IN THE HOME OF THE MONSTER
"For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all
thy ways."--Ps. xci, 11
But the little girl was neither so young nor so untutored as her
diminutive size indicated.
"My name is Mollie and I'm six years old, going on seven," she told
Maria in clear, precise English. "My Mama went to sleep and did not
wake up and a big man came and said he was my Papa. He looked at my
Mama and cried. Then lots of folks came and everybody went riding in
car'ges. But only my Papa came back. And after while a lady came
and my Papa told me to go with her and be a good girl.
"And that lady took me away, way off in a real train. And after we
came to a big, big place with lots of seats in it she told me to sit
still while she talked to a cross man with a funny mustache. And
that man said she was a fool and to give the money to him. And the
lady said, 'her Papa will come back.' But the man said, 'Papas who
go 'sploring don't come back.'
"Then they talked some more and the lady kept saying, 'but the bank
will send it--they'll send it every year as long as she's alive.'
And the man said, 'She'll be alive all right.' Then the lady gave
him some papers and told me to come along. And we went to a funny
house where there was a yellow kitten with white and black spots on
it. I liked that kitty. I wanted to stay there. But the lady told
me to go with the cross man. And he took me in a car'age for a long
ride. And when we got out of the car'age there was another man.
This little boy was with him and the little boy was afraid, but I
wasn't afraid. The man made me take hold of his other hand and we
walked and walked and walked until we came here. Does that man live
here? I don't like this place. I want to go home."
Maria stood aghast. Never in her life had she listened to so much
conversation at one time. Not half of it percolated her dull wits.
Luckily Peter had gone direct to the hog pen, for as yet he was
without an assistant in the discharge of his farm duties.
The small boy destined to fill that position stood mutely by the side
of his chattering companion while she unfolded the most recent events
of her short life. He was a mild-faced, dreamy-eyed lad with a mass
of fair hair. How he had fallen into the clutches of Peter Grimes
was to him a mystery beyond solution. Though his lips quivered he
set his teeth and bravely forced back the tears that welled to his
eyes at sight of the bleak, shadow-filled kitchen into which Maria
now led them.
With a howl of rage a fat child, twice the size of little Mollie,
rose from the floor and struck wildly at the newcomers with his pudgy
fists.
"Hyar, yo' Ambrose, quit that," drawled Maria, stretching forth an
arm meant to be restraining but which proved no more effectual than a
shadow. "This hyar boy an' girl has come ter play with yo'." The
howl of rage suddenly changed to a bawl of anguish. Maria gathered
her son to her flat bosom. "What is ut, honey," she asked. "Did a
bee sting yo'?"
The fat child blubbered something which the mother interpreted as,
yes. She sought vainly for the bee.
"Ambrose es only four years old," she explained to the other
children. "He's powerful peart fer his age. Yo' young uns better be
keerful how yo' all treat him or his paw'll skin yo' alive. G'long
now. Set up ter th' table an' eat yore cawn pone. Then yo' better
git ter bed es fast es yo' kin."
The blue-eyed boy's name was Stephen.
Mollie tried to repeat it after him and failed. Her little tongue,
otherwise fluent, found the strange name so difficult to pronounce
that she gave it up.
"I talk just as you do--I splutter," she cried, laughing at her
efforts.
"But--but----" commenced the lad.
"There you go, again," Mollie exclaimed, triumphantly pointing her
diminutive finger at him. "Can't you say anything without
spluttering?"
"Y-y-yes," replied Stephen, hesitatingly, "I-I-I can if folks give me
time to think first. But--but when they make me hurry I can't
s-s-seem to think quick."
"And I always want people to answer me quick," the little girl
declared, adding with uncanny perception of what would be required on
the Grimes farm, "and I reckon you'll have to answer quick here when
he and she ask you something so you'll always splutter, won't you?"
"I-I-I reckon so," answered the boy.
"Well, then, it's all right," she returned in a judicial manner.
"I'll just call you 'Splutters' and I won't have to try to say
Ste-Ste-Stephen at all."
From that day little Mollie never addressed Stephen by any other name
than "Splutters." Grimes and Maria frequently called him 'Steve' but
during the ensuing years every child that came to the farm learned to
know the wistful, thoughtful boy by the purely descriptive
appellation of "Splutters."
Now, at Maria's bidding, he took Mollie's hand and led her to the
untidy table. As they sat there, weary and homesick, eating the corn
pone placed before them, Maria left the house to carry a bucket of
food to the hogs. Ambrose followed at her heels. In silence Mollie
watched them depart. Then she leaned forward and peered into
Stephen's face.
"I'll tell you what made him holler so," she whispered, raising her
wee forefinger knowingly. "But you mustn't tell."
"I won't," promised the boy, his eyes opening wide with expectancy.
Mollie's own eyes snapped and twinkled. "I pinched him," she
whispered triumphantly. "He didn't know it was me. Neither did she.
If he hits me again, I'll pinch him again. I don't like him. I
don't like anything here. Let's run away and go home."
The newly christened Splutters shook his head.
"I-I-I haven't any home," he said. "A nice lady I lived with said I
was going to be her little boy--but she got hurt and had to go away.
She said I was going to a school where there were lots of little
boys--and I could read books--all I pleased. I don't guess--she
knows--I've come here. That's why I didn't want to come with the
man. I wasn't afraid. I just knew--it was some kind--of a mistake."
The boy was speaking slowly and thoughtfully, weighing every word.
It was his natural reserve and cautiousness, not an impediment of
speech which caused him to stammer when pressed to speak without
previous reflection.
But Stephen as well as Mollie was precocious. His thoughtful eyes
and full brow denoted unusual reasoning faculties. Habitually he
spoke little, yet nothing seemed to escape his observation. He would
absorb a sentence, an act or a scene and mentally puzzle upon it for
hours, even days, until he arrived at what seemed to him a
satisfactory solution or explanation.
At his mention of books little Mollie beamed. "Can you read?" she
asked eagerly. "I can say my letters and spell lots of words. My
Mama taught me."
"Huh! Of course I can read," answered the boy. "I've got picture
books in my bag the man took. There it is by the door. I'll show
them to you."
He ran to where Grimes had deposited the bag containing his small
personal belongings and, finding it unlocked, quickly had it open.
Within were garments neatly folded and a letter to be delivered to
the master of the school to which, it stated, one Mr. David Connors
had volunteered to conduct him.
Stephen took up the envelope in which the letter was enclosed and
fingered it thoughtfully. Grimes had not yet opened the bag so he
did not know about the letter nor the books. The boy recalled that
his benefactress had entrusted the letter to him for delivery.
Perhaps Mr. Grimes would destroy it. The thought stimulated him to
prompt decision.
There was a ripped place in the lining of his jacket. He had
discovered it when he lost two pennies inside the lining and had a
hard time getting them out. By stretching the opening in the lining
he managed to insert the letter. He paused for a moment and knit his
brows after the manner of a mature person in deep reflection. Then
he reached again into the traveling bag and drew forth a small
photograph in a wrapper of tissue paper. This also he quickly thrust
into the lining of his coat. The several picture books he secreted
in his cap.
"I don't guess he'll find them," he whispered to Mollie. "I'll show
them to you some other time. I reckon we'd better keep quiet now.
They're coming."
The Grimes trio were indeed coming. Ambrose, the fat, over-grown
four-year-old, stubbed his bare foot on a stone and bawled anew. His
father struck him over the head with the back of one of his huge
hands. The child yelled louder. His mother picked him up and,
bending under the heavy burden, struggled with him, heedless of his
kicks and blows, until she reached the house. In silence Mollie and
Stephen stood hand in hand and watched the entrance of the family
into the kitchen.
That kitchen was also the living room. The house, however, was a
trifle more pretentious than the average domicile found in such
remote parts. It boasted a narrow, steep, inside stairway leading to
two sleeping rooms above. They were small, low rooms with sloping,
unplastered ceilings but there was a window. In this respect, also,
the house was superior to the average dwelling. Most of them had
only a heavy, wooden-shuttered opening in the living room.
The larger of the two upper rooms provided sleeping accommodations
for the Grimes family. Into the smaller room Maria conducted the
little "furriners", as she termed the two unfortunate children
consigned by fate to her ignorant care. Both were too overcome with
fatigue to take much interest in preliminaries. Maria had never
heard of night garments. She never mentioned undressing or bathing.
"Take off yer shoes and lay down thar," she drawled, throwing some
ragged bedding on the floor, "an' doan yo' make no noise or Pete'll
be up hyar and whoop yo' both."
"Who's going to hear me say my prayers!" asked Mollie, her large eyes
wide with astonishment.
Maria paused and turned as she was about to depart.
"Who larned yo' any pra'rs!" she asked, curious to know what
"furriners" in the cities taught their children.
"My Mama," replied Mollie, her lips quivering at the mention of the
loved name. "She taught me lots of things. She told me about God
and the little sparrows that he takes care of. She said God always
looks after little children, but I reckon He lost sight of me
somewhere to-day. I don't like this place. I want to go home."
The voice of Maria's master sounded from below stairs.
"Maria!" Peter shouted. "Leave them brats alone. Go fetch Ambrose.
He's headin' fer the bog."
Maria shuffled away.
For a moment Mollie was inclined to weep. Stephen comforted her.
"I know some prayers, too," he whispered. "If they are the same as
yours we'll say them together."
It was a sociable idea and appealed to Mollie at once. With
attention wholly diverted from their forlorn surroundings the two
motherless children seated themselves on the floor, removed their
shoes and stockings, lay down on the ragged bedding and sleepily
"matched prayers."
"I can say 'Our Father'," whispered Mollie.
"So can I," whispered Stephen in reply.
Together they murmured the prayer.
"I did know 'Mother dear, Oh, pray for me, and never cease thy care,'
but the lady I lived with didn't know it, so I forgot it," said
Stephen regretfully.
"I don't know that one, but I know a song about an angel. It goes
like this: 'Dear angel, ever at my side, how loving thou must be, to
leave thy home in heaven to guard, a little child like me.'"
Stephen's sub-conscious mind stirred a faint recollection of the
past. "I've heard that before, but I can't remember where," he
whispered cautiously, as voices sounded from the kitchen. "I reckon
we'd better go to sleep before they find us awake. With that angel
here we don't need to be afraid."
"No," returned Mollie, "but my Mama said I must always ask God for
anything I wanted, so I am going to ask Him to send somebody to take
me home."
She folded her tiny hands, closed her tired eyes and, while her soft
lips murmured their pathetic appeal, drifted off into the land of
dreams.
Stephen, comforted by the thought of a guardian angel, was already
asleep.