THE ILL-MANNERED CHILD
O wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursel's as ithers see us.
--_Burns._
There lived of yore a saintly dame,
Whose wont it was with sweet accord
To do the bidding of her Lord
In quaintly fashioned bonnet
With simplest ribbons on it.
"I won't have ribbon loops, I tell you," exclaimed the child. "I want
an owl's head and I'm going to have it."
"Why, my dear, the ribbon is ever so much prettier," urged the mother
soothingly. "An owl's head is too old a trimming for your hat, dear.
It wouldn't do at all. Here, select some of this nice ribbon."
"Didn't I say I wouldn't have it?" answered "dear" pettishly, as she
reached into another box containing an assortment of wings, quails,
tails, and parts of various birds jumbled up together. Picking out a
pair of blackbird's wings she placed them jauntily against the rim of
an untrimmed hat which her mother held.
"There, that looks nice," was her comment. "If I can't have an owl's
head I'm going to have these wings."
Her mother mildly assured her that the ribbon was more suitable only to
be met with the reply: "You can wear it yourself then, for I sha'n't
wear it."
This shocking disrespect caused two old ladies who were pricing hat
pins to turn quickly and view the offender.
"Goodness gracious!" ejaculated one of them, drawing a deep breath.
"If that youngster belonged to me for about twenty minutes, wouldn't I
give her something wholesome that she'd remember? I'd take the
tantrums out of her in short order."
"She deserves it, sure," said her companion. "But the mother is more
to blame than the child for letting it grow up with such abominable
manners. I dare say the woman at first thought it was cute and smart
in the little thing, and now she can't help herself. La, sakes! just
listen to that." She re-adjusted her spectacles and gazed with added
interest at the pair in altercation.
With the hat poised on her finger the milliner was bending smilingly
toward the little girl who was giving her order in a very peremptory
tone.
"I want those wings put on my hat. I won't wear it if you trim it only
in ribbon."
The mother seemed a little embarrassed as she told the milliner that
she supposed the hat would have to be trimmed in the way Elsie wanted
it.
"Humph! I knew the child would get what she wanted," observed the old
lady who had first spoken. "I felt all the time that the mother would
have to give in. What on earth did she let her take those big black
wings for? Two of those little yellow sugar birds would have been
better for a child's hat. The idea of letting a youngster rule you
that way! My!" and then she took another deep breath. "She needs a
trouncing, if ever a child did," and with that she and her friend
resumed their shopping.
The cloud had vanished from Elsie's face, and all was serene again.
Her mother seemed somewhat ashamed of her little girl's bad manners, as
was shown by her apologetic air when she observed to the trimmer that
Elsie was as queer a child as ever lived. When she set her mind on a
thing, it was so hard for her to give it up.
They waited for the new hat to be trimmed, and on its completion Elsie
seized it and put it on her head, much against her mother's wishes, who
preferred not to have it displayed until the next day at Sunday-school;
but the insistence of the child was so vehement that again the mother
thought it wise to yield, and Elsie tripped off in triumph to the other
end of the store with the black wings showing out stiffly on each side
of her head. The mother remarked, with forced playfulness, as she
watched her, "Elsie's a g-r-e-a-t girl, I tell you. You can't fool
her."
[Illustration: The Baltimore Oriole.]
As the trimmer returned the boxes to the shelves, I overheard her
mutter, "Oh, yes, Elsie is a g-r-e-a-t girl, a perfect little jewel, so
well-behaved. Her polite manners show her careful home training; quite
a reflection on her dear mamma." But from the peculiar laugh she gave
I didn't believe she really meant it as praise.
When the nights grew longer and the store was closed for the evening,
the milliner and her husband usually spent an hour or two in the back
room looking over the newspaper which came every day from the city.
The man always turned at once to the wheat reports, and the price of
wool, which he read aloud to his wife, though I could see she did not
care very much to hear about them; but she hunted first for the fashion
notes and the bargains in millinery before she read the other news.
One night while thus engaged she suddenly exclaimed:
"Here's something that is bound to hurt trade."
By trade she meant the millinery business.
"What is it?" her husband inquired, looking over the top of the page he
held.
"Why, here's a lot of women who have been meeting in a convention in
Chicago and getting excited and losing their heads, and passing some
ridiculous resolutions."
"What kind of resolutions?" he inquired.
"Oh, they've been denouncing the fashion of wearing birds. They belong
to a society called--called--something or other, I forget what. Let me
see," and she ran her eye down the column. "Oh, yes, here it is. They
are members of the O'Dobbin society, and they got so wrought up on the
subject they took the feathers out of their hats right there in the
meeting and vowed never to wear bird trimming again. Well, if such
outlandish notions spread, you'll soon see how it will injure the
millinery trade."
"Pshaw! you needn't worry. The protests of a handful of fanatical
women can't do your business any harm," he answered carelessly, and
turned to his paper again.
She shook her head. "I'm not so sure of that. I think there are some
women in this very town just cranky enough to endorse such foolishness.
There's Mrs. Judge Jenkins for one. I've never yet been able to sell
her a real stylish hat. She won't wear birds, because she thinks it's
wicked. I hope to goodness she won't consider it her duty to start an
O'Dobbin society here."
From the depths of my heart I blessed those kind women who had shown
their disapproval of the nefarious traffic in bird life, and had
pledged themselves to our protection. True, they were but a handful
compared with the millions whom the god Fashion still held in bondage,
only a handful who were fighting the good fight; but would not the
influence of their noble example and their pledge of mercy be spread
abroad till all the women in Christian lands would join in the crusade
against the wrong?
In my joy at the thought I chirped so loudly that the lady looked up
from her reading. She seemed suddenly to recall a thought as she
glanced at my cage, for she said, "I must not forget to ask Katharine
if she can take the bird home with her next week and keep it while
Polly is gone to the country. I'll be sure to forget to feed it.
Anyway, I haven't time to bother with it."
The day before Polly left for the country I heard her inquiring for the
"Daily," which I remembered was the name they called the newspaper
containing the account of the noble city ladies who had pledged
themselves not to wear us any more.
"Tuesday's paper?" her mother asked; she was busy at the time fastening
a poor, little, mute swallow on a rich hat. "Perhaps it was thrown
behind the counter. Did you want it for any special purpose?"
Polly replied that she wanted to read something in it.
"Well, it is probably torn up by this time," said her mother. "If it
isn't on the table in the back room, or on the shelf by the window, or
behind the counter, I'm sure I don't know where it is."
The young clerk who was arranging the goods on the counter had heard
Polly's inquiry, and she now asked if it was the newspaper that told
about the women who thought it wrong to wear birds. It seemed to me
that Polly hesitated a little as she replied that that was the very
paper she wanted.
"Goodness, child, is that the piece you want to read?" Her mother's
voice sounded rather sharp, as if she were vexed. "I hope that subject
hasn't turned your head too," but she said no more, for just then a
customer coming in, she laid down her work and went forward to greet
her.
Polly looked troubled, but she confided to Miss Katharine that she
wanted very much to read the account.
"Fortunately I cut the piece out to give to my sister. I knew she'd be
interested in it, but I have always forgotten to give it to her," said
the clerk. She seemed to be very much in earnest as she continued, "I
do wish something could be done to save the birds. If women must have
feathers, why can't they content themselves with wearing ostrich tips
and plumes? There is nothing cruel or wicked in the way they are
procured."
She opened the little satchel hanging at her belt, and from it took a
folded slip of paper which she handed to Polly, telling her she might
have it to read, and when she had finished it to please bring it back
to her. Polly thanked her, and ran away to a quiet corner of the back
room, where I saw her slowly reading the clipping as she rocked herself
in her pretty birch chair. When she had read it through, she sat for
some time looking very thoughtful. At last she rose and carried the
paper back to Miss Katharine, halting a moment as she passed my cage,
to whisper softly:
"Dickey Downy, you dear little fellow, I'm going upstairs right this
very minute to take the feathers off my best Sunday hat and I'm never,
never going to wear birds any more."