"Well, what did you see in the city, Dolly?" asked a village gossip of
the village milliner.
"What are the summer fashions? Any thing new? Flounces worn, I suppose?
Always will be, for tall people, they are so becoming. Mantillas worn,
or shawls? Do they trim bonnets with flowers or ribbons? Do they wear
heels on the shoes or tread spat down on the pavement? What is there new
for sleeves? I am going to have a ninepenny calico made up, and I want
to know all about every thing."
"I hadn't as much time to look round as I wanted, not by half," answered
Dolly, "for the stores are full of splendid goods. I had to put that
child of Maria's into the orphan asylum. People began to talk because I
didn't look after it. I am sure I can't support it, at least not till it
is big enough to pay, by helping me in the shop here. People always die
just at the wrong time. If Maria had only waited a year or two, now,
till that young one had grown bigger; and if she had brought her up to
be good for any thing (she is a little shy kind of a whimpering thing,
no more life in her then a stick); but I don't intend her living shall
come out of me. I have worked hard for what money I have, and I know how
to keep it. She shall stay at that asylum till she is big enough to help
me, as I said before, and then she must work enough here to pay for her
bread and butter."
"That's it," said Miss Kip. "People who can't live to take care of
children have no business to have them, that is my creed. Was your
sister like you, Dolly?"
"No; I guess she wasn't. She was after every book she could find, before
she could speak plain, and when she got hold of one, you might fire off
a pistol in the room, and she wouldn't hear it. She crammed her head
inside, and I crammed mine outside," said Dolly, laughing; "for I had a
real milliner's knack before I left off pantalettes. Why, you never saw
any thing like our Maria. She went and sold the only silk gown she had
to buy a grammar and dictionary, to learn what she acknowledged was a
dead language."
"What a fool!" exclaimed Miss Kip.
"Of course," said Dolly; "letting alone the gown, which was bran new,
what was the use of her learning a language that was dead and out of
fashion? Well, there was a Professor Clark, who used to come to see her,
and you ought to have heard the heathenish noises they made with that
'dead language,' as they called it; it was perfectly ridikilis. He said
Maria was an extraordinary girl! as if that was any news, when every
body knew she never did any thing like other folks. Why, she'd pretend
she saw bears, and dippers, and ple--pleasure-rides, I believe she
called them, up among the stars."
"What a fool!" exclaimed Kip, again.
"Yes; and she said the earth was round and hollow, just as if any of us
could live in safety, hanging on the outside of an egg-shell, and _it_
turning round all the time, too--it was ridikilis!
"Well, Professor Clark married her, and their house was fixed up with
books, and pictures, and every thing of that sort which Maria liked. I
never went to see them, for they never talked about any thing that
interested me. Maria didn't care a penny whether her bonnet was an old
or a new one, so long as it was clean and whole. She had no eyes nor
ears for any thing but her books and her husband, till that child was
born, and then she acted just so about that. When it was five years old,
its father died, and then nothing would do but Maria must go after him,
as if there was nobody in the world worth looking at but Professor
Clark. She might have got married again, and then I should not have had
that child to look after. I know she will turn out just like her mother.
She looks just like her, and has all her superfine, good-for-nothing
lady ways already.
--"No, I did not have any time at all to look after the fashions in the
city. The things there are enough to drive you distracted. Such
beautiful big plaid and striped silks; such gay trimmings, and bright
shawls. I declare every thing looks so homely here in this village, when
I come back, that I am perfectly disgusted. Those old poke bonnets of
the Cramm girls, trimmed with that pink ribbon they have worn two
seasons, and Mrs. Munroe's rusty-looking black mantilla--it is perfectly
disgusting."
"So it is," said the sympathizing Kip, "I am tired to death of them,
myself. I really wonder, Dolly, you can make up your mind to stay here
in this dull place. Why don't you move into the city?"
"Perhaps, I shall, one of these days," said Dolly, with a toss of her
head. "I feel as though I was born to better things. It is dull work for
a woman to live all her life alone."
"I know it," said Kip, disconsolately.
"There are men enough in the world, no doubt of that," said Dolly, "and
when I go about with them, in the city, I quite enjoy it; but one sees
nothing here, except frogs and crickets; it is perfectly disgusting."
"So it is," chimed Kip; "and such splendid moonlight-nights as we have,
too, and such nice places to walk."
"Yes, but to walk with a _woman_!" said Dolly. "I like you very well,
Kip; but when one _has_ had gentlemen's society, it is like swallowing
the parings, after having eaten the peach."
"So it is," said Kip (quite willing in such a cause to be tossed
unceremoniously among the parings).
"Well, it is just here," said Dolly, "I will own it to _you_, Kip, I
mean to get married!"
"You don't!" screamed Kip; "to whom?"
"Lord knows, I don't, but I feel sure I shall do it."
"How?" asked Kip, with great interest.
"Never you mind," said Dolly; "see if I don't live in the city before
long. Such times as they have there! Theaters, concerts, shows, balls,
and every body so pleased with every body; such a delightful noise and
bustle and racket. And just look round this village! You might hear the
town clock tick; it is perfectly disgusting. There is not a man in it,
of any account, but Sprigg's the blacksmith, and he has but one foot;
sometimes I want to scream."
"So do I," said Kip.