THE LINCOLNS
Mary had been at the poor-house about three weeks, when Miss Grundy
one day ordered her to tie on her sun-bonnet, and run across the
meadow and through the woods until she came to a rye stubble, then
follow the footpath along the fence until she came to another strip of
woods, with a brook running through it. "And just on the fur edge of
them woods," said she, "you'll see the men folks to work; and do you
tell 'em to come to their dinner quick."
Mary tied her sun-bonnet and hurried off, glad to escape for a few
moments from the hot kitchen, with its endless round of washing
dishes, scouring knives, wiping door-sills, and dusting chairs. She
had no difficulty in finding the way and she almost screamed for joy,
when she came suddenly upon the sparkling brook, which danced so
merrily beneath the shadow of the tall woods.
"What a nice place this would be to sit and read," was her first
exclamation, and then she sighed as she thought how small were her
chances for reading now.
Quickly her thoughts traversed the past, and her tears mingled with
the clear water which flowed at her feet, as she recalled the time
when, blessed with a father's and mother's love, she could go to
school and learn as other children did. She was roused from her sad
reverie by the sound of voices, which she supposed proceeded from the
men, whose tones, she fancied, were softer than usual. "If I can hear
them, they can hear me," thought she, and shouting as loud as she
could, she soon heard Mr. Parker's voice in answer, saying he would
come directly.
It was a mild September day, and as Mary knew that Sal would take care
of Alice, she determined not to hurry, but to follow the course of the
stream, fancying she should find it to be the same which ran through
the clothes-yard at home. She had not gone far, when she came suddenly
upon a boy and two little girls, who seemed to be playing near the
brook. In the features of the boy she recognized Henry Lincoln, and
remembering what Billy had said of him, she was about turning away,
when the smallest of the girls espied her, and called out, "Look here,
Rose, I reckon that's Mary Howard. I'm going to speak to her."
"Jenny Lincoln, you mustn't do any such thing. Mother won't like it,"
answered the girl called Rose.
But whether "mother would like it," or not, Jenny did not stop to
think, and going towards Mary she said, "Have you come to play in the
woods?"
"No," was Mary's reply. "I came to call the folks to dinner."
"Oh, that was you that screamed so loud. I couldn't think who it was,
but it can't be dinner time?"
"Yes 'tis; it's noon."
"Well we don't have dinner until two, and we can stay here till that
time. Won't you play with us?"
"No, I can't, I must go back and work," said Mary.
"Work!" repeated Jenny. "I think it's bad enough to have to live in
that old house without working, but come and see our fish-pond;" and
taking Mary's hand, she led her to a wide part of the stream where the
water had been dammed up until it was nearly two feet deep and clear
as crystal. Looking in, Mary could see the pebbles on the bottom,
while a fish occasionally darted out and then disappeared.
"I made this almost all myself," said Jenny. "Henry wouldn't help me
because he's so ugly, and Rose was afraid of blacking her fingers. But
I don't care Mother says I'm a great,--great,--I've forgotten the
word, but it means dirty and careless, and I guess I do look like a
fright, don't I?"
Mary now for the first time noticed the appearance of her companion,
and readily guessed that the word which she could not remember, was
"slattern." She was a fat, chubby little girl, with a round, sunny
face and laughing blue eyes, while her brown hair hung around her
forehead in short, tangled curls. The front breadth of her pink
gingham dress was plastered with mud. One of her shoe strings was
untied, and the other one gone. The bottom of one pantalet was
entirely torn off, and the other rolled nearly to the knee disclosing
a pair of ankles of no Liliputian dimensions. The strings of her white
sun-bonnet were twisted into a hard knot, and the bonnet itself hung
down her back, partially hiding the chasm made by the absence of three
or four hooks and eyes. Altogether she was just the kind of little
girl which one often finds in the country swinging on gates and making
mud pies.
Mary was naturally very neat; and in reply to Jenny's question as to
whether she looked like a fright, she answered, "I like your face
better than I do your dress, because it is clean."
"Why, so was my dress this morning," said Jenny, "but here can't any
body play in the mud and not get dirty. My pantalet hung by a few
threads, and as I wanted a rag to wash my earthens with, I tore it
off. Why don't you wear pantalets?"
Mary blushed painfully, as she tried to hide her bare feet with her
dress, but she answered, "When mother died I had only two pair, and
Miss Grundy says I sha'nt wear them every day. It makes too much
washing."
"Miss Grundy! She's a spiteful old thing. She shook me once because I
laughed at that droll picture Sal Furbush drew of her on the front
door. I am afraid of Sal, ain't you?"
"I was at first, but she's very kind to me, and I like her now."
"Well, I always run when I see her. She makes such faces and shakes
her fist so. But if she's kind to you, I'll like her too. You go away
(speaking to Henry), and not come here to bother us."
Henry gave a contemptuous whistle, and pointing to Mary's feet, said,
"Ain't they delicate? Most as small as her teeth!"
The tears came into Mary's eyes, and Jenny, throwing a stick at her
brother, exclaimed, "For shame, Henry Lincoln! You always was the
meanest boy. Her feet ain't any bigger than mine. See," and she stuck
up her little dumpy foot, about twice as thick as Mary's.
"Cracky!" said Henry, with another whistle. "They may be, too, and not
be so very small, for yours are as big as stone boats, any day, and
your ankles are just the size of the piano legs." So saying, he threw
a large stone into the water, spattering both the girls, but wetting
Jenny the most. After this he walked away apparently well pleased with
his performance.
"Isn't he hateful?" said Jenny, wiping the water from her neck and
shoulders; "but grandma says all boys are so until they do something
with the oats,--I've forgot what. But there's one boy who isn't ugly.
Do you know Billy Bender?"
"Billy Bender? Oh, yes," said Mary quickly, "he is all the friend
I've got in the world except Sal Furbush."
"Well, he worked for my pa last summer, and oh, I liked him _so_ much.
I think he's the _bestest_ boy in the world. And isn't his face
beautiful?"
"I never thought of it," said Mary. "What makes you think him so
handsome?"
"Oh, I don't know unless it's because he makes such nice popple
whistles!" and as if the argument were conclusive, Jenny unrolled her
pantalet, and tried to wipe some of the mud from her dress, at the
same time glancing towards her sister, who at some little distance was
reclining against an old oak tree, and poring intently over "Fairy
Tales for Children."
Seeing that she was not observed, Jenny drew nearer to Mary and said,
"If you'll never tell any body as long as you live and breathe, I'll
tell you something."
Mary gave the required promise, and Jenny continued: "I shouldn't like
to have my mother know it, for she scolds all the time now about my
'vulgar tastes,' though I'm sure Rose likes the same things that I do,
except Billy Bender, and it's about him I was going to tell you. He
was so pleasant I couldn't help loving him, if mother did say I
mustn't. He used to talk to me about keeping clean, and once I tried a
whole week, and I only dirtied four dresses and three pair of
pantalets in all that time. Oh, how handsome and funny his eyes looked
when I told him about it. He took me in his lap, and said that was
more than he thought a little girl ought to dirty. Did you ever see
any boy you loved as well as you do Billy Bender?"
Mary hesitated a moment, for much as she liked Billy, there was
another whom she loved better, though he had never been one half as
kind to her as Billy had. After a time she answered, "Yes, I like, or
I did like George Moreland, but I shall never see him again;" and then
she told Jenny of her home in England, of the long, dreary voyage to
America, and of her father's death; but when she came to the sad night
when her mother and Franky died, she could not go on, and laying her
face in Jenny's lap, she cried for a long time. Jenny's tears flowed,
too, but she tried to restrain them, for she saw that Rose had shut
her book and was watching her movements.
Ere long, however, she resumed her reading, and then Jenny, softly
caressing Mary, said, "Don't cry so, for I'll love you, and we'll have
good times together too. We live in Boston every winter, but it will
be most six weeks before we go and I mean to see you every day."
"In Boston?" said Mary, inquiringly. "_George_ lives in Boston."
Jenny was silent a moment, and then suddenly clapping her hands
together, she exclaimed. "I know George Moreland. He lives just
opposite our house, and is Ida Selden's cousin. Why he's most as
handsome as Billy Bender, only he teases you more. I'll tell him about
you, for mother says he's got lots of money, and perhaps he'll give
you some."
Mary felt that she wouldn't for the world have George know she was in
the poor-house, and she quickly answered, "No, no, you mustn't tell
him a word about me. I don't want you to. Promise that you won't."
Loth as Jenny was to make such a promise, she finally did, adding, "I
guess I won't tell Rose either, for she and Ida are great friends.
George says he don't know which he likes best, though he thinks Rose
the handsomest. He like handsome girls, and so do I."
Mary knew she had no beauty of which to boast, but Ella had, so she
very naturally mentioned her sister, saying how much she wished to see
her.
"Why, you can see her at church," answered Jenny. "Why don't you ever
go?"
"I am going next Sunday, Sally and I," was Mary's reply. "Billy told
me the last time he was here that he would come and stay with Alice."
"Oh, I'm glad, and I hope they'll put you in my Sabbath school class,
for Ella is in it, but if they do I'll contrive to have Rose sit off a
good ways because,--because--"
Here Jenny paused, but seeing that Mary was waiting for her to finish
the sentence, she added, "She's proud, and sometimes laughs at poor
girls."
"Thank you, Miss Jenny Lincoln," said Rose, coming forward. "I'll tell
mother of this new intimacy, and she'll put a stop to it, I'll assure
you. But come along, I'm going home."
Jenny arose to obey, but whispered to Mary, "You'll find me most
any time in these woods. I'd ask you to come to our house, only
mother wouldn't let you sit in the parlor. I shall see you
Sunday,--Good-bye."
Mary watched her until she disappeared among the bushes and then she
too started for home, with a lighter heart than she had known before
for many a day. She had found a new friend, and though Miss Grundy
scolded because she had been gone so long, and threatened to shut her
up in Sal Furbush's cage, she did not mind it and actually commenced
humming a tune while Miss Grundy was storming about a bowl of sour
milk which she had found in the cupboard. A sharp box on her ears
brought her song to an end and the tears into her eyes, but she
thought of Jenny, and the fact that she too knew George made him seem
nearer, and when Miss Grundy did not see her she hastily drew the
golden locket from her bosom, and glancing at the handsome, boyish
face it revealed, quickly thrust it back as she heard a quick step in
the passage.
She had no opportunity of seeing Jenny again that week, for she was
kept busy from morning till night, running here and there, first after
eggs, then after water, next for potatoes, and then after wood. And
still Miss Grundy told her fifty times a day that "she didn't half pay
her way, to say nothing about the young one."
"Bolt at once," said Sal. "Bolt, and say you didn't come here to work:
that's the way I did."
Mary was willing to do whatever she could, but she often wished Mrs.
Parker were able to be round, for then she was sure she would not have
to work so hard. She had several times been sent of errands to Mrs.
Parker's room, and that lady had always spoken kindly to her, asking
her if she was tired, or what made her look so pale. It was through
Mrs Parker's influence, too, that she had obtained permission to
attend church the following Sabbath. Mrs. Parker was a professor of
religion, and before her illness, some of the family had attended
church every Sunday. But since she had been sick, her husband had
thought it hardly worth while to harness up his horses, though he said
any one might go who chose to walk. Few, however, were able to walk;
so they remained at home, and Sunday was usually the noisiest day in
the week. Sal Furbush generally took the lead, and mounting the
kitchen table, sung camp meeting hymns as loud as she could scream.
Uncle Peter fiddled, Patsy nodded and laughed, the girl with crooked
feet by way of increasing the bedlam would sometimes draw a file
across the stove-pipe, while Miss Grundy scolded, and declared "she
could not and would not have such a noise."
"Shut your head, madam, and there'll be less," was Sal's ready
rejoinder, as at the end of a verse she paused for breath.
The first Sabbath Mary looked on in perfect amazement, but the next
one she spent in her own room, and after a deal of trouble, succeeded
in coaxing Sal to stay there too, listening while she read to her from
her little Bible. But the reading was perplexing business, for Sal
constantly corrected her pronunciation, or stopped her while she
expounded Scripture, and at last in a fit of impatience Mary tossed
the book into the crazy creature's lap, asking her to read her self.
This was exactly what Sal wanted, and taking the foot of Mary's bed
for her rostrum, she read and preached so furiously, that Mary felt
almost glad when Miss Grundy came up to stop the racket, and locked
Sal in her own room.