Then my father took me in his arms, and carried me upstairs to my
mother.
"Grandmother has been making her tell the truth," he said, ruefully.
"She hasn't any sympathy with Rhoda's imagination."
So even in those early days I found that I had an imagination, just as I
had a chair with long legs, and a blue plate, and a silver mug. It was a
sleeping imagination as yet, for though I had a beautiful blue plate
with a blue bridge over a blue and white stream, I never imagined until
after years that those tiny figures on the bridge were lovers running
away from a cruel parent. Then the bridge was the spot beyond which the
gravy must not flow. When it swept over the boundary which I marked for
it, I pounded the table with impotent rage, and would eat no more
dinner.
"If she were a child of mine," grandmother said, sternly, "she should
eat her dinner. It is simply preposterous that her temper should be
allowed to go unchecked. What will she be when she grows up!"
"I don't think that Rhoda has a bad temper," my mother replied,
plaintively. "It's only that she's the soul of order."
My mother always discovered an excuse that fitted my case, and that
critical grandparent of mine found the ground swept from beneath her
feet. I was the soul of order. She had seen me herself with my large
basketful of toys wending wearily about the house. It was a large
basket, a beautiful yellow one with a red handle, and when I began to
play my things came out of it, and when I was through playing they went
into the yellow basket again. I had a rag doll of a pleasing
appearance, named Arabella, and a black woolly creature, which to the
eye of affection was a dog, and some of the small bits of carved wood
with which a wooden Noah intended to replenish his earth. I played the
most delightful games with these toys, and my mother played with me like
another small child.
It was with her that I lived most of my life. We were together, not only
during the day, but also at night, for when I woke up hours after I had
been put in my crib, she was always sitting in the lamplight, sewing or
reading, or else quietly watching the fire on the hearth. There was a
cheerful glitter from the brass andirons and fender, and on a shelf
above a silver candle-stick with crystal pendants threw out rosy lights.
I did not know any of these wonderful things by name, but I vaguely
enjoyed their engaging sparkle, and would lie feeling very safe and
warm, with my eyes on the central figure which came and went, now large
and mother-like, now lost in the misty depths of slumber.
Strong as was my feeling of proprietorship in that crib, however, there
came a dreadful night when I awoke to find myself lost. I was in a new
bed. I was in grandmother's big bed, where there was a faint smell of
lavender which I liked without knowing why. Grandmother herself had me
in her arms and was soothing me.
"Hush-a-by, baby," she said, in quite a new tone, somewhat like a
grandmother, but more like an angel. "Hush-a-by, baby, in the treetop."
I sat up and looked about for the shining fender. It was gone! The fire
was gone, and my mother was gone!
"I want my mother," I said, sternly.
"Rhoda can't have mother now. Rhoda must stay with grandma," the dulcet
voice went on. "Grandma's own little Rhoda!"
"But I want my mother," I cried, all the sternness breaking into sobs.
Grandmother was evidently alarmed. She rocked me softly, she gave me
hurried sips of water, and, at last, she emptied the peppermint drops,
not one by one as heretofore, but, lavishly, in dozens, into my hand. I
felt a little more comfortable. The fender was a pretty thing to watch,
but peppermint drops were peppermint drops. I went to sleep in my
grandmother's arms quite calmly, while with tender touches she dried my
eyes and smoothed my hair.
"Bless the child!" I heard her say, in the pause between dreams.
It was rather a shock, perhaps, to wake up in that big bed next morning
and be dressed by grandmother. She was very awkward at it, as if she
had forgotten how small garments were constructed, and how hard it was
for arms to go into sleeves. I was preternaturally good, but even when I
slipped my hand into hers to go downstairs I was meaning to desert her
when mother came into sight.
We went down to breakfast, very clean and neat, with short, sober steps
that suited both our gaits. Father came hurrying to meet us and was
quite overjoyed to see me; but, although I searched in all the closets
and behind the doors, there was no mother in any of the rooms. When no
one was looking at me I started upstairs to hunt for her. Grandmother
called me back in that old tone which must be obeyed, which had the ring
of authority and catechism in it.
"Stay here, Rhoda," she said, decisively. "You are not to go out of this
room."
Then with cautious steps she mounted up herself, passing into the
forbidden regions, and father and I were all that were left of the
circle about the table, which was usually so gay with talk and
merriment. To my eyes father had a look as if he, too, were frightened.
"Never mind, father," I said, eagerly. "Rhoda won't run away."
He took me up with rather an apologetic laugh.
"Little daughter," he said, in a tender way, "did I ever tell you about
the big bird?"
"No, father," I answered, quickly.
"Not about the time when it brought me Rhoda?"
I stared at him with delighted eyes. Evidently I was going to hear
something of great importance, something which concerned me alone.
"Three years ago," my father began, in an easy fashion, "I thought I'd
like a little daughter. So I sent a letter to a beautiful big bird
which lives far away where the blue sky comes down to the ground. The
bird has lots of little babies--girl babies and boy babies--on the shore
of a lake where the sun shines day and night. She's a very good-natured
bird, and sometimes when she hears of a father who's lonely because he
hasn't any children, she'll put a little baby under her wing, and fly on
over the beautiful country until she comes to its father's house. Now
the bird knew that I was very lonely, because I had sent her a letter,
so one day she picked up little Rhoda out of a lily leaf, and came
flying along--flying along--"
"I remember! I remember!" I cried, clapping my hands. "She put me under
her wing, and the feathers did tickle so!"
My father stopped to laugh; but in a moment he continued his narrative.
"She came flying along straight into the garden where I was walking
about. She put you down--"
"And you said, 'Is this my little Rhoda?' and I said, 'Yes, father!'"
"Just so."
"Now tell it all over again, father," I demanded in delight.
My father laughed and hugged me closer. He still had that apologetic
look on his face, and if I had been a little older and a little wiser, I
would have known that my father was trying very hard to break something
to me.
"She has a great many babies," he said at last, in an uneasy tone. "More
than she knows what to do with. Yesterday I wrote her to send me another
Rhoda."