"PIGEON PIE POSTPONED."
This is Susy's letter, which lay in Mr. Parlin's pocket-book,
and which he gave his impatient little daughter fifteen minutes before
the cars stopped:--
"MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER: This is for you to read when you
have almost got to Boston; and it is a story, because I know you
will be tired.
"Once there was a wolf--I've forgotten what his name was. At the
same time there were some men, and they were monks. Monks have
their heads shaved. They found this wolf. They didn't see why he
wouldn't make as good a monk as anybody. They tied him and then
they wanted him to say his prayers, patter, patter, all in Latin.
"He opened his mouth, and then they thought it was coming; but what
do you think? All he said was, 'Lamb! lamb!' And he looked where
the woods were.
"So they couldn't make a monk of him, because he wanted to eat
lambs, and he wouldn't say his prayers.
"Mother read that to me out of a blue book.
"Good by, darling. From
"SISTER SUSY."
"What do you think of that?" said Mr. Parlin, as he finished reading the
letter aloud.
"It is so queer, papa. I don't think those monkeys were very bright."
"Monks, my child."
"O, I thought you said monkeys."
"No, monks are men--Catholics."
"Well, if they were men, I should think they'd know a wolf couldn't say
his prayers. But I s'pose it isn't true."
"No, indeed. It is a fable, written to show that it is of no use to
expect people to do things which they have not the power to do. The wolf
could catch lambs, but he could not learn his letters. So my little
Alice can dress dollies, but she does not know how to take care of
babies."
"O, papa, I didn't choke him _very_ much."
"I was only telling you I do not think you at all to blame. Little girls
like you are not expected to have judgment like grown women. If you only
do the best you know how, it is all that should be required of you."
Dotty's face emerged from the cloud. She looked away down the aisle at
Mrs. Lovejoy, who was patting the uninteresting baby to sleep.
"Well," thought she, her self-esteem reviving, "I wish that woman only
could know I wasn't to blame! I don't believe _she_ could have take care
of that baby when she was six years old."
"Here we are at Boston," said Mr. Parlin. "Is your hat tied on? Keep
close to me, and don't be afraid of the crowd."
Dotty was not in the least afraid. She was not like Prudy, who, on the
same journey, had clung tremblingly to her father at every change of
cars. In Dotty's case there was more danger of her being reckless than
too timid.
They went to a hotel. Mr. Parlin's business would detain him an hour or
two, he said; after that he would take his little daughter to walk on
the Common; and next morning, bright and early, they would proceed on
their journey.
It was the first time Dotty had ever dined at a public house. A bill of
fare was something entirely new to her. She wondered how it happened
that the Boston printers knew what the people in that hotel were about
to have for dinner.
Mr. Parlin looked with amusement at the demure little lady beside him.
Not a sign of curiosity did she betray, except to gaze around her with
keen eyes, which saw everything, even to the pattern of the napkins.
Some time she would have questions to ask, but not now.
"And what would you like for dinner, Alice?"
Mr. Parlin said this as they were sipping their soup. Dotty glanced at
the small table before them, which offered scarcely anything but
salt-cellars and castors, and then at the paper her father held in his
hand. She was about to reply that she would wait till the table was
ready; but as there was one man seated opposite her, and another
standing at the back of her chair, she merely said,--
"I don't know, papa."
"A-la-mode beef; fricasseed chicken; Calcutta curry," read her
mischievous father from the bill, as fast as he could read; "macaroni;
salsify; flummery; sirup of cream. You see it is hard to make a choice,
dear. Escaloped oysters; pigeon pie postponed."
"I'll take some of that, papa," broke in Dotty.
"What, dear?"
"Some of the pigeon pie 'sponed," answered Dotty, in a low voice,
determined to come to a decision of some sort. It was not likely to make
much difference what she should choose, when everything was alike
wonderful and strange.
"Pigeon pie postponed," said Mr. Parlin to the man at the back of
Dotty's chair; "turkey with oysters for me."
The polite waiter smiled so broadly that he showed two long rows of
white teeth. It could not be Dotty who amused him. Her conduct was all
that is prim and proper. She sat beside her papa as motionless as a
waxen baby, her eyes rolling right and left, as if they were jerked by a
secret wire. It certainly could not have been Dotty. Then what was it
the man saw which was funny?
"Only one pigeon pie in the house, sir," said he, trying to look very
solemn, "and if the young lady will be pleased to wait, I'll bring it
to her in a few minutes. No such dish on any of the other bills of fare.
A rarity for this special day, sir. Anything else, miss, while you
wait?"
Mr. Parlin looked rather surprised. There had been no good reason given
for not bringing the pie at once; however, he merely asked Dotty to
choose again; and this time she chose "tomato steak," at a venture.
There were two gentlemen at the opposite side of the table, and one of
them watched Dotty with interest.
"Her mother has taken great pains with her," he thought; "she handles
her knife and fork very well. Where have I seen that child before?"
While he was still calling to mind the faces of various little girls of
his acquaintance, and trying to remember which face belonged to Dotty,
the waiter arrived with the "pigeon pie postponed." He had chosen the
time when most of the people had finished their first course, and the
clinking of dishes was not quite so hurried as it had been a little
while before. The table at which Mr. Parlin sat was nearly in the centre
of the room. As the waiter approached with the pie, the same amused look
passed over his face once more.
He set the dish upon the table near Mr. Parlin, who proceeded to cut a
piece for Miss Dimple. As the knife went into the pie, the crust seemed
to move; and lo, "when the pie was opened," out flew a pigeon alive and
well!
The bird at first hopped about the table in a frightened way, a little
blind and dizzy from being shut up in such a dark prison; but a few
breaths of fresh air revived him, and he flew merrily around the room,
to the surprise and amusement of the guests. It was a minute or two
before any of them understood what it meant. Then they began to laugh
and say they knew why the pie was "postponed:" it was because the pigeon
was not willing to be eaten alive.
It passed as a capital joke; but I doubt if Dotty Dimple appreciated it.
She looked at the hollow crust, and then at the purple-crested dove, and
thought a hotel dinner was even more peculiar than she had supposed. Did
they have "live pies" every day? How did they bake them without even
scorching the pigeons? But she busied herself with her nuts and raisins,
and asked no questions.
At four o'clock she went with, her father to see the Public Gardens and
other places of interest, and to buy a pair of new gloves. On the
Common they met one of the gentlemen who had sat opposite them at
dinner. He bowed as they were passing, and said, with a smile,--
"Can this be my little friend, Miss Prudy Parlin?"
"It is her younger sister, Alice," replied her father.
"And I am Major Benjamin Lazelle, of St. Louis," said the gentleman.
After this introduction, the three walked along in company, and seemed
to feel like old acquaintances; for Major Lazelle had once escorted Mrs.
Clifford on a journey to Maine, and since that time had been well known
to the Clifford family. Mr. Parlin was glad to learn that he would start
for St. Louis on the next day, and travel with himself and daughter
nearly as far as they went. Major Lazelle was also well pleased, and
began at once to make friends with Miss Dimple. The little girl had
recovered from her trials of the morning, and was so delighted with all
she saw that she "couldn't walk on two feet." She preferred to hop,
skip, and jump.
"O, papa, papa, what _are_ those little dears, just the color of my kid
gloves?"
"Those are deer, my child."
"Are they? I _said_ they were dears--didn't I? If they were _my_ dears,
I'd keep them in a parlor, and let them lie on a silk quilt with a
velvet pillow--wouldn't you?"
"This little girl reminds me strikingly of my old friend Prudy," said
Major Lazelle, taking her hand. "When I saw her across the table I
thought, 'Ah, now, there is a sweet little child who makes me remember
something pleasant.' After a while I knew what that pleasant thing
was--it was little Prudy."
Dotty looked up at Major Lazelle with a smile.
"She came to see me when I was in a hospital in Indiana. At that time I
was blind."
"Blind, sir?"
"Yes; but I see quite well now. Afterwards I met your sister on the
street in Portland, and she spoke to me. I was very weak and miserable,
for I had just been ill of a fever; but the sight of her bright face
made me feel strong again."
Dotty's fingers closed around Major Lazelle's with a firmer clasp. If he
liked Prudy, then she should certainly like him.
"Shall I tell you of some verses I repeated to myself when I looked at
your dear little sister?"
"Yes, sir, if you please."
"'Why, a stranger, when he sees her
In the street even, smileth stilly,
Just as you would at a lily.
"'And if any painter drew her,
He would paint her unaware,
With the halo round her hair.'
"I dare say you do not understand poetry very well, Miss Alice?"
"No, sir. I s'pose I should if I knew what the words meant."
"Very likely. Is your sister Prudy well? and how do you two contrive to
amuse yourselves all the day long?"
"Yes, sir, she's well; and we don't amuse ourselves at all."
"Indeed! But you play, I presume."
"Yes, sir, we do."
"I feel sure you are just such another dear little girl as Prudy is,
and it gives me pleasure to know you."
Dotty dropped her head. She was glad her father was too far off to hear
this remark.
"Just such another dear little girl as Prudy is!"
Alas! Dotty knew better than that. She was not sure she ought not to
tell Major Lazelle he had made a great mistake. But while she was
pondering upon it, they met a blind man, a lame man, and a party of
school-girls; and she had so much use for her eyes that she did not
speak again for five minutes.