THE PUMPKIN HOOD.
There was a great bustle next morning at the Queen Anne cottage. Right
after breakfast grandpa Rowe went away on the train; next Lovisa
appeared in the Braxton stage; and, lastly, the older children had to
be helped off to school, for the fall term began that day.
"I tell you, Mrs. Rowe, it does seem good to see live children again,"
said Lovisa, standing in the doorway, with Weezy clinging to her gown.
Kirke was frisking down the path on his toes: but stout little Molly
walked with great dignity, in order not to spill the small phial of
soap-suds strapped between her books.
It was the fashion among the girls to carry soap-suds to school for
washing their slates, and Molly had stained hers a lovely scarlet by
soaking in it a scrap of red flannel.
"Turk go to _'c'ool_, Molly go to _'c'ool_, Weezy must go to _'c'ool_,"
wailed the little sister, in a spasm of lonesomeness.
"Tut, tut! Weezy wants to see what I have brought her in my bag, that's
what Weezy wants," said Lovisa, taking the child up-stairs to give her
a great scalloped seed-cake.
"Funny old cooky, all _wiggly_," cried Weezy, sitting down upon the
broad window-seat to eat it.
Pretty soon she spied a big pumpkin hood bobbing along under the
window. A hood could not travel about of itself; she knew that, and she
pattered down to see what was beneath it.
"Her's _keer_ old girl, mamma: got _pincoossun_ on," cried she,
capering into the sitting-room.
"Ask Lovisa to give her something to eat," said mamma, who had seen the
beggar-maid pass.
Weezy went skipping back. A few minutes later Mrs. Rowe found her
perched on the kitchen-table, looking on with great round eyes while
the young stranger munched a slice of bread and butter. In all her
little life Weezy had never before seen so droll a figure. No wonder
she called the child's head-covering a "pincushion." It certainly did
not look like a hood. It was made of rusty black cloth, and stuffed
with cotton, which was bursting through in twenty places.
"'Ittle dirl's dess all _waggetty_," chirped Weezy, pointing to the
rents in the child's gown.
"What is your name, my child?" asked Mrs. Rowe kindly.
"Ellen Nolan," answered the little vagrant; and she went on to say that
her father was dead, and her mother had "taken the sickness."
"Where do you live?" continued Mrs. Rowe.
"Big tenement t'other end of Spruce Street," said Ellen, with her mouth
full.
"_Sp'uce Stweet._ Funny to say _Sp'uce Stweet_," put in Weezy,
listening with great interest.
"I'll find something for your mother," said Mrs. Rowe, taking the
child's basket into the pantry. Next moment Weezy frisked after her.
"Her hasn't _no playsings_, mamma. Can't her have Weezy's wabbit?"
"If my little daughter gives away her rabbit, I'm afraid she will cry
for it by and by," said Mrs. Rowe, opening the cake-chest.
"No, no. Weezy won't _ky_."
"Well, well; run and get the rabbit, dear," said her mamma; and Weezy
brought the neglected animal, that had been lying under the piano on
its cotton-flannel back.
"Now _you's_ got a _playsing_," said she benevolently, crowding it into
Ellen Nolan's basket, between a biscuit and a doughnut.
Then, attracted by some musicians in the street, she scampered back to
the sitting-room to join in the tunes.
"O mamma!" cried she, hopping up and down in ecstasy, "hear the banders
blowin' moosic, and Weezy singin' what they blows."
Having watched the players out of sight, she ran into the kitchen
to entertain her guest; but the funny little beggar-maid had
disappeared,--basket, "playsing," and all.
"Her's tooken away Weezy's _wabbit_," sobbed the resentful baby,
slipping through the door left ajar by Ellen. "Her's a _nugly_, naughty
_sing_."
In three seconds more she was out of the yard.
"Him was Weezy's wabbit. 'Ittle dirl mustn't keep Weezy's wabbit
_allus_," grumbled she, stubbing her indignant toes over the pavement.
Meanwhile Mrs. Rowe had been hastening to wind the spools in her
work-basket before her little daughter should return to tangle the
threads. Presently she was struck by the unusual stillness of the
house, and went to see what the child was doing.
"I took it for granted she was with you," said Lovisa, appearing from
the basement, where she had been at work ever since Ellen Nolan left.
"Isn't she up-stairs?"
"No: I've looked everywhere; and the porch-door is open. I'm afraid she
has run away."
"I'll cut across to Cedar Street," said Lovisa, running out bareheaded.
Seizing her bonnet, Mrs. Rowe hurried over to Mrs. Nye's, in the hope
that Weezy might be with Kisty; but none of the family had seen her
that day. More and more alarmed, Mrs. Rowe hastened on down the street.
Passing a group of laborers digging by the roadside, she remembered
with a shudder that new water-pipes were being laid throughout the
city. What if her baby had fallen into one of the deep trenches opened
for these? Entering the nearest drug-store, she telephoned to her
husband that Weezy was missing; and then, at a loss what further to do,
ran home again to learn the result of Lovisa's search.
All this time Weezy was enjoying the world. April child that she was,
she soon forgot her tears; and catching sight of a small white dog,
with long silky hair hanging over its eyes, she trudged along behind
him, talking to herself.
"You's a keer doggy: ought to be _'shame_," said she. "Hair all snarled
up!"
Following the dog into Main Street, she stared with happy wonder at
the gay shops on either side. A gaudy barber's pole especially pleased
her.
"You's got pitty scarf," said she, hugging it, and trying to pick off
the painted stripes.
"My stars alive, what little creetur is this!" exclaimed a policeman,
spying her.
"I's papa's 'ittle Fidget," said she promptly, pleased with his uniform.
"And where does your father live?"
"Way, way off."
"Yes, yes; but what street does he live on, little girl?"
"_Sp'uce Stweet_," answered Weezy, suddenly remembering the funny name
Ellen Nolan had spoken.
"Spruce Street? You don't mean to say you've walked bareheaded all the
way from Spruce Street?" asked the puzzled policeman. "Why, it's more'n
a mile!"
"Weezy don't want to be talkin', talkin' all a time!" cried she
pettishly; "'tisn't _plite_. That's what my mamma says!"
"Think a minute, little miss. Don't you live on Pine Street?"
"Weezy _says_ her lives on Sp'uce Stweet," cried the little witch
impatiently.
"Oh, so your name's Weezy! What's the rest of it?"
"I's Weezy Wozy," said she, playing with a nutshell in the gutter.
"_Woolsey_, she means, I guess," mused the man. "I'll take her to Mr.
Woolsey's on Spruce Street. He has children."
Stepping upon a horse-car that moment passing, he soon reached the
house, with Weezy in his arms.
"Here's where your father lives," said he, ringing the bell.
"No, _him don't_," cried Weezy, nibbling a peppermint-drop given her by
the policeman.
That instant she caught a glimpse of Ellen Nolan plodding homeward
with her heavy basket.
"Her's got Weezy's _wabbit_," cried she, springing down and running
toward her, while the policeman followed with long strides.
"Do you know where this child lives, my girl?" asked he, laying his
hand on Ellen's shoulder. "If you'll show me the way to her house, I'll
give you a dime."
"Yes, I'll show you soon's I've left my basket," said she, rushing in
at a neighboring door, and coming out empty-handed.
"You's got a _playsing_, hasn't you?" prattled Weezy, as she walked
along with the policeman and Ellen. "Weezy don't want _wabbit_ now.
Weezy's got _pepnits_."
And when, a few moments later, her mother clasped her to her heart
with tears of joy, Weezy said, "Poor mamma! pepnits make mamma feel
_besser_." And that was all the little gypsy realized about the
anxiety she had caused.
Then papa and Lovisa hurried in, followed by Kirke and Molly fresh from
school; and Ellen Nolan afterwards told her mother that she never saw
the like of the fuss made over that baby.
As to Ellen herself, she went home the proudest girl on Spruce Street;
for Mrs. Rowe had given her a neat gingham dress of Molly's, and a
brown straw hat with "a stick-up feather, _fire red_."