THE THREE TRAGEDIES OF ELLA’S SEMINARY LIFE
At the seminary there were only three children besides Ella. One was
two-year-old Nellie, the steward’s daughter, whom she loved with all
her heart. The second was John, and the third was his little sister,
two years younger than he. For this little sister there was rarely
any real place in Ella’s world; she was too young for a companion
and too old for a baby; but just as Ned, the steward’s son, fifteen
years old, would sometimes allow Ella, “going on nine,” to share his
amusements, so Ella would occasionally permit John, “going on seven,”
to go to the lake with her to skip stones, or to the hills for wild
flowers.
The village children all went to the village school, and Ella seldom
saw any of them. The mother had once known the mother of Dora,
daughter of the village doctor, and it was arranged that the two
children should spend an afternoon together. No one ever found out
exactly what happened, but after this day, whenever the two little
girls passed, they held their heads very high and swung their short
skirts disdainfully, and looked away from each other.
Soon after this visit, it came to pass that Ella needed to have
a tooth out to make way for a newcomer. “I dare you to go to the
doctor and have it pulled,” said Ned mischievously. Ella would have
felt humiliated not to “take a dare,” and she appealed to the mother
for permission. The mother was glad to escape the string-and-pull
process, and she hoped that if the children met again, they might
become better friends.
“Was Dora there?” she asked on Ella’s return.
“Yes, she was,” replied Ella with emphasis. “Her father told her to
go out, but she just stayed in the room every minute. She wanted
to hear me cry, but I wouldn’t. When it was out, she said, just as
if she was glad, ‘Hm! Hurt you some, didn’t it?’ and I laughed and
said, ‘No, not a bit.’” Ella did not add the fact that going down the
doctor’s walk, she had swung her skirts with more disdain than ever.
The mother looked amused.
“Are you sure that that speech was quite true?” she asked.
“Why, you see, if Dora had not been there, it would have hurt, of
course; but she was there, and so it didn’t; and anyhow, I wasn’t
thinking about it, so I shouldn’t have known it if it had.” And the
mother was wise enough not to press the question any further.
[Illustration: THEY HELD THEIR HEADS VERY HIGH AND SWUNG THEIR SHORT
SKIRTS DISDAINFULLY, AND LOOKED AWAY FROM EACH OTHER]
As has been seen, Ella would have been quite alone in most of her
plays had it not been for Ponto. Fortunately, a dog is never too old
or too young to be a good friend. People sometimes laugh at a little
girl’s queer notions, but a dog never makes fun of them; he always
understands. Every morning Ponto came upstairs, thumped on Ella’s
door, and waited patiently till she was ready to go down with him.
He was not allowed in recitation rooms, but everywhere else that she
went, he followed. She greatly enjoyed visiting the laboratory when
her professor was at work. Ponto would then lie down just outside the
door and take a one-eyed nap, wondering sleepily why she stayed there
instead of coming out of doors.
If the kind professor was at all disturbed by her presence and her
occasional interruptions, he never let her know it, but answered
every question with the courteous attention that children love, as
if their questions were really worth while. The crowning glory of
her visits came, however, one day when, after she had asked him
something that never would have occurred to any one but a child, he
looked at her thoughtfully and said, “I don’t know, but I will try to
find out.” This was indeed an honor. The professor had treated her
as if she was a grown-up lady, and he had met her little query with
as much respect as if the principal himself had asked it. When she
said, “Good-bye. I have an errand in the village,” and followed the
jubilant Ponto down stairs, she held her small head at least one inch
higher than usual.
The errand was closely connected with a big copper cent which she
had held in her hand during her pursuit of scientific information.
Indeed, she had kept close watch of it ever since it came into her
possession, for pennies did not come her way every morning. The
grocer kept cassia buds, and these to the little customer were a
luxury far transcending peppermints or sticks of white candy striped
with red, or even chocolate sticks, which were just coming into
fashion.
There were two grocers in the same store. One had white hair and
the other had brown. Ella had tested them both and had found out
that the white-haired one gave her more cassia buds for a cent than
did the brown-haired one; therefore she waited patiently until
the white-haired one appeared. Then she went back to the seminary
joyfully. She was sure that the generous dealer had given her more
than ever before, and she would not eat one until she had shown them
to the mother. But alas for the best-laid plans of little girls as
well as mice and men, for when she reached the seminary, there was
not a bud to be seen. Through a wicked little hole in the pocket
every one had escaped.
This was one of the three tragedies in Ella’s life at the seminary.
The others were even more crushing. Next to her big doll, her
greatest treasure was a paint-box. She had had paint-boxes before,
but this was the largest and finest she had ever owned. She had taken
the greatest pains to keep it clean, and it was as fresh and white
as when she first unwrapped it. If the mother had seen, she would
have rescued it, but all her attention was given to a caller; and
meanwhile his little boy, who had by no means the kind of soul that
scorns a blot, daubed the fair white wood of the outside of the box
with every hue that could be found within it.
Ella had been out with Ponto, and when she came in and saw her
beloved paint-box in ruins, her grief was literally too deep for
words. The mother had taken her callers to see the library, and Ella
caught up the ruined treasure and slipped out of doors to Ponto. She
told him all about it; then the two went to a quiet little place
where wild roses grew. With much difficulty she dug a hole. Therein
she laid the precious paint-box, and with it all the hopes of the
pictures she was going to paint for the uncle in Andover and the
grandmother in the mountains.
The next day, the mother asked, “Where can your paint-box be? Have
you seen it this morning?”
Ella felt rather guilty, but she answered, “No,” and it was many
years before the mother learned the solution of the mystery.
The third tragedy came from Ella’s ambition to wear a linen collar.
The grown-up girls in school wore them, and she did so long to have
just one. The mother did not approve; she thought a tiny ruffle for
every day and a bit of lace for best were the only neckwear proper
for a child of eight. Fate, however, promised to be kind. Ella had
acquired some skill in the making of “perforated paper” bookmarks in
the shape of a cross, elaborately cut out in an openwork pattern;
and one Sunday after church a lady in the village, who knew her
wishes, promised her a real collar of smooth, stiff linen in exchange
for one of these crosses.
Ella was wildly happy, and she wanted to begin the cross at once; but
it was Sunday. Somehow she had evolved the notion that while it was
wrong to play games on Sunday, it was not wrong to read or write or,
indeed, to do whatever she chose with books or paper. _Perforated_
paper seemed, however, a little different. She appealed to the
mother, but the mother often left things for the small girl to think
out for herself, and this was one of them.
“Some people would say it was right, and some would say it was
wrong,” she replied. “Suppose you decide for yourself, and do what
you think is right.”
The little girl decided not to begin the work until Monday. Surely,
she deserved a better reward than she received, for when the cross
was done, the lady handed her a little flat package done up in white
paper and tied with blue ribbon.
“My sister told me,” she said with a pleasant smile, “that a linen
collar was not at all the thing for a little girl of eight, and that
she was sure you would like something else better, so I got you this
instead.”
Ella took the package with forebodings, which were justified, for in
it was a little white handkerchief. Now handkerchiefs were things
to lose and to have more of; but a linen collar was a vision,
an aspiration, a heart’s desire. Her face must have shown
disappointment, for the lady hastened to say, “There is a blue flower
worked in one corner.” The lady had taken away her beautiful dream of
being grown up and had given her instead a handkerchief—with a blue
flower in one corner! These were the three tragedies of Ella’s first
experience in the trials and disappointments of life.
[Illustration: WITH MUCH DIFFICULTY SHE DUG A HOLE]
There was, however, a little comforting postscript to this third
tragedy. Among Ella’s accomplishments was the ability to embroider
fairly well those lines of crescent moons known as scallops. She
marked out a collar on a strip of Marseilles, and by means of two
spools she drew a line of scallops on its edge. After a season of
diligent sewing, she was the proud owner of a stiff white collar. The
mother objected to her wearing it in public, but she was free to put
it on and stand before her looking-glass and admire it; and even this
was bliss.
Then, too, Christmas was not far away, and its coming would make up
for many troubles. To be sure, it was not the custom for children
to be loaded down with gifts as they are now, but every one was to
have something, the principal had said so; and Ella could hardly
wait for the day. Nevertheless, in spite of her impatience, she
thoroughly enjoyed herself. She had never before been in the country
in the winter, and now she coasted on her “Thomas Jefferson”; she
made snow men; she slipped under the branches of the pines and firs
and hemlocks and shook them until when she came out her little blue
hood was all powdered with snow; she brought in great armfuls of
creeping Jenny and scarlet alder berries; she broke the thin ice that
formed over the little brooks and delighted in the fairy palaces of
frostwork that it had concealed. Best of all, however, was the time
when the ice over a shallow pool broke into cakes, and she could
float about on them. What the busy mother would have said if she had
known of all these adventures is a question; but Ella was well and
happy, and before long Christmas Day came, and in the evening the big
Christmas tree.
Santa Claus, all a-jingle with sleighbells, climbed in at the window.
Ella knew that he was not exactly a real Santa Claus, but still she
felt highly honored when in his walk about the room he patted her on
the head and asked “How old are you?”
“I’ll be nine to-morrow,” she replied; and it almost made up for
the loss of the collar to have him exclaim, “Nine years old! Why, I
thought you were a small child. I shall have to go pretty deep into
my pack to find anything for a young lady of nine.”
By and by Santa Claus distributed the presents. In her ante-seminary
days, Ella had felt rich if she had three or four gifts; but now
there was a pearl-handled pen, a little writing-desk with a lock and
key; there were new mittens to match the blue hood; there was a real
jackknife, just such a one as she had been longing for, big enough
to cut things and not too big to go into her pocket; there was a box
of candy and another of cassia buds; there was a great package of
writing-paper, some little blankbooks, half a dozen lead pencils, and
a little matchbox of parian marble. Just why any one should give a
small child a matchbox may be questioned, but Ella did not question
it. The grapes on the cover were pretty, and that was enough. There
was a fine new dress of bright Scotch plaid, and a “jockey cap” of
black velvet with trimmings of red and black ribbon; and pinned to
the cap was a note from Ella’s dearest little girl friend at the old
home, saying that she had a new cap just like this one.
There was a little chinchilla muff; and that muff had a story. The
uncle from Andover had rashly promised to buy whatever she liked
best in all Boston. He had supposed that he could guide her choice
toward the little muff; but of all the glories of Boston her heart
had been set upon a box of tin soldiers. The tall uncle from Andover
scoffed, pleaded, offered bribes, but the mite of a niece claimed her
rights. “You promised I might have what I wanted, and I want the tin
soldiers,” was her unchanging reply. At length he started in wrath
to return to the study of theology, and the obstinate little niece
called after him, “Good-bye, uncle; you broke your promise!” But she
had relented sufficiently to send him a gracious note to the effect
that a muff would really be very nice to have; he had relented
sufficiently to send it to her, and so peace had come to pass between
them.
One more present came to Ella’s share, and that was a thin,
uninteresting envelop. But it was all glorious within, for here was
a bright, fresh two-dollar bill from her professor. “To spend just
as you like,” the card said. Fairyland had opened, for never before
had Ella owned such an amount of money to spend as she liked. She had
never expected to have so much, but she had decided long before this
what she would buy if she should ever become a woman of wealth.
The next day she and the mother talked it over. The mother, too, had
decided what would be the best way to spend the money. When _she_
was a little girl, money given to girls was always put into silver
spoons, and now she held before Ella the advantages of putting the
gift into spoons, which she could always keep and which would always
be a remembrance of the professor.
“But I’d never forget him, anyway,” declared Ella, “and I don’t want
spoons. I want something useful. Spoons aren’t useful. People just
have them on the table to eat with, and then they go away and forget
them. I want something I’d really use and like to use and think about
using; I want a pair of skates.”
[Illustration: SHE MADE SNOW MEN]
It was against the mother’s inherited ideas of the desirable, and she
was afraid of broken bones and thin ice and air holes, but the skates
were bought. They had such a multiplicity of green straps as would
arouse a skater of to-day to wrath; but to Ella they seemed the most
beautiful things in the world, and before long she was gliding over
the frozen lake in perfect bliss.