“AND SEE MY SLATE”
“Was Towsle your very own dog?” asked Polly breathlessly.
“Yes, Sister’s and mine,” said Miss Parrott. “You see one day he
belonged to me, and the next to her. And one night he slept on the foot
of her bed, and the next on mine. And he never made a mistake--when he
saw us get into our nightgowns.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Polly, clasping her hands. David crowded up closely,
almost forgetting the precious book in his hands. To own a dog, and to
have him sleep on your bed at night!
“Would you like to see a picture of Towsle?” asked Miss Parrott, with a
keen look into each face.
“Oh, _would_ you show it to us?” cried Polly eagerly.
Davie drew a long breath. It wasn’t necessary for him to ask, as long
as Polly did.
“You hold the doll,” Miss Parrott laid Priscilla in Polly’s arm, “and
stay there, children.”
So Polly and David waited by the big sofa and watched Miss Parrott go
over to a cabinet on the wall. And pretty soon back she came with an
old-fashioned daguerreotype in her hand.
“You see, Uncle John wanted to have our pictures taken, and we begged
to have Towsle between us. So there we are!”
Miss Parrott pushed up the little spring and there were two small girls
in checked high-necked dresses, with ruffles around the necks, and hair
brushed back and held by round combs. A small fuzzy-wuzzy dog with eyes
like black shoe buttons sat primly up between the two.
Polly and David gazed perfectly absorbed at the picture. At last Miss
Parrott asked, “Now which of these two little girls do you think is my
picture?”
“Were you ever a little girl?” It was impossible for David to keep from
asking the question now, although the instant it was out, he knew that
a terrible blunder had been made.
“Oh, Davie!” exclaimed Polly, greatly mortified.
“It’s no wonder that you ask, Davie,” Miss Parrott smiled at him, so he
raised his head, “so many years have passed. Well, which of those two
little girls do you think I was?”
David considered slowly--then put his finger on one. There was
something in the kind eyes that made him think of Miss Parrott when she
smiled at him.
“Which do you think, Polly?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “but I think this one,” and she chose the
other little girl.
“Davie is right,” said Miss Parrott, with another smile for him. And
Polly beamed at him, for it really was nicer that he had guessed the
right one.
“Did Towsle like to have his picture taken?” asked Polly.
“No,” said Miss Parrott, with a little laugh, “not at first. He barked
dreadfully at the man who was trying to take the picture, and he said
at last that he couldn’t let the dog be in it. And Uncle John said then
nobody would have a picture taken at all.”
“O dear!--what did you do?” cried Polly.
“And wasn’t there any picture?” cried David, dreadfully worried.
“Why, yes--see--here it is.” Miss Parrott tapped it with a long hand,
on which shone several ancestral rings.
“Oh, I forgot,” said Davie, looking down at the daguerreotype in her
lap.
“Oh, Miss Parrott, what _did_ you do?” begged Polly anxiously.
“Well, the man went out and told his little girl to come in. They had
just been making some molasses candy, and she brought a piece. And he
told her to hold it up, so that the dog could see it. And then he got
back of his little black thing over the picture machine, and he stuck
up his head, and said, ‘All right--sit still, children,’ and then
something clicked, and we were all taken.”
“Towsle was good to sit still, wasn’t he, Miss Parrott,” cried Polly,
with shining eyes.
“Yes, indeed. You see he knew it was candy that the little girl held.
That was the way Sister and I always made him keep still before we gave
him any. So he never took his eyes off from it.”
“And did he get the candy--did he?” cried David in great excitement.
“To be sure he did,” laughed Miss Parrott, “and it took him ever so
long to eat it, for he got his teeth all stuck together. And Uncle John
paid the man, and then he said, ‘Hasn’t that dog finished his candy
yet?’ for there was Towsle whirling around, putting up first one paw
and then another to his face to try to get his jaws apart. You see the
candy was too soft.” Miss Parrott burst into a hearty laugh in which
Polly and David joined.
“And Towsle wouldn’t take any molasses candy when Sister and I offered
it to him after that,” said Miss Parrott, wiping her eyes. “Dear me,
children, I don’t know when I have laughed so. Well, now I must put the
daguerreotype up.”
When she came back to the big sofa, she looked at David, the book
tightly clasped in his hands.
“Now I must tell you about this. So you chose a book, Davie?” as he
laid it in her hands.
“Yes,” said Davie, “I did.”
“Well,” Miss Parrott turned the leaves of an old First Reader. “Now
this makes me very sad.”
“Oh, don’t tell about it, if it makes you feel bad,” cried Polly in
distress. “You don’t want her to, Davie, do you?”
Davie swallowed hard, trying to say, “No, don’t tell about it.”
But before he could get the words out, Miss Parrott said quickly, “I
really should like to tell about it, children. Well, you see, I wasn’t
quick about learning to read, as Sister was, and our governess--”
“What’s a gover--what you said?” David broke in. He must know if he
really were going to understand about the book.
“Oh, Davie!” cried Polly reprovingly, “you mustn’t interrupt.”
“A governess was the lady who taught Sister and me our lessons. You see
we didn’t go to school, but studied at home.”
“Oh,” said Polly and David together.
“Well, Miss Barton, that was her name, had a good deal of trouble with
me, I suppose. And one thing that I was the slowest to learn, was
spelling. I was quite dull at it. And one day--this is the part that
makes me sad, children, I was very naughty. I was determined I would
spell my own way, and I began at the word ‘From.’” She turned the next
page, and there in the midst of a little story was the word “From”
beginning a new sentence, and around it were queer little crumpled-up
places in the paper.
“Those are the tears I shed afterward,” said Miss Parrott, pointing to
them.
“O dear!” cried both children, quite overcome to see these tears that
were cried out of Miss Parrott’s eyes so long ago.
“You see, Miss Barton would have Sister and me stand up before her
while she picked out words for us to spell, and then she would have
us read the story to which they belonged, and she gave me that word,”
Miss Parrott’s finger pointed to “From” in the midst of the crumply
spots, “and I spelled it ‘Frum,’ and I wouldn’t spell it any other way,
although she told me how. I kept saying, ‘_F r u m--F r u m_’ over
and over, and Sister tried to make me obey Miss Barton, but I shook my
head, and kept saying, ‘_F r u m_’ and at last our governess had to
call Mother.”
The room was very still now.
“Well, when our Mother came into the little room, I remember I longed
to run into her arms and say I was sorry, but something inside of me
held me back, and Mother led me away, and Sister burst out crying.”
“Well, children,” said Miss Parrott, after a pause, “I shall never
forget how I suffered as I sat on the little stool in a room by myself,
which was our punishment when we were naughty, and thought it all over.
And I can never see the word ‘From’ that it doesn’t come back to me.
Well now, Davie, so you chose a book?” she added brightly.
“Yes, I did,” said David, still keeping his eyes on “From.”
“You like books pretty well, do you?” asked Miss Parrott, with a keen
glance.
“Davie just loves books,” declared Polly impulsively, as Davie raised
sparkling eyes.
“And there was another thing that Sister and I had to help us with our
spelling. We each had a slate.”
“A _slate_!” screamed Davie. “Oh, did you really have a slate?”
“To be sure,” said Miss Parrott.
“All to yourself?” cried Davie, quite gone with excitement.
“Yes, indeed--we each had one. Do you want to see them?”
Davie’s eyes said “Yes” without the word. But he said it aloud
nevertheless.
Miss Parrott went over to the same cabinet and put up the doll and the
daguerreotype, bringing back two small slates, with a pencil and a
little sponge hanging to each.
“Sister’s had a green edge,” she said, holding first one slate up to
notice, and then the other, “and this one is mine--with a red border.”
“May I hold it?” begged David, longingly reaching up his hands.
“Indeed you may,” said Miss Parrott, giving it to him. “And, Davie,
you may keep that slate. I can’t give away Sister’s--I shall keep that
always--but that one is mine. I hope you like red best?” she asked
anxiously.
“I do,” said Davie, clasping the slate hungrily. “Is it mine--all mine?”
“It’s yours to keep always,” said Miss Parrott decidedly, “and I am so
glad that you like it. Well now, Polly, I’m going to give you a little
plant to carry home. I hope you like flowers.”
For answer Polly clasped her hands. It was all she could do to keep
from hopping up and down in delight. Seeing this, Miss Parrott took her
hand. “We will go down and choose it,” she said.
David, hanging to his red-bordered slate, followed them down-stairs and
out through the little green lattice door.
When they reached the little green plot with the stone seats, Miss
Parrott sat down, for all the unusual happenings of this day made a
little rest seem very sweet. But she looked at Polly’s and David’s
dancing feet, and said, “You run about, children, and I will come
presently, and pick out a plant for Polly.”
No need for a second invitation. Like little wild things, they were off
up to the big green trees, David hanging to his red-bordered slate for
dear life.
“Put it down, Davie, do,” begged Polly, “under that tree. We can’t play
tag with any fun if you hold the slate.”
“No--no,” cried Davie in alarm, and grasping it tighter.
“Oh, well, never mind,” said Polly. “Now, come on,” with a pat on his
shoulder, “you’re it.”
“She’s all tired out,” declared the housemaid, peering out of the green
lattice door, “look at her a-settin’ there. I sh’d think she would be
with them childern round her all day.”
“Bad luck to ’em,” exclaimed the cross cook, coming up to look over the
housemaid’s shoulder. “Well, I never--jest look at ’em a-racin’ an’
a-chasin’ all over th’ place! Did anybody ever see sech goin’s-on in
this garden before?”
The butler didn’t dare, since his reproof in the dining-room, to join
this conversation, but he shrugged up his shoulders, as he kept on at
his task of polishing up the family plate.
And Miss Parrott being nicely rested, more by hearing the happy voices
and watching the flying feet, than by sitting still on the little stone
seat, got up presently. “Come, children,” she called, “we must choose
Polly’s plant,” and in almost no time at all, they both stood before
her.
Around and around the old-fashioned garden bright with hollyhocks and
all sorts of blossoms and shrubs, they went, Miss Parrott with her
finger on her chin, a way she had when she was thinking, and Polly
holding her breath whenever a stop was made before a little plant.
At last Miss Parrott paused before a row of little yellow primroses,
lifting their bright faces as if to say, “Take me--oh do, take me!”
“I really believe, Polly,” said Miss Parrott, looking down at them,
“that you will like one of these. I am sure they were great favorites
of mine when I was a little girl.”
For answer Polly threw herself down on her knees, and laid her flushed
cheek against a small cluster of yellow blooms.
“You may pick out the one you like best,” said Miss Parrott.
“Oh, this one--if you please,” cried Polly, lifting a little pot. “I
choose this one--and thank you, dear Miss Parrott.”
[Illustration: “YOU MAY PICK OUT THE ONE YOU LIKE BEST,” SAID MRS.
PARROTT.--_Page 234._]
“I really believe you have made a good selection, Polly,” said Miss
Parrott, the color rising to her sallow cheek. It was so long since
any one had called her “dear.” “Well now, I am sorry to say it is
getting time for me to send you home, for I have much enjoyed the day,
but your mother will never allow you to come again if I keep you too
long,” and she led the way into the house, where Polly got her hat and
Davie his cap.
Miss Parrott led the way down the broad hall, with its rugs on the
polished floor and the portraits of her ancestors lining the walls.
She looked back as she neared the big oaken door to see Polly standing
spellbound before the drawing-room, and Davie by her side.
“Would you like to go in, dear?” Miss Parrott came back and pointed
within the long apartment.
“Oh, if I may,” said Polly, in an awe-struck little voice.
“Certainly, dear, and Davie, too.” Then she followed, curious to see
what would first claim attention.
Polly went straight to the big grand piano standing half across two
long French windows, and stood quite still. David came softly after.
“If you can play, Polly,” said Miss Parrott, not thinking of anything
else to break the silence, “I am quite willing that you should, dear.”
“Oh, I can’t play,” said Polly, coming out of her absorption with a
little laugh at the very idea.
“She plays on the table,” said Davie, looking up at Miss Parrott.
“Plays on the table?” repeated Miss Parrott in a puzzled way. “I don’t
understand.”
“Just like this,” Davie having by this time quite forgotten to be
embarrassed, went over to the big mahogany center-table, and laying
down his beloved slate, softly ran his fingers up and down the shining
surface.
“Oh, you mean instead of a piano she uses a table.”
“Yes,” said Davie, picking up his slate, and running back to stand by
Polly.
Miss Parrott was quite still for a moment regarding Polly. Then she
said, “Would you like to have me play to you, Polly?”
Polly drew a long breath, and tore her gaze away from the big piano.
“Oh, if you would!” she cried with shining eyes.
So Miss Parrott sat down on the music-stool and drew her long figure
up just as the music master had instructed her years ago, and began to
finger the keys, Polly, with her little plant in her hand, standing in
rapt attention, on one side, and David, with his slate, on the other.
At first the tunes didn’t go very well, Miss Parrott observing, “I
don’t know when I have tried this before,” and breaking into some other
selection. But by degrees, the slender fingers began to run up and down
quite at their ease among the black and white keys, and the long somber
drawing-room seemed to glow with the trills and quavers.
“My soul an’ body!” exclaimed the cross cook to the housemaid, “ef she
ain’t playin’ th’ pianner. I’m scared to death, Mary Jane.”
Mary Jane’s florid face turned two shades paler. “I expect she’s going
to die,” she whimpered.
And over in the big drawing-room, their mistress was just beginning
to blame herself for keeping them so long. She arose hastily from the
music-stool. “And now it is good-by.” She laid a gentle hand on each
head. “Run out and get into the carriage,” for Simmons had been waiting
all this time.
She opened the big oaken door, and waited to see them off--then turned
back with a curious light on her sallow face.
And Polly and Davie being set down at the gate of the little brown
house, raced up to the big green door, and burst in. “I’ve a plant--a
dear, little plant,” announced Polly, raising it high.
“And see my slate,” Davie tried to reach higher than Polly, “and it’s
all my very own,--it is, Mamsie.”