BETTER THAN KITTENS.
Yes, they seemed just as glad to see me as if I was the Queen of
England, and had been gone all the days of my life. Father,
especially, looked really overjoyed.
"How they must have missed me!" thought I, springing out of the coach
and falling headlong over old Towser. "O, please catch that kitten."
Ned seized the empty basket and whirled it over his head.
"Who cares for such trash? We've got something in the house that's
better than sixteen kittens."
"Rabbits?"
"Come and see," said 'Ria, giving me one hand, while she stroked
Silvertoes with the other.
"O, I don't believe it's anything. Is it wax beads? You haven't asked
where I came from, nor whose house I staid to. There was a woman with
gold beads, and he called her Harret, and--"
"Yes, I knew they'd take good care of you," said cousin Lydia.
"And where d'you s'pose I found my kitty?" But no one seemed to hear.
I had expected to be pelted with questions as to my eating, drinking,
and sleeping, and to be pitied for the late distress of my mind. But
no one showed the slightest curiosity; they all seemed in a great
hurry to get into the house.
I stopped talking, and walked along with all the dignity of an
offended pea-chicken. There might or might not be something worth
going to see; but I was resolved to keep perfectly cool. Up stairs?
Well, up stairs then, or up in the attic, or out on the roof,--it made
no difference to me. I could keep from asking questions as long as
they could, if not longer.
O, mother's room, was it? Well, I'd been wondering all the while where
mother was, only I wouldn't ask. Dear me, was she sick? "So glad to
see little Madge," she said, kissing me over and over again. "And what
a hard time I had had."
There, _she_ knew how I'd been suffering, and was just going to ask me
some questions, when that troublesome Ned whisked me right up in his
arms, and whirled me round towards the fireplace.
"If you've got any eyes, Maggie, look there."
My eyes were good enough, if that was all; but what was that woman
sitting there for? I thought she had a heap of woollen clothes in her
lap.
Father took it.
"Come here, Totty-wax."
I put out my hands, and felt something as soft as kittens.
"Presto, change!" cried Ned, and pulled down the top of the blanket.
There lay a little, wrinkled, rosy face, a baby's face, and over it
was moving a little wrinkled hand.
I jumped, and then I screamed; and then I ran out of the room and back
again.
"O, O, O! Stop her! Hold her!" said Ned.
But they couldn't do it. I rushed up to the baby, who cried in my
face.
"What IS that?" said I; and then I burst into tears.
"Your little sister," said father.
"It isn't," sobbed I, and broke out laughing.
Everybody else laughed, too.
"Say that again," said I.
"Your little sister," repeated father.
"Does Fel know it? And it _isn't_ Ned's brother?" seizing father by
the whiskers. "And he can't set her on the wood-pile! Came down from
heaven. What'm I crying for? Came down particular purpose for me."
"Yes, Totty-wax," said father, smiling, with a tear in the corner of
his eye,--
"'Twas for my accommodation
Nature rose when I was born."
"Has this child had any supper?" asked mother, in a faint voice from
the bed.
"No, _she_ can't eat," laughed I; "her face looks like a roast apple."
"Your mother means you, Maggie. You are tired and excited," said
cousin Lydia. "Ruth made cream-cakes to-night."
"But I shan't go, 'thout I can carry the baby. Ned's holding her. She
isn't _his_ brother. I haven't had her in my arms once. How good God
was! O, dear, what teenty hands! She can't swallow 'em, on 'count of
her arms. Sent particular purpose for me--father said so. 'Ria Parlin,
she's nowhere near your age. You have everything, but you can't have
this. She gapes. She knows how to; she's found her mouth; she's found
her mouth!"
And so I ran on and on, like a brook in a freshet, and might never
have stopped, if they had not taken me out of the room, and tied me in
a high chair before a table full of nice things. And Ruthie stood
there with a smile in her eyes, and said if I spoke another word, I
shouldn't see baby again that night.
I couldn't help pitying Ned. I wasn't sure I had treated him just
right. I had prayed, off and on, as much as two or three weeks in all,
that God would send me a sister, and of course that was why she had
come. I didn't wish Ned to know this; he would be so sorry he hadn't
thought of it himself, and prayed for a brother. I told Fel about it,
and she didn't know whether it was quite fair or not. "Yes, it was,
too," said I; for I never would allow Fel the last word. "It was fair;
Ned's older 'n me, and ought to say his prayers a great deal more
_reggurly_."
O, that wonderful new sister! For days I never tired of admiring her.
"Look, mamma! 'Ria, did you ever, ever see such blue eyes?"
And then I sat and talked to the new sister, and asked her
"Where did she get her eyes of blue?"
But she did not answer, as the baby does in the song,--
"Out of the sky, as I came through."
"What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
Some of the starry spikes left in."
"Where did you get that pearly ear?
God spake, and it came out to hear."
Ah! If she could only have talked, wouldn't she have told some sweet
stories about angels?
I couldn't have left her for anything else but that wedding; but
Ruthie promised to take good care of her--and I could trust Ruthie!
Ned wasn't going; there were to be no children but Fel and me. Well,
yes, Gust was there; but that was because he happened to be in the
house. The wedding was in Madam Allen's parlors. _I_ stood up before
the minister, with wax beads on my neck, and white slippers on my
feet. Somebody else stood there, too; for one wouldn't have been
enough. Fel dressed just like me--in white, with the same kind of
beads; only she was pale, and I wasn't, and she looked like a white
rosebud, and I didn't.
We stood between the "shovin' doors,"--that was what Gust called
them,--and there was a bride and bridegroom, too. I nearly forgot
that. I remember lights, and flowers, and wedding cake; and by and by
Madam Allen came along, looking so grand in her white turban, and gave
the bride a bridal rose, but not Fel or me a single bud. Then, when
people kissed the bride, I kissed her, too, and she whispered,--
"Call me aunt Martha, dear."
"O, yes, Miss Rubie," said I; "you are my cousin, aunt Martha."
For I could not understand exactly.
Uncle John hugged me, and said they were all going away in the
morning, he and aunt Martha, and Zed; and then I felt sorry, even with
my wax beads on, and said to father,--
"I tell you what, I love my uncle John _that was_."
No, Fly, he didn't have any horse then called "Lighting Dodger;" but
it was the same uncle John, and aunt Martha is the very woman who pets
you so much, and has that pretty clock, with a pendulum in the shape
of a little boy in a swing.
After that wedding there was a long winter. I went to school, but Fel
didn't. She looked so white that I supposed her mother was afraid she
would freeze. Miss Rubie was gone, and there were no lessons to learn;
but Madam Allen didn't care for that; she said Fel was too sick to
study. Whenever I didn't have to take care of the baby, I went to see
her; but that baby needed a great deal of care! For the first month of
her life I wanted to sit by her cradle, night and day, and not let any
one else come near her. The next month I was willing Ned should have
her half the time; and by the third month I cried because I had to
take care of her at all.