DINNER IN DOLL-LAND
Libbie brought up dabs of dough made for her special baking, and rolled
them out for biscuits, with a rolling-pin the size of her middle
finger, cut them, and baked them in a pan on the bottom of the oven.
Bluebell cut a potato into bits and boiled it in a pot. They made tea
and laid the table. The cook donated preserves, cake, rice-balls and
cold meat: these were mere side-dishes, not to be compared with what
they cooked themselves.
Georgiana and the imported wax lady were placed at the table opposite
each other, where they half-rolled up their eyes, and refused to be a
bit sociable. The other dolls were laid in a hungry circle with their
feet to the table, as if to draw in sustenance through the soles.
The biscuits were burnt; but, eaten with butter and preserves, they
tasted better than any grown-up biscuit was ever known to do; and
though the potatoes came up saltless and without any dressing, they
were too mealy for anything. And the feasters drained the teapot dry.
The wax ladies were generously helped, and ate in an invisible way,
though what was before them frequently slid toward the head and foot of
the table, guided by a plump white hand or a short brown one.
Outside, the cicada’s summer song kept the air full of a pleasant
monotone. Scarcely a breeze stirred. The afternoon was so slumbrous one
could pretend or make-believe almost anything. Occasionally a passer’s
foot sounded on the brick pavement. Doctor Garde’s little girl, who sat
in range of the street, often turned from the interest in hand to look,
with the expectation that Someone was coming from Somewhere to her. Not
exactly a nabob, or an elephant, or a fairy in gauze wings; but some
herald from the wonderful future into which she seemed to be entering.
Miss Libbie Biggar’s fancy reared itself only on substantial
foundations.
“Mrs. Garde,” she observed, leaning forward to fix her bead-black eyes
on the shrinking Georgiana, “your daughter looks as if she had the
mumps on one side of her face. I had the mumps once, and made grandma
give me some pickle, and it hurt--oh, you can’t think how it hurt me!
Mrs. Garde, if your daughter has the mumps, you shouldn’t brought her
into my large family.”
“Oh, Mrs. Biggar, it isn’t mumps at all. She got too near the fire once
when she was crying very hard, and her cheek began to run down with the
tears, and forgot to run back. Mrs. Biggar, does your daughter take
music-lessons?”
“O dear, yes! She can play the _Battle of Prague_ clear through without
looking at her notes.”
“I s’pose you send her to the seminary to school?”
“Yes; but her health will not allow her to be confined too much.” Mrs.
Biggar was quoting from her seniors.
“I am going to send my daughter to the seminary. She loves to go to
school. Her health is very stout. I will have to hold her back instead
of pushing her ahead.” Mrs. Garde also was quoting from her seniors.
“Won’t you have something more, Mrs. Garde?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Biggar.”
“Children will any of you be helped to something more?”
The prostrate dolls, who camped with their heels to the repast, and
were supposed to be seated in a rosy circle around the general table,
all responded in different tones that they didn’t want any more, thank
you. So the ladies ceremoniously rose.
Mrs. Biggar led the way to the parlor-set. All the dolls, except the
wax ones and the blackamoor, were sent outdoors to play in a corner,
but told they could not go on the sidewalk. The colored doll was
directed to clear the dinner away, which she industriously did by
leaning on her stomach across the table. The fire had gone down to
white ashes in the stove.
Mrs. Biggar invited Mrs. Garde to take a seat upon the sofa. But as
the sofa was only a little too large for Mrs. Garde to put in her
pocket, that lady only pretended she sat upon it, while her real and
substantial support was the ingrain carpet.
“My daughter will play on the piano for you,” observed the hostess.
“You ought to say you’d be delighted.”
“I’d be delighted, Mrs. Biggar.”
“This is the piano.”
Mrs. Garde could see no key-board. And it stood square and boxlike
without legs: a small dark polished case. Even when the tall wax doll
was prevailed upon to favor them, she did not open the instrument. Her
mamma applied a key to it; but a vast amount of coaxing was necessary
to overcome the young lady’s reluctance.
“Come, my dear, give us some music,” said Mrs. Biggar briskly.
“Mamma,” replied a voice much thinner, but in other respects strangely
like the maternal tones, “Don’t ask me. You know I don’t play.”
“You urge her,” suggested Mrs. Biggar to the guest.
“What’ll I say?”
“Why, you say, ‘Oh do,’ and ‘Now don’t disappoint us,’ and ‘You play
_so_ well,’ just as big folks do when a young lady acts that way.”
“Oh, do play. Miss Biggar,” pressed Mrs. Garde, “now don’t disappoint
us; you do play so well!”
“Mrs. Garde,” responded the thin voice, though that wax doll sat gazing
serenely forward, and never so much as wagged a curl, “please excuse
me: I can’t play a bit, and my throat is so sore I don’t know what to
do!”
“Now you know you can play ever so many pieces right straight along
without stopping,” said Mrs. Biggar reproachfully.
“Oh, do!” chimed Mrs. Garde. Her mind flashed back to the time when
pianos were an unseen mystery to her and she wanted to play on one so
badly that a piece of sheet-iron binding sticking from a box became
a make-believe piano, upon which she thumped with rapture. But these
retrospections were not imparted to the Biggar family, and Miss Biggar
suddenly yielded to pressure, seated herself before, and suffered her
hands to be laid upon the polished box.
“Ah!” cried Mrs. Garde when the music started without visible
assistance, “a----h! How _can_ she do it? What kind of a piano is that!”
“That’s a music-box, goosie,” replied Libbie, descending from
make-believe for an instant. “My grandma brought it to me when she went
over the ocean. Didn’t you ever see one?”
“No, I didn’t.”
It played _Home, Sweet Home_, caught its breath, played _Old Uncle
Ned_, caught its breath again, gave a Tyrolese melody, again clicked,
played _Hail Columbia_ and stopped.
“That’s all,” said Libbie. “Four tunes.”
“Play your pieces over, Miss Biggar.”
The music-box was put through its performance again.
“Now that’s enough,” said Libbie decidedly; “le’s play something else.
Dolls is so old.”
“We might go out and run.”
“No, I don’t want to do that.”
“There’s somebody knocked at the door.”
“It’s just our cook.--What you want?”
“Miss Calder’s sent for the little girl that’s playing with you.”
“For me?” Bluebell ran and opened the door.
“Yes; Archie’s down-stairs and says she wants you.”
“I’ve got to go, Libbie.”
“That’s mean!”
“He says,” added the messenger, “that somebody’s come to your house.”
CHAPTER XXVII
SOMEBODY ARRIVES
Archie was standing at the foot of the stairs. Bluebell thought him a
most agreeable man. He always treated her with deferential indulgence.
“Did Aunt Melissa send for me?” cried Bluebell, running down-stairs
with Georgiana on her shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am, she did.”
“And who’s come, Archie? Oh, is it father and the baby?”
“It is a very fine gentleman, and a little girl considerable smaller
than you.”
“Good-by, Libbie. My father’s come!”
Doctor Garde’s little girl made rapid progress to the gate which united
Mrs. Biggar’s and Miss Calder’s grounds. Archie kept at her heels.
“Did they just get there, Archie?”
“Just a minute ago. And besides the gentleman and little girl there
was”--
“Oh, it’s Liza! Liza’s come too! It was Liza’s house where we used to
live, you know.”
“No, there wasn’t any lady.”
“Then it’s somebody else; and maybe it isn’t my father and the baby,
either?”
She paused in disappointment.
“Oh, the gentleman’s your father. I heard Miss Calder call him. Mr.
Doctor Garde is the gentleman’s name,” said Archie, punctiliously.
Bluebell plunged up the side veranda. But here her new manners seized
on her. What would father say if she ran in and grabbed him around the
neck? And there was Rocco. She had learned enough to be a great pattern
and example to Rocco.
The doctor was sunk in a haircloth chair in the dim parlor. Roxana sat
on Miss Melissa’s knee, half afraid of her in this new place which
imaged its wonders in her swelling black eyes.
Through the open folding-doors came a correct figure in cool
muslin-gingham; the bare brown arms and collar-bones looked natural,
but the face had a new expression.
“Is this Bluebell?” said father, extending his hand.
“Yes, sir.”
The young lady took his hand and kissed him. She did give the silent
Rocco an extra squeeze, but her back was towards father and the fervor
was hid from him. She drew her chair quite close to him, too, but in
every other respect preserved the strictest propriety.
“And you rode all the way on horseback with the baby,” said Miss Calder
in a pleased flutter. “That must have been charming at this season of
the year.”
“Yes,” said father. “I boxed the movables and had them sent by railway.”
“I am so glad you are here, Maurice.” Miss Melissa reached for her
handkerchief. “You have no idea how much brighter the house has been
since I brought Melissa home with me.”
The doctor looked pleased. He also looked faintly disturbed.
“And I am sure you will not regret the change in--as to--I mean from a
financial point of view, for all our friends are prepossessed in your
favor already.”
“As to that,” said the young man, “I’ll have to prove myself able to do
something, as I did at the Rocky Fork.”
“Yes; and I am sure you will indeed.”
“Papa, how is Liza?”
The doctor started, and looked queerly at his little girl.
He said, however, “She’s quite well.”
“I am learning to play the piano.”
His little girl made this announcement with the exact accent and
expression of Miss Libbie Biggar.
“Are you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He rubbed a finger across his forehead and looked at Miss Melissa. The
delicate lady smiled.
“Don’t you think she has improved very much?”
“Ye-es,” said the doctor, “certainly.”
He looked at his little girl.
“You may entertain your father awhile if he will excuse me, Melissa,”
said Miss Calder, putting Rocco down. “I want to have a few changes
made about tea. And if you want to go to your room, Maurice, Melissa
knows where it is.”
So Aunt Melissa went out, and Bluebell longed so much to tangle and
squeeze Roxana that she was fain at least to draw her seat beside Miss
Calder’s vacant arm-chair, into which the baby had mounted on all-fours
and wiggled about into a sitting posture.
“Are you glad to see B’uebell, Rocco?”
“Uh--uuh,” responded Roxana, still trying to take her bearings in these
strange waters.
“You mustn’t say that--it isn’t polite,” said Bluebell, shaking her
head.
Father’s square, serious face set itself to study her. His clothes
looked plain compared to the clothes she had seen gentlemen wear in
Sharon. They really had a woodsman look. But who could see father’s
resolute chin over his black neckcloth and not instinctively love
him? His little girl did not state the matter in these words. Her
impressions were instantaneous and languageless. The baby did look so
funny, too. Bluebell wished one of her new dresses was small enough for
the little sister. It was only that she did not want them to be behind
herself in advantages.
“Have you been real well, papa?”
“That isn’t polite,” said father slowly.
His little girl turned red. She was beginning to think his steady look
meant disapproval, after all, when she had tried _so_ hard to learn
deportment.
“What! To ask if you have been well?”
“To call me ‘papa’ when you know I want to be called ‘father.’”
Bluebell’s face and ears tingled.
“Libbie Biggar always says papa and mamma when she talks about her
father and mother. They’re dead.”
“Who’s Libbie Biggar?”
“Oh, she is such a nice little girl! She lives next door, and has the
most toys you ever saw. A little stove and dolls and dishes, and a
music-box that plays four tunes.”
“Do you like her better than you do Tildy?”
“I don’t believe I do. But she has such _pretty_ manners, and she is
_so_ ladylike!”
Father smiled.
“Her grandma is very good to her. And there are lots of other little
girls. I had a party.”
“I’m afraid Miss Melissa has been spoiling you.”
“Oh, no! She wanted me to get acquainted. Some of them wore _beautiful_
dresses. We had ice-cream. Do you know what ice-cream is, father?”
“I have tasted it.”
“Well, we had ice-cream. And Libbie Biggar just stamped her foot
because I didn’t want to dance a French Four. I didn’t know how.”
“She must have pretty manners,” said father.
Bluebell colored again.
“Oh, she has. She knows how to do so much better than I do.”
“Come here,” said father, extending his hands.
CHAPTER XXIX
DOCTOR GARDE’S LITTLE GIRL
Bluebell approached father’s knee with her heart swelling.
“Where’s my little girl?” said he.
His long light locks and serious face seemed to hang on the outer
surface of her tears. The tears were filling her eyes so fast; she
struggled to hold them still, but a splash came down on one of the
hands with which he was holding her waist.
“Why, I’m here!”
“I don’t seem to find you.”
“Why, father, I don’t know what you mean!”
The cry was under full headway now. Her figure quaked. She groped
piteously for her handkerchief, her eyes held in a charmed gaze by his.
He drew her upon his knee. At that Roxana descended from her position
and claimed a right on the other knee.
Sitting opposite her afflicted sister, she stroked the muslin-gingham
dress.
“Don’t t’y, Bluebell. _I’ve_ tum to your house.”
“I would like to have my little girl stay a little girl,” said father,
“until Nature turns her into a woman. I don’t say I am altogether
right.”
He paused, conscious that a child will accept its elder’s dictum
without question, and believe a thing to be unalterably good or evil,
according to the decision of the adult who happens to be over it in
authority. “But I don’t like young ladies in short clothes.”
“I thought you’d be pleased to see me learning fine manners,” wailed
Bluebell.
“_Don’t_ t’y,” begged Rocco, puckering in sympathy.
“Fine manners are very nice,” said the doctor. “But you seem to be
imitating somebody else. I can’t think it is a good thing to form
yourself after other people. I may be wrong; but I like to see
everybody live out his own nature.”
“Don’t you want me to learn to be a little lady?”
Father looked perplexed.
“I want you to learn everything which goes to make up a finished woman.
Yes, I want you to be a lady, but”--with a pathetic tone in his voice
which had vibrated only once or twice in her lifetime--“I wouldn’t give
my honest, simple-hearted little girl for all the fine airs and graces
in the world.”
Bluebell hugged him around the neck.
“That’s all I mean. Perhaps there’s a better way to bring up girls.”
“Father, I just want to be your way. And I tried to do like the
rest, for fear you’d be ’shamed of me ’side of Libbie and Orrell.”
The water-flow began to subside. Doctor Garde wiped its straggling
droppings away with the hand which had supported his little girl. Then
she leaned on his shoulder, nearer than she had ever been, and the arm
was replaced.
“They always lived in Sharon, and I thought they knew better’n I did
how to behave. Their hoops never stick out, and mine just act so mean!”
The doctor smiled again.
“Must you wear hoops?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, father! I _have_ to wear them. Folks would laugh at
you on the street if you didn’t.”
“Don’t think,” continued father carefully, “that I am finding fault
with Miss Calder’s kindness, or your trying to improve.”
“I thought you’d think it was nice for me to sit up and talk like grown
folks. But, father, I won’t do it any more. Did anybody come with you,
father?” added his little girl in the next breath.
“Nobody came but Rocco and me.”
“On Ballie?”
“On Ballie.”
“Are Tildy and Teeny well?”
She was asking with bright interest now, without aping anybody’s
manners.
“Very well. Tildy sent you a letter.”
“Oh, father! Where is it?”
“I think Liza packed it in my trunk. That’s probably at Newark with
the other baggage.”
Bluebell resigned herself to waiting with a deep sigh.
“Did they all go to g’ogr’phy school?”
“I believe so. The geography school is out.”
“Father, are you glad you came here?”
He looked deeply at the two on his knees.
“I shall always be glad if it proves a great benefit to my children.”
“I have read ever so much. Libbie Biggar don’t like reading.” She put
her head on one side and blushed. “Would you mind--?”
“Mind what?”
“Would you mind if I gave you an awful hard hug, little father? because
I’ve missed you so, and couldn’t get along just right without you.”
It was some time after tea that Archie was favored by visitors at the
stable,--Bluebell, Rocco and Georgiana.
“I want to see her,” said Doctor Garde’s little girl. “Which is her
stall, Archie?”
“Your father’s mare, ma’am?”
“Yes. And you said somebody else came with them. There was nobody but
father and Rocco.”
“There was this very elegant creature, ma’am. Here she is in this
stall. If you stand on the barn floor you can see her across the
manger.”
Bluebell took that position with the little sister, and then climbed
into the manger among Ballie’s oats to pat her tremulous nostril.
“Do you know me?”
The Arabian’s soft whinny answered her.
“Oh, Archie, I do think so much of her! She fell off the Narrows all
but her fore feet, and jumped up again and kept father and me from
being killed.”
Archie was duly astonished. He polished her satin surface, and declared
she was the finest piece of horse-flesh that ever came into the stables.
“Charley and Coaly are fine animals, but they are too fat and too lazy.
Now this here mare is all life; and look at them ears!”
“Oh, Archie, I’m so glad you like her! She’s so kind.”
“She’s most genteel,” said Archie.
Bluebell did not like the word, though it was then commonly current.
She had heard Aunt Melissa use it. She had tried herself to be very
genteel.
“I wouldn’t say she was genteel, Archie. I would just say she was
Doctor Garde’s own horse; and that’s enough.”
“Your father’s a very fine gentleman,” declared Archie, smiling in his
excessive amiability. “And your little sister, she’s quite a little
lady.”
“Rocco,” said Bluebell to the baby when she got her between house and
barn among the shrubbery, “I like you _real_ well, and better’n anybody
in the world except father. Old honey-dew!”
CHAPTER XXX
TWO LETTERS
I.--THE ROCKY FORK TO SHARON
Respected frend,
i take my pen in hand to let you know i am well and hope These few
lines Will find you enjoyIng the same blessing....
Christine is Writen this for me. the (Elders) is all ripe do you mind
when we plade and Teny married them | the goggerfy school is out mr
runNels brot his Wife which made the big girls feel Bad but Teeny
sais that aint so....
Printhy pancost she got the most Headmarks so she got the prize Teeny
got the prize in Spelin in the big class | We marched the last day
and i spoke mary had a little Lamb there was 6 dialogues.
+------------------------------+
| If you Love me as i love |
| you no nife can cut our love |
| into. |
+------------------------------+
jo hall is Well and sends his reSpecks.... When are you coming back
Eliza is Lonesome.... i am learning to write but cant make no out
yet.... mr pitzer give a treat the last Day we got three sticks of
Candy apiece The big boys did not threaten to Lock him out he done
it of his own accord i am going to send you some
+--------------+
| Mountain Tea |
+--------------+
Mother is well uncle Abram is well John Tiggard said his long piece
the Death of the flowErs Amandy Willey sent her Respecks
excuse Mistakes Mother has got her weavin Most all done.... the Run
has not been up since So no more at present Goodbye
Matilda Banks.
Teeny would not wright Half I wanted her to. Mother puts this on. I
got Ferns pressin in the memoiry of Florence Kidder, write and Tell
us how you get on, our sweetins is getting Ripe. don’t you wish you
was here.
remember frends as you pass by
as you are now so once was i
as I am now So you must be
Prepare For deth and follow me.
i thought I would end with some Poetry.
II.--SHARON TO THE ROCKY FORK
SHARON THE 21
SEPTEMBER
DEAR TILDY
I HAD TO WAIT TILL I LEARNED TO PRINT. ALL OF THEM LEARN TO PRINT
AT THE SEMNARY PREPARATORY DEPARTMENT. THERE IS A LETTER BOOK BUT
THE LETTERS AINT TO YOU. I THOUT YOUR LETTER WAS VERY NICE; THE
MOUNTAIN TEA WAS SO GOOD. ALL THE GIRLS WANTED SOME. THERE WAS
ELIZABETH BIGGAR AND ORRELL PRATT AND ORPA ROSE AND OTHERS TOO
NUMEROUS TO MENTION. I STUDDY THE 2ND READER SPELLING GEOGRAPHY AND
MENTAL ARITHMETIC AND PRINTING. I LEARNED HOW TO PUT MARKS IN YOUR
WRITING. THEY PUT THEM IN BOOKS. TILDY, DID YOU KNOW SHYLOCK IS IN
SHAKESPEARE? AND GINEVRA IS A MAN NAMED MISTER ROGERS.
AUNT MELISSA IS VERY NICE, SHE MAKES SO MUCH OF US, BUT I LOVE LIZA
TOO. GIVE MY LOVE TO LIZA. ROXANA SENDS HER LOVE. SO DOES ALL THE
FAMILY. THANK YOU FOR THE MOUNTAIN TEA. BALLIE IS WELL. FATHER RIDES
HER TO SEE SICK FOLKS. WE RIDE IN THE CARRIDGE. ROCKKO HAS A NEW
WHITE AND A NEW PINK AND SOME GINGHAMB DRESSES. O TILDY, DONT YOU
REMEMBER GOING FOR WATER AND BLACKMAN AND THE SPELLING AND GETING
FERNS AND ALL THE GOOD TIMES? AND THE TIME YOU AND ME CHURNED PRINTHY
PANCOST! GIVE MY LOVE TO PRINTHY AND MANDY WILLEY AND JO HALL AND
JOHN TEGARDEN AND NERVY RIDEANHOUR AND TEENY AND ALL THE BIG BOYS AND
GIRLS. GIVE MY LOVE TO MR. PITZER. MY TEACHER IS A LADY. TELL HIM I
CAN MOST READ THE BEAUTIFUL LETTER HE GAVE ME. TILDY, YOU MUST COME
AND SEE US. LIZA MUST COME. SO MUST YOUR MOTHER AND TEENY. I HAVE
GOOD TIMES, BUT I DONT FORGET THE ELDER DOLLS AND ALL.
MY HAND IS GETTING TIRED. GIVE MY LOVE TO YOUR MOTHER. I LOVE ALL
YOU FOLKES AT THE ROCKY FORK. TILDY, I AM COMING TO SEE YOU WHEN THEY
BRING ME. I SPOSE POOR MISS EMILY MANDEVILLE IS WITHERD TO DUST. I
WISHT YOUD GOT THE PRIZE.
I WAITED TILL MY HAND GOT RESTED. MY ROOM IS PRETTY. IT HAS PICTURES
AND A BLUE CARPET. I WISHED YOU WAS TO MY PARTY. DONT YOU REMEMBER
THE BIG STORM, TILDY, WHEN FATHER FETCHED ME HOME? DO THE NARROWS
LOOK JUST THE SAME? THEY DONT HAVE SUNDAY SCHOOL BOOKS LIKE WE DID.
THESE HAVE NICE STORIES. FLORENCE KIDDER WAS NOT A BIT GOOD EXCEPT
THE PICTURE. I AM GOING TO PUT IN MY PICTURE THAT AUNT MELISSA HAD
TAKEN. IT IS ON PAPER. IT IS NOT LIKE MY MOTHERS DAGARTYPE. THIS KIND
IS A NEW KIND. THEY CALL IT PHOTGRAPH. I HAVE ONE FOR LIZA TOO. AUNT
M WILL SEND IT. ROCCO WOULD NOT HOLD STILL. THEY WILL TAKE HERS NEXT
TIME. MY HAND IS REAL TIRED. GOODBYE.
BLUEBELL GARDE.
DR. GARDES LITTLE GIRL.
[Illustration]
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.