, never had more than one pattern
hat. "That is what is worn," she said; and nobody disputed the fact,
which saved Mrs. Perry trouble. The Valley Hill people liked it just as
well, and didn't mind the lack of variety. This year Mrs. Perry had
announced yellow to be the fashion, so nine out of ten of the hats
present were trimmed with yellow ribbon crossed in just the same way
over a yellow straw crown; and the church looked like a bed of sisterly
tulips nodding and bowing in the wind.
Bishop Judson was the person to read the announcements. He was a nice
old man, kind at heart, though formal in manner, and anxious eyes were
fixed on him as he got up with a paper in his hand. That important
little paper held comfort or discomfort for ever so many people. Every
one bent forward to listen. It was so still all over the church that you
might have heard a pin drop. The Bishop began with a little speech about
the virtues of patience and contentment, and how important it was that
everybody should be quite satisfied whatever happened to them. Then he
opened the paper.
"Brother Johnson, Middlebury," he read. Middlebury was a favorite
parish, so Brother Johnson looked pleased, and Sister Johnson was
congratulated by the friends who sat near her. "Brother Woodward, Little
Falls; Brother Ashe, Plunxet; Brother Allen, Claxton Corners." And so
on. Some faces grew bright, some sad, as the reading proceeded. At last
"Brother Forcythe, Redding; Brother Martin, Valley Hill," was announced.
A quiver of disappointment went over the church, and a little girl
sitting in the gallery began to cry.
"My dear, my dear," whispered her mother, much distressed at her sobs
and gulps. People looked up from below; but Mary could not stop. She
took her mother's handkerchief and held it tight over her mouth; but the
sobs would come. Her heart was half-broken at the idea of leaving Valley
Hill and going to that horrid Redding, where nobody wanted to go.
Old Mrs. Clapp, from behind, reached over and gave her a bunch of
fennel. But the fennel only made Mary cry harder. In Redding, she was
sure, would be no kind Mrs. Clapp, no "meeting-house seed;" and her sobs
grew thicker at the thought.
"I observe that your little daughter seems to be distressed," said
Bishop Judson, as Mrs. Forcythe led the sobbing Mary down from the
gallery at the end of service. "Children of her age form strong
attachments to places, I am aware. But it is well to break them before
they become unduly strong. Here we have no continuing city, you know."
"Yes," said poor Mrs. Forcythe, with a meek sigh. She had been married
fourteen years, and this was her seventh move.