And she said: “I like fairy-tales.” And then, redundantly: “I like
stories about fairies. Fairy stories are nice.”
It was no little pleasure to eat after nine hours doing without, and
to dwell on beauty such as this after so many days of absence from the
museums of art and the curio shops. Every time she brought me warm
biscuits or refilled my tumbler, she brought me pretty thoughts as well.
She was nine years old, she told me. Her eyes were sometimes brown,
sometimes violet. Her mouth was half a cherry, and her chin the
quintessence of elegance. Her braids were long and rich, her ribbons
wide and crisp.
Maidenhood has distinct stages. The sixteenth year, when unusually
ripe, is a tender prophecy. Thirteen is often the climax of astringent
childhood, with its especial defiance or charm. But nine years old is
my favorite season. It is spring in winter. It is sweet sixteen through
walls of impregnable glass. This ripeness dates from prehistoric days,
when people lived in the tops of the trees, and almost flew to and from
the nests they built there, and mated much earlier than now.
As I finished eating, the mother brought the little brother into the
room saying, “Gretchen-Cecilia, watch the baby.” Then she smiled on me
and said: “When she washes the dishes, you can hold him.”
She had on a fresh gingham apron, blue, with white trimmings. I judged
by the squeak, she had changed her shoes.
“Who’s coming?” I asked, when the mother had left.
“Papa. He goes around the state and digs oil wells, and is back at the
end of the week.”
I was washing the dishes when Grandma came in. She frowned me away from
the dishpan. She said, “Gretchen-Cecilia, wipe the dishes.”
The baby howled on the floor. I was not to touch him. Gretchen-Cecilia
tried to comfort him by saying, “Baby, dear dear baby; baby, dear dear
baby.”
“Do you realize, young man,” asked Grandma, “that I, an old woman, am
washing your dishes for you?”
I was busy. I was putting my wet stockinged feet on a kindling-board in
the oven, and my shoes were curling up on the back of the stove.
“Young man--”
“Yessum--”
“_Where’s your wife?_”
I replied, “I have no wife, and never did have.” Then I ventured to
ask, “May I have the hand of Gretchen? I want some one who can wipe
dishes while I wash them.”
“But I’m not grown up,” piped the maiden. It seemed her only objection.