"But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
And I cried for her more than a week, dears--"
They say that the world--and of course that means the people in it--has
changed very much in the last half century or so. I daresay in some
ways this is true, but it is not in all. There are some ways in which I
hope and think people will never change much. Hearts will never change,
I hope--good, kind hearts who love and trust each other I mean; and
little children, they surely will always be found the same,--simple and
faithful, happy and honest; why, the very word _childlike_ would cease
to have any meaning were the natures it describes to alter.
Looking back over more than fifty years to a child life then, far away
from here, flowing peacefully on, I recognise the same nature, the same
innocent, unsuspicious enjoyment, the same quaint, so-called
"old-fashioned" ways that now-a-days I find in the children growing up
about me. The little ones of to-day enjoy a _shorter_ childhood, there
is more haste to hurry them forward in the race--we would almost seem to
begrudge them their playtime--but that I think is the only real
difference. My darlings are children after all; they love the sunshine
and the flowers, mud-pies and mischief, dolls and story-books, as
fervently as ever. And long may they do so!
My child of fifty years ago was in all essentials a real child. Yet
again, in some particulars, she was exceptional, and exceptionally
placed. She had never travelled fifty miles from her home, and that
home was far away in the country, in Scotland. And a Scottish country
home in those days was far removed from the bustle and turmoil and
excitement of the great haunts of men. Am I getting beyond you,
children, dear? Am I using words and thinking thoughts you can scarcely
follow? Well, I won't forget again. I will tell you my simple story in
simple words.
This long-ago little girl was named Janet. She was the youngest of
several brothers and sisters, some of whom, when she was born even, were
already out in the world. They were, on the whole, a happy, united
family; they had their troubles, and disagreements perhaps too,
sometimes, but in one thing they all joined, and that was in loving and
petting little Janet. How well she remembers even now, all across the
long half century, how the big brothers would dispute as to which of
them should carry her in her flowered chintz dressing-gown, perched like
a tiny queen on their shoulders, to father's and mother's room to say
good-morning; how on Hallowe'en the rosiest apples and finest nuts were
for "wee Janet;" how the big sisters would work for hours at her dolls'
clothes; how, dearest memory of all, the kind, often careworn, studious
father would read aloud to her, hour after hour, as she lay on the
hearth-rug, coiled up at his feet.
For little Janet could not read much to herself. She was not blind, but
her sight was imperfect, and unless the greatest care had been taken she
might, by the time she grew up, have lost it altogether. To look at her
you would not have known there was anything wrong with her blue eyes;
the injury was the result of an accident in her infancy, by which one of
the delicate sight nerves had been hurt, though not so as to prevent the
hope of cure. But for several years she was hardly allowed to use her
eyes at all. She used to wear a shade whenever she was in a bright
light, and she was forbidden to read, or to sew, or to do anything which
called for much seeing. How she learnt to read I do not know--I do not
think she could have told you herself--but still it is certain that she
did learn; perhaps her kind father taught her this, and many more things
than either he or she suspected in the long hours she used to lie by his
study fire, sometimes talking to him in the intervals of his writing,
sometimes listening with intense eagerness to the legends and ballads
his heart delighted in, sometimes only making stories to herself as she
sat on the hearth-rug playing with her dolls.
There are many quaint little stories of this long-ago maiden that you
would like to hear, I think. One comes back to my mind as I write. It
is about a mysterious holly bush in the garden of Janet's home, which
one year took it into its head to grow all on one side, in the queerest
way you ever saw. This holly bush stood in a rather conspicuous
position, just outside the breakfast-room window, and Janet's father was
struck by the peculiar crookedness which afflicted it, and one morning
he went out to examine it more closely. He soon found the reason--the
main branch had been stunted by half an orange skin, which had been
fitted upon it most neatly and closely, like a cap, just where it was
sprouting most vigorously. Janet's father was greatly surprised. "Dear
me, dear me," he exclaimed as he came in; "what a curious thing. How
could this ever have got on to the holly bush? An old orange skin, you
see," he went on, holding it up to the assembled family party. Little
Janet was there, in her usual place by her father's chair.
"Was it on the robin's bush, father?" she asked.
"The robin's bush, Janet? What do you mean?"
"The bush the wee robin perches on when he comes to sing in the
morning," she answered readily. "A long, long time ago, I tied an
orange skin on, to make a soft place for the dear robin's feet. The
bush was _so_ prickly, I could not bear to see him stand upon it."
And to this day the crooked holly bush tells of the little child's
tenderness.
Then there is another old story of Janet, how, once being sorely
troubled with toothache, and anxious to bear it uncomplainingly "like a
woman," she was found, after being searched for everywhere fast asleep
in the "byre," her little cheek pillowed on the soft skin of a few days'
old calf. "Its breath was so sweet, and it felt so soft and warm, it
seemed to take the ache away," she said.
And another old memory of little Janet on a visit at an uncle's, put to
sleep in a room alone, and feeling frightened by a sudden gale of wind
that rose in the night, howling among the trees and sweeping down the
hills. Poor little Janet! It seemed to her she was far, far away from
everybody, and the wind, as it were, took mortal form and voice, and
threatened her, till she could bear it no longer. Up she got, all in
the dark, and wandered away down the stairs and passages of the rambling
old house, till at last a faint glimmer of light led her to a modest
little room in the neighbourhood of the kitchen, where old Jamie, the
faithful serving-man, who had seen pass away more than one generation of
the family he was devoted to, was sitting up reading his Bible before
going to bed. How well Janet remembers it even now! The old man's
start of surprise at the unexpected apparition of wee missy, how he took
her on his knee and turned over the pages of "the Book," to read to her
words of gentle comfort, even for a little child's alarm; how Jesus
hushed the winds and waves, and bade them be still; how not a hair of
the head of even tiny Janet could be injured without the Father's
knowledge; how she had indeed no reason to fear; till, soothed and
reassured, the child let the good old man lead her back to bed again,
where she slept soundly till morning.
But all this time I am very long of introducing to you, children, the
real heroine of this story--not Janet, but who then? Janet's dearest
and most tenderly prized doll--"Mary Ann Jolly."
She was one of several, but the best beloved of all, though why it would
have been difficult to say. She was certainly not pretty; indeed, to
tell the truth, I fear I must own that she was decidedly ugly And an
ugly doll in those days _was_ an ugly doll, my dears. For whether
little girls have altered much or not since the days of Janet's
childhood, there can be no two opinions about dolls; _they_ have altered
tremendously, and undoubtedly for the better. There were what people
_thought_ very pretty dolls then, and Janet possessed two or three of
these. There was "Lady Lucy Manners," an elegant blonde, with flaxen
ringlets and pink kid hands and arms; there was "Master Ronald," a
gallant sailor laddie, with crisp black curls and goggle bead eyes;
there were two or three others--Arabellas or Clarissas, I cannot tell
you their exact names; on the whole, for that time, Janet had a goodly
array of dolls. But still, dearest of all was Mary Ann Jolly. I think
her faithfulness, her thorough reliableness, must have been her charm;
she never melted, wept tears of wax--that is to say, to the detriment of
her complexion, when placed too near the nursery fire. She never broke
an artery and collapsed through loss of sawdust. These weaknesses were
not at all in her way, for she was of wood, wooden. Her features were
oil-painted on her face, like the figure-head of a ship, and would stand
washing. Her hair was a good honest black-silk wig, with sewn-on curls,
and the whole affair could be removed at pleasure; but oh, my dear
children, she _was_ ugly. Where she had come from originally I cannot
say. I feel almost sure it was from no authorised doll manufactory. I
rather think she was home-made to some extent, and I consider it highly
probable that her beautiful features were the production of the village
painter. But none of these trifling details are of consequence;
wherever she had come from, whatever her origin, she was herself--good,
faithful Mary Ann Jolly.
One summer time there came trouble to the neighbourhood where little
Janet's home was. A fever of some kind broke out in several villages,
and its victims were principally children. For the elder ones of the
family--such of them, that is to say, as were at home--but little fear
was felt by their parents; but for Janet and the brother next to her,
Hughie, only three years older than she, they were anxious and uneasy.
Hughie was taken from the school, a few miles distant, to which every
day he used to ride on his little rough pony, and for the time Janet and
he were allowed to run wild. They spent the long sunny days, for it was
the height of summer, in the woods or on the hills, as happy as two
young fawns, thinking, in their innocence, "the fever," to them but the
name of an unknown and unrealisable possibility, rather a lucky thing
than otherwise.
And Hughie was a trusty guardian for his delicate little sister. He was
a brave and manly little fellow; awkward and shy to strangers, but
honest as the day, and with plenty of mother-wit about him. Janet
looked up to him with affection and admiration not altogether unmixed
with awe. Hughie was great at "knowing best," in their childish
perplexities, and, for all his tenderness, somewhat impatient of "want
of sense," or thoughtlessness.
One day the two children, accompanied as usual by Hughie's dog "Caesar,"
and the no less faithful Mary Ann Jolly, had wandered farther than their
wont from home. Janet had set her heart on some beautiful water
forget-me-nots, which, in a rash moment, Hughie had told her that he had
seen growing on the banks of a little stream that flowed through a sort
of gorge between the hills. It was quite three miles from home--a long
walk for Janet, but Hughie knew his way perfectly--he was not the kind
of boy ever to lose it; the day was lovely, and the burn ran nowhere
near the direction they had been forbidden to take--that of the infected
village. But Hughie, wise though he was, did not know or remember that
close to the spot for which he was aiming ran a road leading directly
from this village to the ten miles distant little town of Linnside, and
even had he thought of it, the possibility of any danger to themselves
attending the fact would probably never have struck him. There was
another way to Linnside from their home, so Hughie's ignorance or
forgetfulness was natural.
The way down to the edge of the burn was steep and difficult, for the
shrubs and bushes grew thickly together, and there was no proper path.
"Stay you here, Janet," he said, finding for the child a seat on a nice
flat stone at the entrance to the gorge; "I'll be back before you know I
am gone, and I'll get the flowers much better without you, little woman;
and Mary Ann will be company like."
Janet obeyed without any reluctance. She had implicit faith in Hughie.
But after a while Mary Ann confided to her that she was "wearying" of
sitting still, and Janet thought it could do no harm to take a turn up
and down the sloping field where Hughie had left her. She wandered to a
gate a few yards off, and, finding it open, wandered a little farther,
till, without knowing it, she was within a stone's throw of the road I
mentioned. And here an unexpected sight met Janet's eyes, and made her
lose all thought of Hughie and the forget-me-nots, and how frightened he
would be at missing her. Drawn up in a corner by some trees stood one
of those travelling houses on wheels, in which I suppose every child
that ever was born has at one time or other thought that it would be
delightful to live. Janet had never seen one before, and she gazed at
it in astonishment, till another still more interesting object caught
her attention.
It was a child--a little girl just about her own age, a dark-eyed,
dark-haired, brown-skinned, but very, very thin little girl, lying on a
heap of old shawls and blankets on the grass by the side of the movable
house. She seemed to be quite alone--there was no one in the waggon
apparently, no sound to be heard; she lay quite still, one thin little
hand under her head, the other clasping tightly some two or three poor
flowers--a daisy or two, a dandelion, and some buttercups--which she had
managed to reach without moving from her couch. Janet, from under her
little green shade, stared at her, and she returned the stare with
interest, for all around was so still that the slight rustle made by the
little intruder caught her sharp ear at once. But after a moment her
eyes wandered down from Janet's fair childish face, on which she seemed
to think she had bestowed enough attention, and settled themselves on
the lovely object nestling in the little girl's maternal embrace. A
smile of pleasure broke over her face.
"What's yon?" she said, suddenly.
"What's _what_?" said Janet.
"_Yon_," repeated the child, pointing with her disengaged hand to the
faithful Mary Ann.
"_That_," exclaimed Janet. "That's my doll. That's Mary Ann Jolly.
Did you never see a doll?"
"No," replied the brown-skinned waif, "never. She's awfu' bonny."
Janet's maternal vanity was gratified.
"She's guid and she's bonny," she said, unconsciously imitating, with
ludicrous exactness, her own old nurse's pet expression when she was
pleased with her. She hugged Mary Ann closer to her as she spoke.
"You'd like to have a dolly too, wouldn't you, little girl?"
The child smiled.
"I couldna _gie_ her tae ye," said Janet, relapsing into Scotch, with a
feeling that "high English" would probably be lost upon her new friend.
"But ye micht tak' her for a minute in yer ain airms, if ye like?"
"Ay wad I," said the child, and Janet stepped closer to her and
deposited Mary Ann in her arms.
"Canna ye stan' or walk aboot? Hae ye nae legs?" she inquired.
"Legs," repeated the child, "what for shud' I no hae legs? I canna rin
aboot i' the noo; I've nae been weel, but I'll sune be better. Eh my!
but she's awfu' fine," she went on, caressing Mary Ann as she spoke.
But at this moment the bark of a dog interrupted the friendly
conversation. Caesar appeared, and Janet started forward to reclaim her
property, her heart for the first time misgiving her as to "what Hughie
would say." Just as she was taking Mary Ann out of the little vagrant's
arms, Hughie came up. He was hot, breathless, anxious, and, as a
natural consequence of the last especially, angry.
"Naughty Janet, bad girl," he exclaimed, in his excitement growing more
"Scotch" than usual. "What for didna ye bide whaur I left ye? I
couldna think what had become o' ye; bad girl. And wha's that ye're
clavering wi'? Shame on ye, Janet."
He darted forward, snatched his little sister roughly by the arm,
dropping the precious forget-me-nots in his flurry, and dragged Janet
away, making her run so fast that she burst out sobbing with fear and
consternation. She could not understand it; it was not like Hughie to
be so fierce and rough.
"You are very, very unkind," she began, as soon as her brother allowed
her to stop to take breath. "Why should I nae speak to the puir wee
girl? She looked sae ill lying there her lane, and she was sae
extraordinar' pleased wi' Mary Ann."
"You let her touch Mary Ann, did ye?" said Hughie, stopping short. "I
couldna have believed, Janet, you'd be such a fule. A big girl, ten
years old, to ken nae better! It's `fare-ye-weel' to Mary Ann any way,
and you have yourself to thank for it." They were standing near the
spot where Hughie had left his sister while he clambered down to the
burn, and before Janet had the least idea of his intention, Hughie
seized the unfortunate doll, and pitched her, with all his strength,
far, far away down among the brushwood of the glen.
For an instant Janet stood in perfect silence. She was too
thunderstruck, too utterly appalled and stunned, to take in the reality
of what had happened. She had never seen Hughie in a passion in her
life; never in all their childish quarrels had he been harsh or
"bullying," as I fear too many boys of his age are to their little
sisters. She gazed at him in terrified consternation, slowly, very
slowly taking in the fact--to her almost as dreadful as if he had
committed a murder--that Hughie had thrown away Mary Ann--her own dear,
dear Mary Ann; and Hughie, her own brother had done it! Had he lost his
senses?
"Hughie," she gasped out at last; that was all.
Hughie looked uneasy, but tried to hide it.
"Come on, Janet," he said, "it's getting late. We must put our best
foot foremost, or nurse will be angry."
But Janet took no notice of what he said.
"Hughie," she repeated, "are ye no gaun to get me Mary Ann back again?"
Hughie laughed, half contemptuously. "Get her back again," he said.
"She's ower weel hidden for me or anybody to get her back again. And
why should I want her back when I've just the noo thrown her awa'? Na,
na, Janet, you'll have to put up wi' the loss of Mary Ann; and I only
hope you won't have to put up wi' waur. It's your own fault; though
maybe I shouldna' have left her," he added to himself.
"Hughie, you've broke my heart," said Janet. "What _did_ you do it
for?"
"If you'd an ounce of sense you'd know," said Hughie; "and if you don't,
_I'm_ no gaun to tell." And in dreary silence the two children made
their way home--Hughie, provoked, angry, and uneasy, yet
self-reproachful and sore-hearted; Janet in an anguish of bereavement
and indignation, yet through it all not without little gleams of faith
in Hughie still, that mysteriously cruel though his conduct appeared,
there must yet somehow have been a good reason for it.
It was not for long, however, that she understood it. She did not know
that immediately they got home honest Hughie went to his father and told
him all that had happened, taking blame to himself manfully for having
for an instant left Janet alone.
"And you say she does not understand at all why you threw the doll
away," said Janet's father. "Did she not notice that the little girl
had been ill?"
"O yes, but she took no heed of it," Hughie replied. "She thinks it was
just awfu' unkind of me to get in such a temper. I would like her to
know why it was, but I thought maybe I had better not explain till I had
told you."
"You were quite right, Hughie," said his father; "and I think it is
better to leave it. Wee Janet is so impressionable and fanciful, it
would not do for her to begin thinking she had caught the fever from the
child. We must leave it in God's hands, and trust no ill will come of
it. And the first day I can go to Linnside you shall come with me, and
we'll buy her a new doll."
"Thank you, father," said Hughie gratefully. But he stopped as he was
leaving the room, with his hand on the door handle, to say,
half-laughing, half-pathetically, "I'm hardly thinking, father, that any
new doll will make up to wee Janet for Mary Ann."
Janet heard nothing of this conversation, however, and the silence which
was, perhaps mistakenly, preserved about the loss of her favourite added
to the mysterious sadness of her fate. The poor little girl moped and
pined, but said nothing. To Hughie her manner was gently reproachful,
but nothing more. But all her brightness and playfulness had deserted
her; she hung about listless and uninterested, and for some days there
was not an hour during which one or other of her doting relations--
father, mother, sisters, and brothers--did not make up his or her mind
that their darling was smitten by the terrible blast of the fever.
A week, ten days, nearly a fortnight passed, and they began to breathe
more freely. Then one day the father, remembering his promise, took
Hughie with him to the town to buy a new doll for Janet, instead of her
old favourite. I cannot describe to you the one they bought, but I know
it was the prettiest that money could get at Linnside, and Hughie came
home in great spirits with the treasure in his arms.
"Janet, Janet," he shouted, as soon as he had jumped off his pony,
"where are you, Janet? Come and see what I've got for you!"
Janet came slowly out of the study, where she had been lying coiled up
on the floor, near the low window, watching for her father's return.
"I'm here, Hughie," she said, trying to look interested and bright,
though the effort was not very successful.
But Hughie was too excited and eager to notice her manner.
"Look here, Janet," he exclaimed, unwrapping the paper which covered
Miss Dolly. "Now, isn't _she_ a beauty? Far before that daft-like old
Mary Ann; eh, Janet?"
Janet took the new doll in her hands. "She's bonny," she said,
hesitatingly. "It's very kind of you, Hughie; but I wish, I wish you
hadn't. I don't care for her. I dinna mean to vex ye, Hughie," she
continued, sadly, "but I canna help it. I want, oh I do want my ain
Mary Ann!"
She put the new doll down on the hall table, burst into tears, and ran
away to the nursery.
"She's just demented about that Mary Ann," said Hughie to his father,
who had followed him into the hall.
"I'm sorry for your disappointment, my boy," said his father, "but you
must not take it to heart. I don't think wee Janet can be well."
He was right. What they had so dreaded came at last, just as they had
begun to hope that the danger was over. The next morning saw little
Janet down with the fever. Ah, then, what sad days of anxiety and
watching followed! How softly everybody crept about--a vain precaution,
for poor Janet was unconscious of everything about her. How careworn
and tear-stained were all the faces of the household--parents, brothers
and sisters, and servants! What sad little bulletins, costing sixpence
if not a shilling each in those days, children, were sent off by post
every day to the absent ones, with the tidings still of "No better,"
gradually growing into the still worse, "Very little hope." It must
have been a touching sight to see a whole household so cast down about
the fate of one tiny, delicate child.
And poor Hughie was the worst of all. They had tried to keep him
separate from his sister, but it was no use. He had managed to creep
into the room and kiss her unobserved, and then he had it all his own
way--all the harm was done. But he could hardly hear to hear her
innocent ravings, they were so often about the lost Mary Ann, and
Hughie's strange cruelty in throwing her away. "I canna think what came
over Hughie to do it," she would say, over and over again. "I want no
new dollies I only want Mary Ann."
Then there came a day on which the doctor said the disease was at its
height--a few hours would show on which side the victory was to be; and
the anxious faces grew more anxious still, and the silent prayers more
frequent. But for many hours of this day Hughie was absent, and the
others, in their intense thought about Janet, scarcely missed him. He
came home late in the summer evening, with something in his arms, hidden
under his jacket. And somehow his face looked more hopeful and happy
than for days past.
"How is she?" he asked breathlessly of the first person he met. It was
one of the elder sisters.
"Better," she replied, with the tears in her eyes. "O Hughie, how can
we thank God enough? She has wakened quite herself, and the doctor says
now there is only weakness to fight against. She has been asking for
you, Hughie. You may go up and say good-night. Where have you been all
the afternoon?"
But Hughie was already half way up the stairs. He crept into Janet's
room, where the mother was on guard. She made a sign to him to come to
the bed where little Janet lay, pale, and thin and fragile, but peaceful
and conscious.
"Good-night, wee Janet," Hughie whispered; "I'm sae glad wee Janet's
better."
"Good-night, Hughie," she answered softly.
"Kiss me, Hughie."
"I've some one else here to kiss you, wee Janet," he said.
Janet looked up inquiringly.
"You must not excite her, Hughie," the mother whispered. But Hughie
knew what he was about. He drew from under his jacket a queer, familiar
figure. It was Mary Ann Jolly! There had been no rain, fortunately for
her, during her exposure to the weather, and she was sturdy enough to
have stood a few showers, even had there been any. She really looked in
no way the worse for her adventure, as Hughie laid her gently down on
the pillow beside Janet.
"It's no one to excite her, mother," he said. "It's no stranger; only
Mary Ann. She's been away paying a visit to the fairies in the glen,
and I think she must have enjoyed it. She's looking as bonny as ever,
and she was in no hurry to come home. I had to shout for her all over
the glen before I could make her hear. Are you glad she's come, Janet?"
Janet's eyes were glistening. "O Hughie," she whispered, "kiss me
again. I can sleep _so_ well now."
The crisis no doubt had been passed before this, but still it is certain
that Janet's recovery was faster far than had been expected. And for
this she and Hughie, and some of the elder ones, too, I fancy, gave the
credit to the return of her favourite. Hughie was well rewarded for his
several hours of patient searching in the glen; and I am happy to tell
you that he did not catch the fever.
He would have been an elderly, almost an old man by now had he lived--
good, kind Hughie. But that was not God's will for him. He died long
ago, in the prime of his youthful manhood; and it is to his little
grand-nephews and nieces that wee Janet's daughter has been telling this
simple story of a long-ago little girl, and a long-ago doll, poor old
Mary Ann Jolly!