Maida was grown up. There was no doubt about that. She could go
anywhere she liked--she could do anything she chose--but it occurred to
her there wasn’t any place she wanted to go--nor anything she cared to
do. So she yawned.
Her sensations were most peculiar. She could recollect just how she
felt when she was a little girl,--and she realized that she felt very
different since the great change had taken place,--and to be perfectly
frank, she wasn’t sure that she liked the new feeling. Of course, one
always hates to admit one has been wrong or made a mistake. Still--when
one is sure of it--why it’s lots better to come out plump and confess
it at once. Try it yourself next time and see.
Well, it seemed to Maida as she sat there and tried to puzzle it out
that there were two Maidas hidden away in her. One was the little girl
she used to be, who always had such lots of fun and who enjoyed a good
time. A little girl who liked everybody and whom everyone liked, but
this little girl was hidden away down deep out of sight--bound some
way so she couldn’t move. The other Maida was older and wiser, didn’t
care to have a good time--that is, the _old_ kind of a good time--and
was all stiff and starchy;--and really it’s terrible to have to feel
dignified, and to have to do things you don’t care to do just because
people expect them of you.
Of course she made a mistake in not wishing her dress to be grown up
too. Still, she reflected, it wouldn’t take long to set _that_ right
when once she returned home. Home--that was the thing--_how_ was she to
get home?
She realized with great embarrassment--to the new Maida--that for a
grown-up lady to sit about under the North Pole with a lot of strangers
was a most improper proceeding. Did you ever have one of those dreams
in which you found yourself out on the street in a nightie and a fur
cap--or in a ballroom in a bathing-suit? And you couldn’t get away, and
you couldn’t get clothes--my! it was just dreadful!--and you woke up
blushing for shame?--That’s _just_ the way Maida felt.
She didn’t know where the dressmakers lived, and she had no chaperone
nor any place to go and shut herself in and say “not at home” if anyone
called.
Finally she decided to write a letter home asking them to send for
her--so she spoke to a boy who chanced to be passing--one of the very
boys, by the way, who had teased the Page to sell her.
It gave her a most unpleasant sensation to note that her voice sounded
different,--oh, so different; and she also noticed that while she
wanted to be kind and friendly her tone was haughty, and her attitude
severe.
The old Maida, the little girl, would have smiled and asked “Say,
boy, where’s the post-office?” Then the boy would have grinned, and
stood first on one foot, then on the other, and mauled his cap about,
blushing a bit--then he’d have told her.
That’s the way she wanted to speak. That’s what she meant to say. But
_this_ is what the boy heard: “Come here, boy! Is there a post-office
in this outlandish place? If there is, I wish you’d tell me where to
find it.”
And she _had_ to say it that way; she couldn’t help herself.
“Decidedly,” she said to herself (that is the little girl Maida said
’way down deep), “if I had met myself grown up when I was a child--I
would never have wished to be _me_.” This may seem very obscure, but if
you puzzle it out you’ll see it meant just what she thought.
But the boy--well, he was rather naughty. He simply made a face at
her and ran away. Just then Santa Claus bustled up to her with Billy
following him. Both had recovered their clothes and thrown away the old
rags--so Billy looked just as nice and Santa Claus just as jolly and
rubicund as ever.
“Well,” chuckled the sprightly old fellow, “I see you’ve had your wish.”
Maida wanted to be nice--but alas--the “little girl” was hidden down
so deep she just _had_ to step back and look at him coldly, saying,
“Excuse me, I haven’t the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
How Santa Claus did stare!
So Billy came up to her, his friendly face shining with joy. “Hello!”
he said.
The child Maida was just aching to take his hand, and cling to him, but
before it could happen another cold speech fell from her lips.
“If you wish to converse with me,” she observed haughtily, “please have
some one give you an introduction, for, of course, you understand no
grown-up young lady can speak to a total stranger.”
Think of it! To Billy, too! My goodness, but he was hurt!
“Don’t you know Santa Claus, Maida?” asked the old fellow, greatly
troubled.
She looked at him coldly. “Oh, I know,” she said, “you’re that amusing
old myth I met when I was a little girl, long ago.” (And it did seem
long ago.)
“A myth!” gasped Santa Claus. “Me? Don’t you believe in _me_?”
“You must consider me very unsophisticated,” answered Maida. (And the
big word didn’t bother her a bit now that she was a grown-up.) “You
don’t exist. You couldn’t exist. You’re a figment of the imagination.”
There--it was out! She didn’t believe in Santa Claus! Yet there he
stood before her. Clearly one had to lose much to be grown up.
Poor Billy made one more effort. “Why, you and I used to be such great
friends,” he said, smiling sadly at Maida.
She tossed her head. “That was long ago,” she answered, “when I was a
little girl. Only fancy, I used to like you very much then. So stupid
of me, wasn’t it, for you’re only an apprentice, and, of course, you
don’t move in our set.” How she hated herself, as she said that.
Kokomo approached her, saying something particularly nice in
Eskimo, but Maida waved her aside. “I couldn’t be seen talking to a
squaw--really you know,” she sniffed; then as Kokomo stepped back
staring at her in open-eyed astonishment, she added, “Horrid creatures
Indians, aren’t they? Such a bore----”
“Oh, little girl, hear me,” said Santa Claus, gravely, and his voice
sounded, oh so serious. “Through your lost years listen to Santa Claus,
the children’s friend. Was it for _this_ you gave up your childhood?”
The little Maida was just dancing away down deep inside. “I don’t know
why,” she answered, “but there’s something in your voice that hurts me.
You’re making me cry.” Sure enough, she was crying, and every tear was
washing away a grain of the grown-up Maida.
Then the little girl Maida triumphed and bubbled over. “Save me! Save
me!” she screamed; “I don’t want to be grown up. I can’t have any fun
and people don’t like me. I’m afraid. Oh, somebody, please wish me a
little girl.”
It was many years before Maida was a grown-up lady again.