A LONG DAY
Marjorie had expected to derive much satisfaction, during her sojourn
on the stairs, from playing with her kitten. But Puff ran away almost
immediately, and no amount of calling or coaxing could bring her back.
Sighing deeply, Marjorie tried to amuse herself reading the books she
had brought. But the light was not very good on the stairs, and
somehow, too, the books seemed to have lost their interest. Thinking
over what she could do to make the time pass, she remembered her
paint-box. She was fond of painting, and concluded she would try to
paint a little sketch of the stairs to put in her Memory Book to
represent this dreadful day.
"Not that I need anything to make me remember it," she thought, "for
I'm sure I can never, never, never forget it." But when she had her
other materials all prepared she realized she had no glass of water,
so, of course, her paints were useless.
Even her paper-doll's house seemed to have lost its flavor. She had no
new things to paste in, nor had she any paste.
She began to learn what a lot of little things make up the comforts of
life, and, utterly discouraged, she tried to think of something to
while away the time.
At last she concluded she would start at the top and go down, sitting
on each step five minutes. "This," she calculated to herself, "will
fill up a long time. There are seventeen steps, and seventeen times
five is,--well, I don't know how much it is, exactly, but it must be
several hours. Perhaps, when I get down to the bottom it will be
afternoon!"
With a reviving sense of interest in something, she sat on the top step
and waited for five minutes to pass. Never had a period of time seemed
so long. It was twice as long as a church service, and a dozen times as
long as the ride in the cars when she came up to Grandma's. But at last
the five minutes was up, and with a little jounce Marjorie slid down to
the next step, and prepared to spend another five. This was longer yet,
and at the third-step Marjorie gave up this plan, as being the most
dreadful thing she had ever tried.
She began to feel like crying, but was determined not to do anything so
foolish.
Slowly and wearily the morning dragged away, and at last, when Marjorie
had begun to feel that lassitude which comes from utter weariness, Jane
appeared with a tray of luncheon.
Marjorie brightened up at once. "Oh, Jane," she cried, "I'm SO glad to
see you! I AM so lonesome!"
"Pore lamb!" said Jane, sympathetically; "I'm thinkin' ye're purty nigh
dead, be now. But here's the foine lunch for ye. See, darlint, here's
chicken and strawberries and jelly and all the things ye like best!
Cheer up, now, and ate yer food."
"Indeed, I will! Oh, Jane, what lovely things! Fresh little cakes, with
pink icing; and gooseberry jam! But don't go away, Jane."
"I must, Miss Midget. Yer grandma towld me not to shtay wid yez."
"But I'm so lonesome," said Marjorie, who had just seemed to realize
what the main trouble was.
But Jane dared not disobey orders, and setting the tray on the stairs,
she went away, with fond backward glances at the forlorn little figure
sitting there.
However, the lonesomest human heart is bound to cheer up a little under
the influence of a specially fine feast, and as Marjorie ate her
luncheon and drank a big glass of milk, the detested stairs began to
assume a rather more attractive air.
And so, when Jane came to take the tray away she found on it only empty
dishes, while Marjorie, who was cuddled up in a corner, reading, looked
at her with a smile.
"The day is half gone!" she announced, triumphantly. "And, Jane, won't
you ask Grandma if you may bring me a glass of water so I can paint.
But tell her I don't want it unless she's perfectly willing."
Grandma smiled a little at the stipulation, but sent Marjorie the glass
of water, and the child filled up half an hour or more painting
pictures. But the cramped position was very uncomfortable, and Marjorie
grew restless and longed for exercise. Suddenly an inspiration seized
her, and she concluded it would be great fun to slide down the
banister. For a few times this was amusing, but it stung her hands, and
finally she fell off and bumped her head rather soundly.
"It's lucky I fell on the stair side," she said to herself, rubbing the
lump on her forehead, "for I promised Grandma not to leave the stairs,
and if I had fallen off on the other side I should have broken my
promise!"
The afternoon hours seemed to move rather more slowly than the morning.
Occasionally, Marjorie's naturally cheerful disposition would assert
itself and she would bravely endeavor to occupy herself pleasantly in
some way. But there was so little light, and stairs are uncomfortable
at best to sit on, and the silence and loneliness were so oppressive,
that her efforts successively failed.
And, though Marjorie did not realize it, her spirits were depressed
because of the mere fact that she was undergoing punishment. Had she
been there of her own free choice she could have played happily on the
stairs all day long; or had the opportunity been bestowed upon her, as
a great and special treat, the hours would have flown by.
At last, exhausted, Nature conquered all else, and, seated on one step,
Marjorie folded her arms on the step above, laid her head down upon
them, and went to sleep.
And it was thus that Uncle Steve found her when he came home at four
o'clock.
"Hello, Queen of Mischief!" he cried, gayly. "Wake up here and tell me
all about it!"
"Oh, Uncle Steve!" cried Marjorie, waking, flushed from her nap, and
delighted at having some one to speak to; "do you know why I'm here?
Did Grandma tell you?"
"Yes, she told me; and she told me something else, too. She says that
if you are properly sorry for what you did,--really, AWFULLY sorry, you
know,--that you may be excused for the rest of the day and may go out
driving with me."
"Well, I just rather guess I AM sorry! I'm two sorries. One, because I
disobeyed Grandma and tracked up her Front Stairs; and another, because
I've had this terrible, dreadful punishment."
Uncle Steve looked at his niece a little gravely. "Which are you more
sorry for, Marjorie," he asked: "because you did wrong or because you
were punished?"
Marjorie considered. "About equal, I think. No, I'm more sorry I did
wrong, because if I hadn't, I wouldn't have had the punishment; and,
besides, it hurt Grandma's feelings."
"Which did?"
"Why, my running up the stairs! Of course, the punishment didn't hurt
her," and Marjorie laughed merrily at the idea.
"I think it hurt her more than it did you," said Uncle Steve, but
Marjorie only stared, open-eyed, at this nonsense.
"Well, anyway, it's all over now; so bundle your belongings back where
they belong and get yourself ready for a drive."
Marjorie flew to obey, but meeting Grandma in the hall, she dropped her
dressful of books and toys, and flung herself into Mrs. Sherwood's
waiting arms.
"Oh, Grandma!" she cried. "I AM so sorry I slam-banged upstairs, and
I'll never do it again, and I had a perfectly awful, DREADFUL time, but
of course you had to punish me for your own good,--I mean for my own
good,--but now it's all over, and you love me just the same, don't you?"
The ardent embrace in progress left no doubt of the affection still
existing between the pair, and if Marjorie's hugs were of the lovingly
boisterous variety, Grandma Sherwood appeared quite willing to submit
to them.
"I don't know," she thought to herself, after Marjorie had gone for her
drive, "whether that child is impervious to discipline or whether she
is unusually capable of receiving and assimilating it."
But at any rate, Marjorie never went up or down the front stairs again,
except on the occasions when it was distinctly permissible.
The drive with Uncle Steve was a succession of delights. This was
partly because it was such a sudden and pleasant change from the
abominable staircase and partly because Uncle Steve was such an amiable
and entertaining companion.
The two were alone in an old-fashioned, low basket-phaeton; and Uncle
Steve was willing to stop whenever Marjorie wished, to note an
especially beautiful bird on a neighboring branch or an extra-fine
blossom of some wild flower.
Also, Uncle Steve seemed to know the names of all the trees and flowers
and birds they chanced to see. Greatly interested in these things,
Marjorie learned much nature-lore, and the lessons were but play. Tying
the horse to a fence, the two cronies wandered into the wood and found,
after much careful search, some Indian Pipes of an exquisite
perfection. These fragile, curious things were Marjorie's great
delight, and she carried them carefully home for her Memory Book.
"They won't be very satisfactory as mementoes," warned Uncle Steve,
"for they will turn brown and lose their fair, white beauty."
Marjorie looked regretful, but an inspiration came to her.
"I'll tell you what, Uncle Steve, I'll get Stella to draw them in my
book and paint them. She's so clever at copying flowers, and I'm sure
she can do it."
"Let her try it, then, and if she doesn't succeed I'll photograph them
for you, so you'll have at least a hint of the lovely things."
Hand in hand they walked through the wood, spying new beauties here and
there. Sometimes they sat on a fallen log to rest a bit or to discuss
some new marvel in Nature's kingdom.
At last, as the sun was sinking low in the west, they left the wood,
untied old Betsy, who was patiently waiting for them, and jogged along
homeward.
"Punishment is a strange thing," said Marjorie to Grandma, as they were
having their little "twilight talk" that evening, before the child went
to bed.
"Why?" asked Grandma.
"Because it makes you remember," said Marjorie, slowly; "I don't see
why I couldn't remember to keep off the Front Stairs, just because you
told me to, but somehow I couldn't. Now, after to-day, I'm sure I shall
never forget again."
"That's the difference, my child, between youth and age. You are young
and careless of other people's wishes. I want you to learn to consider
others before yourself, and to remember to do so without a dreadful
punishment to fix it in your memory."
"It's lucky, isn't it, that I don't get punished for all the naughty
things I do? It would keep me busy being punished most of the time."
"You ARE a mischievous child, Marjorie; but your mischief is always the
result of carelessness or forgetfulness. I have never known you
purposely to disobey me or deliberately to cut up some naughty trick."
"No, I don't, Grandma; often I'm being just as good as an angel and as
quiet as a mouse, when suddenly something pops into my head that would
be fun to do; and I fly and do it, before I think, and just about every
time it's something wrong!"
"Then suppose you try to act more slowly. When you think of some piece
of fun, pause a moment, to make sure that it isn't mischief. There's
quite enough innocent fun in the world to keep you busy all day, and
every day."
"I 'spect there is; and truly, Grandma, after this, when I want to cut
up jinks, I'll wait until I can think it out, whether they're good
jinks or bad jinks! Will that do?"
"That will do admirably," said Grandma, smiling as she kissed the
little girl; "if you go through life on that principle and if you have
judgment enough--and I think you have--to tell 'good jinks' from 'bad
jinks,' you will probably have plenty of good times without any
necessity for punishment."
"Then that's all right," said Marjorie, and feeling that her life
problems were all settled, she dropped off to sleep.