The Little Girl Who Should Have Been a Boy
There was so much time for the Little Girl who should have been a
Boy to ponder over it. She was only seven, but she grew quite skilful
in pondering. After lessons--and lessons were over at eleven--there
was the whole of the rest of the day to wander, in her little,
desolate way, in the gardens. She liked the fruit-garden best, and
the Golden Pippin tree was her choicest pondering-place. There was
never any one there with her. The Little Girl who should have been a
Boy was always alone.
"You see how it is. I've told you times enough," she communed with
herself, in her quaint, unchildish fashion. "You are a mistake. You
went and was born a Girl, when they wanted a Boy--oh, my, how they
wanted a Boy! But the moment they saw you they knew it was all up
with them. You wasn't wicked, really,--I _guess_ it wasn't wicked;
sometimes I can't be certain,--but you did go and make such a silly
mistake! Look at me,--why didn't you know how much they wanted a Boy
and _didn't_ want you? Why didn't you be brave and go up to the Head
Angel, and say, 'Send me to another place; for pity sake don't send
me _there_. They want a Little Boy.' Why didn't you--oh, why didn't
you? It would have saved such a lot of trouble!"
The Little Girl who should have been a Boy always sighed at that
point. The sigh made a period to the sad little speech, for after
that she always sat in the long grass under the Golden Pippin tree
and rocked herself back and forth silently. There was no use in
saying anything more after that. It had all been said.
It was a great, beautiful estate, to east and west and north and
south of her, and the Boy the Head Angel should have sent instead of
the sad Little Girl was to have inherited it all. And there was a
splendid title that went with the estate. In the sharp mind of the
Little Girl nothing was hidden or undiscovered.
"It seems a pity to have it wasted," she mused, wistfully, with her
grave wide eyes on the beautiful green expanses all about her, "just
for a mistake like that,--I mean like _me_--too. You'd think the Head
Angel would be ashamed of himself, wouldn't you? He prob'ly is."
The Shining Mother--it was thus the Little Girl who should have been
a Boy had named her, on account of her sparkling eyes and wonderful
sparkling gowns; everything about the Shining Mother sparkled--the
Shining Mother was almost always away. So was the Ogre. Somewhere
outside--clear outside--of the green expanses there was a gay,
frivolous world where almost always they two stayed.
The Little Girl called her father the Ogre for want of a better name.
She was never quite satisfied with the name, but it had to answer
till she found another. Prob'ly ogres didn't wear an eye-glass in one
of their eyes, or flip off the sweet little daisy heads with cruel
canes, but they were oldish and scare-ish, and of course they
wouldn't have noticed you any, even if you were their Little Girl.
Ogres would have prob'ly wanted a Boy too, and that's the way they'd
have let you see your mistake. So, till she found a better name, the
Little Girl who had made the mistake called her father the Ogre. She
was very proud and fond of the Shining Mother, but she was a little
afraid of the Ogre. After all, one feeling mattered about as much as
the other.
"It doesn't hurt you any to be afraid, when you do it all alone by
yourself," she reasoned, "and it doesn't do you any good to be fond.
It only amuses you," she added, with sad wisdom. As I said, she was
only seven, but she was very old indeed.
So the time went along until the weeks piled up into months. The
summer she was eight, the Little Girl could not stand it any longer.
She decided that something must be done. The Shining Mother and the
Ogre were coming back to the green expanses. She had found that out
at lessons.
"And then they will have it all to go over again--all the
miser'bleness of my not being a Boy," the Little Girl thought, sadly.
"And I don't know whether they can stand it or not, but _I_ can't."
A wave of infinite longing had swept over the shy, sensitive soul of
the Little Girl who should have been a Boy. One of two things must
happen--she must be loved, or die. So, being desperate, she resolved
to chance everything. It was under the Golden Pippin tree, rocking
herself back and forth in the long grass, that she made her plans.
Straight on the heels of them she went to the gardener's little boy.
"Lend me--no, I mean give me--your best clothes," she said, with
gentle imperiousness. It was not a time to waste words. At best, the
time that was left to practise in was limited enough.
"Your _best_ clothes," she had said, realizing distinctly that
fustian and corduroy would not do. She was even a little doubtful of
the best clothes. The gardener's little boy, once his mouth had shut
and his legs come back to their locomotion, brought them at once. If
there was a suspicion of alacrity in his obedience towards the last,
it escaped the thoughtful eyes of the Little Girl. Having always been
a mistake, nothing more, how could she know that a boy's best clothes
are not always his dearest possession? Now if it had been the
threadbare, roomy, easy little fustians, with their precious
pocket-loads, that she had demanded!
There were six days left to practise in--only six. How the Little
Girl practised! It was always quite alone by herself. She did it in a
sensible, orderly way,--the leaps and strides first, whoops next,
whistle last. The gardener's little boy's best clothes she kept
hidden in the long grass, under the Golden Pippin tree, and on the
fourth day she put them on. Oh, the agony of the fourth day! She came
out of that practice period a wan, white, worn little thing that
should _never_ have been a Boy.
For it was heart-breaking work. Every instinct of the Little Girl's
rebelled against it. It was terrible to leap and whoop and whistle;
her very soul revolted. But it was life or death to her, and always
she persevered.
In those days lessons scarcely paid. They were only a pitiful
makeshift. The Little Girl lived only in her terrible practice hours.
She could not eat or sleep. She grew thin and weak.
"I don't look like me at all," she told herself, on a chair before
her mirror. "But that isn't the worst of it. I don't look like the
Boy, either. Ugh! how I look! I wonder if the Angel would know me? It
would be kind of dreadful not to have _anybody_ know you. Well, you
won't be _you_ when you're the Boy, so prob'ly it won't matter."
On the sixth day--the last thing--she cut her hair off. She did it
with her eyes shut to give herself courage, but the snips of the
shears broke her heart. The Little Girl had always loved her soft,
shining hair. It had been like a beautiful thing apart from her, that
she could caress and pet. She had made an idol of it, having nothing
else to love.
When it was all shorn off she crept out of the room without opening
her eyes. After that the gardener's little boy's best clothes came
easier to her, she found. And she could whoop and leap and whistle a
little better. It was almost as if she had really made herself the
Boy she should have been.
Then the Shining Mother came, and the Ogre. The Little Girl--I mean
the Boy--was waiting for them, swinging her--his--feet from a high
branch of the Golden Pippin tree. He was whistling.
"But I think I am going to die," he thought, behind the whistle. "I'm
certain I am. I feel it coming on."
Of course, after a little, there was a hunt everywhere for the Little
Girl. Even little girls cannot slip out of existence like that,
undiscovered. The beautiful green expanses were hunted over and over,
but only a gardener's little boy in his best clothes, whistling
faintly, was found. He fell out of the Golden Pippin tree as the
field-servants went by, and they stopped to carry his limp little
figure to the gardener's lodge. Then the hunt went forward again. The
Shining Mother grew faint and sick with fear, and the Ogre strode
about like one demented. It was hardly what was to be expected of the
Shining Mother and the Ogre.
Towards night the mystery was partly solved. It was the Shining
Mother who found the connecting threads. She found the little, jagged
locks of soft, sweet hair. The Ogre came upon her sitting on the
floor among them, and the whiteness of her face terrified him.
"I know--you need not tell me what has happened!" she said, scarcely
above a whisper, as if in the presence of the dead. "A door in me has
opened, and I see it all--_all_, I tell you! We have never had
her,--and now, dear God in heaven, we have lost her!"
It was very nearly so. They could hardly know then how near it came
to being true. Link by link they came upon the little chain of
pitiful proofs. They found all the little, sweet, white girl-clothes
folded neatly by themselves and laid in a pile together, as if on an
altar for sacrifice. If the Little Girl had written "Good-bye" in her
childish scrawl upon them, the Shining Mother would not have better
understood. So many things she was seeing beyond that open door.
They found the Little Girl's dolls laid out like little, white-draped
corpses in one of her bureau-drawers. The row of stolid little faces
gazed up at them with the mystery of the Sphinx in all their
glittering eyes. It was the Shining Mother who shut the drawer, but
first she kissed the faces.
After all, the Ogre discovered the last little link of the chain. He
brought it home in his arms from the gardener's lodge, and laid it on
the Little Girl's white bed. It was very still and pitiful and small.
The took the gardener's little boy's best clothes off from it and put
on the soft white night-gown of the Little Girl. Then, one on one
side and one on the other, they kept their long hard vigil.
It was night when the Little Girl opened her eyes, and the first
thing they saw was the chairful of little girl-clothes the Shining
Mother had set beside the bed. Then they saw the Shining Mother.
Things came back to the Little Girl by slow degrees. But the look in
the Shining Mother's face--that did not come back. That had never
been there before. The Little Girl, in her wise, old way, understood
that look, and gasped weakly with the joy and wonder of it. Oh, the
joy! Oh, the wonder!
"But I tried to be one," she whispered after a while, a little
bewildered still. "I should have done it, if I hadn't died. I
couldn't help that; I felt it coming on. Prob'ly, though, I shouldn't
have made a very good one."
The Shining Mother bent over and took the Little Girl in her arms.
"Dear," she whispered, "it was the Boy that died. I am glad he died."
So, though the Ogre and the Shining Mother had not found their Boy,
the Little Girl had found a father and mother.