"Well, then," said Mrs Twitter, "don't go and find fault, Samuel," (she
used the name in full when anxious to be impressive), "with what
Providence has given us, by putting the word `only' to it, for we are
_rich_ with five hundred a year."
Mr Twitter freely admitted that he was wrong, and said he would be more
careful in future of the use to which he put the word "only."
"But," said he, "we haven't a hole or corner in the house to put the
poor thing in. To be sure, there's the coal-cellar and the scuttle
might be rigged up as a cradle, but--"
He paused, and looked at his wife. The deceiver did not mean all this
to be taken as a real objection. He was himself anxious to retain the
infant, and only made this show of opposition to enlist Maria more
certainly on his side.
"Not a corner!" she exclaimed, "why, is there not the whole parlour? Do
you suppose that a baby requires a four-post bed, and a wash-hand-stand,
and a five-foot mirror? Couldn't we lift the poor darling in and out in
half a minute? Besides, there is our own room. I feel as if there was
an uncomfortable want of some sort ever since _our_ baby was
transplanted to the nursery. So we will establish the old bassinet and
put the mite there."
"And what shall we call it, Maria?"
"Call it--why, call it--call it--Mite--no name could be more
appropriate."
"But, my love, Mite, if a name at all, is a man's--that is, it sounds
like a masculine name."
"Call it Mita, then."
And so it was named, and thus that poor little waif came to be adopted
by that "rich" family.
It seems to be our mission, at this time, to introduce our readers to
various homes--the homes of England, so to speak! But let not our
readers become impatient, while we lead the way to one more home, and
open the door with our secret latch-key.
This home is in some respects peculiar. It is not a poor one, for it is
comfortable and clean. Neither is it a rich one, for there are few
ornaments, and no luxuries about it. Over the fire stoops a comely
young woman, as well as one can judge, at least, from the rather faint
light that enters through a small window facing a brick wall. The wall
is only five feet from the window, and some previous occupant of the
rooms had painted on it a rough landscape, with three very green trees
and a very blue lake, and a swan in the middle thereof, sitting on an
inverted swan which was meant to be his reflection, but somehow seemed
rather more real than himself. The picture is better, perhaps, than the
bricks were, yet it is not enlivening. The only other objects in the
room worth mentioning are, a particularly small book-shelf in a corner;
a cuckoo-clock on the mantel-shelf, an engraved portrait of Queen
Victoria on the wall opposite in a gilt frame, and a portrait of Sir
Robert Peel in a frame of rosewood beside it.
On a little table in the centre of the room are the remains of a repast.
Under the table is a very small child, probably four years of age.
Near the window is another small, but older child--a boy of about six or
seven. He is engaged in fitting on his little head a great black cloth
helmet with a bronze badge, and a peak behind as well as before.
Having nearly extinguished himself with the helmet, the small boy seizes
a very large truncheon, and makes a desperate effort to flourish it.
Close to the comely woman stands a very tall, very handsome, and very
powerful man, who is putting in the uppermost buttons of a
police-constable's uniform.
Behold, reader, the _tableau vivant_ to which we would call your
attention!
"Where d'you go on duty to-day, Giles," asked the comely young woman,
raising her face to that of her husband.
"Oxford Circus," replied the policeman. "It is the first time I've been
put on fixed-point duty. That's the reason I'm able to breakfast with
you and the children, Molly, instead of being off at half-past five in
the morning as usual. I shall be on for a month."
"I'm glad of it, Giles, for it gives the children a chance of seeing
something of you. I wish you'd let me look at that cut on your
shoulder. Do!"
"No, no, Molly," returned the man, as he pushed his wife playfully away
from him. "Hands off! You know the punishment for assaulting the
police is heavy! Now then, Monty," (to the boy), "give up my helmet and
truncheon. I must be off."
"Not yet, daddy," cried Monty, "I's a pleeceman of the A Division,
Number 2, 'ats me, an' I'm goin' to catch a t'ief. I 'mell 'im."
"You smell him, do you? Where is he, d'you think?"
"Oh! I know," replied the small policeman--here he came close up to his
father, and, getting on tiptoe, said in a very audible whisper, "he's
under de table, but don' tell 'im I know. His name's Joe!"
"All right, I'll keep quiet, Monty, but look alive and nab him quick,
for I must be off."
Thus urged the small policeman went on tiptoe to the table, made a
sudden dive under it, and collared his little brother.
The arrest, however, being far more prompt than had been expected, the
"t'ief" refused to be captured. A struggle ensued, in the course of
which the helmet rolled off, a corner of the tablecloth was pulled down,
and the earthenware teapot fell with a crash to the floor.
"It's my duty, I fear," said Giles, "to take you both into custody and
lock you up in a cell for breaking the teapot as well as the peace, but
I'll be merciful and let you off this time, Monty, if you lend your
mother a hand to pick up the pieces."
Monty agreed to accept this compromise. The helmet and truncheon were
put to their proper uses, and the merciful police-constable went out "on
duty."