WINTER AT THE POOR-HOUSE.
One afternoon about the middle of October, Mary sat under an
apple-tree in the orchard, weeping bitterly. It was in vain that
Alice, who was with her, and who by this time was able to stand alone,
climbed up to her side, patting her cheeks, and trying various ways to
win her attention. She still wept on, unmindful of the sound of rapid
footsteps upon the grass, nor until twice repeated did she hear the
words, "Why, Mary, what is the matter? What's happened?"--then looking
up she saw Billy Bender, who raised her in his arms, and insisted upon
knowing what was the matter.
Laying her head on his shoulder, she sobbed out, "She's gone,--she's
gone, and there's nobody left but Sally. Oh dear, oh dear!"
"Gone! Who's gone?" asked Billy.
"Jenny," was Mary's reply. "She's gone to Boston, and won't come back
till next May; and I loved her so much."
"Oh, yes, I know," returned Billy. "I met them all on their way to the
depot; but I wouldn't feel so badly. Jenny will come again, and
besides that, I've got some real good news to tell you.
"About Ella?" said Mary.
"No, not about Ella, but about myself; I'm coming here to live with
you."
"Coming here to live!" repeated Mary with astonishment. "What for?
Are your folks all dead?"
Billy smiled and answered, "Not quite so bad as that. I went to school
here two years ago, and I know I learned more than I ever did at home
in two seasons. The boys, when Henry Lincoln is away, don't act half
as badly as they do in the village; and then they usually have a lady
teacher, because it's cheaper I suppose, for they don't pay them half
as much as they do gentlemen, and I think they are a great deal the
best. Any way, I can learn the most when I go to a woman."
"But what makes you come here, and what will your mother do?" asked
Mary.
"She's got a sister come from the West to stay with her, and as I
shall go home every Saturday night, she'll get along well enough. I
heard Mr. Parker in the store one day inquiring for a boy to do
chores. So after consulting mother, I offered my services, and was
accepted. Won't we have real nice times going to school together, and
then I've brought a plaything for you. Are you afraid of dogs?"
So saying he gave a whistle, and a large Newfoundland dog came
bounding through the orchard. At first Mary drew back in alarm, for
the dog, though young, was unusually large; but her fears soon
vanished when she saw how affectionate he was, licking her own and
Alice's hands, and bounding playfully upon his master's shoulders.
"He is a nice fellow," said she, stroking his shaggy sides. What do
you call him?"
"Tasso," answered Billy; and then seeing Mr. Parker at a distance, and
wishing to speak to him, he walked away.
Three weeks from that time the winter school commenced; and Billy took
up his abode at the poor-house, greatly to the satisfaction of Sally
and Mary, and greatly to the annoyance of Miss Grundy, who, since
Patsy's death, was crosser and more fault-finding than ever.
"Smart idea!" said she, "to have that great lummux around to be waited
on!" and when she saw how happy his presence seemed to make Mary, she
vented her displeasure upon her in various ways, conjuring up all
sorts of reasons why she should stay out of school as often as
possible, and wondering "what the world was a coming to, when young
ones hardly out of the cradle begun to court! It wasn't so in her
younger days, goodness knew!"
"I wouldn't venture a great many remarks about my younger days, if I
were you, _Mrs._ Grundy," said Sal, who had adhered to her resolution
of always addressing her old enemy as _Mrs._, though she whispered it
to Mary as her opinion that the woman didn't fancy her new title.
Much as Mary had learned to prize Sally's friendship, before winter
was over she had cause to value it still more highly. Wretched and
destitute as the poor crazed creature now was, she showed plainly that
at some period or other of her life, she had had rare advantages for
education, which she now brought into use for Mary's benefit. When
Mary first commenced attending school, Miss Grundy insisted that she
should knit every evening, and thus she found no opportunity for
studying at home. One evening when, as usual, a part of the family
were assembled around a blazing fire in the kitchen, Sal Furbush
suddenly exclaimed, "Mary, why don't you bring your books home at
night, just as Mr. Bender does."
She had conceived a great respect for Billy, and always called him
_Mr._ Mary cast a rueful glance at the coarse sock, which certainly
was not growing fast, and replied, "I should like to, but I have to
knit all the time."
"Fudge on your everlasting knitting," said Sal, snatching the sock
from Mary's hands and making the needles fly nimbly. "I'm going to be
very magnanimous, and every time you'll bring your books home I'll
knit for you--I beg Mrs. Grundy, that you'll not throw the fire all
over the floor," she added, as that lady gave the forestick a violent
kick.
"The Lord save us!" was Miss Grundy's exclamation when after supper
the next evening she saw the three-legged stand loaded down with
Billy's and Mary's school books.
But as no one made her any reply, she quietly resumed her work,
appropriating to her own use the only tallow candle there was burning,
and leaving Billy and Mary to see as best they could by the firelight.
For some time Mary pored over her lesson in Colburn, but coming to the
question, "24 is 3/5 of how many times 10?" she stopped, unable to
proceed farther. Again and again she read it over, without gathering a
single idea, and was on the point of asking Billy to assist her, when
Sal, who had been watching her, said, "Let me take your book, child."
Mary did so, and then, as if conscious for the first time of Miss
Grundy's monopoly of the candle, Sal seized a large newspaper lying
near, and twisting it up, said, "Let there be light;" then thrusting
one end of it into the flames and drawing it out again, added, "and
there is light."
After tumbling over the leaves awhile, she continued, "No, they didn't
study this when I was young; but tell me what 'tis that troubles you."
Mary pointed to the problem, and after looking at it attentively a
moment, Sal said, "The answer to it is 4; and if you will give me some
little inkling of the manner in which you are taught to explain them
at school, perhaps I can tell you about that."
"It begins in this way," said Mary. "If 24 is 3/5 of some number, 1/5
of that number must be something or other, I don't know what."
"One third of 24 of course," said Sal.
"Oh, yes, that's it," exclaimed Mary, who began to understand it
herself. "Now, I guess I know. You find what one third of 24 is, and
if that is _one_ fifth, _five_ fifths would be five times that, and
then see how many times 10 will go in it."
"Exactly so," said Sal. "You'll make an arithmetic yet, and have it
out just about the time I do my grammar. But," she added in another
tone, "I've concluded to leave out the Grundy gender!"
Each night after this Mary brought home her books, and the rapid
improvement which she made in her studies was as much owing to Sally's
useful hints and assistance as to her own untiring perseverance. One
day when she returned from school Sally saw there was something the
matter, for her eyes were red and her cheeks flushed as if with
weeping. On inquiring of Billy, she learned that some of the girls had
been teasing Mary about her teeth, calling them "tushes," &c.
As it happened one of the paupers was sick, and Dr. Gilbert was at
that time in the house. To him Sal immediately went, and after laying
the case before him, asked him to extract the offending teeth. Sally
was quite a favorite with the doctor, who readily consented, on
condition that Mary was willing, which he much doubted, as such teeth
came hard.
"Willing or not, she shall have them out. It's all that makes her so
homely," said Sal; and going in quest of Mary, she led her to the
doctor, who asked to look in her mouth.
There was a fierce struggle, a scream, and then one of the teeth was
lying upon the floor.
"Stand still," said Sal, more sternly than she had ever before spoken
to Mary, who, half frightened out of her wits stood still while the
other one was extracted.
"There," said Sal, when the operation was finished, "you look a
hundred per cent. better."
For a time Mary cried and spit, hardly knowing whether the relished
the joke or not; but when Billy praised her improved looks, telling
her that "her mouth was real pretty," and when she herself dried her
eyes enough to see that it was a great improvement, she felt better,
and wondered why she had never thought to have them out before.
Rapidly and pleasantly to Mary that winter passed away, for the
presence of Billy was in itself a sufficient reason why she should be
happy. He was so affectionate and brother-like in his deportment
towards her, that she began questioning whether she did not love him
as well, if not better, than she did her sister Ella, whom she seldom
saw, though she heard that she had a governess from Worcester, and was
taking music lessons on a grand piano which had been bought a year
before. Occasionally Billy called at Mrs. Campbell's, but Ella seemed
shy and unwilling to speak of her sister.
"Why is there this difference?" he thought more than once, as he
contrasted the situation, of the two girls,--the one petted, caressed,
and surrounded by every luxury, and the other forlorn, desolate, and
the inmate of a poor-house; and then he built castles of a future,
when, by the labor of his own head or hands, Mary, too, should be rich
and happy.