Page
The pipe changed into a strange flower 21
Little Bravo 35
“Oh, you pretty dear” 55
Mateel sank down on her knees and gazed around 75
In a great carven chair sat a lady 95
The little girl playfully clasped her knees 115
Glimpses of the Wonderful City shall be given to her 129
Soon he was in her arms 137
“I think I am going to like you” 141
“He gave me this keepsake for my mamma” 144
In their palace by the water wait the king and queen 167
She started up in alarm 195
“Open your eyes wide and look at me” 207
I.
THE GHOST FLOWER, OR THE WHITE BLACKBIRD.
There is a region of our own land, far to the westward, where great
mountains lift their serene heads into the eternal calm of the upper
air. Sunrise and sunset paint them with unearthly beauties; and night,
with its myriads of flashing stars or its splendid moon, shines down on
their white foreheads, and bids them dream on through the coming ages,
as they have done in the past.
Among their barren valleys one sometimes lights upon a small oasis. A
little mountain stream, fed by the melting snows of the peaks, leaps and
sings and flashes to its grave in the desert sand. Its banks are fringed
with cottonwood trees, and the short grass and underbrush flourish in
their shade.
Usually, some energetic American or Chinaman is ranching it there, and
claiming all the valley; but far away from the towns and the mines one
may sometimes come upon a band of Indians, living their own lives
separate and alone in their secluded valley.
A generation ago, a fierce war raged between the whites and the Indians;
and during its progress a train of emigrants, passing near an Indian
village, was attacked by the warriors of the tribe. All the whites were
killed, except one little child, who crept away into the sagebrush, and,
worn out with fear and fatigue, dropped asleep. There the wife of the
chief medicine man of the tribe found her; and when the little one
opened her eyes, and, putting up a piteous lip, began to sob, the woman
gathered her into her arms with tender “No, no’s” and soft guttural
cooings, that soothed and quieted the child. For the Great Spirit had
lately called her own baby “far over the terrible mountains” to the
spirit land. And this little one crept into the bereaved heart of the
Indian mother.
She took the child to her husband, and received permission to keep her.
And so the little girl, with her lint-white hair and blue eyes, grew up
among the other children of the valley. Soon after the massacre of the
wagon train, the tribe withdrew from the vengeance of the white soldiers
to a fertile, wooded valley, hidden in the heart of the mountains. Here
little “Snow-flower,” as she was named, lived happy with her foster
parents. Her Indian mother was very proud of her childish beauty, and
took excellent care of her. She bathed her often, in the clear water of
the little river that ran through the valley; for, contrary to the
popular belief, the Indians of the mountain are cleanly in their habits,
and bathe their persons and wash their garments frequently, if water is
plentiful. She braided her fair hair, and made for her pretty little
dresses of pink or red calico, bought at the trader’s store at the
agency, many weary miles away.
In the winter, she wore over her dress a warm fur coat reaching to the
ankles, with a hood at the back to draw over her head. This was made of
the skins of jack rabbits. Warm leggings and moccasins helped to keep
her warm, and she was usually very comfortable.
Sometimes the supply of pine nuts would give out, the fish refuse to
bite, or the jack rabbits become scarce and shy. Then the only
alternative was to go to the hated agency.
At such times little Snow-flower was hidden in some secure place and
warned to remain quiet; for her Indian mother was haunted by the fear of
separation from the child. She knew that inquiries had been set afloat
at the agency for a little one, said to have been saved from the
massacre, and her heart told her that the child’s kindred would claim
her, sooner or later. So, for many years little Snow-flower never saw a
white person.
When she asked her Indian father or mother why she was so different from
the other children, they told her The Great Spirit had made her so, and
she was content.
“Perhaps it’s because I am the great Medicine Chief’s daughter,” she
said to her father; and he gravely nodded.
She was very fond of both of her foster parents; but her love for the
medicine man was mingled with awe. When she saw him dressed for some
religious dance or yearly festival, in his strange medicine dress, with
his face painted in grotesque and horrible pattern, she fled to her
mother and hid her face in her lap. She loved her mother devotedly, and
her love was returned. The woman was like all Indian mothers, very
gentle and kind to her little daughter. The little girl was never
punished, and was always spoken to in the soft, low voice peculiar to
Indian women. “Little daughter,” “Little Starlight,” “Little
Singing-bird,” were the fond names bestowed on her.
The years passed quietly by, until Snow-flower was ten years old, when,
one summer day, the medicine man came into the tepee looking very ill.
He threw himself down on the pallet on the floor and soon was
unconscious. He lingered so nine days, anxiously watched and cared for
by his wife and Snow-flower. On the tenth day he opened his eyes and
beckoned his wife to him.
“I must go far over the terrible mountains, into the heart of the
sunset, into the spirit land. You will come soon; watch for the token I
will send you.”
Then, closing his eyes, he was quickly gone. And the tepee was very
desolate and lonely to the wife and little Snow-flower.
All through the long days and the bright starlit nights the wife watched
for the token he would send her, until her knees grew weak, and her head
drooped, and she could not walk. Then little Snow-flower fed her, and
waited on her, and also watched for the token that was to be sent. One
day she crept into the hut and knelt by the Indian woman.
“Mother,” she whispered, “I have seen a strange sight: a flock of
blackbirds lit close to our home. I thought to snare some for your food;
but as I approached them, I saw that one of them was shaped like the
rest,—but, mother, he was pure white; and he lit on the ridgepole of our
home.”
Then the pale wife raised herself on her elbow, her eyes shining with
joy.
“It is the spirit-bird, dear little one; it is the token. Go now,
quickly, up the dark ravine; follow to its source the spring that runs
past our door. I have never allowed you to go there, for a dark spirit
lives in that dread place; but now, do not fear; the spirit-bird will
protect you. Go into the deep wood that grows around the fountain head.
You will come to a fallen log. Watch closely; and come and tell me what
you see.”
So little Snow-flower, shaken with fear and grief,—for she knew that her
mother must soon leave her,—followed the little rill, up the dark
ravine, to its source. The white blackbird flitted ahead, and wherever
he rested, the sunlight broke through the thick leaves overhead, so that
she walked in light all the way. Presently she came in sight of the
fallen log, and her heart stood still with fear; for, sitting on the
log, wrapped in his blanket, and smoking a long-stemmed, strange-looking
pipe, was the medicine man, her foster father. As she came toward him,
he arose and fixed on her his bright eyes; and then he spoke in a soft
voice that seemed to come from a long distance.
“Little pale-face daughter, take this pipe to my wife. It is a token
that you have seen me. Tell her I am lonely without her; that she must
be ready when the sun is setting to go with me, through the sunset
gates, into the spirit world. As for you, my daughter, your path lies
there,” pointing toward the east; “follow it to your own nation and your
own kindred;” and, laying his pipe on the log, he was gone in an
instant.
Little Snow-flower, almost overcome with fear, ran quickly to the log.
She picked up the pipe, which changed in her hands into a strange
flower; the leaves, the stem, and the blossoms were all white. It was
the Ghost flower, or Indian pipe.
Hurrying back down the ravine, she ran with flying feet into the tepee.
The Indian woman snatched the flower from the child’s hand and kissed
it, then listened anxiously to her story.
“Yes, little one, I must go. I had hoped that you might go with me; but
the Great Spirit does not will it so. And before I go, you must leave
me; I must see you started on your journey.” And then she told her of
her rescue, and of her parentage.
“This was tied fast round your neck. I hid it, and told no one.” She
showed the little girl the case of a gold locket, with a scrap of
closely written paper within. “Take this to the agency. The paper talks;
but do not fear, it is not bewitched. The agent will speak for it, and I
believe it will tell you where to find your kindred. Now hasten, dear
child; the sun will soon reach the cleft in the mountain, and then I
must go. I will see you again; my husband’s power is great; he will let
me come to you whenever you find a flower like this—the Ghost flower.”
Then, with tears and sobs, they separated. And when the sun was setting,
a great flock of blackbirds flew straight into its splendor; and among
them were two white ones: the souls of the medicine chief and his wife.
And poor little Snow-flower had begun her long journey to the agency.
She left the valley secretly, crept away without bidding any one in the
tribe farewell, for her Indian mother feared that they might detain her.
The medicine chief’s home stood apart from the rest of the village, and
was approached by the villagers with fear. When it was known that he was
dead, the tribe buried him and mourned for him. But the mother and the
daughter were unmolested in their grief.
A few days after Snow-flower had left, a kind-hearted woman ventured
near. Great was her surprise to find the tepee empty; and it was
believed by all that the medicine man had come for his wife and
daughter, and had conveyed them to the spirit world.
Little Snow-flower followed the path as far as she had gone in the old
days with her foster mother; but when she came to the cave where she had
been concealed, she was at a loss to know which way to go. She wandered
on, frightened and weary. The food she had brought with her was almost
gone. One night she lay down beside a strange-looking trail. There were
short logs laid across it, and on these were long slim logs or poles
made of iron. It was in a valley between two great mountains. She
wondered at it greatly. It was either a trail made by some wizard or
medicine man, or it was made by that strange tribe to which she
belonged, and of which she had heard for the first time that day, the
“pale-faces.”
But at least there was companionship in it, after the horrible
loneliness of the mountains. So she snuggled down near the trail, and
went to sleep. She was awakened by a terrible rumble and roar that shook
the earth around her. Something all fire and flashing eyes went
shrieking and hissing past her. She screamed with fear, and tried to
run, but her feet refused to carry her. The monster went a little way,
and then stopped. Some men sprang from its back and came toward her,
carrying a light. She saw that they were fair, like herself, and then
she fainted.
The men came hurrying on. It was a special train, carrying the
superintendent of the road, and a friend. “Did you say the massacre was
just here?” said the gentleman.
“Right about here—perhaps a few feet farther north.”
The gentleman sighed. “And has nothing been heard of the child?”
“The Indians positively declare that she is living somewhere in the
mountains, and that she is well cared for, but refuse to tell anything
more.”
“Well, I must have the child, if she is to be found on— Why, what is
this?” he exclaimed, as his foot struck against the soft little body of
Snow-flower. She shivered and moaned.
“What in this world! a little white girl, dressed like a little Indian!”
cried the superintendent.
“Let me see the child. She looks as my sister Mary did at that age. What
if this is her child, the little one I am searching for? Here, let me
carry her into the car; she is mine; I am sure of it,” said the
gentleman.
And so little Snow-flower awoke from her swoon to a new and wonderful
life. It almost seemed in later years, as she looked back to that time,
that she had entered another world; for she found love, riches,
education, all awaiting her.
Once or twice since, in lonely walks, she has found the Ghost flower;
and always then appears the vague, misty outline of her Indian mother.
A few days ago, her little son (for she is a woman and a mother now)
came into the house crying, “Mother, I saw a white blackbird. It was
with a great flock of black ones; it was just like them, only it was
white.”
She hurried out of the house hoping to find the spirit-bird; but it had
visited her, found her happy, and hastened back to the spirit land.
II.
THE LITTLE YELLOW MOCCASINS.
A clear river goes winding down, past green and shaded banks, through
the beautiful state of Iowa. It is named the Cedar, although the Oak, or
the Maple, or a dozen other names would be more appropriate, for the
Cedar is seldom found among the abundant trees that grow beside it.
Years ago, the Indians dwelt on its banks. They led an idyllic life: the
men fished in the blue waters, or hunted and trapped in the woods; the
women planted the small clearings with corn. These corn-fields may still
be seen, covered with little hillocks resembling in size and shape those
seen in a prairie-dog village; the corn was planted in these mounds,
instead of in rows, as with us.
Here the women worked and gossiped,—the babies in their cradles,
strapped to their mothers’ backs, or propped up against the trunks of
trees, and staring with round black eyes at the new and strange scenes
around them.
Among the women was one pretty young mother, who watched, as she worked,
her little son in his cradle. She talked or sang to him as she passed
him by. She named him “Little Bravo,” “Little Hunter.” She told him that
she was growing very old now; that he must step out of his cradle and
take care of her. Then she would laugh, showing her white teeth, and the
baby would wag his head from side to side, and laugh in sympathy,
revealing two cunning little teeth also. All the fond talk that a white
mother lavishes on her baby was told over by this Indian mother; for
mothers are alike in their love, whatever their color may be.
The years passed merrily along, for happy hearts make the hardest life a
merry one. The Little Bravo was a large boy now. Ten summers and winters
had passed since he came to his proud father and mother. He had learned
to row a canoe on the river, to fish, to set traps, and with bow and
arrow to bring down the wild duck and the prairie chicken. Soon he would
be a man, a—young brave indeed,—and go with his father to hunt the
bison, or on the warpath.
How many daydreams his mother enjoyed over his future! She saw him in
fancy a great chief, leading the tribe in war and in peace; she saw him
returning from war with many scalps of the enemy; saw him in the home
with wife and children, while his father and herself, grown old and
gray, sat in the warmest corner of the tepee and told his children
stories of their father’s brave deeds.
As she dreamed her daydreams, she busily worked on the fine clothing
with which she adorned him and his father; for it was her delight that
they outshone the rest of the men of the tribe in the splendor of their
raiment,—hunting shirts and leggings of the finest tanned skins, adorned
with fringes and gorgeous with crude embroidery, and moccasins of the
yellow buckskin, trimmed with beads and porcupine quills.
The boy was a noble little fellow; brave, warm-hearted, and merry. But
the Great Spirit saw that the doating love of father and mother was
ruining the gift He had placed in their hands.
One summer night the heat hung heavy over the land. It seemed an effort
to breathe. Black clouds hung sullen in the sky, and in the west the
lightning was flashing and the thunder was rumbling. “There will be much
wind and rain to-night. Where is our son?” said the father.
“Down on the river’s bank asleep,” answered his mother. “I sat long
beside him, and brushed away the stinging insects that annoyed him. He
has taken off his moccasins, the heat is so great, and his little feet
are bare. He is very beautiful as he sleeps. I will lift him without
waking him, and bear him into the storm cave.”
She hastened quickly down to the river, for the storm was rapidly
approaching. Just as her hands reached down to clasp her boy, there came
a vivid flash of lightning, and two strong hands (the hands of the
spirit who lives in the water) reached up, and grasping the boy firmly,
drew him down under the water.
Where, but a moment before, the rosy, dreaming boy was lying, was only
the print of his body in the grass, and the two little yellow moccasins,
shining like gold.
The mother gave a scream; the father came bounding to the spot; together
they sprang into the water, and dived again and again, striving to find
their son. The storm broke over the river in great fury, tearing off
great limbs of trees, and dashing their tepee to the ground; but neither
knew that it stormed. Finally, half dead, and heart-broken, they sought
the bank. The mother sat down and gathered the little moccasins to her
heart. “My son, my son! O spirit of the river, give him back to us!” she
moaned.
The father arose and straightened himself, and, looking into the dark
sky, he said: “It is the will of the Great Spirit. He gave him to us. He
has taken him away again.” Turning, he walked away into the forest.
But the mother sat there beside the river many days, moaning, “My son,
my son.” No food passed her lips, no sleep came to her eyes; and always
she kissed and clasped to her heart the little moccasins.
One night, when the stars were flashing in splendor, she raised her eyes
to the sky, and beheld that pathway made of star-dust, that leads to the
spirit land. And while she gazed, longing to follow it, she felt the
pressure of a small hand on her shoulder. She turned, to meet the
loving, smiling gaze of her son.
“O Great Spirit, I thank thee! The dead is alive again! O my son, I
grieved for thee! Why didst thou stay away so long?”
And the boy said, “Come, dear mother; we are to follow yonder path
to-night,” pointing upward. “I have come for thee, because thy weeping
grieves the happy ones.”
Then gladly the mother placed her hand in that small clasp; but first
she said: “Stay, dear child; here are thy moccasins. Thou wilt need
them; the way may be rough.”
The boy, laughing, held up to her gaze one of his feet, on which flashed
and glowed a moccasin of shining yellow, like the color of a star, and
he said, “Lay down the moccasins, dear, and thou shalt see how a
mother’s love shall be remembered.”
She placed them on the ground, and at once a plant sprang up beneath
them. It grew rapidly, and on its highest branches the moccasins were
fastened. They shrank in size, and changed into flowers, keeping,
however, their original shape and color. And the boy said, “These
flowers shall bloom on forever beside this shining river; long after the
red man is gone, they shall bloom.”
Then, wondering and happy, the mother followed her son along the
star-strewn path to the spirit land; and not many moons later, the
father, from the midst of battle, went to them.
Long ago, the Indians left the banks of the beautiful river, but the
yellow flowers bloom on beside its clear waters; and the white children
call them the “Orchid,” or “Lady’s Slipper,” or give them their real
name, the “Indian Moccasins.”
III.
THE LITTLE GHOST WHO LAUGHED.
Dolores sat beside Aunt Polly, in the door of the cabin. The setting sun
shone on her yellow curls, changing her into a veritable “Goldilocks,”
peeped into her blue eyes, until she was obliged to shut them. It shone
on Aunt Polly’s black face, causing it to glisten like black satin, and
on her clean calico dress and white apron; for this was Sunday evening,
and she was resting from her labors.
Across the fields, its light was reflected from the roof and chimneys of
“The House,” as Aunt Polly called it; for there she had lived as a slave
before the war, and to her it was the only house of importance in the
neighborhood. Dolores watched the sun climb from the roof and chimneys
to the gilded points of the lightning-rods, turning them to flashing
spear points. Then it was gone; and she breathed a sigh.
Aunt Polly heard it. “What’s the mattah, honey girl?”
“I’m lonesome, Aunt Polly; won’t you tell me ’bout the little ghost girl
up at the house?”
“Now, sugah, I have to be away from home all day to-morrow, and you’ll
be here alone; that story will make you feel skeery.”
“I won’t be afraid. Besides, I’ll go to school, maybe.”
“Bless yo heart now, will you? Well, I’ll tell you then, ’cause yo goin’
to be so good. Well, honey, when I was a young girl, I lived up at The
House; that was befo’ the wah. I was one of the house servants, sort of
waitin’ maid, and table maid, too. Well, one stormy night, I was in the
dinin’-room, settin’ the dinnah table. The rain and sleet was bangin’
aginst the windows, and it was growin’ mighty dark. I thought I’d go out
and shut the shuttahs; I thought I’d run out the front doah, and close
the pahlor shuttahs too. The lamp wasn’t lit in the hall yet, and as I
went through, it seemed to me I saw somethin’ white curled up on the
lower stair. I opened the front doah so that I could see bettah what it
was, and then I turned and went to it, and there, cuddled all up in a
heap, was a strange little girl. She had a little peaked white face and
great blue eyes, and her hair was about the coloh of you-all’s. She had
on a little white dress, and had somethin’ in her hands—looked like a
man’s cap, and it was all torn and bloody; and there was blood on her
dress.
“‘My land, honey, whar you come from?’ I says, and she huddled down
closer than ever, and began to cry just like her heart was most broke. I
stooped down to pick her up in my ahms”—Aunt Polly’s voice sank to a
whisper—“and—she—wasn’t—there. I rubbed my eyes and looked agin, then I
run to the doah and looked out; but they wasn’t nobody about. Then I got
so skeered I banged the doah shut and run whoopin’ and screamin’ to the
kitchen. Aunt Susan, the cook, grab me by the ahm. ‘Shut yo haid, girl,
and tell me wha’s de mattah,’ she said. So I done told her all about it,
and she just dropped all in a heap and she say: ‘O my Lawd, O my deah
Lawd, the judgment am a comin’ agin! Tell me, gal, was dat baby laughin’
or cryin’?’ and I say, ‘Cryin’;’ and she say, ‘Ooh, my poo’ mistess;’
and I said, ‘Oh, Aunt Susan, what is it?’ She say: ‘Gal, you done see a
ghost. Dat’s no baptized baby; dat’s a poo’ child dat was muhdard yeahs
and yeahs ago by some wicked limb of dis fambly, fo’ to get its money.
Whenever dat child comes here a weepin’ and a moanin’, dat’s de sign of
a death; if it comes a laughin’, den it brings good luck to we-alls.’
“Well, I was that skeered to think I’d done seen a ghost, that I shuck
all over, and couldn’t wait on the table. Well, honey, I kep’ a waitin’
for a death or somefin as bad; and ’bout a week later, my mastah’s
oldest boy was out huntin’, and the gun went off too soon, and blowed
the top of his haid plum off. They brought his torn and bloody cap home.
I’d—seen—it—before.
“Aftah that, I was always watchin’ for that ghost-child, but I nevah
seen her no more. But she came after that, fo’ my old mastah died; and
there was othah troubles. Finally, aftah the wah, my old mistress moved
to the city with young Mistah Tom, and left the house in the care of the
overseeah of the plantation. Once a yeah Mistah Tom comes down and stays
a week or so, lookin’ aftah things. He used to bring a lot of company
with him, but since ole Miss died, he’s sobered down; don’t seem to cah
fo’ company no more.
“And now, sugah, you come go to baid, so you can get up early, and go to
school.”
“Aunt Polly, tell me first, do please tell me, where did you get me?”
Aunt Polly looked at her doubtfully.
“I dunno as you need to know. But yo ma was a lady, and yo pa a
gentleman. You come of a good stock. Sometime I’ll tell you, but not
now; so you go to sleep.”
The next morning Aunt Polly was up and away early. She left a dainty
breakfast spread out for Dolores, and a little tin pail packed with a
lunch for her school dinner. Dolores wakened later and lay debating the
question of school. It is needless to say that Aunt Polly, with her lax
government and her fondness for the child, was spoiling her completely.
Dolores was a law unto herself, and came and went as she pleased. She
was looked down upon by the girls at school, because she lived with Aunt
Polly. She did not tell this to her, for she knew she would resent it
bitterly. So she avoided them as much as possible, and many hours when
Aunt Polly supposed that she was at school, she was wandering in the
woods and fields.
She thought of her half promise given the night before in exchange for
the ghost story, and resolved that she would go.
“My mother was a lady, and my father a gentleman; then why need I care
for those white trash? Aunt Polly is better than they are. I reckon I’d
better go. And I’ll go past the house, and peek in at the hall where
Aunt Polly saw the ghost.”
So she hurriedly put away her breakfast dishes, tidied up her room,
locked the door, hid the key, and started on her way to school. She
crossed the field and came to the old house by a path through a grove of
old trees. This side of the house was never used; the shutters were
closed; and the trees grew so close to the house that their great
branches scraped against the walls, causing a creaking, groaning noise
when the wind blew, that had frightened the timid colored people away
from the neighborhood.
Dolores put down her pail and books. She sat down a moment to rest in
the shade, for the sun was hot. That resting-spell was the undoing of
her good resolutions; for, glancing above her, she discovered a squirrel
watching her, who began to chatter, as soon as he knew that she had seen
him.
“Oh, you pretty dear, come down and I’ll feed you,” she said; and then
she thought, “I wonder if he has a nest up there; I’m going to find
out.” And soon she was among the lower branches of the tree, steadily
working her way to the top.
The squirrel turned with a jerk and a squeak, and disappeared through an
open window that the branches had concealed from below. Dolores,
following, found that one shutter was gone, and that the wind, during
some storm, had forced in the sash, while a limb had grown in through
the window. She pushed her way in past the limb, in spite of the
squirrel’s remonstrance, and found herself in a large attic, which
extended over the entire unused wing of the house. The squirrel
scampered up the side of the window-casing, and sat scolding her from
above.
The attic was filled with a rich treasure-trove for Dolores. There were
old spinning-wheels, broken chairs, an empty cradle, a great old
four-posted bed, and a number of trunks and boxes to rummage in. That
was as far as she could see in the gloom, but no doubt beyond her range
of vision were more delights. What a lovely place in which to play! The
cradle for her dolls, an old clock to take to pieces, and dozens of old
garments to dress up in. Several wonderfully queer old bonnets hung
against the wall. She put on one (after shaking off the layer of dust
with which it was coated), and glanced in a broken mirror to see the
effect. Her merry laugh echoed through the attic as she beheld her face
framed by the bonnet. And then she heard a sharp exclamation from the
room beneath her, the scurrying of feet, and the slamming of a door.
Crouching down behind the cradle, she waited developments; but no one
came; so in a little while she grew bold again.
“I think I won’t go to school after all. I reckon it’s too late, anyway;
I’ll stay here to-day. But first, I must go back and get my dinner-pail
and books. I can study up here just as well as at school.”
And soon Dolores, watched by the protesting squirrel, had slid down the
tree, secured her books and dinner-pail in her apron, and was back
again. And then began her delightful, if naughty, day. She wound up the
clock, polished up the broken mirror, pulled the lighter articles of
furniture here and there, tried the spinning-wheel, and finally settled
down to the delightful task of exploring the boxes and chests.
In the meantime, down below, in the kitchen of the old house, an excited
group of colored people were talking. Aunt Polly was the centre of the
group, and was relating, for the benefit of a new comer, her experience.
“I tell you, I done heerd that ghost-child agin. No, I didn’t see it,
but I heerd it. I went ovah to the noth wing to put away that ar seed,
as Mistah Jones told me to do, and while I was in that dark, lonesome
bedroom above the pahlor, I heerd a child laugh, just as cleah and sweet
as a bird; it sounded just right beside me. Oh, I was so skeered, I run
and banged the doah after me. You don’t ketch this child goin’ in that
pawt of the house no moah.”
“Aunt Polly,” asked one breathless listener, “wasn’t that the room whar
the murdah was committed?”
“Yas, em; yes indeedy; the poor child was strangled in its sleep.”
Just then the voice of Mr. Jones was heard. “Here, hurry up in there;
got too much to do to stand here gabbling. You know Mister Tom comes
to-night; he wants this place to be shining.” Each one hurried off to
her work. Aunt Polly, with a toss of her head and a sniff, proceeded
leisurely to hang out the white curtains and bed-linen she was doing up
against the arrival of her beloved Mistah Tom.
Dolores ate her dinner when she became hungry, gave some of it to the
squirrel, and played on until the shadows in the attic indicated that
evening was coming. Then she scrambled down and ran for home. She had
time to brush the dust from her clothes, wash her face and hands, and
lie down on the bed and fall asleep before Aunt Polly returned. By the
time supper was ready and Dolores awakened, Aunt Polly had forgotten to
ask about the school, in her eagerness to tell the important news that
Mistah Tom was coming, and that she had heard the little ghost-girl’s
laugh. And in a little while Dolores again had forgotten everything in
the dreamless sleep which comes to tired children whether they are good
or bad.
She awoke in the morning to find Aunt Polly already gone. Not long
after, the little truant followed and, climbing her sylvan stairway, was
soon in the delightful attic. She had explored all but one chest, that
was pushed under the eaves. The other chests had yielded up a rich
treasure, but she was curious to know what they all contained before she
enjoyed the contents. So the little box was pushed close to the window,
for it was growing dark in the attic. Dolores could hear the rumble of
thunder, and the rain was beginning to patter on the shingles; she was
not the least afraid of a storm, and proceeded leisurely with her task.
The little chest was locked, but the key hung obligingly tied to one of
the handles by a string. She unlocked it, and raised the lid. Who can
say what loving, breaking heart looked last into that little box? For,
carefully folded away, with dead roses in each dainty garment, was a
little girl’s wardrobe, complete,—the finest linen undergarments,
trimmed with delicate laces, little white silk clocked stockings, little
heelless slippers of blue and red kid, all faded and spotted with age
and mould; the loveliest little lace-trimmed dresses with short waists,
puffed sleeves, and long skirts. Dolores hesitated a moment before
examining them. On top of them was placed a note in a woman’s hand. She
laid it aside and did not read it, until she had finished the
examination. She opened it at last, and read, “This is the wardrobe of
my dear little dead daughter Dolores.”
She closed the lid down gently, sprang up, and went to the window. “I
must go home; I don’t like this old attic. I’ve been a wicked girl to
come here. But how did that little dead girl come to have my name?”
She started to climb through the window, and saw that it was raining
very hard; a steady downpour that promised to last all day. She returned
to the chest, laid the note carefully aside, and again lifted out and
unfolded each garment. How beautiful they were! Time had given them the
delicate, mellow tint of old ivory. Dolores dearly enjoyed pretty
clothes, and had possessed but few in her short life. She was charmed by
their dainty quaintness.
“They look like they’d just fit me—I’m going to try on a suit—the lady
would not care—I’ll be very careful of them.”
So on went the pretty underclothing, the white silk stockings, and
little heelless slippers. Then over her head she slipped a little white
dress, hemstitched and hand embroidered. Her hair, which Aunt Polly kept
tightly braided, was loosened in soft waves around her face and neck.
The broken mirror revealed a little maid of the beginning of the
nineteenth century; such a charming little maid, that Dolores was
delighted with the vision.
“My, but she’s sweet; Little Dolores, do you like coming back to life?”
And then her busy brain recalled the story of the little ghost-girl. “I
have a great mind to go downstairs. If any one sees me, I can run back.”
She looked questioningly at the little figure in the glass. “Dolores,
shall I go? You tell me, for I am you to-day.” The little shadow nodded.
“Very well, then, I will.”
She went to a door she had noticed, tried it, found it unlocked, and
ventured out.
A flight of stairs led down into a narrow corridor, flanked on each side
by closed doors, and this led into the main hall. She stole shyly out
into this, and proceeded toward the great stairway; but to reach it, she
had to pass an open door. Some one was moving leisurely about in the
room. She peeped in, and saw a young colored man unpacking his master’s
clothes. He had carefully arranged the toilet articles on the
dressing-case, and was trying one of the silver-backed brushes on his
curly locks, with an unlit cigar between his teeth, evidently extracted
from a full box on the dressing-case.
Dolores swung the door slowly open, and the man, seeing its reflection
in the mirror, turned and confronted her, in her quaint dress, standing
in the soft gloom of the hall. She was pointing a threatening finger at
the stolen cigar, frowning and biting her lips to keep from laughing, as
she saw the horrified look on his face. Evidently, he had heard of the
little ghost; the cigar fell from his lips, and his knees knocked
together: he was too frightened to speak.
When Dolores could control her face no longer she turned, and ran back
to the attic. The colored man fled to the kitchen, declaring that he had
seen the ghost; and that if Mass Tom didn’t go back to the city, he
would, for he wasn’t goin’ to stay in no old house full of ghosts.
Aunt Polly met her Mr. Tom, on his return from hunting, at the door, and
told him the marvellous tale.
“Wait till I change my clothes, Aunt Polly, and then come to the little
library, if there’s a fire there, for I am chilly; I’ll hear all about
it then;” and he hurried upstairs.
In the meantime, naughty Dolores had tired of the attic, and, having
enjoyed her first adventure, had sallied forth to meet others. Not
encountering any one, she ventured down the wide stairs, peeped into
numerous rooms, and opening a door into a very cosy one, small and snug,
with a fire burning on the hearth, she drew a big cushioned chair in
front of it, sat down to watch it, and fell asleep. About an hour later,
Aunt Polly was met in the hall by Mister Tom, who looked very much
surprised.
“Come into the library, quick, Auntie; I’ve found the little ghost,” he
whispered. Aunt Polly followed, her knees trembling beneath her. Seeing
the little figure in the chair, she started for the door, but thought
better of it, and ventured nearer. Getting a good look at the ghost, she
saw it was Dolores, and sank limply down by her on her knees.
“Well, well, well, I declare for it, it’s the hand of the Lord,” she
whispered.
“Who is she, Aunt Polly, and where’d she come from?”
“She belongs to this fambly, Mistah Tom, and I’ll tell you by and by
whar she come from; but whar she got them clothes, or how she got in
here, is more than I can tell you.”
Just then Dolores stirred in her sleep, opened her eyes, and seeing them
watching her, jumped to her feet.
“Is this Mr. Tom? I am the little ghost-girl, and I bring you good
fortune;” and she looked up into his face and laughed.
Aunt Polly grunted, “You need a good lambastin’ fo’ skeerin’ me so,” she
said wrathfully.
Not long after, Dolores and Aunt Polly went to live with Mr. Tom. A
wrong was righted, and the little ghost-girl walked no more.
IV.
TITANIA’S MAID OF HONOR.
“Mammy, I wish dis yer rabbit could talk to me; ’pears like he wanted to
tell me somefin’.”
“Well, Mateel, yo take him in yo arms and lay down on yo baid, and I’s a
goin’ to conjur’ dat rabbit so he kin talk to yo-alls.”
The little girl took her pet in her arms and lay down, holding the soft
furry ball close to her ear. The old mammy, whose duty it was to take
care of the little darkies on the plantation while their mothers were at
work in the field or the house, sat down by the child, and slowly,
soothingly, passed her hand over the little dark head; presently the
large eyes closed, and half awake, half asleep, Mateel heard her say,—
“Now, Mistah Rabbit, tell Mateel yo news.”
And to her intense surprise, the rabbit, slipping from her arms, sat
back on his haunches, and, regarding her intently, commenced:—
“Mateel, have you ever heard of the fairies? And do you know where they
live?”
“No, Mistah Rabbit. What is they for, and what do they look like?”
“Oh, I haven’t time to tell you; I’m due in Fairyland now. Do you want
to go with me? Because if you do, you must come at once.”
And the rabbit began to hop impatiently toward the door.
Mateel joyfully slipped from her bed and followed him out of the house.
The rabbit hopped ahead until they reached the thick shade of the woods
that grew close to the little cabin. Here he paused, and, turning to
Mateel, said briefly,—
“Give me your hand.”
Mateel stooped down and seized his paw, when, to her surprise, she felt
herself grow smaller, or the world larger; the trees seemed as tall as
the clouds; the grass and leaves that grew among them reached far above
her head.