_THE PLANTS._
THE next morning Ida was all eagerness to begin her work. Directly
after breakfast she hunted out a large business-looking work-basket,
and was busily looking for her thimble, scissors, and other
sewing-materials when her mother entered the room.
"What are you doing up here, Ida?" she asked. "You ought to be
practising."
"Oh, mother, can't I let the practising go this morning, for a little
while at least? I feel just like sitting down to sew now."
"And when would you feel like your lesson, my dear? Or what will Miss
Amsden feel like when she comes to-morrow and finds that you have not
learned it?"
"Well, I hate to do things when I don't feel like them," said Ida
rather fretfully; "don't you, mother?"
"Every one does, I suppose, Ida, and all your remark means is that you
don't like to do what you don't like."
"But sometimes I like to do one thing, and sometimes another."
"That is the case with all of us. I, for instance, do not want to go
out this morning at all. I should very much prefer to stay at home and
read the new books of travels your uncle has sent up. But in that case,
papa's dinner would be sadly wanting when he came home, and I don't
think he would feel like eating his bread without butter or his beef
without mustard, or drink his coffee without sugar. The truth is, my
daughter, that where duties are concerned, we must learn to put likings
out of the question."
"But isn't it a duty to help make this little girl's clothes, mamma?"
said Ida coaxingly.
"Certainly it is, since you have promised to do so; and I am very glad
to have you interested in such work. But I fear your interest cannot be
very deep, since there seems danger of its expiring before afternoon."
"Well, mother, I will come down and practise just the minute I have
found my thimble and my large scissors. I can't think where they have
gone."
"I don't believe they have gone anywhere of their own accord, Ida; but
never mind them now; I want to hear those minor scales going."
"I don't think they are very sweet music," said Ida, giving up with a
good grace, as usual.
"Nor I, but they sound much better when they are played correctly.
So go to work, like a good girl. You know I like to have you sew at
something an hour every day, and you have neglected your needle sadly
since Mary has been here. If you work faithfully an hour or two every
day, your bundle will soon be finished. I want to look through your
drawers a little, and perhaps I shall find your missing scissors in the
process."
Ida practised her minor scales, taking more pains than usual with them,
and then played her other lessons. Then she went out to refresh herself
with a little run in the open air, and after that she set herself
resolutely to hunt for the missing scissors. They were found at last,
along with the lace-frame, shut up in a magazine in the library—that
very "Ladies' Journal" which had tempted Ida away from her work before.
She was sorely tempted now to study out the directions for a certain
crochet mat which looked very interesting, but she refrained, and sat
determinedly down to her overhand seams.
Mrs. Van Zandt had no sewing-machine. "If the girls begin with the
machine, they will never learn to use their hands," she had said to her
husband. "When Emma and Ida can sew as well as their mother, they shall
have all the machines they want."
That afternoon and the next Ida's work went on famously. The third day
she did not accomplish so much. The hems were very long, and she did
not like hemming. The weather was lovely after the rain, and she did
not feel like staying in the house.
Suddenly she remembered that her mother, who had gone to the city, had
asked her to carry some papers down to Mrs. Riker's, and she reflected
that it would be better for her to do her errand now than later, when
it might probably rain again. So the work was hastily thrown into the
basket, the thimble tossed after it, and Ida was soon on her way to
Mrs. Riker's. She found Eunice with her hat on, ready to go out.
"Oh, don't take off your hat, for I can't stay a minute," said Ida.
"Where were you going? Perhaps I can go with you. It is so pleasant, I
can't bear to stay in the house."
"I was going up to Mrs. Ackerman's," replied Eunice; "Miss Denham
promised to lend me a knitting-book when she got it home again. Do go
with me. It will make the walk seem so much shorter."
"The ladies are in the garden," said Sylvanus in answer to Ida's
inquiry; "maybe you'd like to go out there? Miss Margaret is busy
giving directions to the gardener about sending some flowers to the
Flower Mission. Go right down that broad walk and round by the big
chestnut tree, and you'll find her."
"How many servants Mrs. Ackerman keeps!" said Ida as they walked down
the path Sylvanus had indicated. "I shouldn't think she would need
so many. Just see! There are Symantha and Drusilla and Sylvanus and
Dorinda—all in the house—besides the coachman and the gardener."
"It is a large house, you know, and they have a great deal of company,
I suppose."
"But it must cost no end of money. Just think how much good she might
do with it!"
"Well, she is doing good with it," returned Eunice. "Symantha and
Sylvanus are old people. You wouldn't have her turn them out of a home
where they have lived so long for the sake of giving away their wages,
would you? There wouldn't be much charity in that."
"Of course not; I didn't think of it in that way."
"But I do think people waste a great deal of money," continued Eunice.
"Just think of giving sixteen dollars for a doll and her trunk!"
"Anne Jennings gave twenty-five for hers, but then it had ever so many
dresses," said Ida. "And I suppose the doll helped to make a living for
somebody too."
"That's true, but, somehow, it does not seem right to give so much for
a plaything. And then the man who made the doll might make something
else. Ten dollars would pay for printing a great many Testaments, and
that would make more work than one doll."
"You might say the same about Sylvanus and his wages," observed Ida.
"No, I think that is different. Mrs. Ackerman has always known
Sylvanus; he is like a friend. Then he only knows how to do just his
own work, and he is an old man. If Mrs. Ackerman were to turn him off
now, he might not be able to get another such place, and what would
become of him?"
"How you do think about things!" said Ida, struck with admiration at
her companion's wisdom. "You are so old of your age!"
"I don't feel very old just now," said Eunice, laughing and giving a
little skip. "Everything seems so lovely I feel like dancing or running
races."
"Well, run then. Let's race to the green house."
"Mrs. Ackerman might not think we were very polite to be racing on her
grounds," said Eunice. "Besides, here we are at the greenhouse already.
Don't Miss Ackerman look lovely in her broad hat?"
Miss Ackerman was very busy directing and assisting the gardener, who
was packing a great number of little flower-pots and baskets. These
pots contained small but flourishing plants of ivy, ferns, and other
hardy plants.
"What a quantity of little plants!" said Ida. "What are you going to do
with them?"
"I am going to send them to the city to the ladies of the Flower
Mission," answered Miss Ackerman. "They will distribute them to
different poor and sick people who live in rooms in tenement-houses and
such places, where they seldom see anything green or pretty from one
year's end to another."
"How nice!" said Ida.—"Isn't it, Eunice?"
"Yes indeed," replied Eunice in her grave way, while her eyes sparkled.
"Plants are such a comfort! I have just one geranium, and I wouldn't
give it up for anything."
"Then you, are fond of flowers?" said Miss Ackerman.
"Yes, ma'am, very. And I almost always have good luck with them, too."
"I love plants dearly, but mine all die, somehow. I am sure I don't
know why," observed Ida.
"Well, see here," said Miss Ackerman. "I am going to give you and
Eunice each three plants—a silver-leaved geranium, an ivy, and a pot
of ferns. You shall take all the care of them yourselves, and at
Christmas-time, when we trim the Sunday-school room, the finest plant
shall have the post of honor in front of the desk."
"Oh, thank you, Miss Ackerman," said Eunice gratefully. "How pleased
mother will be!"
Ida looked a little doubtful. "Must we take all the care of them
ourselves?" she asked—"Every bit, watering and all?"
"Every bit—watering and all. Eunice will no doubt take all the care of
hers, and it is only fair you should do the same."
"Oh, I am willing," said Ida, always ready for a new undertaking. Then
with a sudden change of tone she added, "Oh dear! Here comes Julia. Now
she will be sure to say something disagreeable about my never finishing
things."
"Shall I tell you what will prevent that evil?" asked Miss Ackerman.
"Yes, ma'am, if you can."
"Always finish things," said Miss Ackerman.
"I am not sure that would do any good," remarked Ida, shaking her head.
"She would only say the disagreeable things about something else. But I
won't talk about her behind her back; I don't think that is nice a bit."
"I think you are a high-minded little lady," said Percy.—"How do you
do, Julia?"
Now, Julia had come out in a very good humor. Unluckily, she overheard
Percy's words to Ida, and she was one of those people who think every
word of praise given to another is so much taken from themselves. She
returned the elder ladies' greeting politely, Ida's rather shortly, and
Eunice's not at all.
Till Percy said, rather sharply,—"Don't you see Eunice, Julia?"
When she made such a haughty bend of her head as she had seen her elder
sister make when introduced to some one she did not care to know. The
imitation was so close that all Miss Ackerman's good-breeding could not
suppress a smile.
"Are not Miss Ackerman's plants beautiful?" said Ida. "See what a
quantity of nice little pots! She is going to send them to the city for
the Flower Mission to give away."
"Mother says the Flower Mission is great nonsense," returned Julia;
"and I think so too. What is the use of giving flowers and plants to
such kind of people? I think pork and beans would be more sensible, for
my part," she concluded, laughing at her own wit.
"I don't agree with you there, Julia," said Miss Ackerman; "and I think
a few visits made with the kind young ladies who distribute the flowers
would alter your ideas on that subject. Think what it must be to a poor
woman whose only window looks out on is narrow court, and who perhaps
never gets a chance to go as far as the Park, to have a green and
blossoming plant, or even a handful of violets, to light up her dingy
rooms!"
"Yes, indeed," said Ida. "I know when I was shut up with my bad ankle,
and could not even get to the window for ever so long, what a comfort
it was to have a dish of flowers where I could see it. And of course
it must be a great deal worse for poor people living in such places as
Miss Ackerman speaks of."
"And a great many people would be very thankful for the flowers who
would not like to take presents of pork and beans and such things,"
said Eunice. "I am sure that is the way with mother. She is able to
support herself, and me too, but she is always so pleased when any one
brings her flowers!"
"Then you think she will like the plants?" said Miss Ackerman. "You
see, Ralph has selected very nice ones for you," she added as the
gardener returned with his barrowful of plants.
"Yes, they are all in fine condition, and will do well in any good
situation," said Ralph; "but I would advise you to keep them out of
doors for a time, if you have any place to set them."
"There is the roof of our veranda," said Eunice. "It is flat, and gets
the sun all the morning. I can't set any plants out in the yard, on
account of Mr. Bell's chickens. He won't keep them shut up, all we can
say, so we have given up trying. The plants will do nicely in winter,
because we have east and south windows."
"I didn't know you had any parlor," said Julia; "I thought you lived in
the kitchen."
"We do," answered Eunice; "as you say, we have only a kitchen, and so
we make a parlor of that."
"Well, I shouldn't think geraniums and ferns would do very well among
the steam of soapsuds and boiled cabbage."
"I don't think the soapsuds will hurt them, and we never boil cabbage,"
replied Eunice, determined not to be vexed.
"Plants often do remarkably well in a kitchen, and Mrs. Riker's kitchen
is an uncommonly pleasant one, because it is always lighted up with
sunshine and smiles," said Miss Ackerman. "I have seen many fine
drawing-rooms not half so agreeable.—I will send Harry round with the
plants, girls; and remember, the best one will have the post of honor."
"What is that?" asked Julia.
Miss Ackerman explained the matter, and asked if Julia would take some
on the same terms.
"No, thank you," answered Julia; "We have a greenhouse, and I don't
care shout fussing with plants myself.—I have brought home my work,
Percy, and will take some more, if you like."
"How quick you have been!" said Ida. "Did you do it all yourself?"
"Of course I did. It is no great matter to make one night-gown."
"We have no more ready at present, for the reason that we have no more
funds," said Percy. "How does yours get on, Ida?"
"Pretty well," answered Ida. "I am doing it all by hand, and I have
nearly finished all the long seams.—Oh, Percy, what are you doing? How
very pretty!"
Percy was twisting some thread round a hair-pin and poking it in and
out with a fine crochet-needle in quite a wonderful manner, producing
some very pretty trimming.
"I have been watching her," said Eunice. "Is it very hard work to do?"
"Not hard at all; I can show you the whole in ten minutes if you wish
to learn."
The girls sat down, one on each side of Percy, and soon mastered the
secret of the trimming.
"I mean to make some as soon as I get home," said Ida.
"To add to your drawer of curiosities, I suppose," remarked Julia.
"Come into the house with me and I will give you each a hair-pin fit
for the work," said Percy; "it isn't every one that will do.—Do you
want to learn, Julia?"
"No, thank you," answered Julia; "I don't care for such cheap work that
every one can do. Mother says she likes this new lace-work, because the
materials are so expensive it can never become common. Mother found our
chambermaid working a piece of point lace one day, and she said she
never wanted to touch hers afterward."
"Give the girls some of the peaches that came this morning," said
Miss Ackerman. "Mamma had a present of two baskets of superb peaches
from a man who used to drive our horses some years ago, and who has a
peach-orchard in New Jersey.—You remember Solomon, Percy?"
"Yes indeed, the good old man!" said Percy. "I should like to see him
again."
"Perhaps Julia won't like to eat peaches which come from a servant?"
said Ida with a mischievous smile.
"That's different," returned Julia; "but I do think people ought to be
made to keep their places. I should like to live in England, where the
classes are separated."
"Let each try to keep his own place, and do his duty in it, and there
will be no trouble."
"I don't quite understand about that matter of places," said Eunice,
thoughtful as usual. "What is my place, for instance?"
"Your place is that of a member of Christ, a child of God, and an
inheritor of the kingdom of heaven," answered Miss Ackerman. "That is
the true place, that which God has designed for every immortal soul
which he has made; and if you keep that in view, you are not likely to
go very far wrong."
"But suppose one is puzzled what to do—how to speak to any one, for
instance?" asked Ida, very much interested.
"Do just as you would like to be done by. A good way is to think what
our Lord would have done in the same circumstances. As to speaking to
people, you should be polite to everybody alike, and then you are sure
not to make a mistake. There is no greater mark of low breeding than
the having two sets of manners."
"Don't you think condescension is bad manners?" asked Percy.
"Yes indeed, the very worst. But let us leave the discussion of manners
and betake ourselves to the discussion of peaches."
Ida had fully determined to sit down to her work the very first thing
after tea. But there was the trimming: "I declare they will not be fit
to be seen without something of that sort. I will work at the trimming
this evening, and to-morrow I will sew two hours instead of one."
But when to-morrow came, somebody called for Ida to drive. The next
day she went to a lawn-party, and the next to the city; and so it came
to pass that at the end of the week, the work was very little farther
advanced than it was at the beginning.