FLAXIE'S WILL.
"_A doll's piano!_ Why, if there is anything in this world that I've
always wanted, it's just this little piano! And oh, to think of Mr.
Garland's giving it to me, when he couldn't have known I wanted it!
Did _you_ tell him, Preston? And oh, _see_ the keys! Hear me! There,
that's the Grasshopper's Dance! Tinkle! tinkle! tinkle! Oh, _so_ sweet!
I couldn't play it any better on my big piano, or half so well.
"Hush, Preston Gray, you needn't laugh! What if I _am_ nine years old?
Can't I like a little, cunning, beautiful doll's piano? And what's
the harm, when you know I needed it to finish off the furniture in my
dolls' parlor, and go with the chairs and sofas and tables and lamps
and everything grand?
"This chair is just the thing for Princess Aurora Arozarena to sit
in when she plays the piano. Now _would_ you ever know any thing had
happened to Aurora? Only her hair is a little darker, and her eyes are
black instead of blue, and she hasn't _quite_ the same kind of nose and
mouth."
So Flaxie talked on and on; and the new treasure, the doll's piano, was
kept for a long time in the back parlor in one of the alcoves, that
people from far and near might hear and see it. The tiny white and
black keys gave all the notes with a merry little tinkling sound that
was enough to take a doll right off its feet and set it to dancing.
A wee chair was always before it, and in the chair sat the princess,
who had come to life again, and never knew she had been dead. Her happy
young mother, Flaxie Frizzle, often knelt behind her, playing little
jingling, squeaking tunes, exactly adapted to the ears of her royal
highness, who would have played for herself if her long-wristed, light
gloves had not been so exquisitely tight.
The piano was a great comfort in itself; and when Flaxie came to
understand that it was a token of Mr. Garland's approval and gratitude,
she valued it more than ever.
About this time she had a most uncomfortable siege of chicken-pox, and
was obliged for two days to keep her room, looking sadly disfigured
by the pink, puffy blotches which rose on her skin, and feeling very
forlorn because her poor red eyes were too weak to admit of her
reading.
"What does make me look so?" said she, almost crying, as she gazed at
her face in the glass. "And, oh, Ninny, I feel a great deal worse than
I look! I can tell you people wouldn't laugh so much about chicken-pox
if they knew how it feels!"
"Yes, dear, I'm sure it must be dreadful," returned Ninny,--her real
name was Julia,--with ready sympathy. "You woke me up ever so many
times last night screaming."
"Screaming? Why, I didn't know it! I must have been crazy!"
When ill, it was no unusual thing for the Gray children to be slightly
delirious; and Flaxie often laughed over the droll speeches which she
was reported to have made, but of which she herself could not recall a
single word.
"What did I say last night when I was crazy?"
"You sat up in bed and cried for your '_little pinono_,'--the doll's
piano, I suppose. And sometimes you seemed to think it had turned into
a wolf, for you kept saying, 'Why, what great, big teeth you've got!
Oh, they're to eat you the better, my dear!'"
Flaxie smiled faintly, and then, feeling very miserable, wiped away a
tear, thinking,--
"Perhaps I am very, very ill. How do I know? Fannie Townsend never was
crazy in her life, nor Blanche Jones. And what made doctor papa look at
my tongue this morning, unless he thought I was growing worse? He gave
me powders, too, and told me to stay up-stairs and keep warm. Maybe I'm
going to have a fever. I didn't eat anything for my breakfast but half
a cracker, and my head aches so I don't want any dinner.--Julia," said
she, interrupting herself in the midst of these gloomy musings, "do
people ever die of chicken-pox?"
"No, indeed, not that I ever heard of. What put that into your head?"
"Now, Julia, you don't know the least thing about it! What do _you_
know about fevers and medicines and things like that? Just because your
papa is a doctor, that's no reason you should shake your head and think
there's nothing the matter with me, when I'm feeling so bad!"
Julia would not, on any account, have laughed at her poor little
sister; so she slipped quietly out of the room before Flaxie had time
to continue this train of absurd and amusing remarks.
Finding herself alone, however, the reflections of the chicken-pox
patient grew more and more sombre. What _was_ the difference between
this and small-pox? She had heard of a red flag which was hoisted
when that good clergyman, Mr. Branch, lay ill in a house away from
everybody, and at last died, almost alone. Probably Doctor Papa
would never send a little girl like her--his own daughter, too--to
a house with a red flag! Still she might die; and if she did, Julia
would naturally be very sorry she had spoken so lightly--not to say
disrespectfully--of a disease whose miseries she had never felt; that
is, the chicken-pox.
An hour or two afterwards, Mrs. Prim called at Flaxie's room, and after
feeling her pulse, and saying, "Oh, _you_ are not very ill," she turned
to Grandma Gray, who had come in, and began a conversation with her
about Blanche Jones's father.
"Yes," said Mrs. Prim, "Mr. Jones is really aware at last that his
disease is consumption. He knows he can never recover, and has made his
will."
"Has he, indeed?" returned Grandma Gray. "I am truly glad to hear it."
"I tell my husband," went on Mrs. Prim, sitting very straight in her
chair,--"I tell my husband I think it is every man's duty to make a
will; yes, and every woman's duty, too. Mr. Prim agrees with me, and we
each of us intend this very afternoon to have our wills drawn up and
signed."
"A wise and proper thing, I am sure," remarked Grandma Gray.
"Grandma," asked Flaxie, as soon as their visitor had gone, "please
tell me what's a will, and why is it 'a wise and proper thing'?"
"Perhaps, little Mary, I cannot make you understand. But Mr. Prim has a
great deal of money, and so has Mrs. Prim; and if either of them should
die, perhaps it would not be known what was best to do with the money
that was left. So Mr. Prim is going to write his wishes about _his_
money on a sheet of paper. He is going to say, 'I wish to give so many
thousand dollars to my wife, and so many thousand dollars to somebody
else,' etc. And Mrs. Prim will do the same about _her_ money. She will
say, 'I wish to give so many thousand dollars to Mr. Prim, and so many
thousand dollars to somebody else,' etc."
"Well, if she wishes to give it, why doesn't she do it, and not write
about it?"
"Oh, she only means that she wishes it to be given away after she is
dead! Not _now_, Mary!"
"Oh, yes'm, I understand, I understand now. Why, grandmamma, I've heard
ever so often about people's making wills, but I never knew before what
it meant."
In the afternoon, when Madam Gray had quite forgotten this
conversation, she was startled by hearing Flaxie say plaintively,--
"Grandma, do little girls ever make wills?"
"Not that I ever heard of, my dear; but they certainly have a right to
do so, if they like."
"Well, if they haven't a great deal of money, can they give away
something besides money? I mean, have they a right to make a will and
give away their books and toys and pretty things?"
"Oh, yes."
"And is it 'wise and proper'? You know," added Flaxie, turning her
aching head upon the pillow,--"you know I have a great many beautiful
things, and if I ever die there is my sweet little new piano,
and--and--I don't expect I _shall_ die, but if I ever do die, you
know."
Madam Gray understood her granddaughter's mood in a moment. Flaxie had
a touch of 'melancholy.' Though very well aware that her disease was
not of a dangerous nature, she liked to fancy that it was dangerous.
Even now she had brought herself almost to the verge of tears, just
by picturing to her own mind how sorry everybody would feel when she
actually died of chicken-pox. Grandma Gray thought it might amuse and
interest her to let her make a will, so she brought her a sheet of
paper and a pencil, and instructed her as to the proper form of words
to use.
Here is a copy of Flaxie's will:--
"I, Mary Gray, of Laurel Grove, N. Y., third child of Dr. Ephraim Gray,
do hereby give and bequeath my personal property in the following
manner:--
"_First._ I give and bequeath my pretty doll's piano to Kittyleen
Garland, whose real name is Katharine. I give it to her, because I was
cross to her for scratching my doll's eyes out, and have been sorry for
it ever since. To her heirs and assigns forever.
"_Second._ I give and bequeath my beautiful wax large doll with the new
head to my dear little sister Ethel; but she must not play with it till
she knows how to hold it without letting it fall. I give this to Ethel,
her heirs and assigns forever.
"_Third._ My Bible and all my _nice_ books, and my gold pen and
handsome inkstand to my sister Julia, if she wants them.
"_Fourth._ The money in my box,--I don't know whether to give it to my
father or mother or the missionaries.
"_Fifth._ I cannot think of anything more, and am willing my papa and
mamma should take care of the rest. Their heirs and assigns forever."
"Shall I say amen at the end?" asked Flaxie, who had become very much
interested, and already felt decidedly better.
"Oh, no," replied her father, who had come in and was looking on with
no little amusement; "only sign your name, and then your grandmother
and Preston and I will add our names also, as witnesses. Then it will
be a real will, my daughter, and will stand in court."
Flaxie did not know what he meant by "standing in court," but it
sounded business-like and mysterious, and she took the pen her father
offered her and signed her name with a feeling of great importance.
Then Dr. Gray, grandma, and Preston added their names, and her father
put four seals of red wax on the paper, and the whole thing was
finished, as she believed, "according to law."
After this, for the first time that day, she felt hungry; and just
as she was beginning to wonder if it was not nearly supper-time, her
mother appeared with the tea-tray, on which were some slices of thin
toast, a glass of ruby-colored jelly, and a goblet of milk. Flaxie's
eyes brightened; she felt that life was still worth living, and forgot
to weave any more doleful fancies concerning the chicken-pox.
Next day she was well enough to go down-stairs; and to add to the
pleasure she felt in meeting the whole family together again, her
father announced to her that as soon as the disfiguring blotches should
be gone from her face, she might take a little journey to Hilltop to
"regain her strength."
That was just like Doctor Papa. He was always giving his children happy
surprises; and it was really a blessing to belong to him, and even
to be ill once in a while, for the sake of the compensation which he
always managed should follow the illness.