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A LITTLE MAID IN TOYLAND
[Illustration: THE SLEIGH DREW UP BESIDE A LARGE SHEET OF CLEAR GLASS,
LIGHTLY SPRINKLED WITH SNOW POWDER SO THAT IT WAS NOT TOO SLIPPERY FOR
ROLLER SKATING]
A LITTLE MAID IN TOYLAND
by
ADAH LOUISE SUTTON
Author of
“Mr. Bunny, His Book,” “The Teddy Bears,” etc.
[Illustration]
Pictured by A. Russell
The Saalfield Publishing Company
Chicago Akron, Ohio New York
Made in U. S. A.
Copyright, 1908
By
The Saalfield Publishing Company
CHAPTER I
THE WALKING HOUSE
THE doll’s house stood in the most convenient corner of the nursery,
having, like Noah’s dove, found rest only after a somewhat varied and
tempestuous experience. Sally had not been at all able to make up her
mind just what location suited her best, and the house had patiently
traveled, or, in other words, had been propelled by the united efforts
of Bob and Sally—“The corporal pushed and the sergeant pulled”—the one
dragging, the other pushing, from corner to corner and from side to
side of the spacious room. Not a piece of furniture but had been moved
out of the way that the doll’s house might stand in its place, and was
as methodically moved back again when the building resumed its travels.
Never did it remain in one place for longer than twenty-four hours,
much to the disgust and terror of its inmates, who were frequently
joggled from their chairs and tilted out of bed as their domicile
renewed its pilgrimage. They concluded by naming it the Walking House,
which certainly seemed appropriate enough under existing circumstances.
Finally, when the Walking House had traveled around the nursery,
Sally decided that the very best position was the one it had at first
occupied, a sunny spot between two windows, and at night lighted from
above by a bracket from which depended four electric bulbs. To be sure,
the dresser, to which this post of vantage had originally belonged,
became very sulky at being deprived of her rights, and purposely
twisted off one of her castors while in transit to the other side of
the room. But as nothing in the world was easier than for John, the man
of all work, to screw another castor in its place, nobody really minded
it the least little bit.
A great man by the name of Ruskin once said that “Architecture is
frozen music.” Now the architecture of the Walking House was no
description of music at all, and I have no doubt that the gentleman who
admired Grecian architecture would have held up both hands in dismay at
mentioning architecture and the Walking House in the same breath. Truth
to tell, the building had been designed by Sally herself, and had been
elaborated by John’s handy fingers from a number of good-sized boxes
procured from the grocery man. The boxes diminished in size as the
house soared upward, the whole terminating in a peaked roof under whose
roomy gable Sally had planned and consummated an attic for her beloved
dollies that would have put to shame the garret of many a grown-up
housekeeper.
All the rest of the rooms had been papered by the children’s deft
fingers in neat little designs procured from Mr. Brouse, the gentleman
with a wooden leg who lived three blocks away and then around the
corner and up one flight, as he himself was wont to describe it. And
although he really did live up one flight as far as eating and drinking
and sleeping were concerned, the shop was in reality only up one
step—that most fascinating shop, from whose mysterious recesses might
be procured rolls of the most delightful wall paper, which was surely
invented and designed simply and solely for the decoration of doll
houses.
Mr. Brouse was an old soldier, according to his own account, and indeed
was familiarly addressed as “Captain” by his intimate cronies. He had
lost a limb in a mysterious battle, the name of which, as spoken by
himself, Sally had never been able to discover in any one of several
histories of the United States through which the little girl had
patiently toiled in search of it. However, Sally had unbounded faith
in her hero, for such she considered him to be; and her admiration
was returned with interest by the retired “Captain” who, with his own
hands—that, as Bob seriously remarked, had once wielded a sword—carried
to the nursery a large pail of paste and assisted in hanging the wall
paper, and many a difficult corner he had arranged with neatness and
despatch. He had even tacked up tiny mouldings made from the slender
strips of which wee gilt frames are fashioned. In fact, his work was
a masterpiece of art, and Sally appreciated it hugely, making a shy
return in the way of fat pin-cushions and sprawling penwipers, and even
a gorgeous silk needlebook, mysterious of design and most difficult of
access as regarding certain wabbly strings and buttons, which, when
once fastened, could never be persuaded to open themselves again, and
behind whose secret fastnesses the needles comfortably and aimlessly
rusted.
So much for the papering of the rooms. When it came to finishing the
attic, why, that was quite another thing. Sally calmly but firmly
declared that it _must be plastered_, and plastered it was, but
altogether without the assistance of Mr. Brouse, who declared that
matters were growing altogether too complicated for him. And he
politely retired, forgetting his pail of paste, however, into which
nurse presently fell, much to the detriment of her best gloves which
she had put on in order to appear unusually fine on her afternoon out.
Nothing daunted, Sally flew to the cellar and routed out John, who was
taking a bit of a nap in a cosy little den he had fixed for himself
in the furnace room. John was surely an exception to most people, who
are usually cranky at being wakened. He bobbed up smiling, and readily
agreed to attend to plastering the attic of the Walking House. And in
a much shorter time than Sally had really expected, the whole job was
finished and the little room with its peaked ceiling looked exactly
like a really truly attic.
[Illustration: The “Captain” assisted in hanging the wall paper.]
The house, as before described, was built of good-sized boxes, neatly
put together with narrow cleats to hide the joinings, and the whole was
painted a delicate gray, only the sloping roof being moss green. John
had covered this roof with tiny shingles, and the effect of the whole
was extremely attractive. It was divided in the middle by a broad hall,
at the back of which was a wide stairway. John had rather demurred at
the stairway, foreseeing that the making of it would be a troublesome
piece of business. But Sally had stoutly insisted thereon, for how on
earth could a doll descend from upper stories to lower without stairs?
She would be forced to hurl herself out of the front windows,—called
so by compliment since the whole front of the house stood open in one
generous space—a proceeding extremely detrimental to china limbs. Sally
was a matter-of-fact little soul, albeit she possessed a brilliant
imagination. But she certainly builded better than she knew when she
insisted on that staircase. John, as usual, gave in and the stairs
became an accomplished fact.
The lower floor of the Walking House consisted of a spacious
dining-room on one side of the hall and a kitchen and laundry on the
other. On the next floor were the drawing-room, library and music-room.
On the third floor were three bed-rooms and a bath-room, and above all,
the attic.
On one side of the house and running across the front on the lower
floor, John had built a veranda, on which a doll might enjoy coolness
and comfort on the hottest of days, while all the way up the other side
ran a tiny fire-escape, which finally disappeared in a scuttle in the
sloping roof.
Bob, just then much interested in electricity, wired the whole house
and connected it with the electric light chandelier which hung above
it, so that every room was brilliantly lighted with electricity, and an
electric bell at the front door gave notice whenever a friendly doll
dropped in for afternoon tea.
Sally’s one regret was that there was no cellar. The child had dreamed
of a wee furnace and a fruit closet filled with jars of jam and jelly
put up over a tiny electric stove. But the stove had been utterly
impracticable, John had declared that it would be impossible to dig
down through the floor of the room for the cellar, and practical nurse
had pointed out the fact that nowhere could one find preserve jars tiny
enough for the purpose. So Sally had given up the project, not without
a sigh however. She had very, very realistic ideas, had Sally.
One of her pet projects, confided to her governess, Miss Palmer, not
without misgivings, had been to build a revolving house, one that
could be “swung around” as the child, knowing nothing of pivots, had
expressed it. This idea she had conceived to be applied not only to
doll houses, but to real dwellings.
“You could always have the sunshine wherever you wanted it,” she had
explained. “And wouldn’t it be fine to have it always right here in the
nursery?”
Miss Palmer had hesitated a little before replying. Indeed Sally’s
theories often caused her to hesitate. However, she finally explained
that the idea would be quite impossible, as all buildings of any size
require a firm foundation. And she thereupon proceeded to explain the
nature of the pivot, considering the opportunity a very fitting one.
“Besides,” she concluded, “wouldn’t it be very selfish for us to keep
all the sunshine on our side of the house all the time? What would
become of Grandma and Bob?”
Sally was quiet for a moment, thinking.
“I didn’t mean to be selfish,” she whispered, snuggling her peachy
cheek against her teacher’s shoulder.
“I’m sure you didn’t, my dear,” returned Miss Palmer.
And so it fell out that no architect, not even John, was ever requested
to draw plans for a house that might revolve on a pivot.