"O Papa! much better than _that_. Dolls can't laugh and talk, and they
don't really care any thing about you, you only just make believe that
they do. It's horrid to fit a doll's clothes; she sticks her arm out
stiff and won't bend it a bit. I'd rather have my class than all the
dolls in the world."
"Teaching those children is having a capital effect on Mary herself,"
said Mrs. Forcythe to her husband after Mary had gone away. "She gains
all the time in patience and industry, and is twice as careful of her
things as she used to be. I found her crying the other day because she
had torn her oldest frock, and the darn was sure to come in a bad place
when the frock was made over for Gretchen! Think of Mary's crying
because of having torn any thing!"
Time flies rapidly when people are busy and happy. Days crept into
weeks, weeks into months; before any one knew it two years were passed
and another Conference day was at hand. It met this time at Redding.
Mary, a tall girl of fifteen now, went with her mother to hear the
appointments read. The Redding people had applied to keep Mr. Forcythe
for another term, but the request was denied; and, when his name was
reached on the list, it appeared that he was to go back to Valley Hill.
"There's one person I know will be pleased," said the Bishop, pausing on
his way out of church to speak to Mrs. Forcythe. "Mistress Mary here!
She'll be glad to go back to Valley Hill again. But, hey-day! she
doesn't look glad. What! tears in her eyes. How is this?"
"I--don't--know--" sighed Mary. "I thought--I thought we should stay
here. Of course I feel sorry just at first."
"Sorry! Not want to leave Redding! Why, what a contrary little maid you
are! Don't you recollect how you cried, and said Redding was horrid."
"Yes," said Mary, on the verge of a sob. "But I like it now, Bishop. I
don't mind the fish a bit, and the funny old streets and the posy-beds
with cockle-shell edges are so nice, and the bells sound so sweet on
Sunday morning!--I like Redding ever so much."
"But your garden,--I remember how badly you felt to leave that. You
can't have a garden in Redding."
"No, but I have my little girls. I'd rather have them than a garden, a
great deal!"
"What does she mean?" asked the Bishop, turning to Mrs. Forcythe.
"Her sewing-class," replied Mrs. Forcythe, smiling.
"There they are!" cried Mary eagerly. "They're waiting for me. Do look
at them, Bishop; it's those five little girls in a row behind the second
pillar from the door. That big one is Norah, and the one in blue is
Rachel, and the littlest is named Kathleen. Isn't she pretty? They're
the sweetest little things, oh, I shall miss them so. I shan't ever have
such good times again as I've had with them." Her voice faltered; a lump
came in her throat. To hide it she slipped away, and went across the
church to where the little ones sat.
"That's a dear child of yours," said the good Bishop, looking after her.
"I guess she'll _do_ wherever she goes."
And I think Mary will.
[Illustration]
LADY BIRD.
"NOW, Pocahontas Maria, sit still and don't disturb the little ones.
Imogene, that lesson must be learned before I come back, you know. Now,
dear, that was very, very naughty. When Mamma tells you to do things you
mustn't pout and poke Stella with your foot in that way. It isn't nice
at all. Stella is younger than you, and you ought to set her samples, as
Nursey says. Look at Ning Po Ganges, how good she is, and how she minds
all I say, and yet she's the littlest child I've got."
If anybody had been walking in Madam Bird's old-fashioned garden that
morning, and had heard these wise words coming from the other side of
the rose thicket, he would certainly have supposed that some old dame
with a school was hidden away there, or at the least an anxious Mamma
with a family of unruly children. But if this somebody had gone into the
thicket, bobbing his head to avoid the prickly, wreath-like branches, he
would have found on the other side only one person, little Lota Bird,
playing all alone with her dolls. "Lady Bird" Nursey called Lota,
because when, six years before, Papa fetched her home from China, she
wore a speckled frock of orange-red and black, very much the color of
those other tiny frocks in which the real lady-birds fly about in
summer-time. The speckled frock was outgrown long ago, but the name
still clung to Lota, and every one called her by it except Grandmamma,
who said "Charlotte," sighing as she spoke, and Papa, whose letters
always began, "My darling little Lota." Papa had been away so long now
that Lota would quite have forgotten him had it not been for these
letters which came regularly every month. The paper on which they were
written had an odd, pleasant smell. Nurse said it was the smell of
sandal-wood. Sometimes there were things inside for Lota, bird's
feathers of gay colors, Chinese puzzles of carved ivory, or small
pictures painted on rice paper. Lota liked these things very much. It
was like playing at a Papa rather than really having one, but she
enjoyed the play; and when they told her that Papa was soon coming home
to stay always, she was only half glad, and said: "Won't there be any
more letters then? I shan't like that." Poor little girlie: we, who know
how nice it is to have real Papas, can feel sorry for her; can't we?
But Lota did not pity herself in the least. Grandmamma's house was stiff
and gloomy, shaded by high trees and thick vines which jealously shut
out the sun whenever he tried to shine in at the window panes.
Grandmamma's servants were old too, like the house. Most of them had
gray hair. Nursey wore spectacles; the coachman indulged in rheumatism.
Grandmamma herself was old and feeble. She rarely laughed or seemed to
enjoy any thing, but sat in an easy chair all the year round, and read
solemn books bound in black leather, which made her cry. Jennings her
maid waited on her, fetched footstools and cushions, pushed the blinds
down as soon as the cheerful noon got round to that side of the house.
"Missus is uncommon poorly to-day," she announced every morning. "Miss,
you must be very quiet." Lota was quiet. She was the only young thing
in the sad old house, but the shadows of age and sorrow fell lightly
upon her, and in spite of them she was as happy a child as you will find
in a summer's day. The garden was her kingdom and her Paradise. It was a
wide, fragrant, shaded place, full of the shrubs and flowers of former
days. Huge pink and white oleanders, planted in tubs, stood on either
side the walks. Thick spikes of purple lavender edged the beds; the
summer-house was a tangle of honey-suckle, rosemary, and eglantine.
Roses of all colors abounded. They towered high above Lota's head as she
walked,--twined and clasped, shut her in with perfumed shadows, rained
showers of many-colored petals on the grass. An old-fashioned fairy
would have delighted to dwell in that garden, and perhaps one did dwell
there, else why should little lonely Lota have been always so very, very
happy left alone among the trees and flowers? Can any one tell me that?
Far up in the curved angle made by the rose-hedge was the little house
where she and her dollies lived. Jacob the gardener built this house, of
roots and willow-osiers curiously twisted. It was just big enough for
Lady Bird and her family. The walls were pasted over with gay prints cut
from the "Illustrated News" and other papers. There was a real window.
The moss floor had a blue cotton rug laid over it. A small table and
chair for Lota and one apiece for the dolls made up the furniture,
beside a shelf on which the baby-house tea-set was displayed. The roof
kept out the weather pretty well, except when it rained hard; then
things got wet. Here Lota sat all the morning, after she had finished
her lessons with Nursey,--short lessons always, and easy ones, by Papa's
particular request, for the doctors had said that Lota must not study
much till she was really big and strong. Pocahontas Maria and the other
children had to work much harder than their Mamma, I assure you. Lota
was very strict with them. When they were idle she put them into the
corner, and made them sit with their faces to the wall by way of
punishment. Once Lota had the measles, and for two whole weeks was kept
away entirely from the garden-house. When she came back, she found that
during all this time poor little Ning-Po Ganges had been sitting in this
ignominious position with her face hidden. Lota cried with remorse at
this, and promised Ning-Po that never, so long as she lived, should she
be put into the corner again; so after that, for convenience' sake,
Ning-Po was always called the best child in the family. Now and then,
when Lota felt hospitable, she would give a tea-party, and ask Lady
Green and her children from under the snow-ball bush next door. Nobody
but Lota and the dolls could see the Greens, even when they sat about
the table talking and being talked to, but that was no matter; and when
Nursey said, "Law, Miss Lady Bird, how can you; there's never any such
people, you know," Lota would point triumphantly to a card tacked on to
the snow-ball bush, which had "Lady Green" printed on it, and would say,
"Naughty Nursey! can't you read? There's her door-plate!"
As this story is all about Lota, I think I would better tell you just
how she spent one week of her life, she and the dolls.
The week began with Sunday, which was always a dull day, because Lota
was forbidden to go into the garden.
In the morning she went to church with Grandmamma, drawn thither by two
fat old black horses, who seemed to think it almost too much trouble to
switch the flies off with their tails. Church was warm and the sermon
was drowsy, so poor Lady Bird fell asleep, and tumbled over suddenly on
to Grandmamma's lap. This distressed the old lady a good deal, for she
was very particular about behavior in church. By way of punishment, Lota
had to learn four verses of a hymn after dinner. It was the hymn which
begins,--
"Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily course of duty run,"
and learning it took all the time from dinner till four o'clock.
The hymn learned and repeated, Lota read for awhile in one of her Sunday
books. She was ashamed of her sleepiness in the morning, and had every
intention of being very good till bedtime; but unluckily she looked
across to where the dolls were sitting, and, as she explained to Nursey
afterward, Pocahontas Maria was whispering to Imogene, and both of them
were laughing so hard and looking so mischievous that she _had_ to see
what was the matter. Result;--at five, Jennings, coming to call Lota,
found her with all the dolls in a row before her teaching them hymns.
And, though this seems most proper, Jennings, who was a strict
Methodist, did not think so; so Lota had another lecture from
Grandmamma, and went to bed under a sense of disgrace. So much for
Sunday.
Monday opened with bright sunshine. It had rained all night; but by
eleven o'clock the dear old garden was quite dry, and how sweet it did
look! The pink roses twinkled and winked their whisker-like calyxes as
she went by; the white ones shook their serene leaves, and sent out
delicious smells. Every green thing looked greener than it had done
before the rain. The blue sky, swept clear of clouds, seemed to have
been rubbed and made brilliant. It was a day for gardens; and Lady Bird
and her family celebrated it by a picnic, to which they invited all the
Greens.
"Lady Green hasn't treated me quite properly," remarked Lota to her
oldest child, Pocahontas. "She didn't leave her card at this house I
don't know when. But we won't mind about that, because it's such a nice
day, and we want the picnic. And we can't have the picnic without the
Greens, you know, dear, because there aren't any other people to
invite."
So they had the picnic,--a delightful one. The young Greens behaved
badly. They almost always did behave badly when they came to see Lady
Bird; but it was rather a good thing, because she could warn her own
children that, if they did the same, they would be severely punished.
"Lady Green is too indulgent," she would say. "I want _my_ children to
be much gooder than hers. Mind that, Imogene." So, on this occasion,
when Clarissa Green snatched at the rose-cakes which formed the staple
of the feast, Lota looked very sharply at Stella, and said, "Don't let
me ever see you do so, Stella, or I shall have to slap your little
hands." Stella heeded the warning, and sat upright as a poker and
perfectly still.
Clarissa was perhaps not so much to blame, for the rose-cakes were
delicious. Would you like Lady Bird's recipe? Any little girl can make
them. Take a good many rose-leaves; put some sugar with them,--as much
sugar as you can get; tie them up in paper, or in a good thick
grape-leaf; lay them on a bench, and _sit down on them hard several
times_: then they are done. Some epicures pretend that they must be
buried in the ground, and left there for a week; but this takes time,
and reasonable children will find them quite good enough without. These
particular rose-cakes were the best Lota had ever made. The whole party,
Greens and all, agreed to that. For the rest of the feast there was a
motto-paper, which had ornamented several picnics before. It could not
be eaten, but it looked well sitting in the middle of the table. At the
close of the banquet all the party sang a song. Lady Green's voice was
not very good, but Lota explained to the children afterward that it
isn't polite to laugh at company even when they do make funny squeaks
with their high notes. Pocahontas had to sit in the corner awhile for
having done so. She was sorry, and promised never to offend again; as a
reward for which, her Mamma gave her a small blank book made of
writing-paper and a pin, which she told her was for her very own.
"You are such a big girl now," said Mamma Lota, "that it is time you
began to keep a Diary like I do. I shall read it over every day, and see
how you spell."
Here is Pocahontas Maria's journal as it stood on Tuesday afternoon,
after the children had done their lessons and had their dinners:--
"Tuseday. I am going to keep a Diry like Mamma's. Studded as usel. Mamma
said I was cairless, and didn't get my jography lesson propperly. Stella
had hers better than me. I hurt my ellbow against the table. It won't
bend any more. Mamma is going to get Doctor Jacob to put in a woulden
pin. I hope it won't hurt."
"Oh, Pocahontas! Pocahontas!" cried the scandalized Lady Bird as she
read this effusion. "After all the pains I have taken, to think you
should spell so horridly as this." Then she sat down and corrected all
the words. "I don't wonder your cheeks are so red," she said severely.
Pocahontas sat up straight and blushed, but made no excuses. It is not
strange that Lota, who really spelt very nicely for a little girl of
her age, should have been shocked.
On Tuesday night it rained again, and the sun got up in a cloud next
morning, and seemed uncertain whether or not to shine. Grandmamma was
going to drive out to make a call, and Jennings came early to the
nursery to tell Nurse to dress Lady Bird nicely, so that she might go
too. Accordingly Nursey put on Lota's freshest white cambric and her
best blue sash, and laid a pair of white gloves and a little hat trimmed
with blue ribbons and forget-me-nots on the bed, so that they might be
ready when the carriage came to the door. "Now, Miss Lady Bird, you must
sit still and keep yourself very nice," she said. This was hard, for the
children had all been left in the garden-house the night before, and
Lota wanted very much to see them. She stood at the window looking
wistfully out. By and by the sun flashed gloriously from the clouds, and
sent a bright ray right into her eyes. It touched the rain-drops which
hung over the bushes, and instantly each became a tiny mimic sun,
sending out separate rays of its own. Lota forgot all about Nursey's
injunctions. "I'll just run out one minute and fetch little Ning-Po in,"
she thought. "That child's too delicate to be left out in the damp. She
catches cold so easily; really it quite troubles me sometimes the way
she coughs."
So down the garden walk she sped. The shrubs, shaken by her swift
passage, scattered showers of bright drops upon the white frock and the
pretty sash. But Lota didn't mind or notice. The air and sun, the clear,
fresh feeling, the birds' songs, filled her with a kind of intoxication.
Her head spun, her feet danced as she ran along. Suddenly a cold feeling
at the toes of her bronze boots startled her. She looked down. Behold,
she was in a pool of water, left by the rain in a hollow of the
gravel-walk. Was she frightened? Not at all. The water felt delightfully
fresh, her spirits flashed out like the sun himself, and in the joy of
her heart she began to waltz, scattering and splashing the water about
her. The crisp ruffles of the cambric lost all their starch, the pretty
boots were quite spoiled, but Lota waltzed on, and in this plight
Nursey, flying indignantly out from the kitchen door, found her naughty
pet.
"Well, Miss Charlotte, I _am_ discouraged," she said, as she pulled off
the wet things. "Waltzing in a mud-puddle! That's nice work for a young
lady! I am discouraged, Miss Charlotte."
Nursey never said "Miss Charlotte" except on the most solemn occasions,
so Lota knew that she was very vexed. She should have been cast down by
this, but somehow she was not.
"But _I'm_ not discouraged," she replied. "I'm not discouraged a bit!
And the birds aren't discouraged! They sang all the while I was waltzing
in the mud-puddle, Nursey; I heard 'em!"
Nursey gave it up. She loved Lady Bird dearly, and could not hear to
scold her or to have any one else do so. So she made haste to change
the unlucky frock and shoes, so that she should be neat and trim
whenever Grandmamma sent for her. I suppose this forbearance touched
Lota's heart, for at the last moment she turned, ran back, threw her
arms round Nursey's neck, and whispered, "I'm sorry, and I'll never
waltz in mud-puddles again." Nursey squeezed her hard by way of answer.
"Precious lamb!" she said, and Lota ran downstairs quite happy.
The lady whom Grandmamma drove out to see, had a little granddaughter
visiting her. Isabel Bernard was her name. She came from the city, and
was so beautifully dressed and so well-mannered, that Grandmamma took
quite a fancy to her, and invited her to spend a day with Lota.
"Charlotte will enjoy a young companion," said Grandmamma. So the next
day was fixed upon.
This was a very exciting event for the Bird family, who rarely had any
visitors except Lady Green, who did not count, being such a near
neighbor. Pocahontas wrote in her journal, "A grand lady is coming to
see Mamma. Me and all of us are going to have on our best frocks. I hope
she'll think us pretty;" and though Lota told her that little girls
ought not to mind about being pretty if only they obey their mammas and
are good, the sentiment was so natural that she really hadn't the heart
to scold the child much. The baby-house was swept and garnished for the
occasion, a fresh batch of rose-cakes was made, and a general air of
festivity pervaded the premises.
Lota hoped that Isabel would come early, soon after breakfast, so as to
have a longer day; but it was quite twelve o'clock before she made her
appearance, all alone by herself in a huge barouche, which made her seem
scarcely larger than a doll. She wore a fine frilled muslin frock over
blue silk, a white hat, and dainty lemon-colored boots. When Lota,
feeling shy at the spectacle of this magnificence, proposed going into
the garden, she hung back.
"Are you quite sure that it isn't damp?" she said, "because--you
see--this is my best frock."
"Oh, quite sure," pleaded Lota. "The grass was cut only day before
yesterday, and Jacob rolled the gravel last night. Do come! The children
want to see you so much."
"The children!" said Isabel, surprised. But when she saw the doll-family
sitting in a row with their best clothes on, and their four pairs of
fixed blue eyes looking straight before them, she laughed scornfully.
"Do you play with dolls?" she asked. "I gave them up long ago."
Lady Bird's eyes grew large with distress. "Oh, don't call them _that_,"
she cried. "I never do. It hurts their feelings so. You can't think."
Isabel laughed again. She wasn't at all a nice girl to play with. The
rose-cakes she pronounced "nasty." When Lota explained about Lady Green,
she stared and said it was ridiculous, and that there was no such
person. She turned up her nose at Pocahontas's journal, and declared
that Lota wrote it herself! "Did you ever hear of such a thing?" asked
Lady Bird afterward of Lady Green. "As if my child could not write!" It
was just so all day. The only thing Isabel seemed to enjoy was dining in
state with Grandmamma, and answering all her questions with the air of a
little grown-up woman. Grandmamma said she was a very well-behaved
child, and she wished Charlotte would take pattern by her. But Lota
didn't agree with Grandmamma. She hoped with all her heart that Isabel
would never come to visit her again.
Pocahontas Maria wrote in her journal next day:--
"The lady who came to see Mamma wasn't very nice, I think. She didn't
even speak to us children, and she made fun at my diry. We didn't like
her a bit. Stella says she's horrid, and Ning-Po hopes Mamma won't ever
ask her any more." Lady Bird reproved Pocahontas very gravely for these
sentiments, and reminded her again that "diry" is not the way to spell
diary; but she said to Lady Green, who dropped in for a call, "Poor
little thing, I don't wonder! children always find out when people isn't
nice; and Isabel, she _was_ very disagreeable, you know, calling them
'dolls' and things like that! It's not surprising that they didn't like
her, I'm sure."
Saturday was an eventful day. There were no lessons to do for one thing,
because Nursey's daughter had come to see her, and Grandmamma said Lady
Bird might be excused for once. This gave her the whole morning to
attend to domestic matters, which was nice, or would have been, only
unluckily little Stella took this opportunity to break out with measles.
Of course Lady Bird was much distressed. She put Stella to bed at once,
and sent the others to the farthest side of the room lest they should
catch the disease also, "though," as she told Pocahontas, "You'll be
sure to have it. It always runs straight through families; the doctor
said so when I had it; and whatever I shall do with all of you on my
hands at once, I can't imagine." There is always a great deal to do in
times of sickness, so this was a very busy day. Lota had to make broth
for Stella, to concoct medicine out of water and syringa-stems, to
prepare dinner for the other children, and hear all their lessons, for
of course education must not be neglected let who will have measles!
Pocahontas was unusually troublesome. Imogene cried over the spelling
lesson; and altogether Lady Bird had her hands full that morning.
"I shall certainly send you all away to boarding-school if you don't
learn to behave better," she cried in despair, at which awful threat the
children wept aloud and promised to be good. Then came dinner,--real
dinner, I mean,--which Lady Bird could scarcely eat, so anxious was she
about her sick child in the garden. The moment it was over back she
flew, oblivious of the charms of raisins and almonds. Stella was asleep,
but she evidently had fever, for her cheeks were bright pink, and her
lips as red as sealing-wax.
"I must have a doctor for her," cried poor Lady Bird.
She tried to think what article would be best to choose for the doctor,
and fixed on an old black muff of Nursey's which lived on the shelf of
the nursery closet. To get it, however, it was needful to leave the
children again.
"You must all be good," she said, fussing about and tidying the room,
"very good and very quiet, so as not to wake up Stella. Dear me, what a
queer smell there is here! Let me think. What did Nursey do when I had
measles? She burned some sort of paper and made it smell nice again. I
must burn some paper too, else Stella'll suffocate, won't you, dear?"