WHERE THE HOUSES ARE SMALL
Mary Jane dropped her crutches on the floor and readjusted the baby. He
had a most trying habit of not staying “put,” and sometimes the other
children slapped him. Mary Jane never did that. She merely set him up
again, gave his cheek a pat or a kiss, and went on about her business.
For, indeed, she was almost the very busiest small body in the world.
Besides her own mother’s five other children there were the neighbors’
broods, big and little, with never a soul to mind them save their
self-constituted nurse.
That very morning Mrs. Bump had paused in her washing to look up and
exclaim:
“I never did see how the little things do take to her! She can do just
wonders with them, that she can; and I reckon it was about the best
thing ever happened to her, that falling out the top window, like she
did. Seemed to knock all the selfishness out of her. Maybe it’s _that_
settled in her poor body. Yes, maybe it’s that, dear heart. Anyhow, her
inside’s all right. The rightest there ever was. If this world was just
full of Mary Janes, what a grand place it would be!”
Then, after a regretful sigh for this beatific state of things, the
mother thrust her strong arms again into the suds, with a splash and a
rub-a-dub-dub which told plainly enough from whom Mary Jane inherited
her energy.
Just then Mrs. Stebbins thrust her head out of the window, next door,
to remark:
“There was fifty-four of them gardens given out. My boy’s goin’ to
raise cabbages.”
“You don’t say! Now, ain’t that fine? I wish I had a son to get one,
but all my boys is girls, save the baby, and he don’t count. Though
he’ll grow, won’t he, mother’s lamb? He’ll grow just as fast as he
can and get a playground garden, good’s the next one, so he will, the
precious!” chirruped Mrs. Bump, to the year-old heir of the house.
“Gah, gah!” cooed the baby; and emphasized his reply by losing his
balance against the wall and rolling over on his face. He was too fat
and too phlegmatic to right himself, so Mary Jane hopped back across
the narrow room and set him up again, laughing as if this were the
funniest thing she had ever seen.
“Pshaw, daughter! If I was you and you was me, I’d leave him lie that
way a spell. He don’t ’pear to have the sense the rest of you had, no
he don’t, the sweet! Maybe that’s because he’s a boy. But even a boy
might learn something after a while, if he was let. Only you’re so
right on hand all the time he expects you to just about breathe for
him, seems.”
“Now, mother, now! And you know he’s the biggest, roundest--”
“Pudding-headedest!” growled a masculine voice, at the narrow doorway.
Mrs. Bump wheeled round so sharply that her rubbing-board fell out of
the tub and scared the baby, who promptly began to scream.
“Why father! You home? It can’t be dinner-time, yet. What’s happened?
Anything wrong?”
“Is anything ever right?” demanded the man, sulkily.
“Plenty of things,” answered the wife, cheerfully, though her heart
sank.
“One of the right things is my getting kicked out, I s’pose.”
“Father! you don’t mean it! No.”
“I’m not much of a joker, am I?”
“No. That you’re not. But tell me, man.”
With a quiver in the usually cheerful voice, Mrs. Bump wiped the suds
from her arms and went to her husband. Laying her hand kindly upon
his shoulder she demanded, as was her right, to know the facts of the
disaster that had befallen them.
“’Twon’t take long to tell, woman. The company’s cuttin’ down expenses
and I was one of the expenses lopped off. That’s all.”
“Is that all--_all_, William Bump?”
The question was sternly put and the man cowered before it.
“It’s the truth, any way. No matter how it happened, here I am and no
work.” With that he dropped his arms upon the window sill and his face
upon his arms, and lapsed into a sullen silence.
Mrs. Bump caught her breath, whisked away a tear that had crept into
her eye, and returned to her tub. Mary Jane ceased staring at her
parents, tipped the baby’s home-made go-cart on end, rolled him into
it, righted the awkward vehicle, threw its leather strap over her
shoulders, called to the children: “Come!” and hopped away upon her
crutches.
Though she paused, for just one second, beside her father and imprinted
a hasty kiss upon the back of his bent head. A kiss so light it seemed
he could scarcely have felt it, though it was quite sufficient to
thrill the man’s soul with an added sense of regret and degradation.
“We’re off to the park, mother, and I’ve taken a loaf with me!” she
called backward, as she clicked out of sight.
Again the woman idled for a moment, looking through the open doorway
toward the small, misshapen figure of her eldest child as it swung
swiftly forward upon its “wooden feet.” The baby’s soap-box wagon
rattled and bumped along behind, bouncing his plump body about, and
drawn by Mary Jane in the only manner possible to her--with a strap
across her chest. She needed both her hands just then to support
herself upon her crutches; for her lower limbs were useless and swung
heavily between these crutches--a leaden weight from which she never
could be free.
Even so, there were few who could travel as rapidly as Mary Jane and
this morning she was especially eager to get on. Because down at the
pretty park upon which her own dingy street terminated, the children’s
“Playgrounds” had been opened for the summer and the small gardens
given out. She was anxious to see the planting and seed-sowing, by the
tiny farmers of this free kindergarten, and down in her heart was a
faint hope that even to her, a girl, might a bit of land be assigned;
where she, too, could raise some of the wonderful vegetables which
would be her very own when the autumn came and the small crops were
harvested.
The hope was so deep and so intense, that she had to stop, turn about,
shake up the baby and tell him about it.
“You see, Baby Bump, they don’t give ’em out to just girls. Only I’m
not a regular plain kind of girl, I’m a crippley sort. That might make
a difference. Though there’s Hattie Moran, she’s lame, too. Not very
lame, Baby, only a little lame. She doesn’t have to have crutches, she
just goes hoppety-pat, hoppety-pat, easy like. Sophia Guttmacher,
she’s a hunchback, same’s me, course, but she can walk. Besides that
she doesn’t want a garden and I do. As for Ernest Knabe, his foot’s
just twisted and that’s all. Then, too, he’s a boy. He could have one
if he wanted. He’d have to dig one, I guess, if it wasn’t for his foot.
Oh! Baby dear. Do you s’pose I might--I might, maybe, get one?”
“Goo, goo,” murmured the infant, encouragingly, and vainly trying to
bring his own foot within reach of his mouth.
“Oh! you sweet! You can’t do that, you know. You’re far too fat. And I
declare, all the other children have gone on while I’ve stood here just
talking to you. That won’t do, sir, much as I love you. Sit up, now,
there’s sister’s little man, and I’ll hurry up.”
But just then, Baby made a final, desperate effort to taste his toes,
lost his balance, and rolled forward out of his box, as a ball might
have done.
Mary Jane, burst into a peal of laughter which recalled the other
children to the spot and she explained between breaths:
“The cute little fellow was trying to make ‘huckleberry-bread’; I do
believe he was, the darling! Well, he’s so round it doesn’t matter
which way he tumbles, and he’s so soft nothing ever hurts him. Does it,
precious?”
They all lent a hand in setting the infant right again. Several holding
the soap-box level, a couple supporting Mary Jane without her crutches
which left her arms free to lift and replace the dislodged baby. When
things were once more in order the caravan started onward afresh.
By this time the small, dingy houses bordering the narrow unpaved
street had given place to open lots and weedy patches, where the sun
lay warmly and a fresh breeze blew. To the right of the open space was
a railway embankment, and on the left there was the cling-clanging of
a mighty steel structure, in process of building. The railway and the
monster “sheds” belonged to the same company for which William Bump had
toiled--when he felt inclined--and by which he had just been discharged.
Mary Jane had been accustomed to look for him, either along the rails,
with the gang that seemed always to be replacing old “ties” by new
ones; or else serving the skilled workmen, who hammered, hammered, all
day long upon the great metal girders. As she now caught the echo of
these strokes a pang shot through her loving heart and for a moment her
sunny face clouded. She need look no more, to either right or left, for
the blue-shirted figure, which had been wont to wave a salutation to
her as she passed with her brood of nurselings.
Fortunately, the baby was on hand to banish the cloud, which he
promptly did in his accustomed manner--with a slight variation. For
his small charioteer had not observed a big stone in the path, though
the loose ricketty wheel of the wagon found and struck it squarely.
This raised the soap-box in front and its occupant performed a backward
somersault.
“Oh! my sake! Mary Jane--Mary Jane!” shrieked several small voices in
wild reproach.
Mary Jane picked up the little one, who smiled, unhurt; and the others
helped her shake him back to a normal condition and pose. After which,
the park lying just before them, between the railway and the buildings,
they scurried into it, and over the slope, and around to a sunny spot
where scores of other little people were hard at work or play.
“Hi! Mary Jane! Oh, Mary Jane!” shouted one and another; and the
kind-faced “teachers” who guided the wee ones, also nodded their
friendly welcome. For well they knew that there was no “assistant”
in the whole city who could be as useful to them as this same humble
little girl from Dingy street.
“Thirteen, Mary Jane! I’m thirteen! Come see. Cucumbers!” cried
Bobby Saunders, dragging her forward so eagerly that the soap-box
strap slipped up across her throat and choked her. But she quickly
released herself now from her burden, certain that in the midst of so
many friends no harm could befall her darling; and once freed from
this incubus, she outstripped Bobby in reaching the long rows of
well-prepared garden plots, wherein as yet was never a sign of any
growing thing.
But oh! how soft and rich and brown the earth did look! How sweet
the fragrance of it in Mary Jane’s nature-loving nostrils! And how,
for once, she longed to be a boy! As straight-limbed, as strong,
as unhindered at her toil, as any of these happy little lads who
clustered about, each interrupting his neighbor in his eagerness for
her sympathy and interest.
“Fifty-one, Mary Jane!” cried Joe Stebbins, pointing proudly to the
numbered stick at the foot of his plot. “Cabbages--cabbages! The
gardener’s bringing a box of plants this minute. I’ll give you one to
bile when they get growed. Like that?”
“Prime!” answered the girl, her own face aglow.
“But I’m limas, Mary Jane. I’m Seven. Away over here. I’ve sowed ’em
and to-morrer I’ll hoe ’em, I guess.”
“And I guess I wouldn’t till they sprout,” laughed she hopping along,
at perilous speed, to inspect number seven.
“Don’t go so fast, Mary Jane! I can’t keep up with you. See. I’m right
up front--number Three. I’m tomatuses, I am. Like ’em?” demanded Ned
Smith, a seven-year-old farmer.
“I’m potatoes. They’re the best for your money,” observed Jimmy
O’Brien. “We’ll roast some in the ashes, bime-by. Does the baby like
’tatoes?”
“Don’t he? You just ought to see him eat them--when we have them,” she
added, cautiously.
“Oh! you’ll have ’em, plenty. When I dig my crop. Why, I s’pose
there’ll be enough in my ‘farm’ to keep your folks and mine all winter;
and I might have some to sell on the street,” observed Jimmy, casting a
speculative glance upon the diminutive plot of ground over which he was
now master.
“Might you; ain’t that splendid!” commented Mary Jane, delightedly.
“Why, if you could give us all our potatoes, mother could easy wash for
the rent and the bread and things. My sake! I ’most forgot the baby.
Where’s he at? Can you see him?”
“He’s right in the middle of the sand-heap and the teacher has give
him a little shovel. Say, what you bring him for? this ain’t no
day-nursery, this ain’t. It’s a playground farm and one-year-olds don’t
belong.”
“Maybe they don’t, but the baby belongs. That is if I do,” said the
sister stoutly; “maybe you’ll say next I don’t.”
“No, I shan’t say that. Why, what could we do without you? And say,
Mary Jane.”
“Well, say it quick. The girls are calling me to swing on the Maypole.
’Cause that’s one thing I can do without my crutches.”
“Well, in a minute. But, say. Sometimes I used to let you hoe in my
garden, last summer. Remember?”
“Course. I helped you a lot.”
“Don’t know about that. But you might this year. That is, maybe. If we
went partners, you see; and if the teacher didn’t get on to it; and if
there was a medal give and you let me have it, ’cause I’m the one has
the farm, course. What you say?”
“I say we couldn’t do such a thing without the teacher knowing and I
wouldn’t if we could. And you’ll never get a medal, you’re too lazy.
But you’re real gen’rous, too, and I’ll be so glad to help. Oh! I love
it! I just feel’s if I could put my face right down on that crumbly
ground and go to sleep. It’s so dear.”
“Huh! If you did I s’pose you’d get earwigs in your ears and--and
angleworms, and--things. Maybe snakes. But I’ll let you,” concluded
Jimmy, graciously.
Then they turned around and there was--what seemed to the beholders, a
veritable small angel!
Mary Jane was so startled she dropped her crutches and, for an instant,
quite forgot all about the baby. The apparition was clothed in white,
so soft and fine and transparent that it seemed to enwrap her as a
cloud; and above the cloud rose a face so lovely and so winning that it
made Mary Jane’s heart almost stand still in ecstasy.