mother takes in washing, and she'll love to do yours, and plait the
ruffles elegant--'cause you done this for me!" cried Betty, embracing
the flower-pot with one hand, and squeezing Miss Helen's with the other.
Helen promised to come and see her new friend, and when they parted,
kept turning round to watch the little figure trotting up the hill,
often pausing to turn, and show her a beaming black face, all smiles
and delight, as Betty threw her kisses and hugged the dear red tulip
like a treasure of great price.
When she vanished, Helen said to herself, with a smile and a sigh,--
"There, I feel better for that little job; and it is a comfort to know
that some one has got what she wants, though it is not I."
Some weeks later, when Helen was preparing to go into the country for
the summer, and wanted certain delicate muslins done up, she remembered
what Betty had said about her mother, and had a fancy to see how the
child and her flowers prospered.
She found them in a small, poor room, hot and close, and full of
wash-tubs and flat-irons. The mother was busy at her work, and Betty
sat by the one window, listlessly picking out ruffles.
When she saw the face at the door, she jumped up and clapped her hands,
crying, delightedly, "O mammy, it's my lady; my dear, pretty lady truly
come at last!"
Such a welcome made friends of the three at once, and Mrs. Simms gladly
undertook the work Helen offered.
"And how are the posies?" asked the young lady, as she rose to go.
"Only leaves now, miss; but I take real good care of 'em, and mammy
says they will blow again next spring," answered Betty, showing her
poor little garden, which consisted of the hyacinth, tulip, and one
stout dandelion, blooming bravely in an old teapot.
"That will be a long time to wait, won't it?"
"Yes'm; but I go and take peeks at them flowers in the shop, and once
the man gave me a pink that hadn't no stem. Maybe he will again, and
so I'll get along," said Betty, softly touching her cheerful dandelion
as if it were a friend.
"I wish you would come and see my garden, little Betty. You should
pick as many flowers as you liked, and play there all day long. I
suppose your mother couldn't spare you for a visit, could she?"
Betty's face shone at the blissful thought, then the smile faded, and
she shook her head, saying, steadily, "No, miss, I guess she couldn't,
for she gets so tired, I like to help her by carrying home the clothes.
Some day, maybe, I can come."
Something in the patient little face touched Helen, and made her feel
as if she had been too busy thinking of her own burden to help others
bear theirs. She longed to do something, but did not know how till
Mrs. Simms showed her the way, by saying, as she stroked the frizzly
little head that leaned against her,--
"Betty thinks a heap of flowers, and 'pears to git lots of comfort out
of 'em. She's a good child, and some day we are going to see the
country, soon as ever we can afford it."
"Meantime the country must come to you," said Helen, with a happy
thought shining in her face. "If you are willing, I will make a nice
little plan with Betty, so she can have a posy all the time. I shall
come in town twice a week to take my German lessons, and if Betty will
be at the corner of the Park, by the deer, every Wednesday and Saturday
morning at ten o'clock, I'll have a nice nosegay for her."
If she had proposed to present the child with all the sweeties in
Copeland's delightful shop, it would not have given greater joy. Betty
could only dance a jig of rapture among the wash-tubs, and Mrs. Simms
thank Helen with tears in her eyes.
"Ain't she just like a good fairy, mammy?" said Betty, settling down in
an empty clothes-basket to brood over the joyful prospects.
"No, honey, she's an angel," answered mammy, folding her tired hands
for a moment's rest, when her guest had gone.
Helen heard both question and answer, and sighed to herself, "I wish
somebody else thought so."
When the first Wednesday came, Betty was at the trysting-place half an
hour too soon, and had time to tell the mild-eyed deer all about it,
before Miss Helen came.
That meeting was a pretty sight, though only a fawn and an old
apple-woman saw it. Helen was half-hidden behind a great nosegay of
June roses, lilies of the valley, sweet jonquils and narcissus, sprays
of tender green, and white lilac plumes. Betty gave one cry of
rapture, as she clutched it in both hands, trembling with delight, for
never had she dreamed of owning such a treasure as this.
"All for me! all for me!" she said, as if it was hard to believe. "Oh,
what _will_ mammy say?"
"Run home and see. Never mind thanks. Get your posy into water as
soon as you can, and come again Saturday," said Helen, as she went on,
with a nod and a smile, while Betty raced home to fill every cup and
plate they owned, and make a garden of the poor little room, where
mammy worked all day.
All through the summer, rain or shine, these two friends kept tryst,
and though Helen seemed no nearer getting her wish, this little
flower-mission of hers helped her to wait.
Strangers watched the pretty girl with her nosegays, and felt refreshed
by the winsome sight. Friends joked her about her black Flora, and
would-be lovers pleaded in vain for one bud from her bouquets.
She found real happiness in this small duty, and did it faithfully for
its own sake, little dreaming that some one was tracking her by the
flowers she left behind her in the byways of her life.
For, seeing how much these fragrant messengers were to Betty and her
mother, Helen fell into the way of taking flowers to others also, and
never went to town without a handful to leave here and there, by some
sick-bed, in a child's hand, on a needle-woman's table, or dropped in
the gutter, for dear, dirty babies to find and crow over.
And, all unconsciously, these glimpses of poverty, pain, neglect, and
loneliness, taught her lessons she had never learned before,--a sweeter
language than German, a nobler music than any Herr Pedalstrum could
give her, and a more winning charm than either youth or beauty could
confer,--for the gay girl was discovering that life was not all a
summer day, and she was something better than a butterfly.
When autumn came, and she returned to her city home, her young friends
discovered that Helen's quiet season had improved her wonderfully, for
behind the belle, they found a tender-hearted woman.
She took up her old life where she laid it down, apparently; but to
those who knew her best, there was a difference now, for, in many
unsuspected ways, pretty Helen was unconsciously fitting herself for
the happiness that was coming to her very soon.
Betty helped to bring it, though she never guessed that her measles
were a blessing to her dear lady. When Dr. Strong, finding a hot-house
bouquet beside her bed, very naturally asked where it came from, Betty
told all about Miss Helen, from the time of the red tulips to the fine
tea-roses in her hand.
"She has lots of bunches like these sent to her, and she gives 'em to
us poor folks. This one was for her to take to a splendid ball, but
she kept it all fresh, and came herself to fetch it to me. Ain't she
kind?"
"Very, to you; but rather cruel to the gentlemen who hope to see her
wear their gifts, for one evening at least," answered the doctor,
examining the bouquet, with an odd smile.
"Oh, she does keep some, when they are from folks she likes. I was
there one day when some violets come in with a book, and she wouldn't
give me one. But I didn't care a mite, for I had two great posies, all
red geranium and pinks, instead."
"She likes violets, then?" and the doctor gently patted Betty's head,
as if he had grown suddenly fond of her.
"I guess she does, for when I went the next week, that very bunch was
in the vase on her table, all dead and yeller, and she wouldn't let me
fling it away, when I wanted to put in a rose from the bush she gave
me."
"You are a grateful little girl, my dear, and a very observing child.
Now keep warm and quiet, and we'll have you trotting off to Miss
Helen's in a week or so."
The doctor stole a sprig of rose geranium out of Betty's last bouquet,
and went away, looking as if he had found something even sweeter than
that in the dingy room where his patient lay.
Next day Miss Helen had fresh violets in the vase on her table, and
fresh roses blooming on her cheeks. Dr. Strong advised her not to
visit Betty, as there was fever in the neighborhood, but kindly called
every day or two, to let Helen know how her little friend was getting
on.
After one of these calls, the doctor went away, saying to himself, with
an air of tender pride and satisfaction,--
"I was mistaken, and judged too hastily last year. Helen is not what I
thought her, a frivolous, fashionable beauty, but a sweet, sensible
girl, who is tired of that empty life, and quietly tries to make it
beautiful and useful in the best and truest way. I hope I read the
blue eyes right; and I think I may venture to say now what I dared not
say last year."
After that same visit, Helen sat thinking to herself, with a face full
of happiness and humility,--"He finds me improved, so I have not waited
in vain, and I believe that I shall not be disappointed after all."
It is evident that the doctor did venture, and that Helen was not
disappointed; for, on the first day of June, Betty and her mother, all
in their best, went to a certain church, and were shown to the best
seat in the gallery, where several other humble friends were gathered
to see their dear Miss Helen married.
Betty was in high feather, with a pink dress, blue sack, yellow ribbons
in her hat, and lighted up the seat like an animated rainbow. Full of
delight and importance, was Miss Betty, for she had been in the midst
of the festive preparations, and told glowing tales to her interested
listeners, while they waited for the bride.
When the music sounded, Betty held her breath, and rolled up her eyes
in a pious rapture. When a general stir announced the grand arrival,
she leaned so far over the gallery, that she would have gone head first
if her mother had not caught her striped legs, and when the misty,
white figure passed up the aisle, Betty audibly remarked,--
"If she had wings she'd look like an out-and-out angel, wouldn't she,
mammy?"
She sat like a little ebony statue all through the service; but she had
something on her mind, and the moment the bridal couple turned to go
out, Betty was off, scrambling down stairs, dodging under people's
arms, hopping over ladies' skirts, and steadily making her way to the
carriage waiting for the happy pair.
The door had just closed, and Dr. Strong was about to draw down the
curtain, when a little black face, with a yellow hat surrounding it
like a glory, appeared at the window, an arm was thrust in offering a
bunch of flowers, and a breathless voice cried, resolutely,--
"Oh, please, do let me give 'em to my lady! They bloomed a-purpose for
her, and she _must_ have 'em."
Those outside saw a sweet face bend to kiss the little black one, but
they did not see what happened afterward, for Helen, remembering a year
ago, said smiling,--
"Patient waiters are no losers. The poor child has red tulips all her
own at last!"
"And I have mine," answered the happy doctor, gently kissing his young
wife, as the carriage rolled away, leaving Betty to retire in triumph.
XII.
A HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
A certain fine old lady was seventy-three on the 8th of October. The
day was always celebrated with splendor by her children and
grand-children; but on this occasion they felt that something unusually
interesting and festive should be done, because grandma had lately been
so very ill that no one thought she would ever see another birthday.
It pleased God to spare her, however, and here she was, almost as well
and gay as ever.
Some families do not celebrate these days, and so miss a great deal of
pleasure, I think. But the people of whom I write always made a great
deal of such occasions, and often got up very funny amusements, as you
will see.
As grandma was not very strong, some quiet fun must be devised this
time, and the surprises sprinkled along through the day, lest they
should be too much for her if they all burst upon her at once.
The morning was fine and clear, and the first thing that happened was
the appearance of two little ghosts, "all in white," who came prancing
into the old lady's room, while she lay placidly watching the sun rise,
and thinking of the many years she had seen.
"A happy birthday, gramma!" cried the little ghosts, scrambling up to
kiss the smiling old face in the ruffled night-cap.
There was a great laughing, and cuddling, and nestling among the
pillows, before the small arms and legs subsided, and two round, rosy
faces appeared, listening attentively to the stories grandma told them
till it was time to dress.
Now you must know that there were only two grandchildren in this
family, but they were equal to half a dozen, being lively, droll little
chaps, full of all manner of pranks, and considered by their relatives
the _most_ remarkable boys alive.
These two fellows were quite bursting with the great secrets of the
day, and had to rush out as soon as breakfast was done, in order to
keep from "letting the cat out of the bag."
A fine dinner was cooked, and grandma's favorite niece came to eat it
with her, bringing a bag full of goodies, and a heart full of love and
kind wishes, to the old lady.
All the afternoon, friends and presents kept coming, and Madam, in her
best gown and most imposing cap, sat in state to receive them. A poet
came with some lovely flowers; the doctor brought a fine picture; one
neighbor sent her a basket of grapes; another took her a drive; and
some poor children, whom grandma had clothed and helped, sent her some
nuts they had picked all themselves, while their grateful mother
brought a bottle of cream and a dozen eggs.
It was very pleasant, and the bright autumn day was a little harvest
time for the old lady, who had sowed love and charity broadcast with no
thought of any reward.
The tea-table was ornamented with a splendid cake, white as snow
outside, but rich and plummy inside, with a gay posy stuck atop of the
little Mont Blanc. Mrs. Trot, the housekeeper, made and presented it,
and it was so pretty all voted not to cut it till evening, for the
table was full of other good things.
Grandma's tea was extra strong, and tasted unusually nice with Mrs.
Hosy's rich cream in it. She felt that she needed this refreshment to
prepare her for the grand surprise to come; for the family gifts were
not yet given.
The boys vanished directly after tea, and shouts of laughter were heard
from Aunt Tribulation's room. What larks as they had up there no one
knew; but every one was sure they were preparing some fun in honor of
the occasion.
Grandma was not allowed to go into the study, and much tacking and
rummaging went on for a time. Then all the lamps were collected there,
leaving grandma and grandpa to sit in the parlor, talking tenderly
together by the soft glimmer of fire-light, as they used to do forty
years ago.
Presently something scarlet and gold, feathery and strange, flitted by
the door and vanished in the study. Queer little yells and the sound
of dancing feet were heard. Then there was a hunt for the cat; next,
Mrs. Trot was called from the kitchen, and all but the boys came to
escort grandma to the scene of glory.
Leaning on grandpa's arm, she marched first; then came Mrs. Coobiddy,
the mother of the boys, bearing Aunt Carmine's picture; for this auntie
was over the water and could not come, so, at grandma's desire, her
portrait was borne in the procession.
Aunt Trib followed, escorted by Thomas Pib, the great cat, with his
best red bow on. Mrs. Trot and Belinda, the little maid, brought up
the rear. A music-box in the hall played the "Grand March" from
"Norma;" and, with great dignity, all filed into the study to behold an
imposing spectacle.
A fire burned brightly on the hearth, making the old-fashioned andirons
shine like gold. All the lamps illuminated the room, which was trimmed
with scarlet and yellow leaves. An arch of red woodbine, evergreen and
ferns from the White Mountains was made over the recess which held the
journals, letters and books of the family; for their name was Penn, and
they all wrote so much that blots were found everywhere about the
house, and a flock of geese lived in the back yard, all ready to have
their quills tweaked out at a minute's notice.
Before this recess stood a great arm-chair, in which the father of
grandma had been laid, a new-born baby, and nearly smothered by being
sat upon by the fat nurse. This thrilling fact gave it a peculiar
interest to the boys; for, if great-grandpa had been smashed, where
would they have been?
In front of this ancient seat stood a round table loaded with gifts,
and on each side stood an Indian chief in full costume, bearing lighted
Chinese lanterns on the ends of their spears, and war-clubs on their
shoulders.
The arranging of these costumes had caused much labor and fun; for the
splendid crowns, a foot high, were made of hen's feathers, carefully
collected and sewed on to paper by Aunt Trib; the red shirts were
fringed and bedecked with odd devices; leather leggings went above the
warriors' knees, and all the family breast-pins were stuck about them.
Daggers, hatchets, clubs, and spears were made by the lads themselves,
and red army blankets hung gracefully from their shoulders. They had
planned to paint their faces blue and red, like the Feejee Islanders at
Barnum's show; but Mrs. Coobiddy would not consent to have her handsome
boys disfigure themselves; so the only paint they wore was nature's red
in their cheeks, and heaven's blue in their eyes, as they stood by
grandma's throne, smiling like a pair of very mild and happy little
chiefs.
It really was a fine sight, I assure you, and grandma was quite
overcome by the spectacle. So she was introduced to her gifts as
quickly as possible, to divert her mind from the tender thought that
all these fond and foolish adornments were to please her.
Every gift had a poem attached, and as the presents were of every
description, the verses possessed an agreeable variety. Here are a few
as a sample. A small tea-kettle was one gift, and this pleasing verse
seemed to be bubbling out of its spout:--
"A little kettle, fat and fair,
To sit on grandma's stove,
To simmer softly, and to sing
A song of Freddie's love."
Another was this brief warning tucked into a match-box:--
"On this you scratch
Your little match.
When the spark flies
Look out for your eyes!
When the lucifer goes
Look out for your nose!
Little Jack gives you this
With a birthday kiss."
A third was rather sentimental, from Mrs. Coobiddy:--
"Within doth lie
A silken tie,
Your dress to deck;
Soft and warm
As daughter's arm
Round mother's neck."
Mr. Pib presented a mouse-trap all set; and in order to explain his
poem, I must relate an incident in his varied career.
Pib had long been one of the family, and was much respected and beloved
by them all. In fact, he was so petted and stuffed that he grew as fat
and big as a small dog, and so clumsy that he could no longer catch the
mice who dodged about among the dishes in the kitchen closets.
In vain had Mrs. Trot shut him up there; in vain had Aunt Trib told him
it was his duty to clear the cupboards of such small deer. Poor fat
Pib only bounced about, broke the china, rattled down the pans, to come
out with empty paws, while the saucy mice squeaked scornfully, and
pranced about under his very nose.
One day Trib saw Pib catch a squirrel, and having eaten it he brought
the tail to her as a trophy of his skill. This displeased his
mistress, and she gave him away, after a good scolding for killing
squirrels and letting mice, his lawful prey, go free.
Pib was so depressed that he went into the bag without a mew or a
scratch, and was borne away to his new home in another part of the town.
But he had no intention of staying; and after a day under the sofa,
passed in deep thought, and without food or drink, he made up his mind
to go home. Slipping out, he travelled all night, and appeared next
morning, joyfully waving his tail, and purring like a small organ.
Aunt Trib was glad to see him, and when he had explained that he really
did do his best about the mice, she forgave him, and got the trap for
him to give grandma, that she might no longer be annoyed by having her
private stores nibbled at.
"Dear madam, with respect
My offering I bring;
The hooks all baited well,
And ready for a spring.
No more the cunning mice
Your biscuits shall abuse,
Nor put their babes to sleep
Within your fur-lined shoes.
The trap my work must do;
Forgive your portly cat,
For he, like you, has grown
For lively work too fat.
All larger, fiercer game
I gallantly defy,
And squirrel, rat and mole
Beneath my paw shall die.
So, with this solemn vow,
T. Pib his gift presents,
And sprawling at your feet
Purrs forth his compliments."
Which he actually did, and then sat bolt upright on the rug, surveying
the scene with the dignity of a judge and the gravity of an owl.
Such funny presents! A wood-box and a water-carrier; a blue and gold
gruel-bowl, and a black silk apron; a new diary, and a pound of
remarkably choice tea; a pretty letter on birch bark, sealed with a
tiny red leaf; and a bust of the wisest man in America, were some of
them.
How the dear old lady did enjoy it all, and how grateful she was for
the smallest trifle! An old friend sent her a lock of her mother's
hair, and the sight of the little brown curl made her forget how white
her own was, as she went back to the time when she last kissed that
tender little mother fifty years ago.
Fearing that tears would follow the smiles too soon, Aunt Trib
announced that the famous Indian chiefs, Chingchangpopocattepattle and
Pockeyhockeyclutteryar, would now give a war-dance and other striking
performances to represent Indian customs.
Then all sat round, and the warriors leaped into the middle of the room
with a war-whoop that caused Mr. Pib to leave precipitately. It was a
most exciting spectacle; for after the dance came a fight, and one
chief tomahawked, scalped, and buried the other in the space of two
minutes.
But the ladies mourned so for the blond little Pockeyhockeyclutteryar
that he had to come alive and join in a hunting expedition, during
which they shot all the chairs for buffaloes and deer, and came home to
roast a sofa pillow over their fire, and feast thereupon with the
relish of hungry hunters.
These exploits were brought to an end by the arrival of more friends,
with more gifts, and the introduction of the birthday cake. This was
cut by the queen of the _fête_, and the panting chiefs handed it round
with much scuffling of big moccasins and tripping over disarranged
blankets.
Then all filled their glasses with water, and drank the toast,
"Grandma, God bless her!" After which the entire company took hands
and danced about the big chair, singing in chorus:--
"Long may she wave, and may we all
Her dear face live to see,
As bright and well at seventy-four
As now at seventy-three."
The clock struck ten, and every one went home, leaving the family to
end the day as they began it, round grandma's bed, with good-night
kisses and the sound of her last words in their ears:--
"It has been a beautiful and happy day, my dears, and if I never see
another you may always remember that I thought this one my best and
brightest birthday."
Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son.
End of Project Gutenberg's Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag, Volume 4, by Louisa May Alcott