little girls whose dollies are all burned up!"
"How will you send it?" asked their Mother.
"In a letter," said Dotty. "And please, Pa, write on the outside: 'From
Dotty and Dimple, to buy some dollies for the little girls whose dollies
were burned up in the fire.'"
So their father put the money into an envelope, and wrote on the outside
just what Dotty said. And, when he had got through, he put his hands in
his pockets and walked out of the room. The children wondered what made
his face so red, and when they turned round, there was Mother with tears
in her eyes.
"Why, what's the matter?" cried they. But their Mother only put her arms
round them and kissed them very hard. And she whispered to herself: "Of
such is the Kingdom of Heaven."
THE PRIZE GIRL OF THE HARNESSING CLASS.
It was the day before Thanksgiving, but the warmth of a late Indian
summer lay over the world, and tempered the autumn chill into mildness
more like early October than late November. Elsie Thayer, driving her
village cart rapidly through the "Long Woods," caught herself vaguely
wondering why the grass was not greener, and what should set the leaves
to tumbling off the trees in such an unsummer-like fashion,--then smiled
at herself for being so forgetful.
The cart was packed full; for, besides Elsie herself, it held a bag of
sweet potatoes, a sizable bundle or two, and a large market-basket,
from which protruded the unmistakable legs of a turkey, not to mention a
choice smaller basket covered with a napkin. All these were going to the
little farmstead in which dwelt Mrs. Ann Sparrow, Elsie's nurse in
childhood, and the most faithful and kindly of friends ever since. Elsie
always made sure that "Nursey" had a good Thanksgiving dinner, and
generally carried it herself.
The day was so delightful that it seemed almost a pity that the pony
should trot so fast. One would willingly have gone slowly, tasting drop
by drop, as it were, the lovely sunshine filtering through the yellow
beech boughs, the unexpected warmth, and the balmy spice of the air,
which had in it a tinge of smoky haze. But the day before Thanksgiving
is sure to be a busy one with New England folk; Elsie had other tasks
awaiting her, and she knew that Nursey would not be content with a short
visit.
"Hurry up, little Jack!" she said. "You shall have a long rest
presently, if you are a good boy, and some nice fresh grass,--if I can
find any; anyway, a little drink of water. So make haste."
Jack made haste. The yellow wheels of the cart spun in and out of the
shadow like circles of gleaming sun. When the two miles were achieved,
and the little clearing came into view, Elsie slackened her pace: she
wanted to take Nursey by surprise. Driving straight to a small open
shed, she deftly unharnessed the pony, tied him with a liberal allowance
of halter, hung up the harness, and wheeled the cart away from his
heels, all with the ease which is born of practice. She then gathered a
lapful of brown but still nourishing grasses for Jack, and was about to
lift the parcels from the wagon when she was espied by Mrs. Sparrow.
Out she came, hurrying and flushed with pleasure,--the dearest old
woman, with pink, wrinkled cheeks like a perfectly baked apple, and a
voice which still retained its pleasant English tones, after sixty long
years in America.
"Well, Missy, dear, so it's you. I made sure you'd come, and had been
watching all the morning; but somehow I missed you when you drove up,
and it was just by haccident like, that I looked out of window and see
you in the shed. You're looking well, Missy. That school hasn't hurt you
a bit. Just the same nice color in your cheeks as ever. I was that
troubled when I heard you wa'n't coming home last summer, for I thought
maybe you was ill; but your mother she said 'twas all right, and just
for your pleasure, and I see it was so. Why,"--her voice changing to
consternation,--"if you haven't unharnessed the horse! Now, Missy, how
came you to do that? You forgot there wasn't no one about but me. Who's
to put him in for you, I wonder?"
"Oh, I don't want any one. I can harness the pony myself."
"Oh, Missy, dear, you mustn't do that! I couldn't let you. It's real
hard to harness a horse. You'd make some mistake, and then there'd be a
haccident."
"Nonsense, Nursey! I've harnessed Jack once this morning already; it's
just as easy to do it twice. I'm a member of a Harnessing Class, I'd
have you to know; and, what's more, I took the prize!"
"Now, Missy, dear, whatever do you mean by that? Young ladies learn to
harness! I never heard of such a thing in my life! In my young time, in
England, they learned globes and langwidges, and, it might be, to paint
in oils and such, and make nice things in chenille."
"I'll tell you all about it, but first let us carry these things up to
the house. Here's your Thanksgiving turkey, Nursey,--with Mother's love.
Papa sent you the sweet potatoes and the cranberries; and the oranges
and figs and the pumpkin pie are from me. I made the pie myself. That's
another of the useful things that I learned to do at my school."
"The master is very kind, Missy; and so is your mother; and I'm thankful
to you all. But that's a queer school of yours, it seems to me. For my
part, I never heard of young ladies learning such things as cooking and
harnessing at boarding-schools."
"Oh, we learn arts and languages, too,--that part of our education isn't
neglected. Now, Nursey, we'll put these things in your buttery, and you
shall give me a glass of nice cold milk; and while I drink it I'll tell
you about Rosemary Hall,--that's the name of the school, you know; and
it's the dearest, nicest place you can think of."
"Very likely, Miss Elsie," in an unconvinced tone; "but still I don't
see any reason why they should set you to making pies and harnessing
horses."
"Oh, that's just at odd times, by way of fun and pleasure; it isn't
lessons, you know. You see, Mrs. Thanet--that's a rich lady who lives
close by, and is a sort of fairy godmother to us girls--has a great
notion about practical education. It was she who got up the Harnessing
Class and the Model Kitchen. It's the dearest little place you ever saw,
Nursey, with a _perfect_ stove, and shelves, and hooks for everything;
and such bright tins, and the prettiest of old-fashioned crockery! It's
just like a picture. We girls were always squabbling over whose turn
should come first. You can't think how much I learned there, Nursey! I
learned to make a pie, and clear out a grate, and scour saucepans, and,"
counting on her fingers, "to make bread, rolls, minute-biscuit,
coffee,--delicious coffee, Nursey!--good soup, creamed oysters, and
pumpkin-pies and apple-pies! Just wait, and you shall see!"
She jumped up, ran into the buttery, and soon returned, carrying a
triangle of pie on a plate.
"It isn't Thanksgiving yet, I know; but there is no law against eating
pumpkin-pie the day before, so please, Nursey, taste this and see if you
don't call it good. Papa says it makes him think of his mother's pies,
when he was a little boy."
"Indeed, and it is good, Missy, dear; and I won't deny but cooking may
be well for you to know; but for that other--the harnessing class, as
you call it,--I don't see the sense of that at all, Missy."
"Oh, Nursey, indeed there is a great deal of sense in it. Mrs. Thanet
says it might easily happen, in the country especially,--if any one was
hurt or taken very ill, you know,--that life might depend upon a girl's
knowing how to harness. She had a man teach us, and we practised and
practised, and at the end of the term there was an exhibition, with a
prize for the girl who could harness and unharness quickest, and I won
it! See, here it is!"
She held out a slim brown hand, and displayed a narrow gold bangle, on
which was engraved in minute letters, "What is worth doing at all, is
worth doing well."
"Isn't it pretty?" she asked.
"Yes," doubtfully. "The bracelet is pretty enough, Missy; but I can't
quite like what it stands for. It don't seem ladylike for you to be
knowing about harnesses and such things."
"Oh, Nursey, dear, what nonsense!"
There were things to be done after she got home, but Elsie could not
hurry her visit. Jack consumed his grass heap, and then stood sleepily
blinking at the flies for a long hour before his young mistress jumped
up.
"Now, I must go!" she cried. "Come out and see me harness up, Nursey."
It was swiftly and skilfully done, but still Nurse Sparrow shook her
head.
"I don't like it!" she insisted. "'A horse shall be a vain thing for
safety'--that's in Holy Writ."
"You are an obstinate old dear," said Elsie, good-humoredly. "Wait till
you're ill some day, and I go for the doctor. _Then_ you'll realize the
advantage of practical education. What a queer smell of smoke there is,
Nursey!" gathering up her reins.
"Yes; the woods has been on fire for quite a spell, back on the other
side of Bald Top. You can smell the smoke most of the time. Seems to me
it's stronger than usual, to-day."
"You don't think there is any danger of its coming this way, do you?"
"Oh, no!" contentedly. "I don't suppose it could come so far as this."
"But why not?" thought Elsie to herself, as she drove rapidly back. "If
the wind were right for it, why shouldn't it come this way? Fires travel
much farther than that on the prairies,--and they go very fast, too. I
never did like having Nursey all alone by herself on that farm."
She reached home, to find things in unexpected confusion. Her father had
been called away for the night by a telegram, and her mother--on this,
of all days--had gone to bed, disabled with a bad headache. There was
much to be done, and Elsie flung herself into the breach, and did it,
too busy to think again of Nurse Sparrow and the fire, until, toward
nightfall, she noted that the wind had changed, and was blowing straight
from Bald Top, bringing with it an increase of smoke.
She ran out to consult the hired man before he went home for the night,
and to ask if he thought there was any danger of the fire reaching the
Long Woods. He "guessed" not.
"These fires get going quite often on to the other side of Bald Top, but
there ain't none of 'em come over this way, and 'tain't likely they ever
will. I guess Mis' Sparrow's safe enough. You needn't worry, Miss
Elsie."
In spite of this comforting assurance, Elsie did worry. She looked out
of her west window the last thing before going to bed; and when, at two
in the morning, she woke with a sudden start, her first impulse was to
run to the window again. Then she gave an exclamation, and her heart
stood still with fear; for the southern slopes of Bald Top were ringed
with flames which gleamed dim and lurid through the smoke, and showers
of sparks, thrown high in air, showed that the edges of the woods beyond
Nursey's farm were already burning.
"She'll be frightened to death," thought Elsie. "Oh, poor dear, and no
one to help her!"
What should she do? To go after the man and waken him meant a long
delay. He was a heavy sleeper, and his house was a quarter of a mile
distant. But there was Jack in the stable, and the stable key was in
the hall below. As she dressed, she decided.
"How glad I am that I can do this!" she thought, as she flung the
harness over the pony's back, strapped, buckled, adjusted,--doing all
with a speed which yet left nothing undone and slighted nothing. Not
even on the day when she took the prize had she put her horse in so
quickly. She ran back at the last moment for two warm rugs. Deftly
guiding Jack over the grass, that his hoofs should make no noise, she
gained the road, and, quickening him to his fastest pace, drove
fearlessly into the dark woods.
They were not so dark as she had feared they would be, for the light of
a late, low-hung moon penetrated the trees, with perhaps some
reflections from the far-away fire, so that she easily made out the
turns and windings of the track. The light grew stronger as she
advanced. The main fire was still far distant, but before she reached
Nurse's little clearing, she even drove by one place where the woods
were ablaze.
She had expected to find Mrs. Sparrow in an agitation of terror; but,
behold! she was in her bed, sound asleep. Happily, it was easy to get at
her. Nursey's theory was that, "if anybody thought it would pay him to
sit up at night and rob an old woman, he'd do it anyway, and needn't
have the trouble of getting in at the window;" and on the strength of
this philosophical utterance, she went to bed with the door on the
latch.
She took Elsie for a dream, at first.
"I'm just a-dreaming. I ain't a-going to wake up; you needn't think it,"
she muttered sleepily.
But when Elsie at last shook her into consciousness, and pointed at the
fiery glow on the horizon, her terror matched her previous unconcern.
"Oh, dear, dear!" she wailed, as with trembling, suddenly stiff fingers
she put on her clothes. "I'm a-going to be burned out! It's hard, at my
time of life, just when I had got things tidy and comfortable. I was
a-thinking of sending over for my niece to the Isle of Dogs, and getting
her to come and stay with me, I was indeed, Missy. But there won't be
any use in that _now_."
"Perhaps the fire won't come so far as this, after all," said the
practical Elsie.
"Oh, yes, it will! It's 'most here now."
"Well, whether it does or not, I'm going to carry you home with me,
where you will be safe. Now, Nursey, tell me which of your things you
care most for, that we can take with us,--small things, I mean. Of
course we can't carry tables and beds in my little cart."
The selection proved difficult. Nurse's affections clung to a tall
eight-day clock, and were hard to be detached. She also felt strongly
that it was a clear flying in the face of Providence not to save
"Sparrow's chair," a solid structure of cherry, with rockers weighing
many pounds, and quite as wide as the wagon. Elsie coaxed and
remonstrated, and at last got Nursey into the seat, with the cat and a
bundle of her best clothes in her lap, her tea-spoons in her pocket, a
basket of specially beloved baking-tins under the seat, and a favorite
feather-bed at the back, among whose billowy folds were tucked away an
assortment of treasures, ending with the Thanksgiving goodies which had
been brought over that morning.
"I can't leave that turkey behind, Missy, dear--I really can't!" pleaded
Nursey. "I've been thinking of him, and anticipating how good he was
going to be, all day; and I haven't had but one taste of your pie.
They're so little, they'll go in anywhere."
The fire seemed startlingly near now, and the western sky was all
aflame, while over against it, in the east, burned the first yellow
beams of dawn. People were astir by this time, and men on foot and
horseback were hurrying toward the burning woods. They stared curiously
at the oddly laden cart.
"Why, you didn't ever come over for me all alone!" cried Nurse Sparrow,
rousing suddenly to a sense of the situation. "I've be'n that flustered
that I never took thought of how you got across, or anything about it.
Where was your Pa, Missy,--and Hiram?"
Elsie explained.
"Oh, you blessed child; and if you hadn't come, I'd have been burned in
my bed, as like as not!" cried the old woman, quite overpowered. "Well,
well! little did I think, when you was a baby, and I a-tending you, that
the day was to come when you were to run yourself into danger for the
sake of saving my poor old life!"
"I don't see that there has been any particular danger for me to run, so
far; and as for saving your life, Nursey, it would very likely have
saved itself if I hadn't come near you. See, the wind has changed; it
is blowing from the north now. Perhaps the fire won't reach your house,
after all. But, anyway, I am glad you are here and not there. We cannot
be too careful of such a dear old Nursey as you are. And one thing, I
think, you'll confess,"--Elsie's tone was a little mischievous,--"and
that is, that harnessing classes have their uses. If I hadn't known how
to put Jack in the cart, I might at this moment be hammering on the door
of that stupid Hiram (who, you know, sleeps like a log) trying to wake
him, and you on the clearing alone, scared to death. Now, Nursey, own
up: Mrs. Thanet wasn't so far wrong, now was she?"
"Indeed, no, Missy. It'd be very ungrateful for me to be saying that.
The lady judged wiser than I did."
"Very well, then," cried Elsie, joyously. "If only your house isn't
burned up, I shall be glad the fire happened; for it's such a triumph
for Mrs. Thanet, and she'll be so pleased!"
Nursey's house did not burn down. The change of wind came just in time
to save it; and, after eating her own Thanksgiving turkey in her old
home, and being petted and made much of for a few days, she went back,
none the worse for her adventure, to find her goods and chattels in
their usual places, and all safe.
And Mrs. Thanet _was_ pleased. She sent Elsie a pretty locket, with the
date of the fire engraved upon it, and wrote that she gloried in her as
the Vindicator of a Principle, which fine words made Elsie laugh; but
she enjoyed being praised all the same.
DOLLY PHONE.
A dusty workshop, dark except where one broad ray of light streamed
through a broken shutter, a row of mysterious objects, with a tiny tin
funnel fitted into the front of each, and a cloth over their tops, odd
designs in wood and brass hanging on the wall, a carpenter's bench, a
small furnace, a general strew of shavings, iron scrape, and odds and
ends, and a little girl sitting on the floor, crying. It does not sound
much like the beginning of a story, does it? And no one would have been
more surprised than Amy Carpenter herself if any one had come as she sat
there crying, and told her that a story was begun, and she was in it.
Yet that is the way in which stories in real life often do begin. Dust,
dulness, every-day things about one, tears, temper; and out of these
unpromising materials Fate weaves a "happening" for us. She does not
wait till skies are blue and suns shine, till the room is dusted, and we
are all ready, but chooses such time as pleases her, and surprises us.
Amy was in as evil a temper as little girls of ten are often visited
with. Things had gone very wrong with her that day. It began with a
great disappointment. All Miss Gray's class at school was going on a
picnic. Amy had expected to go too, and at the last moment her mother
had kept her at home.
"I'm real sorry about it," Mrs. Carpenter had said, "but you see how it
is. Baby's right fretty with his teeth, and your father's that worried
about his machine that I'm afraid he'll be down sick. If we can't keep
Baby quiet, father can't eat, and if he don't eat he won't sleep, and if
he can't sleep he can't work, and then I don't see what will become of
us. I've all that sewing to finish for Mrs. Judge Peters, and she's
going away Monday; and if she don't have it in time, she'll be put out,
and, as like as not, give her work to some one else. Now, don't cry,
Amy. I'm right sorry to disappoint you, but all of us must take our turn
in giving up things. I'm sure I take mine," with a little patient sigh.
"Father's sure that this new machine of his is going to make our
fortune," she went on, after an interval of busy stitching. "But I don't
know. He said just the same about the alarm-clock, and the Imferno
Reaper and Binder, and that thing-a-my-jig for opening cans, and the
self-registering Savings Bank, and the Minute Egg-Beater, and the Tuck
Measurer, and none of them came to anything in the end. Perhaps it'll be
the same with this." Another sigh, a little deeper than the last.
Some little girls might have been touched with the tired, discouraged
voice and look, but Amy was a stormy child, with a hot temper and a very
strong will. So instead of being sorry and helpful, she went on crying
and complaining, till her mother spoke sharply, and then subsided into
sulky silence. Baby woke, and she had to take him up, but she did it
unwillingly, and her unhappy mood seemed to communicate itself to him,
as moods will. He wriggled and twisted in her arms, and presently began
to whimper. Amy hushed and patted. She set him on his feet, she turned
him over on his face, nothing pleased him. The whimper increased to a
roar.
"Dear! dear!" cried poor Mrs. Carpenter, stopping her machine in the
middle of a long seam. "What is the matter? I never did see anybody so
unhandy with a baby as you are. Here I am in such a hurry, and you
don't try to amuse him worth a cent. I'm really ashamed of you, Amy
Carpenter."
Amy's back and arms ached; she felt that this speech was cruelly unjust.
What she did not see was that it was her own temper which was repeated
in her little brother. Like all babies, he knew instinctively the
difference between loving tendance and that which is bestowed from a
cold sense of duty, and he resented the latter with all his might.
"Do walk up and down and sing to him," said Mrs. Carpenter, who hated to
have her child unhappy, but still more to leave her sewing,--"sing
something cheerful. Perhaps he'll go to sleep if you do."
So Amy, feeling very cross and injured, had to walk the heavy baby up
and down, and sing "Rock me to sleep, Mother," which was the only
"cheerful" song she could think of. It quieted the baby for a while,
then, just as his eyelids were drooping, a fresh attack of fretting
seized upon him, and he began to cry; Amy was so vexed that she gave him
a furtive slap. It was a very little slap, but her mother saw it.
"You naughty, bad girl!" she cried, jumping up; "so that's the way you
treat your little brother, is it? Slapping him on the sly! No wonder he
doesn't like you, and won't go to sleep!" She snatched the child away,
and gave Amy a smart box on the ear. Mrs. Carpenter, though a good
woman, had a quick temper of her own.
"You can go up-stairs now," she said in a stern, exasperated tone. "I
don't want you any more this afternoon. If you were a good girl, you
might have been a real comfort to me this hard day, but as it is, I'd
rather have your room than your company."
Frightened and angry both, Amy rushed up-stairs, and into her father's
workshop, the door of which stood open. He had just gone out, and the
confusion and dreariness of the place seemed inviting to her at the
moment. Flinging the door to with a great bang, she threw herself on the
floor, and gave vent to her pent-up emotions.
"It's unjust!" she sobbed, speaking louder than usual, as people do who
are in a passion. "Mamma is as mean as she can be! Scolding me because
that old baby wouldn't go to sleep! I hate everybody! I wish I was dead!
I wish everybody else was dead!"
These were dreadful words for a little girl to use. Even in her anger,
Amy would have been startled and ashamed at the idea of any one's ever
hearing them.
But Amy had a listener, though she little suspected it, and, what was
worse, a listener who was recording every word that she uttered!
The "new machine" of which Mrs. Carpenter had spoken was really a very
clever and ingenious one. It was the adaptation of the phonographic
principle to the person of a doll. Mr. Carpenter had succeeded in
interesting somebody with capital in his project, and the dolls were at
that moment being manufactured for the apparatus, the construction of
which he kept in his own hands. This apparatus was held in small
cylinders, just large enough to fit into the body of a doll and contain,
each, a few sentences, which the doll would seem to speak when set in an
upright position.
These cylinders were just ready, and standing in a row waiting to
receive their "charges," which were to be put into them through the tin
funnels fitted for the purpose. Amy, as she sat on the floor, was
exactly opposite one of these funnels, and all her angry words passed
into, and became a part of, the mechanism of the doll. After this, no
matter how many pretty words might be uttered softly into that cylinder,
none of them could make any impression; the doll was full. It could hold
no more.