“MABIE LILLY TAINTIT”
Ned Toodles trotted along the road that beautiful afternoon, and
Denise’s joyous mood found a vent in a charming little song which kept
time with Ned’s footfalls and to which he occasionally gave a sort of
staccato accent, by breaking into a frisky jump. “Sing-Song Polly” rang
out over the fields, the song growing gayer and wilder at every bar,
till suddenly a second voice took up the theme in a long-drawn, doleful
wail, that brought Denise’s warble to an abrupt ending. Ned heard
it, too, and gave a little start to one side, for the wail seemed to
proceed from the very ground beneath them, and was decidedly uncanny.
Denise drew rein quickly, and stopped to listen for further signs of
distress. They came very promptly, and a second later she was stooping
over a forlorn figure which the low bushes at the roadside nearly
concealed.
A little ditch divided the adjacent fields from the road, and at this
season of the year the ditch was very apt to be filled with water and
inhabited by a flourishing family of tadpoles. Seated upon the ground
at the further side of the ditch, her feet firmly embedded in its mud,
from which she was vainly striving to withdraw them, was a small child,
probably six years of age. She wore a little pink and white checked
gingham, which was splashed with mud from top to bottom; her hands were
the color of a little darky’s, and her hair, which perhaps had not been
in perfect order upon setting out, was now a hopeless snarl and firmly
caught in the overhanging branches of the bushes at her back.
Altogether she was in a sorry plight, for she was held fast by head
and feet, and, unless some good Samaritan appeared upon the scene
to release her, in a fair way to remain a prisoner for some time to
come. But she certainly had no intention of submitting meekly to the
predicament in which she found herself, if lusty shouts and yells could
compass her release.
“My good gracious!” exclaimed Denise, “how in this world did you ever
get in there, and stuck tight fast in the mud?”
“I wanted the littule fat fises! I wanted the littule fat fises! I want
to get out! I want to get out!” screamed the child, tugging with might
and main to free her feet, and thereby only adding to the trouble above.
“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” cried Denise. “I must get your hair
free before you can move.” But the youngster was beyond all reasoning
with, and, turning to Denise, shrieked at the top of her lungs: “Take
that old tree away! Take it away, I say!”
“Why don’t you ask me to take the whole woods away, you little goose!”
exclaimed Denise with some asperity. “I _can’t_ take the tree away,
and if you don’t keep still long enough to let me loosen your hair
from the branches, I shall never in the world get you free. Be still!”
and she gave the screaming youngster a little shake. It was not much
of a shake, but it had the desired effect, and was doubtless the
sort of persuasion to which she was accustomed. As a rule Denise was
wonderfully gentle with little folk, but here was a situation which
needed prompt action, and this small imp seemed determined to frustrate
every move she made to help her.
Denise began to unwind the tangled hair, and was just upon the point of
releasing the whole mop, when, “Oh! Oh! Ohuu! They’re all tummin’ after
me! Oh-h! Ou-u! Ou-u!” and up bounced the youngster, as four or five
tadpoles, emboldened by the silence which had prevailed while Denise
was absorbed in her task, came swimming toward her, only to vanish
at the howl which greeted them. In a twinkling Denise’s labors were
undone. Up bobbed the head into the branches, only to be jerked back
again by the imprisoned feet, and the hair, caught more firmly than
ever, drew down with it a slender branch which gave a stinging lash
across the child’s face.
If she had howled before, she outdid herself now when the pain added
to her miseries, and Denise was literally at her wit’s end. To ever
untangle that hair now was out of the question, and what in the world
was to be done? Every moment was adding to the mischief, and the
child was becoming nearly frantic. Stepping to one side, Denise drew
from her pocket the little knife she always carried, and, opening
the largest blade, stepped carefully back to the struggling child.
Watching her chance, she grasped her firmly with one arm, and, despite
her struggles, held her fast while she cut the hair from the bush.
Once that end was freed, she flung the knife out into the road, and
set about pulling the other end from the mud. The first jerk produced
no effect, but the second resulted in a prolonged “s-k-e-r-S-w-A-P,”
and up flew one foot without a shoe, the other foot with so much mud
upon it that it looked like nothing in this world but a lump of wet
peat, while heels-over-head went Denise and her charge into the bushes
behind them. Denise was too frightened to care whether she was hurt or
not, but, scrambling to her feet, turned to see what had befallen Miss
Pink-Gingham. The howl had been scared out of her, and she was making
for the road as fast as her legs would carry her. Once upon _terra
firma_ she stood still to wait for her rescuer, sobbing meanwhile in a
subdued sort of fashion.
By this time it may easily be imagined what sort of condition Denise
was in, but, feeling that it could not possibly be any worse, she
clawed down into the mud till she found the missing shoe and drew it
out in triumph. As upon one other memorable occasion, the linen duster
now served as a towel, and a moment later Denise had scoured off her
hands and was turning her attention to the little blackamoor in the
road. At sight of the forlorn little figure Denise’s heart melted, but
to offer condolence, excepting in the form of words, until some of
mother earth had been removed, was obviously impossible. So she rubbed
and scraped as she poured forth words of consolation, and ere long had
the child as much restored to her normal color as was possible and
seated beside her in the phaeton. Then came the question of where to
take her, for, although pretty well acquainted with every one in that
town, this face was a strange one, and where its owner belonged she did
not know.
“Now tell me your name and where you live,” said Denise, soothingly,
but, as though the mention of home recalled her recent harrowing
experiences, the child began to sob again, and Denise was in despair.
“Oh, please stop crying, and tell me where to take you. See. I will
drive you in the carriage wherever you tell me, and Ned Toodles will
go ever so fast if you will only let him know where _to_ go.”
“Mabie Lilly--oh!--Taint! Taint--it!” sobbed the child.
“Maybe Lilly--what? Isn’t Lilly your name? Then what is it?” pleaded
Denise.
“Oh, Taint-it! Taint-it!” was all she could hear.
“_What_ isn’t it? Lilly? Isn’t Lilly your name?” demanded Denise,
inwardly thinking that no name could have been a greater misnomer under
existing conditions.
“Yes; yes, Mabie Lilly--boo, hoo. Taint-it! Taint-it!”
“Oh, _dear_ me, what _shall_ I do with her,” wailed Denise, then,
thinking to find out the child’s address if she could not learn her
name, she asked, “Where do you live?” Tell me that, and I’ll take you
straight there.
“In Noo York! In Noo York!” was the climax of a reply.
“Oh, I’ll take you there by the very next train, of course,” cried
Denise; “or, perhaps, I’d better turn around and drive there to save
time. Where in the world _does_ she belong, I wonder. I’ve never seen
her before, but I suppose I might sit here till to-morrow and never
find out from her. Go on, Ned, and we’ll see what we can find out from
the first person we meet,” for pity, combined with despair of learning
who the child was, was a sore tax upon nerves and patience, and,
gathering up her reins, she started for the town, the youngster beside
her keeping up an incessant sob of “Taint-it; Taint it! Oh, Ma-bie
Lilly; Ma-bie Lilly--Taint-it! Taint-it!”
Ned spun along over the road, till at last they came to the section
of the town dotted all along the roadside with pretty homes. They
were about a quarter of a mile from Denise’s when she spied a man
hurrying toward them, gesticulating, and evidently holding an animated
conversation with _himself_. Denise could not help laughing at the
figure he cut, for wrath, strong and potent, was written in every
gesture. Just at that moment the child saw him also, and, jumping up
in the carriage, cried at the top of her lungs: “Oh, Michael! Michael!
Here I is! Here I is!” By this time they were nearly up to him, and,
stopping short in the road, the man froze to his last gesture and
stared at them open-mouthed. Then, shaking his fist at the youngster,
he came a step nearer, saying:
“An’ is it yersilf I see a-sittin’ up there in yer illigince, an’ me
runnin’ me legs arf me ter search the town fer ye, ye schmall bit av a
divil, that has run away twinty times within the past tin days! Faith
I’ve a mind ter shake the head arf ye fer the thrubble ye’ve put upon
me! An’ yer mither a-screechin’ an’ a-screamin’ that ye’re drownded
entirely in the river beyant, an’ fer gettin’ out half the town ter
search it fer ye! Arrah, now! Come out av that, an’ let me--Ah! what
shall I do wid ye at all, I dunno!” and, reaching over the wheel, the
irate Irishman lifted the child out with not the gentlest hand, she
protesting and screaming that she wanted to “wide home with the nice
young lady dat fised her out of the brook.”
“An’ will ye look at the young lady, ye young limb o’ Satan! See the
sthate ye’ve been after puttin’ hersilf an’ her kerrege in! Ah! Miss
Denise, an’ it’s a shame, so it is, the dhirt that’s from hid ter ind
av yer little wagon.”
“Never mind the mud, Michael. I don’t care about that, for John will
soon brush it all out. But who on earth is that child? I thought I knew
everybody in Springdale, but I have never seen her before. I thought I
should never get her home, because I could not get her to say a single
thing when I asked her name, but that maybe it was Lilly, and then she
always added, oh, taint it, taint it, till I knew less than before she
began to tell it.”
Over Michael’s broad face a smile began to spread itself, till it
well-nigh reached from ear to ear, and then, becoming aware of his
rudeness, he put his hand over his mouth to suppress the guffaw that
_would_ come.
“Oh! Oho! Oho!” cried Michael, spasmodically, his face puckered up as
though he were going to sneeze. “Is that what she towld ye? Will I iver
hear the bate o’ that! Faith, tis no wonder ye couldn’t make head or
tail av it. Shure, she is master’s sister’s choild what is a-visitin’
him fer the last tin days, an’ runnin’ arf iviry blessed one av those
tin, wid me chasin’ after her till me legs is worn out. ’Tis Taintit
her name is, Mabel Lilly Taintit. Her mother is Mr. Wilson’s sister.”
“Well, it is no wonder I didn’t understand,” cried Denise, as she
joined in the laugh, and then turned Ned’s head toward home, as Michael
lifted up his charge and turned toward theirs, asserting as he departed
that “afther this it’s tied up ye’ll be fer sertain.”