before; and the best of it was, every one joined in them,--moss men and
women, wee moss children, even moss grandfathers and mothers, as gray
as the lichens from which they came. Delightful little folk they were,
so lovely in face, so quaint in dress, so blithe and brisk in spirit,
so wonderful and bewitching altogether that Marnie longed to call her
mother, but did not, lest a word should frighten them away.
Presently she caught the sound of delicate noises, and, listening
intently, she discovered that they were talking of her.
"Ha! ha! isn't this a fine pleasure-ground for us this rainy day!"
cried one merry moss boy, as he paused to settle his pointed cap, after
turning somersaults till he looked like a leaf blown about by the wind.
"Hush, Prance," whispered a pretty little moss girl, with a wreath of
coral in her hair, "you will wake the child if you shout so loud, and
then she will no longer see and hear us, which would be a pity; for we
amuse her, as one may guess by the smile on her face."
Now that surprised Marnie very much, for she was sure she was wide
awake, and would have said so, if she had not remembered that it was
not polite to contradict.
"What shall we do to thank this child for making as a pretty garden?"
said Prance, skipping because he couldn't keep still.
"Let us put her baby-house in order," answered little Trip, who was a
tidy body.
"So we will, and play in it afterward," cried all the moss children,
whisking away to the corner of the nursery where Marnie's toys were
tumbling about. Such busy, helpful little people as they were! and
such wonders as they worked with their fairy fingers! Marnie forgot to
be ashamed of the disorderly baby-house in her delight at the change
they soon wrought.
The boys mended broken chairs and tables, pots and pans, trundled the
small furniture to its proper place, and attended to the wooden cows
and horses in the topsy-turvy barn. The little maids swept and dusted,
put the doll's clothes in order, ran about the kitchen, washing cups
and dishes, or rubbed up the mirrors in the drawing-room, which was a
very fine apartment. Yes, indeed! for the curtains were of red damask,
the sofa had real pillows, a tiny piano tinkled its six notes, and the
centre-table held a vase of elegant wax-flowers, not to mention that
there was a grate, gilt clock, two fine candlesticks, and portraits of
all the dolls painted by mamma.
"There!" said Prance, when not a speck of dust remained: "now things
look as they should, and I hope Miss Marnie will take the hint and keep
her house tidy. Now what shall we play?"
"I've been thinking this would be a nice chance to try living like real
people, as we have often wanted to. Let some be servants, some fine
ladies and gentlemen, and all do as much like these persons in the
house as we can."
As Trip spoke, all the moss children clapped their hands, and skipped
about, crying,--
"We will! we will!"
The dear little sprites had no idea that servants were not as nice
parts to play as master and mistress; so one was Byelow the nurse, and
put on a cap and shawl, and took some very young moss folk into the
doll's nursery to play be the fine people's children. Another was
cook, and clattered the pans about in the kitchen with a big apron on,
and her little dress pinned up. A third was Dimity the maid, very
smart indeed, and full of airs. A stoutish moss boy was coachman, and
began to rub down the painted horses, and furbish up the little
carriages in the stable; while another with plump legs put powder on
his head and played footman.
Prance and Trip took the hardest parts of all, for they said they would
be master and mistress. There was no trouble about clothes, for some
fashion-books lay on the table, and these queer little things only had
to choose what costume they would have, when, lo and behold! there it
was all made and on. Marnie didn't think them half so pretty in the
fashionable finery as in their own simple green suits, and she laughed
heartily at the funny mistakes they made in getting their furbelows and
feathers properly arranged. Poor Prance quite gasped in his little
broadcloath suit as he put on a tiny beaver, smoothed his gloves, and
shouldered a doll's umbrella, saying so like Marnie's papa that she
quite started,--
"Mrs. Prance, I wish to dine at three: don't be behind hand."
"Yes, dear," meekly answered Trip, who had whisked into an elegant
morning-dress and cap, and nodded from the window as Mr. Prance went by
to his office.
"What will you have for dinner, ma'am?" asked Skillet the cook, popping
her head into the parlor where madam was playing read a novel on the
sofa.
"Mercy on us! I'm sure I don't know;" and little Mrs. Prance ran down
to see what there was in the pantry.
Mr. Prance was evidently not a good provider; for all she could find
was a pea which came out of one of the boats, some jelly, sugar, milk,
and cake which Marnie had been playing with, and a whole dinner in
wood, painted brilliantly and stuck on to the dishes.
"It's a rainy day, and no one is likely to come to dinner, so we will
have a pease pudding with jelly, and warm up these dishes, for every
thing is very high,--we must economize," said Mrs. Prance, shaking her
head, just as mamma often did when she visited the kitchen.
"Very well, ma'am," returned Skillet, retiring into the closet to eat
cake and jelly, and drink the milk as soon as her mistress left the
room.
"It's time to dress, I suppose, for some one may call. Get out my blue
silk and lace head-dress, Dimity," said Mrs. Prance, going up to her
chamber, too busy about her toilet to mind the baby, who was crying in
the nursery.
"Lace me tightly. I'm growing stout, I do believe, and my figure will
be ruined if I allow it," said madam; and Dimity squeezed her into such
a light dress that Trip got a pain in her side directly. "I can bear
it a little while, but I don't see how ladies can do it all the
time,--it's dreadful!" she sighed, as Dimity piled her pretty hair in a
fuzzy bunch on the top of her head, and hung jewels in her little ears,
after putting costly bits of lace here and there, and poking her tiny
feet into high-heeled boots that made her totter when she tried to
walk. These and her train nearly tripped her up, for, if Dimity had
not caught her, Mrs. Prance would have tumbled downstairs.
Hardly was she safe in the parlor when the bell rang, and Buttons
showed in several very fashionable ladies, who sat down and began to
talk about dress, servants, gentlemen, and the opera, so exactly like
some of mamma's callers that Marnie wondered where the sly little moss
people could have been hidden to know how to imitate them so well. As
soon as one lady left, all the rest said sharp things about her; and
when they got out, after saying good-by most tenderly, they all abused
Mrs. Prance, who said to herself when alone,--
"Tiresome, ill-natured creatures, I can't bear any of them; but I must
return their calls as soon as my new bonnet comes from Paris."
By the time the last gossip was gone, it was past two, and Mrs. Prance
was dying for her dinner, being quite exhausted. Imagine her dismay
when her husband arrived with two gentlemen to dine. She clasped her
hands and flew into the kitchen, where she found Skillet fuming over
the little stove, and scolding because it wasn't a range like the one
she used in her last place. Every thing was in confusion, and the
prospect of dinner a gloomy one.
"We must have soup," cried distracted Mrs. Prance.
"No meat to make it of, ma'am," said Skillet, crossly.
"Boil two or three of these caraway-seeds in a pot of hot water, pepper
it well, and add the leg of that fly to give it a relish, then call it
by some French name, and it will be all right," returned Mrs. Prance,
who was suddenly inspired by this bright thought. "Dissolve some of
the jelly for wine, and send up those nuts and raisins for dessert. Do
your best, Skillet, and don't keep us waiting."
"I'd like to give you a week's warning, ma'am, the place don't suit
me," said the red-faced cook, with her arms akimbo.
"Don't be impertinent, Skillet! You can go tomorrow, if you wish, but
till then behave yourself," and Mrs. Prance retired with dignity.
Dressing her tired countenance in smiles, she went to welcome her
undesired guests, and thank them for "this unexpected pleasure." Mr.
William Wisp and Mr. Robin Goodfellow were two very elegant little
gentlemen, with ruffled shirt-fronts, eye-glasses, and curled-up
mustaches, quite splendid to behold. They chatted with their host and
hostess in the most affable manner, affecting not to see that Mr.
Prance's face grew more and more stern every minute, and that poor Mrs.
Prance cast despairing glances at the clock, which plainly said
"half-past three."
It really was becoming awkward, when Buttons announced, "Dinner,
ma'am," and the cloud lifted suddenly from the faces of all. Skillet
had done her best, fearing she wouldn't get her wages if she didn't;
and the first course did very well.
Greasy warm water, flavored with pepper, was so like a French soup no
one knew the difference, and everybody took a few sips and pretended to
like it; but to airy creatures, fed on sun and dew, it wasn't nice, of
course. There was no fish, for the tin ones melted in the frying-pan;
and there was no time to get any more. The wooden leg of mutton got
burnt in the oven, and the painted vegetables were not very
satisfactory, though they looked quite fine. Mr. Prance frowned as he
chipped away at the meat, and Mrs. Prance wanted to sob behind her
napkin as he gave her a black look, saying sternly,--
"Mrs. P., your cook is unbearable. I desire that you will dismiss her
at once."
"I have, my dear," meekly answered his wife; and then good-natured Mr.
Wisp struck in with a droll anecdote, while every one pecked at the
painted feast, and was glad when the pudding came.
Here was another blow; for instead of leaving the pea in its skin, and
sending it up a nice, round little pudding, Skillet had taken the skin
off as if it was the cloth it was boiled in, and nothing remained but a
mealy ruin. Mrs. Prance groaned, and then coughed to hide the sound of
woe, and served out her dish with the calmness of despair. The jelly
didn't go round, the cook had eaten so much on the sly; and when the
wine came, Mr. Prance looked disgusted, it was so weak. However, the
nuts and raisins were all right; and after one sip of currant-water, in
answer to the gentlemen when they drank her health, unhappy Mrs. Prance
left the table, wishing that she never had been born.
Trip was a clever little sprite, and entered into the spirit of her
part so heartily that she really dropped a tear or two as she sat alone
in her fine drawing-room. Presently the gentlemen came to say good-by,
for they were going to try Prance's horses. Tired Mrs. Prance wished
her husband would ask her to join them,--a drive would be so
refreshing; but he only nodded grimly, and went away without a word.
Mrs. Prance immediately took to her bed, for she was to have a party in
the evening, and feared she never would live through it if she didn't
rest.
But very little repose did the poor lady get that afternoon, for the
children acted as if possessed. Flibberty-Gibbet fell off his
rocking-horse and broke the bridge of his nose. Midget set her little
dress a-fire, and frightened every one out of their wits. Poppet ran
out of the back gate, and was lost for a whole hour; while Weewee, the
baby, had a fit, owing to Mrs. Byelow's giving him a pickle when he
cried for it. If poor, dear Mrs. Prance was hustled off her bed once
that afternoon, she was a dozen times, and at last gave it up entirely,
whipped the children all round, scolded every servant in the house, had
a good cry and a strong cup of tea, and felt better.
The gentlemen, meantime, had each lighted a tiny cigarette, made from
one stolen from papa's box, and had driven off in great style. Mr.
Prance had the tin gig, with Silver-gray for a horse; Mr. Wisp took the
straw chaise and yellow Bill harnessed with red; Mr. Goodfellow chose
the smart dog-cart with the creaking wheels, and black Jerry, who had
lost his tail, but was a fine beast nevertheless. With their hats on
one side, and puffing their cigars, the little gentlemen drove gayly
round the squares in the carpet, till Prance proposed a race from one
end of a long seam to the other.
Away they went, with much cracking of whips, and crying out "Hi, yar!"
looking like three distracted bugs skimming along at a great rate.
Prance would have certainly won, if, just as he passed Mr. Wisp, the
wheel of the gig had not ran against a big knot in the seam, which
upset Mr. Prance right in the way of Mr. Wisp, whose straw chaise
turned over them all like an extinguisher. leaving nothing to be seen
but yellow Bill's legs sticking straight up in the air.
Mr. Goodfellow passed the wreck, but soon returned in alarm to pull the
wounded from the ruins. Prance was only shaken, but poor Mr. Wisp was
so much bruised he could not rise, and when they looked about for a
carriage in which to get him home, not one of the three could be had,
for two were smashed, and Jerry had galloped off with the dog-cart,
never pausing till he had reached the barn. With much difficulty they
lifted the groaning Wisp on to a visiting-card, which fortunately lay
on the floor, and bore him away to the residence of Mr. Prance.
The house had just subsided after the baby's fit, when this arrival set
it all in confusion again. Wisp was put into the best bed, where,
after a drop of arnica had been applied to his bruises, and a doll's
smelling-bottle of hot water to his feet, he groaned himself to sleep.
Leaving his friend Robin to take care of him, Mr. and Mrs. Prance
snatched a hasty cup of tea, and hurried to dress for their party.
Mr. Prance, I regret to say, was in a bad humor, for his dinner
distressed him, his broken carriages annoyed him, and he didn't feel at
all like seeing company. He pulled the bell down ringing for hot
water, told the footman he was a "blockhead" because his boots were not
blacked to his mind, and asked his wife "why the dickens the buttons
were always off his shirts?"
Mrs. Prance was likewise out of sorts, and nothing went well. The new
pink lace dress was not becoming. Dimity didn't dress her hair well,
and she looked so pale and nervous that she was quite discouraged.
When master and mistress met at last in the lighted drawing-room, two
crosser little faces seldom seen. Trip threw herself into an arm-chair
with a sigh, and put on her gloves in silence. Prance, who was a
waggish moss boy, marched solemnly up and down the room with his hands
in his pockets, and an air of offended dignity, that made Marnie shake
with laughter.
"Mrs. Prance, you gave us a very bad dinner to-day, and I was much
mortified. If you can't manage better, madam, I shall give up
housekeeping."
"I sincerely wish you would, my dear, for what with servants, and
children, and company, I am nearly worn out," and Mrs. Prance sobbed
behind her lace handkerchief.
"I thought when I married you that you were able to look after things
properly," said Mr. Prance, still marching up and down with a frown on
his face.
"I never was taught to do any thing but look pretty," sighed Mrs.
Prance.
"Don't be a goose, my dear."
"You used to call me an angel."
Here the bell rang. Mr. Prance took his hands out of his pockets, Mrs.
Prance dried her tears, and both looked quite gay and beaming when the
guests appeared.
Such dashing little beaux and belles as did arrive, dressed in the most
astonishing style,--the ladies with bits of bouquets and fans, satin
slippers, and trailing skirts. The gentlemen had stiff collars, gay
ties, wee boots and gloves, and twirled their eyeglasses as if they had
been going to parties all their lives. Every one simpered and chatted,
laughed and flirted, looked at each other's clothes, and whispered
gossip round the room. Then a band of moss people, led by the green
huntsman's horn, struck up the blithest dancing tune ever heard, and
the little company began to spin round in couples like a party of
teetotums. It was not the airy, graceful gambols Marnie had admired in
her fairy-land, but it was the fashionable step, and therefore must be
elegant. There seemed to be a good deal of romping, and the gentlemen
twisted the ladies about till they looked quite flushed.
They kept up the dancing as hard as they could till supper-time, when
every one ate as if exhausted. Where the supper came from, Marnie
didn't know, but there it was,--ice, salad, cake, coffee, oysters, and
wine, all complete, and the company made themselves uncomfortable
eating all sorts of stuff at that late hour. After supper, several of
the young ladies sang, opening their mouths very wide, and screaming
small screams without any music in them, while the little piano
tottered under the banging it received. Then Misses Moth, Cobweb, and
Pease-blossom gave an air from the famous opera of _Oberon_, and every
one said, "How sweet!" as they patted their gloves together and tried
to look as if they knew all about it.
After a good deal of noise, there was dancing again, and Marnie
observed that the company got more and more excited. Some of the
gentlemen were very silly, but the ladies did not seem to mind it.
Poor Mr. and Mrs. Prance were so tired they could hardly keep their
eyes open, and when at last their guests began to go they could
scarcely hide their joy.
"Such a charming party!" "Had a most delightful time!" said the
people, bidding them good-night; and then added as soon as the door was
shut: "Wasn't it a miserable affair?" "Those Prances are very ordinary
people, and I shall not go again,"--quite in the regular way.
I'm sorry to say that Mr. Prance was one of those who had taken too
much wine; and when Mrs. Prance fell into a chair exhausted, he sat
down upon the fender and began to sing,--
"Where the bee sucks, there suck I,"
in a sleepy voice, nodding like an owl.
This was very trying to Mrs. Prance's feelings: she lost her temper,
and scolded him as well as she knew how. Marnie was quite frightened
to hear the lecture she gave her naughty husband, who sat smiling and
blinking till his little coat-tails took fire. The instant a bright
blaze shot up behind him as he skipped off the fender, Mrs. Prance
stopped scolding, and ran to put the fire out like a devoted little
wife. But, oh! sad to tell, her dress caught, and in a minute two
blazes flew about the room like a pair of lively Will-o'-the-wisps.
Every one screamed and ran, men and maids, Mr. Goodfellow and his
patient, the children tumbled out of bed, and came scampering
downstairs, and Weewee roared in his cradle as loud as if he tried to
call "Fire! Fire!"
Marnie was so frightened at the idea of those cunning, tricksy imps
being burnt up, that she screamed also with all her might, and in a
minute every sign of the moss people vanished. She rubbed her eyes,
but all was quiet,--nothing stirred in fairy-land; the doll's house was
topsy-turvy as before, and all she saw were hundreds of motes dancing
in the sunshine that now shone brightly on her face. Marnie was so
sorry to lose her new playmates, that she would have cried about it if
mamma had not waked up just then and asked what was the matter. When
Marnie had told her all about it, she laughed at the funny dream, and
then looked sober, as she said, with a kiss,--
"If these sly rogues are going to come and imitate us to amuse our
little children, we must be careful what we do that we may set them a
good example."
"You and papa are not so bad as Mr. and Mrs. Prance, though you do some
of the things they did. But the droll little moss boys and girls set
_me_ a good example in one way, and I'm going to show them that I don't
forget it," said Marnie, beginning to put her playthings in order.
"So am I," added mamma, laughing again as she put away her novel and
took up her sewing, thinking to herself that she really would attend
more to the comfort of home, and not care so much for fashionable
society.
So you see some good was done after all by the merry little phantoms of
a dream, for Marnie mamma did not forget the moss people.
IX.
WHAT FANNY HEARD.
She was lying on the rug, in the twilight, all alone, seeing pictures
in the fire, and talking to herself.
It hadn't been a happy day, and Fanny felt a little sad, though she
wouldn't own that the reason was because she had been idle,
disobedient, and wilful.
"Nobody cares for me or takes any pains to make me happy," grumbled
Fanny. "Since mamma died, and papa went to England, I've been just as
miserable as I could be. Cousin Mary is so sober and strict and fussy,
I don't have a bit of fun, but study, sew, walk, go to bed and get up,
like the hateful little story-book girls, who never do wrong or get
tired of going on as regularly as a clock. Oh, dear! if I had some
friends and playmates, this big, quiet house wouldn't seem so dismal."
Fanny laid her face on her arm and tried to cry but not having any
thing to cry for, she couldn't squeeze out a single tear. Suddenly she
heard a chime of delicate bells ringing sweetly in the room, and
filling the air with perfume.
"Bless me, what's that?" and Fanny popped up her head to see. But
every thing was still and in its place, and when she spoke the bells
ceased.
So she lay down again, and presently heard a sweet little voice say
sorrowfully,--
"What an ungrateful child Fanny is to say she has no friends, when the
house is full of them, if she would only learn to see them! Her good
cousin took her home, and tries to be a mother to her, though she is
feeble and fond of quiet. It was very kind of her to have a noisy,
spoilt child always about; for, though it worries her, she never
complains, but tries to make Fanny a gentle, helpful, happy child."
The blue hyacinth standing in the window said this, and the lovely pink
one answered warmly,--
"Yes, indeed! and I often wonder that Fanny doesn't see this, and try
to return some of the patient care by affectionate little acts, and
grateful words, and cheerful looks. Why, she might make this house
perfectly charming, if she chose: it was too lonely and still before,
but now a bright-faced, gentle little girl, with her merry ways, would
delight us all.
"I bloom my best to please her, and send out my perfume to attract her,
for I love her much, and want her to feel that I am her friend. But
she takes no notice of me, she doesn't care for my love, she is blind
to my beauty, and gives no answer to my sweet invitation, though she
longs for playmates all the time."
With a soft sigh the flowers shook their delicate heads, and said no
more. But before Fanny could speak, Goldy, the canary, gave a little
skip on his perch, and cried out, in a shrill chirp,--
"I quite agree with you, ladies: that child doesn't know how to enjoy
her blessings, or recognize her friends when she sees them. Here I sit
day after day, telling her in all sorts of ways how glad I am she is
come; how fond I am of her, and how much I want to talk with her. I
get quite excited sometimes, and sing till my throat aches, trying to
make her understand all this; but she won't, and all I get for my pains
is a pettish, 'Do stop screaming, you noisy bird,' and a cloth over the
cage to keep me quiet. It's very hard;" and Goldy shook a little tear
out of his round black eye. "I love the sun, and air, and blithe
company so dearly, and she won't let me have any of them.
"She promised to take care of me, but she doesn't, and I go hungry,
thirsty, and untidy, while she mopes and wishes she had something
pleasant to do.
"To-day, now, I've had neither seed nor water; no sniff of fresh air,
no fly about the room, not a bit of apple, not a kind word or look, but
have sat in the dark, with the cover over my cage, because I tried to
tell how glad I was to see the sun, in spite of my hunger and thirst,
loneliness and homesickness. Ah, well! some day she may be kinder to
me, and then I'll show her what a loving friend I can be."
And with a last peck at the husks that lay in the cage, a last sad look
about his gloomy house, Goldy put his head under his wing and tried to
forget his troubles in sleep.
Fanny was going to start up and feed and pet him, with remorseful
tenderness, when a new voice sounded behind her, and she waited to
listen.
It was the piano, and every thing it said went to a sort of tune,
because it couldn't help being musical at all times.