CHINESE BABIES.
THE journal was a pretty little red book, which lay sometimes on the
piano, sometimes on the centre-table, and was often opened innocently
enough by callers. If it had been the simple, matter-of-fact little
book that it ought to have been, the reading of it would have done no
harm. But Mary had a habit of recording her emotions, also her opinions
of her friends,—a bad habit, which she did not break off till it had
nearly brought her into trouble.
“What does Fred Allen mean by calling me ‘Miss Fanny dear, with mouth
stretched from ear to ear’?” asked Fanny Townsend, indignantly.
“How do you know he did?”
“Saw it in your journal. And you put a period after ‘Miss’! Needn’t
accuse me of laughing, Flaxie Frizzle, when I happen to know that my
mother considers _you_ a great giggler, and dreads to have you come to
our house.”
“Does she? Then I’ll stay away! And if I did put a period after ‘Miss’
it was a mistake. But I’ve no respect for people that read other
people’s private journals!”
“Hope you don’t call that private. Why, I thought ’twas a
Sabbath-school book, or I wouldn’t have touched it.” And whether she
would or not, Fanny was obliged to laugh; so the breach was healed for
the time. But after this Mary began a new journal, which she conducted
on different principles, trying moreover to keep it in its proper
place in her writing-desk.
There were secret signs and mysterious allusions in this new journal,
however, the letters “C. C.” recurring again and again in all sorts
of places, without any apparent meaning or connection. She evidently
enjoyed scribbling them, and no harm was done, since nobody but “we
girls” knew what they meant. “C. C.” was a precious secret, which we
may pry into for ourselves by-and-by.
Mary was now in her thirteenth year, and though she still enjoyed
hanging May-baskets, driving hoops, skipping the rope, and even playing
dolls, her growing mind was never idle. She enjoyed her lessons at
school, for she memorized with ease; she liked to draw; but sitting
at the piano was a weariness; and she considered it a trial that, in
addition to her own practising, she should be expected to teach and
superintend Ethel. She was strict with her little pupil, and found
frequent occasion for sermonettes, but Ethel got on famously, and Mary
received and deserved high praise as teacher.
She missed her cousin Fred when he went home at last, not to return,
but she told Lady Fotheringay (Blanche Jones) in confidence that she
“could improve her mind better when he was gone.” Moreover, Preston
would soon be home for his summer vacation.
She was beginning to question what she was made for. Something grand
and wonderful, no doubt; something much better than studying, reading,
sewing, and doing errands. There were times when this favored child of
fortune even said to herself that life was hard, and that her mother
was over-strict in requiring her to mend her clothes and do a stint
of some sort of sewing on Saturdays. Wasn’t she old enough yet to have
outgrown stints?
“Why can’t pillow-cases be hemmed by machine?” complained she to Ethel.
“And there _you_ are,—almost six years old, with not a thing to do!
I can tell you I used to sew patchwork at your age by the yard! C.
C. I keep saying that over to comfort myself, Ethel, but _you_ don’t
know what it stands for. Oh no, _not_ chocolate candy; better than
that!—Wish I lived at the south, where colored servants do everything.
There’s Grandma Hyde now; if we had her black Venus, and her black
Mary, and her yellow Thomas, I shouldn’t have to dust parlors and run
of errands! Mamma is always talking to me about being useful. _Little_
girls are never talked to in that way; it’s we older girls who have
to bear all the brunt. It tires me to death to sew, sew, sew! Now it’s
such fun to run in the woods. Mr. Lee says we ought to admire nature,
and I’m going after flag-root this afternoon instead of mending my
stockings—I think it’s my duty!”
As Mary rattled on in this way, little Ethel listened most attentively.
Her sister Flaxie stood as a pattern to her of all the virtues,—ah,
if Flaxie had but known it!—and she looked forward to the time when
she should be exactly like her, with just such curls, and just that
superior way of lecturing little people. It was not worth while to be
any better than Flaxie. If Flaxie objected to sewing and mending, Ethel
would object to it also.
“If my mamma ever makes me sit on a chair to sew patchwork, I’ll go
South! If she makes me mend stockings, I’ll go in the woods! I won’t
be useful if Flaxie isn’t; no indeedy!”
Thus while Flaxie’s sermonettes were forgotten, her chance words and
her example took deep hold of the little one’s mind.
Everybody said Mary was growing up a sweet girl, more “lovesome” and
womanly than had once been expected. In truth Mary thought so herself.
Plenty of well-meaning but injudicious people had told her she was
pretty; and she knew that Mrs. Lee liked to look at her face because it
was so “expressive,” and Mrs. Patten because it was so “thoughtful,”
and somebody else because it was so “intelligent.” Ethel had a figure
like a roly-poly pudding; but Mary was tall and slight, and even Mrs.
Prim admitted that she was “graceful.”
One Sunday morning early in May she sat in church, apparently paying
strict attention to the sermon, but really thinking.
“I dare say, now, Mrs. Townsend is looking at me, and wishing Fanny
were more like me. Nobody else of my age sits as still as I do, except
Sadie Stockwell, and she has a stiff spine. There’s Major Patten, I
remember he said once to father, ‘Dr. Gray, your second girl is a child
to be proud of.’ I know he did, for I was coming into the room and
heard him.”
Directly after morning services came Sunday school, and Mary was in
Mrs. Lee’s class. Mrs. Lee was an enthusiastic young woman, fond of all
her scholars, but it was easy to see that Mary was her prime favorite.
Mrs. Gray’s class of boys—Phil being the youngest—sat in the next seat.
The lesson to-day was short, and after recitation Mrs. Lee showed her
own class and Mrs. Gray’s some pictures which her uncle had brought
her from China.
“What _is_ that queer thing?” said Fanny, as she and Mary touched
bonnets over one of the pictures.
“That is called a baby-tower. My uncle says it is a good representation
of the dreadful place they drop girl-babies into sometimes. You know
girls are lightly esteemed in heathen countries.”
“Drop girl-babies _into_ it?” asked Blanche Jones. “Doesn’t it hurt
them?”
“Not much, I believe; but it kills them.”
“Oh, Mrs. Lee!” It was Mary who spoke, in tones of horror.
“The tower is half full of lime, and the lime stops their breath. So I
presume they hardly suffer at all.”
Mary’s eyes were full of tears, and she sprang up eagerly, exclaiming,—
“Oh, Mrs. Lee! Oh, mamma, did you hear that? I declare, it’s too bad!
Can’t the missionaries stop their killing babies so?”
“You sweet child,” said Mrs. Lee.
But Mrs. Gray only said,—
“Yes, my daughter, the missionaries are doing their best; but
everything can’t be done in a day.”
“But it ought to be done this very minute, mamma.”
Mary’s whole face glowed; and Mrs. Lee, who sat directly in front of
her, could not refrain from leaning over the pew and kissing her.
“We ought to bring more money, seems to me,” suggested good, moon-faced
Blanche Jones, pressing her fat hands together.
“Yes, a cent every Sunday is too little,” said one of Mrs. Gray’s
little boys.
“Yes, a cent _is_ too little,” agreed Fanny Townsend earnestly.
“How thoughtless we’ve been,” said Mary, in high excitement. “For my
part, I mean to give those Chinese every cent of my pin-money this
month. Do you care if I do, mamma?”
“No; you have my full consent. Only do not make up your mind in a
hurry,” replied Mrs. Gray; but her manner was cold in comparison with
Mrs. Lee’s cordial hand-shake and “God bless you, my precious girl.”
“I’m a real pet with Mrs. Lee,” thought Mary, her heart throbbing high.
Blanche, Fanny, and the two older girls in the class,—Sadie Patten and
Lucy Abbott,—were silent. They knew that Mary’s pin-money amounted to
four dollars a month, and though they had thought of doing something
themselves, this brilliant offer discouraged them at once: they could
not make up their minds to anything so munificent.
Going home that noon, Mary “walked on thorns,” though she tried to be
humble. By the next day, her feelings toward the Chinese had undergone
a slight chill; and when her mother alluded to Captain Emerson—Mrs.
Lee’s uncle—and his pictures, Mary did not care to converse on the
subject. She even felt a pang of regret at the recollection of her
hasty promise. Those girl-babies were far off now; she could not see
them in imagination, as at first. Days passed, and the poor things were
fading out of mind, buried deep in the lime of the tower.
“My daughter,” said Mrs. Gray, on Saturday, “let me see your
portmonnaie.” It contained three dollars and a half now. Mrs. Gray
counted the bills. “Have you any especial use for this money, Mary?”
“I don’t know. _Would_ you buy those stereoscopic views of Rome and the
Alps that Mr. Snow said I could choose from different sets?”
Mrs. Gray smiled quietly.
“What good will the views do the babies in China?”
There was a sudden droop of Mary’s head.
“Why, mamma, as true as you live I forgot all about those babies; I
really did! You see, mamma, I didn’t stop to think last Sunday. Must I
give all my money to Mrs. Lee—three dollars and a half?”
“To Mrs. Lee? I was under the impression that you were to give it to
the missionaries to convert the Chinese.”
“Oh, yes, but I _said_ it to Mrs. Lee; the missionaries don’t know
anything about it.”
“So it seems,” returned Mrs. Gray dryly; “you said it to Mrs. Lee
merely to please _her_.” Mary’s head sank still lower. “Well, you
might ask Mrs. Lee to let you off, my daughter.”
“But, mamma, how it would look to go to her and ask that! I couldn’t!”
“Then you’ll be obliged to give the money,” responded Mrs. Gray
unfeelingly. How easily she might have said, “Never mind, Mary, I will
see Mrs. Lee and arrange it for you.” And she was usually a thoughtful,
obliging mother. Mary pressed the bills together in her hand, spread
them out tenderly, gazed at them as if she loved them. It was a large
sum, and looked larger through her tears.
“I can’t ask Mrs. Lee to let me off; you know I can’t, mamma. I’d
rather lose the money!”
“Lose the money!” So that was the way she regarded it! A strange sort
of benevolence surely!
“_Take heed, therefore, that ye do not your alms before men to be
seen of them; otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in
heaven._” This was Mr. Lee’s text next day.
“Oh, that means me,” groaned Mary inwardly. “I’ve been seen of Mrs.
Lee, and I’ve been seen of Blanche and Fanny and the other girls; and
that’s just what I did it for, and _not_ for the people in China! Oh,
dear! oh, dear! to think what a humbug I am!”