THE SAD FATE OF “POLLY COLOGNE.”
HIGH times at Prairie-rose Cottage,—_high_ times indeed! For there is
cousin Floy Plummer on her tiptoes; and there is little Effie Plummer
hurrying with might and main to climb to the top of the bureau; and
there are the twins, the Jimmyjohn Plummers, scrambling both at once
into the baby’s dining-chair, tumbling over the back like one boy,
then dividing at the bottom and going up again like two boys: and
all these trying to pinch Annetta Plummer’s ears, and to pinch them
seven times too; for Annetta Plummer is seven years old this very day.
Ever since morning, a little girl may have been seen holding two
hands to two ears, scampering up stairs and down stairs, dodging
into dark corners, behind doors, behind curtains, behind people,
racing through the garden, hiding among the currant-bushes, among
the grass, among the waving corn, in the barn, in the hen-house,
up the apple-tree, up the ladder; and always have gone some of the
_pinchers_ after her, with seven pinches apiece in their thumbs and
fingers. And now, will climbing that table save Miss Seven-year-old?
Hark! Rover is barking outside! O Rover! don’t you know any better
than to bark at _the party_,—_Annetta’s birthday-party_? Look at old
Bose, and learn how to behave. Old Bose never barks at company; and
he is six times bigger than you are, you little, noisy, capering,
frisky, frolicsome Rover! Now the Jimmyjohns run to call off their
dog. “Here, Rover! Here, ere, ere, ere! Rove, Rove, Rove!”
And now the company have come in, and have taken off their things,
and have told Mrs. Plummer how their mothers do, and have sat down
quietly in a row of chairs. Seven of them,—seven bright faces so
rosy and sweet! seven heads of hair so smooth or so curly! seven
pairs of tidy boots, best ones, perhaps,—who knows but brand-new?
The Jimmyjohns, too, have on their new, slippery, smooth-bottomed
button-boots; and that was the reason of their falling down while
they stood almost still, or rather more than half still, watching the
seven little girls sitting in a row.
Ten minutes later. All out on the green spot, where it is shady,
playing “Little Sally Waters sitting in the sun.” Josephus the
baby (called _Josephus_ while waiting for his real name) stays in
his baby-carriage, hearing them sing, watching the ring go round,
laughing, crowing, patting cakes by the dozen. When the Jimmies
choose the one that they love best before they close their eyes to
rest, Rover rushes into the middle, barking, leaping high, as if he,
too, were going to kiss the one that he loved best.
Fifteen minutes later. They are playing “Pretty fair maid.” Dear,
dear! what a charming singsong goes with this play! What a lively,
chirruping tune! “Pretty fair maid, will you come up, will you come
up, will you come up, to join us in our dances.” “And now we’ve got
the Queen of May, the Queen of May, the Queen of May, to join us in
our dances.” And then the last part, “Green grow the rushes O! Never
mind the blushes O!” Ah! who would not be a little girl at a party,
singing “Pretty fair maid” on the green spot?
Half an hour later. All out in the orchard, playing “keep house.”
They divide themselves into “families.” There is one very large flat
rock in the orchard, also several hollow places where rocks have been
dug out. Two of the “families” take each a hollow to live in; a third
“keeps house” on the rock, a fourth under a haycock. Oh, what good
times! Only two families can have “fathers,” because there are only
two boys. The other “fathers,” cousin Floy says, have gone to Boston.
Cousin Floy manages this play. She is ten years old, and knows how.
Cousin Floy goes in to coax Mrs. Plummer for some things in which
to dress up the “fathers” and “mothers.” She says it will do if the
_heads_ look like fathers’ and mothers’ heads, and no matter about
the clothes. Mrs. Plummer lends two head-dresses, also ribbons and
laces. Grandmother Plummer lends a cap and black ribbon. Who’ll be
the “grandmother,” I wonder. Minnie Lowe, the little girl with the
flossy curls. Oh, what a cunning grandmother!—Down, Rover, down!
What! barking at your grandmother, you saucy little puppy?
“Ha, ha! He, he! Ha, ha! He, he! Ho, ho!” And who wouldn’t laugh at
seeing Jimmy Plummer in a high dicky, black whiskers, and tall hat?
The hat touches his shoulders behind. Ah! that is better. Cousin Floy
has taken off the hat, and put on a great deal of black hair pulled
from an old cushion; yes, a great deal,—as much as a quarter of a
peck. It rises high on his head, and—What ails Rover? Ha, ha! Pretty
good! Rover doesn’t know Jimmy!
Well, well, well! Grandfather forever! They are going to have Johnny
a _grandfather_! Cousin Floy is covering his head with cotton-wool
for white hair. Now she gives him a cane. Now go on the spectacles.
Now she is—doing—something—I cannot—see—what. Oh, yes, yes, yes!
putting a hump under his frock, between his shoulders, to give him
a _stoop_. Bark away, Rover! Who wouldn’t bark at a cotton-wool
grandfather?
[Illustration: Joey Moonbeam]
[Illustration: doll clothes]
[Illustration: doll]
[Illustration: small doll]
Annetta has been in to the house, and is bringing out all her
rag-babies. To be sure; for now there can be a baby in every family.
One of these is very large, and has a face as big round as a pint
porringer; but the others are quite small. The large one is named
Joey Moonbeam. This is a true picture of Joey Moonbeam, copied
from her likeness now hanging in Annetta Plummer’s baby-house. The
largest of the small rag-babies is named Dorothy Beeswax. She is
a little taller than a knitting-needle. This is a true picture of
Dorothy Beeswax. The next largest is Betsey Ginger. The next is Jenny
Popover. The next is Eudora N. Posy. The “N.” stands for Nightingale.
The next is Susan Sugarspoon. This is a true picture of Betsey
Ginger. Susan Sugarspoon, and Jenny Popover, and Eudora N. Posy,
have not had their pictures taken yet. The smallest of all is Polly
Cologne,—the smallest, the prettiest, and the cunningest. Her cheeks
are painted pink, and she wears a locket. Her hair is of flax-colored
floss-silk, while the hair of all the others is stocking-ravellings.
She is _the baby_ of the baby-house, and this is her true and exact
picture. Polly Cologne has feet; but the others stand on their stiff
petticoats.
Now comes Mrs. Plummer, with seed-cakes for the _housekeepers_
to play supper with; and behind her comes cousin Floy, bringing
cinnamon-water, and dishes from the baby-house. The cinnamon-water is
in four phials. Each phial has in it sugar, and also rose-leaves.
What are the children laughing and whispering about? and why do they
look at little Fanny Brimmer in such a way? Mrs. Plummer has called
Annetta aside with one or two others, and is asking why they do so.
“Because,” whispers little Lulu, “_Fanny picked out—the
biggest—seed-cakes—that had the most—sugar-plums—on the tops_.”
Mrs. Plummer tells them, speaking very low, that perhaps Fanny did
not know it was selfish to do so; that her mother might never have
told her. “Selfish girls,” says Mrs. Plummer, “should be pitied, not
laughed at; and besides, perhaps every one of you may be selfish in
some other way.”
Half-past four o’clock. What is going on now? Oh! I see. The “family”
at the rock are having a party, and to this party have come the
“families” from the hollows and the haycock.—No, Rover, you were not
invited. Down, sir!—down!
The supper is laid out on the rock. The cinnamon-water is poured into
the cups, each cup holding half a thimbleful. Grandfather Johnny and
grandmother Minnie sit at the head, and father Jimmy at the foot;
while the mothers with their little girls fill the room between. The
mothers wear head-dresses. The little girls wear dandelion-curls, and
curls of shavings. Only one of the babies is allowed to come to the
table, and that is Polly Cologne. The others sit on the floor, and
play with their playthings. Joey Moonbeam can come to table, because
she is big enough. They call Joey Moonbeam a little girl three years
old, that cannot walk, because she has had a fever. Polly Cologne
seems to be a pet among all these mothers and little girls. They all
want to hold her. Why, by their talk, one might suppose she was a
live baby. Hear them. “O little darling!” “Just as cunning!” “Dear
’ittle baby!” “Did zee want some payzings?” “Tum to oor mozzer, oo
darling!” “Do let _me_ hold her!” “No, let me, let me!” “Me!” And so
she is passed from one to another, and kissed and stroked and patted,
and talked to. Really the _birthday-party_ is having a good time. Ah!
who would not be a little girl playing supper on a rock, out among
the apple-trees, and sipping cinnamon-water?
But, dear, dear! what is the matter? Why do they all jump down in
a hurry, and scream and shout, and run after Rover? What! _Polly
Cologne?_ Rover gone off with Polly Cologne in his mouth? Yes, Rover
has. There he goes, scampering away, and all the children after him,
calling, “Here, here, ere, ere, ere! Back, sir! back!” The Jimmyjohns
slip with their smooth-bottomed boots, and down they go; and off go
wigs, whiskers, and all! Now they’re up again, shouting to Rover,
“Here, Rover!—here, Rover! Drop it, drop it! Rove, Rove! Come back!”
But Rove won’t hear, and won’t come back. He’s out of the orchard,
across the meadow, over the brook; and now—and now he has gone into
the woods! Oh, dear, dear!
Four days later. Orchard, wood, brook, and meadow have been
searched; but the lost is not yet found. Annetta is quite sad. She
has put away Polly Cologne’s every-day locket and every-day clothes,
and blue silk sun-bonnet, because it made her feel badly to see them.
Dear little Polly Cologne, where are you now? Lost in the woods?
And are the Robin Redbreasts covering you over with leaves? Perhaps
naughty Rover buried you up like a meat-bone in the cold, damp
ground, or dropped you in the brook,—and, alas! you could never swim
ashore. Did those bright-spotted trout eat you? or did you float
away to the sea? Perhaps you did float away to the sea. Perhaps you
are now far out on the mighty ocean, where the wild winds blow, and
there, all alone, toss up and down, up and down, on the rolling
waves; or perhaps the waves and the winds are at rest, and the sea
is smooth like a sea of glass, and you lie quietly there, with your
pink cheeks turned up to the sky. Or the mermaids may take you down
into their sea-caverns all lined with rose-colored shells, and sing
you sweet songs till your hair turns green. Or who knows but you may
float away to Northland, and be picked up on shore by the little
funny, furry Esquimaux children? Oh, if you should be frozen solid in
an iceberg there! But it may be you have drifted down to the sunny
islands of the South, where the people have few clothes, no houses,
no schools; and then some little, half-naked, dusky child may pick
you up from among the coral and sea-shells, and show you to its
mother, and say, “Mother, where do this kind of folks live?” And its
mother, not having studied geography, may say, “Oh! in a wonderful
country close by the moon.”
Yes, let us hope that Polly Cologne has been wafted to those sunny
summer-lands of the South, where oranges grow, and prunes, and
bananas; where the palm-tree waves, and geraniums grow wild; where
the air is balmy; where snow never comes, nor ice, nor frost; where
bright-winged birds warble in the groves; where trees are forever
green, and flowers bloom through all the year.