A WILD MARCH MORNING.
Josephine was half-asleep. A woman would have thought about her fatigue
and sent her early to bed. “Uncle Joe” thought of nothing now save the
array of common and uncommon names in the city directory. He counted
and recounted the “Smiths,” “Smyths,” and “Smythes,” and jotted down
his figures in a notebook. He copied, also, any address of any Smith
whose residence was in a locality which he considered suitable for
relatives of his small guest. He became so absorbed in this study that
an hour had passed before he remembered her, and the extraordinary
quiet of her lively tongue.
Josephine had dozed and waked, dozed and waked, and dreamed many dreams
during that hour of silence. Her tired little brain was all confused
with the weird pictures of tortured men gazing at her from the trunks
of gnarled trees, and thoughts of a myriad of uncles, each wearing
eyeglasses, and sitting with glistening bald head beneath a brilliant
light. The light dazzled her, the dreams terrified her, and the little
face that dropped at length upon the open page of the great folio was
drawn and distressed.
“For goodness sake! I suppose she’s sleepy. I believe that children
do go to bed early. At least they should. If I’m to be a correct sort
of ‘uncle,’ even for one night, I must get her there. I wonder how!”
considered the gentleman.
The first thing was to wake her, and he attempted it, saying:
“Josephine! Josephine!”
The child stirred uneasily, but slumbered on.
“Uncle Joe” laid his hand upon her shoulder rather gingerly. He was
much more afraid of her than she could ever be of him.
“Miss Josephine! If you please, wake up.”
She responded with a suddenness that startled him.
“Why--where am I? Oh! I know. Did I go to sleep, Uncle Joe?”
“I should judge that you did. Would you like to go to bed?”
“If you please, uncle.”
He smiled faintly at the odd situation in which he found himself,
playing nurse to a little girl. A boy would have been less
disconcerting, for he had been a boy himself, once, and remembered his
childhood. But he had never been a little girl, had never lived in a
house with a little girl, and didn’t know how little girls expected to
be treated. He volunteered one question:
“If somebody takes you to your room, could you--could you do the rest
for yourself, Josephine?”
“Why, course. I began when I was eight years old. That was my last
birthday that ever was. Big Bridget was not to wait on me any more
after that, mamma said. But she did. She loved it. Mamma, even, loved
it, too. And nobody need go upstairs with me. I know the way. I
remember it all. If-- May I say my prayers by you, Uncle Joe? Mamma”--
One glance about the strange room, one thought of the absent mother,
and the little girl’s lip quivered. Then came a second thought, and she
remembered her promise. She was never to cry again, if she could help
it. By winking very fast and thinking about other things than mamma and
home she would be able to help it.
Before he touched her shoulder to wake her, Mr. Smith had rung for
Peter, who now stood waiting orders in the parting of the portière,
and beheld a sight such as he had never dreamed to see in that great,
lonely house: Josephine kneeling reverently beside his master’s knee,
saying aloud the Lord’s Prayer and the familiar “Now I lay me.”
Then she rose, flung her arms about the gentleman’s neck, saw the
moisture in his eyes, and asked in surprise:
[Illustration: “NOW I LAY ME.”]
“Do you feel bad, Uncle Joe? Aren’t you happy, Uncle Joe? Can’t I
help you, you dear, dear man?”
The “dear” man’s arms went round the little figure, and he drew it
close to his lonely heart with a jealous wish that he might always
keep it there. All at once he felt that he hated that other unknown,
rightful uncle to whom this charming “parcel” belonged, and almost he
wished that no such person might ever be found. Then he unclasped her
clinging arms and--actually kissed her!
“You are helping me very greatly, Josephine. You are a dear child.
Peter will see that your room is all right for the night. Tell him
anything you need and he’ll get it for you. Good-night, little girl.”
“Good-night, Uncle Joe. Dear Uncle Joe. I think--I think you are just
too sweet for words! I hope you’ll rest well. Good-night.”
She vanished through the curtains, looking back and kissing her
finger-tips to him, and smiling trustingly upon him to the last. But
the old man sat long looking after her before he turned again to his
books, reflecting:
“Strange! Only a few hours of a child’s presence in this silent place,
yet it seems transfigured. ‘An angel’s visit,’ maybe. To show me that,
after all, I am something softer and more human than the crusty old
bachelor I thought myself. What would her mother say, that absent,
perfect ‘mamma,’ if she knew into what strange hands her darling had
fallen? Of course, my first duty to-morrow is to hunt up this mislaid
uncle of little Josephine’s and restore her to him. But--Well, it’s my
duty, and of course I shall do it.”
The great bed in the guest room was big enough, Josephine thought, to
have held mamma herself, and even big Bridget without crowding. It was
far softer than her own little white cot in the San Diegan cottage, and
plunged in its great depths the small traveller instantly fell asleep.
She did not hear Peter come in and lower the light, and knew nothing
more, indeed, till morning. Then she roused with a confused feeling,
not quite realizing where she was or what had happened to her. For a
few moments she lay still, expecting mamma’s or big Bridget’s face to
appear beneath the silken curtains which draped the bed’s head; then
she remembered everything, and that in a house without women she was
bound to do all things for herself.
“But it’s dreadful dark everywhere. I guess I don’t like such thick
curtains as Uncle Joe has. Mamma’s are thin white ones and it’s always
sunshiny at home--’xcept when it isn’t. That’s only when the rains
come, and that’s most always the nicest of all. Then we have a dear
little fire in the grate, and mamma reads to me, and big Bridget bakes
and cooks the best things. We write letters to papa, and mamma sings
and plays, and--it’s just lovely! Never mind, Josephine. You’ll be back
there soon’s papa gets well again, and Uncle Joe was sort of cryey
round his eyes last night. Mamma said I was to be like his own little
daughter to him and take care of him and never make him any trouble. So
I will.”
There was no prouder child in that city that morning than the little
stranger within its gates. She prepared her bath without aid, brushed
her hair and dressed herself entirely. It was true that her curls did
not look much as they did after mamma’s loving fingers had handled
them, and the less said about those on the back of her head the better.
Nor were the buttons in the right places to match the buttonholes, and
the result was that the little frock which had always been so tidy hung
at a curious angle from its wearer’s shoulders.
But who’d mind a trifle like that, in a beginner?
Not Uncle Joe, who saw only the fair front of his visitor, as she ran
down the hall to meet him, emerging from his own chamber. Indeed, he
was not now in a mood to observe anything save himself, though he
answered Josephine’s gay “Good morning” with another rather grimly
spoken.
The child paused, astonished. There were no longer tears in his
eyes, but he looked as if a “good cry” would be relief. His face was
distorted with pain, and every time he put one of his feet to the floor
he winced as if it hurt him. He seemed as dim and glum as the day
outside, and that was dreary beyond anything the little Californian had
ever seen. The snow had fallen steadily all the night, and the avenue
was almost impassable. A few milk-carts forced their way along, and a
man in a gray uniform, with a leather bag over his shoulder, was wading
up each flight of steps to the doorways above them and handing in the
morning mail.
“Aren’t you well, Uncle Joe? Didn’t you rest well?” she inquired
solicitously.
“No, I’ve got that wretched old gout again,” he snapped.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a horrible, useless, nerve-racking ‘misery’ in my foot. It’s
being out in that storm yesterday, and this senseless heap of snow on
the ground. March is supposed to be spring, but this beastly climate
doesn’t know what spring means. Ugh!” he groaned.
“Doesn’t it?” she asked, amazed by this statement.
“Hum, child. There’s no need of your repeating everything I say in
another question. I’m always cross when I’m gouty. Don’t heed me. Just
enjoy yourself the best you can, for I don’t see how I’m to hunt up
your uncle for you in such weather.”
Josephine thought he was talking queerly, but said nothing; only
followed him slowly to the breakfast room, which Peter had done his
best to make cheerful.
Mr. Smith sat down at table and began to open the pile of letters which
lay beside his plate. Then he unfolded his newspaper, looked at a few
items, and sipped his coffee. He had forgotten Josephine, though she
had not forgotten him, and sat waiting until such time as it should
please him to ask the blessing.
For the sake of her patient yet eager face, Peter took an unheard-of
liberty: he nudged his master’s shoulder.
“Hey? What? Peter!” angrily demanded Mr. Smith.
“Yes, suh. Certainly, suh. But I reckon little missy won’t eat
withouten it.”
It was almost as disagreeable to the gentleman to be reminded of his
duty, and that, too, by a servant, as to suffer his present physical
pangs. But he swallowed the lesson with the remainder of his coffee,
and bowed his head, resolving that never again while that brown-eyed
child sat opposite him should such a reminder be necessary.
As before, with the conclusion of the simple grace, Josephine’s tongue
and appetite were released from guard, and she commented:
“This is an awful funny Baltimore, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Do you always state a thing and then ask it?” returned
Uncle Joe, crisply.
“I ’xpect I do ask a heap of questions. Mamma has to correct me
sometimes. But I can’t help it, can I? How shall I know things I don’t
know if I don’t ask folks that do know, you know?”
“You’ll be a very knowing young person if you keep on,” said he.
“Oh! I want to be. I want to know every single thing there is in the
whole world. Papa used to say there was a ‘why’ always, and I like to
find out the ‘whys.’”
“I believe you. Peter, another chop, please.”
“With your foot, Massa Joe?” remonstrated the butler.
“No. With my roll and fresh cup of coffee,” was the retort.
“Excuse me, Massa Joe, but you told me last time that next time I was
to remember you ’bout the doctor saying ‘no meat with the gout.’”
“Doctors know little. I’m hungry. If I’ve got to suffer I might as well
be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I’ve already eaten two chops. Another,
Peter, and a juicy one.”
The order was obeyed, though the old negro knew that soon he would be
reprimanded as much for yielding to his master’s whim as he had already
been for opposing it.
“Doctor Mack knows everything,” said Josephine.
“Huh! Everybody belonging to you is perfect, I conclude,” said the
host, with some sarcasm.
“I don’t like him, though. Not very well. He gives me medicine
sometimes, though mamma says I don’t need it. I’m glad he’s gone to
eat those philopenas. Aren’t you?”
“I don’t care a rap where he goes,” answered Uncle Joe testily.
Josephine opened her eyes to their widest. This old man in the soiled
green dressing-gown, unshaven, frowning and wincing in a horrible
manner, was like another person to the handsome gentleman with whom
she had dined overnight. He was not half so agreeable, and-- Well,
mamma often said that nobody in this world had a right to be “cross”
and make themselves unpleasant to other people. She was sorry for poor
Uncle Joe, and remembered that he had not had the advantage of mamma’s
society and wisdom.
“Uncle Joe, you look just like one of them picture-men that was shut up
in a tree trunk. You know. You showed them to me last night. I wish you
wouldn’t make up such a face,” she observed.
Mr. Smith’s mouth flew open in sheer amazement, while Peter tossed his
hands aloft and rolled his eyes till the whites alone were visible. In
all his service he had never heard anybody dare to speak so plainly to
his master, whose temper was none of the mildest. He dreaded what would
follow, and was more astonished than ever when it proved to be a quiet:
“Humph! Children and fools speak truth, ’tis said. You’re a sharp-eyed,
unflattering little lady, Miss Josephine; but I’ll try to control my
ugly visage for your benefit.”
The tone in which this was said, rather than the words themselves, was
a reproof to the child, who immediately left her place, ran to her
uncle’s side, and laid her hand pleadingly upon his arm.
“Please forgive me, poor Uncle Joe. I guess that was saucy. I--I
didn’t think. That’s a way I have. I say things first, and think them
afterward. I guess it isn’t a nice way. I’ll try to get over that. My!
won’t that be fun? You trying not to make up faces, and I trying not to
say wrong things. I’ll tell you. Have you got a little box anywhere?”
“Yes, I presume so. Go eat your breakfast, child. Why?”
“’Cause. Did you know there was heathens?” she asked gravely.
“I’ve heard so. I’ve met a few.”
“You have? How delightful!” came the swift exclamation.
“I didn’t find it so. Why, I say?” he inquired.
“Each of us that forgot and broke over must put a penny, a cent, I
mean, in the box. It must be shut tight, and the cover gum-mucilaged
down. You must make a hole in the cover with your penknife, and when
you screw up your face, just for nothing, you put a penny in. I’ll
watch and tell you. Then I’ll put one in when I say wrong things. I’ve
a lot of money in my satchel. Mamma and Doctor Mack each gave me some
to buy things on the way. But there wasn’t anything to buy, and I can
use it all, only for Rudanthy’s new head. Can we go buy that to-day,
Uncle Joe?”
“No. Nobody knows when I’ll get out again, if this weather holds. The
idea of a snowstorm like this in March. _In March!_” angrily.
“Yes, suh,” responded Peter respectfully, since some reply seemed
expected.
“Here, boy. Carry my mail to the library. Get a good heat on. Fetch
that old soft shawl I put over my foot when it’s bad, and, for goodness
sake, keep that child out of the way and contented, somehow.”
Josephine had gone to the window, pulled the draperies apart, and was
looking out on a very different world from any she had ever seen. White
was every object on which her eye rested, save the red fronts of the
houses, and even these were festooned with snowy wreaths wherever such
could find a resting place. The scene impressed and almost frightened
her; but when, presently, it stopped snowing, and a boy ran out from a
neighboring house, dragging a red sled through the drifts, her spirits
rose. It had been one long, long week since she had exchanged a single
word with any child, and this was an opportunity to be improved. She
darted from the room, sped to the hall door, which stood ajar for
Lafayette’s convenience in clearing off the steps, and dashed outward.
Her feet sank deep into the cold, soft stuff, but she didn’t even
notice that, as she cried, eagerly:
“Little boy! Oh, little boy! Come here quick! I want somebody to play
with me.”
A moment’s pause of surprise, that a child should issue from “old Mr.
Smith’s,” and the answer came cheerily back:
“Wish I could; but I’m going sledding.”
“I’ll go with you! I never went a-sledding in all my”--
The sentence was never finished, for somebody jerked her forcibly back
within doors just as a great express wagon crawled to a pause before
the entrance.