It had rained all that night, but the second morning dawned the
twinklingest kind of day. It seemed to Maida that Mother Nature had
washed a million tiny, fleecy, white clouds and hung them out to dry
in the crisp blue air. Everything still dripped but the brilliant
sunshine put a sparkle on the whole world. Slates of old roofs
glistened, brasses of old doors glittered, silver of old name-plates
shone. Curbstones, sidewalks, doorsteps glimmered and gleamed. The
wet, ebony-black trunks of the maples smoked as if they were afire,
their thick-leaved, golden heads flared like burning torches. Maida
stood for a long time at the window listening to a parrot who called
at intervals from somewhere in the neighborhood. “Get up, you
sleepy-heads! Get up! Get up!”
A huge puddle stretched across Primrose Court. When Maida took her
place in the swivel-chair, three children had begun already to float
shingles across its muddy expanse. Two of them were Molly and Tim
Doyle, the third a little girl whom Maida did not know. For a time
she watched them, fascinated. But, presently, the school children
crowding into the shop took all her attention. After the bell rang
and the neighborhood had become quiet again, she resumed her watch
of the mud-puddle fun.
Now they were loading their shingles with leaves, twigs, pebbles,
anything that they could find in the gutters. By lashing the water
into waves, as they trotted in the wake of their frail craft, they
managed to sail them from one end of the puddle to the other. Maida
followed the progress of these merchant vessels as breathlessly as
their owners. Some capsized utterly. Others started to founder and
had to be dragged ashore. A few brought the cruise to a triumphant
finish.
But Tim soon put an end to this fun. Unexpectedly, his foot caught
somewhere and he sprawled headlong in the tide. “Oh, Tim!” Molly
said. But she said it without surprise or anger. And Tim lay flat on
his stomach without moving, as if it were a common occurrence with
him. Molly waded out to him, picked him up and marched him into the
house.
The other little girl had disappeared. Suddenly she came out of one
of the yards, clasping a Teddy-bear and a whole family of dolls in
her fat arms. She sat down at the puddle’s edge and began to undress
them. Maida idly watched the busy little fingers—one, two, three,
four, five—now there were six shivering babies. What was she going
to do with them? Maida wondered.
“Granny,” Maida called, “do come and see this little girl! She’s—”
But Maida did not finish that sentence in words. It ended in a
scream. For suddenly the little girl threw the Teddy-bear and all
the six dolls into the puddle. Maida ran out the door. Half-way
across the court she met Dicky Dore swinging through the water.
Between them they fished all the dolls out. One was of celluloid and
another of rubber—they had floated into the middle of the pond. Two
china babies had sunk to the very bottom—their white faces smiled
placidly up through the water at their rescuers. A little rag-doll
lay close to the shore, water-logged. A pretty paper-doll had melted
to a pulp. And the biggest and prettiest of them, a lovely blonde
creature with a shapely-jointed body and a bisque head, covered with
golden curls, looked hopelessly bedraggled.
“Oh, Betsy Hale!” Dicky said. “You naughty, naughty girl! How could
you drown your own children like that?”
“I were divin’ them a baff,” Betsy explained.
Betsy was a little, round butterball of a girl with great brown eyes
all tangled up in eyelashes and a little pink rosebud of a mouth,
folded over two rows of mice-teeth. She smiled deliciously up into
Maida’s face:
“I aren’t naughty, is I?” she asked.
“Naughty? You bunny-duck! Of course you are,” Maida said, giving her
a bear-hug. “I don’t see how anybody can scold her,” she whispered
to Dicky.
“Scold her! You can’t,” Dicky said disgustedly. “She’s too cute. And
then if you did scold her it wouldn’t do any good. She’s the
naughtiest baby in the neighborhood—although,” he added with pride,
“I think Delia’s going to be pretty nearly as naughty when she gets
big enough. But Betsy Hale—why, the whole street has to keep an eye
on her. Come, pick up your dollies, Betsy,” he wheedled, “they’ll
get cold if you leave them out here.”
The thought of danger to her darlings produced immediate activity on
Betsy’s part. She gathered the dolls under her cape, hugging them
close. “Her must put her dollies to bed,” she said wisely.
“Calls herself _her_ half the time,” Dicky explained. He gathered up
the dresses and shooing Betsy ahead of him, followed her into the
yard.
“She’s the greatest child I ever saw,” he said, rejoining Maida a
little later. “The things she thinks of to do! Why, the other day,
Miss Allison—the sister of the blind lady what sits in the window
and knits—the one what owns the parrot—well, Miss Allison painted
one of her old chairs red and put it out in the yard to dry. Then
she washed a whole lot of lace and put that out to dry. Next thing
she knew she looked out and there was Betsy washing all the red
paint off the chair with the lace. You’d have thought that would
have been enough for one day, wouldn’t you? Well, that afternoon she
turned the hose on Mr. Flanagan—that’s the policeman on the beat.”
“What did he say?” Maida asked in alarm. She had a vague imaginary
picture of Betsy being dragged to the station-house.
“Roared! But then Mr. Flanagan thinks Betsy’s all right. Always
calls her ’sophy Sparkles.’ Betsy runs away about twice a week. Mr.
Flanagan’s always finding her and lugging her home. I guess every
policeman in Charlestown knows her by this time. There, look at her
now! Did you ever see such a kid?”
Betsy had come out of the yard again. She was carrying a huge
feather duster over her head as if it were a parasol.
“The darling!” Maida said joyously. “I hope she’ll do something
naughty every day.”
“Queer how you love a naughty child,” Dick said musingly. “They’re
an awful lot of trouble but you can’t help liking them. Has Tim
Doyle fallen into the puddle yet?”
“Yes, just a little while ago.”
“He’s always falling in mud puddles. I guess if Molly fishes him out
once after a rain, she does a half a dozen times.”
“Do come and see me, Dicky, won’t you?” Maida asked when they got to
the shop door. “You know I shall be lonely when all the children are
in school and—then besides—you’re the first friend I’ve made.”
At the word _friend_, Dicky’s beautiful smile shone bright. “Sure,
I’ll come,” he said heartily. “I’ll come often.”
“Granny,” Maida exclaimed, bursting into the kitchen, “wait until
you hear about Betsy Hale.” She told the whole story. “Was I ever a
naughty little girl?” she concluded.
“Naughty? Glory be, and what’s ailing you? ’Twas the best choild
this side of Heaven that you was. Always so sick and yet niver a
cross wurrud out of you.”
A shadow fell over Maida’s face. “Oh, dear, dear,” she grieved. “I
wish I had been a naughty child—people love naughty children so. Are
you quite sure I was always good, Granny?”
“Why, me blessid lamb, ’twas too sick that you was to be naughty.
You cud hardly lift one little hand from the bed.”
“But, Granny, dear,” Maida persisted, “can’t you think of one
single, naughty thing I did? I’m sure you can if you try hard.”
Maida’s face was touched with a kind of sad wistfulness. Granny
looked down at her, considerably puzzled. Then a light seemed to
break in her mind. It shone through her blue eyes and twinkled in
her smile.
“Sure and Oi moind wance when Oi was joost afther giving you some
medicine and you was that mad for having to take the stuff that you
sat oop in bed and knocked iv’ry bottle off the table. Iv’ry wan!
Sure, we picked oop glass for a wake afther.”
Maida’s wistful look vanished in a peal of silvery laughter. “Did I
really, Granny?” she asked in delight. “Did I break every bottle?
Are you sure? Every one?”
“Iv’ry wan as sure as OI’m a living sinner,” said Granny. “Faith and
’twas the bad little gyurl that you was often—now that I sthop to
t’ink av ut.”
Maida bounded back to the shop in high spirits. Granny heard her say
“Every bottle!” again and again in a whispering little voice.
“Just think, Granny,” she called after a while. “I’ve made one, two,
three, four, five friends—Dicky, Molly, Tim, Betsy and Laura—though
I don’t call her quite a friend yet. Pretty good for so soon!”
Maida was to make a sixth friend, although not quite so quickly.
It began that noontime with a strange little scene that acted itself
out in front of Maida’s window. The children had begun to gather for
school, although it was still very quiet. Suddenly around the corner
came a wild hullaballoo—the shouts of small boys, the yelp of a dog,
the rattle and clang of tin dragged on the brick sidewalk. In
another instant appeared a dog, a small, yellow cur, collarless and
forlorn-looking, with a string of tin cans tied to his tail, a horde
of small boys yelling after him and pelting him with stones.
Maida started up, but before she could get to the door, something
flashed like a scarlet comet from across the street. It was the
little girl whom Maida had seen twice before—the one who always wore
the scarlet cape.
Even in the excitement, Maida noticed how handsome she was. She
seemed proud. She carried her slender, erect little body as if she
were a princess and her big eyes cast flashing glances about her.
Jet-black were her eyes and hair, milk-white were her teeth but in
the olive of her cheeks flamed a red such as could be matched only
in the deepest roses. Maida christened her Rose-Red at once.
Rose-Red lifted the little dog into her arms with a single swoop of
her strong arm. She yanked the cans from its tail with a single
indignant jerk. Fondling the trembling creature against her cheek,
she talked first to him, then to his abashed persecutors.
“You sweet, little, darling puppy, you! Did they tie the wicked cans
to his poor little tail!” and then—“if ever I catch one of you boys
treating a poor, helpless animal like this again, I’ll shake the
breath out of your body—was he the beautifullest dog that ever was?
And if that isn’t enough, Arthur Duncan will lick you all, won’t
you, Arthur?” She turned pleadingly to Arthur.
Arthur nodded.
“Nobody’s going to hurt helpless creatures while I’m about! He was a
sweet little, precious little, pretty little puppy, so he was.”
Rose-Red marched into the court with the puppy, opened a gate and
dropped him inside.
“That pup belongs to me, now,” she said marching back.
The school bell ringing at this moment ended the scene.
“Who’s that little girl who wears the scarlet cape?” Maida asked
Dorothy and Mabel Clark when they came in together at four.
“Rosie Brine,” they answered in chorus.
“She’s a dreffle naughty girl,” Mabel said in a whisper, and “My
mommer won’t let me play with her,” Dorothy added.
“Why not?” Maida asked.
“She’s a tom-boy,” Mabel informed her.
“What’s a tom-boy?” Maida asked Billy that night at dinner.
“A tom-boy?” Billy repeated. “Why, a tom-boy is a girl who acts like
a boy.”
“How can a girl be a boy?” Maida queried after a few moments of
thought. “Why don’t they call her a tom-girl?”
“Why, indeed?” Billy answered, taking up the dictionary.
Certainly Rosie Brine acted like a boy—Maida proved that to herself
in the next few days when she watched Rose-Red again and again. But
if she were a tom-boy, she was also, Maida decided, the most
beautiful and the most wonderful little girl in the world. And,
indeed, Rosie was so full of energy that it seemed to spurt out in
the continual sparkle of her face and the continual movement of her
body. She never walked. She always crossed the street in a series of
flying jumps. She never went through a gate if she could go over the
fence, never climbed the fence if she could vault it. The scarlet
cape was always flashing up trees, over sheds, sometimes to the very
roofs of the houses. Her principal diversion seemed to be climbing
lamp-posts. Maida watched this proceeding with envy. One athletic
leap and Rose-Red was clasping the iron column half-way up—a few
more and she was swinging from the bars under the lantern. But she
was accomplished in other ways. She could spin tops, play “cat” and
“shinney” as well as any of the boys. And as for jumping rope—if two
little girls would swing for her, Rosie could actually waltz in the
rope.
The strangest thing about Rosie was that she did not always go to
school like the other children. The incident of the dog happened on
Thursday. Friday morning, when the children filed into the
schoolhouse, Rosie did not follow them. Instead, she hid herself in
a doorway until after the bell rang. A little later she sneaked out
of her hiding place, joined Arthur Duncan at the corner, and
disappeared into the distance. Just before twelve they both came
back. For a few moments, they kept well concealed on a side street,
out of sight of Primrose Court. But, at intervals, Rosie or Arthur
would dart out to a spot where, without being seen, they could get a
glimpse of the church clock. When the children came out of school at
twelve, they joined the crowd and sauntered home.
Monday morning Maida saw them repeat these maneuvers. She was
completely mystified by them and yet she had an uncomfortable
feeling. They were so stealthy that she could not help guessing that
something underhand was going on.
“Do you know Rosie Brine?” Maida asked Dicky Dore one evening when
they were reading together.
“Sure!” Dicky’s face lighted up. “Isn’t she a peach?”
“They say she is a tom-boy,” Maida objected. “Is she?”
“Surest thing you know,” Dicky said cheerfully. “She won’t take a
dare. You ought to see her playing stumps. There’s nothing a boy can
do that she won’t do. And have you noticed how she can spin a
top—the best I ever saw for a girl.”
Then boys liked girls to be tom-boys. This was a great surprise.
“How does it happen that she doesn’t go to school often?”
Dicky grinned. “Hooking jack!”
“Hooking jack?” Maida repeated in a puzzled tone.
“Hooking jack—playing hookey—playing truant.” Dicky watched Maida’s
face but her expression was still puzzled. “Pretending to go to
school and not going,” he said at last.
“Oh,” Maida said. “I understand now.”
“She just hates school,” Dicky went on. “They can’t make her go. Old
Stoopendale, the truant officer, is always after her. Little she
cares for old Stoopy though. She gets fierce beatings for it at
home, too. Funny thing about Rosie—she won’t tell a lie. And when
her mother asks her about it, she always tells the truth. Sometimes
her mother will go to the schoolhouse door with her every morning
and afternoon for a week. But the moment she stops, Rosie begins to
hook jack again.”
“Mercy me!” Maida said. In all her short life she had never heard
anything like this. She was convinced that Rosie Brine was a very
naughty little girl. And yet, underneath this conviction, burned an
ardent admiration for her.
“She must be very brave,” she said soberly.
“Brave! Well, I guess you’d think so! Arthur Duncan says she’s
braver than a lot of boys he knows. Arthur and she hook jack
together sometimes. And, oh cracky, don’t they have the good times!
They go down to the Navy Yard and over to the Monument Grounds.
Sometimes they go over to Boston Common and the Public Garden. Once
they walked all the way to Franklin Park. And in the summer they
often walk down to Crescent Beach. They say when I get well, I can
go with them.”
Dicky spoke in the wistful tone with which he always related the
deeds of stronger children. Maida knew exactly how he felt—she had
been torn by the same hopes and despairs.
“Oh, wouldn’t it be grand to be able to do just anything?” she said.
“I’m just beginning to feel as if I could do some of the things I’ve
always wanted to do.”
“I’m going to do them all, sometime,” Dicky prophesied. “Doc O’Brien
says so.”
“I think Rosie the beautifullest little girl,” Maida said. “I wish
she’d come into the shop so that I could get acquainted with her.”
“Oh, she’ll come in sometime. You see the W.M.N.T. is meeting now
and we’re all pretty busy. She’s the only girl in it.”
“The W.M.N.T.,” Maida repeated. “What does that mean?”
“I can’t tell?” Dicky said regretfully. “It’s the name of our club.
Rosie and Arthur and I are the only ones who belong.”
After that talk, Maida watched Rosie Brine closer than ever. If she
caught a glimpse of the scarlet cape in the distance, it was hard to
go on working. She noticed that Rosie seemed very fond of all
helpless things. She was always wheeling out the babies in the
neighborhood, always feeding the doves and carrying her kitten about
on her shoulder, always winning the hearts of other people’s dogs
and then trying to induce them not to follow her.
“It seems strange that she never comes into the shop,” Maida said
mournfully to Dicky one day.
“You see she never has any money to spend,” Dicky explained. “That’s
the way her mother punishes her. But sometimes she earns it on the
sly taking care of babies. She loves babies and babies always love
her. Delia’ll go to her from my mother any time and as for Betsy
Hale—Rosie’s the only one who can do anything with her.”
But a whole week passed. And then one day, to Maida’s great delight,
the tinkle of the bell preceded the entrance of Rose-Red.
“Let me look at your tops, please,” Rosie said, marching to the
counter with the usual proud swing of her body.
Seen closer, she was even prettier than at a distance. Her smooth
olive skin glistened like satin. Her lips showed roses even more
brilliant than those that bloomed in her cheeks. A frown between her
eyebrows gave her face almost a sullen look. But to offset this, her
white teeth turned her smile into a flash of light. Maida lifted all
the tops from the window and placed them on the counter.
“Mind if I try them?” Rosie asked.
“Oh, do.”
Rosie wound one of them with an expert hand. Then with a quick dash
forward of her whole arm, she threw the top to the floor. It danced
there, humming like a whole hiveful of bees.
“Oh, how lovely!” Maida exclaimed. Then in fervent admiration: “What
a wonderful girl you are!”
Rosie smiled. “Easy as pie if you know how. Want to learn?”
“Oh, will you teach me?”
“Sure! Begin now.”
Maida limped from behind the counter. Rosie watched her. Rosie’s
face softened with the same pity that had shone on the frightened
little dog.
“She’s sorry for me,” Maida thought. “How sweet she looks!”
But Rosie said nothing about Maida’s limp. She explained the process
of top-spinning from end to end, step by step, making Maida copy
everything that she did. At first Maida was too eager—her hands
actually trembled. But gradually she gained in confidence. At last
she succeeded in making one top spin feebly.
“Now you’ve got the hang of it,” Rosie encouraged her, “You’ll soon
learn. All you want to do is to practice. I’ll come to-morrow and
see how you’re getting on.”
“Oh, do,” Maida begged, “and come to see me in the evening sometime.
Come this evening if your mother’ll let you.”
Rosie laughed scornfully. “I guess nobody’s got anything to say
about _letting me_, if I make up my mind to come. Well, goodbye!”
She whirled out of the shop and soon the scarlet cape was a
brilliant spot in the distance.
But about seven that evening the bell rang. When Maida opened the
door there stood Rosie.
“Oh, Rosie,” Maida said joyfully, throwing her arms about her guest,
“how glad I am to see you!” She hurried her into the living-room
where Billy Potter was talking with Granny. “This is Rosie Brine,
Billy,” she said, her voice full of pride in her new friend. “And
this is Billy Potter, Rosie.”
Billy shook hands gravely with the little girl. And Rosie looked at
him in open wonder. Maida knew exactly what she was thinking. Rosie
was trying to make up her mind whether he was a boy or a man. The
problem seemed to grow more perplexing as the evening went on. For
part of the time Billy played with them, sitting on the floor like a
boy, and part of the time he talked with Granny, sitting in a chair
like a man.
Maida showed Rosie her books, her Venetian beads, all her cherished
possessions. Rosie liked the canaries better than anything. “Just
think of having six!” she said. Then, sitting upstairs in Maida’s
bedroom, the two little girls had a long confidential talk.
“I’ve been just crazy to know you, Maida,” Rosie confessed. “But
there was no way of getting acquainted, for you always stayed in the
store. I had to wait until I could tease mother to buy me a top.”
“That’s funny,” Maida said, “for I was just wild to know you. I kept
hoping that you’d come in. I hope you’ll come often, Rosie, for I
don’t know any other little girl of my own age.”
“You know Laura Lathrop, don’t you?” Rosie asked with a sideways
look.
“Yes, but I don’t like her.”
“Nobody likes her,” Rosie said. “She’s too much of a smarty-cat. She
loves to get people over there and then show off before them. And
then she puts on so many airs. I won’t have anything to do with
her.”
From the open window came the shrill scream of Miss Allison’s
parrot. “What do you think of that?” it called over and over again.
“Isn’t that a clever bird?” Rosie asked admiringly. “His name is
Tony. I have lots of fun with him. Did you ever see a parrot that
could talk, before?”
“Oh, yes, we have several at Pride’s.”
“Pride’s?”
“Pride’s Crossing. That’s where we go summers.”
“And what do your parrots say?”
“One talked in French. He used to say ‘Taisez-vous’ so much that
sometimes we would have to put a cover over the cage to stop him.”
“And did you have other animals besides parrots?” Rosie asked. “I
love animals.”
“Oh, yes, we had horses and dogs and cats and rabbits and dancing
mice and marmosets and macaws and parokets and—I guess I’ve
forgotten some of them. But if you like animals, you ought to go to
our place in the Adirondacks—there are deer preserves there and
pheasants and peacocks.”
“Who do they belong to?”
“My father.”
Rosie considered this. “Does he keep a bird-place?” she asked in a
puzzled tone.
“No.” Maida’s tone was a little puzzled too. She did not know what a
bird-place was.
“Well, did he sell them?”
“I don’t think he ever sold any. He gave a great many away, though.”
When Rosie went home, Maida walked as far as her gate with her.
“Want to know a secret, Maida?” Rosie asked suddenly, her eyes
dancing with mischief.
“Oh, yes. I love secrets.”
“Cross your throat then.”
Maida did not know how to cross her throat but Rosie taught her.
“Well, then,” Rosie whispered, “my mother doesn’t know that I went
to your house. She sent me to bed for being naughty. And I got up
and dressed and climbed out my window on to the shed without anybody
knowing it. She’ll never know the difference.”
“Oh, Rosie,” Maida said in a horrified tone, “Please never do it
again.” In spite of herself, Maida’s eyes twinkled.
But Rosie only laughed. Maida watched her steal into her yard,
watched her climb over the shed, watched her disappear through the
window.
But she grieved over the matter as she walked home. Perhaps it was
because she was thinking so deeply that she did not notice how quiet
they all were in the living-room. But as she crossed the threshold,
a pair of arms seized her and swung her into the air.
“Oh, papa, papa,” she whispered, cuddling her face against his, “how
glad I am to see you.”
He marched with her over to the light.
“Well, little shop-keeper,” he said after a long pause in which he
studied her keenly, “you’re beginning to look like a real live
girl.” He dropped her gently to her feet. “Now show me your shop.”